Jesus. That's why there is a Christ Mass. Duh!

If you don't realize (or accept) that this is, at the core, why we celebrate this holiday (heck, why it's even CALLED Christmas) you're a moron. Period.

That said, the manner in which we celebrate this holy day typically revolves around a gluttonous, sinful, overindulgence in yummy goodness.

Yes, there are gifts. Of course, there are carols, but when it's all said and done, it's the food that brings us over. It's the food that makes us stay. It's the food that knocks us down (Although, the wine sometimes helps.), and it's the food that makes us get up at 2:30 a.m. and rape the refrigerator. (Yes, I really did write that.)

So, this entry is my thank you letter to fried chicken. It's an ode to

potato salad. I'm paying homage to mashed potatoes and putting Hummingbird Cake on it's well-deserved pedestal. All hail.

Dear Butter, Chocolate, Gravy and Fried Potatoes:

You've done so much for me this year. You calmed my nerves when I was unsure what decision to make. You tempered my temper and kept me from stabbing Mr. Do-Right when he'd done wrong. You quieted my children when I needed a moment of silence. You fed colds (and some fevers, despite the adage). You were, sadly, closer to me than most. I thank you for your being here for me. Always.

But, in this approaching new year, I think we may need to see other people. I'm thinking of spending some time with my running shoes. I may even have a weekend getaway with the Wii Fit. It's not that I don't love you anymore. It's just that ... well ... some relationships are for a reason. Some are for a season. Some are for a lifetime. I think we are seasonal.

I know we'll see each other again. I'll save room for you. Don't say goodbye. Just say, "Until we meet again." Au revoir, mon cheri.

(Chocolate, call me in February. Maybe we can hang out for a bite - I meant "bit.")

K.

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OK, so the blog changed. It looks different; and, in the words of our great American hero Forrest Gump, "That's all I have to say about that."

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My mom was the neighborhood mom. Like in an 80s TV sitcom, our friends would often call her by some variation of her name (Mrs. V, Mama E., Moms, etc.). She was known to bake a mean pound cake (still does!) and could prepare a chicken that was better than Popeyes, Bojangles and KFC all deep fried into one. She was THAT mother.

Now, as welcoming as my mother has always been, she would never welcome you into her past. She's always claimed she doesn't remember much about her childhood or that children didn't know much because they were required to be seen (briefly) and then dismissed. So, having a mom with Fort Knox-like locks on her memory banks, I always grasp onto her every shared memory like an old lady on a steering wheel - unrelentingly.

You can imagine my surprise when my mom caught a case of word vomit today and revealed a devilish little memory from her childhood. In a conversation about my little problem (let's just say it starts with "con" and ends with "stipation"), my mother told me about the unconventional reply she and her childhood friends would give when asked if they wanted cheese. She recalled, "Anytime someone would offer it to us, we would giggle and say:

Me no eat cheese.

Cheese choke 'em ass.

Me no shit for many, many moons."

Now, I'm still not quite sure why adults were walking around offering cheese to impressionable young girls, but it was the 50s, and I'm guessing it had something to do with the advent of fondue.

The great part about this little tidbit, though, is not its blatant vulgarity or even the equally vulgar conversation that led to it. What's so awesome about this memory is that my 69-year-old mother remembered it. That gives me hope.

All the little blank spots from my past, the moments I just can't seem to fill with some important event I know must've happened - because my siblings told me so - could come back to me. What's more, they might be filled with hilarious, racist Native American limericks or something equally as "cheesy." Thanks, Mommy.

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I thought it would be a friggin' riot to get my work buddies - a degenerate bunch of creatives - to write haiku. I informed them all ahead of time that these would be published in this august medium. They sent them to me anyway.

Gary, Designer, with his cat's fave haiku:
You must scratch me there!
Yes, above my tail! Behold,
"Elevator butt."

Natalie, Writer, with an ode to her neice:
Sweet Addie looks up.
She sees me and yells: "Nat-Nat!"
My heart melts. Again.

... and again with several odes to the best shows on TV:
You are my person.
'Cause we are dark and twisty.
You really get me.

O Slushy shower
You cannot drown out my song
Groove is in the heart.

Oh baby Stewie
Why do you hate your mother?
And how old are you?

