Pssssst: I'm Still Here. You Guys Just Can't See Me.

Hey, bloggy friends. Did you know I'm still writing like a madwoman? It's true.

Today, I posted about this new 80s throwback band I found.

Yesterday, I whined about my latest brush with depression.

And the day before that? My toddler showed you all how you how to take a proper afternoon nap.

However, my Google Friends Connect gadget doesn't want to update my feed (apparently it liked it over on Blogger better), so you guys can't see me. We're working on it, but if you'd like to get my posts sent to your reader in the meantime (or even your email inbox. I'm all fancy like that now), could you head on over to my site and subscribe all regular-like?

Heck, I'll make it even easier for you. Just click here and you'll be taken to the subscribe page.

Do I sound desperate? That's because I am. A little. It's loooooonely over here (whimpers for dramatic effect). Come see me?

Hey, It's Okay...

Can you believe it's been four weeks since I've done one of these posts and they still haven't stopped the oil spill from destroying the Gulf? That, my friends, is so far from okay it boggles the mind. As is BP's relentless pursuit of someone else to blame. And, and, and...

Well, there's a whole hell of a lot about what's going on in the gulf that's not okay. But this list isn't about that. It's the brain child of the Whispering Writer at Airing My Dirty Laundry, and it's about the rest of life's flotsam and jetsam. So without further ado, I give you:

Hey, it's okay to wish that someone would gather up every single last pair of pants with phrases billboarded across the butt (I don't need to know your tush is juicy, thanks) and throw them in a giant bonfire.

Hey, it's okay to kind of wish you could have breakfast for dinner...every day.

Hey, it's okay to consider shaving your head when the humidity reaches Utterly Gross levels—but unless you've got a gorgeous skull a la Sinead O'Connor, I'd recommend resisting the impulse.

Hey, it's okay to keep attempting to slither into those skinny jeans...even though you've only lost two pounds.

Hey, it's okay to be completely, insanely jealous of whoever wrote Date Night—and to be secretly sure that you could write something just as hilarious, if only you could find the time,  motivation and discipline.

 Hey, it's okay to sit in your baby's kiddie pool and drink pina coladas after she goes to bed.

Hey, it's okay to wish someone had told you, "sure, you can be whatever you want, but doctors and lawyers make a hell of a lot more money than English majors."

Hey it's okay to think that even if you had as much money as a neurosurgeon with a law degree, you still wouldn't waste it on a McMansion (but a second home on a private island in the Caribbean is another story altogether).

Hey, it's okay to still think the giant sunglasses trend makes everyone look like a big bug

Hey, it's okay to get all your news from The Daily Show—you need a little laughter to sop up the tears.

That's what I'm okay about this week. How 'bout you?

Camping? Not Me, Thanks.

Memorial Day Weekend makrks not only the unofficial kickoff of summer, but also of camping season. And once upon a time, I was one of those outdoor enthusiasts who gladly packed up the car and headed for the wilderness, where I could wipe my ass with poison ivy and shower in subzero water.

Not anymore.

Why? Because of one too many poison ivy rashes and subzero showers, of course.

I used to be made of hardier stuff. Growing up, most vacations found us calling a tent home, whether we were in the No Man's Land that is the Upper Penninsula of Michigan or the sunny beaches of South Carolina.

I once washed my hair in Lake Superior (which is the same temperature as a frozen Hell, for those of you not in the know).

I once got a severe case of diarrhea when the only toilet I had access to was a stinking Port-a-Potty baking under a 90-degree sun.

I once stomped on a fire ant hill and ran screaming back to my mom with armies of stinging red hellions traveling up my thighs.

But at the time, I thought nothing of it. Those adventures were just part of the Camping Experience.

Experiences that also included swimming in ocean surf, collecting Hermit Crabs in buckets, roasting marshmallows on an open fire and giggling with my brother in our own "Grown-Up Tent" after lights out.

Then I grew up. Well, maybe not "up," but older. Old enough to have my own set of car keys, friends and camping equipment. And camp we did.

My best friend and I once camped in weather that reached freezing temperatures at night, in the rain, then washed off in the aforementioned sub-zero showers.

Before we were married, my husband and I once went camping on Lake Michigan—in an area where the water, warmed by the nuclear power plant just at the other end of the beach, was decorated with used condoms and empty beer bottles.

