That noble hour, somewhere between brekkies and luncheon, filled with possibility of a good snack, but not quite as good as tea. Elevenses is the meal that tides one over between breakfast at or before the crack of dawn and high noon, which is never a good time to seek food in a Chicago restaurant anyway. Elevenses are a sort of carryover of breakfast. Toast and jam figure prominently.
Leaping Lords, on the other hand, expect Elevenses. Suddenly, at precisely 4 am, there were twenty lords. Leaping. Along with another set of additions including another nine ladies dancing, eight more milking maids, with cows. This time, it looked like the countrified gents also known as the Lords, leaping, would have to get their countrified gentleman farmer genes in high gear and milk the cows. Lots of maids, lots of buckets and fewer and fewer knew the business of getting milk out of the poor cows that were getting truly distressed.
The yogurt batches were coming along well, and another was started up before 6 am, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Teh delivery trucks arrived, depositing the cows into the back parking area, which was beginning to look like a feed lot. After Lords, Ladies, Maids and such, there were another set of swans wanting for all they were worth, to swim. But, no pool today. This batch would have to share.
Have you ever thought of the difficulty there is in convincing an irritated swan that it had to share its swimming space? If you haven't don't. If you have, rethink it, because it is a recipe for disaster.
There were another half dozen geese laying a half dozen eggs. There were four calling birds, this time with the Verizon guy, and the phones to match. Lovely.
"Can you hear me now?" Even the birds, and I swear this is true, had their own bird voices doing just that, in the Queen's English, no less.
Finally, there were another three French hens, with their own eggs, two turtle doves that had turtled enough to produce their own egg, and a beautiful pear tree, with pears. And a partridge.
That was it.
Everything was off loaded and the truck pulled away.
I started running for the corner to intercept the behemoth that was becoming far too much of my own life. There was something missing.
I yelled for the driver to stop. I screamed. I heard windows opening above me and angry voices urged me in words that cannot be repeated on a device monitored by Homeland Security, the CIA, the FBI, or the Federal Comminications Commission, to shut up. Well, it was more shut the XXXX up. But, the semi-trailer truck just kept rolling on.
And on.
Suddenly, I was the proverbial deer in the headlights. In front of me was another truck. Sounds were coming from the truck, and there could be no doubt of what was inside. Either it was a shipment from the Edinburgh Tattoo, or it was the Gordon Highlanders in person.
You guessed it. Eleven pipers piping.
Make that ELEVEN PIPERS PIPING!!!!
By the time they were off their truck, which did have all eleven of them in perfectly turned out Gordon Highlander gear, except the tartan was not Gordon at all, the sun was up. The leader, who had the really fancy cords on his pipes, which were full sized Great Pipes, reached into his sporran and handed me a rather small box. Inside, another collection of five, thank goodness, Five GOLLLLD Rings.
I pocketed the rings, and welcomed the pipers to the asylum. The maids, with the help of the Lords, who really looked odd in today's getup of morning coats, ties and top hats, milked all the cows and the girls were happily munching on hay and feed.
The entire mass of my 'gifts' carried everything that belonged upstairs, up to my flat. It took five trips in the elevator, which got two of my neighbors irritated due to my hogging the lift. Thanks to all that is good and fair, the damnable song didn't have a hog in it, or I'd have been too easily lumped in with greedy porkers. Or Congress-critters.
Anyway, I promised the neighbors a lovely assortment of cheeses and yogurt. I even promised them I'd babysit if they would not let the landlord know what is going on where I live. There were about seventy people crammed into my flat by this time, and with the additional birds, the building itself was probably in danger of total collapse from the additional weight alone.
In all, my head was splitting. I asked the pipers to pipe down and get themselves some food. One said he was chief cook for the regiment in Scotland, and so he was immediately in charge of the kitchen. Another said he'd been in the quartermaster business, so he was put to work finding hotel rooms for all and sundry. I told him to bill John Truelove, who'd been making every newscast for the past three days, and had been shown in shadow only, but could be found. Later today, I knew justice demanded he pay for the rooms himself.
