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Jun. 10th, 2010 05:58 am
ysonesse: (Default)
[personal profile] ysonesse

(First posted on Runaway Tales:  Pickle #9, Eggnog #15, Malt: 12 Days of Christmas)


December 25, 2011:


“A chandelier in the bathroom?”

“It’s better than a disco ball.”

“Neither one makes any sense in the room with the toilet.”

Your dad and grandfather “debating” about stuff they don’t agree on is like a scheduled appointment every time the family gets under one roof. We’re finally getting the humble abode fixed up a little bit every so often, and we’re nearly finished the bathroom. We don’t have a chandelier or disco ball in there, although I could persuade your Dad to wrangle up a combo disco chandelier just for the “Hey, why not?” factor. The bathroom has been our latest project (three months and counting, 92% finished). We’ve got all the important stuff (pipes, etc.) taken care of; now it’s the extraneous details that need to be completed.

It’s Christmas Day, and your paternal unit’s parental units are over for a little dessert feeding. Your dear parents recovered from the Great Cookie Disaster with one lovely tray of sticky buns paired with four trays of mixed sugar/gingerbread cookies from Henson’s on Kershaw (your aunt picked up some red velvet cupcakes from there a week ago; they were GOOD, so we had to get cookies from there!). We did our gift exchange (you scored the biggest share of loot, including three pairs of toddler-sized underwear. I suppose Grandma Palmer was thinking ahead by getting those…). Then we spread out in the living room, chomped on the desserts, and somehow Grandpa Palmer decided to regale us with his version of the Jonah and His Pesky Sea Journey tale. (His version involves the Loch Ness Monster). There was a lot of Bailey’s flowing tonight, and your grandfather was a sailor (prone to random bouts of storytelling)…odd, but funny.

It was a great evening, except when Grandpa Palmer made a stork joke. (Wondering aloud when the “Great Fertility Bird” is coming around with a grandson isn’t really amusing).

(The visit to Randolph House: The Center of Misery was typical; at least everybody agreed on the cookies).