2nd Cup of Coffee, 3/27/19: 9 SACRED RULES FOR CREATIVE WEIRDOS

I’m always digging through old files and finding neat stuff.  You know–like being allowed to dig through your grandpa’s

‘That Drawer’ out in his shop.  That’s where these little jewels came from.  The files, not the shop.

It’s tougher than you know to not embellish each of these, but striving manfully, I push on through the yammering distractions to present them to you.  It’s up to you how you apply them to your own experience.



1.  Always do more than you need to do.

2.  Try new things.

3.  Teach those observing your work more about what you know.

4.  Make your work into play.  Find ways to make staying at it fun.

5.  Work when others either aren’t or won’t.

6.  Take breaks; rest whenever you need to.

7.  Always be creating.  ALWAYS.

8.  Make your own inspiration; don’t depend on anyone else for that.

9.  Love what you do, or leave.

© D. Dean Boone, March 2019

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2nd Cup of Coffee from TIME TRIALS, 3/14/19: A SHOWER’S NO BIG DEAL, RIGHT?

A shower ranks right in there with your broom and dustpan.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  EVery morning, and sometimes in the afternoon following sweaty work or exercise.  Boring.  Repetitive.

Showering and getting presentable is part of a normal morning ritual, almost overlooked in its sameness.  Regular.  That makes you all the more curious why I’m writing about it.  Glad you asked.  I remember what it was like to wish I could take one.

I got up this morning, checked on a bruised rib from moving furniture two days ago.  I did a light workout with weights, followed by stretching, then took a warm, soapy, full-body shower.

In 2001, I could do none of those things.  I’d had four abdominal surgeries, three of them emergent small-bowel resects in a desperate attempt to outrun the speed at which my diseased small gut kept dying.  I was infusing thick, nutrition-and-vitamin/mineral-rich food through a large-bore IV Hickman catheter, surgically-inserted through my upper chest into my subclavian artery.  Though infusing this total parenteral nutrition around the clock, my weight-loss plan was working:  I kept losing a few ounces every day or so.

It was working too well.

I was starving to death.

Catheters, IVs, and NG tubes make for lousy hygiene.  The routine of medical care creates stains and strange, unpleasant odors.  If you can’t get out of bed, it’s impossible to do a decent job even of combing your hair.  A shower?  Don’t make me laugh!  In fact, don’t make me put strain on my 8-inch-long wound at all!  And to add insult to stay sutures?  Women I didn’t know – aides – kept promising me they’d be back after doctor’s rounds to give me a sponge bath.

I’m pretty sure they scoured the entire hospital, looking for the uglie—ah, least attractive CNAs they could find.  Although, cutting them some slack, if I’d been forced to bathe a patient looking like I did, I wouldn’t have blamed them for drawing straws to see who’d be the loser today.

Even after I went home and was under home health care, showering was an ordeal.  I couldn’t get the wound wet, but the wide, spandex-elastic girdles I had to wear whenever not showering needed laundering.  You guessed it.

“So, I can’t get the wound wet.”  Definite shake of the head.

“But I can’t stand this funky hair and — well, you know.  What am I s’posed to do?”

I think we kept Saran Wrap in business for about 6 months.  Every time I’d take a shower, I first had to carefully remove the armor – which in itself was a little frightening – and then wrap myself in clingy plastic wrap.  What takes a normal biped a few minutes will take a patient recovering from major gut surgery the better part of an hour.  For months after being released from the hospital that last time, I had a hard time even looking at a QuikTrip burrito.

“Pssh.  Wouldn’t take me that long to wrap MYself.”  You haven’t walked this journey.  I wasn’t doing it to slim down–I’d already lost the weight and was trying everything imaginable to maintain the 165 pounds I had left.  Did I mention the chronic fatigue that goes along with losing all but a few inches of your small intestine caused me to need to sit down once or twice while getting the shower?

