Monthly Archives: December 2013

The Serious and Silly Sides of Spirituality (Guest Post by Rachel Archelaus)

Spirituality is serious business.  It’s quite normal in my line of work to facilitate life-changing, emotional events.  In other words, I make people cry…a lot.

As a psychic medium & life coach I get deep into my client’s darkest recesses dragging out forgotten traumas and buried dreams.  We lay them all out in the sun and deal with these things where change and understanding can actually occur.  It’s sometimes draining and requires lots of tissues, but luckily there is another side to these sessions that often lifts the mood.

I have spoken with hundreds of different spirit guides and angels in my days on this earth and they never, ever get boring.  In fact, I have laughed more from dancing angels and levitating spirit guides than from real people!  I’ll never forget the day that one particular angel entered my life.  His name is Enduron.

My first introduction to him happened in a meditation.  I was speaking with my other angel group.  These angels appeared cloaked in white robes and were standing beside each other on a cloud.  You know, “normal” angel stuff.  I was going to teach a class on angels and asked my regular helpers if any of them would like to come and help me out.  To my surprise, they all said no!

A few seconds later, a new guy comes forward and says that he would happily assist me.  From the start I knew he was different.  He appeared brighter and was much more flamboyant in his speech.  He also seemed to be dancing.  It was sort of a jig movement where his feet would alternate a little kick.  It was absolutely hilarious.

I thought that I’d seen the extent of his personality with the dancing, but I was wrong.  We finalized the topic of the class and agreed on the logistics, and then he did something I wasn’t expecting.

He started to topple, feet over head, rolling on down to earth like a stunt dummy that had been thrown off a roof top in a bad 80’s movie.  Literally tumbling through the sky.  I almost peed myself at the sight.

Enduron did not disappoint at our class.  He let people ask him questions, and I translated the answers of course.  People could really feel his personality through his words and I was very honored to be connecting people with him.  He merged serious and silly more perfectly than I ever thought possible.  It was truly inspirational.

Spirit guides are much the same.  They all have their own way of being, communicating, and appearing.  Because they don’t have physical bodies, they get to choose how they look.  Sometimes they look like the guy next door, and sometimes they look like a pile of jelly.

I teach a psychic development for beginners class at a local wellness center, and during the last class, I introduce each student to their major spirit guide group.  This is the group that is offering a specific energy to their ‘client’ in order to balance, heal, or accomplish some other beneficial end for them.

For example, If I’ve been working too much, my spirit guides may send me tropical breeze energy so that I take a break and relax.  If you’ve been having trouble getting motivated, your spirit guides may send you inspirational energy so you can start taking action again.  They are amazingly kind, it’s their job.  But it’s the way they represent themselves that makes it funny.

I don’t think that most spirit guides have a sense of humor comparable to humans.  I think they just access our memories and put on an outfit that would make sense to them.  For example, if they are helping someone stay grounded & down to earth, they may appear as a mountain range in my mind’s eye so that I feel that solid, heavy energy.  They’re covering their bases so I can understand what they’re doing.

If someone is too uptight, what do you think they do?  You may not have guessed this one, but it’s not unheard of to have a jello mold for a guide group.  I’ve also seen a gaggle of tiny gnome people; a loud, bumbling ogre making stew; a moss nest located deep in the forest; a cloud you could live in; and so much more.  I think the funniest one I ever saw was an actual replica of the Michelin Man.

So while spirituality can be heavy, emotional and serious, it’s really only people who make it that way.  The spirit world is capable of being sillier than the best stand up comic we have.  I think part of it is that these spirits don’t even know they’re being funny…though I’m pretty sure Enduron did.

And next time you need a little mood boost or some motivation, don’t forget to ask your guides for some help.  They’re probably already on the case sending you some jello or marshmallow love.  Just sit back and accept.

racheltall
BIO:
Rachel Archelaus is an internationally known psychic development coach, teacher, author & artist.  She helps clients untangle lifetimes of issues and empowers them to live from their higher selves.  Check out her free training, Become Your Own Oracle at www.psychiclife.tv.