Roger, Writer, with a love story:
Gail liked to kiss John
But he liked it better when
She had her teeth in

... and again, with a political entry:
Stealthily I sneak
Into your room as you sleep
I'm Dick Cheney - suck

Renee, Administrative Assistant, with the truth:
Back against the wall?
Had all you can take this week?
Call K.; have a drink!

Don, Designer and cycling enthusiast, with "A Mountain Bike Haiku":
Over roots I spin
wheels roll forward up the hill
burrito after

Then there was Alan's. He's also a designer. It was funny. He wouldn't let me publish it. Boo. Hiss.

And, finally, there's mine. I call it "Thinking of Others:"
My slacks are too tight.
I need to go shopping soon.
Don't look! Camel toe.

UPDATE: Alan relented. His haiku is below. It's called "Love: A Haiku"
Colin, Faith, now Grace
What were we thinking that night?
Call the doctor, quick!

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My dog had an interview today. Seriously. No bull.

We were required to arrive at 7:45 a.m. (A little early for my tastes, but ... whatever.) We pulled into the lot of Camp Bow Wow at 7:40, and were surprised to see that the place was already bustling. From the tight ship they were running, it seemed they had been going for hours - long before Guapo had licked my daughter's face and well before I'd slid him into the middle seat of my crossover vehicle like some kind of hairy little toddler.

The facility's exterior was unassuming, but it belied the glorious doggie heaven that is the inside of Camp Bow Wow. We waited among the Shepherds and Daschunds, Boxers and Terriers -- but they were already where we wanted to be: "in."

You see, Guapo was seeking admission into one of the most exclusive of area doggie day camps and boarding facilities. It's sort of like the Brown University of boarders -- you know, not quite Harvard, but still expensive enough to allow us to look down on lesser dogs. Getting into said program is not as simple as you may think. It required much more than just calling, weighing and proving vaccinations. It all started with a three-page application.

The subsequent process involved several phases:

1. Meet the Directors - We were greeted by management who proceeded to feel Guapo up like he was hiding a balloon full of crack somewhere in his digestive tract.

2. Alpha Male - Guapo was put in a room alone. The directors introduced a male of similar size to him to see how he'd react. He didn't.

3. Freaky Deekie - The male was escorted back to his pen, and the directors brought a female of Guapo's size (actually, twice his size) into his bed chambers. Again, nothing. (Though, I think in this case he was simply playing hard-to-get.)

4. Menage a Trois - The trio was then taken to the play area where they proceeded to frolic in the sunrise. Actually, the other two frolicked. Guapo ran in retarded little circles until he was overcome with dizziness and simply sat, exhausted, on the AstroTurf.

Finally, the directors came out with their report: Guapo gets to stay for Phase 5 of this house party. I was politely asked to leave for a minimum of 3 hours as the staff monitored his play habits with up to 8 dogs at a time (gratis, of course).

I left my fourth child at Camp Bow Wow this morning. I was given nothing more than the Web address through which I could monitor his behavior on streaming video (and I have, much much more than I expected to).

Now, lunch time can't get here soon enough. Keep your fingers crossed. Guapo really needs this gig. We want him to have his own little "Cheers," you know? A place where everybody knows his name, and they're always glad he came.

UPDATE: Guapo was deemed worthy!

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It has recently come to my attention that I'm not very productive at my nine-to-five. This harsh fact was brought to my attention by a good friend - and co-worker - who has noticed my half-hearted attempts at looking busy. What she calls half-hearted, I prefer to call by a more accurate moniker: apathetic. In other words, I no longer give a damn.

You know where my mind is, right? You know that dimly lit, musty mental place in which you can't really think of a good reason to keep pretending to care about your J.O.B.? You know, when you show up late for work and no longer bother to call in and say, "Hey, a delivery truck ran into a city bus which ran into a mustang-toting trailer on my route, so I'm running a little late" OR "You know, I thought I had the mumps this morning, but I'm over it. See you after lunch!"

That's where I am. I mean, they're lucky to get a "My morning toilet time ran a little longer than I planned" or a "What? It's not like you really expected me to be on time."