That was then.  Though years in the past, the memories and experiences live vividly in my mind and in my nervous system.

So, this morning?  I awoke normally, clicked on my coffeemaker which is always prepped the night before, checked on a bruised rib from moving furniture two days ago.  I did a light workout with weights, followed by stretching, then took a warm, soapy, full-body shower.  Other than being sore and working through that, it took me about 5-6 minutes.

No Saran Wrap.

And you know?  A burrito sounds kind of good right now.  And tacos.  A LOT of tacos.  Supreme.  With sour cream . . .

What?  How can I eat so much?  That’s another story for another time.

© D. Dean Boone, March 2019

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2nd Cup Freewriting From Years Past (3/9/19): HERE’S TO ALL THE ALMOST-WONS

If Batman was a writer, FREEWRITING would hang in a prominent spot on his utility belt.  That’s how underrated a weapon freewriting is in the writer’s arsenal.

Freewriting can be triggered by anything.  A taste suddenly reminding one of a long-forgotten refreshment . . .  An old, yellowing picture commemorating a youthful event . . . The obituary of someone you once knew but don’t recall . . .  A rusting car out in a country field reminding you of countless afternoons at play after school . . .  A scent on the breeze you don’t remember the name of, but that instantly brings a face and time to mind . . .  A voice . . .  The way someone looks walking away from you . . .

It’s called ‘freewriting’ on purpose; there are no rules.  Time and space are immaterial.  Fiction and facts can be tatted together in such intricate lacework even the writer may not in a later reading fully understand the ebb and flow of its literary tide.  A writer’s developing character can be the actual author of freewriting, shocking the writer by his or her emotive power and intensity.  Only later – perhaps after years – will that character’s force of will and personality be seen and blended into earlier works involving them.

Well.  If you’re looking for structure and boundaries, freewriting isn’t for you.  In that world, anything goes, and as much winds up a crumpled habitue of one’s wastebasket as—only to have it apologetically retrieved, smoothed, and reread.  No rules, remember?  Freewriting is, well, free.  Sometimes in the creative miasma of orbiting ideas, pieces of phrasing phabric, and hurriedly-jotted mysterious prompts on sticky notes attacking all at once, a writer’s mind can become stuck – like a blender or garbage disposal with too much stuff jammed in at the same time.

Consider freewriting a writer’s scream for sanity!  Or a decent plot or something . . .

With that in mind, here is a snippet I found buried on a single page in one of my ubiquitous steno pads.  Think Christmastime from years past . . .


Here’s to all the 2nd Place Lovers.

All the ones who loved enough to back off and disappear in plain sight . . .

To the really great guy in the butterscotch plaid flannel shirt and worn jeans sitting alone in a truck stop outside Omaha, creased-and-laughlined face bowed momentarily over the chicken fried steak special, unfortunate enough to be hated and dismissed because back when it would’ve mattered he was too decent and nice . . .  How long, God?  I mean, how—-

“More coffee?”  Gratefully, he raised tired eyes to the young man keeping every traveler properly caffeinated, held out his cup, and thanked him.  “You’re welcome; my pleasure.”

The guy sat there for a few seconds before his racing thoughts caught up with him.  I know where he’s been trained.  If Chick-fil-A’d been around back then, it’s where I’d have worked.  Too ‘nice’ or ‘pretty’ to work anywhere normal!  He knew he was just feeling sorry for himself.  He’d worked hard at the normal teenage jobs, some of them rough and dirty; had a few of those across the years in between, too, but was having a hard time even enjoying his delicious meal.  The stupid canned Christmas music didn’t help.

  How long, God, do I go on believing for the best, while those for whom I overcome my resolve never to try again, and reach out to, always have a reason to ultimately back away and find somebody else?  Why do I always wind up being the opening act for someone else to step in?  What of my choices?  What about my joy, the desires of my heart You say you’ll fulfill?

