Dear Santa

Dear Santa

I have been a very good girl this year, as evidenced by my ability to keep from hurting anyone while I do my Christmas shopping. These past 2 weeks have been brutal, especially when I get within a 1 mile radius of a shopping mall. I admit I have come thisclose to not only hitting people with my car, but to almost beating a woman with a copy of that big-ass Stephen King book, "Under the Dome" at Barnes and Noble, and I had to hold myself back from forcing someone to eat an entire Ugg boot at Dillard's. When my temper nearly got the best of me, I just took a deep breath and thought "What would Santa do?", and that simple question usually calmed me down. I am almost positive that you would remain jolly in the presence of even the most crazed and selfish shoppers, although I have a feeling that those Elves of yours might kick some suburban ass.

Since I am sure that I am on your "Nice" list this year, I have decided to write you this letter to let you know exactly what I want for Christmas, in hopes of avoiding the gift fiasco's of 1985 and 1991. I don't wear mini skirts, I don't wear leather, and scented body powders are for the women on "Golden Girls", not a 14-year-old who's looking to get into the dating scene. Here is a list to help you make my Christmas just a little more merry:

A new Roomba. I'd appreciate it if you could keep this just between us, but my love for my current Roomba has died. I tried to work things out with her, I even went so far as to suggest we seek couples counseling, but I've finally come to the realization that we just weren't meant to be. Her relationship with Tiger has driven a wedge between us, and I just can't take anymore. Please replace her with the latest model, and make sure this one has a lot less back talk and a lot more spinning of that rotating brush.

A vacation with Paul Rudd. Someplace tropical would be ideal. A beach, a couple of lawn chairs, someone to brig us beer. Heaven.

A magic laundry fairy. She doesn't even have to actually do the laundry. All I ask is that she fly around and pick up Ethan's socks and Steve's underwear off of the floor and deposit them in the clothes hamper.

I would like you to tell Obama to make December and January, National Sweatpants Months. My pants start to get too tight around October 31st, and the problem only gets worse in November and December, until finally January hits and my New Years Resolution kicks in. Since I can't get my pants buttoned, nothing would feel better than to spend every day in my comfy sweats, but I don't want to be the only one looking like a slob. This would help my comfort level, as well as my self-esteem.

I would like for Elisabeth Hasselbeck to go away. You know what? I think she'd make a good elf. Maybe you should take her back to the North Pole with you. She did pretty well on Survivor, so I'm sure she could handle the pole.

I would like shopping malls to stop putting massage places and eyebrow places out in the open. Getting rubbed and/or getting hairs plucked from your body, are both things that should be done in private.

I would like a Tempur-Pedic mattress because my mattress is 10-years-old and it's starting to mess up my back, and those Tempur-Pedic mattresses make you feel like you're being gently rocked to sleep by an angel, or by Paul Rudd.

I would like for it to be cool to love the song "Highwayman", because that song is freaking awesome and I fly a star ship across the Universe divide, and when I reach the other side, I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can, perhaps I may become a Highwayman again (and again, and again, and again...).

I would like to invent a pill or something that makes your hair grow in whatever color you want it to, because I am tired of having to "enhance" my color. If scientists can grow a human ear on a mouse's back and then sew it onto an earless human, could blonde hair really be that big of a problem?

On the topic of inventions...I would like someone to invent a machine that makes junk foods healthy and healthy food junky.

I would like for my husband to stop snoring. After almost 20 years of quiet, he has only recently began this snoring frenzy and I am already sick of it. I believe in living together before marriage, if for no other reason than to make sure you are not getting stuck with a snorer. If you are not a snorer when you say "I Do" then you cannot turn into one later. It's false advertising and I'm not having it.

I would like a magic button that I can push to erase "Two Girls and a Cup" from my mind forever. I tried massive amounts of wine, but that didn't work. (P.S. if you don't know what I am referring to, save yourself the trauma and DON'T FIND OUT! Trust me, Trust me. Trust me.)

I would like my husband to stop flipping channels so much. He may be able to keep track of 10 shows at once, but I certainly can't. When you get up to go pee during a biography of George Clooney, and come back to see what turns out to be a documentary about firearms, topped off by an episode of Orange County Choppers, your entire relationship with George Clooney is shaken and things get confusing really quick.

I would like to turn back time to before I bought Ethan that can of "Insta Poop" and tell myself not to buy that darn can of "Insta Poop", because let me tell you something friends..."Insta Poop" causes nothing but insta problems.

I would like to be as good of a singer as Rock Band makes me feel like I am.

