Shooter on Aisle 6

Can I just say that it's a miracle there aren't more shootings in WalMart at Christmas?

I know there are those who love WalMart, but I really try to avoid the place whenever possible.  There is this "Kill or Be Killed" mentality that seems to permeate the place.  Today, I was getting the oil changed in my swagga wagon with Oldest Daughter and discussing the gifts we had yet to buy.

ME:  "I need things like gift cards, socks, a curtain rod, the Twilight movies, playing cards, Hershey's kisses, Apples to Apples, a quart of paint, and popcorn bowls."
OD:  "I also want to get something for H, and I need some posterboard for a school project."
ME:  "Crap."
OD:  "What!?"
ME:  "We only have an hour.  We're going to have to go to WalMart."
OD:  "Oh no.  You are always mad when we leave that place."
ME:  "The gods have spoken.  We're going in."

First mistake - we get the van washed BEFORE we go to WalMart.  Because you know there is always some D-Bag in a Ford F-250 with sticker of Calvin on the back pissing on a Chevy who thinks he's in a truck rally and drives 40 mph in the parking lot spraying slush all over everyone.  And there is ALWAYS a foot of slush in the MW parking lot.  If it's dry out, I swear they truck it in.

We circle the parking lot for 30 minutes and finally get a spot two miles away from the front door.  We get inside, 5000 irritated people are in the front door.  The whole gang is here:

• Crying babies?  Check.
• Probable domestic abuser?  Check.
• Disoriented older person?  Check.
• Family of six stocking up their food bunker in the basement?  Check.
• Potential shooter?  Check and check.

First, we pick up a few groceries.  Amazingly, the vegetable section is relatively empty, but try to get a box of Toaster Strudel and someone will cut you, most likely with the 14" knives on sale in Sporting Goods.

We give up on food.  We go to the electronics section to find Twilight movies as a gift for someone (because you KNOW we already have all of them! Play Clare de Lune for me again, Edward...) and there are 8 people crowded around a $5 movie bin, throwing movies all over the place.  Someone is loudly bitching at the one cashier in electronics about how they don't have enough XBox killing games, and another woman is loudly giving her reviews on every movie on the shelf. I start repeating a thought over and over in my head:

Must leave.  Make it stop.

There are no sticky rhinestones for bedazzling something, only iron-on.  No pre-tinted paint, only white base paint.  No Twilight, only New Moon and Eclipse.  No regular Hershey's kisses, just the holiday flavored ones.  No Apples to Apples, just the Travel one.  I decide to cut my losses and bolt.  The "20 items or less" lane has about 10 carts lined up with 6 of them having at least 30 items in them.  We get in what appears to be the shortest line, and I tell OD to get us a Reese's to split, but of course, she can only find the crunchy kind.  The cashier and the woman in front of us are talking.

#1:  "Girl, I don't think this gingerbread house is going to go up."

#2:  "Girlfriend, you just put it together with the frosting."

#1:  "I knows you use frosting, I'm tellin' you I don't think it will happen."

#2:  "You just use a butter knife - here, give me the box and I'll show you."

Oh dear God.  Don't give me the butter knife because I am about to get all stabby on your asses.

I wish I had been blessed with more patience, truly I do.  But I backed my cart with 11 items in it the hell out of that lane and made OD jog behind me while I trotted to the next shortest lane, muttering expletives under my breath.  No regular Reese's in this aisle either.  I look up, and the little old lady in front of me is taking out a stack of coupons.  Please, let her be donating them to WalMart.  No.  No she is not.  And so, she slowly goes through her stack of coupons to see what she can use that day, and what can I do?  She's a little old lady, probably on a fixed income with 10 stray cats at her house that she feeds every day, with ungrateful children who never call and grandkids who throw temper tantrums every time they are told they have to visit because they'd rather be on facebook and a bird feeder out back that she can't fill because it is too icy outside and 6 monthly prescriptions that are sucking away all of her income and a bowl of Werther's Originals on her desk that have been there for 4 years.  I lean over the handlebar of my cart and settle in.  This is going to take a while.

