The crescent moon ornament was given to me by my Aunt Penny and her bearded guy, David.
Visually, it turns my entire cot into a Grateful Dead concert. Mom thinks she can use it to hypnotize Dad into putting the toilet seat down on a regular basis.
Go to my movies page and check it out.
A new version of this movie has been released.
Daddy has “man flu.” Mom says man flu is just a common cold, but when a man gets sick, the illness gets blown all out of proportion.
Daddy sniffs less when he’s in front of the computer, so I think if Daddy plays WoW all day long, he’ll be better tomorrow. I shared my theory with Mommy, and she said a quicker method would be for her to place her size 8 foot up his backside. She said that’ll get him moving!
More later!
Dear Santa,
First let me say how much I admire you. Unlike the kleptomaniacal tooth fairy and the cookie monster, you give generously, year after year.
I’ll never fully understand how you’ll be able to drop off presents to me, since me and the parents live in a flat with no chimney, but Mom insists you’ll show. Mom can be quite convincing at times.
Dad said each continent has it’s own Santa, which frankly makes more sense. Dad also pointed out English Santas drink lots of gin and tonics, and not that pansy milk and cookie combination his American counterpart seems to enjoy. Oddly enough Daddy seems to have intimate knowledge of your dietary habits, so G&T it’ll be for you.
As you know, I have been good. I only really scream when I’m hungry or I’m tired and sometimes Mom gets confused which is which. At times I can get frustrated with her, but like me she’s learning, and I do love her so.
Santa, I’d like to have a Barbie doll and a litre of vodka. The vodka isn’t for me, but for Mom and Dad. The vodka is to be used by my parents after my rare screaming fits. It’s better than Prozac, and doesn’t require a prescription.
Thank you for all you do. You’re an odd fella and for a moment I doubted your existence, however my parents have taken over the responsibility of giving me a kick up the backside when I’m in a negative frame of mind. Isn’t that what parents are for?
Love,
Charlotte
My American great-grandmother sent me a nice Christmas card. The card contained a photo of Mom from 30 January 1977, when she was two months old. My great-grandmother can’t believe how much Mom and I look alike.
Mom doesn’t really think we do look alike. I really look more like my Dad.
Mom got my face to line up perfectly with her face, but apparently Fireworks stinks at adjusting skintones. I know it looks creepy, but Mom will probably spruce it up later.
Dad says all babies are ugly* and look like Winston Churchill. Sigh.
*I’m the exception, of course.