My Top 10 Blog Posts of 2013 According to Me

I’ve been noticing something since the new year.  It appears that some bloggers are blogging a list of their top 10 posts from 2013 (or Tweets, but since I desperately suck at Twitter and have less than 10 to choose from, that won’t work).  You know, kind of like the Barbara Walters Most Fascinating People list?  But way better.

Well, I’m not exactly sure what my top 10 blog posts are because I’m absolutely horrible at checking my stats.  But here’s what I think are my funniest.  For all you late comers, check them out.  For those of you with me from the beginning, reminisce.

  1. Fa La La La What?
  2. Embarrassing Moment #3,195
  3. They Do WHAT On The Bus?
  4. I Am A Grouper
  5. Things I Learned During Spring Break
  6. The Big Flush
  7. Random Thoughts
  8. Reiki Away My Pain
  9. Oops
  10. Our Family Christmas Letter

Which was your favorite?

 

Everything Gets Old. Everything.

Unknown-1
That’s a dried up peach. Get your head out of the gutter.

Attention all women.  Guess what we have to look forward to as we age?  Besides wrinkles.  And gray hairs.  And flabby skin.  And age spots.  And facial hair.  And toe hair.  And nose hair.  And memory loss.  And menopause.  And dryness.  And baldness.  Ooh, I got a little carried away there.  Sorry about that.  Apparently, there’s a new ailment in town.  Well, perhaps it’s not new per se.  I’m sure it’s been around since the beginning of time but no one felt comfortable about talking about it.  Until now.

It’s called Vaginal Atrophy.  Yup.  You got it.  The walls of your vagina can dry up from underuse.  You heard me right.  Underuse.  If you do not use your vagina, it can have the potential of drying up like the Sahara.  Or like old rubber left out in the sun too long.  And there are side effects that come along with this dryness.  Just think bread but not as nice.  Gross me out the door and gag me with a spoon. (There’s some ’80’s slang for you.  To prove I’m not old.  Oh wait, actually that proves that I AM old, doesn’t it?  Never mind.)

How do I know this?  Because my poor mother suffers from it.  She’s been suffering from the effects of it for months.  Months.  I had to listen to her complain about it for months.  Do you understand?  This is almost as bad as when I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night when I was 13, only to find my dad skipping around the living room in his heart covered briefs.  Okay, maybe that was worse.  Okay, that probably was worse.  Okay, that was worse. She didn’t know what it was. No amount of Monistat was curing it.  No amount.  I’m pretty sure the woman bought enough of that crap to put a down payment on a vacation home.

Anyway, her good doctor said it was from underuse.  When she told me, I was overcome with all sorts of emotions.  My amusement turned to disgust.  Which turned to disbelief.  Which then turned to full on panic.  Because I do not want to have vaginal walls of cracked shoe leather.  Like, I don’t worry enough already about getting old.

So, in a nutshell, if you don’t use your vagina, you could possibly suffer from vaginal atrophy.  Can you imagine?  What?  Are we supposed to have sex until we are 80?  I mean, sex is great and all.  But I’m guessing after 60+ years, I may be wanting a break.  Does anyone hear what I’m saying?  I mean, how hot will I look in a maid’s outfit at that age?  After all, if I’m still doing it at 80, I’m going to have to get creative.  Sorry for the visual.  But the truth sometimes hurts.  How would you get in the mood?  I’m talking about you.  Not your husband/significant other/partner.  Because men can go for forever.  They are like the Energizer Bunny crossed with Tony Randall.

It does give sex a whole new meaning though.  “Hey honey,  get ready.  We have some vaginal wall drying-up prevention to do.”  Mmm.  Romantic.  I’ll grab the petroleum.

A New Year, A New Promise

download-download-happy-new-year-2013-2-hd-withFirst, I want to say Happy Anniversary to me!  It was one year ago today that I started this journey of mine as Blog Writer.  (Click here for my first blog post.  It’s about some dirty ice and the runs.)  Just so you know, I’m having so much fun and loving my new hobby.  You know, in case you were wondering.

Second, I want to talk about the dreaded New Year’s Resolution.  They suck.  I stopped doing them years ago.  Mainly because I was sick and tired of not following through.  Because, let’s face it, I’m lazy.  Isn’t it funny how many of us start off our New Year’s resolutions hung over?  If that’s not bad enough, we have to remember to write the year correctly on all of our documents.  Which, by the way, takes me about 6 months.  And why do we wait until the beginning of a new year to make changes?  I know for me, it’s just so I can buy more time.  (“I’m giving up french fries.  Oh, wait.  I don’t need to do that now.  I’ll do that in the new year.  I have 7 months and 23 days left.  Phew.”)  But I digress.  What was I talking about again?

Oh right.  I hadn’t written (or thought of or told anyone) New Year’s resolutions for a long time.  Until last year.  I was not in a good place physically, which led to me being not in a good place mentally.  Although I am a wife and mother, two roles that I love, I felt like I needed more.  So, I wrote myself a little list.  On that list included getting healthy, starting a blog and finding a job.  Well, as you know, I started the blog on day numero uno.  It took me another month (one month and 19 days to be exact) to start the getting healthy bit.  And then another 3 months to find a job.  Better late than never, right?

Because I had such a successful resolution year, I decided to have a go at it again this year.  Here they are.  It’s not a big list.  Because quality is better than quantity.  Besides, quantity is just too much unless you are talking about money or something.  (Ok, ok, I know.  I’m doing that cliche thing of sharing my boring promises.  But you people keep me on the straight and narrow.  If I don’t say it out loud, I’m afraid I won’t be accountable.)

  1. Turn up the volume on the blog writing. Including going viral (I can do it…I know I can).
  2. Volunteer my time to humanity.  In other words, make a difference.  Somewhere.
  3. Be a better me.  By “better” I mean think before I speak (this hasn’t worked in the past, but I’ll try again.  In fact, I remember promising this exact resolution to myself when I was about 17…look where it has gotten me), be less judgmental, more conscious and get organized (see how I kinda snuck that last one in?  I was going to have it be separate but it was just too overwhelming).

That’s it.  Three (four) little things.  Shouldn’t be too difficult to accomplish, right?  I’ll update you in 365 days to let you know how I did.  So far, I’m sitting in bed writing this blog.  Number one is on track.  Last night, I’m pretty sure I said some stupid stuff after my second Cosmo.  Which means that perhaps I’m not heading in the right direction for #3.  Oh, but that was last night.  So it doesn’t count.  At this point, I’m just rambling.  So, Happy 2014 everyone!  I hope all of your dreams come true!  And thanks for being here.  I couldn’t do it without you.  Peace, love and happiness.

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…

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.