The entire circus was in town for Thanksgiving to Christmas season, so I stayed away except for those rare occasions that I was called and directed to do something, like provide taxi service to and from the Detroit Metro airport, or the store, or something.
Cottontail and Que Bee One showed up to spend a little time with the family. Things were going along pretty well, then Excellent Rachmaninoff bit Que Bee One in the ankle.
Given that Flopsy and Mopsy are getting along about as well as any militant Imam would with a Rabbi during passover, I had some trepidation about the upcoming Christmas holidays. Divinity intervened. On the day she was due to arrive, Flopsy came down with some severe intestinal malady which rendered her unable to travel more than eight feet from a flush toilet. While I wouldn't go so far as to say Mopsy was happy about this, there was a sort of lighthearted levity about the situation as it was relayed to me by Mopsy.
I made eggnog for Christmas. Big Mike opined that the 'eggnog' should be handled with care and kept well away from fire or flame. Mom had two cups of the stuff and couldn't set the table.
Imagine that you're a 5'2” tall female minister. You tip the scale at around 350. You come over to Centenarian's home on an errand of mercy. You waddle in and see this dog behind a partition.
A) Coo something like 'Oh, whassa pitty whittle boo-boo!' and put your hands inside the impromptu enclosure
B) Ask Main Lady if the dog is friendly, and if so would you be allowed to pet the dog
C) Ignore the dog and tend to business
Cutting right to the chase, she was quick enough to keep all her digits intact. Somehow it didn't help that I thought the entire business hilariously funny.
Mopsy was sitting the TV room drinking wine and eating pizza. I think she was about half in the bag, but maybe not. Anyway, she fat fingered her wine glass and the contents landed on the dog. So now the dog is cream colored with a purple rump.
I took my Springfield V16 apart to clean it and now I can't get the thing back together again. Part of the problem is that the recoil spring is a 50 pound bitch that wants to get loose and do my mother's favorite son a mischief, part of the problem is that it's actually a three handed job but if they told me that from the beginning I'd likely have bought a Kimber like Big Mike's, and part of the problem is that I do not have a lot of strength in my hands. I finally gave up and put the SOB back in its case and stuffed it into the gun safe. Big Mike said that the next time he came by he'd help me get it back together again.
I took mom to the ballet. We saw the Russian Ballet Company perform Swan Lake. I amused myself by watching for a costume failure and wondering if I'd survive a night with one of the hot little Roose-keys. I concluded I likely would survive, but I be so busted up that I wouldn't be much use thereafter. I get bored watching ballet. I can't follow the story, the guys look too gay for words and I keep waiting for something to happen. Which, of course, it doesn't. Mom likes it so I go along and pretend that I like it too. What is wrong with me? Why don't I like ballet?