An Iceland Christmas

     For those of you who haven’t paid attention (or who’ve visited Penwasser Place solely for the kick-ass pictures), my family and I lived at the U.S. Navy air station in Keflavik, Iceland from 2003-2004.

FFS, that was a long-ass time ago.

    The base, opened during World War II, has since returned to the Icelandic government.  I suppose it was felt the money to keep it operating could be better spent elsewhere.  After all, the threat of Viking raids has pretty much petered out. 

    During the short time we were there, we experienced a rich culture.  From ogling New Year’s fireworks displays which were truly “shock and awe” to lolling about geothermal spas in sub-freezing temperatures, we immersed ourselves in all that was Icelandic.

Except that one where they ate rotted sheep heads.
  Yeah, they could keep that one.

    One of our favorite traditions happened at Christmas.  Readily acknowledging Santa Claus as the favorite of children worldwide, 

Brought to you by Coca Cola!

Icelanders add their own unique way of celebrating the run-up to December 25th.  For the thirteen nights prior to Christmas morning, legend has homes visited by the mischievous gnomes known as the Yule Lads.

    From Sheep Worrier to Candle Beggar, each Lad has his own specific identity. 

Luckily, Butt Sniffer didn't make the cut.

     Never malicious or harboring ill-intent, they play tricks on each household, whether by drinking all the milk or rearranging the furniture.  Revealing their softer sides, they also leave presents in children’s shoes, unless they’d been naughty that year.  In that case, they leave Puffin Poop.

    Enchanted by this charming bit of folklore, my wife and I played up the fable of the Yule Lads to our two children.  As December 12th approached, we told them that Stekkjarstaur, the Sheep Worrier, 

Worried that someone will behead his sheep while he's asleep

would surely pay a visit that night.  To be ready, they needed to place one of their shoes on their windowsills so that he could leave them a present.

    Or poop, I kidded my son.

Not funny, dude.

    Several hours after the kids had gone to bed, we set the stage for the first of the Yule Lads’ visits by placing empty milk cartons in the fridge.

    NOTE: I guess he was worried there'd be no milk in the place.  Or headless sheep.  

    Certain the kids were asleep, I stole into their rooms to place small presents in their shoes.

    Our daughter was snoring away-no doubt dreaming of what kind of “loot” she’d get from the little troll that night (and I don’t mean me).  A precocious fourth-grader, she made sure to tell us at dinner that she’d been a great girl that year.  

Hopefully, Stekkjarstaur would be able to fit a puppy in her sneaker.

    One child down, I told my wife I’d place a “Family Size” Snickers in my son’s shoe.

    The base’s apartments weren’t like the typical ones in America.  Everything was so small, I didn’t have room to walk around his bed.  This being the case, I had to stretch clear across where he slept just to reach the windowsill.     

    As I neared his shoe, I heard a voice from out of the darkness,

"That's okay, Dad.  You can turn on the light if you can't see."

    Busted, I quickly dropped the candy into his shoe and fled without a word.

    The next morning at breakfast, I asked my eleven-year-old about the night before.

    “Oh, that,” he said, “I’m too old for that stuff anymore.  Tell you what, just save yourself the trouble and give me my present before I go to bed.”

    Mildly depressed that my little boy was growing up, I said nothing as he headed off to school.

    Before he walked through the door, he called over his shoulder, “Oh, hey, I left something for you and Mom on your nightstand.  See you this afternoon.”

    Shaking off my gloominess, I shuffled into my dollhouse bedroom and saw a piece of paper next to the alarm clock.  It was my son’s Christmas list.

    Starting off with “Dear Santa,” it went on to list, by color, size, and memory storage, everything he wanted to see under the tree come Christmas morning.

    At the bottom, he closed with, “Oh, yeah, just in case, Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad.”

    Or, as they say in Iceland, “Gleδileg Jól.”

2025 Update:  My son now lives in Richmond and is a civil engineer and pilot.  Meaning, he can afford his own damn Snickers.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

"If you don't let me in, I'll catch my death.
  No pun intended."

History of the World: Hanukkah

   Or Chanukah. 

  Or Festival of Lights.

  Whatever.

   Anyway, as most of the country (nay, world) prepares for Christmas, Jews around the world (see? world) began their celebration of Hanukkah at sundown last night. 

    For the next eight crazy days, they will commemorate the rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem following the Maccabean Revolt ousting the Seleucid Empire in the Second Century B.C. (or “BCE” for you politically correct ninnies).

