yeah i'm sorry, i can't afford a ferrari

The above are the first installments of my boys' Christmas wish lists, or as I like to call them, the lunatic ramblings of those who seem to forget our house already feels overwhelmed with toys and/or the part where their parents are broke. Ho, ho, ho!

Depending on the day and how much Christmas spirit I have left in me after toiling for some minimum wage bounty, I also like to call these lists either 'A young boy's letter to his unrequited love' or 'A ransom note for Santa.' Seriously, the penmanship of these two! I bet you can't tell which was written by my 13 year old and which was penned by my 8 year old. Here's a hint - one of them broke their arm not once, but twice in the last four months and still had the guts to ask for a skateboard, a pogo stick, and electric scooter and a trampoline.

Every day over the month since writing their lists, one of the boys will come tell me they have an addition they'd like to make. Alas, it's impossible at this point because they've filled up both sides of the paper, and I draw the line at a second print run. I've drawn the line on shopping, too. For the first time ever, I finished my holiday shopping in early December and have spent the weeks since gloating about it. Heck, they're already wrapped, too. Take that, slackers! Every item I purchased seem to come in an odd shaped package (that's what she said), so the wrapping looks like I was trying to do it with not one, but two broken arms, but it's done. It's a Christmas miracle! Take that again, slackers!

Of course, just because my shopping has been done forever (don't tell my kids, but there's no computer under the tree, and there's definitely no trampoline!), it doesn't mean I've not been out in the maddening crowds almost daily. That's the beauty of working retail. Until late last week, my holiday spirit was in full bloom. Then I had to clean up puke. That will dampen more than the floor and surrounding walls. It also dampened my spirit. As of today, mine is a big pile of steaming reindeer droppings. Just one more shift. That's all I have to get through, which is good after today ("Do you have Chicka Chicka 123? "No. I just have Chicka Chicka ABC in stock now." "What's the difference between the two?" "....")

If any of you are still around, I wish you a very Merry Christmas. I'd attach the Christmas card my Mom emailed me, but honest to baby Jesus, it involved a penis and a Santa hat, and if there's one thing the Internet frowns upon, it's penis pictures, so imagine what it would do if said picture came from my Mom? Gasp audibly, that's what it would do. At least, that's what I did when I opened that bit of holiday cheer.

Merry Christmas.

on the 12th day of christmas...

...a little girl threw up all over the Thomas the Tank Engine train table in the children's department of the book store where I work, and when I say 'work' I mean in the children's department!

So that was awesome.

No, wait. I take that back. It wasn't at all awesome. It was like asking Santa for Barbie's Penthouse and waking on Christmas morning with hopes as high as the sky only to find your stocking filled with new underwear and generic chocolates. Hope you enjoy riding around with Skipper and all your friends, including Donny and Marie and Sabrina from Charlie's Angels, in this car I made out of an empty tissue box for you, Barbie. Again! Sorry there's no room for that bionic Amazon, Jaime Sommers. Guess you'll just have to strap her to the trunk, which is never easy, thanks to your inflexible arms.

(the preceding is a true story)

(also true - my hatred for the Thomas the Tank Engine train table in the children's department, where I've seen Bash the Twin Engine live up to its name on more than one occasion when one toddler doesn't feel another is playing fairly. I sometimes dream of setting it ablaze with something acidic...just not stomach acid)

So, no, it wasn't at all awesome. Equally not as awesome? Having to clean that shiz up. The only saving grace? The mess wasn't actually s*#t. Thank you, Santa Claus. Bawk bawk. There was pastries for horking, marshmallows for spewing. Additionally, there may have been some Chik-fil-A for recycling, further cementing my claim that there's nothing I find fascinating about their waffle fries.

"I'm surprised she threw up," said the girl's mother as she scooped the soiled child up and attempted to contain her while I confetti'd the area with paper towels and tried to keep my insides from coming outside. "She hasn't thrown up since Saturday night, so I figured she was better."

Did I mention this was Monday morning, which in and of itself is already a fine slap in the face? No? Well, it was. I'm no doctor, but if I had to do a quick diagnosis, it would go a little something like this: Not better - 1. Better - 0.

I'm also not a hazardous waste materials handler, but I had to be one. The scent of Lysol hung in the air like sadness the rest of the day.Additionally, I also had to be bomb detonation specialist when I thought a parent who began protesting loudly that I was keeping her precious angel from playing on the train table because I was cleaning vomit off of it and how come, how come, HOW COME!!! was going to lose her mind.

Seriously, I would have thought the river of vomit, which is not typically part of the train table's topography, would have been tremendous give away.

Thankfully, she only lost her mind and not her stomach. I can only take so much in one day, and I'm already sufficiently beat down during this time of retail bliss. My only wish now is this headache I have isn't a sign of something more ominous chugging its way toward my intestinal tract because quite honestly, that was one gift I don't want to see keep giving.

bear in mind, i think train's 'drops of jupiter' is one of the greatest songs ever recorded

Confession:

I absolutely, positively do not think Paul McCartney's 'Wonderful Christmas Time' is the worst holiday song ever released. Nothing about this song annoys me. Nothing. In fact, I just played it three times while writing what may possibly be the shortest blog post I've ever created here.