Not to be deterred, the next summer we set out for a campground on Lake Huron, only to be awakened in the middle of the night by a tornado siren. After spending several hours praying to a nameless God as I sat shivering and drenched on a pitch black beach (we were told that the tornado would turn back before it hit the water), I vowed never to camp again.

But it wasn't until a weekend of rustic camping (i.e. peeing in the woods), left me with a poison ivy rash up and down my legs and thighs so bad that they were swollen to the size of tree trunks that I made good on my promise.

While smearing myself with Calomine lotion and popping steroids, I swore never to camp again. And I haven't.

Because of this, our vacations have become much less frequent (a clearing in the woods is way cheaper than a hotel, yo), but significantly more pleasurable.

When it rains? I can go inside.

When an unexpected cold patch hits? I can turn up the heat.

When a tornado threatens? Well, I still quake in my boots, but at least I'm dry while I do so.

So, all you hardy, I-don't-need-no-cushy-mattress types, enjoy your mosquito-ridden, rain-soaked weekends. I'll be toasting you from inside my air-conditioned living room, munching on s'mores roasted in my microwave.

Cheers!

Who Wants to Vote on My New Header?

My husband, creative maestro that he is, has decided he wants to start designing blogs. So, of course I told him he could start with mine. What we've come up with so far is a drastic departure from what I currently have, so I thought I'd put out feelers before it becomes reality.

Obviously, this is rough. But what do you guys think? If we go this route, I'm thinking my tag could be something like "writing my way through life, one wrong turn at a time." Maybe.

Be honest (but as nicely as you can, please).

Hey, It's Okay...

There are a lot of things in this world that it's not okay to be okay about. Like global warming. And human trafficking. And leggings worn with crop tops (cover your asses, ladies). But this list? Is about  all the things we need to stop stressing the hell out about (and I have Airing My Dirty Laundry to thank for the idea, so visit her). So, without further ado, I give you:

Hey, it's okay...

To think that lettuce on a hamburger counts as a vegetable.

To tell a clueless wonder that her grin would look a lot better if she lost the lipstick on her teeth.

To wonder why we need DVDs to teach our children to read (isn't that counter productive?).

To be really glad to see your family when they come to visit...and almost as glad to see them go.

To indulge in a pity party fueled by chocolate when the fitting room mirror gives you bad news.

To feed your child non-organic, genetically-altered, pesticide-covered fruits and vegetables (just wash them first).

To mourn the loss of the fantastic boobs your 21-year-old self didn't fully appreciate.

To hate Jillian Michaels. And Dr. Oz. And even Oprah. Yes, Oprah.

To think the trashy  paranormal romance novel you just read was way better than that Pulitzer Prize-winning bore you forced yourself to finish.

To fantasize about arriving on a deserted beach on a Caribbean island, curling up in a hammock under a palm tree with your honey...and taking a two-hour nap.

That's  my list. What are you okay about?

Oh, Crap. I Have to be Honest?

Honesty. It's a wonderful thing, isn't it? Except when it isn't (as in, I don't actually want to know that those pants make me look fat).

Anyway, the Empress, ruler of Good Day, Regular People, recently said that although some of us pretend we're above them, in truth, everyone loves getting blog awards. And she's right. I know I never get tired of finding those happy little links in my inbox (after all, we've already established that I'm an attention whore).

So finding this (which she has renamed Honest Crap):

Really made my day.

 But there are rules (sigh). We've got to share some honest crap about ourselves, which I am happy to do, and pass it on to some bloggers who also deserve it. That's the part that makes me frown (I'm lazy, yo).

First the easy stuff.

• Last week, my cat puked at the end of my bed, which I discovered shortly before turning out the light. But I was really fricking tired, so I let it sit there. All. Night. Long. Gross, huh?
• There is a pot of spaghetti in my fridge that's been there for 2.5 weeks. It's taking up almost an entire shelf, and is totally in the way. But I am too dang lazy to throw it out. It will probably be there until my mom comes to visit.
• This weekend, I took my book into the bathroom and curled up on the rug to read—for a full hour. Not even my husband stays on the crapper for that long.
• My car has smelled vaguely like spoiled milk for months now. Months. Today? I opened this little storage compartment to find an entire package of American cheese. And oh, the smell! But you know what? I got out without throwing it away (see? lazy).
• Recently, while I was, ahem, sorting some laundry that had been sitting in my closet for a while, I came across some of Tori's clothes. In the 3-6 month size. That's how long it's been since I was all caught up on my laundry, people.