Foot Mouth Disease

I have a disease.  It’s called Foot In Mouth.  And there doesn’t seem to be a cure.  I’ve tried everything short of sealing my mouth shut with duct tape.  I’ve made New Year’s Resolutions.  I’ve promised the family.  I’ve promised my friends.  The problem is that my mouth starts jabbering before my brain has time to process anything that comes out of that big, fat hole that lies just below my nose.  There must be a connection issue.  Seriously.  Maybe I should go see a brain doctor.

Every time I open my mouth and say something stupid, it hits me like a ton of shit bricks.  When it’s too late.  I waste more time apologizing for the crap that has escaped from these lips than anything else.  I mean, I could accidentally on purpose rob a bank and possibly feel better about that than what comes out of my mouth.  Possibly.

Let me give you an example.  Last week, I was at a party and talking with a friend who recently went through a divorce.  Know what I decided to say to her?  “I never really liked him anyway.”  Did I stop there?  Nooooo.  Why would I?  I was on a roll.  I followed it up with something like, “He never sat with me right.”  Well, that wasn’t cool.  It just wasn’t.  Besides being with him for a good portion of her life because she probably LOVED and LIKED him, he fathered her children.  As soon as it came out, I regretted it.  I like to blame the wine.  Yeah, that’s it.  It’s the wine’s fault.

I was cringing the entire ride home.  The next day I found myself texting a 2-page long apology.  Basically telling her that I am a complete dumbass and I didn’t deserve her friendship.  Did she mind the comment?  She didn’t seem to.  She didn’t even flinch.  Probably because she knows that my mouth is a completely different entity from the rest of my body.  I have Alien mouth.  My mouth is from Jupiter.

Another example of Foot Mouth?  At a wedding I attended recently, I was trying to get a friend to have a drink with me.  A friend who’s children were in the wedding.  Suddenly, one of her kids wanted to sit on her lap.  Because he was tired.  And wanted his mommy.  When you are a mother of a teenager, that world is a complete bygone.  Another life.  A far distant memory.  What did I say to her?  “Gawd, don’t you wish you could have left them home????”  WTF is wrong with me?  The Kid was in a wedding when she was a little girl and I LOVED having her there.  That time I like to say it was the Cosmo talking.  Blame the Cosmo.  Maybe it was plural.  Cosmos.

Again.  Cringe.  I am still cringing over that one.  My face is starting to just look like one big cringe.  You know when you cross your eyes and your mother tells you they will get stuck like that if you do it too much?  Yeah, well.  There you go.

Oh, there are SO many stories that sound very similar to the two above.  But I don’t really have the time to get into it.  And besides, I don’t want to scare away all the friends I still have left.  Just for the record, I don’t mean to sound so callous.  It just comes out that way.  I most definitely don’t have a way with words.

So, the next time you see me around town, and I look like this:

photo

Don’t worry.  It’s my new look.  Because after all, mother is always right.  Now, if I could only figure out how to do that without looking like I have 3 chins…

A Letter to Santa From Me

merry christmas

Dear Santa,

I know you probably don’t exist. I figured it out when I was about 10 years old and you left a thank you note for the cookies. Your writing and my mom’s writing was oddly similar. I have to tell you that I was pretty crushed. How could I have been duped all those years?

Anyway, when I see you in the mall every year, I long for those days again. I even want to go  and sit on your lap, but I’m afraid all of the other little kiddies and their mommies will make fun of me and I’m so hormonal lately. I’m sure I would run from the scene crying like my 7 year old self on the playground after Tommy Dumfarht made fun of my last name.

So, if you do exist and you do happen to get this letter, this is what I want. Because when I told my husband my wishes, he laughed. I don’t really understand why. I don’t see a thing funny about it. Do you?

  1. One trip to Tahiti please. Maybe a one way ticket? My family can visit whenever they want.
  2. For the love of God, a lift for everything that has drooped, sagged or moved more than 2 inches toward the south. But it has to be done by some of your magic. I don’t want surgery because it scares me. Am I asking for too much? Get over it, big guy. I’ve seen what you can do.
  3. 25 cases of red wine. Because 24 cases aren’t enough. And that stuff seems to just disappear. It’s the oddest thing.
  4. Why do I have to repeat this…I need a maid, a cook, a laundress and a chauffeur. I mean,  come on. This has been on my list for what? 20 years? I’m still waiting. Honestly. What is your problem?
  5. I would like to pee straight. I don’t know why, but it seems that I have turned into a shower head down there. I don’t get it. “Please be neat and wipe the seat” is very time consuming. Who even came up with that expression? It’s annoying and makes me feel bad if I don’t follow the rules.
  6. On your way out, I’d very much appreciate it if you put away all of my Christmas decorations. Just put them down in the basement. Far left corner. After you leave the presents, of course. Those presents really don’t need a tree. What is a tree doing in the living room anyway?