To the terrific, classy, jeweled past-her-prime woman in light lavender and black with the tired, professional’s smile, matching shoppers with designer fragrances at Dillard’s to make ends meet, because the man she gave her heart to all those years ago decided on somebody, anybody more exciting, younger and slimmer.  Again . . .  How long, Dear God, do I keep on being too late for this, or too early for that?  I’m always too—too something!  I open my heart,

leave it ALL out there on the field, so to speak–yet it’s never enough!  I’M never enough! You’re GOD!  I know You can do anything, anytime.  Can’t You make something – someone – work out for me, too?  You said all that time ago that it’s not good for man to be alone.  Well, it’s no stinking holiday for a woman, either!  What about me, Lord?  When does happiness stri–

“Oh, yes.  Each of these featured new holiday fragrances are on special this weekend only.  Feel free to sample them.”

strike me?  I’m tired of having only my mirror for company.


And that’s where it stopped, those years ago.  Yeah, just like that.  It’s the nature of freewriting, the nature of a writer’s notes.  It’s unwieldy, unorthodox, naked, raw, and jagged.  And not always grammatically correct – depending on the writer’s frame of mind.  Characters tend to pack their own luggage.

So, there it was, scrawled in green, lamenting two lonely seniors:  one seated by a truck stop window with icy winds scudding snow in wintertime swirls through his heart; the other several thousand miles away, in a controlled-climate, professionally-decorated environment, yet with her heart just as icily withdrawn and guarded, as if standing calf-deep outside in a Midwest winter snowdrift.


© D. Dean Boone, March 2019


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QTMs for 3/8/19: WHO THEN TELLS GOD?

i secretly think my plan for this life trumps God’s.

i secretly think my plan for this life trumps God’s.

i secretly think my plan for this life trumps God’s.

i secretly think my plan for this life trumps God’s.

i secretly think my plan for this lif

i still secretly thin

i stil

Okay.  So, at what point do I stop contending with the Almighty that my plan for this life was better than His?  When do I quit moping over what and whom I’ve ‘lost’ and get my focus back on the extra life God’s granted me, and how best to use it?  At which juncture do I recognize He has textural richness and vibrant colors and as-yet-unknown sounds to add to my paltry talents–creative dimensions Earth has not, cannot see or sense or feel?

And when does it again kick in that GOD’S afterburner makes The Orville’s quantum drive seem like a child’s pull toy?

That God can and more often than we know does do what He does all at once, and faster than thought?

That nothing – NOTHING – is impossible when God’s involved?

That to relax my imagined grip on the controls of my journey (I know, “as if”, right?) and trust Him is Ultimate Wisdom?


© D. Dean Boone, March 2019

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2nd Cup of Coffee, 3/1/19: REMEMBER ‘CAT’S IN THE CRADLE’?

She sat in IHOP, ignoring the most precious things in her life.

A young mom, she’d brought her two daughters, Sevenish and Threeish, to sit eating all-you-can-eat pancakes, while she hunched over her phone, 13 or so inches in front of her face, with Someone Somewhere else.

The girls knew.

Their occasional tentative “Mommy?”s were rewarded with irritated, preoccupied glares.  Sevenish receded into studied quietness.  Threeish finally hopped down, walked over to her mother, and, standing on tiptoes, pursed her lips for a kiss.

It was grudgingly given.  Obvious, exasperated sigh.  Obligation fulfilled.  Sorry; I was distracted.  What were you saying?

I’m a writer.  I could have easily made this up; but I didn’t.  This tableau played out over the 30-or-so minutes as I ate breakfast seated in the booth next to them, trying to concentrate on a continuing chapter in the life of one of my characters.

Will Sevenish Pinkpants-Whitetop and Threeish Redpants-Whitetop attain adult years believing, deep within their core, that despite their brilliant and hopeful smiles, everyone else is of greater importance than they?

Will Mommy in later years suddenly come to, sitting in her recliner, wondering why the girls never come by?