I finally get to check out, and it comes to $108 because I somehow always mysteriously go into three digits every damn time I'm in WM, Target or Sam's Club.  I could buy Trident gum and it would come to $102.98.  OD and I try to get our cart out of WM, but somehow we are again going upstream from the other carts, and people are swearing and getting up in each other's grilles.  We break out the front door and dodge the racing F-250s and unmarked Econovans through the slush to our van, manage to back out and get the hell out of Dodge.  OD looks and me and says, "Please don't ever make me go back there."  I feel you, OD.  It isn't necessarily about WALMART per se, it's just that there always seems to be a thinly veiled cloud of despair hanging in the dimly lit rafters of WalMart.  And people look like they will cut you.

We drive home, and we're all indignant about our ill-fated trip, and I check my e-mail.  There, in my inbox, is an e-mail from Jenny "The Bloggess" Lawson, and she has matched me up with someone in need for Christmas.  If you missed it, The Bloggess decided she was going to give $20 to the first 20 people who e-mailed her that they were going to have a bad Christmas this year because they had no money.  As in, "We're going to have to tell our child there is no Santa so he doesn't think Santa just forgot him."  Hand to God, even typing that makes my heart constrict and my eyes burn.  (Julie pauses, says a little prayer of thanks.)  So Jenny says in her blog that she hit the 20 people so fast, and the requests kept on coming, but every time she got another request, a donor would pop up in her comments, saying "I want to help too!"  I e-mailed Jenny yesterday and said, "Let me help!" and there she was. 

The Bloggess is the Queen of the Island of Misfit Toys.

I feel like the whole community of thousands who read her blog are the Misfit Toys.  We are the sort of wacky people who are a little off kilter but have a lot of love to give if someone would just adopt us, and Jenny the Bloggess has adopted us all.  She's crazy funny all year, but every few months she posts something that touches you deeply, and not in a "creepy uncle by marriage" sort of way.  She tries to use her power for good, and the force is strong with her.  Her blog jokingly says, "Like Mother Teresa, Only Better", and no disrespect to Mo Te, who was awesome, but there is a special place in heaven for Jenny too.

"Point please, Julie?  You're losing me."

My point is this.  I can go into Walmart and bitch and moan about how people are pissing me off and I want to shoot someone, but then I get a kick in the pants like an e-mail that says "Chelsey needs your help, here is her address" and all I have to do is go to amazon.com and purchase a gift card and have it e-mailed to Chelsey, BECAUSE I CAN.  It's called Perspective, people, and today I got a little.

I am not rich.  Not in the numbers sense.  But I am rich beyond measure in the love of my family, the health and happiness of my children, the support and laughter from my friends.  I have everything I need, and can manage to give when someone needs it, and that doesn't make the recipient lucky.  It makes ME lucky.

Are you ready for EVEN MORE CHEESE?  I'm also lucky because I have you, gentle reader.  This crazy blog, full of nothing but the trivial details of my relatively uneventful life and weekly soft-core porn, manages to get over 5000 views a month.  I'm aware that my mom clicks on about 1500 times, and CH maybe 500 or so checking to see if he's been slandered, and maybe 1000 robo-bots from the internet looking for Spam outlets, and 500 Taliban recruits, but that still leaves around 1500 views a month.  Thanks for caring people.  I'm giving you all a big, virtual, personal-space invading and slightly uncomfortable hug.  Now, those of you who can, go to http://www.thebloggess.com/ and leave a comment for Jenny that you can help too.  And if you don't hear from her, stick money in a kettle or find a Santa Tree.  It will feel good, I promise.

UPDATE, Sat, 8 p.m. - I sent my Bloggess Secret Santa match a $40 amazon gift card about two hours ago.  I felt a little silly sending such a small amount, but I've participated in a couple of local Secret Santa things, so I'm a little tapped out.  My Bloggess person sent me a wonderful e-mail thank you for the little gift card I sent, and told me what a difference it will make in their Christmas.  This is what it's all about, people. I'm a little verkempt.  If anyone wants to add to the gift card I sent, e-mail me at adayinthewife@gmail.com.

