The

Technically

Twelve

Days

Before

Christmas...



I know. I KNOW. There are actually ELEVEN days until Christmas, but I needed a head start to even get this written and it took me longer than I thought it would, so I lost a day somewhere, which, around this time of year is not highly unusual.

Actually, if I am telling the truth, and I'd better be, as you know who is watching, I lose lots of things, and not just today or yesterday or last week, as I can be a tad bit forgetful, and may meander off on a new train of thought, or an old one...sort of like this.

SO!

Back to the subject.

The Infamous Twelve Days Of Christmas...

If you read the entire list, you may notice, as I have, that there are a heck of a lot of birds involved. Partridges and hens and turtledoves. Plus a bunch of crazy people a-swimming and a-playing and a-milking and a-dancing and a-leaping and a-drumming and a-calling.

I remember reading somewhere, probably on the back of a Twinkies package, that if purchased in the year of 2012, the contents of this list would amount to over $16,0000. About the same price as a pair of front row seat tickets to a Rolling Stones concert. Well, that's the closest thing I could think of that has drumming and leaping and dancing, pipers piping and drummers drumming and a few lords a-leaping. Old guys in fancy pants in the middle of a stage singing songs with lyrics that after a half a century I still get wrong.

Swerve.  A sudden U-turn...off the subject just a tad.

Stick with me.

So I got out the Twelve Days Of Christmas List and laid it on the kitchen table next to MY Twelve Days of Christmas list and decided neither one will EVER result in MY merry-ness.

One. A partridge in a pear tree. No thanks. I have enough critters in my backyard and they ALL scare me when they bare their teeth or bite me on the arm. And as for the pears, well, they fall on the ground and then I'd have to arm wrestle the squirrels for the fruit, and what we both missed would start to rot and make a sticky mess. So...never mind.

Two. Two turtledoves. I am assuming here that these are lovebirds and that means soon-to-follow baby turtledoves, and nesting and cooing and walking around whispering so as not to disturb the nest, and I am not a big fan of PDA, even if it IS in the wild and perfectly natural. Not to mention having to cover the lawn with newspapers for their little love pellets falling from the sky.  So...nope.

Three. Three French hens. Aggh. More birds. From France. Chilled Chardonnay with my pet parakeet Pepper, noted lush and troublemaker. Mon Ami...as Pepper would say...and then I would have to drive them all home with the windows rolled up and sweep up the shattered glass left behind on the porch where they tossed their stemware after a particularly exuberant toast to the turtledoves now nesting next to the partridge in a pear tree. So...Non, Merci.

Four. Four calling birds. Oh yes, that's EXACTLY what I need, MORE telemarketers. More Spam emails. More flyers in the newspaper. MORE BIRDS. Maybe I need a CAT!...No more tweets, thank you very much.

Five. Five golden rings. FIVE GOLDEN RINGS. Say this one nice and slow. Five golden rings. Five golden rings. Five golden rings. Has a nice RING to it, no? Five golden rings. One for each finger of either hand. Sparkling, we-buy-gold bands. This one might merit further consideration. SERIOUS consideration. VERY SERIOUS consideration. Everyone paying attention? Say it one more time with me...FIVE GOLDEN RINGS. Nuff said. 

Six. Six geese a laying. Just picture me banging my forehead into the kitchen counter. 
Seven. Seven swans a swimming. Okay, let's get real. Any of you who pay attention to this blog, know that I love to swim. In a pool. With my cap and goggles and nose plugs and swim gloves. They don't call me "the Minnow" for nothing. And I DO belong to a group of synchronized swimmers, and we do look a bit like swans when we are in sync, but most of the time we are hobbled and slightly winded after walking the length of the pool. Plus there are RULES posted on the deck and I am pretty sure one of the rules specifically states "NO SWANS ALLOWED". So...swan off.

Eight. Eight maids a milking. Phew. Maids. Not birds. Wait just a minute. Maids. A milking. Maids doing chores. In the barn. Wait. Wait for it. Women's work. I HAVE that one on MY list. A-milking, a-cooking, a-shopping, a-cleaning, a-dusting, a-vacuuming, a-wrapping, a-sweeping. So...that would be a no-thank-you-very-much-make your-OWN-milkshake.

Nine. Nine ladies dancing. It's about time. Disco time. Get out the silver ball, roll up the rug, hit Play and bring on the oldies. A little Donna Summer, Billie Jean, Oh Sheila, The Way You Make Me Feel, Hungry Like the Wolf, Wild Thing....Sooo....ohhhh...I Wanna Dance With Somebody. 

Ten. Ten lords a leaping. Okay. Someone help me with this one. A bunch of guys leaping is somebody's idea of a present? Ten lords a leaping? Would I want ten lords a leaping? I can't imagine one leaping lord, let alone TEN. Um? Chippendales? Did someone say Vegas? So...maybe this one requires further scrutiny. A closer look. Maybe. Or a road trip. 

Eleven. Eleven pipers piping. Eleven. Pipers. Eleven. Eleven men. On a field. Eleven men on a field equals FOOTBALL. I knew it! I just knew it! What would Christmas be without FOOTBALL...and more FOOTBALL and beef jerky and beer and pistachio shells on the floor and Doritos and yelling and jumping and then...NAPS! So...nice try...but pipe down.

Twelve. Twelve drummers drumming. Perfect timing. This is what my head feels like after all the pipers have finished piping. Maybe it's time to send in all the blasted birds and make it a migrating migraine.