Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even the Parentals Painefull, who had turned themselves into bed when they realised how much profanity would be in the Will Anderson comedy routine they had stumbled upon on television (in dad’s defence he thought he was watching Adam Hills… which also explains why he kept marvelling at how real prosthetic foots look these days).
The weather outside had been frightful when I arrived at the Dor two days earlier. 42 degrees celcius to be exact when I stumbled into the house to discover Mother Painefull was hosting the Vagina Monologues – aka the Dor Women’s Christmas Champagne Appreciation Event. 40 ladies, excess finger food, and my father missing, having removed himself to an undisclosed secondary location.
Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree was up. Mum had gone with an interesting gothic-Corpse Bride theme this year.
The sibling specialized family angel ornament is also hanging proudly. I am the angel in the middle (who’s spun herself away from camera, bitch). Do read into my placement.
Joy to the world was not precisely what I would call the experience of watching Anchorman 2 with my sister Mrs Ryan, and our parents. The Parents Painefull had never seen the original. I had forgotten about the franchise’s enjoyment of prolonged, absurd sex scenes, and was unaware there would be quite so much punning around the name of condoms, or quite so much singing to sharks. Dad confessed he considered walking out 20 minutes in, but he kept thinking it would end soon. It goes for 2 hours.
|It could have been worse, it was not, for example, The Great 'Scary Movie' Debacle of 2000 - my father and I couldn't look at each other for a while after that one.|
Topics of conversation for the trip to the cinema included Mrs Ryan’s thoughts on Mother Painefull’s driving style, and Father Painefull’s thoughts on Mrs Ryan distracting Mother Painefull as she drove, the weather, and how Mrs Ryan would go walking home from the movies.
Away in a manger is not where I sleep. Because I have a bed obviously. A lovely traditional single bed, as befits my marital status. That is where mum photographed me this morning as I slept to show me what I look like when I sleep. I umm-ed and ah-ed about putting that snap up (I am rocking some odd ‘thinker’ pose), but have erred on the side of maintaining the mystery in our relationship. Here, instead, is an artist’s rendering:
|The only way it could be more dead on is if it was lying down. Unconscious. And blonde. And also female (you've got to forgive Rodin, he really did try his hardest to get this one right).|
Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer was among the characters featured in people’s yards this evening as I joined the Ryans in their traditional tour of the neighbouring suburbs in order to cast judgment upon lighting displays. In years gone past we used to print out official score cards and leave comments, but since the Ryans became breeders we consider it a remarkable feat when we simply manage to fit into one car now.
Topics of conversation included the Ryan Brood’s thoughts on Mrs Ryan’s driving style, a debate on whether Nephew 1 has a girlfriend, or a friend who is a girl, and the many mechanisms for the transportation and storing of sewage.
I leave you with that thought, and this image of Mrs Ryan's cat, Mouse, in full celebration of the festive season.
|Like all cats, this cat is a Festive cat by virtue of his very species|