Aaaaaand that's enough of that. Anybody still with me? I'm really not a terrible person, I promise. Just a messy one.

Now on to the award giving. If you're a blogger, and you're reading this, you know I love you. But I'm going to take a stroll through my reader and pimp a few of you out here:

On The Verge

Yes I Am That Mommy

Earth Mother Just Means I'm Dusty


The Bjorn Identity

Sassy Irish Lassie

Typing One Handed

But really? You're all awarded. Even if you don't blog. Heck, if you take valuable minutes out of your day to read my ramblings? Me love you long time. Now it's your turn. Who should we all be reading?

Searching for My Happy Place.

It's far too early in the morning. I'm leaning over a desk in a small, harshly lit cubicle, trying not to think about the tourniquet that's tightening on my arm.

Dots sparkle in front of my eyes, and I pull back.

"Ummm, on second thought, do you think I could lay down? I think I'm going to pass out."

The nurse nods and ushers me over to one of those pseudo-comfy recliners they keep for those of us with a tendency to pass out at the stick of a needle.

Again the tourniquet tightens, and I involuntarily let out a deep breath.

"It's alright, honey," the nurse says. "Just go to your happy place. We'll be done here before you know it."

I close my eyes and will myself to an ocean beach, the white sand warm on my burrowing toes, the breaking of the waves loud in my ears. I reach for the pina colada at my side...

and Tori's smiling face breaks into my thoughts.

I'm laying on the grass, the sun hot on my face as I squint up at her gap-tooth smile. She looms over me, trying to feed me a stick she found in the garden. Sitting up, I grab her and roll her on to her back, loudly zerberting her tummy. She squeals and grabs for my nose...

And I will myself back to that tropical beach. I'm swimming in the turquoise water, watching little blue fish dart around my toes. Securing the snorkel mask around my nose, I dive down and reach out to touch the neon yellow fish that's staring at me. My delighted giggle bubbles up around me...

when Brian's voice breaks into my reverie.

Suddenly it's dusk, and we're sitting out on the patio, my feet in his lap. We're sharing a raspberry vodka-laced lemonade while a symphony of crickets and frogs serenades us. Together we build dreams of cedar decks, cascading waterfalls and light-filled sun rooms...

And the snap of the tourniquet releasing brings me back to earth.

"There, all done, " The nurse chirps. "You sure got quiet on me—your happy place must be  pretty fantastic!"

It is. And surprisingly close at hand.

Where's your happy place?

Come On In and Party Down.

Well, hello! Are you here for the party? Don't worry if you didn't get an invitation, party crashers are welcome (at least I hope so, since that's what I'm doing).

For those of you who haven't heard, 5 Minutes For Mom is hosting a little shindig called the Ultimate Blog Party. Apparently, this is the party to end all parties, as it lasts for an entire week—and it's got an appropriately gargantuan guest list  (as far as I can tell, nearly everyone in the blogosphere is coming).

So, since I can't stand to be left out of things, I thought I'd tag along after all the cool kids and throw open the doors to my humble little blog. Oh, and did I mention it's a costume party?

Don't worry if you didn't dress up. I took the liberty of getting you all fairy princess get-ups. So put on your tiara...

grab your magic wand...

and join me for an appropriately fru-fru drink.

Oh, come on, it's all in the name of blog party fun!

So, by now, you're probably wondering who this mad woman you've found yourself stuck with actually is. And you know what? I wish I knew the answer to that, I really do.

Here's what I do know—I'm a red-headed, hot tempered drama queen who writes to live and lives to write. I've got myself a gorgeous baby girl...

a spectacularly patient husband, and a whole menagerie of persnickety pets.

I write about whatever comes to mind. So sometimes I share sappy stuff, like this post about my daughter's first birthday...

And sometimes I talk about random stuff, like ways to tell if you're PMSing.

Sometimes I think out loud about the kind of role model I want to be for my daughter.

And sometimes I talk about my own struggles with depression.

