Christmas at Gramma C's with the Little Wooden Hand

This was the first Christmas for years that I was there and (semi) sober and able to enjoy everyone's company. Sitting around the table and cracking obscene jokes. It was the first Christmas in my life that I didn't get a call from my Father wishing me a Merry Christmas, or some completely inappropriate gift from him. Anyway, it's almost the new year and soon, bigger and better things will erupt in my life.

I can feel it. After dinner my uncle D, fell in love with the stocking stuffer that my Grandma gave him. It's a wooden back scratcher. It's long and at the end it has a little wooden hand shaped just so, for scratching. I'm sure you're thinking,"Oh, I have one of those, I love it too. They reach all the right spots."




Well this wasn't exactly the same kind of love. D found this thing to be the funniest object in the world. It was his new best friend. I really can't begin to describe the love here. You see, the hand extends and retracts, and it does look just like a tiny little hand, so it has become the source of great amusement. Perhaps you should all get one for yourselves. I had no idea how many possibilities were loaded into one little wooden hand. Why you can:

• Hi five with a little wooden hand.
• grab objects from across the table with a little wooden hand.
• caress your lovers cheek without having to move from the couch with a little wooden hand.
• scratch your chin like an intellectual with a little wooden hand.
• pose like The Thinker with a little wooden hand.
• put a little wooden pinkie into your mouth and say "one million dollars"
• scratch the dog with the little wooden hand and not get any hair on you.
• smoke a cigarette with a little wooden hand without having to bring your hand all the way to your mouth.
• drive like a low rider with a little wooden hand.
• brush your hair back with a little wooden hand.
• bitch slap someone with a little wooden hand.
• "raise the roof" with a little wooden hand.
• smack the back of someone's hand for grabbing something from across the table when they shouldn't with a little wooden hand.
• have the worlds smallest wooden hand stroke the worlds smallest wooden penis (don't ask).

How could I possibly think of all these uses for such a seemingly creation? Put the little hand in a room full of friends, family and beer and see what happens. And if it's on Christmas night when tensions are already high, you're in for a treat. Be prepared because...
YOU CAN PAY FOR PIZZA WITH A LITTLE WOODEN HAND.

Of course in our state of of wooden hand giggles, the next logical step was to share the love of the little wooden hand with perfect strangers so they too could see what a genius invention it is.

There is a knock on the door. Everyone hides in the kitchen, except for D, little wooden hand in...well, hand, and I'm on the sofa with an engineer whistle in my mouth. Everyone is silent. It's amazing how how well this is going to come off. D opens the door and the pizza guy doesn't even bat an eye. (I should add that D was wearing and old engineer's cap and aviator glasses and weighs about 250 pounds) He stares at D and starts to hand him the pizza. D flicks out the little wooden hand, which has money in its tiny wooden grip. The arm extends, and the hand reaches out to the pizza guy. This is too much for D, who is already well aware of the comedic power of the little wooden hand, and he begins to giggle. He giggles right in front of the pizza guy who now just wants to leave.

D invites the pizza guy in with a creepy "Hi. You wanna come in?" This forces em to hide my face in the sofa. I mean, come on, it was fucking funny. It's a big city but a small neighborhood, and who knows. I might see this guy on the bus in a week and he could scream out, "Her and her freak train conductor uncle tried to seduce me with a little wooden hand!" The pizza guy leaves, snatching the money from the tiny wooden hand and running down the stairs so fast I thought he was going to fall down and we were going to be sued. D eventually closes the door, after waving goodbye with the hand for a minute or so and smiling. The rest of the bunch come out of the kitchen and blame him for ruining what would've been "The ultimate Pizza guy, little wooden hand Joke."

Now you probably thought my life was all glitz, glamor and fun late night parties in New York with strange rich men, that just treat me like a princess. But in reality, all I do is sit around on Christmas night thinking up new trick for the pizza guy. And while most of the time, I go home drunk at the crack of dawn after these types of events, I instead think about how great the the look on the Pizza guy's face was when we extended a little wooden hand with a twenty dollar bill crammed into its little fingers, at his appalled face.