I have resorted to using the following techniques to entertain myself as I wait for the imaginary bell to signal the time to activate voice mail and log out of this ankle bracelet they call a computer. (Like Big Brother really needs to know how I voted on the Lindsay Lohan vs. Gabrielle Union "Who Wore It Best" online smackdown!):

1. Reading a book from the pull-out supply drawer in my desk. (Once you've read the first [insert Sookie Stackhouse, Twilight, Dan Brown novel here] book, you can't stop until you've read 'em all!)
2. Booting up my laptop next to my work computer. (Why should I do freelance work on my own time? That's just working hard, not smart.)
3. Making my next to-do list during meetings. (I have a list of lists I need to make. Help me.)
4. Searching for things on Craigslist. (I'm going to need something at some time, and I will expect it to cost between a minimum and maximum dollar amount.)
5. Taking extended bathroom breaks. (I can SO get facebook on my phone in the John. Sweet!)

And, yes. There are more. But, I'm sure you're so busy judging me that you don't have time to read on.

I know the economy is slowly recovering, but I'm not oblivious to the fact that there are thousands of people right now praying the government extends their unemployment benefits so that they can continue enjoying creature comforts like, I don't know ... sustenance. I'm grateful for that direct deposit on the 15th and the last. It always signals Wine Buying Day, and that's my favorite holiday of all.

However, there has got to be more than this. And there is. I try to remind myself daily of something that Mr. Do-Right said to me after my first month at this job. I was wracked with self-pity after my "boss" excoriated me for writing like I "don't know what I'm talking about." (She told me a month later that my writing is "exquisite." Hmph!) He said, "Remember why you're there." So, at times like these, when I start sending out Evites to my annual pity party, I try to remember why I'm doing this. I want to be able to give my children the things that make them smile. I want to be able to have a girls night out or spend New Year's Eve in a cabin with some of my closest friends. I want to be able to fill my gas tank up, and not just stop at $10. I want to be able to open my refrigerator and have choices. I want to be able to give to people who need it, and throw a little away on something ridiculous like a Salad Spinner or a Snuggie.

And, of most import to my readers, I want to be able to spend a night with my favorite man, eating something sinfully cheesy and sharing a bottle of some bad-ass vino. Salud!

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If you know me (or if you can read ... or both), you know that I love wine. It says so right in my "About Me" blurb. As my first blog, I thought it would be good to share some basic information about myself, and the first thing that came to mind is the fact that I do, so very dearly, love wine.

But, as I painstakingly (HA!) crafted that very first blog paragraph, I came to a startling conclusion. I, friends, am what was known in the age of "Sanford and Son" as a "wino." That's right. I'm a good, old-fashioned wino. I like everything about wine and, if left to my own devices, I would have some every time I put food into my mouth. That's how I commit to things. I go hard.

Now, one would think I'd be ashamed to make such a confession. Ha! Fooled you. I'm so NOT ashamed. Know why? Over the past three years, I have discovered something incredible: most of my friends are also winos! It's the strangest thing.

See, in college, you do college things: drink cheap liquor, regurgitate said liquor, and do it again the next weekend for four years straight (or more, depending upon your school and major). When you get married, you become a social drinker, having Cosmopolitans and Fuzzy Navels, Gin and Tonics and Vodka Cranberries -- you know, cool drinks. But, when you have kids ... oh, Lord! Children turn you. They make you crave the tartness of a semi-dry chardonnay along the sides of your tongue. They make you buy gargantuan wine glasses. They make you spend more time in the wine aisle at Publix than you do in the produce section. They make you add wine-related items to your Christmas Wish List. They make you into a wino.

Now, because I have three children of my own - and most of my closest friends have at least two each - we are firmly set into the wino way. Whenever we look upon each other's faces, we expect wine to be involved. We know each other's favorites. For instance, Miki likes a Riesling and doesn't care if it's room temperature. Boom Boom will sip on whatever is clever and I like anything white ... as long as it's cold and in good supply.

So, is there hope for the middle-aged wino mom? I think so. We are part of a special club. (Don't worry. I consulted Mr. Do-Right before this post, and he's assured me that I'm not an alcoholic. Whew!) We don't drink and drive. We don't hide our drinking. We don't get drunk, and we don't have our kids popping bottles for us.

Most importantly, though, a glass of wine each night keeps me off the local TV news. And you moms out there know exactly what I'm talking about.

Cheers!

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