December 18, 2016 – Vintage Christmas Holly Jollies, a Little Atlanta & a Small Dose of Medicine

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Now for Something Completely Different

While there are some Sunday night shows I’m watching, like The Real Housewives of Atlanta and Married to Medicine (see below), nothing is happening with the shows I’m blogging, so I thought I’d share a little Christmas humor.

In 1979, I was young, single, and living in NYC. I still went home for Christmas though, and a friend of mine stayed at my apartment in Manhattan that year to babysit my cat, Eric. (So named after Monty Python‘s Eric the Cat.) When I got back, I found this note. In explanation, my railroad flat was once a hotel room and had a decorative fireplace. And be forewarned, there are curse words ahead.

Christmas Eve, 1979

Dear Theresa,

Well, I was here! Where the hell were you?

After all the trouble I had getting here, too. Do you realize how goddamn hard it is to guide 8 reindeer through New York City? They all want to stop and look at the tall buildings and buy pretzels. They all bugged the hell out of me, trying to con me into taking them to Radio City.

Then, trying to land on that goddamn filthy roof of yours. Doesn’t anybody clean around here? There was so much fuckin’ pigeon shit around, Dancer slipped and almost ended up as flying venison.

Then I struggle and squeeze, and damn near burst my spleen trying to get down the chimney. I finally make it through – and you bricked up the fuckin’ fireplace!

I had to climb all the way back up to the roof, walk down the fire escape and get in through the front door. (If Jane didn’t leave your key for me – I wouldn’t have even gotten in!)

And then, do you think I could go up in the elevator? Oh no! I had to trudge up those cruddy stairs. Four whole flights I walked!

So I get in, finally. And where are you? Gone. I don’t even get the satisfaction of sneaking around so you don’t wake up. It’s the best part of being Santa Claus, goddamn it, and I couldn’t. If it weren’t for your crazy cat sleeping in the sink, it would have been a total loss.

By the way – do you know your cat is fencing stolen goods? I found a whole mess of TVs and stereos… well, never mind.

And the topper of it all. The thing that really, really burns me up is that you didn’t even leave me a goddamn glass of milk and a few lousy cookies! Nothing! I open the fridge and – nada! Not even a lousy j!

Thanks a heap, Theresa.

All in all, you really fucked me over, and don’t think I’m gonna forget it!

Santa Claus

P.S. Just stopped by on my way back from Ohio. So there you were! OK, all’s forgiven. But next time, drop me a note if you aren’t going to be in. You know my address. Merry Christmas.

SC

🎅 Wherever you are, Jane Lindberg, you’re still making me laugh after almost 40 years.

👒 A quick note on The Real Housewives of Atlanta. Kenya and Matt’s relationship seems to have taken a nosedive, which I find sad, since it looked like she’d found the right guy. Unfortunately, he’s shown a somewhat violent temper, and broke one of her garage door windows during an argument. Not a good sign. It’s hard to tell if they’ll end up working things out. I think it depends on whether or not Matt is willing to go to some kind of counseling. Kenya’s father has been a real champ though, supporting her all the way, and even trying to talk to Matt himself.

Phaedra is still the same self-righteous a-hole. There’s no way I could be friends with her. She has to be the phoniest member of the Housewives franchise, and that’s saying a lot. If you look up “two-faced” in the dictionary, her picture is there. Porsha has a new old boyfriend, whom she dated years ago. She decides to bring him to a family dinner, where he’s barraged with questions about his “intentions.” Even Jesus gets an earful during grace.

I often get distracted by the outfits on this show. Especially when Phaedra wears some kind of poufy thing. Or a hat. I was twice as distracted tonight, when Phaedra and Kandi met for a disastrous lunch. Kandi called Phaedra out for everything she’d ever done since the earth cooled, and Phaedra pretended she had no idea what Kandi was talking about, and Kandi must be crazy. But I digress from my digression. Kandi was wearing a gorgeous, but busy, off-the-shoulder dress, in a humongous floral pattern, and Phaedra was wearing some white concoction that I kept trying to figure out. I don’t know how I was supposed to concentrate on the conversation. All I know is, it didn’t end well.

🚑 As for Married to Medicine, this one is like watching a train wreck for me. You’d think that a group of women who are doctors and/or married to doctors would be somewhat mature, but no. However, it’s flabbergasting to see how incredibly childish they are. Hats off to Dr. Jackie, often the only voice of reason. She finally blew a gasket last week, while doing a nude photo shoot for breast cancer awareness. She’d invited the girls along for support, but they couldn’t stop their loud, petty quarreling for five minutes, and she had to kick them out. It’s a shame that a show that could have so much going for it, frequently reduces itself to Jersey Shore status. I’d also love to know where they find these people. What are the odds of a medical maven also being the first to start a bar brawl? That’s not to say the ladies are one-dimensional – this season’s storyline about Simone’s missing father is heart-wrenching – but they’re not kids and need to learn when to put a lid on it.

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