Claire & Company Winter Wallpapers

Happy Holidays, Horde!

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, but I thought I might share with you a little gift: FREE holiday wallpaper, featuring the characters from my very-occasional comic, “Claire & Company!” (also known as “Claire De Lunacy,” depending on the vintage!)

Anyway, here they are.  Consider them a lil’ “Thanks!” for being a reader.

Cheers!

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

Oscar is what we call a "special needs" cat.

Oscar is what we call a "special needs" cat.

Thanks, Easter Bunny! (bawk, bawk!)

A very Happy Easter to you,  dear readers.

The topic of today’s post is not, as one may infer from the title, this mess, but instead, the Easters of my misspent youth.

As a child growing up in the banjo-riddled fens and dales of SW Ohio, Easter was for me a day of sweet surprises and infernal discomforts.  The sun would usually be peeking through the clouds as I awoke, bleary-eyed and restless from a thin sleep (having been kept awake most of the night by excitement and anticipation of the basket awaiting me below, trying to figure out if the Easter Bunny, falling into one of my hastily-improvised traps, would be furious and smite me on the spot, or reward my ingenuity with an EXTRA batch of treats. Given that the Easter Bunny sounded a lot like my Dad angrily muttering “Now what the hell is THIS?”, I never descended to find out).  I would stumble down the stairs and, in the early years, try to find where my basket had been hidden.

Was it behind Dad’s Barcolounger? Nope. Was it behind the sofa? Wrong again. Was it in some way related to the large, basket-shaped lump behind the living room drapes?

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.

To this day, I don’t know how my parents did it. My continued faith in the existence of both Santa and the Easter Bunny despite mountains of empirical evidence to the contrary was due, in large part, to the sheer bounty that appeared on Easter and Christmas morning. How could my parents, mere mortals that they were, provide such splendor? Here, nestled in a throne of whispy green Easter grass, was a giant Peep™, resplendent in his sunny yellow coat of tooth-destroying sugar, attended by a host of bunny retainers in blue and pink and green. Here was a book I’d been coveting but could not afford on my allowance of, y’know, NOTHING. Here was a king’s ransom of jelly beans, a veritable rainbow of deliciousness (this was before it became, ahem, “cool” for jelly beans to taste like something found on the floor of an especially dirty theatre). Here, in the center, was not one, not two, but THREE Cadbury Cream Eggs, each one heavy with the promise of creamy satisfaction (followed by oft-repeated and deeply-felt conviction that eating these things more than once a year would almost certainly be fatal). And, standing over it all, perhaps wearing a cheery bow tie or a saucy bonnet, was a Giant Chocolate Rabbit. Here, in short, was what every child EXPECTED to appear on Easter morning, and more. As an adult, I see my parents’ willingness to make do with old shoes, mended clothing and cheap (or no) nights out on the town as the sacrifices they were, but back then I could only think “Man, Dad and Ma need to ask the Easter Bunny for some new stuff!”

This solitary ritual was amended some years later when my sister KR was born. At first I was mildly concerned that another kid to visit would mean less loot for me, but instead I was amazed to discover that not only did I receive all my usual stuff, but there was a slight increase in the bounty, as if the Easter Bunny was saying to me “That’s right, it’s just like AmWay – the more people you bring in, the more you make!” My mother, wearing the same robe she’d worn since the early 70’s, and my Dad, gazing at us fondly through glasses that were cutting-edge when Eisenhower took office, smiled as my sister and I tore into our baskets like rabid wolverines, gleefully conspicuous in our consumption, blissfully unaware that Dad was working 80 hours a week not because he enjoyed calibrating parts to the billionth of an inch but because he enjoyed moments like these.

By the time KM came along, my sister and I not only hoped for great Easter baskets, but expected them. We’d long since worked out a system for redistribution of loot – I would take all the licorice jelly beans off her hands in exchange for anything with a discernable head (Peeps™, not having really distinguishable features, were exempt). Whereas I adamantly refused to eat most things with a head (biting the head off anything, even a candy bunny, made me feel like either Ozzy Osbourne or George C. Scott in Firestarter), KR positively relished the act, happily chomping into their defenseless bodies with zeal not normally seen outside the lion cage at the zoo.  I’m not sure if she enjoyed the act itself or the discomfort it caused me more, but either way, the candy community remains utterly terrified of her to this day, whispering stories about her to their tiny candy children in order to get them to behave.

That’s right, my sister is the Cucuy of Candyland. There – I said it.

