Look Away From the Light, Part 1

(Dear Readers - this post got way too long, so I'm splitting it into two, like King Solomon and the baby. Maybe more like an Oreo, and the first part of the story has more cream filling.  I'll post the second part tomorrow, so all three of you will have to wait.)

I'm starting to believe my house was built on top of a graveyard.  A graveyard made up of the graves of elves from Santa's workshop and sleigh-pulling reindeer who had a little too much eggnog and wandered out on the highway.  It's like the sacred burial ground of magical creatures, who have risen up to wreak their revenge.  "Why, Julie?" you might ask.  "Why are you such a pessimist?" 

I'm glad you asked, Gentle Reader.  Turn off your TV, the static is how they talk to you.  This is my story.

I've always loved the season of ThanksMas, or ChristGiving.  Let's go with ChristGiving, so I can give Jesus his props.  ChristGiving was always a season of truce when I was growing up.  In our otherwise chaotic and frequently miserable home, my parents always seemed to call a truce between what used to be "Nebraska vs. Oklahoma and Ohio State v. Michigan Football Day" (now known as Black Friday and Charcoal Gray Saturday) and December 31. 

Thanksgiving Day was great, but ChristGiving season began with cinnamon rolls and coffee the morning after Thanksgiving, and Dad would call his bookie to get the spread and place his bets, Mom would make Bloody Marys, and we all settled down to cheer for the Cornhuskers and watch the parental units get a little drunk, but it was a HAPPY drunk, particularly when Nebraska or the Buckeyes would win and Dad would get a little spendin' money. 

We would then get a 20 foot tree, because we lived on a lake and had one of those Walls of Glass that looked out on the lake that was two stories high.  Mom would pick the tree and Dad would grumble about the Fucking Tree all day as he hauled it home and set it up in the stand and prayed it wouldn't fall over and break through the Wall of Glass, and then he had to get on a 30 foot ladder to get the star on top and put up lights.  We would light the fireplace for the first time, and twice actually had a chimney fire, one time requiring the fire department and a bucket brigade from the lake executed by our drunk neighbors.

Mom only cried when it looked like the tree might not make it in the stand, but Dad always made it work, and otherwise it was all Smiles Everyone, Smiles!  We lit the Fucking Tree and it was spectacular, and even Dad got into the mood because he was a lapsed Mennonite and they really didn't go crazy on the whole tree/decor/gluttony/materialism thing when he was growing up, so embracing Santa Christmas was like part of his delayed teen rebellion.

SO, short story long, I really get into ChristGiving season.  Love the turkey.  Love the stuffing.  Love the music.  Love the decorating.  Love the whole Christmas morning thing with the kids, I just never tire of it.  There truly are moments of completely unbridled JOY at ChristGiving, from the smile on my daughter's face to the pulling on of the elastic waistband pants to tuck in to that turkey or 8th Christmas cookie.  (I even love Christmas cards, and I have personal standards for mine, which Current Husband hates - it has to have a photo, a letter, and be hand signed.)

(Hey look, the blog post should almost be over,
and yet, I still haven't gotten to the point!)

Last weekend was awesome.  For the record, my mother-in-law is a great cook, and she doesn't even read this blog so I'm saying that from a place of truth, not suck-uppyness.  On Thursday night, I went to WalMart for pre-Black Friday and puking circus women.  On Friday, I rested.  On Saturday, I drove to a local tree seller, put the seats down in the van, and shoved that seven-foot-tall bad boy in.  I like to get the tree all by myself and just show up at home with it, unannounced.  This way, I don't have to take a carload of people with opinions that might be different than mine to select something that I am going to mainly be in charge of, and then I don't get any arguments as to why today isn't a good day to decorate the tree.

Thus concludes the first part of my pointless holiday story.  I can't guarantee the second part is any better.  I do swear a couple of times, and there is a minor amount of violence, so there's that.  Part 2 tomorrow.

The Dishwasher is Alive!

