Category Archives for "Holidays"

Non-gushy valentines are the Loch Ness monster of fifth grade

Last week I stood in Target for thirty minutes, trying to think like a certain bespectacled, feisty, burpy, stubborn, funny, opinionated fifth grade girl who would sooner lick a furry spider than admit that all fifth grade boys are *not* necessarily oozing boils of pus on the collective butt of humanity and I did this by holding up a packet of valentines and asking myself “Will giving these things to boys make me gag up all my lungs in homeroom tomorrow? Twice?”

It was a struggle, but I finally settled upon the least mushy or offensive of the bunch, an innocuous looking combination of cards and Pixy Stix, hoping that the cards with little hearts all over them would be ignored and immediately ripped to shreds by both sexes equally in a desperate attempt to score the two long, thin paper vials of crack sugar.

I gave the box of valentines to Helena along with her class list and reminded her once more that if she wanted to participate in the Valentine’s Day celebration with her class, then she had to abide by the rules and give everyone a Valentine, regardless if they peed standing up or sitting down. And it wouldn’t kill her to write something personal on each one. And stop rolling her eyes already. Yes, as a matter of fact, I can see through walls.

That night as I watched American Idol, a voice kept drifting in from the kitchen asking “Mom, does ‘gross’ have an ‘e’ at the end of it?” and “Mom, how do you spell ‘disgusting?'” and “Mom, does ‘buttface’ have one ‘t’ or two?”

And it dawned on me that I would make a fortune by inventing a pre-printed Valentine for certain bespectacled, feisty, burpy, stubborn, funny, opinionated fifth grade girls who would sooner lick furry spiders than admit that all fifth grade boys are *not* necessarily oozing boils of pus on the collective butt of humanity. Maybe one with a picture of a big, red, puffy heart being electrocuted with a taser into unconsciousness, with the following sentiment:

Happy Valentine’s Day except not really. Don’t get any ideas. You are still gross and I’m not going out with you, no matter how many times you shove your whole sandwich into your mouth and pretend it’s a zit. OMG. I’m only giving you this card because the rules say we have to give cards to everyone so if I don’t, I’ll get in trouble and Mrs. W will probably make me miss recess and write something dumb like Valentine’s Day Should Be a Treat For Everyone!! a hundred bajillion times. OMG. And then I won’t be able to stand on the sidewalk with Allison and McKenna and Taylor and Sara and talk about their UGGS and how my mom won’t buy them for me until my feet stop growing which means we won’t talk about whose house we’re going to hang out at later which means I’ll probably just have to go home alone and be stuck doing dishes or laundry. Or math. WORST DAY EVER. And then my mom will want to know why my fingers are all dead and I’ll have to explain why I had to write all those Valentine’s Day Should Be a Treat For Everyone!! which I wouldn’t even HAVE to do if you had just been born a girl to begin with. OMG. And then she’ll probably ground me from the computer and then I won’t get a cell phone until I’m old, like thirty. WORST DAY EVER AGAIN. So here’s your card. Happy Valentine’s Day. Not.

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Hope springs eternal: 2011 edition

I’m not a fan of resolutions. If you’ve been around here long enough, you might remember my philosophy on the entire concept of publicly declaring all sorts of ridiculously abstract promises only to stand by and watch helplessly while they whither from neglect and death march into the barrel of a brand new, shiny, metaphorical assault rifle and get shot straight to a theoretically much warmer climate. To wit, circa 2008:

I’ve decided to spread out my ridiculously high expectations throughout the entire year so that I can thoroughly enjoy each and every accompanying disappointment in all of its glory, rather than experience one general, massive, overwhelming, excruciating, cataclysmic disillusionment on January 5. This way, I won’t have 360 continuous days in which to ask myself Now what the hell do I do?

Instead, I have hopes. Because believe it or not, I’m an optimist and when it isn’t under the couch covered with Ollie slobber, fuzzies, dead skin cells and Dorito dust, my glass is half full. This explains why I still hang onto the size 2 leather and suede-fringed mini skirt I bought at Merry Go Round in the mid eighties and it’s not just because I think it might come back into fashion some day.