    Despite the hoopla, Hanukkah is a relatively minor Jewish holiday.  I think that it has attained a bigger importance given its proximity to Thanksgiving, Christmas, Boxing Day, and New Years.  So, cool.  The more holidays, the merrier. I say.

  Although, I do wonder whether they're horning in on the holiday about the birth of the Little Baby Jesus.

 

"Which itself horned in on Saturnalia."

  Okay, that's fair.

  Anyway, once the infidels were given the bum’s rush from the temple on about the 25^th day of Kislev (one of the months in the Jewish lunar calendar), the Maccabees set about putting the place back together.  

  After all, the Greeks had totally defiled the joint.  They put up a statue of Zeus, sacrificed very slow pigs, scrawled naked pictures of Egyptian dancing girls on the walls, and banned circumcision.

"Good news.  You can forget about that circumcision thing."

  They discovered that there wasn’t enough clean oil to turn the lights back on. All they had was one vial which was considered clean (i.e., sealed by the High Priest).  To get oil which was considered holy would take over a week to process it sufficiently (remember, this was before AI).  So, they were in a bit of a kosher dill pickle.

  Since they had no choice, they used the one they had to light things up.  Well, lo and behold, it lasted 

   This miracle is described in the Talmud, one of the holy books.  Not to be confused with the Torah. 

Along with Jackie Mason Juggles!

  The rituals include lighting a candle each crazy night on the menorah, playing dreidel, eating latkes, wolfing down doughnuts, and watching Adam Sandler movies.

"Doughnuts?  Go on."

  And receiving a gift on each of the eight crazy nights.

  Since I’m Catholic, I will also give my Jewish wife a gift on Christmas.

  Perhaps a dozen jelly doughnuts?

   

Christmas Visit

 

"Hey, I really appreciate the ride.  I always like to visit the folks this time of year."

It's That Time of Year Again

 You better get started on those Christmas cookies.

Gee. Thanks. Part Deux

 The following is the second part of my homage to Thanksgiving.  If you'd like to attach a little context, please review "Gee. Thanks.  Part I.".  Or not.  Not like I'm getting paid for this or anything.  Wish you would, though.  The comments are cool.

    The brightly colored leaves swirling madly amongst the trees, a chill autumn wind blowing briskly over freshly-harvested fields, and the forest animals bustling crazily about in preparation for winter.

    And nobody fighting over the remote.

    So it was in 1621 that Governor Bradford of Plimouth Colony thought it was high time to celebrate a day of thanksgiving.

NOTE:  I'm using the traditional spelling of "Plymouth."  Why?  Because I am one fart smucker, that's why.

    Frantically scurrying to find a suitable venue at which to hold their celebration, the Pilgrim Fathers were disappointed to learn they were too late; all the good days in October and early November had been reserved months ago for the Pequot/Schwartz wedding reception, the Jamestown “We Were First” Commemoration, and the last of the Mohican family reunions.

"No big deal, really.  There's only two of us left.  And you're a white guy."

    Luckily, a spot opened up the last Thursday of November when “Mohawks On Ice!” was forced to close after some Hurons stole their loincloths.  So, the Native Europeans invited their friends, the Native Americans, to a grand feast at the local Elks Lodge picnic pavilion (featuring real elk). 

    A deeply devout people, the Pilgrims wished to thank the “Godless heathen savages” for all their help getting the colony on its feet.  After all, the tribe was essential to gaining a foothold in the New World, long before the Trail of Tears, Wounded Knee, and all-you-can-eat casino buffets. 

    Imagine what would have happened had Squanto not taught the Pilgrims to plant dead fish with their corn (“Behold, I bring you the gift of maize!  As long as you don’t mind the smell of dead fish”). 

    Prior to that, they just stuck them in their trousers.

"We really appreciate thou bringest of a plate to share, Runs With Scissors. 
But, next time, forgeteth the Eel Pie."

    Many customs today hearken back to this coming together: the feast, the fellowship, the two-hand touch lacrosse game after supper, and the men falling asleep in front of the fire with their hands down their breeches while the women cleaned up all laid the foundation of our nation.

    NOTE:  By our nation, I mean the United States.  Canada, you have your own Thanksgiving in October.  England, you coulda had a piece of this, but noooooooooo.

"Bloody wankers."

    Happily, it was the giving of thanks which has endured through peace, war, and disco.  No doubt Governor Bradford himself began a tradition which survives to this day:  putting relatives on the spot to state that for which they were thankful.

"And I'm especially thankful that politics weren't brought up at dinner."
"MAGA!!"
"Here we go."