All Done With Christmas Shopping

OMG, I am totally done with Christmas shopping!!


I've managed to fill about 80% of the wish lists of each of my biological children (can't get everything in life, kids, I don't want to set you up with unrealistic expectations) and I'm done with Current Husband. (So. Done.) I've even purchased a couple of gifts for myself and told CH where to find them. I'm sure I will probably be wrapping my copy of the Grant Wood biography and slippers.


It feels great to be done early for a change. I felt so happy about it that I made cookies last night. The peanut butter cookies with the chocolate kisses in them and some butterscotch-chocolate chip cookies. The kids all had homemade cookies in their lunches today. It's like I'm June Effing Cleaver, and ....wait. School. TEACHERS. I haven't purchased my teacher gifts.


I am done with Christmas shopping
except for teacher gifts.

That's not so bad. I always make our teachers cinnamon rolls and get them a gift card. I can handle that. So there are the classroom teachers, and I like to get something for the secretaries and the maintenance guy because they are awesome. Crap. Those aren't our only teachers. I still need to get something for the piano teacher, the cello instructor, the dance teachers and the basketball coach.


I am done with Christmas shopping except for the teachers, piano teacher, cello teacher, dance instructors and basketball coach.

They can all get the same thing, right? That just sounds like it's a bunch of gift cards, it's not like it's my mother or any...SHIT! My MOM!  I haven't bought my parents anything, and they are driving 24 hours from Texas to see us on the 23rd and 24th.


I am done with Christmas shopping except for the teachers, piano teacher, cello teacher, dance instructors, basketball coach, and my parents.

Oh crap, CH has parents too! And there are four of them! (It takes a lot of people to come up with someone as spectacular as CH. Merry Christmas honey, you're stocking's been stuffed.) And then there are siblings! CH has a sister, half brother, half sister, and three step siblings, and I have a sister as well. OH HELL, my sister's birthday is on the 22nd, and she just had surgery, and I still haven't even sent her a Get Well card.  And there are the friends I do actual exchanges with, and the newspaper carrier and the mailman and the garbage guys, and I should really bring something in to my new co-workers whom I like so much...

OMG, I am totally behind on Christmas shopping.


I know Jesus is the reason for the season.  Do you hear what I hear, Jesus?  Props.  To you.  Now how's about you pull a little Christmas miracle for me?  Yes, again.  Just add it to my tab.  You know where I live. (Note to self - buy Subway gift card for Jesus.)

Don't Look Into The Light, Part 2

Okay, here is the rest.  I'm telling you, it's a little anti-climactic, but this is cheaper than therapy, and it's really all about me, no?  Because it's a blog.  "Ego-centric" is what we bloggers do.  I'll get you up to speed with this repeat paragraph:

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.I have a whole story about trees that fell over at 1 a.m., really, but I'll save that because I know Mom and CH have to get back to work and they just skim these posts for references to them. Tick tock, Julie, supervisor might be walking by soon!






We are in a new house, so I feel that Current Husband and I need to spiffy the place up for ChristGiving, meaning let's deck this sucker out in lights! I have CH and The Son drag out the tub of outdoor lights and the wooden ladder, and I climb the ladder to start hanging lights from the gutters. The ladder is a little on the short side, so I have to climb up on the rung that says DANGER! PELLIGRO! and shows a picture of a stick man falling off of a ladder very similar to this one. The mulch is pretty soft, and the legs keep sinking in, so I ask CH to hold the ladder. He obliges, and then uses his time to talk about the view of my ass from the ground, and all of the manly things he is capable of when I descend. I tell him I am having my period and he quits looking, problem solved.