So here, in no particular order, are my hopes for 2011:

I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;

I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;

I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;

I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;

I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;

*Pretend that there’s a whole bunch of blah blah blah here about world peace, my family staying healthy and happy and employed, someone finding a cure for all sorts of diseases, becoming a better wife, mother, sister, friend and blogger, winning the lottery, staying within five pounds of goal weight, Anderson Cooper coming to his senses, $25 football jerseys for dogs named Oliver being outlawed, gas not becoming more expensive than plasma, Nate developing a severe allergy to online shopping, someone stuffing the entire airline industry into two carry-ons and charging them $100 for the service, and getting my mattress to stop masquerading around as a sink hole.*

And finally … I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;

What are your hopes for 2011?

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Ding! Ding! Ding!

Personally, 2011 can’t come soon enough for me. Despite a few highs here and there, 2010 ultimately wound up sucking a ginormous, pus-oozing wazoo out of an ocean of thick phlegm through a really thin straw. And that’s all I’ll say about that.

As a blogger, I often get emails asking to buy advertising space on my blog. Sometimes I say yes, sometimes I say no, sometimes I say maybe and sometimes I say Um, could you type that louder? I’m not wearing my glasses so I can’t hear what you’re saying. But that’s only when I’m confused which, granted, happens often but that’s another blog post entirely.

Last week, I was working late and heard that unmistakable *Ding!* that lets me know an email has popped into my inbox and usually I jump up and down all around my office whenever a *Ding!* comes a-knocking because OH MY GOD, SOMEONE CARES THAT I’M ALIVE AND WANTS TO TALK TO ME but it was late and I was really tired so I simply high-fived myself and clicked over to my inbox and found this waiting for me:

It completely reeked of spam but I was feeling generous because hey, it was the holidays and who knows? Maybe Linda wasn’t some short, greasy, little Viagra-hocking assy douche noodle squatting in India somewhere. Maybe he was a recent immigrant to our country and English wasn’t his native language and he was a stay-at-home mom looking for a little extra income and having trouble typing in complete sentences because he was trying to wrangle his toddler triplets who were busy greasing and flouring all the shoes in their house.

I like to give everyone the benefit of the doubt before taking a hammer and chisel to the massive boulder in my garden and forever engraving their faces on my own personal shit list or, as we like to call it here, the Mt. Rushmore of the East.

I responded to Linda, thanking her for contacting me and then providing her with my advertising policy and guidelines.

Two minutes later, *Ding!*

Call it gut instinct. Call it a sixth sense. Call it SOMEBODY GET MY UMBILICAL CORD FROM YESTERDAY SO I CAN SLAP HER SILLY WITH IT but I was pretty sure Linda was, in fact, an assy douche noodle. Whereabouts unknown but judging from her ridiculously low offer, I assumed it was somewhere below sea level.

But as I am not one to jump to conclusions, mostly because jumping requires effort which might result in sweat and we all know how I feel about sweating if an orgasm is not involved, I requested clarification:

And then … *Ding!*

Subterranean assy douche noodle confirmed.

Thirty-six seconds later … *Ding!*

Ooooh! Impatient subterranean assy douche noodle, no less. One willing to negotiate.

OH MY GOD, CHRISTMAS CAME EARLY! GET READY, SANTA, I’M ABOUT TO KISS YOU WITH TONGUE.

I clicked “send” and waited.

And not two minutes later … *Ding!*

Game on.

You’re turn!

But then … *Ding!*

Except it was more like a … ding.

A lifeless, boring ding. With frowny faces all over it. Like a fat, bloodshot, constipated basset hound of an email shlumped into my inbox instead of the bouncy, happy, yippy, let-me-hump-your-leg-for-an-hour puppy of an onomatopoeia *Ding!*

Game over.

Hardly worth the effort.

See what I mean about potential sweaty effort without orgasms?

Disappointing, isn’t it?

But nevertheless, I was magnanimous in my victory.

Needless to say, I didn’t get a response.

Anti-climactic, to say the least, and pretty much representative of 2010.

Here’s hoping for a better 2011 for all of us. May it bring us good news, smiles, laughter and lots of bouncy, happy, yippy, let-me-hump-your-leg-for-an-hour puppies of onomatopoeia *Ding!*emails.