Finally, I put a third piper onto the task of arranging a large party and concert, with Leaping Lords, Dancing Ladies, Piping Pipers and a parade of animals to rival the entrance onto Noah's Ark. Except my sets of animals were not two by two, but now had gotten in to tens by tens.
I went to get myself ready for court, which was at eleven am.
Elevenses.
Crikey, I'd be missing elevenses again.
The Leaping Lord that had the task of selling the cows was still in negotiations. It seemed that I didn't have the proper ownership documents for my growing herd. Another thing to settle in the courts.
It was going to be a long day.
I also needed a new pair of shoes. No matter how careful you are, geese can foul, or fowl the footpath in ways totally unimaginable for the city dweller.
Time to face the legal music. As I left, I heard the pipers warming up. The sounds of Scotland the Brave followed me all the way to the Elevated stop, a half mile from my apartment. I needed brave. I also needed the identity of Truelove.
And a noose. It was coming to that. Enough guests, birds, more birds, cows, birds, trees, birds, leaping, milking or other persons, and more birds was not being properly compensated by a collection of gold rings. And, I needed to get to the University of Chicago to get the rings translated, if they really did have runes on them.
Court first., then the ring translator, then a meeting with Truelove in a dark alley with a tree suitable for a lynching. Face it, I was not in a good mood.
Someone greeted me warmly, and since I wasn't paying attention, I'll pass it on to you...
Happy Christmas -- and may your 12 Days be filled with Peace.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Rustlers? Nah, They Just Look That Way in the Sunlight -- Or Darkness
Oh. My. Lord. And. Taylor.
Well, it used to work better closer to Christmas Day, when Lord & Taylor were int eh Christmas biz for real. But these days, it could just be Oh. My. Lord. And Lords. Leaping.
Not Leaping Lounge Lizards. Not Leaping Licorice. Leaping Lords.
Honest.
They were waiting for me when I got back from court. Along with another Nine Ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans -- with pool, six geese laying -- with eggs, five GOOOOO--LLLLLLD RIIINGS (Yippee!!! Lawyers cost money), four calling birds--this time with I Phones, three French hens -- wearing little berets, two turtle doves, and a pear tree, with the partridge. Of course.
These guys looked a little like they were coming out of an old Lord and Taylor catalog, circa 1955, complete with boots, jeans, checked shirts, various gallon sized hats, and a few even were chewing on a piece of straw from the impromptu corral set up in the building courtyard.
It seemed someone had broken the lock on the garage, and the cows were last seen on Lake Shore Drive. This was not good, as the one constructive piece of legal work done today was a permit from the court to sell the cows to a dairy company in the suburbs. I couldn't very well do that without the cows.
I left four of the milking maids with the cows in the courtyard, and the ten leaping lords got their boots in gear as we headed to the lake.
Everyone probably remembers the clown at the circus that comes behind the elephants with a rolling garbage can and a shovel to clean up. Well, I was that clown. Wearing 3 inch heels. But, if I didn't clean up, it was not going to take the intellect of Hansel and Gretel to figure out there were cows in my building that had ventured out toward Lake Michigan. I picked up as much as I could, keeping the lords in their checkered shirts in sight.
We put the calling birds' I-Phones to good use, and used the walkie talkie feature to help us rustle the cows back to home. It only took us an hour, and everyone was back at my building, with I Phones playing Aaron Copeland's Rodeo, so the Lords could demonstrate their leaping abilities. Martha Graham, eat your heart out.
Anyway, that night we ordered in pizzas, got a few salads together, found the pears and two of the Milking Maids showed off their skills at making pear tarts. It was a lovely evening.
Finally, around midnight, I gathered all the gold rings together, and stuck them into my wall safe in the bedroom closet. They were amazing rings, and had what looked like runes on the edges. One quick computer search later and I lined up an expert at the University of Chicago to help me translate them.
