Why Can't There Be Fewer Days to Christmas?

Think about it.

There are 40 days before Christmas that are preparation, a sort of Lenten type preparation, called Advent for Orthodox Christians.  And the Orthodox hearken back to the very same Apostles that hung out with Jesus back in the day.  That would be the First Century Day.  Half of Christians, at least, are Orthodox Christians, even if their presence is more likely associated with the country of origin for those Orthodox in the US.  We tend to think geographically about them, never considering that the entire lot of them have no national church as such, and are only identified as Greek or Russian or Serbian, or Antiocian or American (think Alaska as the mother church, so to speak), becasue that reflects the language those churches might have spoken during their founding in the US.

The Antiochian branch still has its HQ on a street called Straight in Damascus.  Kid you not.

But these are a serious group of preparers, and they go the full 40 days before Christmas, and the full 12 days after, to celebrate the birthday of Jesus.

The Roman church, once a part of the Orthodox communion had a bit of a split over several issues, not the least of which was the hankering of the Bishop of Rome, AKA Pope, to be the Head of the Heads of ALL Orthodox churches.  So far, the ecumenism of Rome, the Holy Spirit proceeding form the Father and the Son, and a few other side issues have kept the groups separate.  They have conferences, talk about getting back together, hand out lovely briefcases and portfolios to the attendees, and then all go back to being what they are the other days of the year.

That said, the Roman branch begat, in a way, the English or Anglican Catholics, which are the originators of protestant, err protesters in religion, here in the US.  Today, there are over 2300 different denominations of Christianity in the US.

Now, all that information is taken from that infallible (snark) source of wisdom, Wikipedia.  Plus, a few videos and books by Kallistos Ware, a thoroughly charming and disarming bishop over in Oxfordshire, England.

And, not a bit of the foregoing matters one whit, except to say that now that I've reached the midpoint of the 12 LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONGEST DAYS OF CHRISTMAS, which could also be known as one of the best inducements to insanity, has made me yearn for a shorter way to celebrate the fowl (ahem, foul???) largesse, known as the Twelve Days of Christmas, brought to you by whatever True Love Gives To You.

If your True Love is gifting you with all the gifts known as the full Twelve Days, tell them that only in the song need the gifts be repeated for the rest of the duration, or song.  Except, of course, for the FFFIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE GOOO-LLLLD RRIIIIINNNGGS.  Keep those rings coming.  Make them big, solid, hefty, weighty, really weighty, and sized to fit thumbs.  Of giants.  The gold weight alone makes up for the other expenses foisted upon the recipient due to the other gifts, that require feed, housing, hay, feed, water, feed, cages, feed, ventilation, feed, minding, feed, and feed.   Did I mention that birds do not eat like birds?

They eat like freaking Hoovers, sucking up every grain, morsel, bit of veg, or succulent imaginable, also known as grubs, worms, and other icky things, yet they share their eggs with generosity that really does make them a sort of double gift.  If you like eggs.  And don't mind the cleaning up, or buying the feed that makes cleaning up an almost 24 hour a day job in a small bedroom/office.

We, and I use that term loosely, are now facing Day 7.  The just past the midpoint of Bird Overloaded Armageddon, brought to  you by TrueLove.

I've spent the entire day searching on teh Google Machine, the Yahoo Machine, the FaceBook, the Tweet Thing, and entirely too many chat groups in a vain attempt to locate the elusive TrueLove.  When was the last time you got to page 187 of a Google Search?  Never, right?

Well, I've been at least to page 188 of not less than three dozen searches and my eyes are spinning in my head in opposite directions. I've eaten eggs.  Lots of eggs.

I made poached eggs over spinach, scrambled eggs, hard boiled eggs, soft boiled eggs, egg drop soup, poached pears with poached eggs, and to finish it off, two chocolate souffles.  That last was comfort food, and they were wonderful, though I do need to make myself a new pair of post-Christmas pants, because I've gaind at least Twelve Pounds of Christmas as I seek simple survival of the Twelve Days of Christmas.  Bests are being taken in Las Vegas, and truth to tell, the odds are not in my favor.

I've called a private detective, three legal eagles also known as lawyers, and not one wanted to sue TrueLove.  It seems that no one in the legal profession thinks that this is a problem, giving someone all these lovely presents of Birds, Birds with Pear Trees, More Dovey-Lovey Birds, More Loudly Screaming/Calling Birds, or Honking Spiteful Nasty Goosing Birds that know all the spots that hurt the most, and then bite you right in those spots.

I've called protective services, and they are only interested in sending me to the Looney Bin.  They didn't believe I had any problem with birds at all, until I opened the spare bedroom door, and the sound was deafening, and then they were going to send out animal control to cite me, ME!!!, for harboring livestock within the city limits of Chicago.  The fine would be about $2000.

Per day.  By the time this was over, I could be shelling out the amount needed for a down payment on a really swank townhouse, just in fines. The words, not bloody likely came to mind.

I hung up.  I don't have that money.  Not at all.

