Oh, finally, finally, we got our crapping fuckity xmas ficus erected. By “erected,” of course, I mean “brought downstairs and put in the front window for the neighbors to gawp at.” Take that heathens! BABY JESUS SMASH! Ha ha, just kidding. It is unseemly to visualize the Baby Jesus in tatty purple pants.

After much struggle and debate, Franny and I decided that our xmas ficus needed to be more bananas, so we hired everyone’s favorite L.A.M.B.-flogger, Gwen Steponme.

I hung all four of the remaining gingerbread ornaments I made the other night. That was all that was left after Hurricane Strudel came through. Her favorite new game in to play “Counter Fishing.” The rules are simple: blindly grope around for objects on the kitchen countertop. When you feel something, fling it to the floor as violently as possibly. Bonus points if you can make mommy cry when you break her mug, which was ugly but had sentimental value. SCORE!

So the gingerbreads were flinged.

When Franny comes back from her dad’s, we are going to make little paper chains, too, and that’s probably it. We started this holiday decorating sham a couple of years ago, and now it’s tradition. Franny expects the ficus now. She brags to people at the grocery store about it. Learn from my mistakes, people.

Sweetney threw down the xmas tree gauntlet a few days ago, and I make my retort. Who’s your xmas daddy now, Sweetness? You, with your…actual Christmas tree and…real, non-crapped up ornaments…. Well, it looks like you are MY xmas daddy.

Ah well. I’ll be back next year. If I take good care of him, Mr. Ficus will be at least four inches taller and might even be able to hold a few balls. And then I’ll really bring it.

Oh, and: I am starting to like Rosie O’Donnell again. That’s crazy–I never thought that would happen in five million years. Here she is on Teh View today (?) talking about the no-panties bimbo summit. Sorry it’s stinky AOL video and their stinky ads. Oh, and shut up, Hasselbeck. I want to feed you processed pimento cheese spread until it comes out of your straight-woman (read: humorless), ultra-conservative ears. You kill joy and beauty.