The last thing I did before crawling into bed, exhausted, was to search the I Phones for the subscriber name. I didn't have any luck, but the Nordic god process server had apparently fallen in love with a Milking Maid, and he told me he would check it out first thing before court in the morning.
Oh geez. Morning. Court. Again.
Maybe the delivery company would come through. If not, I needed Columbo to find who's been buying cows at the rate of eight a day. Or, maybe Miss Marple could figure out who had sent the milking maids, because none of them had a name for the guy that hired them. The Lords, dressed though they were in full cattle with hat duds, also were like all Lords of the Manor. Plummy voices and not an idea in their heads about who had sent them. From the UK, no less. They were, in fact, real Lords, each a member of the allegedly nobler house of Parliament.
I just hung my head in a whopping wave of tired and decided I couldn't do anything except go to sleep. As I turned to head into my bedroom, I slipped in something. At least, I couldn't get held in contempt for it, and I swore a few choice words about the abilities of farm animals to take the city right out of a person.
Good Night All, and Happy Christmas.
Well, it used to work better closer to Christmas Day, when Lord & Taylor were int eh Christmas biz for real. But these days, it could just be Oh. My. Lord. And Lords. Leaping.
Not Leaping Lounge Lizards. Not Leaping Licorice. Leaping Lords.
Honest.
They were waiting for me when I got back from court. Along with another Nine Ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans -- with pool, six geese laying -- with eggs, five GOOOOO--LLLLLLD RIIINGS (Yippee!!! Lawyers cost money), four calling birds--this time with I Phones, three French hens -- wearing little berets, two turtle doves, and a pear tree, with the partridge. Of course.
These guys looked a little like they were coming out of an old Lord and Taylor catalog, circa 1955, complete with boots, jeans, checked shirts, various gallon sized hats, and a few even were chewing on a piece of straw from the impromptu corral set up in the building courtyard.
It seemed someone had broken the lock on the garage, and the cows were last seen on Lake Shore Drive. This was not good, as the one constructive piece of legal work done today was a permit from the court to sell the cows to a dairy company in the suburbs. I couldn't very well do that without the cows.
I left four of the milking maids with the cows in the courtyard, and the ten leaping lords got their boots in gear as we headed to the lake.
Everyone probably remembers the clown at the circus that comes behind the elephants with a rolling garbage can and a shovel to clean up. Well, I was that clown. Wearing 3 inch heels. But, if I didn't clean up, it was not going to take the intellect of Hansel and Gretel to figure out there were cows in my building that had ventured out toward Lake Michigan. I picked up as much as I could, keeping the lords in their checkered shirts in sight.
We put the calling birds' I-Phones to good use, and used the walkie talkie feature to help us rustle the cows back to home. It only took us an hour, and everyone was back at my building, with I Phones playing Aaron Copeland's Rodeo, so the Lords could demonstrate their leaping abilities. Martha Graham, eat your heart out.
Anyway, that night we ordered in pizzas, got a few salads together, found the pears and two of the Milking Maids showed off their skills at making pear tarts. It was a lovely evening.
Finally, around midnight, I gathered all the gold rings together, and stuck them into my wall safe in the bedroom closet. They were amazing rings, and had what looked like runes on the edges. One quick computer search later and I lined up an expert at the University of Chicago to help me translate them.
The last thing I did before crawling into bed, exhausted, was to search the I Phones for the subscriber name. I didn't have any luck, but the Nordic god process server had apparently fallen in love with a Milking Maid, and he told me he would check it out first thing before court in the morning.
Oh geez. Morning. Court. Again.
Maybe the delivery company would come through. If not, I needed Columbo to find who's been buying cows at the rate of eight a day. Or, maybe Miss Marple could figure out who had sent the milking maids, because none of them had a name for the guy that hired them. The Lords, dressed though they were in full cattle with hat duds, also were like all Lords of the Manor. Plummy voices and not an idea in their heads about who had sent them. From the UK, no less. They were, in fact, real Lords, each a member of the allegedly nobler house of Parliament.
