Friction and Harmony

But the alternative is worse.

Looks like Mrs. Who needs to install a new category:  Troll Bait.

EDIT:  The smackdown is at HoZ – don’t need to drag it here…  But since “Moi’s” proclaimed “Chicagoland” IP address (which local pool actually maps to an Indiana zipcode via Verizon network) showed up here,  I’ll keep my dedication up, but can the rest of the vitriol – it really is overkill…

Somethings that’s sure to make Mrs. Who frown at me (possibly NSFW):

I moved in with my Grandma, shortly after she suffered congestive heart failure.  She was 84 years old and had been living alone since my grandfather passed away a few years earlier.  We were told she could no longer be expected to care for herself, and in fact, the prognosis was grim:  we would be lucky to still have her by Christmas.  It was Easter week, 1997.

What followed were six of the most wonderful years of my life.

You see, until approximately two years before, I had never in my life known my Grandma, or even where she lived or what she looked like.  Likewise, she hadn’t even known I existed (though I believe strongly that she suspected).  I had been given up for adoption, and it wasn’t until I was 29 years old that I met her for the first time.  Turns out, I was one of fourteen grandchildren – but none of them ever knew her so well, nor played with her the way I did.

She loved to tease and laugh, and she got a kick out of hitting me.  Grandma would laugh hysterically at my reaction, since she refused to believe that she was physically able to deal any damage.  I think she really did believe I was putting on a show for her benefit – but her bony little fist would catch me in the solar plexus and knock the wind out of me damn near every time.  And for a little old church lady, she was quick!  But I would laugh with her.  Afterall, what was I going to do?  Can’t hit your grandma back, it’s against the rules.  The only time I lost my cool was when driving home from church with her in the back seat, and WHAP!!  My ears were filled with a bone-jarring THUD and I saw stars as I crossed an intersection at 40 miles per hour…  She had wanted to get my attention – by cold-cocking me in the back of the head with a 3″ thick hardbound book!

Then along came Santa.

Our first Christmas there, Mom put out her 4-foot tall Santa Claus to stand next to the tree.  Mom was proud of her Santa.  It was an expensive gift from the Attorney she worked for, purchased by the attorney’s wife.  The detail was remarkable; he carried miniature toys in his bag, a tiny stuffed teddy bear, a few wrapped packages, and a doll.  His suit was velvet with ermine lining, and he wore tiny wire-framed spectacles with glass lenses.  His hair and beard were – I hope – synthetic, but it looked real enough.

From birth, it seems, I have always hated clowns, dolls and ventriloquist dummies.  I had to spend a few nights as a guest in someone’s house, sharing a bedroom with an antique Howdy Doody puppet, which sat on a tall dresser and watched me try to sleep.  Antique or not, I ended up stuffing him in a drawer.  When I was no more than five, an amusement park clown tried to garner laughs from a crowd by having her puppet try to take my ice cream from me as I tried to shrink into my mother’s side.  As the creepy little fucker came in, snapping at my treat, adrenaline kicked in and I did what was natural…  I shoved the ice cream cone in the dummy’s face and ran like hell away from my psychotic adoptive family, since they had obviously turned against me and were laughing and playing to this demonic torturer…  But I digress.

Soon after that Santa was put out, it was clear to me that I had inherited my sensitivity to creepy shit from my Grandma.  Santa was placed to stand between the Christmas tree and the old RCA console television set, facing the chair where Grandma always sat to ritually knit while watching Wheel of Fortune.  After supper one evening, I sat down in the chair next to her, and I realized that Santa was looking past the TV at the hallway door.  He had been rotated about 60 degrees away from the direction of Grandma’s favorite seat.  Mom rotated Santa back, but Grandma didn’t say a word – she pretended not to notice.  I noticed, however, that she avoided looking at him, and I understood why.  Behind those cute, authentic-looking corrective lenses, he had dark “coal-like” sparkling eyes, that looked less playfully mischievous than impishly evil.  The glasses gave the effect that he was staring at you, no matter where in the room you moved.  And of course, he would never, ever blink…

Midget Santa was a fucking creepfest!

I was tickled that she was as unnerved by the thing as I was, so I decided to have some fun at the sweet little gut-punching octagenarian’s expense.   I would move Santa ever so slightly when she was out of the room.  A little at first – an inch closer at a time, like a cat readying to pounce.  Grandma didn’t flinch.  Santa would be back in position the next evening when I came home from work, staring at the hallway door.  The game went on wordlessly and without any reaction for a few days.  He even slid behind the tree a little to stare at her through the branches.

Until finally it happened.

My alarm went off on what was certainly a Monday morning.  It was early, still dark, and time to get up and get ready for my 60 mile commute to work.  I rolled over to hit the snooze button to buy a few precious extra minutes sleep.  As my eyes tried to focus on the digital glow of the clock face, I saw a small figure standing next to my bed, eye-level with me where I lay, staring at me in the near darkness.  The only thing that could possibly have added to the intensity of my fright would have been the glint of a sharpened axe blade raised over his little Santa hat!

Grandma wouldn’t acknowledge that she ever noticed Santa move.

Checkmate.

She didn’t make it to 90 without skillz.

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Given the ridiculous pork-barrel spending that’s included with the Democrats stimulus bill, I propose an earmark that will generate something we can actually use…  a laugh:

(This one’s for Pam – since we agree on the greatest Python, and because I have to entertain myself while I can’t get to her site… again!)
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