I would like for all of my readers to have a great Holiday Break. I now have 72 subscribers and I feel the pressure, but I'm taking some time off to get my Fa la la la la on. I'll catch up with you in January....

Fa La La La La, Rubik's Touch Sucks!

Fa La La La La, Rubik's Touch Sucks!

I like technology as much as the next girl. I can't imagine a world without my iphone or my DVR, and if you'd asked me a few months ago, I would have included my Roomba in that list, but now she's yelling at me, refusing to clean, and I am fairly certain she has been having "relations" with Tiger, so we are on the outs. Anyway, my point is...technology is good, and often makes our lives much easier. BUT sometimes technology is completely irritating and unnecessary, and the other day I saw a commercial for the item that most fits this description: The Rubik's Touch Cube.

Thursday morning when I first saw the commercial for this toy, I nearly choked on my Raisin Bran. It is a block the size of the classic cube, but with touch screens that you swipe your finger across in order to emulate a "twist". It even plays a recording of the classic cube's "twist" sound to give you that "nostalgic experience". Was it really that hard to twist the original cube? I have a pretty good memory, and I definitely don't recall ever injuring myself in a Rubik's Cube twisting incident. Is anyone actually willing to pay $130.00 extra to get a cube that they don't have to twist? If you are, I would like to meet you, at which time I would fully expect to see you either sporting a wrist cast or living life completely handless, due to a freak Benihana accident.

This stupid toy got me thinking about all of the toys I loved as a child, even though most of them didn't even take batteries, let alone have "touch technology". Here is a list of a few of my favorites:

Easy Bake Oven (Holly Hobby Version). Ok, so this one takes electricity and the amazing baking power of a 60 watt light bulb, but it was still a pretty basic toy, that awesomely took only 5 hours to cook a cake the size of a coaster. My desire for this toy resulted in lots of prayers and ultimatums to God. After He failed to follow my very specific instructions for delivering this gift to me, I told Him off big time, and bought myself one at a garage sale.

Perfection. This is the game where you wound up the timer, hit "start", and tried to get all of the shapes into their respective holes before time was up and all of the pieces popped out loudly enough to give a child a massive heart attack. I loved this game. I got this for Christmas when I was 7-years-old. Unfortunately, when I unwrapped it on Christmas morning it was broken and my dad had to take it in for a replacement a few days later. What my parents don't know is that the reason it was broken is because I spent the 2 weeks before Christmas unwrapping it and playing with it when nobody was home, then re-wrapping it afterward, accidentally breaking it a few days before Christmas. I also spent many hours in front of the mirror practicing my "surprised face" for when I opened all of the gifts I had not only already opened, but already played with.

Tape Recorder. When I was about 8-years-old I got my very own tape recorder. I used this for various activities, including the following: Recording my dad while he napped so that I could prove to him that yes, he actually did snore; Recording episodes of "Laverne and Shirley" so that I could replay them over and over until I memorized every word of dialogue, at which point I could re-enact a full episode for my very patient family; Pressing "record" and hiding it in my parents room when they were arguing so that I could play it back later and hear what they were arguing about; Recording phone conversations between the old ladies on our party line (remember those?) so that I could play them back over the phone the next time that they were talking, causing much confusion in their old lady heads; Recording farts and sometimes making an entire show called "Mr. and Mrs. Fart", because we were 8-years-old and that's just funny.

Hula Hoop. I spent many, many hours practicing my hoop moves. Arm hooping, leg hooping, neck hooping, and multiple hoop hooping. I was amazing. After not hooping for at least 25 years, I participated in a Hula Hoop contest last summer with the daughter of a childhood friend. Although I didn't win, I did clock in at 45 minutes, and since I fully expected to barely make it to 5, I was quite pleased that I still had some mad hooping moves, although truth be told I would have given big money to beat the trash talking 8-year-old who had spent months emailing me videos in which she sasses me while hula hooping.

Cork board and string. Yep, you heard right. Cork board, string, push pins and paper. I had a cork board over the desk in my playroom, and I turned it into an old fashioned switchboard like Mrs. Olson had in Nellie's Restaurant when Walnut Grove finally got a telephone system. I used to spend hours talking into an empty salt shaker while connecting calls all over town.

Fashion Plates. Remember these? You put together an outfit made up of small plates, then did a crayon rubbing on paper to miraculously transfer the picture to paper so you could color it with the colored pencils (included!), thereby making the most amazing outfit ever. If my mom had not sold this at the yard sale of '82 I may have been the next Vera Wang. Thanks, mom.