I spent all my Christmas gift money on feed.  And a new larger cage for the calling birds and a really imaginative wire thing that had six sections for the partridges and turtle doves.  That way, they could be inside the same superstructure, but not really in the same cage.  I borrowed six dog crates for the geese.  I could put two in each, and stacked up, they covered one wall, floor to ceiling.

I also dug three air filters out of the basement storage area, put in new filters, and managed to get them going so as to keep the entire flat from smelling of feathers, chicken stuff, and processed poultry feed. . . if you catch my drift.

Finally, I got myself a nap, which is to say, I turned on the Mystery Marathon that plays every New Year's Eve on WYCC in Chicago, and the last thing I remembered was Poirot complimenting himself on being the very best detective in the world.  Which of course, he was.

I woke with a start.  That was it!  I needed the little Belgian and his gray matter.

But first, I needed to open the door.  I dreaded it, but it was time to face the Lakeside Livery Delivery.  This time, I was prepared.  I had caught on.  I was going to be receiving an additional delivery of every gift for every day for the duration of the interminable Twelve Days of Absolute Horror.  Cages were ready, feed was laid out in anticipation.  Water bowls and bottles were filled.  The cat was almost catatonic, but was gradually adjusting to the smells, noise and more smells.  He also liked omelets with peas, Swiss cheese and a side of rice.  Go figure.

I opened the door.  But, I was truly not prepared.  Right in front of the Lakeside Livery was a large container filled to the brim with water, in which was swimming a gaggle of swans.

No wait.  That's not right.  It's a gaggle of geese, which obviously form the honking noises coming from one large container were also there, but a group of swans in something else.  It's a murder of crows, a congress of baboons, but a group of swans is a What??

Oh well, time was wasting.  I had to clear the hallway.  people were going to be heading out for new Year's Eve, and I needed to keep the evidence from being too obvious.  (My neighbors were either deaf, blind or totally unfazed by anything.  It was obvious, my flat was becoming Bird Farm by Lake Michigan.)

How was I going to get all the water, and the tank, into my flat?

Not to worry, all I needed was Superman.

And, just as the elevator door opened, there he was.  Well, there were a total of five Supermen.  They lived opposite me, or rather two of them did.  The other three were on the same basketball team over at Loyola Park.  In their spare time, they mentored kids, played basketball, hung out in the corner bar down the way on Sheridan, and were as close as brothers.  They were also, as a group, not less than 6 foot 5 inches of muscle.

They also saw my predicament, and started laughing.  One of them said he knew where he had a set of buckets and large pans, and they'd corral the swans (A chorus of swans??? A collective of swans???), and then move the pool into my living room. 

It took me about a minute, and I realized a swimming pool would not work for the swans.  Not in the living room.  I decided the dining room was out.  Too close to food for livestock.  The bathroom was large, and I coudl give them free run of the bathtub, so long as I could fence them off during my own shower.  We managed to get the tub into the bathroom, set up a hose and ran water in.  The operation took about an hour.

By the time everything was done, at least for the swans, I had ordered pizza for everyone, and then managed to open the other containers.  I had another six geese, which were promptly put into the dog cages.  Five more (Yippee!), gold rings, four more loudmouthed fowl-mouthed calling birds, three more French hens, with fresh eggs, two more turtle doves, and another pear tree, with pears and partridge, were all stashed in their proper places.

The sad thing was, I was running out of proper places for anything.  But, my Super Men had done yeoman's work, and each got all the pears from the pear trees.  At least, they got the close to ripening ones.  It turns out, if you let pears ripen on the tree, they go rotten before they are picked.  Pluck them down before they are ripe, and put them in the kitchen to ripen, and a few days later you've got perfect pears. 

I had lots of perfect pears.  And lots more perfect pears on the way.  The harvest was bountiful.

The guys said they'd happily come in to help change the water, as the bucket was the only way to drain the pool until hoses could be properly hooked up.  I thanked them, gave them the remaining beers to carry home, and wished them a very Merry Day SEVEN, of the Twelve Longest Days in Recorded History that Pertain to, are Related to, or Mention Christmas.

Clearly, my sanity was, and is slipping.  I needed rest.  I needed a flat free of fowl.  I needed a foul free, fowl free flat. I needed better onomatopoeia. 

I wnet to the dining room, found the brandy that an old client had given me about fifteen years earlier, and poured myself a drink.  It tasted awful, but three sips did the trick.  I turned the tube on, and settled in to watch Case Histories on the Mystery Marathon.  It was delightful.  I realized that Jackson Brodie's life was only a hair less dysfunctional than mine.  I thought what would Jackson Brodie do to find TrueLove, other than not look in Edinburgh, where he's located.

With that thought, I bade the world a Happy Christmas, and drifted off to dreamland, where I hoped I'd find either a shorter way to the end of these Twelve Days, or just a shorter Christmas season, a way to locate TrueLove, or a way to find sufficient funds to face the impending bankruptcy that could result from livestock fines in Chicago. Or, I'd just find myself in some lovely new location altogether, and life would be happily ever after.

