Christmas in Nice, France, Europe

It's holiday season in Nice, France, Europe and the palm trees lining the Promenade des Anglais (the main drag on the beach) are wrapped up in lights. The French dogs are all dressed up in crazy outfits and the smells of delicious Christmas food are floating out of every window.

Mom and I went to the outdoor market to get some salade and while Mom was talking to the vegetable man about some tomatoes, the butcher from the next stand got all excited and called out to Mom.

French butcher: "Madame! Eeeeet's been so long! Deeeeed you leave your husband in America zeees time? I hope so. Look! I 'ave some fantastique farming cheeeeckens for you!"

The butcher was shaking a chicken at Mom and she was horrified. The head on the chicken had all of its feathers and its crown so it looked like it was just sleeping. The butcher kept shaking the dead chicken, making its head flop around while he was flirting with Mom... he was literally choking his chicken.

Mom: "Yes, my husband is here in France. And PLEASE, would you not shake the poor thing in my face? Don't show me the chicken! I'm very sensitive! Poor thing, no I'm just here for some salad next door."

French butcher: "Ah! On top of your beauty, you are sensitive too? Don't tell your husband but I will never forget that time I saw you at zee flower market downtown and you were wearing a blue summer dress and carrying a basket of roses...ah you were a vision. Please! Let me give you some meat, I insist."

Mom: "No thank you, really. I just want vegetables, really. Good day Monsieur. The bloody apron is a real turn-on though."

This Christmas, Dad splurged on a tree but Mom thinks it's puny for the gigantic living room.

Mom: "Look at it. It looks ridiculous! It's a chiseller's tree, a dwarf tree, a cheapo tree. We should have gotten a bigger tree for this room."

Dad: "Well that's all the Christmas we're going to get. You got an apartment in France. That should hold you over for a couple of Christmases I hope."

Mom: "You're so Bah Humbuggish. Oh well, I'll get some cute balls and we'll decorate it the best we can. (really sarcastic) Don't worry, I'll go to the cheap store and get the smallest balls I can find."

Then Mom, Finley and I went out again in search of tiny silver balls to hang on the mini-tree and we found a cheap, stuffed Santa for 1 Euro ($1.18) .

As soon as we got home, Finley got a hold of Santa and ripped him to shreds. All that was left of him was the head.

Dad: (holding up the decapitated Santa head) "Look! It's Merry Christmas from Al Queida!"

Then Dad pulled his black turtle neck over his face like a terrorist and put on a Bin Laden accent.

Dad: "No more Santa for you! We have cut off his head. Santa is the infidel son of pigs and dogs!"
I can understand why Dad isn't so gung ho about Christmas. I've always believed in Santa but lately I've got a problem with Santa that's been bothering me. Why does Santa give way more stuff to rich people? I mean he's supposed to give you stuff if you're nice, not rich.