"Dude, some guy in a wolf costume with a light saber just said 'Hi' to you." - Shawn, Psych

 

It snowed in Houston. Really. Apparently, it snowed several inches in a spot or two, and the accident count was ~100 an hour. Yay, snow! Of course I was out of town, so I guess I’ll just have to wait another few years for the next snow. This must be a harbinger of Global Warming®, since snow in Houston can only be related back to global warming (I think I really read something like that).

Pugsley has begun to speak. Oh, sure, Internet, you might not interpret the shouted “MO!” as “NO!” or “mew” as the word “cat”, but give the little guy a break. Pugsley is three, and has been in no hurry to talk.

Of course, this confounds babysitters, who ask Pugsley if he wants “more” and then he says “mo” and for some reason gets angry when mo isn’t interpreted as “mo.”

Pugsley’s talking (or lack thereof) becomes somewhat secondary with the stupidity drug that Christmas is for all those under 12 or so. Pugsley and The Boy are all atwitter, dancing around like goons while humming out-of-tune versions of “Carol of the Bells” and eating candy canes. Am I the only one who thinks that it’s grossly unfair that all we had when I was a kid growing up were those crappy mint-flavored candy canes, and now you can get them in all sorts of non-sucky flavors?

I tried to explain to The Boy how lucky he was that we had the ability to buy him toys for Christmas, how my Mom related that during the Depression had been happy to get gently-used uncomfortable underwear for Christmas, and were happy about it. The Boy just gave me an expression that indicated:

He didn’t understand me.

He didn’t care.

This better not be a softening up routine to signal he was getting used socks for Christmas.

Actually, that isn’t the case. This will be a Star Wars®-themed Christmas, since I intend to kidnap a Princess®, invade and Ice Planet© and finally watch my evil schemes torn to shreds by little walking teddy-bears™.

In reality, The Boy and Pugsley are getting Light Sabers® (and I am, too) so we can wander around the house willy-nilly hacking on each other. Exciting? Yes. We should have some fun with this, especially if I can avoid having them hack my right hand off.

I look forward to a continued batch of idiocy in the house as we head towards Christmas, even if at times it comes in the form of incomprehensible little outbursts of red-faced rants from a three-year-old who is getting frustrated that we can’t open the presents today.

Me? I say, “Mo means mo.” Also? “Just say mo.”

Keeps things consistent.