But, more often than not,  I'm just  plain silly.

But that's enough about me. Let's talk about you. What drew you to blogging? What keeps you going? Do you want to be my bloggy friend? I'd like to be yours...

I don't want to be needy, so I'll cut you loose to continue on through the party circuit. But before you go, grab a piece of the yummy chocolate cake I baked for you.

That's right. I'm not above bribery here. So come back soon. You never know what delicious treats you'll find waiting for you!

Why Do I Do This? Because I Can.

There seems to be a lot of bitching and moaning going on in the blogosphere right now. The question on everyone's lips seems to be, "Why? Why do I bother blogging? What does my blogging mean to the world?

I'm  not going to lie. I'm one of the people doing the bitching and moaning.

You know why? This blogging stuff takes up a lot of time. It requires the utilization of a great many brain cells that would otherwise be napping or drinking beer or something equally mindless in my off hours. It also requires me to put myself out there, day after day after day, baring my soul to the world (or at least the 150 or so people who follow me).

And sometimes? I spend a great deal of time on a post, an article I'm proud of, and get like two comments. Other times, I dash off something in five minutes and get massive amounts of page views. It's enough to make an attention craving ad whore like myself a little crazy.

So I think it's natural to have an existential crisis every once in a while.

Last week, I briefly considered giving this up all together. Would anyone notice, I wondered? Would anyone care? Or would my disappearance be as inconsequential as Tiger's latest lay?

I think I know the answer to that (and it's not particularly good for the ego). But at the end of the day, it doesn't matter. As my friend E reminded me, I started doing this for fun. I wanted to write something, somewhere, that I wasn't getting paid to create (although if you want to pay me or send free goodies my way, I'm all ears. Momma needs a vacation, yo).

I started writing this blog because I can write (not everyone who blogs can, by the way).

I continue writing this blog because I enjoy it.

And I'm not going to quit because then I'd be a quitter. Plus, I'd have to fill the void blogging would leave with laundry or cooking or something equally domestic (shudders).

But I am going to start taking myself a little less seriously. No one's going to die if I don't post every day. The world won't end if my follower count doesn't grow every week. It doesn't even matter if  google analytics shows me an angry red arrow instead of the happy green one every month.

This is supposed to be fun. And dag nam it, fun it will be. Right? Right.

A First Birthday Gift Conundrum.

As I may have mentioned a time or two hundred, Tori's going to turn one soon. Which means that various relatives and friends are asking me what she'd like for her birthday.

The thing is, I really don't know what she wants. I mean, I'm not sure she even knows it's her birthday. So I asked her. And you know what? She did have opinions.

So here it is. Tori's Birthday List (as interpreted by me).

A Swing Set.

Now, I was thinking about getting her a little something like this...

But she says all the cool kids have Sky Forts (peer pressure starts early). She wants one like this...

I told her she'll need to find new parents first (this set is a little too rich for our blood).

A sand box.

Now that seems pretty doable. I thought this one (with its own little wading pool) would do nicely.

But no. She wants something a little more like this...

I told her that might be a little beyond our budget this year. So next she tells me she wants...

A pony.

Since she can't even walk yet, I assumes she means a rocking horse. Like this.

But no. She saw Hannah Montana riding one like this, so nothing else will do.

I told her I'd get working on that "searching for my real parents" ad for her.

Crossing her arms in a huff, she asked me if she could at least have...

A swimsuit.

I thought that was a great idea. So I showed her this adorable number from Gymboree.

Turns out that my baby girl only wants designer clothing this summer. Her choice? A stylish one piece from Dolce and Gabbana.

I laughed and told her the only designer labels she would be wearing are those from Target.

Hearing this, she threw one of her signature temper tantrums for about two minutes. And afterwards? She told me all she really wanted was a day with her grandparents, lots of hugs and kisses, and maybe a new set of measuring cups to chew on.

That, I said, makes sense. After all, what more does a one-year-old need?

A Moment of Fun.

Deadlines. Don't you hate 'em? I know I do, especially when they get in the way of blogging. And that, lovely readers, is exactly what's happening in my life right now.

Lots and lots of deadlines. Which means I still don't have a real post for you (but I will be back tonight, promise). In the meantime, have a giggle courtesy of the Muppets.




I just never get tired of the Muppets. Do you?