It's been a hard holiday season for my family. I'm sure you all know that. I'm just trying to make light of a hard time and there isn't much I wouldn't do to try and see my Mother smile again, even if just for a split second. Any ideas?

P.S. Mom, if you're reading this, please close it and try not to peek too often. I love you dearly Mom, but this page isn't really a place for my Mommy's eyes. I'm sure you understand.

The gun in Sister Rose Marie's Handbag

For those of you that belong to a church or at least pretend to, you know that every Christmas there's some kind of boutique. They sell presents that you wouldn't buy for anyone but your Grandmother or great Aunt Edna. Everything from crocheted crosses, to little handmade aprons for your dish soap. (if you don't know what that is, look below and cringe)

click to enlarge if you dare or care

Today, I went to visit my Grandmother who is all of 82 with all of her wits about her. Don't let this woman fool you. She's a cunning, sneaky woman. I love her to death because she raised me right. Coming in at night with her yardstick making sure we said our Our Fathers and our Hail Marys was always a treat. I go to visit her every single Saturday and she plays all old and innocent and shit. I'm getting distracted, as usual. OK. So, today she calls me on my way there and asks if I'd like to accompany her and go to the Christmas boutique. I absolutely despise these events but I knew that if I didn't go, she wouldn't get there, since she's completely immobile and she really did seem to have her heart set on it.

After practically carrying her up a flight of stairs, we get into the room and I see 75 old withered women look at us coming through the door. A luncheon! She tricked me into taking her to a League of the Sacred Heart, luncheon! She turned to me and swore up and down, I'm sure with her wrinkled little fingers crossed behind her back, that she forgot it was a luncheon. (For someone that forgot it was a luncheon, she was quick to pull that envelope with her dues that was obviously made way ahead of time.) Along with lunch, they were having a little boutique, as I mentioned before, with strange crocheted or knitted, (I really don't know the fucking difference) toilet paper holders and handmade quilts, along with all kinds of other shit you hate getting for Christmas, and will never use. Not once. Not ever. Also included, for the low price of 6 for $5.00, were raffle tickets. On the table of things that were being raffled off were 5 bottles of booze, and some other stuff. After seeing the booze, my vision became tunneled and I bought my raffle tickets.

I didn't win. I never win a thing. With a room full of lucky Irish people, some are bound to be less lucky than others. The raffle went something like this...Cue obnoxious swishy music. ~~~~~~~~~

A woman named Rose, screamed out, "Number 2806!!! I SAID, number 2806!!! Does anyone have number 2806?? Last call for number 2806!!!" Last call came at least 4 times. Everyone sat there squinting at their pile of tickets, wondering if it was them, and I hear a deep, raspy voice scream, "Beengo!" I turned around to see a man! *GASP A MAN* An elderly man, named Patrick had slipped in. I suppose he was married to one of the women. He was waving his raffle ticket in the air, calling out,"Beengo! Beengo!" Women looked appalled and whispered, while another woman walked over to him and told him gently that it wasn't bingo, but it was, in fact, a raffle. In any case, he traded the winning ticket for the Vodka. (I don't know how these old people can in good faith, take these bottles of alcohol when they know damn well they can't drink with all those fucking medications they're on. My Grandparents have whole tables full of pills) Or maybe they can. My grandmother was a little loopy this afternoon. Maybe she's been nipping at the cooking sherry with her Codeine. I wonder if Patrick thought he had died for the sake of Jihad and realized the Quran had a typo. It wasn't 72 virgins after all. It was one 72 year old virgin and her name was Sister Rose.

The day was pretty uneventful other than my Grandmother tricking me into an old lady fest... I bought a few handmade cross magnets for the fridge that already has too many magnets from my many travels and escapades. Does anyone know why 7 out of 10 women over the age of 70 are named Rosalie? Whenever someone screamed the name Rose, 10 people turned around. I'm glad I have a name that isn't common.

Until we meet again,

S