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.  :-)

Twas the Nucking Futty Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through our pad,
Every creature was stirring, being exceptionally bad.
The stockings were hung too close to the floor,
And demon dog was eating each one that he tore. 

The twins were bouncing off the walls in their rooms,
Just thinking about making their new Mario Kart zoom.
Hubby in holey boxers and I in my nightie,
Had just poured a third glass of wine that was mighty.

When out on the roof came a crazy loud thump;
I told Hubby to check it out and to get off his rump.
He mumbled something about Sportscenter and checking a score,
So away to the window I frustratingly tore.

The moon shined bright on the freshly packed snow;
The dog poop had been covered, I could see in the glow.
When what to my intoxicated eyes should appear,
But a big ass sleigh and eight smelly reindeer.

A festively plump driver who was anything but quick,
Was a loud and clear signal that this was St. Nick.
Slower than molasses, his antlered slaves came,
And he bitched and he moaned and he called them by name:

“Damnit Dasher!  Damnit Dancer!
Damnit Prancer and Vixen!
S.O.B. Comet!  S.O.B. Cupid!
S.O.B. Donner and Blitzen!
Get your asses up here
And you better make it snappy!
Do I look like I’m kidding?
Do I look like your Pappy?”

As a football team likes to huddle pre-game,
They banded together and argued about fame.
Then up to the roof-top those crazy deer flew,
With that shit-ton of toys and St. Nicholas too.

I wanted to scream as they stomped on our roof,
Just imagine all the damage from those damn reindeer hooves.
I pounded my fists and tried counting to ten,
But St. Nick squeezed his ass down the chimney just then.

He was huffing and puffing from the hot fur of his suit,
And it smelled like he’d stepped in some poop with his boot. 
A backpack of toys really weighed down his rear,
And he looked like he could use a really cold beer.

His eyes – how they drooped.  His unibrow, how scary!
And with the hair on his lip, he looked like Aunt Mary.
The scowl on his mouth said he would sure like to quit,
And you could tell that he really was just sick of this shit. 

When he pulled out that pipe and started to smoke,
Well, I wanted to grab his fat neck and just choke.
He had pink chubby cheeks and a rounded booze belly,
That rumbled around like a HUGE vat of jelly. 

He was an overweight mess, this tired old dude,
How did Mrs. Claus stand his bad attitude?
He flipped me off and told me to get lost,
He was in a huge hurry and might have been sauced. 

He didn’t say much more as he got down to biz,
Shoving crap in our stockings and even taking a whiz.
Then burping three times and doing a jig,
He rose up the chimney with a beer and a swig.  

He hopped in his ride and called to his posse,
And away they all flew with their bearded old bossy.
But I heard him exclaim just before out of reach, 

“Happy Christmas assholes! I’m hittin’ the beach!”

 

MAY ALL YOUR HOLIDAYS BE HAPPY & FULL OF GOOD DRINKS!  CHEERS!

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.

Holiday Hanky Panky

     

     Every year at Christmas, my husband always puts panties in my stocking.  Some people get candy; I get thongs.  Now, normally this wouldn’t be any big deal.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been known to turn down a new pair of undies, especially when they’re pretty ones. However, when your father-in-law and your own dad are sitting right there next to you as you pull out these new skivvies, it can be a little uncomfortable, to say the very least.

     I remember one particular year when my twins were about three years old and very curious about anything and everything.  My husband had taken advantage of the five for $25 sale at Victoria’s Secret and had picked out various colors and patterns of thongs to place inside my stocking.  One of these pairs just so happened to be hot pink, which has always been my daughter’s absolute favorite color. I’d gone first in opening the contents of my stocking that Christmas morning, all the while cringing with each pair that I unwrapped alongside my father-in-law and my dad. After I finished, we all turned our attention to my mom as she unwrapped her stocking’s goodies. And at just about that same time, my daughter decided to take it upon herself to pull on that hot freaking pink thong right over the outside of her pajama bottoms and run around the living room like a damn lunatic. We all laughed and tried our best to just shake it off, but you could cut the tension in that room with a butter knife.  I knew that my father-in-law and my dad had absolutely no desire to see that thong being modeled by their daughter-in-law/daughter, much less their three year old granddaughter.