That just about sums it up. I’ll be waiting. Listening to the hoofs of your eight tiny reindeer on my housetop. Actually, if I hear that shit, I might actually crap my pants. So would you mind being quiet about it? Thank you and Merry Christmas.

Stop the Holiday Insanity Ride, I Wanna Get Off

I know I've used this in a past post, but it just perfectly describes how insane I feel right about now.

I know I’ve used this in a past post, but it just says it all.  It’s a re-gift.  This photo.  In honor of The Holidays.  Because if I re-gifted more often, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so nuts.

I decided that I have a love/hate relationship with Christmas.  I mean, I don’t want to sound like a Scrooge but come on.  The pressure to do all the crap that needs to get done in a short period of time is friggin’ ridiculous.  Unfortunately, I am not a Type A personality like my mother.  She had her gifts bought and wrapped by August.  I kid you not.  But the thought of having my shit together so early kind of scares me.  I wouldn’t even know who I was.  Besides, with the condition of my memory lately, I probably would forget where I put half of it come December.

I started my day in a state of total disbelief and panic.  “Holy Freaking Shit,” I said to myself.  “How the hell am I going to get it all done?”  Piss poor planning does not necessarily blah blah blah.  I don’t want to hear it.  I know most of you feel the same way.  Be honest.  If you don’t, then you are June Freaking Cleaver and deserve a medal.

Just so you know, I had a full-out temper tantrum this morning.  That included tears, foot stomping and hair pulling (yes, I pulled my own hair.  Throwing dishes would have been a good option, but I happen to like my dishes so my follicles got abused instead).  It was just too much for me.  I melted down.  I’m not proud.

So here I am, writing this post when I should be putting stamps on my Christmas cards. Christmas cards that I don’t even like because the kid wanted a family picture this year.   My neck looks like a side of beef, my boobs are a little floppy and I’m doing that stupid hand on hip pose that I hate but completely understand why it’s done because not all 46 year old women can get away with sleeveless dresses so it’s a great trick at alleviating arm fat (that thought deserved a run-on sentence…sorry grammar freaks, including me).  I could have orchestrated a new photo shoot.  But that requires time.  And I felt like doing that like I feel like cleaning dog crap off the bottom of my shoes.  So a picture that was taken in May was the winner based on the fact that we are smiling AND all eyes are open.  That right there is a miracle…and a keeper.

christmas card photo

My eyes ARE open even though they look like slits.  I thank Mother Freaking Nature for that.

I think I need Holiday Hell Counseling.  Seriously.  I don’t care what, but we need to start a chapter somewhere.  But, until we can get HH Anonymous going, this is my therapy.  Thanks for listening.  Bah Humbug.  I mean, Merry Christmas!

I Need a Wife?

I like that she can make cocktails too

It would be a bonus if she came with a cocktail shaker.

A friend of mine recently asked me to write about the need of a wife for a wife.  I would love to sit here and say, “Lord, I need a wife.  BAD.  I’m tired of the cooking and the cleaning and the laundry and the…did I mention cleaning?”  DH reads my blog.  He would laugh his ass off to a heart attack if I lied.  So, let’s pretend.  A little.  Because I do lots of stuff.  I do.

Aaaah.  I am so tired.  Do you know what I need?  A damn wife.  Seriously.  If I could only at the very least clone myself, my life would be complete.  If I had a mini-me, here is what I would have her do:

  • She would do ALL the laundry in a timely manner.  Meaning, the laundry would be washed, dried, folded and put away.  She would even iron. My clone would save my house from burning down because she would have the memory of a freakin’ elephant and unplug the iron when she is finished.  REALITY:  I do a load when the clothes are spilling out onto the floor.  I leave the load in the washer for a day or two, then when it makes it into the dryer, they sit for another day or two.  I don’t iron anything unless absolutely necessary.  Sometimes even just wearing wrinkly clothes because I can’t be bothered.
  • Every Sunday, my clone would sit and write out an entire weekly menu.  Then write a grocery list, not forgetting a thing followed by going to the grocery store.  Again, not forgetting a thing.  My clone would cut coupons, therefore saving us money.  REALITY:  I write a half-ass list.  Then run out the door when I only have an hour to shop.  I forget half the crap on my list, therefore forcing me to visit my most favorite place on earth several times a week.  I haven’t cut a damn coupon in 18 years.  After all, the little plastic card on my key ring IS the coupon, isn’t it?
  • My clone would clean the house every single day.  I envision Alice from The Brady Bunch.  REALITY:  Hmmm.  Maybe I shouldn’t tell you the reality.  My mother-in-law is reading.  She thinks I’m a clean freak.  I seriously don’t want to blow my cover.  Let’s just say thank the Good Lord for Clorox Wipes and that if MIL calls and says she’s coming over, I have an hour to get my shit together.  It’s also good to have a teenager to make do stuff.  That’s partly why I had her.
  • My clone would make beautiful, extravagant dinners every single night while wearing an apron and then put all the dishes in the dishwasher, clean the pots and pans and wash the floor.      REALITY:  I make dinner about 4 nights a week.  Sometimes 5.  Ok, so the dinners may be the same week after week, but it’s dinner.  I have ruined every single shirt I own because I forget there is such a thing as an apron.  I try to clean the kitchen before I go to bed but sometimes I forget.  Or more accurately, I sit on the couch with a glass of wine and get into lazy mode.  I vacuum up the floor at least once a week.  At least.
  • She would write out the bills, balance the checkbook, put loads of money in the savings account and send us on an extravagant (there goes that word again) vacation every July.  REALITY:  DH does all but send us on an extravagant vacation.  Because The Kid is going to college in two and a half years.  I haven’t touched the checkbook since I accidentally put an extra zero on the end of our mortgage payment in 1999.
  • My clone would drive The Kid around to all her activities.  Even her friends.  REALITY:  I actually do this.  It’s out of control.  I need to start charging a fee.  Professional drivers charge.  So why not?  Too bad all of The Kid’s money comes from me (actually DH, but I’m not talking about him needing a wife, am I?  Ooh, maybe I shouldn’t say that out loud.).
  • My clone would have a cocktail ready for DH at the end of his busy day.  REALITY:  Bahahahaha!  Oops, I just peed a little.  And DH usually makes ME the cocktail at the end of a busy day.  True story.
  • My clone would work on my projects.  Including my office.  REALITY:  That shit is going to be there for life, I’m afraid.  I’ll just throw a sheet over it.  No one will ever notice.
This is my office.  I can't sit in my office.

This is my office. I can’t sit in my office.  Ooh, I think I see a coupon in there.  Think it has expired?

Damn.  That was exhausting.  I need to rest.  And to all you women out there who actually do all that stuff, I commend you.  Or I should say condemn you.  You really make me look bad.  Still.  I think I need a wife.  They clone sheep, don’t they?  So, it’s not completely out of the question, right?  RIGHT?

Our Family Christmas Letter

holiday letterI do not write Christmas letters.  I do receive a very small handful of them from friends once a year.  I enjoy them.  It’s fun to catch up on their lives.  Even if they do live in the same town.  Why haven’t I written a Christmas letter?  Mainly because I can’t be bothered.  It takes every last bit of energy just to send out the cheesy little cards I do send out.  The funny thing is, Costco does them.  So I’m not really sure what I’m complaining about.  Still.  I’m surprised I get those suckers out the door in a timely manner.

Then, I thought the other day that this year I may actually go for it.  Write a Christmas letter.  That thought lasted precisely 32 seconds.  It involves way too much work and sucks up way too much printer ink.  Yes, people.  I am indeed both lazy AND cheap.  Instead, I will share with you what I would really like to write if I were to send one out.  Enjoy.

Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, Season’s Greetings, Happy Hanukkah, Feliz Navidad and Happy Festivus,  

Aaah, another year over.  Where the hell did the time go?  Seriously.  It freaks me out just a little bit that I have been sending out Christmas cards for 15 years now.  15 years!  Why only 15 years?  Surely, all of you would have loved to have received an annual card containing our mugs (minus The Kid) throughout the years.  I’m pretty certain that you had been waiting with bated breath year after year.  I apologize.  Even though I know they end up in the city dump before Little Christmas gets here.