But I digress. Sitting here, a woman in her early 30’s, trying to figure out if the Peeps™ I contributed to the groaningly overloaded Easter baskets my nieces and nephews received this morning will even register in their awareness as they whip themselves into a sugar frezny, I find myself taking a moment to reflect on the rest of Easter morning. Ma, her hair and makeup expertly applied and coifed, elegant in her Easter best, sitting me down to comb my hair with water, struggling to keep herself dry and my unruly hair in order. Dad, obviously uncomfortable but very handsome in his suit, checking his watch for the hundredth time, every fiber of his being focused on his Easter mission, which is strikingly similar to every mission wherein Swiss Family Jackson must travel anywhere on a schedule:

1) Get to church at least an hour early, as parking takes forever and you know that bastard Williams will take the shady spot by the trees just to spite us

and

2) Get home as soon as possible so that the suit can go back in the closet where it belongs and a man can sit down to a decent dinner, damn it.

Church was a necessary and solemn component – the reason for the season, as they say, and the contemplation of one’s faith and the notion of triumph through resurrection certainly whetted one’s appetite for Easter Dinner.

Oh, Easter Dinner…I’d describe it, but you’d never eat again, saddened by the fact that anything you eat will not, cannot be as exquisitely delicious.

What the hell, you’ll learn to live with disappointment.

My parents, having spent the night before skulking around planting Easter baskets in various locations, trying to not make any noise that would disturb our gossamer-thin sleep and cause us to leap from our beds to discover they were, in fact, the providers of our basket bounty, now went about their remaining duties. Dad went into the living room to watch television (aka, fall asleep immediately but retain sufficient awareness of his surroundings that changing the channel was impossible) and Ma, already tired, set about serving up the Easter feast. Magically, the banquette filled with steaming delicacies. Salad picked at the height of freshness, dewy with rinsewater…ham  studded with cloves and pineapple…chicken fried crisp and tender…corn dripping with fresh golden butter…pie exploding with cinnamon and apples….

See, I told you.

After dinner, we’d all crawl to our respective lairs to recover for a while, then reconvene to play a game of cards or a board game (and, inevitably, after mild but completely insincere protest, more pie).

That’s Easter to me. It’s not so much about the things anymore, but about the togetherness and the tradition. These days, Grammy and Grandpa are doing well enough that the grandkids’ baskets don’t beggar them for months to come, but I know my Mother, despite the fact that the kids aren’t at her house until mid-day on Easter, is still up late, setting out baskets so they’ll be the first thing my nieces and nephews see when they arrive. There’s usually a note or a story from Grandpa about how he almost shot a bunny for dinner but decided he would let him go since he dropped off so much loot for his bratty grandkids. KR, KM and I have gone from basket-receivers to basket-givers, and for the most part, we’re okay with that. I certainly don’t need any candy laying around the house, and if I need a Peeps™ fix, I can trot off to the Kroger and buy some for myself. KR has (mostly) gotten over her love of decapitating helpless foods, but she usually catches my eye long enough to chomp down on at least one rabbit every year, her face a chocolaty rictus of triumph when I turn green around the gills (to nobody’s surprise, The Little Emperor inherited this trait from her, and now I must contend with two serial candy murderers mocking me with their crimes).

I wish you and your family a very happy Easter, friends. Whether you’re Pagan, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Trekkie or something else, I hope you have a chance to celebrate the renewal of the Earth, the renewal of life, and the renewal of your family for the year ahead.

Claire’s Giftstravaganza Guide 2008

Well, it’s that time again, kids. Sleigh bells are ringing, and carolers are singing “Be of good cheer…” It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

For retail, at least.

My personal plan, in this era of shrinking budgets and industry bailouts, is to move to handmade gifts for next Christmas (and beyond). However, this year, I remain a member of the huddled masses eager to pre-spend their economic stimulus on stuff the recipient will most likely forget about within a fortnight, and in my role as such, I humbly present to you:

Claire’s Giftstravaganza Guide 2008

The Recipient: Grandma

The Gift: Slanket

The Reason: Grandma’s old. She’s tired. And she is always – ALWAYS – freezing cold, even in her condo in Miami. Unless you have one of those irritating “hip” grandmas, chances are she’s stretched out on the davenport sipping chamomile tea, working her puzzles and watching her stories, at any given moment of the day. Ideally, grandma would like to be able to do these things while also maintaining a body temperature above 62 degrees. Enter…the Slanket. Designed by top engineers,  this blanket with sleeves (see what they did there? Eh? Eh? And…cue vomiting) will keep your nan ensconced in a toasty fleece cocoon that she’ll have to leave only for trips to the potty….and depending on her age, maybe not even then!

Where to Get It: The fifth circle of Hell, or here.


The Recipient: Your Geeky Brother (or Sister, if she goes for this sort of thing)

The Gift: The only thing that could make him take down his Enterprise schematics.