The husband next door is putting their lights up, so CH starts loudly advising me how to hang the lights, because then he is a FOREMAN and not the pussy Ladder Holder. I get about halfway done, and then CH makes a discovery - the next strand of lights is different from the ones that are up. DAMN IT! It's the poltergeist of those elves. I start taking the lights down, because the next two strands match. I get them halfway down, and then CH says, "Wait! The strand that is up already matches the other strand!" so I put the previously hung, then removed, lights back up. I get the second strand up, and CH says, "We should probably plug this in to test them." We look around. Odd. This house has no outdoor outlets. WTF. CH gets the biggest, most safety-orange cord he can find, and plugs it into the kitchen and runs it out the door to the lights. As I am thinking, "Are we going to run this safety orange extension cord out the side door all season?", CH plugs it in, and alas, the second strand of lights is burned out. DOUBLE DAMN! This is going to be CH's ticket to not decorate at all. Don't Look Into The Light, CH! Look away from the lights!




I take down the second strand of lights, and put up a third strand of lights. These are pretty, they have the very droopy double strands that say, "I got these at my local hardware store instead of WalMart." I get them up - but wait! We don't have any more strands! Our house is now two-thirds decorated. By now, I am pissed. I almost pull a stick man move in my anger over the lights, but manage to safely dismount the ladder and step on the elf/reindeer burial ground again. "Let's just decorate the stupid tree," I say, stomping past CH whille he chuckles and shrugs his shoulders at our man-neighbor, who is now putting carefully arranged lit snow globes on the top of his perfectly groomed row of boxelder bushes.




We get to the tree. It IS pretty. We unwrap the lights, but we're smart this time, we plug them in first. The first strand works. The second and third strands have about a third of the lights out. We decide to salvage bulbs from one strand to make one GOOD strand between the two. That is sort of a train wreck, and the kids leave to text and watch Wizards of Waverly Place while CH and I play Junior Electrician. We get it done, the lights work, we put them on the tree. We have the kids come back in, and we have our Norman Rockwell decorating for about 10 minutes, and then the kids start fighting over who gets to put which prime ornament on the tree. We're finally done, it's time for our annual Tree Lighting Ceremony, normally done to Christmas music, but Mommy had to delete her playlist for technical reasons, so this year it was to Jay-Z and Blink 182. I hit the switch, The Son plugs in the lights, and....WHAT THE F***?!?!?!? The rigged up strand of lights is now out. Apparently there was a short in the wiring somewhere that kicked in when it was clipped to the tree. Get back in here, Carol Ann! Do you see the Elf People, Carol Ann?



CH goes outside to roll up the safety orange cord, and when the front door shuts behind him, I see that the extra droopy strands are getting caught in the door. Two of the lights are already smashed. The lights attached to the gutter are now ruined too. Cue the banjo music, we've done moved into the hood. I march out to the end of the hanging strand. CH knows this face. "What are you doing?" I grab the strand and I pull. CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK - the lights snap off of the gutter like a machine gun, or coffins popping out of the freshly dug pool in the backyard. I look at the dead lights laying on the ground, and look back up at CH.


"This house is clean."


The only lights working in my house this year are the ones in my fridge as I pull the cork on my chardonnay. I sit back, listen to some very seasonal Jay-Z (I got 99 problems and a bitch ain't one), and gaze upon my half lit tree. I could only be so lucky. A very Merry ChristGiving season to all of you, and my gift to you? Check your light strands before you hang them.


And? Don't build your house on a burial ground for magical creatures.  You're welcome.
(That last part is straight out of The Bloggess playbook.  It's fun to pretend to be The Bloggess once in a while!)

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.

F U Dora and the Box you Came In

Merry Christmas, Happy 'Holidays I Don't Celebrate But Am Curious About', and Happy New Year soon. Christmas in our house was excellent, good flannel-pj-wearing-no-showering-wine-food-and some churchin' fun. Until it was time to open Dora Links, which is a new Dora game.

Youngest Daughter, who learned Spanish by watching Dora the Explorer on Nick, got the Dora Links doll for Christmas. Dora has grown into a teenager, because all good things must be ruined by puberty. You take your Dora doll and plug her into your computer, and you can change her hair, her room, etc. and while this is happening, the actual Dora doll glows intensely in the cheeks, eyes, and jewelry as though she were the spawn of Satan.

Before Dora could glow like the undead, she had to get set up on the computer. No one can tell a good story like Dora, so she'll tell you about our adventure. Vamanos! Let's go!