First, I need to clarify something.  Graham the dishwasher installer is not Australian, he is British.  When I mentioned his Aussie-ness, he said, "No, we sent our PRISONERS to Australia."  Just so that's all cleared up.

I mentioned last week that my dishwasher was broken.  I thought it was five months without a dishwasher, but now I realize it was much, much longer, but my dirty dish days melded together in one very long period of dirty dishes in my home.  Let me give you a timeline on the dishwasher situation:

October 2009:  My dishwasher starts vomiting dirty water on the floor of my kitchen.  Instead of calling a repairperson at this time, Current Husband and I decide to wait until my dad arrives the next week to fix it.
October 2009:  My dad arrives.  He cleans out a bunch of gunked-up dish soap from around the seals and dishwasher parts.  He mutters a lot about how this generation doesn't know how to take care of anything.  Or fix anything.  Or appreciate anything.
November 2009:  Dishwasher stops vomiting, and instead stops shooting water into the dishwasher at all, and dishes come out dirtier than they went in.  Call my dad.  He starts telling me a bunch of technical stuff I don't understand.  I say "Uh-huh, Uh-huh" and eat a bag of chips.  Hang up the phone and hand wash dishes.
December 2009:  Think perhaps Santa has magically fixed dishwasher.  Try to run it.  Dishwasher vomits on floor and shoots bacteria all over plates and cutlery.
January 2010:  Buy paper plates in bulk for first time.  Vow to call repairman.  Give children the job of washing dishes.
February 2010:  Listen to kids fight over who did dishes last, and the sound of entire set of wedding dishes getting small chips in them as children drop them in sink with soapy hands.  Lose four wineglasses.  Ban children from washing wineglasses.
March 2010:  Call repairman.  He comes in, looks at dishwasher, says, "Yeah, if you would have called me in October I could save saved it, but now all of the seals are dried out and cracked.  It's dead.  That will be $60."  Shit.
April 2010:  I start pricing dishwashers.  Best salesperson ever at Best Buy, where in less dire circumstances I would never buy an appliance because we haven't had the best buys, hooked me up with free delivery, free installation, free appliance haul away, and a terrific price on a Samsung stainless steel tub and food disposal system.  Heaven. 

Goodbye old dishwasher.  Go vomit elsewhere.

Friday, May 7:  Graham showed up at around 11 a.m. with my dishwasher in the van.  He is funny.  Needs coffee with lots of sugar.  Graham and I are going to get along just fine, which is good because we will spend most of the next eight hours together for a two-hour dishwasher installation.  Graham pulls out the old dishwasher.  I take a picture of him.

 Graham was shy.  And he complained that my kitchen is too small. 

If I could afford a big kitchen I wouldn't wait 

eight months to get a new dishwasher, now would I?

I asked Graham if I could take his picture, and he looked at me warily and said, "Why."  I said that I write a blog and the three people who read it are waiting for a post about my Australian/British installer named Graham and that I promised pictures.  I said, "I bet you've never been photographed doing this before" and he sort of smiled and thought, "I've never been worried about being killed by a woman on one of these jobs.  Before now."

Graham and I had a celebratory coffee when he got the dishwasher out, because the other guy (yes, I am seeing more than one dishwasher installer) said since the previous homeowners put the ceramic tile in after the dishwasher was in, he'd have to lift the countertop to get the old one out.  Graham, in addition to being British, is magic, like Dumbledore.  He gets the thing out all the way, and I help him get it outside.  And by help, I mean I held the door open and said, "Great job!  Do you want more coffee?"   He rolled the beast out, came back in, and said, "Well I believe I picked up most of your dog shit with my two-wheeler."  (Trust me, it sounds a LOT better in a British accent.)  I laughed and said, "Oh Graham!" and he looked at me like, "No bitch, I'm serious.  There is dog shit all over my two-wheeler," but he said, "You have such a sense of humor."

And then, it happened.  He walked around the counter, looked down, and said, "Uh Oh."  I could hear the cash register ringing as I walked around the corner and saw this:

 Yes, those are CLOTH-COVERED wires, 

with big bare spots and shreds hanging from them.  

