I'm Dreaming of a Dead Christmas

Yesterday at Walgreens while I was standing in line buying a doorstop for my haunted bedroom door they were playing a Grateful Dead song and while doing a mental twirl I glanced down at the package and noticed "instructions" in bold letters on the back.


Slide under door.


Then I drove to my old house and because it has two garage doors instead of one like the new house I got confused (see previous post) and backed into my house. Yes, backed into it. Broken tail light and taupe housepaint on the bumper. Pretty much rules out telling them I got hit in a parking lot. By what, a house? Do I turn this in on my auto insurance or my homeowners? It was one of those days.

But then I loaded up, drove to the new house, and while I was unloading one of my new neighbors walked over and introduced her fine self and I found myself wondering if she and her husband have an open marriage. If not, I think I can take him. She was wearing those jeans that if you just run your fingertip down along the inside of the waistband you are so close and maybe she'll hold her breath on the inhale and bingo, now you're really there. To me the female naval is a sex organ, a place I want to rest my finger and tongue. I think low rise jeans should be enshrined in the clothing hall of fame, right up there with those wicked skirts that are about a foot in length. The ones I try not to notice when the girl is really young but usually fail. At least I try. Other than the goofball couple on my left (serious goofballs, really) all my other neighbors are younger than me by quite a bit so I'm sure they think I'm harmless. Heh.