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The Christmas season is making me nuts.

Today, I was crushing almonds to make homemade body scrub. I had the almonds in a plastic bag and was pounding the devil out of them with a hammer. When I was satisfied with the consistency, I dumped the almonds into a measuring cup. Low and behold, there sitting on the top of the crushed pile was one solid, fully-intact, untouched almond.

All I could think was how that one lone nut was a perfect example of how God's touch can keep one house standing in a fire when all those around it have burned - which happened to one house in a destroyed neighborhood during the fires earlier this year. And you know the one car that still sits in its driveway after the winds of the hurricane have subsided? God's touch.

So that made me think that God must have had His hand on that one almond. A nut! For one brief second, before I realized the idiocy of my thoughts, I actually considered that God might have cared enough about the one stupid nut to allow its survival of the hammer-beating. I mean... it's a nut.

A nut.

The Christmas season is making me batty. It was a nut! And I thought it may have survived for a reason.

A nut.

Now, does this make me a nut? And if so, is God touching me?

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Just refreshing an old post since it was knocked off with the new layout----
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Here's what I think - too much of a good thing - totally true.

You know how you eat too much ice cream and then you don't want to even smell ice cream for a long while? Wait. Bad analogy. Who could ever tire of ice cream?

Okay. Try this one. You know how you just love this song and then you download it and... uh... I mean you uh... you go to the store and buy the entire album paying full price and -

Forget it. Here's the deal. My brother visited and left frozen cookie dough in my freezer. I saw it today when I was fishing around for a snack. I ate it. I ate it all. I think I'm gonna be sick off of chocolate chip cookie dough. I don't ever EVER want to see frozen cookie dough again in my entire life. Period. No cookie dough.

And no, Mom, I won't get worms. A bunch of other kids and I were talking in high school and by then we had the smarts to figure out that it just isn't possible to get worms from eating cookie dough. I mean, perhaps if you mixed it with the same spoon you scooped the cat box with... but urgh. Bad thoughts.

At first, I was bouncing. Sugar high. Chocolate high. Possibly a combination of both. I couldn't sit still. I started cleaning the apartment. Then I was dancing to the radio... poor squirrels outside my window were subjected to an awful scene.

After the craziness wore off, I felt like someone placed a ton of bricks on my ankles. I couldn't move. I laid down on the couch. Shortly thereafter, I rolled to the floor gripping my stomach. I thought I might die right there... and I couldn't remember if I had on clean drawers.

Somebody ought to put a warning label on that stuff. Surgeon General says too much cookie dough may result in varied states of anxiety, depression, and, if consumed in high quantities, death.

Now, if you're the kind of person that reads something and looks for a message, a lesson, an insight... go pickup the NY Times or even a Reader's Digest. This is just me ranting about the dangers of cookie dough.

Wait. Perhaps there is a message. A message to my brother. Take your stinking cookie dough with you next time!

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In the parking lot, there is an old, beat-up car. You know the kind - no name, boxy, terribly generic and plain car without a topcoat, couple of rust spots from unattended dings, bumper that looks like it'll fall off going over a speed bump, and, of course, the never-ending oil leak.

So, like any good driver of a bad car, the owner tries to sop up the black puddle that permanently resides in the center of spot 146.

He's tried placing cardboard over the puddle. Sheer brilliance. The cardboard did little more than collect its own puddle of oil on top of the other.

He's tried sprinkling dirt over the puddle. Brilliance magnified. The attempt created a nice mud hole - looked like a big pile of roofing tar in the middle of the parking garage.

Finally, Mr. K Car tried cat litter. He spread the clay pebbles over the circle of oil to soak up the environmentally unfriendly substance.

So, you're thinking the man finally has a clue, right? Wrong.

I saw the bag of cat litter he used, as he left it in the parking lot next to his space. A pretty, blue bag of Fresh Step - the most expensive cat litter you can buy. Moron.

But then, the resident cat, affectionately called Orange Kitty because of her fur color, sincerely appreciates the efforts of the village idiot. I noticed today that Orange Kitty left a gift for him to show her gratitude.

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It's absolutely amazing and somewhat pathetic how early women will rise on the day after Thanksgiving.

Bring on the cold. Bring on the traffic. Bring on the crowds. And bring on the bargains.

It actually starts early the day before, on Thanksgiving Day, when we rise with the sun and dash out to the curb store to purchase a newspaper. With quarters in hand, we fight our way to the box and battle it out for the few remaining papers. No, it's not our civic duty to keep informed that drives us to the Herald. Instead, we are driven by the promise of what's in the middle of the paper - the centerfold, if you will. Colorful pages that pull out to reveal pure beauty... sales unparalleled by any others throughout the year. Pages that prophesize of good things to come.

Later in the day, after Turkey and sweet potato souffle, the men sack out in front of the football game and the ladies gather around the table to gossip and sort through the sales papers. It's called being productive. Killing two birds in one stone. As we discuss Cousin May's shocking new hair color and appearance at Uncle Fred's birthday gathering and her rather questionable, and might I add uninvited, date who wore his hat at the table and growled back at the dog.

Sorry, got off on a bit of a tangent there. Right Anyway. So, we make notes of store hours and limited-time-only sales and plan our method of conquering the day-after.

Truthfully, there's a lot more to being successful at the day-afters than one might think. You must have a plan and schedule. You must follow it to a T. You must know the store's layout in terms of departments, exits and registers (including out-of-sight registers with shortest lines). You must deny the need to him haw, to leave items and think you'll return for them later, or to ponder. There is no room for reasonable doubt on the day-after.

Clearly, the day is not for casual shoppers, newbies or young grasshoppers.

But I've been trained well. The game is all about strategy. Have a partner. You can hit two areas of the store at once and take turns carrying the shopping bags. Plus, you'll need a second opinion regarding the green and pink plaid britches - never trust the sales lady... she's been trained well, too.

So, with sales clippings in hand, Mom and I ventured into the wilderness that is the Glendale Galleria. Forty-five minutes after initially entering the parking structure, we accidentally landed a parking spot and hit the mall... amongst the best of the best on the front lines.

Seven hours later, we emerged. Beat and wounded, but not broken. And victorious.

It's kinda like an eclipse - happens only so often according to how the planets align, but predictable down to the very second. And something no one with any appreciation of its rarity will dare to miss. Except perhaps Cousin May and freaky growling boy.

Feigned innocence - "What?"

You didn't really think football was played only on Thanksgiving Day, did you?