The Fugly Sweater

     Following in the footsteps of our non-traditional Thanksgiving, our Christmas this year was also a very alternative one.  We went over to our same friends’ house who hosted us for turkey day for some good old festive fun.  There were three total families there, with a whopping sum of seven kids in all.  You can probably just imagine how apeshit crazy the kids were for Santa & his antlered bitches to swoop into town later on that night.  To add to the fun, the wives had conspired to have an ugliest sweater contest amongst our men, and I am proud to say that my hubby won, hands down, with his unbelievably gay and merry ensemble.

     Shopping for the appropriate sweater for this little contest was no easy task either.  I was actually surprised to learn just how hard it is to find a man’s Christmas sweater period, let alone a fugly one.  My mom and I looked EVERYWHERE when I went back home last weekend, and the only thing I found that was even a remote possibility was located in the larger “WOMAN” department of Target.  All I needed was a good base, since I planned to bedazzle the hell outta the thing. The one I chose was black with a green embroidered Christmas tree on it, and I then bought glittery snowflakes, beads, jewels, and multi-colored sequins to hot glue on it.  When my mom and I were finished with it, it was one hot mess of a sweater, just the exact look I was going for.

     And just before heading over to our friends’ house on Christmas Eve, I found the mother of all mothers as far as Christmas attire goes — my mother-in-law’s red plaid wool pants, which just so happened to be hanging in the closet of our guest bedroom.  Somehow or another, I convinced my husband to wear these pants with his bedazzling sweater, and he could not have looked more ridiculous.  I laughed so hard that I nearly fell down at the sight of him.  He reminded me of Cousin Eddy from Christmas vacation — the only thing he was missing was a pair of white patent leather shoes.  It was perfect!

     When our friends got a glimpse of him in this get-up, they didn’t quite know what to say.  It was truly hard to carry on a serious conversation with him without busting into snickers and howls. Needless to say, his sweater was by far the ugliest of the group.  The best part of the night came when the three husbands decided to play Beatles Rock Band in their idiotic-looking duds.  They looked like a REALLY feminine boy band gone wrong.  It was priceless!

     So, once again, our friends really came through for us during yet another difficult time.  Being without my family for the first Christmas ever was extremely hard for me, but the laughter and the fun of being with good friends (and a few too many Holy Berries) helped to put me in a jollier mood.  It also didn’t hurt to have a husband who was willing to make himself look like a complete jackass all to amuse me.  :-)

Stretching the Holiday Truth

     I swear I feel like half the crap I try to feed my kids while I’m doing this parenting gig comes right back to bite me in the ass.  And with Christmas and all its many, many far-fetched ideas, it becomes even more difficult to try to explain myself.  Deer that fly, a sleigh that miraculously fits ALL the toys for every kid in the friggin’ universe, a rather large man squeezing himself down the super skinny chimney — it’s all pretty far out there if you really stop and think about it.  So, throughout this holiday season, I’ve found myself on multiple occasions trying to come up with a logical explanation for a highly illogical concept.

     Scenario Number One: two of Santa’s reindeer miraculously showed up at a landscaping/pet shop near us a few weeks back.  My kids must’ve asked me ten thousand questions about these two antlered-eared deer for which I had to REALLY dig deep into my big bag of bullshit to try to answer.  They had a sign up that said “Only Santa’s elves are allowed to feed the reindeer” — so how was I supposed to explain why we saw two of the store’s employees (who most certainly looked NOTHING like elves) feeding the damn deer?! Could they not have at least thrown on some flipping green tights and pointy toed shoes?  And to make matters worse, the stupid asshats at this store took it upon themselves to proudly display the names of these two reindeer who were named anything BUT Comet, Cupid or Donner.  They had names like Sasha and Donald. Seriously, people, WTF?! Would it really have killed these jackbutts to at least fake that these were two of Santa’s real deal sleigh drivers?!  