Reminder: This Too Will Pass.

OK Go, one of my favorite bands, returns to viral video goodness with this piece of YouTube awesomeness. I'm posting it here to make up for my whining yesterday...because this too shall pass, yo!




Now go and have a happy Tuesday, everyone!

Yo Gabba Gabba: I'm Not Drinking the Koolaid.

Okay, guys. I admit it. I'm still relatively new to this whole parenting thing, and so may not fully appreciate the wonder that is a television show that holds a rug rat's interest for a whole thirty minutes. But Yo Gabba Gabba? Creeps me the heck out.

I mean, dudes, those characters are scary. Just look at 'em:

 

Tell me how Muno, the six-foot tall dildo, is supposed to make me feel warm and fuzzy inside? If you ask me, Brobee looks like something straight out of a technicolor nightmare, as does Toodee. The only one who gets any cute points at all, in my humble opinion, is Foofa, and from what I've seen, she doesn't get as much screen time as some of the others.

And as for DJ Lance? Well, picking on him is just too easy. So I won't. Besides, you've got to respect a grown man who isn't afraid to run around in an orange jumpsuit.  

Now, I've heard that the music is what makes the show so attractive to young and old alike, but for the most part, the songs they sing make me want to shoot myself in the ear so I never have to hear them again. Especially this one:

After I watch this, there's no party in my tummy. Maybe a little vomit in my mouth, but that's not the same thing. And sure, it is pretty catchy (I'm sure I'll be singing it until I want to bash my head in), but that's not always a good thing.

Nope, for shows featuring culturally relevant music, I think my house is going to rely on good old Sesame Street.

How can you not laugh at that?

I'm sure I've outraged a good number of you (this Yo Gabba Gabba thing seems to have achieved crazy cult status), and maybe have even tempted a few of you to hit the un-follow button, but I hope we can still be friends.

Who knows. Maybe a few months from now, someone will have forced the magic koolaid down my throat, and I'll be wanting Muno to be my daughter's first boyfriend. But for now? I'd like to keep them as far from me and mine as humanly possible.

I won't lose my official Mommy Card for that, will I?

Top Ten Ways to Procrastinate.

Procrastination, I've often said, is an under-appreciated art form. Sure, anybody can do it. But some are more skilled at it than others. Those of us in creative industries, like advertising? We probably spend more time procrastinating than anybody else on the planet.

So here, for your reading enjoyment, are my top ten ways to procrastinate (which I may or may not be writing while ignoring an imminent deadline):

1. Twitter, twitter, twitter till you can't tweet no more. Check in with your favorite tweeps. Check out the trending topics. Stalk those who did you wrong—and random folks you've never met.

2. Explore alternate career paths. What would it take to become a long-distance trucker?  How much do bartenders at Coyote Ugly make? Could you survive on a barrista's salary? Well, there's only one way to find out...

3. Facebook stalk...anybody. Old high school buddies, ex-coworkers, the bitchy supermom down the street...hours of entertainment can be had.

4. Do you speak Etsy? You should. There's a world of handmade goods out there, just waiting to be discovered.  Purses, jewelry, clothes, even tutus (yes, tutus).

5. Plan an escape. When dealing with writer's block, nothing sounds better than abandoning ship and heading for warmer climes. So I plan mythical vacations. Cruises, safaris, glacier treks - no adventure is too far fetched.

6. Explore the wonders of YouTube. What can't you find on YouTube? Laughing babies, sneezing pandas, stupid human tricks...an entire universe of procrastination goodness lies before you.

7. Find the answers to random trivia. Who played Inigo Montoya? Why do cats have more than one set of eyelids? Is Keith Richards really a vampire? If you search long enough, the Internet will probably supply the answers.

8. Plan elaborate meals I will never actually cook. So what if I can hardly boil water? For all google knows, I could be the next Julia Child. So why shouldn't I plan a menu including Beef Wellington, goat cheese souffle and molten lava cake? After all, my husband can always make it for me.

9. Games, games and more games. Have you discovered Bejeweled? Or ever participated in a Tetris tournament? If not, then you haven't really lived (or procrastinated).

10. Read blogs, of course. Right now, my reader says I have 820 entries to catch up on. Yep, that could keep me busy for a while.