Will she like the answer?

© D. Dean Boone, March 2019

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2nd Cup of Coffee for 2/26/19: JUST KIDDING… and KIDDING… and . . .

Kidding is NOT for cowards nor the weak of knees.  Raising children has always been the reserve of rank amateurs; by the time we’ve kind of got a handle on it, we’re grandparents – and we have a whole new rulebook.

Now, in a world seemingly overrun by ‘adult’ children, the task is all but impossible.  Look around.  From supposedly serious presidential candidates to committee members to state and local honchos, they almost all seem to be merely adult-sized versions of spoiled, lying, pouting, troublesome, demanding 13-year-olds.  They certainly act like it.

In one vital area, however, they in no way resemble well-behaved boys and girls raised by conscientious parents.  When caught in lies and confronted by them, they wiggle and obfuscate and lie some more.  It’s bad enough to watch a kid do that; with good parents, justice is usually swift and certain.  It’s a sign of bad things when nationally-ranked political types openly duck and dodge, constantly preying on each other, spending years and millions of our money to try to stay out of prison.

This was in this morning’s mail.  It triggered these thoughts and more.  See what you think.


After creating heaven and earth, God created Adam and Eve.

And the first thing he said was: “Don’t”.

      “Don’t what?” Adam replied.

      “Don’t eat the forbidden fruit,” God said.

      “Forbidden fruit?”

      “We got forbidden fruit?  Hey, Eve…we got forbidden fruit!”

      “No way!”

      “HeeYAH, way!”

      Don’t eat that fruit!” said God.


      “Because I am your Father and I said so!” said God, wondering why he hadn’t stopped after making the elephants.

 A few minutes later God saw his kids having an apple break and got seriously ticked.

      “Didn’t I tell you not to eat the fruit?” the First Parent asked.

      “Uh huh,” Adam replied.

      “Then why’d you do it?”

      “I dunno”, Eve answered.

      “She started it!” Adam said.

      “Did not!  It was– where’d it go?

      “Did too!”

      “DID NOT!!”

 Having had it with the two of them, God’s punishment was that Adam and Eve should have children of their own.  Thus, the pattern was set and it has never changed.

Yes, there was more to it than that.  Disobeying God right out of the chute had consequences.  Big, far-reaching ones.  However, there’s reassurance in this story.  If you’ve persistently done your best to love your children, guiding them in God’s wisdom both by teaching and example, and they’ve been deaf, dumb, and blind?

Don’t be so rough on yourself.  If God Himself had issues in handling His children – 0f whom there were only two – why should it be a shock when you have a few issues, too?

© D. Dean Boone, February 2019





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2nd Cup for 2/1/19: WHEN EGO HITS THE WALL

What others see as losing is sometimes the best possible win.

The story went like this . . .

Last year I entered a marathon.  Did it right.  Shocking white top, Deep Purple Haze Adidas silk blend compression shorts, and Adidas UltraBoost  STs in Clear Mint /Aqua.   

The race started.  If you know anything about my health history,  immediately I had last place totally locked in.  Dead last of the runners. It was embarrassing.

The guy who was in front of me, second to last, was making fun of me. He said, “Hey buddy, how does it feel to be last?”

I replied: “You really want to know?”  His eyes sneered and his eyebrows shot upward as he vigorously nodded.

Then I dropped out of the race.

There are plenty of ways to win.  In this way, I won by wisely stopping an activity in which my ego had foolishly involved me.  I also won by helping someone I’d never met learn there are times to stifle.

Enjoy your coffee.

© D. Dean Boone, February 2019





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2nd Cup for 1/19/19: A Mute For Ashley’s Mouth

“So-o-o, what did you guys do on your honeymoon?”

The tone and delivery made it clear:  wrinkles and liver spots have nothing in common with love.