Shrinky Dinks. Come on, who didn't LOVE Shrinky Dinks? In my opinion, this was one of the best toys ever. Color a piece of plastic, bake it, voila...you have a necklace and earrings! No other toy gave you "permission" to use the oven, your mom's cookie sheets, etc... I mean, what could possibly go wrong with that? Whoever invented this toy was a genius.

Yarn and Crystal Gayle Albums. Specifically the "Don't it make My Brown Eyes Blue" album. I painstakingly fashioned a floor length wig from yarn, put on my album, grabbed my tin foil microphone and sang my little heart out for hours.

Play Doh Ice Cream Truck. The best Play Doh item EVER. I made soft serve, push pops, sundaes and fudge pops, and drove all over my playroom to my various Barbie Towns so that they could buy some cold, frosty treats. Don't tell my mom, but I often ate the "treats", or at the very least licked them until I got sick. So salty. So good.

Flower and Junk Wagon. We used to load our wagon up with dandelions, rocks, and other glorious items, and go door to door to sell them. I was very persuasive, and often came back with plenty of coin.

Barbie Dolls and Barbie Styling Head. When I was little, Barbies didn't come with all of the stuff they come with now. All you got was a Barbie and a few outfits. I used to make extra outfits out of paper towels and markers, and since I didn't have all of the dream houses and stuff, I made houses out of shoe boxes. I like to add some excitement by having tornadoes and other natural disasters hit their shoebox neighborhoods. One time I tore Barbie's arm off and drew bruises all over her with a black sharpie to make her twister-related injuries seem more realistic. As for my Barbie Styling Head...she suffered severe facial burns after a perm gone wrong, and that's all I wanna say about that.

So there's my crotchity old lady moment for 2009...my tribute to when life was much simpler and we had to walk to school every day, uphill both ways.

*Please list your favorite childhood toy in the "comment" section. If you're getting this post via email, you need to click on the post title (Fa la la la la Rubiks Touch Sucks) and it will take you to the actual blog site, where you will find a comment section at the end of this entry. Because of some glitch I can't seem to figure out, you must enter your comment under "anonymous" and then enter your name in the body of the message if you want. Whew! I'm exhausted.

ABOUT ME

ABOUT ME

Behind the 'stache

I am:

A wife and mom

A little left of center

A lover of tiny animals

A (wanna be) lover of Paul Rudd

A guacamole addict

A coffee whore

A "very interesting woman" (says my husband)

A filterless speaker

A daydreamer

An awesomely bad singer/dancer

An over-thinker

An under-thinker

An overly-imaginative mess

A spider hater

A book lover

A math hater

A margarita lover

A seafood hater

A drag queen lover

A John Denver hater

A Bob Denver lover (Gilligan, yo!)

A Zombie huntress

A mustache afficionado

A Pirate Ninja wannabe

Not at all country and 100% rock and roll

I am woman.....hear me whine, bitch and make fun of things.

I don't really plan to roar. 

Silence Of The Snowman

Silence Of The Snowman

So, as you learned in my last blog entry, Ethan and Steve built an awesome tropical snowman Friday afternoon. Later that evening, Ethan decided to name him "Snowy". On Saturday morning, I looked out the window and saw Ethan talking to "Snowy". It was a pretty long chat, but I have to assume that Snowy wasn't contributing much. Did it bother me to see my 8-year-old in deep conversation with a snowman? Of course not! As a matter of fact, I was unbelievably proud that he can carry on a one-sided conversation almost as well as I can. Honestly, I could talk to a can of soup for longer than most people can talk to an actual person. Not that I've actually done that or anything, but sometimes when Steve comes home after a long week at the office, his vital signs are almost indistinguishable to that of a can of Campbell's Minestrone.
Anyway, back to Ethan and "Snowy"....so they're having a chat, and next thing I know Ethan's hugging "Snowy", which I thought was adorable. I mean, come on! My sweet, Texas-raised child was so thrilled and excited about his first Houston snowfall and so in love with his first Texan Snowman, that he is hugging him! So I smiled, wiped a tear from the corner of my eye, and had a sip of hot cocoa. As I stood at the window thinking about how lucky I was to have such a sweet, innocent child, I noticed that the "hug" began to look slightly violent. Upon closer inspection I realized that Ethan wasn't "hugging" Snowy insomuch as he was holding him in a frosty death grip while he ate part of his snowy abdomen. Was this how Hannibal Lecter got started? I read all of those books, and I know that the last one was all about Lecter's childhood, but it's been 10 years since I read it. However, I do recall that there was lots of snow where he lived. Plus, when I was having my evening wine the other night, Ethan asked if he could have some....and it was a Chianti! Oh. My. God. I think I have something to re-read today.