I just hung my head in a whopping wave of tired and decided I couldn't do anything except go to sleep. As I turned to head into my bedroom, I slipped in something. At least, I couldn't get held in contempt for it, and I swore a few choice words about the abilities of farm animals to take the city right out of a person.
Good Night All, and Happy Christmas.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Day Nin---Day Nu----Day NineHunderThousandBillion, and One
Let's not and say they did. As in, let's not talk about the whole 'served him on a platter' scene played out in the hallowed halls of best justice money can buy.
Oh yes, I was happy that the Leif Erickson doppleganger turned up with the little certificate of service, complete with scrawl in the important box, and the other proper boxes ticked, and that he was dressed in a well fitting suit, and looked like a Nordic God. That part was good.
I was happy to see that my own legal muscle was pretty well toned and ready to rock and roll.
I was extremely glad to see the table across from the one where I was seated was bristling with lawyers, gray suits on all, every one with a more expensive looking tie than his next neighbor, the women wearing suits, one woman in what looked like a real honest Chanel. It all looked good.
Then, the judge entered, the clerk called out the standard, "All rise. This honorable court is now in session, Judge Billie Mitchell presiding. Come to order, and prepare to present your matters. God save the United States and those in this court."
I was fine with the coming to order. I was peachy with the judge on the bench. Billie Mitchell was known to be fair, and didn't seem too taken with game playing, considering the cases for which he'd gotten press, and every one of them involving a crooked Chicago politician.
What I also knew was that Judge Mitchell had heard a lot of the church and state cases, and had come down on the side of removing all things Christmas no matter the source. And here I was, up past my pretty pearl earrings in chicken, goose, swan and now cow 'stuff.' All of it redolent with the concept of Christmas. I was also verging on the knife edge of insanity thanks to Christmas. I also wasn't all that far off about the amount of crap in my apartment. Except for the cows, that remained in the building's private garage, at least until the landlord returned, or someone complained about the smell, mooing or inability of sixteen, no make that twenty-four by nightfall, cows to provide cheese for the entire building.
There weren't enough to provide milk to all the kids in the building. And, I liked homemade cheese from unpasteurized milk, so long as it was started within minutes of leaving the cow. Goes double for homemade yogurt, which is wonderful when made immediately after milking.
But, I digress. I've been doing that a lot, between geese escaping into my bedroom, milk maids asking to borrow cash for bus fare, a cat going positively schizoid with every honk from a swan, and partridges that seemed uncomfortable in their cage. I was tired of pears dropping, or was that goose 'stuff'? You have no idea how much goose 'stuff' gets produced in an average goose in 24 hours. And, then there are the eggs. The never ending, at least two per day breaking on the carpet, and then there is more goose crap.
Oops, I've done too much more digressing, so sorry. . .
Snidely Whiplash, the lawyer, who probably did really found Dewey, Cheatem and Howe, arose when the case was called. All of a sudden, fifteen lawyers approached the bench, becasue when you file a case, the first appearance is to tell the judge what's going on, and then everyone comes back later in the day or the next week to actually start the legal work.
Like a covey of quail, and these lawyers kept on coming. Not fifteen, but a full twenty four of them, all gave their names, and all represented different people that were named in teh com;plaint as "John Truelove/John Doe No's. 1-24"
This was my first glimpse of the complaint. It was very long. The punch line, or the demand at the end, was hefty money damages, and an injunction to stop the Twelve Days of Christmas in their tracks. Or one. Or the damages. Or lots of damages. But, stopping the whole event was demanded.
The thing was, how did they know who John Truelove truly was, if there were twenty-four possible candidates for the job? Did we need to ask Iowa to hold another primary to decide? Draw straws? (I had lots of straw, come to think of it, with the cows, geese, bird beds, and all. )
One extremely posh looking woman stood up and asked the whole thing be dismissed. She got to about her third sentence and I sprung from my seat and screamed, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! You can't dismiss this. You have to make it stop. It's making me crazy."
