I’m in Rochester. It’s Christmas Eve morning, and I’m bored.
I’m not Kevin, but let’s roll.
Bridgette and I have a second job working with adults with developmental disabilities, and this time of year always reminds me of a particular gentleman we worked with, a man we’ll call Bowflex. Now Bowflex was a difficult guy to work with, because he would constantly obsess over food. We’d often catch him in his bedroom having just eaten a couple raw peppers or a full jar of peanut butter, which I can only assume resulted in a gastrointestinal suprise or two.
After food, Bowflex’s second-greatest love was Christmas. Throughout the year, he would waddle up to me, and with his raspy lisp inquire, “Santa’s coming?”
“No, Bowflex. It’s April. Stay out of the fridge.”
“SHUT UP, BITCH!” (this was a favorite phrase of Bowflex when he was frustrated.)
Now that it’s Christmas Eve, I find myself wandering around the house lisping “Santa’s coming!” Bridgette is in no way annoyed with this.
Yesterday we had the opportunity to drive up to central Minnesota and celebrate Christmas with my extended family. Awkward pauses were abundant as I sat with my rural cousins and opined on the ascendancy of Ron Paul’s candidacy. Then we drank a bunch of beer.
Also, through our gift exchange, I won a meat and cheese tray.
It’s emaciated, tortured Santa! Look, they’ve broken his bones already, and crushed his will to survive. Santa will be surely be dead by week’s end! Hang his lifeless carcass on your wall to celebrate a medieval Christmas!
Another story about Bowflex: Bridgette was at his house one day and he was frantically sniffing the couch cushions. When she asked him what was wrong, he told her, “I smell cancer!”
Rochester is close enough to Iowa that the television stations here are littered with ads from the presidential candidates. Having Christmas greetings shoved down your throat from John Edwards, Mike Huckabee, Barack Obama, and Hillary Clinton as they wax poetic next to bloated Christmas trees and swelling music is enough to make one want to take the holiday off this year.
Nevermind. I’m sure they and their handlers really mean it.
One of the fun things about going home is getting the chance to dig through old dressers and boxes and find old crap of mine that I can use to bother my wife. This year, I was lucky enough to happen upon my glasses from 8th grade.
I’m sure you will be shocked to learn that I garnered little interest from girls during that period in my life.
Merry Christmas, readers. I hope all you guys can find a nice, peaceful way to celebrate this year, away from the Bowflexes and John Edwardses of the world.