So, let’s see…what did 2013 bring?  Loads of changes.  Loads and loads of them.  I gave birth to a few more wrinkles.  Some more gray hairs sprouted out of both my head and eyebrows.  My ass is a little droopier than last year.  And so are my eyelids.  I discovered that I can no longer walk in heels.  I started working again.  In retail.  At my age.  Because I outdated myself by staying home to raise a person and I can’t find a job in the field I was trained to be in.  I lost some weight.  I started running.  But can no longer do that because I screwed up my knee and had to go in for surgery.  I’m not completely certain, but I think I’m starting to feel a very similar pain in the OTHER knee.  I still hate manual labor and pray every day for a magical elf to appear and do it all.  I’m still waiting.  For that magical elf.  I’m pretty sure one of these Elf’s On the Shelf is mine.  He just hasn’t found his way home.  Because he’s too busy playing with some little brat’s Barbie.  Selfish elf.  Barbie is such a fake bitch.  Why can’t he see that?

DH is doing great.  He has pretty much been with the same company since I met him just over 27 years ago and he just loves it.  He does.  He also loves his motorcycle.  So much so that it has its own room.  It’s okay though.  Because it is red and totally goes with the Christmas theme.  Bless that Ducati’s heart.  He still looks every bit as good as the day I met him (DH, not the bike).  Well, minus the hair.  But his stomach is flat and his bum is still where it started.  When we are out, people are shocked by how old he is.  “You are HOW OLD?  OMG!  You totally look soooo much younger.”  Gag. 

The Kid celebrated her 15th birthday this year.  15!  Holy hell.  15 year olds sure can suck the life out of you.  She’s usually pretty nice.  But sometimes when she shoots me that look when I ask her a “stupid” question, it’s all I can do to not get in there and wipe that smug look right off her face.  She’s really smart and made the High Honor Roll.  Is that how you say it?  Because growing up, that wasn’t a part of my vocabulary.  We are super duper proud of her.  If I didn’t actually see her come out of my very own vagina, I never would believe it.   If anyone out there went to high school with me, I swear I did not switch her with some kid at the hospital.  She received her Confirmation this year.  She got a big party at a restaurant with wait service and a 3 piece band.  When I received my Confirmation, I got, um…surely my mom made me spaghetti and meatballs or something.  Surely.  She still loves to irish dance and suck the ever loving energy and cash out of our accounts.  Can you believe she’s going to college in 2.75 years?  Damn.  There goes more cash out of our accounts.  Then I’m pretty sure she’s going to go get married and have kids.  So, basically our money will never, ever be ours.  I guess we could always move away to Mexico and go into hiding.  Eh.  I guess I would miss her too much.  And whatever rug rats she has that will call me Grandma.  Ugh.  Mexico, here we come!

As a family, we love to do outdoor activities.  Like, um, okay.  Outdoor activities makes me sneeze and forces me to expel too much energy so I just lied.  But just a little.  Because we did go kayaking once over the summer.  We also went on our boat that happens to suck the cash out of our accounts too.  I think our boat and The Kid are up to something.  I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but when I do, I will let you know.  Look for that update in next year’s letter.  Did I tell you about the awesome trip to Tahiti we took?  Always been a dream of mine.  Oh wait.  Sorry.  That was someone else’s vacation I was talking about.  Never mind.  We did make a day trip to the beach though.  Where I haphazardly put on sunscreen and burned the heck out of my cleavage and the upper part of my left arm.  The only good thing about that is I still kinda have a little tan in that area.  Gee, I hope I didn’t permanently damage my skin.  Oh well.  It goes lovely with those new wrinkles I told you about.

So, that was our year in a nutshell.  Please don’t be jealous.  I know you wish your family was hot like ours.  And just so you know, after this year, you will be receiving 2 more cards from us.  Suck it up.  This shit is exhausting.  Besides, we are going to need the stamp money for The Kid’s college text books.  Namaste.  Or whatever.