I didn't know the bailiffs could put handcuffs on so quickly. I also didn't know that judges were allowed to duct tape a litigant's mouth shut.
Before the tape was firmly attached, I did apologize. Too late. But, thanks to God, who was really watching over me during this penance for wrongs I couldn't think applied, I didn't get held in contempt.
The judge looked over the bench and glared at me. "Lady, I don't know who you are, or what this case is about, but I can tell you this. We're doing this by the book. Now, be quiet, and I'll hear from the lawyers."
I mutely nodded.
I stood, and listened to every one of the twenty-four lawyers explain why their John Truelove wasn't the John Truelove of soon to be close to being a homicide. His own. Done by moi.
None of them, not a single one of them, were at all close to having a good reason. But, there was more.
The courtroom doors banged open and in came another lawyer. That is, I think it was a lawyer. He looked for all the world like a Santa Claus at Macy's. He could have played the part in the movie. His coat still on, he approached the bench and introduced himself as the lawyer for Lakeside Livery.
Of course, they'd have to have the right name of the right John Truelove. At least that was better than the three lawyers whose clients were really John Trueloves, all three of them. All under the age of twelve. The clients. Not the lawyers.
So, the saga when ton. Every one gets to come back tomorrow, when identities have to be confirmed for the named and served, Santa has to have his client cough up the client information regarding the shipments, and truck rentals and stuff, and I get to go home, await another delivery, and hope for the best as far as my sanity is concerned.
The judge though wasn't without his own sense of humor.
"Young lady, you realize that Russian Orthodox Christmas begins on January 6-7? I wish you a very Happy Christmas." And he left.
Hand over my heart, pinky swear and whatever else. he had a demented twinkle in his eye as he left the courtroom, black robe billowing behind him.
I went home to see what, if anything, had transpired in my absence.
When I got there, it was bad. Very bad. I don't have time to tell you all about it, but there was a leak in the Swan Swimming area, but it wasn't serious. The serious part was with the cows.
It turns out, we had ourselves a bit of cattle rustling going on. I didn't know they rustled milk cows. You all have to wait though, because today's gift was, well, just what the doctor. . .
Gotta Run. Merry, Merry Christmas!
Oh yes, I was happy that the Leif Erickson doppleganger turned up with the little certificate of service, complete with scrawl in the important box, and the other proper boxes ticked, and that he was dressed in a well fitting suit, and looked like a Nordic God. That part was good.
I was happy to see that my own legal muscle was pretty well toned and ready to rock and roll.
I was extremely glad to see the table across from the one where I was seated was bristling with lawyers, gray suits on all, every one with a more expensive looking tie than his next neighbor, the women wearing suits, one woman in what looked like a real honest Chanel. It all looked good.
Then, the judge entered, the clerk called out the standard, "All rise. This honorable court is now in session, Judge Billie Mitchell presiding. Come to order, and prepare to present your matters. God save the United States and those in this court."
I was fine with the coming to order. I was peachy with the judge on the bench. Billie Mitchell was known to be fair, and didn't seem too taken with game playing, considering the cases for which he'd gotten press, and every one of them involving a crooked Chicago politician.
What I also knew was that Judge Mitchell had heard a lot of the church and state cases, and had come down on the side of removing all things Christmas no matter the source. And here I was, up past my pretty pearl earrings in chicken, goose, swan and now cow 'stuff.' All of it redolent with the concept of Christmas. I was also verging on the knife edge of insanity thanks to Christmas. I also wasn't all that far off about the amount of crap in my apartment. Except for the cows, that remained in the building's private garage, at least until the landlord returned, or someone complained about the smell, mooing or inability of sixteen, no make that twenty-four by nightfall, cows to provide cheese for the entire building.
There weren't enough to provide milk to all the kids in the building. And, I liked homemade cheese from unpasteurized milk, so long as it was started within minutes of leaving the cow. Goes double for homemade yogurt, which is wonderful when made immediately after milking.