(And by the way, that is NOT mouse shit, 

it's bits of rubber from the dishwasher.)

Graham's British accent sounded fabulous as he said, "Julie.  I can't honestly believe you haven't had a house fire with these wires.  I'm sorry, but I can't install the new dishwasher with this wiring. This will be time-consuming."  And I said, "Ooh, tell me again, but say it will cost hundreds of dollars!"

Graham left to install another dishwasher while I got the emergency (translation:  pricey) wiring situation handled.  The person who did that said, "If you have another electrical problem, I'm just going to warn you that you need to have this whole house rewired.  It will probably cost three to four thousand dollars.  I don't know how this got through your inspection when you bought the place."  And just when I thought I was over being bitter about the purchase of our Lemon House three years ago.  Pause with me for a moment of believing fervently in karma.  Okay, I'm done.

Long story short...oh, wait, it's too late for that.  Graham came back, and got back to work, putting my dishwasher in with a putty knife, one half-inch at a time, because for about two hours it looked like maybe it wasn't going to go in because it is bigger than the old one.  In the meantime, I figured out I wasn't going to make it to the kids' school festival, where I was scheduled to face-paint with Oldest Daughter.  I recruited a neighbor to take the kids over, and made OD face-paint by herself.  She was so, so happy about this news, but could see I was a Mommy On The Brink, so she sulked away wordlessly.  On a side note, this is what Youngest Daughter wore to the festival:

Is it necessary to point out that she picked this herself?  

The two-sizes-too-small Easter dress, 

leggings, ankle socks and satin shoes?

I had bigger fish to fry than fashion.

After a long day for both of us, Graham had the new dishwasher in and running.  He asked for my blog address so he can check out his picture and see what I wrote about him (HI GRAHAM!  IT'S STILL RUNNING!) I wrote a check for the extra installation, and all told the unforeseen circumstances cost us about $240 total.  Ten minutes after Graham left, the school called, and in our absence, they drew our name as one of the winners of the raffle at the school, and we won $250.  Tradition, or class, would dictate that perhaps we should donate that money back to the school, but DUDE, it felt like it was meant to be.  It was a win-win.  My first all day.  I've run two loads of dishes in this baby, and I am in love.  CH, you should be worried. 

Momma's here, baby.  Momma's here.

No, CH, There Is No Santa Claus

Current Husband was out at the brewery with some of his buddies, listening to their tales of wives finishing their Christmas shopping. They spoke of how their houses were decorated, the gifts were wrapped, the Christmas cards out, and the meal to be prepared. CH knew the other things were done in our home, but he was not up-to-date on what was being served at the Christmas Eve meal, or what was to be in my stocking. He came to me for guidance. Here was my response:

"CH - there is no frigging Santa Claus. I AM SANTA CLAUS! I'm the one who put the lights up outside after Thanksgiving while the Cowboys were playing. I'm the one who started shopping for your children this summer. It was I who bought the tree and (with the help of a strapping young man) crammed said tree into the minivan. There are no elves. I untangled the lights to drape around the tree, and lugged the tubs of decorations out from storage. These things do not get done by mystical creatures.

The gifts for your family, all me. Tell me, quick, what did we get your mom this year?! HA! That's what I thought. The 80+ Christmas cards, which have to have photos taken, a letter written, addresses procured and handwritten on the envelopes, and then licked shut and stamped? No Santa there!

Have you really believed that the noise on Christmas Eve is reindeer?! Hell, no! It was ME, swearing as I tried to carry gifts for three children up from the basement while you watched "A Christmas Story" for the third time and ate the sugar cookies - that I made! For the fake SANTA!