Hola! I'm Dora. Dora Links is coming to Julie's house to take up lots and lots of space on her computer. Can you say hasta la vista, hard drive? Great!

Wait! I hear a noise! It's the sound of a struggle, and some mild swearing. Do you know who is making that noise? It's Youngest Daughter's mother, Julie, trying to break Dora Links out of the plastic box she is seemingly soldered into. Mother in Spanish is Madre or Mama. Can you say Mom has a knife? Mamá tiene un cuchillo. I'm scared, Boots!

Julie has finally got me out of the box, and now she is downloading my software onto her already overburdened hard drive. Don't do it, Mom! Do you know how to say that in Spanish? No lo hagas Madre! After a few hours of trying to figure out why Dora's software won't download on Mom's sad computer, we are ready to play! But wait! We need the all-important code off of the front of my box! We can't go any further on the Dora Links website without the code! But where is it? What's that Boots? Boots says it WAS on the front of the plastic box, but now it is probably somewhere in the four bags of garbage Mom took out a couple of hours ago. Let's go on an adventure!

First, we have to go through the Snowy Snow! Mom gets her boots and gloves on and says something like "Why the hell do I have to do this! It's like getting punished for cleaning!" Mom hears what sounds like crickets, and everyone in the family has mysteriously disappeared, so she heads out into the Snowy Snow. It is cold outside!

Next, we get to the Smelly Garbage Can. What is that sound? RIP! That's the sound of plastic garbage bags tearing as Mom goes through her own garbage cans! Mom picks through the bloody butcher wrapper from the roast beef...down into the coffee grounds...and over the old juice boxes! What's that Mom? Hey, I can't print that here! This is a family site!

I hear a loud banging sound. What could be making that noise? It is Mommy, kicking the garbage can because she can't find the code! Boots and I are laughing. What's that Madre? Te mato, punta! I think Mommy just looked at me and said, "I will kill you, bitch!" Mommy stumbles through the Snowy Snow and tries to grab me, but I am a very fast runner. Wait! Is that the code from the Dora box? But I hear a sound. Is that Swiper? Quick! We have to yell "Swiper no swiping" or Julie will lose the code forever! Say it with me! "Swiper no swiping! Swiper no swiping! Swiper no...UMPH!" Mommy has just tackled me in the snow. She smells like garbage and her good gloves are damp on the fingertips. She has a crazy look in her eyes. Can you say Mommy is crazy? Mama esta loca! And now Swiper has the code and it is gone forever!

"You'll never get it now! Ha ha ha!" Swiper gloats and rips the code up into a million pieces!

"Swipe THIS, Fox!" Julie says as she shoots Swiper with her rifle. Can you say that in Spanish? "Golpe este zorro!" The children are looking out of the window and crying as Swiper bleeds out into the snow. Relajarse, Madre! You need to relax before the policia get involved!

We've been through the Snowy Snow and the Smelly Garbage, and now Swiper is dead. What's that Boots? Current Husband is in his comfy warm flannel pants inside, on the phone with Fisher Price! He already got the code on the phone! CH es nuestro héroe! CH is our hero! But Julie is wondering why CH didn't tell her he was calling Fisher Price, and let her go through four bags of semi-decomposed matter and torn wrapping paper while he got the code? What's that Boots? We should take the rifle away from Julie? Yes, let's do that Boots! Hurry! Prisa! We did it! Yay!

Julie is taking a shower, and Youngest Daughter is playing Dora Links. CH is pouring Julie a glass of wine, because he is afraid. Can you say 'afraid' in Spanish? Miedo! Great! Good night, Boots! Buenas Noches! And next year, let's remind Madre not to buy any toys that require a download on her computer! Adios!

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

Christmas Shopping Survivor: Borders. Outwit, Outplay, Outlast

Monday, December 21, 2:37 p.m.
Quad Cities
Borders Bookstore on 53rd Street


I am a forty-year-old mother of three, and I have Christmas shopping to do. I walk into the Borders on 53rd Street, and I see the checkout line with, no kidding, at least 50 people that snakes three deep in front of the registers, around to the back corner of the store, and around the bend toward the children's section. Jeff Probst takes away my shopping list and my skinny vanilla latte and informs me that I am on a new secret reality show...Christmas Shopping Survivor, Borders.