Make that five. I wanted to bask in the lyrics. Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding.

Now, I'm not going to try and do something radical like try and convince you Scrooges out there who claim to hate this song that you're wrong (subliminal message insertion: YOU ARE), but I think if you were honest with yourself, deep down, you'd realize you like this song, too, and when you come to terms with that, we can hold each other gently and smile lovingly at each other, which I think was the only thing Paul wanted us to do when we heard this song. I give you this to listen to:



When you're ready, my arms are open. The mood is right. The spirit's up.

mrs. :real name goes here: jon hamm. JH + me = TL4vr

Let me start this post by apologizing to all of you for posting a little 'guess what!?' query last week and then disappearing the way my waist line had been before I caved to the siren's call that is Reece's peanut butter trees. I'm sorry, but those things are delicious and I, well, I am a bad writer. Forgive me?

Good.

Now, can you forgive me for lying to you up there in the first paragraph? Oh, there's some truth contained within. I have been eating way (WEIGH!) too many Reece's peanut butter trees lately (and peanut M&Ms), but the truth is, ever since receiving my Entertainment Weekly in the mail Saturday afternoon, I've pretty much been standing in front of my bathroom mirror, holding this cover shot of Jon Hamm up next to my face, and smiling demurely at that look he's giving me. Sometimes I pretend he's just called me a precious scamp and is smiling at how I giggle when he says that. Other times I think he's wondering if he should plant a big old kiss on me or chuck me on the shoulder. What's that, Jon Hamm? You want to nuzzle your whiskers on my neck? I do so like scruffy and Hamm!

Basically, I've spent several moments over the last three days pretending Jon Hamm is my pretend husband, which is crazy, I know, considering my real husband is presently standing in our kitchen, approximately 35 feet from me, chewing so loudly after shoving a giant wad of potato chip crumbs in his mouth, I fear going deaf. Back off, ladies and perhaps some gentlemen! That one is all mine.

Honey baked, indeed.

p.s. - Please forgive my atrocious chipped fingernail in that photo. It's all part of the look when you're a punk princess like me. OK, that's not true, either. Truth is, it was a tough day burying the bodies. The ground freezes quickly in these Midwestern winters.

(What's that? You say you didn't even notice the chipped black nail polish because you were so taken aback by my man-like digits? Nice. Alas, you'd not be the first person to think it)

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Speaking of digits...

The thing I was asking about when last I wrote? Do you still even care to know what it was that prompted someone in my house to ask if they could stick one of theirs in it? Yes? OK, it was a giant tub of yellow, snot-like slime I received in the mail. For free, because why would I pay for a giant tub of yellow, snot-like slime other than the fact that it would make my children gleeful, which is my sole agenda in life? Before I could secretly toss this offensive glob of goo away, my 8 year old saw it, and ran through the house with such speed I thought he'd gotten into my secret stash of Reece's peanut butter eggs (by the way, no endorsement implied with all these mentions, but my hips would be willing to attest to their deliciousness), screaming "CAN I PUT MY FINGER IN IT?! CAN I PUT MY FINGER IN IT!?"

Of course, it was so adorable, who was I to say no? I was still the woman who wanted to throw the stuff away, of course, but I am all about the happy times.

(you hear that, Jon Hamm?)

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The other reason I've been away is due to some medical issues with a family member that came to a head with yet another of those famous 6 a.m. telephone calls that I'd like to see abolished. This time, the call concerned my mother-in-law, who is battling several cancerous spots in her body as well as some other pressing medical issues, and has been in and out of the hospital over the last month. My husband and I rushed out the door last Wednesday morning thinking we would be saying final goodbyes to her. The day came to pass, but she did not, which, in light of what we were told when the call came, is wonderful. What's not, of course, is the continued medical issues my mother-in-law will continue to face, and helping my husband come to peace with the realization that life for her is changing. It's been a very long, sad week.

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Now I must prepare to bring the start of this week to a close by getting my above-mentioned slime-loving boy ready for his winter concert this evening. If in a few weeks you find yourself staring at the face of an adorable boy on the cover of your copy of Entertainment Weekly, the one where the headline declares him a triumph on the glockenspiel, that's my kid. If your daughter wants to stand in front of the bathroom mirror and moon over his pure cuteness, that's cool, but you might want to let her know that, at least for right now, he still thinks girls (but not slime) are kind of gross

p.s. - Wouldn't Glockenspiel be a most excellent name for a hardcore rap group? One whose members spit out extravagantly long beats about firearms. Maybe they'd have a hit with a remake of Pop Muzik. "Wanna be a gun slinger, don't be a rock singer. " (um, that's music from the olden days, kiddies). I'm not condoning that sort of thing, of course, but I assure you, it would be nothing short of awesome, and if I ever decide to form a hardcore rap group, it's what I'm going with, so don't you go lifting it from me, DJ Jazzy Jeff.