The fat man in red is a FAIRY TALE! I create all of the magic, as surely as George Lucas put Carrie Fisher in cinnamon bun braids, chains, and a gold bikini to create magical sexy Princess Leia. How dreary the world would be without the women who put this holiday together! And if we did not actually believe, during our darkest hour of trying to figure out what to give the mail carrier and how much will fit in the stockings, that everything would indeed come together somehow as if by magic, we would be lying to our children as well. But we have to believe in something other than red wine and methamphetamine, because the whole Christmas job can get overwhelming.


Believe in Santa Claus! You might as well believe Tiger Woods will never cheat again if Elin sticks around! The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see, but does that mean it has to be something as complicated as a big man in a bad suit? Can't it just be something as simple as a mother's love and the power of coffee? Have you ever seen a reindeer with a glowing red nose? Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? If so, you need to put down the Maker's Mark and we need to have a talk.

And that Christmas sex you have every year? NOT Mrs. Claus, despite any costumes to the contrary. That's right, CH. I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never let you forget you're a man. Is it all real? The decor, the tree, the cards, the cookies, the gifts, the sex? CH, in all this world there is nothing else more real and abiding. But if you think someone named Santa magically makes these things appear while I am running around unshowered and in the same outfit two days running muttering to myself under my breath, you are delusional.

And if we have frozen pizza for dinner on Christmas Eve, you will smile a loving smile into my eyes and tell me it is delicious. And if you need help with my stocking, stop in Target for 15 minutes and get me a Starbucks gift card, a bag of Reese's miniatures, the new "It Might Get Loud" movie starring The Edge, another Jen Lancaster book, or a new laptop. I've got more where that came from. I'm easy like a Sunday morning.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! Because he would just be another person for whom I would cook and clean and purchase a gift card. I already make him cookies, the ungrateful bastard. So in answer to your question, CH, No. No there isn't a Santa Claus. But the magic of Christmas is alive, because I love you and your children, and you all love me back, and that makes it all worthwhile."

Merry Christmas to all. And thank you to CH, who lovingly allows me to slander him in my blog on a regular basis. He's actually a pretty good guy.

NOTE: There will be no Whoreticulture Friday this week because it falls on the day that the Virgin Mother gave birth to our Savior, and it just seems wrong. Happy Birthday Jesus!

I Believe in Oscar the Grouch

Today is my little sister's birthday. She was born on Dec. 22, 1972, and she was a planned C-Section so my mom could bring the baby home for Christmas. However, the best laid plans (Ha! No pun intended, Mom!) went awry, and instead Mom and the baby were in the hospital for Christmas Day, too.

And that's the first time I felt I got screwed by having a sibling.

I wasn't that impressed with the baby. Yeah, yeah, curly brown hair, chocolate brown eyes, little pink chubby cheeks and rosebud mouth, I get it that she's cute, but hello! She has no teeth! I knew from my grandparent's farm that even baby pigs have teeth. This baby was defunct and should be returned. But no one would listen, so she stayed with us.

She was always funny, with her little outfits and dolls and her obsession with Ace bandages (she always had some fake injury wrapped - it's a miracle my parents didn't get any visits from the DHS), and she would sneak out of bed with me in the middle of the night to make a fort in the house to sleep in. We would build sand castles together on our beach and swim, and we often only had each other to play with because there weren't many kids on the lake where we lived. Until I was in Junior High and turned into The Most Evil Older Sister on the Planet, she was my best friend. But the best thing about my sister as a kid was that instead of believing in Santa, she believed in Oscar the Grouch. We actually had the song playing now on a 45 and listened to it as one of our Christmas songs for the holidays.

It's not that she didn't believe in Santa; she did. But to her, no mystical creature came alive like Oscar the Grouch. He was real, right down to his smelly garbage can and pet worm. Some parents try to get people to dress up as Santa and come over to freak the kids out. I think I've mentioned before that my parents were drinkers, so on Christmas Eve, they staged a visit from Oscar the Grouch.

I think it started with a bottle (or box) of Rossi wine and some classy beer, like Red, White and Blue or Old Milwaukee's Best Light, and next thing you know, a bunch of giggling adults are on our patio. Soon, my mom comes in and calls for my sister. She runs downstairs in her flannel two piece pajamas, looks out the door, and screams. Oscar the Grouch is on our patio.