But right now, I have an ad to write. And a baby to put to bed. And most importantly, Lost to watch. So why don't you tell me what your favorite ways to procrastinate are?

Seven More Things No One Tells New Moms.

Back before Tori was born, I thought I knew it all. Then, about three weeks in, I realized I knew nothing. At about six months, I started to get a little more confident, and at almost seven months, I thought I knew enough to warn other mothers-in-waiting.

Oh, how naive I was (and still am, I'm sure). It turns out, Tori only had more surprises in store for me. So here they are—seven more things no one dares to tell new moms.

The more your baby eats, the worse her poop will smell. Yeah, I know. Even at the best of times, baby poop isn't an aroma you'd want to bottle and sell as perfume. But once you start in with the "real" foods? Her diaper will begin to smell like trash that's been left too long in the sun. Mmmm, trash.

All those food rules? Aren't worth the paper (or computer screen) they're written on. I know. You're only supposed to introduce one new food every five days. They're only supposed to have fruit after they've eaten vegetables. Sugar is the enemy. Right. There are only so many times you can watch your kid purposely vomit up a food she finds nasty (yes, really) before you start to bend the rules.

You only think you want your baby to crawl.  Sure, it sounds like a good idea. Who wouldn't want their child to be able to move themselves from place to place, grabbing their own toys and making their own fun? Any parent who wants to stay sane, that's who. Once your baby learns to crawl, you will never sit down again. Ever.

Think carefully before teaching her a game. She will want to play it endlessly. Jumping up from behind the couch to play Peekaboo is fun the first 500 times. As is Walk-Around-The-House-Holding-Mommy's-Hands. And Chase the Kitty? Hours of fun. Eventually, though, your body will have had enough. But your baby? Can play these games forever. She doesn't even have kneecaps.

Two years is a looooong time to go without relying on ye old boob tube for some free babysitting. The American Academy of Pediatrics says kids shouldn't see any TV until their second birthday. Supposedly it slows their development and all that. But, you know what? I don't believe those Academics have ever had to take a poo (oh yes I did say it) while alone in the house with a kid who refuses to sit still for more than five seconds. Unless, that is, the digital babysitter is on.

Like a puppy, your baby will chew on anything. Teething infants and teething puppies have a lot in common. They will gnaw on anything they can get their mouths around. Shelves, chairs, molding, shoulders, noses...nothing is safe. Put your antiques away, people.

You will never realize how dirty your house is until your baby starts exploring. I don't care how often how you vacuum, sweep or mop. After a day spent crawling aroound on the floor, your baby will look like a human Swiffer pad. Or is that just me? Don't answer that.

There's more. Oh so much more. But if I spill any more secrets, the lynch moms might come after me. So you'll just have to wait in suspense for the next edition of Things They Don't Tell You. Unless you have your own observations to share?

Because We Are All Blessed: Help Haiti.

We all experience little earthquakes in our lives. Jobs are lost. Loved ones get taken too soon. Homes demand expensive repairs. Dreams are destroyed.

But the people in Haiti? Are experiencing all these things at once. Their homes are destroyed. They no longer have any source of income. Chances are, they've lost members of their family—after all, more than 72,000 people have died—and those are just the bodies that have been recovered.

And the earthquakes keep coming.

So, no matter how bad you think you have it? There's probably not a person in Haiti that wouldn't give a million dollars to trade places with you.

Take a moment to count your blessings. Then take another to reach out and lend a hand—by opening your wallet. I did...and I'm not someone who donates very often.

I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm a mom now (it's true what they say. things do hit you harder), but the thought of all those orphaned children and shattered lives turns my stomach. If, by giving up a couple of pizzas and a few lattes, I can help make their lives even one tiny bit better...well, I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do it.

Here's a partial list of organizations involved in the relief efforts. For more, go here:

American Red Cross
Doctors Without Borders
Mercy Corp
UNICEF

Just Try and Keep a Straight Face.

I'm not going to lie, kids. This evening finds me in a serious funk. Maybe it's the weather, and the long months of winter that still lay before me. Maybe it's the ridiculous deadlines I'm trying to meet. Maybe I just woke up on the wrong fricking side of the bed.

Whatever the reason, I need a laugh. And you know what always does the trick? This video.



See? Never fails.