The inquisitor was a twenty-something wielding more questions than sense, a grand-niece hailing from one side or the other of their blended families.  She stood in the defiant, lock-kneed stance of goofs everywhere.  Her arms were crossed as if her interrogation was not only reasonable but an answer was her right; to ignore it would be an unforgivable affront.

She presented as a sort-of-adult version of the irritating, pudgy child she must have been.  Desperately wanting to be taken seriously, she was amusing in her emo splendor, with the exception of the shocking green mohawk seeming to sprout from her otherwise-sooty hair like a genetically-modified Martian Bird of Paradise plant.  The oversized Saints jersey with Brees on the back did not seem to help.


The question and follow-up prompt had been double-dipped in arrogance, as if only the young could experience marital enchantment and anyone 50 and above should close their shutters so as to not embarrass the rest of Earth.

Herb and Charlace, well into retirement years, had been relaxing quietly in the shade beside the trickling waterfall. Their chaise-lounges were close together, with only a small table between them holding the coffee they’d both been enjoying, and a tablet softly playing Pandora’s Dinner Jazz in the background.

Both had full heads of silvery-platinum hair, and looked and acted fit. They’d swum long enough to cool down and had been appreciating the waning pumpkiny sun as it dried them off.

Herb stood, stepped into his khaki cargo shorts, tucking his now-dry purple Adidas swim trunks in, and zipped his thin lime-green hoodie halfway up. Then he silently sat back down, playing dumb, nose buried once again in his book. Charlace wasn’t so kind. She had no idea why they’d attracted the girl’s attention just then.  But she did know the young busybody peppering them with questions would not shut up until she’d gotten some kind of rise out of the older woman. Charlace didn’t feel she and her recently-new husband needed to respond, but it seemed clear her nosey, condescending great-niece was not hint-oriented.

Waiting an appropriate tick or two, Charlace eyed the inquisitor as one might while aiming at a fly with a yellow plastic swatter. She might’ve even wedged a tock in.

“We did crossword puzzles and watched seagulls.  I knitted, and he took naps.”  The fine edge of her sarcasm sung and keened like running a moistened finger around water-filled glasses.  Ashley bent one knee in exasperation, locking it again and making that “UH-uhh!” huffing noise that blesses adults’ hearts everywhere.

Charlace sat, quietly observing the girl.  Where do any of these kids learn their social skills?  She acts 14, not 24.  And does she have any idea how silly and needy she looks?  Sighing, she said, “Ashley, it’s none of your business.  Your attitude reeks, and you’re too old to be acting like you are.  We don’t owe you anything you can run and immediately tell your gossipy friends.  But because someday you may grow up enough to seek some adult counsel, I’ll answer you.”

The younger woman nodded, and her eyes took on the mein of a puppy anticipating a Milk Bone.

“We ordered a lot of cabin service coffee and took turns sharing meaningful Scripture passages from our respective morning quiet time, as well as from the books we brought with us to sit on our private veranda and read.” She held her patented wry, glinting eye contact just long enough to be rewarded by the slight rise of pinkishness in Ashley’s cheeks, then resumed reading.  At least she retains enough sense to register embar—

“Oh, come on—you tryna convince me that’s ‘all’ you did?”

Taking a slow, deep breath, Charlace reluctantly turned toward Her Rudeness, allowed into her gaze a bit of the rich, smoky mahogany heat only those who roused her feelings had ever seen, cocked her right eyebrow and purred, “Did I ‘say’ that’s all we did?” Standing, she pulled Herb’s red-and-gray flannel shirt she’d borrowed up onto her shoulders, and dropped the book into her bag. Leaning over to pick it up, she reached down and lightly brushed Herb’s silver hair back out of his face.

“I’m going in now, LeRoy.”

With that, she grabbed her Howya Bean travel mug, and sauntered past the gaping, momentarily-silent younger woman.

Witnesses later affirmed there might’ve been a little extra hip action as the stunning platinum/silver-haired grandma brushed past the snotty, self-important Ashley. As Charlace disappeared around the corner of the pool house, the girl’s tongue came unstuck.

