A Christmas gift from my sister, the shirt I'm wearing in the picture to the left bears the legend (in a bolded baroque font), "Manure Occureth." Said garment was bestowed upon me last night on Christmas Eve, when we packed up the kiddie-kids and bagfuls of prezzies for my extended family and drove out to Rye, where my sister lives with her husband and two sons. Gifts were exchanged, drinks were drunk, meals were consumed, jokes were made and laughs were shared, all in the familial glow of holiday warmth and good cheer. Apart from some eschewed naps and the odd tiny tantrum from the littlest representatives of the flock, the evening was a lovely, smashing success.
The rest of the night? Ehhh....not so much. The inevitable toll of holiday excitement, the absence of sincere nap-time for Charlotte and Oliver (the latter having briefly sacked out on my shoulder for a half-hour at one point during the proceedings) made for a somewhat unrestful evening. If Santa Claus had attempted an overnight visit, he'd have surely been sent scrambling back towards our non-existent hearth for a hasty retreat at the sound of little Oliver's gnashing and wailing. We were up around the clock, trying to coax our robustly energized little boy back to sleep, or least to a state of relaxation wherein he no longer felt it necessary to release a high pitched squeal that could shatter a wine glass.
When Christmas morning arrived, the wife and I were suitably zombified. Charlotte, meanwhile, immediately started to seek out one of the gifts she received the night before -- specifically a noxious stuffed Barney which sings. You may recall both my thoughts regarding Barney and my feelings about toys that make noise, but if you don't, suffice it to say that I'm not an especially big fan of either. Couple them into a single object, meanwhile, and you've pretty much consolidated everything I find evil, insipid and utterly worthy of contempt in all the world. That object now lives in our house (although my wife heroically hid the offending purple effigy in her hall closet until we can figure out a way to deal with it without damaging our sanity). Charlotte simply wasn't buying it, and summarily mounted a unrelenting whine attack. We attempted to placate her with other equally vile toys (notably the Elmo T.M.X. from my sister that breaks down in fits of convusing laughter -- or is it hysterial grief? I haven't decided which), but Charlotte doesn't seem quite what to make of that as yet. Christmas was swiftly becoming overwhelming for her, so we decided to put off further presents until after breakfast (itself a high volume affair).
As I sat in our kitchen beside my kids (each sounding off and banging whatever utensil they could get their little mitts on against the nearest table and/or wall), resplendent in my new novelty t-shirt and bedraggled bed-head -- attempting to drown my headache in coffee -- my wife turned on the radio. The maxim of my shirt being morbidly prescient, the news immediately came barking through (courtesy of NPR) that James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, had passed away during the night. I sprang to my computer.
A little over a hour later, after frenzied talks with my boss, a producer, a senior editor and a writer, we managed to speedily land the plane and put up an admirably exhaustive article on the passing of the preeminent architect of funk and former hardest-working man in showbiz. We left immediately thereafter, repaired with our kids to French Roast on 6th Avenue for a leisurely brunch (or as leaisurely as you're going to get when you have two little kids in tow) involving a couple of Bloody Marys for Peg and a couple of beers for m'self.
So yes, manure does indeed occur -- especially when you're least prepared for it -- but Merry Christmas Anyway!
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