But, I digress. I've been doing that a lot, between geese escaping into my bedroom, milk maids asking to borrow cash for bus fare, a cat going positively schizoid with every honk from a swan, and partridges that seemed uncomfortable in their cage. I was tired of pears dropping, or was that goose 'stuff'? You have no idea how much goose 'stuff' gets produced in an average goose in 24 hours. And, then there are the eggs. The never ending, at least two per day breaking on the carpet, and then there is more goose crap.
Oops, I've done too much more digressing, so sorry. . .
Snidely Whiplash, the lawyer, who probably did really found Dewey, Cheatem and Howe, arose when the case was called. All of a sudden, fifteen lawyers approached the bench, becasue when you file a case, the first appearance is to tell the judge what's going on, and then everyone comes back later in the day or the next week to actually start the legal work.
Like a covey of quail, and these lawyers kept on coming. Not fifteen, but a full twenty four of them, all gave their names, and all represented different people that were named in teh com;plaint as "John Truelove/John Doe No's. 1-24"
This was my first glimpse of the complaint. It was very long. The punch line, or the demand at the end, was hefty money damages, and an injunction to stop the Twelve Days of Christmas in their tracks. Or one. Or the damages. Or lots of damages. But, stopping the whole event was demanded.
The thing was, how did they know who John Truelove truly was, if there were twenty-four possible candidates for the job? Did we need to ask Iowa to hold another primary to decide? Draw straws? (I had lots of straw, come to think of it, with the cows, geese, bird beds, and all. )
One extremely posh looking woman stood up and asked the whole thing be dismissed. She got to about her third sentence and I sprung from my seat and screamed, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! You can't dismiss this. You have to make it stop. It's making me crazy."
I didn't know the bailiffs could put handcuffs on so quickly. I also didn't know that judges were allowed to duct tape a litigant's mouth shut.
Before the tape was firmly attached, I did apologize. Too late. But, thanks to God, who was really watching over me during this penance for wrongs I couldn't think applied, I didn't get held in contempt.
The judge looked over the bench and glared at me. "Lady, I don't know who you are, or what this case is about, but I can tell you this. We're doing this by the book. Now, be quiet, and I'll hear from the lawyers."
I mutely nodded.
I stood, and listened to every one of the twenty-four lawyers explain why their John Truelove wasn't the John Truelove of soon to be close to being a homicide. His own. Done by moi.
None of them, not a single one of them, were at all close to having a good reason. But, there was more.
The courtroom doors banged open and in came another lawyer. That is, I think it was a lawyer. He looked for all the world like a Santa Claus at Macy's. He could have played the part in the movie. His coat still on, he approached the bench and introduced himself as the lawyer for Lakeside Livery.
Of course, they'd have to have the right name of the right John Truelove. At least that was better than the three lawyers whose clients were really John Trueloves, all three of them. All under the age of twelve. The clients. Not the lawyers.
So, the saga when ton. Every one gets to come back tomorrow, when identities have to be confirmed for the named and served, Santa has to have his client cough up the client information regarding the shipments, and truck rentals and stuff, and I get to go home, await another delivery, and hope for the best as far as my sanity is concerned.
The judge though wasn't without his own sense of humor.
"Young lady, you realize that Russian Orthodox Christmas begins on January 6-7? I wish you a very Happy Christmas." And he left.
Hand over my heart, pinky swear and whatever else. he had a demented twinkle in his eye as he left the courtroom, black robe billowing behind him.
I went home to see what, if anything, had transpired in my absence.
When I got there, it was bad. Very bad. I don't have time to tell you all about it, but there was a leak in the Swan Swimming area, but it wasn't serious. The serious part was with the cows.
It turns out, we had ourselves a bit of cattle rustling going on. I didn't know they rustled milk cows. You all have to wait though, because today's gift was, well, just what the doctor. . .
Gotta Run. Merry, Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
It is the First Day of the Rest of Them...
11:55 pm.