     Then there was the year when my husband tried to buy me a pair of Hanky Panky’s.  If you’re not familiar with the Hanky Panky, it’s supposedly “the world’s most comfortable thong”.  They’re very pretty, made of stretchy lace fabric and are labeled as “one size fits all”. My husband just knew that I’d most certainly want to surround my ass in this type of self-proclaimed comfort.  Somehow or another, though, the lady at Nordstrom’s sent him to the wrong department (completely unbeknownst to him), and he ended up buying me a pair of “plus” size panties.  (Side note: I am 5’2″ and have a petite frame.) When I pulled these panties out of my stocking, I couldn’t help but be confused by their size. As I held them up to scrutinize them, my husband reassured me that these panties were “one size fits all”.  I tried my best to be appreciative and remain optimistic that these “plus” size panties would be able to accomodate every sized ass in America, but deep inside, I really had my doubts.  Once again, I could sense the uneasiness of the older male figures in the room and calmly shoved the thong to the side until I could get to the root of the problem.  Upon further investigation later on, I discovered that they were, in fact, actually “plus” size panties and ended up exchanging them for my appropriate size.  Even though he severely screwed up, I gotta give the man some points for at least trying, although he’s damn lucky I’m so understanding!

     My father-in-law has since passed away, and because of my dad’s cancer treatments, this will be the first year I’ve EVER been without my parents on Christmas morning.  As sad as it will be that we’re not all together, I’m sure my dad will breathe a small sigh of relief to not have to watch me pull out another fancy new thong from my stocking this year.  I guess we’ll just have to videotape the whole event so he doesn’t miss all the holiday Hanky Panky fun.

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?

Busted!

     Since I’m flying down to help my mom out with my dad again today and don’t have time to write a full-on blog post, I thought I’d share a little video with you instead.  My kids must’ve done some snooping around in my drawers last night, and well, let’s just say they may have found a little more than they were hoping for:

Chew On This

    

     Trying to get my son to keep his hands or his clothing out of his mouth is like trying to keep a man from touching his johnson.  It’s a constant uphill battle that I don’t seem to be winning.  I’ve preached to him about a gazillion times about the risk of germs and getting sick, but, as the usual pattern goes around my house, my sermons always seem to fall on deaf ears.  I’m starting to feel like the Charlie Brown teacher.

     One of my biggest pet peeves with my kids is when they chew on their clothes, and my son is the absolute worst about this.  I swear, every time I look at the kid, he’s chewing on his shirt sleeves, his collar, his hat or his gloves.  I can’t even tell you how many of his shirts now have holes around the wrists from all of his nibbling, not to mention all of the ragged collars on his jackets.  It drives me flipping C-R-A-Z-Y!!!  He used to chew the flaps so much on his old hat that the damn thing had to be washed every other day to get the stank of old saliva out of it.  And now that he’s taking ice skating lessons, he’s discovered that he likes to gnaw on his gloves after he falls down to get the ice chunks off them.  He doesn’t seem to understand that the ice at the rink is not meant to be eaten.  I guess he thinks of it as his own personal slushy buffet.  

     Unfortunately, he doesn’t just stop at clothing either.  He also likes to put his fingers in his mouth too, even though he’s not really even chewing his nails or the surrounding skin.  Surprisingly, the boy’s got to-die-for nails that constantly have to be trimmed.  I cringe at the thought of what new virus he’s shoving in there with his hands.  I about died when my husband showed me the video he took of the kids sitting on Santa’s lap over this past weekend.  My son’s hand was thrust into his mouth throughout the whole two minute conversation with the man in red.  I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of a bigger breeding ground for germs than old St. Nick’s lap.  Just think of all the boogers that have been wiped on those fuzzy pants and all the sneeze showers that have been sprayed on that jacket.  I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the very conception point for the whole H1N1 phenomenon.

     This oral fixation has been such a concern of mine that my husband and I even talked to my son’s teacher about it at parent/teacher conferences last month.  She said it’s a very normal, very natural phase that a lot of kids, particularly boys, tend to go through.  She suggested allowing my son to chew gum at school to avoid the urge to put his hands or his clothing into his mouth.  My husband practically fell out of his little tiny first grade chair at the mere mention of this solution, since he was actually paddled for chewing gum in school back in the day.  The teacher assured us that our son will most certainly outgrow this phase in due time.  We’re hoping that time’s much sooner rather than later.

     Meanwhile, I have to just continue to play my broken record over and over again to remind him about the dangers of germs while he continues to ignore every freaking word that comes out of my mouth. It’s yet another one of my many daily tests in patience and sanity that I’m on the verge of failing miserably.  Isn’t parenting fun?!

The Drunken Santa

    

     With all the different versions of Santa that are walking around all over the place, I can’t help but think we’re confusing the hell out of our kids. Seriously, some form of Santa seems to be popping up all over the damn place anymore.  And back when I was a kid, my parents took the bewilderment to a whole other level by hiring a Santa to come to our house every year.  At the time, I thought I was the most special kid on the planet, but looking back now, I don’t know why on earth I didn’t demand to know just what in the name of Rudolph was really going on.  I remember one particular year that involved a VERY jolly old St. Nick, a six-pack of beer, and a bathroom floor full of pee.