The Reason: Exposed to Star Wars at an early age, your poor brother/sister never had a chance. Now a full-fledged geek, his/her only hope of finding a mate is to either become the head of a giant soulless corporation or trolling the conventions for a similarly afflicted female/male/etc. of the same species. Until the day he/she invents the iPhone app that translates Huttese to Klingon and makes his/her fortune, he/she can draw inspiration from this excellent poster of Princess Leia. I know I’ve seen Carrie Fisher in other movies. I’m sure I even enjoyed some of them. But when I hear the words “Carrie Fisher,” I think not of  “When Harry Met Sally” or “Drop Dead Fred,” but instead Leia, chained to Delta Burke Jabba the Hutt and further complicating the Rube Goldberg mechanics of my burgeoning sexuality. Chances are, so does your brother/sister.

Where to Get It: Harrison Ford’s jumble sale, George Lucas’ attic, ThinkGeek.com


The Recipient: Your Unwanted Secret Santa

The Gift: Something under the $20 limit.

The Reason: We’ve all been there. You’re in a club. You work in a “fun” office. You stumbled into an AA meeting by mistake, liked the coffee and ended up staying despite the shady moral implications. At some point, we’ve all drawn the tiny piece of paper with some random person’s name and wish list written upon it and thought “Aww, MAN!” That’s right – you’ve drawn the name of the last person you’d ever want to purchase a gift for, and as you suspected, their tastes run in the direction of the absurd/lame/possibly illegal in certain states. So what’s a reluctant Santa to do? Well, there’s always the gift that says “I don’t give a damn about you, but I feel compelled to fulfill my obligations. Ho, ho, ho!” Or, if you’re a more kind-hearted sort, why not give them a gift basket? There’s a gift basket for every occasion and recipient…even weird Judy, who sits quietly conversing with the copier when she thinks no one is looking.

Where to Get It: Oh, just about anywhere – poke around, lazy. Yeesh. Ok, fine, here.


The Recipient: Your Boss

The Gift: How should I know? They’re YOUR boss.

The Reason: Buying a gift for your boss is a task fraught with the potential for reward and disaster alike. Who among us (well, the mercenary among us) hasn’t given a gift to our boss and thought “Yes! The promotion is mine!” only to be told, in a quiet tone that nevertheless betrays the simmering rage beneath, “My brother was killed by a novelty pen holder in the shape of a golf ball, you heartless bastard!”? OK, probably none of us, actually. However, my completely unrealistic example should encourage you, gentle reader, to learn your boss’ interests and hobbies (assuming they have them and are not corporate automatons whose only goal is the glorification of their employer and better stock options). Why? Because if you get them something they’ll use (e.g. a golf range finder, tickets to the Osmonds, ShamWow, the chamois that makes you say “Wow!”), then they’ll be out more often, using it…which means that you can finally finish that report/take a nap/beat Frostmaw’s Burrows and complete your Master Dungeon Guide.

Where to Get It: Again, it’s your boss, yo. But it can’t hurt to try here.


The Recipient: Your Helpmate, Your Beloved, The Very Shade of Your Soul

The Gift: Something befitting the person to whom you’ve already given your heart.

The Reason: Ah, love. It manifests itself in so many ways…the gentle caress across your cheek, the way they let you say “sammich” instead of “sandwhich” because it’s “cute,” that one thing they do in bed that causes you to make a noise the neighbors assume to be a mountain lion being fed into a woodchipper…for all these reasons and more, the gift you give your significant other should be one that comes from the heart. Stymied for ideas this year? Hunting for something that says “my love for you is deeper than Heidi and Spence’s operatic tale of mutual adoration?” Well, pardner, you’re in luck, because there are as many ways to say “Happy Holidays, love” as there are loves! For example, the more clingy may want to check out the personalized photoframe. They get a physical reminder of your constant, smothering affection, you get the peace of mind that comes from knowing they’re under your hawklike gaze 24/7.  Prefer your lover stay with you out of devotion rather than abject terror? Then you should sign them up for a “whatever-of-the-month” club membership. They get a yearlong reminder that you’re thinking of them, you get infinite brownie points every month when they open their newest shipment. “Oh, honey, that’s okay, I can take out this heavy bag of trash. You just sit there and enjoy your premium microbrews I bought for you out of pure and unblemished love.”  Finally, for those of you with a saucy side, there’s always the much-anticipated (or dreaded) sexy Christmas gift. What better way to say “I would prefer our first child be born in early September” than a sexy bit of red-and-white lingerie? (Insert your own candy cane joke here. Or your own candy cane. It’s none of my business, buster).

This concludes Claire’s Giftstravaganza Guide 2008. I hope it proves useful in your search for the perfect gift, and remember, the best gift you can give is the gift of yourself (unless they already have one of you, in which case I’d go with one of those envelopes from the bank with a cutout for the face on a crisp $50).

Happy Holidays!