But I could use some ideas for more lasting funk relief. What do you guys do to cheer yourselves up when you're feeling down?

The Meaning of Christmas - A Comedy Sketch

I actually wrote this a couple of years ago, but it never fails to make me laugh, so I thought I'd post it here. Now, if y'all will excuse me for a minute, I need to talk to my mom. Mom, this is not intended to be at all autobiographical so please don't get offended at anything in here, okay? 'Kay. Love you.

OPEN on a cozy Christmas scene, with two couples, one in their late 50s the other in their early 30s, sitting together sipping eggnog.

MOM: So how was the show?

DAUGHTER: You mean church? How was church?

MOM: Well, you know. With the decorations, the candles, the singing... it’s all the same, really.

DAUGHTER: The service was very nice, thank you. Just the thing to kick off a nice holiday.

DAD: Right. Just in case Christmas has anything to do with the church anymore.

DAUGHTER: Excuse me?

Her HUSBAND pats her knee comfortingly. DAD downs the last of his eggnog.

DAD: It’s about the money. That’s all it is.

DAUGHTER: The money.

Dad: Sure. Those Christians just needed another reason to suck money out of everyone’s pockets. So they invented a holiday, threw in another service…

MOM: Fill the church with mood lighting, sing some pretty songs, give everyone a little wine…

DAUGHTER: That’s communion wine!

DAD: Whatever. It all adds up to some wide open pockets.

DAUGHTER: And the whole birth of Christ thing…

MOM: Just an excuse to fleece the congregation.

DAD: If you ask me, that whole story probably started when some disciple found himself with a problem on his hands… virgin pregnant with the son of God sounds a whole lot better than knocked up teenaged whore when you’re trying to get someone a husband.

DAUGHTER finishes her cup in one gulp, then reaches for her husband’s glass and drains it.

DAUGHTER: Looks like we’re ready for a refill. Anyone else?

MOM: Oh, I’ll get it. You’re having such a nice talk with your father.

MOM leaves room, humming “We wish you a Merry Christmas” under her breath.

DAD: Just as an example… how much did you give tonight, Dudley?

HUSBAND: It’s Bradley.

DAD: Sorry about that. I’ll get it one of these days. You’ve been married such a short time.

DAUGHTER: Yep. Eight years. The blink of an eye, really.

DAD: That long? And still no grandchildren? Dudley, you should get yourself checked out. There might be something wrong.

DAUGHTER: DAD!

DAD: Well, you know, procreating is part of your Christian duty!

DAUGHTER: How would you know, Dad? You’re an atheist.

DAD: Oh, I know all about that Christianity stuff. Don’t kill your neighbor...

MOM enters room, bearing tray with eggnog, and begins handing them out.

MOM: Unless they’re Muslim!

DAD: And honor thy mother and father.

MOM: Unless they spend your inheritance before they die. Then you get to shoot ‘em.

DAD: Oh and let’s not forget—don’t covet thy neighbor’s wife…

MOM: But his children are fair game.

DAUGHTER: Alright, you guys. That’s enough. Can’t we just have a nice Christmas Eve for once?

DAD: Sure. Wouldn’t want to ruin what that nice church of yours started.

DAD gets up and stands in front of her, hand out.

DAUGHTER: What are you doing?

DAD: Waiting for you to pay me.

DAUGHTER: What, for the sheer pleasure of your company?

DAD: Well, money’s what Christmas is about, isn’t it? And we’ve given you a comfortable chair, some good alcohol…

MOM: There’s pumpkin pie in the kitchen!

DAD: And there’s pumpkin pie in the kitchen. I think that should be worth double what you gave that church of yours.

DAUGHTER Fine. Hang on a sec.

DAUGHTER slams out of the room.

There is an uncomfortable silence.

DAD: So, Dudley, how are things in that critter clinic of yours? Cut off any balls lately?

HUSBAND: No, but we’re having a post-holiday special next week. Maybe you should come in…. You could even bring the dogs.

DAD: (Surprised Laugh) Right, maybe I will.

Uncomfortable silence lengthens. DAUGHTER re-enters the room, towing an unkempt looking older man.

MOM: Samantha? Who’s your friend?

DAUGHTER: This is Jack.

MOM: And Jack is here because…

DAUGHTER pulls out her checkbook and begins writing.

