AIN'T Part Seven: Bacon, Eggs and True Grits

It would be remiss of me not to wish my readers a robust "Happy Christmas" and "Mele Kalikimaka," even if it is, in typical Hardy fashion, a few days late.

But don't blame me. I wanted to write on my blog, really. Alas, the powers that be determined that my holiday was better spent at the movies. And McDonalds. Deck the halls with trans-isomer fatty acids.

We Hardys know how to have a good time. I think when Great Great Great Great Grandmother Hardy sailed to Oklahoma on the Santa Maria, with a German flag in one hand and a light beer in the other (Ye Ole' Weight Watchers unite!), all her Native American chief-friends said that she was the life of the party. "Those Hardys can party," they said. Who knew that historical Indian leaders could be so poetic? (Other than my not-so-dearly departed relative, General Custer, and he didn't really seem to care all that much in the end. The jerk.)

Christmas Eve found this clan doing what we do best: sitting in chairs, eating something covered in salt and oil, and watching other people exercise. This year's official Christmas movie was none other than a feel-good, bloody flick called "True Grit." I won't bore you with details (when do I ever bore you with details?), but I will let you in on a little secret: It's gritty. Truly. This movie (which, coincidentally, has eye candy in the form of Matt Damon and Josh Brolin. Sigh.) has inspired me to adopt my "inner Mattie" and become a force not to be reckoned with.

Too bad I saw this after quitting Borders.

However, my "inner Mattie" will not be silenced just because she does not have a mind-numbing retail job to rail against. There are plenty of injustices for me to practice my "Kaitlin doesn't take no smack" persona on. For instance, I went to Rosepepper Cantina last night, and asked for a side of shredded cheese. Said side of cut-up dairy product appeared on my table in a cup that looked like it was the drinking mug of an anorexic mouse. This miniscule cup, so tiny that my fingers got confused about what they were supposed to pick up, appeared on my bill in a very large way. Like, $1.50, large. "Inner Mattie" was not happy. However, she was busy seeking vengeance for her father’s death with a one-eyed Jeff Bridges and couldn’t stand to be bothered at the moment, so I left Rosepepper, dignity intact, giving them a very stern look as I walked out the door.

Let this serve as a warning, however, to anyone who dares cross me. “Inner Mattie” is lurking underneath the surface, and if I can coax her out, there will be heckydarn to pay! That is, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my sleep, my meals, or my Facebook stalking. I have a life, you know.

After True Grit, a quick meal at McDonald’s (and you thought I was joking), and a trip to Opryland Hotel, my parents and Gran Jean succumbed to my ever persuasive pleas to go to Midnight Mass. (“Ever Persuasive” is a phrase that here means “an only child whining until she gets her way.”) If you have never been to a Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, you are missing out. Go next year. Seriously. Put it on your calendar. Don’t make the angels cry.

Since food is vital in the lifespan of a Hardy, I have to mention our Christmas brunch at Monell's. Hopefully this will be a tradition for years to come. Not only because it means that my Mom and I will never have to cook, but also because it provides the perfect opportunity for us to share our cleverness with all the other families fortunate to sit at our table. This year's family hailed from Canada. The poor souls had never been to Monell's, had never experienced family-style dining, and had most definitely never met a Hardy. My dad and I made sure to remedy that. Personally, I think we were charming and witty, and when the family ran away from our table screaming, it was with mirth and merriment. Pass the maple syrup, eh?

All in all, this Christmas proved to be one that was filled with blessing, joy, and Frankincense. Lots of Frankincense. Oh, those pesky, sweet-smelling Catholics.