A Girl and Her Parka

A friend posted this on Facebook the other day:

parka 2

I LOL’ed to myself and then I “Liked” the photo.  This friend commented that she was surprised that I did not comment.  Do you want to know why I did not comment?  Because people who live in glass houses should not throw stones.  Here is my look for 6 months out of the year:Yes, I have even worn slippers when dropping The Kid off at school.  I never said I was proud.

Yes, I have even worn slippers when dropping The Kid off at school. I never said I was proud.

During the off season, I keep it hidden away in an upstair’s closet.  Where it lies in wait for its annual debut.  October is when it comes out into the light and hangs on the coat hook by the garage door until the end of March.  Always ready for my eager self.

I love my parka so, SO much.  It literally is my best friend.  The Kid hates it.  When I say “hate” I mean it.  If given the chance to throw a lit match at it, I’m pretty sure she’d take it.  Hopefully, with me NOT inside.  I can see her cringe on the field hockey field when she sees me sitting in the bleachers wearing it.  Or when I throw it on to drop her and her friends off at the mall.  Sometimes I’ll even add my pair of Fuggs to complete the look.  This is the ultimate revenge tool.  There is nothing like embarrassing your teenager.  I live for it.  But that is only one of the reasons why I love my parka so.

  1. This thing covers up every flaw, faux pas, and bad hair day.  There is nothing like a big fluff of goose feathers to mask every imperfection from the scalp to the knees.  Now if I could only get away with wearing it in July.
  2. It allows me to get more sleep.  How?  I don’t have to waste time getting dressed.  If you happen to run into me at school or the grocery store and I am wearing this, you can bet the ranch on the fact that there is nothing but hairy legs, bra-less ta-tas and Walmart pajama bottoms under there.  I might be kinda screwed if I get arrested or wind up in a car accident.  Because chances are, if I’m dressed like this, I also have not changed my underwear.  Sorry mom.
  3. This bad boy covers my buns.  And if my buns are warm, everything is warm.  Who said heat escapes through the head?
  4. It is machine washable and dryer safe.  My white parka has the misfortune of being owned by a slob.  Therefore, it pretty much gets a bath every time I lean against my car, spill coffee on myself or sit.  It has seen the inside of a washing machine more times than Miley Cyrus has stuck out her tongue.

So, Purple Parka People, have you no shame?   Walking around in a comforter with arms?  Of course you don’t.  Neither do I.  I just hope you are dressed under there.  There is room for only one PJ clad housewife in this town.

 

Where Are You Fisher Price?

pile-of-gifts

I blame my mother for my Christmas obsession.  What is my Christmas obsession, you ask?  The ridiculous problem of not knowing when to stop purchasing gifts for Miss Spoiled Pants (aka The Kid).  I know.  I know.  There are children starving, poor and living in the streets all around the world.  I am aware of that.  And for the record, I also buy gifts for underprivileged families every Christmas.  And contribute to charities throughout the year.  So it makes me feel just a little better about my obsession.  But just a little.

Here is why I blame my mother:  When I was a kid, we couldn’t even walk into our living room from the gifts spilling out from under the tree.  Granted there were 3 of us and our living room was about the size of a shoebox.  But still.  We couldn’t walk into the room.  That right there is a child’s best dream come true.

My parents did not have a lot of money in the early years.  Mother started recycling before it was in fashion.  Purchasing used toys from the local Salvation Army.  Before you get all germaphobe on me, she cleaned them thoroughly with Clorox.  She swears.

And then later on, when there was a double income, I received gifts that would stack up practically to the ceiling.  This would happen until my last Christmas at home.  It was pretty awesome.  Until I became a mother.  What is the expression?  Nature or Nurture?  I think this had to do with the latter.  And I can’t seem to stop.

When The Kid was little — and when I say “little” I mean under the age of 10 — she was incredibly easy to buy for.  Or should I say CHEAP to buy for.  Because anyone who gives you a list a mile long is easy to buy for.  I could buy 100 bucks worth of Fisher Price shit, throw it under the tree and make it look like she hit the mother lode.

When she got into the early double digits, it started getting a little more expensive.  A little.  She wanted stuffed animals and Jonas Brother’s CDs.  Along with an i-Pod. Still, it did not pose much of a problem.  Totally manageable.

Now?  Good Lord.  I’m on the verge of robbing a bank.  One weekly paycheck from My Retail Job barely covers one single item on this kid’s list.  Just so you know, she does not get this from me.  I am a bare-bones kinda gal.  The cheaper, the better.  I can get 5 outfits with $100.  Even if it all falls apart after 2 washes.

