St. Augustine: Land of the quirk

My wife came around the corner of the house carrying two chickens, one under each arm. They were backwards — tail feathers out for all to see. Hen heinies saluting the world. Let’s face it, you look ridiculous walking around with chickens under your arms. Like you’re carrying basketballs. And it’s worse when their hindquarters do all the greeting. It must have been a sight to see downtown. And she didn’t expect anyone to see it. Which is why the mailman walking up was such a surprise. “I must have looked like a crazy person,” she said. She expected a strange look. Maybe a question: “Mam, you do realize there are fowl growing out of your armpits?”

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The 12 days, and 17 boxes, of Christmas

Once upon a time there were three boxes. Three. One was for outside decorations. Two were for in. They held lights. Ornaments. An assortment of Christmas knick-knacks and tchotchkes. Decorating was manageable. I could be in and out of the attic in a couple minutes. All was right with the world. Ho ho ho … Fast forward to the present. The modern day Christmas … with a child in the house … and I have just completed a marathon. A military operation. Our living room looks like a shipping port strewn with containers. There are lights everywhere. Homemade decorations filling every conceivable space. Each step risks impaling my foot on some lethal decoration. Bah humbug … I must have carted 16 boxes of Christmas “stuff” out of the attic this year. It’s a death-defying experience. Actually, it’s more death-inviting. I try to do it alone. Why? Because men are missing a key chromosome for common sense.

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A (big kid) Christmas list for Santa

Dear Santa, How are you? I am fine. How is the weather up there in the North Pole? Did you get a vacation this year? I hope so. I hope you went somewhere nice and sunny. Did you get a suntan? You look really pale in your photos. Sunlight is very important for vitamin D. Anyway, my daughter sends you lists every year. She makes out pretty well. Sure, she didn’t get the full-size Barbie Jumbo 747 with the Ken pilot last year, but only because you couldn’t land it on our street. We’re expecting the Public Works permit any day now, so gas that sucker up! Anyhoo, I thought I would give it a shot this year, too. I’ve been good. I’ve been nice. I ate all my broccoli. So here is what’s on my Christmas list: • Answers – To big questions. Like why is it when you’re running late for school and work, your child just sits at the table singing and drinking her orange juice one molecule at a time? And do children hear any of the 1,300 times we say, “Hurry up! We’re going to be late! Are you listening to me?!?” A simple “yes” or “no” in my stocking will suffice.

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Coming to terms with a bed-eating dog

“Cool dog,” said the college student. I was walking my beast, Lily, down the street. I thought I misheard him. Because what he said didn’t quite connect. I’ve had this animal for two years now — exactly two years — and I’m still not used to the compliments or comments I get as we walk. Usually they fall into one of two categories: Her looks, or her unusual looks. No kidding, people have actually said, “Damn, that is a GOR-GEOUS dog!” “This thing!” my family will say pointing at the animal in question. She has a stump — no tail. Her markings are unique at best. As if pre-schoolers had a couple mocha lattes and went to town during painting time. It appears that someone spilled white paint down her snout and off the side of her nose.

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