Darkness covered the city like the snow that should cover the ground. White Christmas?
Bah Humbug!
There's been a lot of Bah Humbug-ging around here lately. 'Tis the season and all that.
No matter what the surveys say, spending has been limited this year because too many people can't afford food. All these economic indicators indicating spending is up 16 percent have to be studies done by drug addled, economic Pollyanna's. Or, they've only sampled the investment banking industry. Those are the only employed people with money this year.
Anyway, rather than spend the day after Christmas, aka Boxing Day, shopping 'til I'd be dropping, I was cleaning my apartment.
At 11:55 pm, I should have been snug in my bed, visions of sugarplums still dancing in my weary noggin. But no, I was awake, making yet another hand-crafted feast from the pages of Julia Le Chat Cuisine Par ...well par none, if you must know. My beastly roomie, known to all and sundry as a lovely little cat, has had yet another bout of seasonal indigestion.
It is not my fault he is able to leap 5 feet in the air and catch tinsel that should be decorating the upper branches of the Christmas tree. In fact, the tinsel was high enough to elude his mouth for each and every one of the prior six Christmas trees. But this year, tinsel stopping at the precise measurement of 5.5 feet off the ground, the tinsel has been disappearing, only to be dragged everywhere and anywhere. It's his own version of entertainment.
Being a diligent pet parent, I knew that tinsel is not a good snack for cats. I'd spent three hours getting the ornaments right, the tinsel looking perfect on jsut a few upper branches, and now I had to remove that shiny, silver cat treat, or else it would be flying through the apartment, carried by a flying cat, and whatever was in his path was hitting the ground. Hard.
I have lots of "breakage": around here. So, dustbin rapidly filling, I was just about finished with the cleaning up, and the doorbell rang.
It was the charming delivery person from Ace's Best Chicago Delivery. ABCD has a reputation for making all its deliveries on time, which in this case meant they had to deliver before midnight. I knew this because the delivery ticket said just that in bold, red letters.
I gave a dollar to the guy holding the box. He gave the box to me. I heard a small whistle from inside the box. The cat yowled.
I knew what was inside sounded frighteningly like a bird. You see, I know John Darling. And he's got a reputation for this sort of thing. Sending birds and lovely presents, jewelry, pretty boxes filled with items of considerably high price, and generally treating whoever takes his fancy to some pretty fancy presents.
I was, in short, delighted. A present! Just what I needed as a reward for the last hours of labor removing tinsel from every branch, ornament, chair, table, couch or surface that could have a simple strip of shiny, silvery stuff on it. And it was everywhere and anywhere. I was happy to be done with tinsel. forever.
After sending ABCD out of the building, I opened the box. Inside, I found a beautiful miniature pear tree, done in gold leaf, with a pretty little golden partridge resting in one upper branch. The tag read, "Let the magic begin...I love you, John Darling."
Stunning! Gorgeous! And, he loves me!
Wow...
The doorbell rang again. By now it was 11:59.
ABCD was again at the door.
"Lady, you gotta sign for this one too." His voice could have wakened the dead. I only hoped that Cosmo, my next door neighbor was still sound asleep, because when I play the stereo, Cosmo calls the cops claiming it's too loud. In fact, it's not loud, because even I have a hard time hearing the quiet parts. Cosmo just hates my taste in music.
Oh boy, I thought. What else could there be? I had a beautiful pear tree, perfect for the table by the window.
In the hallway, there it was. A 3 foot container was resting on a handcart, complete with a larger version of the miniature.
I was looking at a real pear tree.
With pears.
And, one real, live, very upset partridge.
Make that a very, very, VERY unhappy partridge. All alone, perched in a pear tree.
A six foot tall pear tree.
Do you know where this is going?
Pardon me, I have to run. The cat has figured out how to strafe the partridge's perch, which was every so slightly lower than 5.5 feet off the ground. Sadly for the partridge, there was no tinsel to divert his attention.. . .
Merry Christmas, all..