     Scenario Number Two: for years I have harped on the idea that Santa has magical powers and oversees little elves who can make any and every toy.  Well, someone should’ve told me to put a damn sock in it, because, naturally, this, too, has come back to haunt me. Lately, my kids have decided to try and make last minute additions to their Christmas wishlists, without any concern whatsoever that it might not be enough notice  for poor “Santa” to make these said items happen. When I tried to confront them about this very topic, they simply told me that Santa can make miracles happen and that it wouldn’t be a problem at all for him to hear about a few add-ons.  I just silently kick my ass as I listen to their logic, because I know that I’m the dumbass who filled their little heads with this crap in the first place.  I may need to come up with some concocted story about Santa’s workshop being closed now for gift wrapping.  I’ve already made a whole shit ton of outrageous claims — surely I can come up with some more, right?

     The older they get, the more they’re gonna realize that all of the wonders of Christmas really make them wonder about just what in the hell their mom and dad have really been trying to pull.  With every make-believe idea that comes out of my mouth, I cross my fingers that they don’t call me out.  When they finally do find out the truth, I just hope they don’t think I’m a hypocrite for telling them that lying is bad and then turning around and telling them that yes, a man who’s a bazillion miles away can really see when they draw on the furniture.

The Christmas Brick

     The day my kids stop believing in Santa will be a day that physically hurts my heart because I know that little by little from that point on, their innocence will be slowly fading away.  I can remember exactly when I stopped believing as a little girl.  Thanks to some punk-ass blabber mouths at school and a Santa with his head up his jolly old keister, my childhood faith in the magic of Christmas was crushed like a candy cane.

     Growing up, I always LOVED Christmas.  I absolutely loved the idea of Santa and all the wonder surrounding him.  So, when some of the kids at school really started talking trash about the big man, I tried like hell to block out all their comments.  I didn’t want to buy into this whole idea that it was really just our parents buying all that crap for us.  As much as I tried, though, some of these accusations were sinking in, and I, too, started to question whether this one guy could really deliver ALL those presents to ALL those kids in just one flipping night.  My suspicions were finally confirmed when a Santa hired by my parents made a pre-Christmas stop at our house that year.

     I was so excited when I answered the door that night to find a red-suited dude with a beard standing right there on our very own porch.  I breathed a sigh of relief that maybe all those yahoos at school really were just messing with me.  He ho-ho-ho’d his way into our living room with his big bag full of gifts and made himself right at home on our loveseat.  As he reached into his bag of tricks, my heart skipped a beat in anticipation of what he’d pull outta there for little ’ol me.  But what he pulled out only caused my brain to wonder just what in the hell this North-Poled nitwit had been smoking before he flew into town.

     The merry old fool had mistakingly thought that the wrapped boxes my mom had displayed on the front porch FOR DECORATION were presents that he was supposed to bring inside for me.  The jackass had the audacity to try to pass off one of these said boxes to me! I instantly recognized the wrapping paper and the bow and knew that the only thing inside that box was a brick to weigh it down.  Was this moron actually trying to give me a concrete slab as a gift?  I looked first at my mom and then at my dad for some sort of reassurance that this was all just a great big joke.  Their horrified looks weren’t doing much to ease my anxiety, though.  Either this man had lost his damn mind, I had been a really really naughty girl, or my parents really were Santa Claus after all. 

     After he left our house, my parents scrambled for some sort of an explanation and simply told me that Santa had sent one of his helpers since he was so swamped with toy orders, and that this guy had obviously gotten confused about the gifts.  I didn’t really buy it though and never truly believed in the legend much more after that night.  And now that I’m a parent myself, I can’t stand the thought of this same scenario playing out with my own kids.  I think I’ll start bribing all their friends now to keep their little traps shut about the real deal.  So what if I’ve got the only sixteen year old twins who still listen for reindeer hooves on the roof and wait for a fat man to pop out of the chimney?  Aren’t the holidays a whole lot happier if you at least have faith in something?