    In homes across the nation, this scene will be played out anew during halftime.  In the true spirit of the holiday, millions of family members will likewise be grilled.

    This year, though, in addition to joyful thanks for family, friends, and the feelings of warmth which come from both, one will resonate above all:

    That Great-Aunt Mildred was able to buy the last case of Twinkies from that guy in the back of his van at the Stop N Shop.

    Because the alternative was the Eel Pies.

    And I don’t care how much Cool Whip you put on them, they’re still eels.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE!

 

 

Gee. Thanks. Part I

The following is the first of my year-end reposts.  In the coming weeks, most of what the two of you who read this blog will see are repeats of things you've already read.  Providing you read them in the first place.  Anyway, if this is new to you, I hope you enjoy.  If it's not new to you, at least you can read some of the captions with pictures.  They're new at least.

NOTE:  Granted my post on Veterans Day was also a repost, but considering as that is a somber occasion, I choose not to include it.  But, it is a repeat.  The day and the post.  

"Which will now be called 'Victory Day.'"

Personally, I was also okay with 'Gulf of America' and 'Department of Defense', too.

   Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

    It’s the first of the year-end celebrations, the others being Christmas, Hanukkah, and New Years.  And, by New Years, I mean New Years Eve.  January 1st is really only meant for watching college football while nursing a hangover.

And making resolutions not to act like a jackass next New Year's Eve. 
No promises on the Super Bowl party, though. 

    You could make the case that Veterans Day kicks it off.  But, as evidenced by the dismal ratings of the short-lived It’s the War to End All Wars, Charlie Brown special, the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh Month just doesn’t make for a merry start of the holiday season.

As entertaining as this was.

    So, it’s really the 4th Thursday of November which gets the festivities rolling (hey, it’s easier than trying to figure out when the frik Easter is).

   NOTE:   The first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox.  Or whenever the calendar says.

"Unless you're Jewish.  Then, screw it."

    Incidentally, some folks have already jumped the gun and started decorating for Christmas.  We call them “crazy people.”

    I said what I said.

    After all, what evokes the holiday spirit more than getting trampled at Wal-Mart by frenzied harpies in bathrobes and curlers on Black Friday?

"Friday of Color."

    As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate how special Thanksgiving is.  A more sober occasion than the frenetic zaniness of the Yuletide season, at Thanksgiving we gather just to be together, not because we hope to score the latest electronic gizmo.

    Oh, sure, even though there are parades, football games, and enough food to sink the Mayflower, Thanksgiving is thankfully (pardon the pun) devoid of the commercialism of Christmas and the bacchanalian excess of New Year’s Eve.

    Except for the aforementioned crazy people.

    Gratefully, we aren’t bombarded by wall-to-wall advertisements to get our loved ones (or our families) the very latest in techno wizardry (“Because, if you REALLY loved Mom, you’d buy her a Kindle Fire!”) in the run-up to Thanksgiving.  Plus, there’s no such thing as a “24-Hour Thanksgiving Music Station” or a “Randolph the Hair-Lipped Turkey” special on the Hallmark channel.

But, there is the sucky-and racist-'Charlie Brown Thanksgiving'

"Wow.  Two mentions of Charlie Brown in one post.  That has to be a record."

    

    No, it's a calming prelude to the mania which paralyzes ever December.  It's a time to appreciate what we've been given.

    As the day draws nearer, I think back to that very first day of thanks held four hundred years ago...

To be continued in another repeat...

Argentina Travelogue II

     Many apologies to the two of you who read this hideous blog,

For which I don't get paid

"Nobody's forcing you to write."

Good point.

but I've been pretty busy the past couple of weeks.  The biggest demand on my time is that I'm renovating my living room, removing a nasty old carpet and replacing it with super swanky vinyl plank flooring.

    To say things aren't going as quickly as I hoped would be an understatement.

    For instance....  

THE ENTIRE FUCKING WEEKEND

    As I'm quite tired (and may wave the white flag tomorrow and hire me some Mexicans)...

"Unless I get them first!"

I thought I'd relax with yet another Argentina travelogue.

    As you know, I spent half of October there.  Besides being at a loss as to most of whatever people were talking about, I had a bueno time.  I learned quite a bit about the culture while I was there.

They're more than just bidets, you know

    An interesting bit of what they do south of the equator comes from how they handle disposing of household waste.  Each house has some sort of wire cage at the front of their house for garbage.  They dump their trash bags in it and, a few times a week, the city (or fairies) whisks it away.  Easy peasy.

