Shama and I made a holiday card for all of our friends.  Enjoy.

Maybe it’s because I finally got around to seeing Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas (Thanks, Trevor), but I’ve had otters on my mind lately.   Silly otters.

Unable to pry them loose, I ended up painting my brother and his girlfriend otters for hanukah.  Here they are:

Looking at them together, the colors are a little early nineties.  I almost expect Fido Dido to make an appearance.  Ah well.  Here’s Emmet:

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One of my grandmother’s oldest friends, Clara, moved to Durham a few years ago to be closer to her daughter.  I’ve known Clara as long as I can remember, and my grandmother has known her longer than that.  We used to go over to her house to break the fast after Yom Kippur with a big vat of borscht.

Since we were going to be in North Carolina for Thanksgiving, Clara’s daughter and my mom arranged for the two of them to meet up in Asheville.  I can’t remember seeing my grandma happier.  (“I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.”)

GRAM: Clara, you look great!
CLARA: You look great!
GRAM: Good!  We’re both lying!

There is a long list of things I don’t understand about Christmas.  (What’s Myrrh?)  Add to that list the creepy robots currently residing in the Marshall Fields windows.  Goo!

Shama and I went to visit my grandparents at their new place last week.  Most nights they have some sort of event, and this night was no exception:  It was the coronation ceremony for the king and queen.  I’m not sure what criteria is involved in selecting a king and queen, but they were both over 100 years old.  We met the king, but never saw the queen.

Shama: Where’s the Queen?
Gram: She went to bed.

They also had dancing and a 3-piece jazz band.  The band didn’t know “There’s A Rainbow ‘Round My Shoulder” but they did play Hava Nagila at one point so people could dance the hora.

Now, when most people do the hora they rock the concentric circles and maybe some of those arm spins, but my grandma always wants to do this dance where people go through people’s arms and then get tangled up and put arms on shoulders and form lines and, well, it’s very complicated.  No one ever gets it right to her satisfaction — including those of us at Lincolnwood Place last week.  At one point, years ago, after failing to teach it to several of her grandchildren, she muttered, “that’s why none of you are married!”

Well, guess what, Gram, I know how to do it now.  Next hora, you’re gonna see some skills.

Once I actually took the time to call a bunch of companies, asking them not to send me catalogs anymore.  Since then, they’ve somehow managed to sneak back in.  (I’m looking at you, Guitar Center.)  The only mail that ever interests me is wedding invitations and Netflix.  The rest just piles up on a table by the front door until I eventually throw it all away.

Shama suggested that maybe if that table weren’t there I’d just throw it away immediately instead of letting it accumulate.  It seemed like a good idea, so we moved the table into the dining room.

Unfortunately, further testing disproved her theory:

A few weeks later she suggested that “maybe we should move your pile table back”

Aaaahhhhh.

I worked on a little mini-game for YouTube called “Vidicule” that’s on their home page today — and today only.  Still, more people will probably see our game on YouTube’s homepage in one day than will see our games that have been up for years.  The Internet’s funny that way.

Perhaps after playing the game you should go visit one of the web’s more obscure sites.

If you don’t know where to find YouTube’s homepage, first of all, REALLY?  It’s the #4 site on the Internet!  Second of all, it’s here: http://www.youtube.com/.

Another year, another fabulous Piefest.  It’s been years since I’ve won an award, so I was pleased that my inside-out pie managed to win for Best Misc. Pie.  Steve’s Tomato pie was a resounding winner in both the Savory and Best in Show categories.

So go ahead and take a look.  Let the drooling begin.

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While Shama’s mom was showing me the vegetables she’s been growing, I saw one plant with tiny little peppers on it.

Me: What kind of peppers are these?
Shama’s Mom: They’re from Pizza Hut
Me: Pizza Hut?
Shama’s Mom: The packet of red peppers they give you with the pizza.  I planted them.
Me: Wow!
Shama’s Mom: I’m good at growing things.

I can’t believe I didn’t take a picture of them, but I swear they were real: little Pizza Hut peppers.   I do believe she could have planted a slice of pizza and grown a pizza tree.  Lady’s got skills.

While driving up the Pacific Coast Highway to a wedding in Malibu, we  saw an airplane towing a large banner.  Here’s what it said:

REGGIE MILLER STOP PURSUING MARRIED WOMEN

California.

UPDATE:  The whole story.  Meh.

My old college buddy Joe is working on his directorial debut: a documentary called LaPorte, Indiana. I can’t decide whether or not the premise is simple or ambitions.  I suppose it’s both, and that’s what’s so great about it.  I described it as “Peoples Is Peoples: The Movie.”

But don’t take my word for it.  Watch the trailer, and then, if you’re feeling moved to do so, help them finish it.

I painted my brother a housewarming present.  He went through a puffin phase as a kid, which was rekindled in Ireland when we learned that puffin is spelled puifin in Irish.  He also went through a Notre Dame phase, but I don’t think I could paint Touchdown Jesus.

My brothers used to play a game they called “Hands.”  It involved throwing a foam ball — the “Hands” ball — at each other as hard as possible and seeing who could catch it.  Whoever dropped it the least would declare that they have “The best hands in the family.”

I didn’t play the game much.  I often dropped the ball.

This weekend my family was at a swimming pool and we ended up playing yet another stupid game.  One person would jump in the pool while four others threw an assortment of balls at them.  The goal was to catch one mid-jump.  Mostly, I was just trying to protect the face.

On my turn, a basketball bounced off my pinkie leaving it freakishly dislocated.  While my parents’ friend popped it back into place I joked about how I should have caught the ball, mentioning that I certainly don’t have the best hands in the family.

Driving home that night, I got a call from my dad to see how my pinkie was healing and while we were talking I once again mentioned my lackluster coordination.

Dad: Don’t be so hard on yourself.
Evan: I’m not.  I’m just saying I don’t have the best hands in the family.
Dad: Well… you don’t.  I do.

Joanie and Jon invited us to spend a night with them at a cabin they rented in Michigan and we decided to bring some salmon up there to grill.  I made a makeshift cooler to keep the fish fresh duing the car ride by packing some ice into the Ricky Martin lunchbox I somehow acquired.  And by “acquired,” I mean “bought.”  It was supposed to be a prize for the worst jukebox abuse in my bowling league, but, amazingly, it went unclaimed.

Joanie and Jon’s daughter Natasha, however, became quite enamored with it.  (Who can resist those dreamy eyes and blond highlights?)  She started carrying it around with her everywhere, neatly packing dolls and other belongings into it.  Clearly Ricky deserved a better home than I could offer so I told Natasha she could keep it.