“Ding Dong Merrily We’re High”

I hate to sound like a hospital or a drug dealer, but unannounced visitors after 8 pm are generally bad news. It’s the real-life, in-person — oh, sorry, I’m told the word for what I’m describing is now officially “meatspace” — version of the heart-stopping 3 am phone call, where someone’s either a.) dead or b.) in jail or c. ) intends to make you “a.)” so that they can proceed to being “b.)”

So when the doorbell rang last night, I immediately grabbed the Killinator.

"buried on avenue b"

The book, which I’m enjoying very much, is for staging purposes only and has nothing to do with this post.

Like you do.

Backstory: we were in Asheville…(sigh)…antiquing* and my fella thought that we ought to own a hatchet. A real one, for…I don’t know, hatchet-related activities. Chopping wood when you don’t have a proper axe. Hewing, if that’s your thing. Throwing it at trees, for recreation or whilst training for the Hunger Games. And possibly other stuff?
But, like Alton Brown, I despise “unitaskers,” so when I saw this beauty, I argued that “hatchet + hammerhead” >  “just hatchet.” Because hammers truly are useful.  For everything, and not just nails. Like those apes at the beginning of 2001 that accidentally discover the utility, danger, and fun of a well-calibrated femur, I’ve learned that I can pretty much go around whacking household objects with a hammer and whatever I’m struggling with will pretty much sort itself out. (What can I say, I have limited upper-body strength and even more limited DIY skills.)
So we purchased the antique hammer-hatchet, which I instantly dubbed “The Killinator,” because…well, look at it. Its location changes, but it can usually be found on the nightstand or in the living room (and wait, why am I telling you this? Note to self: move Killinator ASAP to not-obvious-but-still-accessible-place).

Anyway, where was I? Oh right, these drunk-@$$ fools showed up**:

"Tis the Season"

But not to kill us, just to serenade us — although it could be argued that they were killing us softly, with their songs. Traditionally, one is supposed to make go away reward roving a cappella groups itinerant singers with figgy pudding or some sort of brandy-based libation, but these folks were well liquored up already and also they interrupted our Netflixing, which I do not appreciate. Plus, one of them toppled into the garden and decided, while he was down, to make a dirt angel, crushing my kale in the process and YOU DO NOT F*CK WITH MY WINTER VEGETABLES. Seriously. If they’d demolished my daikon radishes, I probably would have used the Killinator.

Anyway, they sang at us until the dog started freaking out and then departed to do the same thing at the house across the street, where my fella’s brother and sister-in-law had probably just put our nephew to bed.

Merry Happy, everybody!

*As alums of my not-so-alma mater would say, “Gender is a spectrum, not a binary.” My fella falls under the “man enough for me” category.
**My fella, my hero.

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