1. Santa brought Zoey exactly what she wanted. Which is not of the joystick variety per se, but just as creepy in a purple plastic flying pony that is not very pretty way, plus it talks. A lot. When you touch its foot, its belly, its mouth, its ear, seemingly when you think about taking out its batteries and maybe submerging it in cold bathwater while the children are asleep. Apparently its name is Starsong and she has a short curly 'do where her mane should be; in fact, she bears a striking resemblance to El Debarge, just as falsetto bad, and if I close my eyes I can almost smell Drakkar Noir mixed with Oxy 10 and the Drake High Gym. (Goddamn ponies and that fat fuck Santa.)
2. My apologies for the above--it's just that the pony now sleeps with Zoey and Zoey still sleeps with us and my god, if I roll over one more time at 3am only to set off a high-pitched plush la la la la la! I'm sleepy! I swear to god--I don't know. That's how tired I am. Anyone ever seen the flick They Shoot Horses, Don't They?
3. Next Monday I leave for Mexico which is reason enough to roll your eyes and stop reading, but wait--it gets worse. My in-laws are taking us, paying for us--my in-laws who I love and really like. Built in babysitters at a resort and the promise of a slack-jawed nap in the sun. In anticipation I tried on my bathing suit a few weeks ago, which is a big ol' Glamour magazine Don't during the month of December, but there I was nonetheless: white and puffy, veiny, hair where there is no hair on women in porn. Or men, for that matter. But I told myself no problem! With all the optimism of time. Why, I'd just cut out bread! Drink water! Forgetting, of course, about the boulange near work with the warm hazelnut croissants, seasonal eggnog chai, sugar cookies shaped like trees, See's candies (but it's not a bread product!) and panettone, a loaf of which I ate to see if I even like panettone which it turns out I don't. And then last night I racked my knee on the exposed corner of my bed, slicing it just a little but bruising it a lot. By the time I get to Mexico my leg should be the sick yellow color of a turned banana; I will look like a sloppy stripper in my bikini, over-the-hill and just waiting for the DJ down at the pool to play me some Bon Jovi. Livin' on a Prayer, man! Fuck Yeah!
4. I hate women who talk about how they look in a bikini, jeans, naked, diets, ohmygodamifat?, i.e. I suck.
5. And lastly, I just realized Christmas is over and I did not hear my favorite song, not even once. Do They Know It's Christmas? Which kinda' begs the question: Do starving Africans even care if it's Christmas or not? And what kind of sentiment is well tonight thank god it's them, instead of you???
Oh well. It's a great diddy nonetheless. (Band-Aid brings me back to that one Christmas I got a yellow walkman and zebra-striped Guess jeans that zippered down each ankle and I sat in the rocking chair for days afterward listening to this song and feeling lucky because I was. Am.)
Just a little post-Christmas coital, that is all.