Monday morning, between the weather and the "hugging", this is what remained of our beloved "Snowy":

I'm pretty sure that "Snowy" is a goner, but I think I'm gonna take his aloe vera tongue away, just in case the Snowman Police come poking around. A mother has to protect her son.

Snow Blows

Snow Blows

Well folks, it's finally happened. Hell has frozen over. Okay, so maybe Texas isn't technically "Hell", but if you came to visit me in August and got to experience the pleasure of stepping outside and immediately trying to dodge a flying cockroach and a giant red ant mound, while simultaneously having your make-up melt off and your hair frizz up like Bozo The Clown, you might think so. Anyway, it is snowing here in Houston today, which causes native Texans to go a little crazy. Steve got to come home from work early to avoid "the severe weather" which in Texan means a light dusting of slushy, wet snow. Some parents were even picking their kids up from school early so they could experience "the joy and wonder on their faces." Let me tell you something: If the school doors are unlocked and Ethan isn't projectile vomiting, he's going to school and he's staying at school. After growing up in Missouri, then living in Chicago, I am used to the snow. Actually, while living in Chicago, when we had a sunny, snowless day, people would pick their kids up early to experience the joy and wonder on their faces. As much as it is hot and miserable here in Texas, it was that cold and snowy in Chicago. But at least there we had Oprah and Chicago style pizza.

I must admit, though, that I have enjoyed the snow today. The way I enjoy snow is by snuggling up on the sofa in my yoga pants and fuzzy socks and watching it out the window while I watch Top Chef and Real Housewives of Orange County. I want absolutely no contact with the snow. I do not like to be cold, or wet, so winter activities are really not ideal for me. Of course, when I was little, I liked it just as much as everyone else. We used to build forts and attack each other with snowballs, form "sled pyramids" and slide down my neighbor's hill, and make lots of snowmen and snow angels. One year we even made "snow bunnies" and had the ingenious idea to spray paint them with food coloring. Unfortunately we made a bad choice and picked yellow. We could have gotten the same effect by peeing on them, but we were still proud.

I absolutely loved the snow until sometime in my teens. Actually, I can be much more precise with the date: It was December 1988. It was a cold and windy Saturday. The news said there was "a chance of snow", and you could kind of smell it in the air, but being that I was 17 and I had important Saturday night things to do, I ignored the warning signs. My best friend Crystal and I decided it was as good a night as any to pull the old "I'm spending the night with Crystal, I'm spending the night with Patti" trick. Our friend Dennis informed us that his parents were out of town, so we decided that we would spend the night at his house, as would our boyfriend's. Now, I have to pause here to tell you the first bit of proof as to how stupid I was: My dad was a very popular teacher/coach at my High School, and EVERYONE in town knew his SUV. Which I was driving that night. Which I parked in Dennis' driveway all night. Which was directly across the street from the house of my 2 step-brother's and their dad. Who obviously knew my dad. But I had important partying to do, and that never crossed my one-track mind, or to be more specific, my two-track mind: track one being boys, and track two being beer.

So anyway, our plan was pure magic. We had an awesome night with our friends, and even got in a few hours of beauty sleep. The next morning we woke up, stretched, smiled, and felt ultra-satisfied with ourselves and how amazingly sneaky we were. Until we looked out the window. Unfortunately, we woke up to about a foot of snow and ice. We knew that this would pose a small problem, since neither of us were particularly good at driving in slippery conditions, but what could we do? We had to get to Crystal's house early, to keep our story on track. My boyfriend backed the truck out of the driveway for us, because we couldn't even manage that. Once it was in the street, I took over at the wheel. Unfortunately, I only made it two houses down, at which point I slid and ended up deep into the front yard of a High School football player, whose parents were less than thrilled. So basically, I had to make an unpleasant phone call to my dad so he could come and pull his truck out of the yard of one of his student's, and the jig was up. That is why I hate snow.