"Someone say 'fairy'?"

Some are bigger than others.  This particular one was for four homes!

    While I think this is a pretty neat way of getting rid of garbage, I really can't see something like this becoming standard practice in the United States.

We tend to generate more trash.

    You'd have a better chance of Americans using bidets. 

"IF I WANT A DIRTY BUTT, IT'S MY RIGHT AS AN AMERICAN TO HAVE ONE!"

    Perhaps not.

The Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh Month

 

     Happy Veterans Day!

    I know most of you are expecting my typical wise-guy approach (for those of you who aren’t, what have you been reading?).  Most of the time I oblige because there’s a lot of the ludicrous in our lives (if you think I’m wrong, just remember:  Donald Trump's hair). 

    This one time, though, no wisecracks, no innuendos, no witty asides.  In a break from my usual “shtick,” I’m going to play it straight and briefly speak on the significance of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

    NOTE:  Okay, one wisecrack.  Aren’t “innuendos” Italian suppositories?

    On November 11th, 1918, the Germans surrendered to the Allied powers in the Forest of Compiegne, ending what was then known as the Great War.  Little did they know there would be a sequel nearly 21 years later.

    But that’s another story.

    The following November, noted scold and racist President Woodrow Wilson declared that “Armistice Day” would henceforth be observed in honor of those who had fallen during the “war to end all wars” (kinda dropped the ball with THAT one, didn’t we?).

    Following the Second World War (the “good” war, an oxymoron if I ever heard one), the town of Emporia, Kansas changed “Armistice” to “Veterans” Day.  The idea was to honor everyone who had served in the armed forces rather than only those who’d fought against the Kaiser.

    As the years went by, the idea of setting a special day aside for veterans took hold throughout the nation.  In 1954, Congress made the name change official while President Eisenhower called on all Americans to observe the day.  But, surprisingly, it took until 1971 for Richard Nixon to declare it a federal holiday.

    In the years since, it’s become little more than an excuse to hold blowout sales on everything from bed linen to used cars (“Buy this Chevy because Patton would have wanted you to.”).  Ceremonies marking the day have been lost in the madcap frenzy of pre-Christmas commercialism.  In fact, what was once a universal day off has turned into pretty much a “federal government employees only” respite.

    It’s like Columbus Day that way.

    I don’t have a problem with this, per se, if it was still recognized for the solemn event that it is.  After all, Veterans Day is much more than sleeping in late and watching Sponge Bob Squarepants in your pajamas while wolfing down a bowl of “Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs.”

    Unfortunately, many people don’t even know what Veterans Day is all about.  While at work on a November 11^th many years ago, I was flabbergasted when the morning announcements at the school where I worked proclaimed Veterans Day merely as a “day to recognize older people who had a lot of experience.”

    What!?  Now, I don’t wish to denigrate Grandpa’s fly-fishing prowess and, boy howdy, ain’t it cool that Great-Aunt Tilly can knit a quilt with her feet, but c’mon!  Since when is bowling a perfect game the same as convoy duty in Afghanistan?  Quick answer-it’s not.

    As a result, I spent the balance of the day quizzing my coworkers on whether they knew what put the “veteran” in Veterans Day.  Sadly, I was depressed by their appalling lack of knowledge, as very few of them actually understood what all the fuss was about.  But, you can bet your bottom dollar they knew who the frontrunners were on “Dancing With the Stars.”

    Shocking as it was, I know they weren’t the only ones who had no clue that the 11th of November was different than any other day.  It goes without saying there’s a need to set a few things straight. 

    So, I call on all of us who know better to teach others about Veterans Day.  Urge those around you to take a moment to remember our veterans and those who are still in harm’s way.

    You don’t have to go to a flag-raising ceremony, attend a parade, or even buy one of those “Buddy Poppies” (although I do, because I enjoy talking to those guys).  You don’t have to agree on this war or that war and you certainly don’t have to watch The Sands of Iwo Jima at attention.

    If nothing else, reflect on the service of all those who have worn, and continue to wear, our nation’s uniform.  From Lexington to Kabul, they deserve our respect and our thanks.

    As a veteran myself, I salute them all.

 

Socks in the Bidet

 Argentina Travelogue

Surprisingly, not a handwash for little people.

"Well, what the fuck are we supposed to use then?"

    As most of you know, I spent half of October in Argentina.  Not to scout for elderly Nazis, you understand,

"Whew!  Thank Gott!  Errr....I mean 'Gracias a Dios!'."

but because my wife's parents were born there.  Before they emigrated to the United States in the early 60s. 