Brow creased and mouth scrunched in disbelief as only The Young And The Brainless seem able to pull off, she stared down at Herb. “But your name’s not LeRoy! It’s—” The normally taciturn gentleman had had enough as well.

“Your great-aunt is an avid NCIS fan, as am I. She wanted to pick a pet name for me, and it turns out to be LeRoy.” He smiled at her consternation of two old, creaky grayhairs acting so—so . . . He picked up the tablet, sliding it into one of his cargo shorts’ big pockets.  Book and coffee mug in hand, he excused himself and brushed past her as well, amused at her stunned and awkward silence.

She couldn’t stand it. “Wait! What—what’s your pet name for her?” He glanced back and grinned as he rounded the corner.


© D. Dean Boone, September 2018

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A Christmas 2018 2nd Cup: “LOVE’S PURE LIGHT . . . “


“. . . and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.” We either read it every year or listen as somebody else does. Old hat. “And they were sore afraid.”
Big deal, right?

You have no idea. That word “GLORY” needs some, ah, radiance reassigned to it. What those scared-stiff shepherds saw and heard and felt that night will never be experienced again until we’re all Home and can experience it for ourselves.

Let me cue it up for you. In Genesis 1:3 when God flipped Creation’s first light switch, what do you think that looked like? Think those huge, LED roadside billboards that make you instinctively slow down… those 6-foot-long bright-white LED light bars on every raised 4WD truck known to man… those piercing xenon headlights that make every oncoming driver squint and swerve. Think stadium lights from every outdoor stadium that ever existed, ALL on AT ONCE.

That’s Heaven’s ‘now’. There’s no squinting where God is, because brilliant light that outshines our sun is their normal atmosphere.

In Exodus 34:29, 34, when Moses came down from hanging with God “his face was RADIANT” and all Israel saw it – to the point they couldn’t look at him to hear his commands without him putting a sack over his head. “Radiant”, not reflected.

In Matthew 17:2, it tells us about that time up on the mountain with Pete, Jim, and Johnny. He says of Jesus that “his face shown like the sun, and his clothes became AS WHITE AS THE LIGHT.” Mark agrees (9:2): “His clothes became DAZZLING WHITE, whiter than anyone in the world could bleach them.” Dr. Luke supports it, too: “The appearance of his face CHANGED and his clothes became as bright as a flash of lightning” (9:29).

Pete’s pretty clear (2 Peter 1:18): “… we were EYEWITNESSES . . . he received honor and GLORY from God. We ourselves heard this Voice . . . ”

Later on, Johnny saw and heard it again (Revelation 1:16-17), when he relates he again experienced “The Son of Man, in a robe and gold breastplate, hair a blizzard of white, eyes pouring fire-blaze, both feet furnace-fired bronze, his voice a cataract . . . his face a perigee sun. I saw this and fainted dead at his feet.”


Still with me? We’re talking about what all is wrapped up in that word we’ve so often dismissed–GOD’S GLORY–and why those tough shepherds had their guts frozen at the mere sight of ONE angel showing up in his regular threads.

Couple more, ‘kay? In Revelation 21:23, it says “The city does not need the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the GLORY of God gives it light, and The Lamb is its lamp.”
And 22:5 talks about us: “They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun . . .”

Why all this? First, God impressed it on my heart a couple days ago, and I’ve been doing this and that, like you, too busy to stop and get it written. That’s on me.

Next, I want YOU to be STUNNED INTO AWESTRUCK, UNPARALLELED SHOCK from now on whenever you hear the Christmas story read, and one of the children haltingly reads, ” . . . and THE GLOWY OF THE LOW-ud shown awound them”!!!