Darkness covered the city like the snow that should cover the ground. White Christmas?
Bah Humbug!
There's been a lot of Bah Humbug-ging around here lately. 'Tis the season and all that.
No matter what the surveys say, spending has been limited this year because too many people can't afford food. All these economic indicators indicating spending is up 16 percent have to be studies done by drug addled, economic Pollyanna's. Or, they've only sampled the investment banking industry. Those are the only employed people with money this year.
Anyway, rather than spend the day after Christmas, aka Boxing Day, shopping 'til I'd be dropping, I was cleaning my apartment.
At 11:55 pm, I should have been snug in my bed, visions of sugarplums still dancing in my weary noggin. But no, I was awake, making yet another hand-crafted feast from the pages of Julia Le Chat Cuisine Par ...well par none, if you must know. My beastly roomie, known to all and sundry as a lovely little cat, has had yet another bout of seasonal indigestion.
It is not my fault he is able to leap 5 feet in the air and catch tinsel that should be decorating the upper branches of the Christmas tree. In fact, the tinsel was high enough to elude his mouth for each and every one of the prior six Christmas trees. But this year, tinsel stopping at the precise measurement of 5.5 feet off the ground, the tinsel has been disappearing, only to be dragged everywhere and anywhere. It's his own version of entertainment.
Being a diligent pet parent, I knew that tinsel is not a good snack for cats. I'd spent three hours getting the ornaments right, the tinsel looking perfect on jsut a few upper branches, and now I had to remove that shiny, silver cat treat, or else it would be flying through the apartment, carried by a flying cat, and whatever was in his path was hitting the ground. Hard.
I have lots of "breakage": around here. So, dustbin rapidly filling, I was just about finished with the cleaning up, and the doorbell rang.
It was the charming delivery person from Ace's Best Chicago Delivery. ABCD has a reputation for making all its deliveries on time, which in this case meant they had to deliver before midnight. I knew this because the delivery ticket said just that in bold, red letters.
I gave a dollar to the guy holding the box. He gave the box to me. I heard a small whistle from inside the box. The cat yowled.
I knew what was inside sounded frighteningly like a bird. You see, I know John Darling. And he's got a reputation for this sort of thing. Sending birds and lovely presents, jewelry, pretty boxes filled with items of considerably high price, and generally treating whoever takes his fancy to some pretty fancy presents.
I was, in short, delighted. A present! Just what I needed as a reward for the last hours of labor removing tinsel from every branch, ornament, chair, table, couch or surface that could have a simple strip of shiny, silvery stuff on it. And it was everywhere and anywhere. I was happy to be done with tinsel. forever.
After sending ABCD out of the building, I opened the box. Inside, I found a beautiful miniature pear tree, done in gold leaf, with a pretty little golden partridge resting in one upper branch. The tag read, "Let the magic begin...I love you, John Darling."
Stunning! Gorgeous! And, he loves me!
Wow...
The doorbell rang again. By now it was 11:59.
ABCD was again at the door.
"Lady, you gotta sign for this one too." His voice could have wakened the dead. I only hoped that Cosmo, my next door neighbor was still sound asleep, because when I play the stereo, Cosmo calls the cops claiming it's too loud. In fact, it's not loud, because even I have a hard time hearing the quiet parts. Cosmo just hates my taste in music.
Oh boy, I thought. What else could there be? I had a beautiful pear tree, perfect for the table by the window.
In the hallway, there it was. A 3 foot container was resting on a handcart, complete with a larger version of the miniature.
I was looking at a real pear tree.
With pears.
And, one real, live, very upset partridge.
Make that a very, very, VERY unhappy partridge. All alone, perched in a pear tree.
A six foot tall pear tree.
Do you know where this is going?
Pardon me, I have to run. The cat has figured out how to strafe the partridge's perch, which was every so slightly lower than 5.5 feet off the ground. Sadly for the partridge, there was no tinsel to divert his attention.. . .
Merry Christmas, all..
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)