DH is not completely onboard with the over the top Christmases.  I basically have to sneak the purchases into the house.  Sometimes hiding them in the trunk or at a friend’s house for days, even weeks, until the right moment hits.  Pulling the “oh that?  I bought that in August when there was a giant sale at K-Mart” card.  Totally works.  I think.  I also feel the need to fulfill most everything on her list.  I don’t understand it.  I never had half the shit she gets.  To make matters worse, she won’t share her closet with me.  But that is a subject for a different blog.

All I can say is that she should count her lucky stars she is an only child.  Because I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be getting almost everything on her list if she weren’t.  I’m pretty sure.  Well, I think I’m pretty sure.  There is no way of knowing now, is there?

I just really miss Mr. Price, Melissa and Doug.  They were more my speed.  They have been replaced by Apple, Jack Wills and North Face.  North Face.  She doesn’t even ski.  I’m really confused.  Oh well.  Three words that don’t seem to be a part of my vocabulary this time of year:  “Just Say No.”  I think I need help.  In the meantime, if you need some tips on how to hide purchases, just inbox me.

Oh Christmas Tree In My Living Room, Oh Christmas Tree In My Living Room

Christmas treeThere is a tree in my living room.  A big ass tree.  Big.  There is also a motorcycle in my living room, but I already talked about that last winter.  So I’ll talk about the tree.  In my living room.  Drinking water.  With lights and all kinds of crap hanging from it.  Crap that literally took me years to collect.  Years.  Who came up with that tradition?  I’m sure if I took a minute and googled it, I could find out in the flick of an enter button why we do this.  But for now, let’s imagine that there is no way of knowing why we take a tree from the great outdoors and put it in our houses for at least a month.  Even longer if you go for that “Little Christmas” thing.  Which is something else I don’t understand.  But whatever.  I’m going to stay focused here.

Let’s imagine that about 200 years ago (I know this tradition has to be at least this old because of the Little House on the Prairie Christmas episode I watched when I was 10), a man was taking a walk in the woods.  With his axe, because what man took a walk in the woods in the 18th century without an axe?  He saw a tree.  He liked it.  He cut it down.  And put it in his house.  He decided it would be a great place to put his Christmas presents under.  Because just putting them on the floor seemed a bit lacking.  This guy was the male Martha Stewart of his time.

What?  You were expecting an epic tale?  That’s all I got people.  I am not Ernest Hemingway.  I write a blog.  Anyway, the real reason?  ‘Cuz I googled it.  It turns out the Greeks started doing it centuries ago.  It actually had nothing to do really with Christmas or Christ (I always thought maybe Jesus had a little something to do with it even though they didn’t have evergreens in Jerusalem.  Or did they?  I don’t know.  I skipped that class.)  Anyway, they used evergreens to celebrate winter festivals.  Or something like that.  I kinda sped read through it.  Because I’m tired.  I spent half a day decorating the tree in my living room.  With 20 year old ornaments.  And lights.

Fire hazard?  I think possibly.  Again, whatever.  It’s a tradition and who am I to forego the risk of losing all of my belongings to a house fire because I forgot to water it for two weeks and it’s sitting next to the baseboard that is set on 72 degrees.  It’s cool.  Not the baseboard.  Me being okay with a fire hazard.  I also sometimes wonder what kind of critters could be living in there.  It came from outside.  There’s got to be something, right?  I don’t want to know.

I sound bitter.  But I am not.  Really.  I was brought up with a fake tree.  But I love the one from outside.  It’s the real deal.  I thoroughly enjoy our little tradition of going out to a farm and choosing our own tree.  It’s awesome.  Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I stare at my tree because it is so beautiful.  I am in awe.  Then I snap out of it and think, “WTF?  There is a tree in my living room.  That is really, really weird.”  So what if I have some anxiety about it?  A few years and thousands of dollars worth of therapy is nothing for the memories we are making for our child. 

By the way, I said if the motorcycle was still in my living room this winter, I would move out to the shed.  Well, I’m not in the shed.  And neither is the motorcycle.  Like I said.  Thousands.  Dollars.  Therapy.  It’s cool.