Apparently the tipsy adults crammed our Italian neighbor into a metal garbage can, put a green wig or tablecloth or fur over his head, and covered the trash can with Christmas lights. He barely opened the top of the garbage can, and talked to my sister.

OG: "Hey! Is that Natalie!?!"
N: "IT'S OSCAR!! IT'S OSCAR!!"
OG: "I hate Christmas!!"
N: "IT'S OSCAR!"
OG: "I hope Santa brings me some trash!"
N: "IT'S OSCAR!"
OG: "Why aren't you in bed, little girl!?"
N: "You smell bad, Oscar."
OG: (laugh/choking) "What do you want, I live in a garbage can!"
(Suspicious amount of smoke coming out of garbage can, and the pop of a beer can.)
MOM: "Okay, Natalie, it's time to come in..."
N: "Mom, what's wrong with Oscar?"
MOM: "Come in or Santa won't be able to come."
N: "Goodbye Oscar!"
OG: "Goodbye Little Girl! I hate Christmas!"

(Laughing adults leave drunk Oscar stuck in garbage can. Loud clanging noise on patio later. Parents tell us it was Santa. Did Santa also throw up in the yard?)

And thus, another normal family memory is created. Because we did put the Fun in Dysfunctional. I have a picture of this event, but I don't know if I can find it. If I do, I will post.

Happy Birthday Natalie! I hope you got gifts and they weren't wrapped in Christmas paper! Because this lovely birthday memory has Christmas all over it. It's enough to turn you into Oscar the Grouch, no?

Love,
Julie

Deadline on Good Has Passed

He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So be good for goodness' sake!

My kids were always afraid of Santa. They refused to sit on his lap, much less look at him, in a mall, and really? Isn't this what we taught them from birth? Strangers, lunatics in costume, people with candy, Hos, men who want you to sit on their laps, adults who try to make you keep secrets - ALL on the verboten list. But for one day a year, forget about all of that, kids, the danger is gone! Same deal with the Easter Bunny or other costumed characters. They just knew something wasn't right about that creature, and I never pushed them to form a relationship with these LSD-inspired maniacs. When you look at song lyrics like the above, you know why kids might fear St. Nick. Santa, according to Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town, is a bona fide stalker. I'm thinking this is where Sting got the inspiration for Every Breath You Take...it's the same concept, just a little more detailed.

Did I say ALL of my kids are afraid of Santa? Because our precious sweet baby, Youngest Daughter, is not. To her, this is a business negotiation. She met the minimum requirement for good this year, and it is payoff time. She will approach Santa with her list of demands, and a little bit of "You're going to make good on your end, capiche?"

The other day, YD is sitting at the table eating her after school snack when she started in with her daily "Can I have a friend over?" and I started in with my daily "Not tonight" and she did her usual "Why?" and I did my normal "Because I have things to do" and she said "All of my friends have people over" and I started yelling "You don't get to have friends over every night!" At this point, she got a little belligerent about it, and I threw down with my seasonal, "You shouldn't argue with me, Santa is watching." Because it's important to frighten the children with the idea that a magical creature is watching them at all times. That's just good parenting.

But YD had other ideas. She took another bite of her bar, nonplussed, and engaged me.

YD: "No Mom, Santa already knows I've been good, I'm okay."
ME: "What do you mean? Christmas is still over a week away."
YD: "Santa is done. Our teacher said we had to have our lists in last Friday, and he's already sent back a note saying I've been a good girl."
ME: "That doesn't mean he can't change his mind. You still have to be good."
YD: "What's he gonna do, Mom? "X" me off of his list? Santa doesn't have time. I'm already on the good list."

And she finished her snack.

My power was over. As far as she was concerned, this was a done deal, and to hell with that "being good" business, her work here was done. No coal for her.

Being good for goodness' sake? Fuggeddaboutit.

Santa Claus is comin' to town. And to YD, he's already halfway here.