PROBST: "Julie, you are now one of over fifty strangers competing to walk through the exit doors of Borders alive and with your Christmas shopping list item. You have five minutes to find your item and get in line. You are part of the Cooking Section Tribe. Good luck."

ME: "But Jeff, I have to get to Target and buy crickets for the frog and mail my Christmas cards and..."

PROBST: "Your time starts...now."

I am terrified. I'm not a very good shopper in the first place, and I can see already that I will be lucky to get out of Borders by Christmas. I only need one thing. My Oldest Daughter has inexplicably developed a love of the German language, and asked for a good German-English dictionary. Why she loves German, Ich hab keine Ahnung. I know exactly where the dictionary is located, and I have a Borders rewards coupon for 30% off. I walk past the people in line to the back of the store to the Reference section and grab the Barron's Dictionary. I take my place in line with my tribe near the Cooking Section. I meet Trina, from Lindenwood Ave, John from 18th St, Elizabeth from Eldridge, and Steve from the hood in Davenport. We confer as to how we can get checked out sooner. We whisper our strategy.

TRINA: "I think I should announce there is half off of all New Moon merchandise."
JOHN: "No, New Moon is over. I think we should say they are giving away free copies of Blind Side."
STEVE: "Man, no one will believe they are giving that damn book away."
ELIZABETH: "Steve, why don't you pretend to have a seizure."
STEVE: "Oh, I have the seizure because I'm from downtown Davenport? You're a racist!"
JULIE: "Steve, you're not even black. Let's all be rational about this. The Non-Fiction tribe is making everyone angry by being pushy. Let's kill them all with kindness and it will psych them out."

John sidles up to me and offers to remove Steve if I let him use my 30% off coupon. I refuse, and instead I form an alliance with Steve, because he is from Downtown Davenport, so he's tough. Steve tells John that there was a news post that Blu-Ray has been discontinued. John, flustered, leaves Cooking Tribe to get a different DVD, and Steve and I bump knuckles.

I strike up a conversation with Trina, and I tell her that Elizabeth told me she saw Trina stick a Happy Bunny bookmark in her purse. I ask her for tips on shoplifting without being caught. Trina turns to to Elizabeth, furious, and they get into a brawl near the David Sedaris display. Borders security walks over and escorts the women out of the building. Cooking Tribe is down to two players, Non-Fiction Tribe has one and Young Adult Tribe has two.

Probst gives the three tribes a challenge - whoever can use the Borders computers to find a House of Night book located in-store AND get a Seattle's Best Coffee AND a Dilbert 2010 calendar and get back to the Sarah Palin books first will get moved to the front of the line. The others will have to go before the Literary Council to decide who gets to purchase their items. Time is running out. I still have to get my dog from the vet and buy the ingredients for turkey lasagne, neither of which can be found in Borders. Losing is not an option.

The Young Adults beat me to the House of Night books, but nobody can outwit me to a cup of coffee. That's like jumping in front of a crack addict as the rock is being handed out. You just don't do it. The calendars are a challenge because no one is into Dilbert anymore, so they are at the bottom of the stack. It's down to me and Steve. We race through the store, looking for Sarah Palin. Steve goes to the auto-biography and memoirs section, but I know Sarah has most likely gone rogue, and I book it to the skin mags. Do I win the next register checkout? You betcha. Sorry, Steve.

After three minutes from the door to my item, and then 28 minutes in line at Borders, I have my dictionary. I look at all of the sad sacks still in line, looking dejected, and yell, "Auf Weidersehen, suckers!"

Jeff Probst waves goodbye from the Borders doors and yells, "Well played, Julie. Well played."

So if you need anything from Borders, go online. It will get there faster than standing in line, trust me. I hope your Christmas shopping is complete, your packages taped and your sparkling holiday cheer in hand. As they say in Berlin, Frohliche Wiehnachten!