FEEL it! SENSE it! Let the thundering resonance of millions of God’s spirit-beings IN FULL RIOTOUS VOICE, appearing in their NORMAL ATMOSPHERE AND HABITAT thrill your insides! HEAR it! SEE it for yourself! Let your MIND, your SPIRIT, your IMAGINATION create an impossibly-immense mosaic of THE ENTIRE SKY completely FILLED by stunning, diamond-brilliant shafts of a light neither YOU NOR I HAVE EVER KNOWN EXISTED!

So, as you sit, sipping your morning coffee, snug in your jammies or robe, maybe listening to some muted Christmas music, tell me again how bored you are at having to listen to “that same old stuff again”.

My prayer for us both, my friend, this Christmas? In a world so jaded and cynical by human life experience, let that single phrase, “and the GLORY of the Lord shown around them” from an old story IGNITE something brand-new in our spirits.

For, you see, the story of THE GLORY‘s not over, and it ain’t a fat lady that’s gotta sing. Sometimes we’re just like the shepherds, so caught up in the regular, same-ol’ same-ol’ that we’re oblivious to God’s true reality He has in store for us.

So, yeah. That grubby stable couldn’t contain what Joseph Mohr wrote as “love’s pure light”. And from now on, every time we sing Silent Night, I hope you bounce a little in your seat, hardly able to contain the excitement and thrill. Let everyone else be appropriately solemn, soft and emotive.

You sit there vibrating, thinking about being one of those angels up in the sky over Bethlehem, punching one of the others in the ribs and saying, “LOOK! THERE HE IS! THAT’S HIM! IS THIS COOL OR WHAT?!?!?”

No. I have no definitive proof angels have ribs. Drink your coffee.

© D. Dean Boone, Christmas Day, 2018

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December 1Blanch carcass from Thanksgiving turkey. Spray paint gold, turn upside down and use as a sleigh to hold Christmas cards.

December 2Have Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir record outgoing Christmas message for voicemail.

December 3Using candlewick and hand-gilded miniature pine cones, fashion cat-o-nine-tails.

December 4Repaint Sistine Chapel ceiling in ecru, with mocha trim.

December 5Get new eyeglasses. Grind lenses yourself.

December 6Email family Christmas newsletter final edit to Pulitzer committee for consideration.

December 7Debug Windows.  Again.

December 10Align carpets to adjust for curvature of Earth.

December 11 – Create original Faberge egg.

December 12Take dog apart. Disinfect. Reassemble.

December 13Collect dentures. They make excellent pastry cutters, particularly for decorative pie crusts.

December 14Install plumbing in gingerbread house.

December 15Replace air in mini-van tires with Glade “Holiday Scents” in case tires are shot out at mall.

December 17Cat-proof the Christmas tree with razor wire garland as way of remembering deployed troops.

December 19Adjust legs of chairs so each Christmas dinner guest will be same height when sitting at his or her assigned seat.

December 20Dip sheep and cattle in egg white, roll in confectioner’s sugar, then in crystal candy to add a festive sparkle to the pasture.

December 21Drain city reservoir; refill with mulled cider, orange slices, whole cloves, and cinnamon sticks.

December 22Float colored, scented votive candles in toilet tank while playing Smooth Jazz Christmas in restrooms.

December 23Seed clouds overhead for white Christmas.

December 24Do annual good deed. Go to several stores, mixing Dillard’s with Walmart. Be seen engaged in last minute Christmas shopping, thus making many people feel less inadequate than they really are.

December 25 – Choose and mercilessly spoil friend’s newborn son. Swaddle. Lay in color-coordinated manger scented with homemade potpourri.

December 26Organize spice racks by genus and phylum.  Color-coordinate where possible.

December 27Build snowmen in likeness of angels.  Fill yard.  Overflow into neighbor’s yards.  Spread the joy.

December 31New Year’s Eve! Give staff their resolutions. Call a friend in each time zone of the world as the clock strikes midnight in that country.  They’ll be up.

~~borrowed from mikeysfunnies.com; adapted.

© D. Dean Boone, December 2018


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