DAUGHTER: Well, because I’m about to give Dad double what I gave the church. And the church is supposed to use our money to help the less fortunate. So I thought you two might like to use what I’m giving you…

Walks over and slaps the check in her stunned father’s hand.

DAUGHTER: To help poor Jack here.

JACK holds his hand out to MOM.

JACK: It’s nice to finally meet you…. I admire your shoes every morning when you walk past my alley.

MOM gingerly shakes his hand.

MOM: Is that the coat I threw out last year?

JACK: Probably. Red is my color, isn’t it?

MOM: Why is he here again?

DAUGHTER: Well, you’re much better people than the Christians, right? So why don’t you use my money to give Jack a nice hot meal—and maybe a bed for the night?

JACK: Oh, are y’all Jewish?

HUSBAND: No, they’re atheists.

JACK: Oh. Atheists. Well, that’s a relief.

DAD: A relief? Why?

The doorbell rings as Jack pulls a gun.

JACK: Well, I’d feel bad about this if Christmas meant something to y’all, but since it doesn’t… well, God would want me and mine to have your stuff. The meek shall inherit the earth and all that.

He opens the door and a parade of homeless men enters. A few break off from the pack and approach the family, who squawk and yell as they begin to tie them up. The others begin dismantling the room, TV, stereo, Christmas tree and all.

MOM: This is all your fault, Jerry!

DAD: My fault? How is it my fault?

MOM: All those things you were saying. You made God angry!

DAUGHTER: Oh, now you believe in God?

MOM: I never said I didn’t believe in God.

DAD: What? Yes, you did, just now.

MOM: No, I didn’t. You just assumed, Jerry. You always assume!

JACK: Would the four of you shut the hell up! You’re ruining my holiday!

A homeless man gags them with duct tape as the lights go down.

THE END

A Random Bit of Fun.

Yesterday's post was far too serious for the holiday season. So...here. Watch the Muppets do Bohemian Rhapsody and laugh.



Are you smiling? I know I am.

An Open Letter to Whoever Designed My Car.

Dear auto engineer type people,

When I bought my car three years ago, I thought I was buying a larger vehicle. After all, it has four doors, a station wagon-style rear hatch, and is called a "crossover." This, to me, means big. Or if not big, at least family-sized.

After all, it isn't fast. Or particularly stylish. Or particularly comfortable to ride in. So it should at least accomodate the average family, shouldn't it?

But you know what? It doesn't. I have one child.  One child who needs a car seat. And you know what doesn't fit in this damn car? A car seat.

Back when I was pregnant, we had to return the first car seat we bought because it was too big for my car. We ended up purchasing a seat not because of its safety qualifications, but because of its size. Granted, it is a very nice seat (the Chicco Keyfit. Best infant car seat ever),  but that's not the point. The point is, I couldn't buy the seat I wanted because of your poor designing skills.

But I was willing to let that go. I mean, sure, when we go out as a family I have to ride in the passenger seat because to make her seat fit, we have to scoot the front seat allllllll the way forward, but it's only temporary.

You know what I can't forgive, though? The fact that not a single convertible car seat will fit in the rear-facing position. At least, not if anyone wants to sit in the front seat.

My daughter is only eight months old. And she's dangerously close to outgrowing her current seat. It's not going to last her the whole year. It's just not.

But you can't let a baby sit facing forward until she's at least twelve months.

So, what am I supposed to do, oh genius designers of the Dodge Caliber? Not go anywhere for the next four months?

Lest you think my complaints have no basis, I'll have you know that I spent several hours at various baby super stores today. I took just about every model they had (at least those that fit in a normal human's budget) out to my car to test it out.

And you know what? None of them fit. Not one. So I drove two hours (there and back) with a cranky, constipated, teething baby, had my hair pulled, my shirt pulled down (in front of a salesperson) and my pants spit up on, for NOTHING.

You know what I could have been doing that would have been more enjoyable? Sitting on top of a nest of angry red ants while bees stung my eyes and spiders crawled up my nose.

So next time you go to design a car (specifically the front seats of said car), pause to think about your target audience for a moment. If your typical buyers are young families on a budget (who are not midgets), then make sure they're functional for said families. Make sure you can fit a damn car seat in there.

Sincerely,

One pissed off mama.