Bringing Up The Rear

Dear , As much as I hate to be an alarmist, there's no escaping the fact that this Sunday we'll be lighting the third candle on the Advent wreath, and everybody (except perhaps the KGB agents monitoring my email) knows what that means. Anyone who's not already prepared for the perpetual reindeer rooftop ramble with the jolly old elf himself - well, that someone had better pick up the pace a few notches, or risk being caught short when the big day rolls around, and don't kid yourself, that day will be here before you know it. So if that's not a clarion call to rouse the idle from their slumbers, I don't know what is, and all of you procrastinators out there (you know who you are) who need a fire lit under them, consider this your match, and get your elf on, by jingle. Speaking of Christmas, we took the opportunity last weekend to visit the local VFW post in our annual quest for the world's most perfect tree, or know the reason why. The weather had been cold and rainy for days, and we were hoping that it would have improved by Sunday afternoon, but no such luck. We consoled ourselves with the thought that at least nobody else would be out on such an errand in this sloppy and dreary weather, but we were proved wrong by the boisterous crowds that greeted us when we arrived at our destination. There were happy families on every side, bearing with them the youngest of youngsters and the oldest of oldsters, oblivious to the bitter precipitation from above and the sodden mud underfoot, making the place look a lot more like Middle Earth from the new "Hobbit" movie than the winter wonderland we might have hoped for. it didn't take us long to find a specimen that we were satisfied with, although I had the nagging suspicion that it was somehow not up to our usual standards in height or girth, or both. We were once again proved wrong when Bill, with Herculean effort, wrestled it into the living room, then stood it up in the stand and cut it loose from its restraints - and I can tell you at that moment, that it was glorious to behold, and every bit the tree of our dreams. With a bit of judicious trimming, it just fit under the ceiling with room for the angel at the top, and it spread out widely round-about in every direction like a runaway milkshake overflowing its confines. it certainly didn't lack anything in size, compared to our previous trees, and of course, you can't beat that smell, which is easily one of the true joys of the season. Our current crop of cats seems to find the whole Christmas tree idea a rather humdrum affair by all accounts, and their bored indifference is legendary. Our previous cats ran the gamut from obsessive fascination to sheer terror, often with unfortunate consequences, so this want of interest is something of a new direction in our household, that is by no means a reflection on the magnificence of the tree, believe me. We also tried them on eggnog, which they walked away from with barely a sniff, leaving us with the uneasy but undeniable feeling that they might all be tiny Moslem terrorists in disguise after all. In other local news, we finally performed all of the requisite arcane rituals, chanted the necessary incantations, and signed away our life, freedom, souls and future income, until even the roofers could invent no more excuses, and had no other choice but to actually come to our house and replace the ancient leaky roof at long last. They showed up bright and early on Monday with a truck full of materials and their own little forklift to trundle it around as the mood strikes them. I happened to be leaving for work when the forklift operator picked up a skid full of shingles and started up the driveway - one might say, in a jaunty fashion - with the idea of dropping them off somewhere in the backyard. He did seem somewhat taken aback when he realized that the driveway is not only noticeably sloped, but also sports two significant curves in the front yard alone - and after just barely navigating one of them, and then catching sight of our derelict boat trailer looming ominously past the second one, he probably wondered if this wasn't the time to just rethink this whole scenario, and I can't say that I blame him. I admit that I was surprised when I came home later and found the pallets of shingles in the backyard after all, with minimal damage to the surroundings, so it was clear that forklift driver hadn't just fallen off the turnip truck, as it were, and obviously did not frighten easily. And speaking of easily frightened, it was the next morning when I was leaving for work that I spotted the workers energetically chopping away at our old roof with pickaxes, sending shingles, boards, nails and tar paper flying in every direction, in a hail of detritus that future archaeologists would have found irresistible. Their vigorous ministrations throughout the day also chased the motley assortment of local wildlife that roosts in the nooks and crannies of the old homestead, from the tiniest furry critters to the stoutest lumbering beasts - although I wouldn't describe their mass exodus as exactly frightened, so much as plainly affronted at this inexcusable treatment. I'm sure the broad scope of their rude gestures and uncouth behavior was not lost on the roofers (and let's face it, this is not their first time at the rodeo either) and while I suppose that we've all long since gotten used to their little protest signs and angry petitions, frankly, I thought the press conferences were just way too much. The floor plan of our house measures 40 feet by 60 feet, not including the porches, and features two steeply pitched gables for symmetrical purposes above the attic. All of that surface area makes for a copious amount of roof to be torn apart, and it wasn't long after the pickaxes got underway that a giant Dumpster was, well, dumped in our front yard, smack in the middle of the driveway, thereby effectively cutting off any and all vehicular access to our backyard, thanks not. Even though this container is extremely large in all dimensions, it only took a few days of hardy pickaxe work for the jettisoned debris to make a serious impact in its cavernous interior - and that was without all the neighbors scurrying over to toss in their own unwanted effluvium under cover of darkness, which apparently is a well-documented phenomenon associated with these receptacles. That's probably only because all of the various evicted wildlife was already in the Dumpster all night, retrieving their personal household items from the roofers' assault, and I'm perfectly content for them to take back their pictures and keepsakes, kitchen utensils and entertainment gadgets, bedding, sporting goods, and all what-have-you. Although, what a skunk needs with a rhinestone evening bag, is a mystery to me, I'm sure. Normally, this is where I would poke fun at some egregious misprint or inadvertently humorous typo, and along comes this little item that seemed to fit the bill to a T, which leaped off of the Welcome screen at me earlier in the week: ========= CHEVY'S REAR-END DEALS ========= Unfortunately, I can't really blame the giant automaker GM for that amusing tidbit this time, because it turned out that it was only me who READ it that way, and on closer inspection, the ad clearly said "year-end" as it was supposed to, and not what it looked like to me the first time around, alas. But I can tell you that it was pretty darned funny when I first saw it, or thought I did, and I had quite a laugh, at Chevy's expense, over the implications of their misleading message - many of which, as the saying goes, could not be published in a family newspaper, I can assure you. It was quite disappointing when the notice came around the second time and I was able to view it more carefully, and noticed that the error was on my part and not theirs, because it truly would have been a classic of the genre. In fact, I would call it a "whopper," but I'm afraid that would be nothing but a backhanded compliment that could only be considered a kick in the chassis, and I ought to know. Elle