I Like Cranberries, But Not This Much

There is no garbage pickup here in endstage Mayberry, so Roomie has rousted me from my snug bedroom enclave so that he can haul six bags of reeking refuse to various dumpsters around town. There is a dump, but it keeps arbitrary hours, and we have no idea where it is. So we gather our garbage and clandestinely deposit it into business dumpsters around town. I'm sure this isn't legal, but until someone enlightens us as to the location of the dump, that's the way it is.

We went in search of a tabletop Christmas tree and came home with a sad, bedraggled specimen that bears an uncanny resemblance to the one in A Charlie Brown Christmas. It's got spindly, unappealing branches and leans drunkenly to one side and probably won't support the few decorations I bought for it, but I have an affinity for and strong empathy with the unwanted and unglamorous things of the world, and when I saw Charlie the Tree sitting forlornly on the shelf among the more majestic trees, I knew he was coming home. I'm sure my mother will turn up her nose at the ugly tree, but I don't care. Charlie is my tree, and she can shut up and like it. Besides, she's not even going to be here for Christmas.

Life is fairly uneventful right now. Roomie and I have finished our Christmas shopping. Thanks to Amazon, this has been the easiest shopping job ever. No rude shoppers, harried or incompetent clerks, last-minute item shortages, or exposure to the same six Christmas carols performed by Bing Crosby, Mariah Carey, Peter Cetera, and Michael Buble. I was able to get what I wanted at my convenience while Till Lindemann belted out his peculiar and deliciously panty-dampening brand of holiday cheer. I will never shop at brick-and-mortar retailers again if I don't have to.

( Warning: Disabled Sexuality TMI )

Meanwhile, I'm chugging cranberry juice and gulping AZO cranberry in an effort to thwart an incipient UTI. I'm not sure it is a UTI; it could be simply skin irritation and dryness as my body acclimates to real winter, but as a veteran of four previous UTIs, I'm taking no chances. There is nothing worse than pissing fire ten times a day and wetting your pants because you can't exactly sprint to the loo, my darling. If it hasn't improved by next week, I'll have to go to the doctor and sacrifice $274 and my dignity as I squat over a plastic cup with a nurse lurking outside the door. I've emptied two bottles of cranberry juice in eighteen hours.

I never want to see it again.

Life is mostly good, though. Roomie bought me a small stuffed Eeyore as a surprise present, I've got my own tree to decorate, and if I feel like it, I might see The Princess and the Frog this weekend, snug inside my theater with a hulking tub of popcorn and a Coke.

So, yeah, on the whole, I've got it pretty good.

ETA: And now, life with more awesome, as Animal, the Swedish Chef, and Beaker perform the Carol of the Bells. God bless you, Brian Henson.