Santa’s flirtshop.


Somebody tell me it’s not just Nutty Hubby and I that snicker like little children every time we see this Advent calendar at the drugstore.

I dare you to tell me Little Miss Jingle Bell Hat over there doesn’t look like she wants Little Mister Navel Tunic* to do things to her with his paintbrush that he’s only read about on 4chan.

Seriously, look at her. Girlfriend’s almost giving herself a case of the Exorcist neck cricks to shoot him those come-hither eyes. She’s bent over that dollhouse (or cabin or whatever the fuck it’s supposed to be) popping her booty with more enthusiasm than a Kardashian trying to break the internet. I swear she’s five seconds or less away from just breaking down and rearranging all the alphabet blocks in the workshop to read “JESUS CHRIST ARE YOU BLIND WOULD YOU PLEASE JUST FRIGGIN’ JUMP MY BONES ALREADY?”

That’s probably why the dollhouse/cabin monstrosity looks so sad and crappy. She’s spent all day fantasizing about Navel Boy in his little red tights instead of doing her stupid job.

So if you get a shitty gift this year, now you know who to blame.

Damn horny elves.

*I would really like to know why the artist felt it necessary to include that navel. It…haunts me.





Christmas in November.

They say Christmas is always in our hearts, but it turns out that Christmas is also always just a regular dumb old road in Coquitlam.

For the record, I took this picture with the sole intention of mocking Christmas Way on Instagram for being early with the holiday cheer, but apparently the mere act of crossing Christmas Way makes your grinchy heart grow three sizes, because by the end of the day I had inexplicably acquired six new Christmas ornaments, three spools of holiday ribbon, a festive candle, several branches of faux winter berries, and an eye-searingly red sweater that reads Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animal when all I had intended to do was replace my worn-out suede boots and update my wardrobe for the cooler weather, so I guess the joke was on me.

And I didn’t even get the damn boots.

Merry humbug.



NanoPoblano, Day 29: Making Christmas.

Normally I turn my nose up at getting out the Christmas decorations before December 1st, but as the weather forecast for the next week is looking very shitty indeed, I figured I should at least put the outdoor lights up this weekend so I wouldn’t have to do it in the freezing rain later on.

I was going to stop at the lights, but of course once I got those done I felt very accomplished and pleased with myself, so before I knew it I was back up on the stepladder in the closet sorting through boxes and bags to see what else I could get a head start on.

Long story short, it’s November 29th and we’re just a plate of cookies and a glass of milk shy of Santa breaking and entering in order to skulk around under our tiny tree.

I even dropped by Pier 1 before decorating the tree and added four new birds and two deer to my ornament menagerie, because Christmas isn’t Christmas without eighteen pairs of adorable eyes peeking out at you from your fake fir branches.

Nutty’s Artificial Animal Sanctuary,  Xmas 2015.

“What’s the big idea, lady? This ain’t the North Pole!”

I realized after the fact that it was actually a really good idea to set the tree up early, because it turns out adorably crafty birds made of twigs and burlap and straw are much cuter to look at than that one derpy light on our color-changing LEDs that refuses to turn green anymore.


I don’t know why I named the derpy light Carl. It’s just one of those things that wandered into my head and happened to stick.

Anyway, you’re an asshole, Carl.

NanoPoblano, Day 22: The rumors of your wild shenanigans have been greatly exaggerated.

I was strongly cautioned politely informed in advance that Christmas parties hosted by my husband’s work have a reputation for getting a little crazy.

As the last real corporate Christmas party I attended involved several dozen of our store’s finest getting good and plastered on a dinner cruise in the harbor, the drunken (and somehow unnoticed) theft of an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels from a bar by one of the new cashiers, and one of our full-time deli girls threatening physical violence against the coat check girl at a strip club (don’t ask), yesterday’s event had quite the precedent to live up to.

Ah, disappointment, we meet again.

I don’t get it. Champagne and sangria shoved into our hands at the door. Wine glasses topped up after the smallest sip. Reminders every two minutes that, “It’s open bar, guys, so go nuts!” There was every opportunity for alcoholic excess and lowered inhibitions.

We saw maybe one drunken wobble all night.

C’mon guys, it’s like you weren’t even trying. Responsibly tipsy? What kind of entertainment value is there in that? I was promised pure inebriated chaos, dammit!

But I guess that’s just the kind of letdown you can expect from from a Christmas party held in freakin’ November.