     Growing up, my parents always put their heart and soul into creating a memorable Christmas for me.  They absolutely loved the idea of Santa choosing our house to make a special VIP visit.  Since there was no internet back then, my dad had to rely on the good old want ads in the newspaper to find a Santa for hire.  He made some calls and finally found a guy who was willing to do the job for nothing more than a six-pack of beer.  Now, you have to remember that this was the late 70′s, so that was perfectly acceptable back then. Of course, in hindsight, that should probably have been a huge red flag that this Santa was gonna be more than just a little merry.

     When he showed up to our house, the dude was already three sheets to the wind.  He must’ve pre-partied with one too many eggnogs or something.  Now days, he’d probably be hauled off in handcuffs right there on the spot, but back then, he was welcomed with multiple sets of open arms.  After all, he was certainly stocked full of good cheer — singing Christmas carols, cracking jokes about Mrs. Claus, and an all-around life of the party.  He and my dad even shot the shit over a couple of beers while he was supposedly “on the clock.”  And the more he ate and drank, the merrier he got.  At one point, he even had the balls to pull my grandma onto his lap to ask her just what she REALLY wanted for Christmas as he kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear.  Guess he wanted to make her his ho ho ho for the night. As you can imagine, my grandpa wasn’t so happy about Santa Claus coming to town.

     Before he dashed off in his beat-up sleigh, he asked my dad if he could use the john.  He stumbled his way into the bathroom, did his business, and then bid us all farewell.  After he was gone, my cousin went to use the bathroom and discovered that Santa had in fact pissed all over the floor. She shrieked with delight, as I ran in to see for myself.  My parents were none too pleased about this little gift that he’d left behind, but my cousin and I thought it was the greatest souvenir EVER!  We had real, live Santa pee on our bathroom floor!  

     I miss those carefree days of being able to hire a complete and total stranger out of the flipping newspaper of all things to come to your house and hang out with your family.  Now days, I’d be scared to death that a psychopath would show up at my door in a red suit and beard. I’m so glad that I’ve at least got the memory of those Santa visits from my own childhood to tell my kids about.  They also think it’s totally AWESOME that he missed the toilet.  I suppose nothing says Merry Christmas quite like the horrible aim of Santa and his old yule log.

The Elf On The Shelf

     

     For the past few years in our house, we’ve looked forward to a visit from none other than the “elf on the shelf”.  Are you familiar with these little dudes?  They are the cash-flowing creation of a freaking genius of a woman, and for $29.95 (plus shipping & handling) these little dolls will fly all the way from the North Pole to your humble abode for the whole month of December.  They’re like Santa’s shrimp-sized spies, reporting back to the head honcho each and every night about who’s being good & who’s being a little shit.  They are also known as B-R-I-B-E-R-Y for parents at this very stressful time of year.

     Our little pointed toe fairy first came to us back in December of 2007.  My kids decided to name him Clyde, and for the past two years, old Clyde’s been racking up the frequent flier miles between our house & Santa’s pad.  Each morning my kids practically pee their pants with excitement to find out just where Clyde is hiding.  You see, night after night, it’s up to the parents to find a new hiding spot for Clyde. And if you forget, you better think fast on your feet, or best believe, you are screwed. Your kids will surely notice that the elf is in the exact same spot as the day before.  How do I know this?  It’s because I can’t tell you how many times we’ve dropped the ball and have had to suddenly send the short people upstairs so that one of us can scramble around and move the damn elf doll.  Luckily, our kids are young enough that we can still pull this whole smoke and mirror tactic on them.  We could say, “Look kids, there’s a spaceship on the lawn,” and haul ass to move that little sucker before they would even turn their heads back from the window.

     I must say that Clyde and his magical bad ass have more than earned their keep around here.  On many occasions, all I’ve had to do is point to his tiny perch, and my kids instantly think twice about what they’re doing. They know that he’s taking mental notes all day long to give the boss all the dirt on them.  You gotta love that kind of power. He’s like the eyes and ears for the Don Corleone of all gifts.  I can’t decide if I have a crush on him or if I wanna rip his throat out cause I’m jealous of him. Maybe we’ll sort it all out when we go out for drinks next weekend.  I hear he’s a lightweight, so maybe I can get him to spill some of his secrets after a few cocktails.

     For now, all I know is that that pint-sized pixie better hurry up and get his spy on cause I’m losing my marbles trying to keep these kids of mine in line.  All the excitement over the holidays has them bouncing off the freaking walls.  My daughter even openly admitted to me last night that “it’s really hard to be good every day.”  So, I’m not ashamed to admit that I need all the help I can get throughout these next twenty-five days of craziness.  I wish I could talk Clyde into just staying the whole year through, but I don’t think I can really compete with the eleven month vacation the fat man promises him in return for all his hard work.