Nighty-night all.  I've got a cat curled up next to me and that dream is coming in with lovely Technicolor and nary a peep, croak, chirp, cheep, caw, honk or other foul, or fowl, bird sound.  Nice.

WooHoo! It's Sutter's Mill All Over Again, Almost--

Well, in truth, not even close.  But, this time when the bell rang, there was a lovely small package in hand.  That is, the Lakeside Livery guy had a small box in his hand, his other elbow resting nonchalantly on a box that was just the right height for the debonair stance, and behind him, a carton with feathers flying out of it.

There was lots of squawking. 

There was a delivery ticket to sign.  Then, with help from Lakeside Livery, the boxes were wrestled into my living room and opened.   All in all, itt was an expected haul of gifts, all from the essentially nameless, TrueLove.  All.  One. Word.

Not True Love.  Not "Your True Love."  Nope.  Just "TrueLove."

And so, I had some investigating.  I had to get this bird brain to stop.  Here I was, cheek by jowl, up to my eyeballs in birds.

Make that BIRDS!!!

I had yet another pear tree, with partridge.  Another TWO turtledoves.  Another THREE Bleeding Froggy Hens. ANOTHER FOUR, PUT A SOCK IN IT, CALLING BIRDS.  Calling.  Every 2.5 seconds.  CALLING!!!!

My eardrums were at bursting point.

In a hugely belated attempt to assuage my ill humor, I did get five, count them FIVE.  Gold.  Rings.

With the price of gold, and with MF Global out of business, gold was nothing to sneeze at these days, I now owned FIVE, count em, FIVE.  Gold.  Rings.

I tried bribing the Lakeside Livery delivery guy to get him to part with the real name and address of the elusive TrueLove.

Nothing going there.

And so, I needed to get going early Friday morning, and do the legwork that had made Sherlock Holmes successful.  Unfortunately for me, eveyrthing was closed up tight for New Year's Eve holiday, minus one.

They had to get a holiday for the workers, and had chosen Friday to shut everything down.  Most places I went also had signs up that they'd also be closed Monday.  To allow the hangovers to subside, I guessed.

Well, that left me with only one alternative.

I went to the only outfit in town that sold grain and hay.  If I was going to be housing the Chicago version of Old McDonald's chicken coop, ala Franglish, I would need food for the hens, food for the partridges, and food for the soon to have their vocal cords removed without benefit of anesthesia, Calling Birds.

So, having spent the day looking for a way to find and shut down TrueLove, if only to get the feather count below 2000/cubic meter of air in my flat, I accepted defeat gracefully.  I took the El back north to my residence, which was noticeable from about a half mile away due to the sound of a veritable chorus of operatic wannabes disguised in feathers, letting everyone know they wanted to be fed.

When I got to my floor, I could see boxes, five large, one very small, right in front of my door.  There was a note from my helpful neighbor.  "I signed for the delivery, hope you don't mind.  Could you please get the noise under control?  It's beginning to worry Bitsy, my cockapoo.   Happy New Year!  Sandy."

Right, I thought to myself.  How do I silence the hellsa-raisin' chorus of birds?  Sunup is just not a concept they believe should be observed as the earliest they should, umm, vocalize.  Sundown doesn't shut them up one bit either.

My hands were shaking like quaking aspen leaves in a gale force wind as I dug the keys from my pocket.  When I opened the door, there emerged from a carton behind me a sound that can only be hinted at, not fully described.  It was somwehere between a jet engine and a train whistle in volume and eardrum fracturing horror.

I opened that carton first.  Out waddled six, count them SIX geese.  Complete with goose eggs left inside the carton.

Whoever TrueLove was, he was going to answer for a right increase in my cholesterol if I were to eat even half the eggs that were arriving in each shipment, or that arrived every day under the various foul fowl.

The small container that had been left atop the goose box, contained another (and this was the only smile I managed all day), FIVE.  GOLD.  RINGS.

That would be ten, yes TEN.  GOLD. RINGS.  The one part of this hellish Christmas prank that was worth anything.

I hustled the rest of the cartons inside, putting the obligatory FOUR.  CALLING BIRDS, completely without cell phones, so they relied on volume to send messages that could reach Mars from right where I was standing.  They, along with another Three French hens, with eggs, Two Turtle Doves, and a very irritated partridge, with pear tree, were all put into the spare bedroom/office.  From the looks of it, if it wasn't condemned by the health department, would never again be the same.

That left the geese.  Laying. Six of the sodding birds.

Geese don't get along with other birds very well.  I needed to find a place for them.  So, without a further thought, I cleaned out the large walk in closet, and shoved them in there.  I'd use the weekend to sort out the contents of the closet, in addition ot a very thorough computer search for the elusive, and clearly demented, TrueLove.

But, it was late.  I lived in fear of the next delivery.  I also lived in fear of impending eviction or deafness, choose one.  I was living in the nightmare of McDonald's Farm, the Hitchcock Birds Edition.  I made myself some tea and consoled myself that tomorrow was another day, and it couldn't be worse than today.

Little did I know.