Books, Brats, Dirty Santa & Boobs

So, now that the holiday season is, thankfully, behind us, I can go on about my daily business of being bitchy and pissed off and it won't look like I'm doing it solely for the holiday season, but just because that's the way I am.

That said, I finally pulled the grinch shaped corn cob I had up my ass for a month out and uploaded all 49,723 pictures taken in the last five weeks to my PC for sorting, deleteing, stashing away for private moments.. ya know, all the normal stuff.

This year, I got Miss A and The Boy reading material, so they could prove to me that, at their advanced high school age, they could in fact read. Wonders never cease, both of them can actually put letters together to read words. I was thrilled.

See the happy Miss A with her Happy Bunny, Bite Me book? She was thrilled.

The Boy was full of genuine redneck delight when he opened his beautifully wrapped Larry the Cable Guy epic novel. I think he's read more than half of the damn thing. However, if I had even thought for one second of the backlash of my book buying, I would have put it down and walked away. Now, most of the conversations I have with The Boy start out, "Larry the Cable Guy says...." Great. Eh, at least he's reading something other than naughty MySpace pages now.

Brats. The holidays are brimming over with them, don't you agree?

As if that old threat "Santa only comes and brings prezzies to good little boys and girls" really works... Shaaaaa, right. Most of the kids in my family would kick Santa right in the balls and laugh about it while the others are raiding and snatching the good stuff out of his sleigh. Conspiracy theory? I think not. These children are fucking evil.

Lil T put on quite the little performance after opening his and everybody else's stuff. Granted he's only two, but Nana (that would be me) dig that bratty little kid screamin horseshit. I so wanted to bust his ass for kicking and screaming, but instead I took his picture.

"Lil T, you should stop being a brat. I'm taking your picture and blogging about you and the internet will never go away so a history of your bratiness will always be there."

Watttta brat. It goes a little something like this... He's cute when he's happy.... he's happy when he gets my way... when he ain't gettin his way.... loook out he gets pisssssed!

I blame this on my step-sister, she is his babysitter. Therefore, he is immersed in a boiling vat of brat soup all day, everyday... as my stepsister's kid is the spawn of satan himself, I shit you not. But that's another whole story there.

After the early meeting with my family unit, we took a nappy and then wandered north to see his family unit. I am pleased to say that Big T's mom has recovered very well and isn't having any real after effects of the stroke now. She was crackin on everybody and occasion would slap one of her kids upside the head for good measure. Excellent, Ms. Pat!!

One by one, the whole new family by marriage showed up. All of them carrying gifts for the Dirty Santa Game we played.

The rules go like this. You can either pick a prezzie from the pile or steal somebody else's prezzie. I said all along I was gonna steal just for the fun of it.
And I did. I yoinked my sister in law's mini crock pot. She shouldn't have acted like she liked it so much.

Now Dirty Santa rocks balls because you just don't know what you're gonna reach in and pull out of that there big ass pile of prezzies.


Big T's brother J got the most interesting prezent, but only because he was a boy. Sexy, sexy.


And just to skank my blog up a little. A picture of my half hidden rack, an idea blamed on Bottled Blonde.