And sweaty orgasms worth the effort.

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Yes and No

No, Santa and his MasterCard did not earn hernias this year.

Yes, Santa was really smart and stayed within budget and wrapped everything in oversized boxes.

Yes, Santa managed to do this, despite having a wayward elf who decided to go Rambo at the last minute and go off list by purchasing a Toy Story DVD for an amount that almost gave Santa a stroke.

Yes, Nate the Elf is on reindeer poo duty until further notice.

No, Santa is not a member of the clean plate club.

Yes, Santa strapped himself in alongside Blitzen to earn some Weight Watchers exercise points, just in case.

Yes, Santa uses a computer to write his notes because his handwriting looks like constipated serial killer flourish.

No, my children do not believe in Santa anymore.

Yes, they still insist on all the traditional Santa rituals, regardless.

Yes, they are contrary.

No, Santa has no problem with contrary, as long as it’s served with chocolate pecan pie and cold milk.

Yes, Oliver is in a choke hold.

Yes, the girls’ stockings are abnormally huge.

No, Santa did not think about the correlation between size of stockings and cost of filling them because Santa was a brand new shiny mommy when he bought the first stocking and an old colossal idiot when he bought the second one.

Yes, the stockings have become a ridiculously expensive way to hold a lot of crap and are now referred to as Diaper Genies.

Yes, that is a cell phone case, a la Coach.

No, Santa had no idea when he bought it at a mall kiosk for $20 that it would turn out to be Zoe’s favorite Christmas present.

Yes, Santa is wondering why everything can’t be that cheap and easy.

Yes, Santa knows there’s a joke in there somewhere but he’s too tired to hunt for it.

Yes, these are Oliver’s brand new balls.

No, Santa is not reverting to a ten year old by giggling because he typed “balls” out loud.

Yes, Santa is lying.

No, Santa would never have given Oliver brand new balls for Christmas had he known that Oliver was really a bulimic, furry pirhana named Fang in disguise.

No, Santa did not clean up orange vomit at 11:00 a.m.

Yes, that’s what elves are for.

No, Santa cannot believe that weeks and weeks and weeks of thoughtful and careful planning and preparation, together with forty-two hours of wrapping, are over within three nanoseconds.

No, Santa is not choking on a bitter pill about it.

Fine, Santa wouldn’t object to a little Heimlich maneuver, if anyone is feeling particularly generous.

Yes, Santa absolutely, without a doubt, loves Christmas and can’t wait to do it all over again next year.

Yes, with more disciplined elves.

And yes, with less miniature basketball vomit.

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I’m knee deep in mashed potatoes and my ankles never looked so delicious

I just seeded a pomegranate by beating the snot out of it with a tenderizer mallet and now my hands and kitchen look like I skinned and gutted a tall human being. Just to clarify, I have neither skinned nor gutted a tall human being, even though he deserved it because he ate the Christmas Eve cheese that I specifically told him not to. Note to self: ask Santa for a biometric lock with built-in- facial recognition for our fridge.

I need a break from cooking so I’m going to take this opportunity to share with you a little Christmas story, courtesy of my mother-in-law. Did you know she once gave plant clippings to everyone for Christmas? Neither did I. Want to know what kind of plant it was?

A wandering jew.

You gotta love her. And suddenly, her son makes so much more sense to me.

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~ A little Christmas Story ~

When four of Santa’s elves got sick, the trainee elves did not produce toys as fast as the regular ones and Santa began to feel the pre-Christmas pressure.

Then Mrs. Claus told Santa her mother was coming to visit, which stressed Santa out even more.

When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two others had jumped the fence and were out Heaven knows where.

When he began to load the sleigh, one of the floorboards cracked, the toy bag fell to the ground and all the toys were scattered.

Frustrated, Santa went in the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered the elves had drunk all the cider and hidden the liquor. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider jug, and it broke into hundreds of little glass pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get the broom and found the mice had eaten all the straw off the end of it. Just then the doorbell rang, and an irritated Santa marched to the door, yanked it open, and there stood a little angel with a great big Christmas tree.
The angel said very cheerfully, “Merry Christmas, Santa! Isn’t this a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to put it?”

And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree.

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Have a very merry Christmas, everyone!

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