    You know, before it became a shithole.

"I feel attacked.  You?" 
"Well, we're both dead, so screw him."

    Anyway, she still has family there and wanted to visit.  Since she hasn’t been back for thirty years, she figured it was high time to return.  Even though everyone has changed.

    She, however, has not.  She is as beautiful as ever.

    NOTE:  CYA in case she reads this.

    She had a great time.  Me?  I had a good time, as well.  Even though all they speak is Spanish down there and I learned in short order that my high school Spanish wasn’t up to the task.

I did my best to fit in, though.

    So for thirteen days I sat in a corner like a dummy, unable to understand a single word.  Besides, "I don't understand" and “Where’s the toilet?”  Because that kind of knowledge is pretty important.

    Except for the language barrier, Argentina is a very nice place.  Once Juan and Eva Peron faded away, that is.

    NOTE:  Euphemism for “died.”

"Wait.  What?"

    There’s a slew of cultural differences, mostly good.  One example is that, when people arrive, they immediately kiss each other on the cheek (on the face, you perv), perfect stranger or no.

    Since I didn’t speak the language, I chalked this up to the fact that I am wildly cute.

    Then, my wife burst my bubble.  "No, you narcissistic nitwit," she explained, 

"Narcissist? I'm your huckleberry."  

"they do it so people are immediately put at ease." Apparently, doing so relaxes folks who, even though a stranger just planted one on their face, they have nothing to fear.

Although, I steered clear of Uncle Tico.

    I think this is a great way to interact with each other.

Until I remembered Judas greeted Jesus with a kiss.

    I wouldn’t mind settling there.  However, that would put thousands of miles between me and my children and grandchildren.  And that I will not do.

    But, we’ll go back next year.  I hope to learn more Spanish phrases than the location of the john by then.

    Possibly, "Oops, I plugged the toilet."

    Oh, the title of this post?

    One of the cultural realities of Argentina (and, to be honest, much of the world), is that every bathroom has a bidet in it.

    The morning after we arrived (after saying “Donde esta el bano?” to our host-high school taught me that at least), I used the facilities to...uh...do I need to draw you a picture?

    Following my sojourn on the throne, I planned on showering.  However, when I moved my clean clothes to the shower stall, I dropped my socks in the bidet.

    I quickly retrieved them.  Since they appeared to be unscathed by a (thankfully) unused bidet, I still put them on.  I figured that, if they were tainted, they’d be on my feet under my shoes anyway.  So, I felt reasonably safe.

    Besides, I had no choice.  I didn’t know Spanish for “I have potty ewwwww on my socks.”  

The Day After

"So, back in the attic I go, eh?"

     It's November 1st.  The day after Halloween.  Youthful extortion for all manner of tasty goodies has come and gone.

    Although I'm sad to report that we only had one trick-or-treater last evening.  Numbers of little urchins knocking on my door have been dwindling over the past several years, but last night was a new low. Perhaps next year I won't even bother getting candy...?

    Oh, hell, who am I kidding?   When October 31st, 2026 arrives, I'll still have a bowl of candy in case anyone comes a-knocking.  I just won't rush home from work to do so.

    Still, the dearth of little superheroes, ghostly critters, and, yes, Blue Man Group impersonators has left me sad.  I guess it's a sign of the times and a possible shift in our culture.  Don't have to like it, but there it is.

    On the bright side?

Leftover candy is mine.  All mine.

 Bonus blog bit:

Since I went to Catholic School (aka "Penguin Academy")...

"I never liked that term.
Knuckles if ye please, cheeky boyo."

my brothers, sister, and I could sleep in the next day, All Saints Day.  To those “in the club” (so to speak), November 1st was a “Holy Day of Obligation” and so, was a day off from school (a point rendered moot if it fell on the weekend.  In that case, we groused that we were ripped off by Jesus).

NOTE:  I'm not sure if it still is a Holy Day of Obligation.  Or, if so, Catholic School inmates students still have the day off.
Since today is a Saturday, I guess that means they can suck it, though.

    This meant we could shove candy down our throats when we got home until we passed out, woke up, ate some Sugar Smacks, inhaled more Three Musketeers, watched cartoons, and made fun of the public school kids as they trudged off to class.

     This was the best part of having the day off because the public school kids were beating us up the rest of the year.   Even the girls.

Those public-school kids really had no sense of humor.

Next:  I'll begin my "Argentina Travelogue."