Still, my son seems to love it, and he was very excited when he got off of the bus today. I actually witnessed that "joy and wonder" on his sweet little face. He immediately started playing in it, and he and Steve even made a snowman. Although, for a short time my son was having fun, I soon realized I had another reason to hate snow: It turns my son into a huge whine bucket. Every 5 minutes he opened the door to whine about how cold and wet he was, and when he came in he whined until I peeled all of his clothes off and made him a warm bath. Now he's whining just because he's on a roll and can't stop, I guess. So I realize now, more than ever, that snow is bad. Snow has it in for me. Snow wants nothing more than to make me unhappy, whether it be by getting me grounded or giving me a whine-induced headache. So snow, we are not friends. You ruined that relationship back in '88 and it can never be repaired. We had a good thing going up until then, but it's over. I choose my summer's and my Houston heat, my ants, alligator's and flying roaches. Summer may be hot, but summer never got me stuck in someone's yard wearing last night's clothes. Well, except that one time in '89...

Happy Holidays! (I'll try to keep my pants on)

Happy Holidays! (I'll try to keep my pants on)

It's officially that time of year we like to call "The Holidays". How do I know that? Because there is a chill in the air? Because there are giant inflatable Snowmen and Santa's in everyone's yard? Because every time I turn on the radio they are shoving that annoying and stupid Paul McCartney song about "simply having a wonderful Christmas time" down my throat (barf)? No, no, and no. The reason I know that "The Holidays" are here is because I can't button my pants.

Every year about this time, my body goes into some sort of fat-storage mode for the winter. Either I am distantly related to a bear, or my body is under the impression that I still live in Chicago and I need extra fat to survive. I do have some not-so-distant relatives who were Kentucky mountain people, so I guess the bear thing is a possibility, but because of the stigma of being the product of a woodland creature/human love affair, I'm gonna choose to go with the Chicago explanation. I have tried countless times to explain to my thighs that Houston's idea of winter is the same as a Chicago Spring, but my fat cells just aren't listening, and are hoarding every calorie like I'm some kind of Igloo dwelling Eskimo lady.

As I'm sure you all know, "The Holidays" started on October 31st, when our children went running around in the dark, dressed like cheerleader's and ninja's, knocking on the doors of strangers, and taking their candy (Nevermind that the other 364 days of the year we would go ape shit on them if they took candy from a stranger). At the end of the night, they came home with anywhere from 3-20 lbs of candy that, as all mommies know, is mainly going to be eaten by us when we are having PMS or watching a late night showing of "The Notebook".

Halloween damage: 3 pounds and a severe bout of depression after the inevitable sugar drop, coupled with the fact that Ryan Gossling loves that Rachael McAdams so much he built a house for her. WITH HIS BARE HANDS!

Next came Thanksgiving, which is a holiday during which we are supposed to give thanks for the people in our lives and all that crap, but let's face it...mainly what we are thankful for is the turkey, the delicious trimmings, and an endless abundance of pies and cool whip. Don't get me wrong, I am definitely thankful for my family too, as long as they don't eat the last slice of pumpkin pie. Be forewarned: when I've been cooking for 2 days, am high on carbs, and have my new Pampered Chef Slice 'N Serve pie spatula in my hand, it would be in your best interest to step away from the pie. By day 3 of left-overs, I couldn't even do my fancy guitar kicks while playing Rock Band, for fear that I would split my pants.

Thanksgiving damage: 4 pounds, a close call with the Slice 'N Serve, and a somewhat boring and kickless performance of "Give It Away"

I truly wish the nightmare was over, but as we all know, Christmas is just around the corner. This time, instead of sending our children off to take candy from strangers, we are forcing them to sit on a stranger's lap and ask for presents. In my opinion, all this is doing is setting them up for sad and seedy futures as lap dancers and/or trophy wives. But I digress... Christmas, as we all know, is all about a baby in a manger who didn't have a crib and 3 old guys brought him some sucky presents (Really, what's a baby gonna do with some shrub called myrr? Next time, old "wise" guys, bring something helpful like A CRIB). So now, all these years later, there is still an old guy, but just one, but he's fat, like maybe he ate the other 2 old guys, but the important thing is that he brings better presents. Anyway, back on topic: Christmas is also all about food. I am quite sure that I eat enough food during December to last an Ethiopian family an entire year. It is, quite frankly, disgusting and pathetic, but I just can't stop. There's food and desserts everywhere and I just can't say "no". This year, I am publicly asking my Mother-In-Law NOT to make her annual Peanut butter cookies with the Hershey Kiss in the middle. Those are my heroin, and I am afraid that if they are made, not only will I have to wear my elastic pajama pants for the entire Christmas vacation, but I may pull a Robert Downey Jr. circa 1996, and wake up after a sugar high in a stranger's bed. And not in a good way.

Christmas damage: Estimated 5 pounds, with the definite possibility of 8 lbs and a warrant for my arrest, if my M.I.L makes the heroin cookies.