Santa the Impaler

Dear Bastard Santa on top of my tree,

I’ve got you. I’ve FINALLY got you. Today your fat head toppled your white body and you fell within inches of my son’s golden mop. In my mind, that makes you a safety hazard. You, my friend, must go.

Yes, I know. We have a long history together. I bought you thinking you would look great on my white and gold decorated tree. Back when I could put things like glass balls and bows and only white lights on my perfect, fragrant, pine.

Of course, my husband, being the man he is, thought you deserved to be adorned with the Marshall football helmet a friend kindly gave him as a gift. Since that fateful day when your white hair was covered in HELMET…I’ve hated you. I’ve hated you ruining my Martha aspirations. Not that I could ever really be that coordinated…but dammit, it was my first house and my first married Christmas and I was going to try. And fail. But TRY none the less.
Despite my disdain, you became a tradition. And you’ve been on top of every tree, every year, since that horrific, pretty-killing Christmas. Yes Santa, you are a pretty-killer.

Santa the Impaler

Traditions are something I know a lot about. I’ve forced my husband into many of mine. Like kielbasa on Christmas Eve and pie for breakfast. Orange juice for a New Year’s toast and lighting candles at local churches when our sky is falling. So I could never have knocked you off your tree top post. Not after year 2. Certainly not after 3. Or 4. Or 5. I have a certain respect for tradition. Even when they are asinine.

It was today, when you tipped ever so slightly to the left and then tumbled, helmet first, to the ground that I realized this may be my one and only chance to kick you off the main spot on my tannenbaum. I’ve already given up the glass ornaments and the white lights and the bows and ribbons and pretty, pretty things.

I now have a certified, 100% family tree. Hand made (and much loved) ornaments, colored lights to please the children, even the soft, hand-me-down stuffed ornaments my mother made when I was young and prone to breaking things. Add in the latest diagnosis of asthma in our house, and we now have a fake tree. Not even that new tree smell to greet me as I walk in the door.
So do I leave you up there, oh Bastard Santa? Or do you get replaced with some less top-heavy object??? Do I dare tempt an ill-fated, Christmas ER trip wherein I explain to the doctor how a helmeted Claus knocked my child unconscious?

The clock is ticking, Mr. Kringle.

The Mother of the Year Awards just keep coming…

Monday Confessional

I have a confession. I am ashamed, I am mortified, but those who know me well will probably only shake their heads.

I love Christmas music. I love it so much it makes me cry.

I listen to it in the car. I secretly can’t wait for Thanksgiving, because I KNOW that at least one adult contemporary station will start playing it 24/7.

I sing Bing Crosby and Madonna versions of the classics to the kids in my minivan and weep. They look and me like I’m insane, but who the hell doesn’t???

But my problem goes deeper. Despite my amazingly indie husband and his vast music knowledge, I love me some “night time love songs” and Chistmas schmaltz crap-o-rama. At the heart of the matter: I am just NOT cool. I like to pretend I’m cool, but I’m not. Sure, I’ve got the tattoos and the Uggs and the current event knowledge, but at the heart of it all I’m a HUGE dork. There is no other word for it…I’m a DORK.

Give me some Yo La Tango and Rollins Band vs. some crap Anita Baker and Luther Vandross and go ahead and guess which way I’ll go. Sure, I’ll TELL you how much I love my hubby’s super hip choices, yet secretly I’m pining for that A/C shit.

And I know it’s shit. I do. I just can’t help it. It makes me all teary and happy and Julia Robert’s Movie happy ending. It does. I know, I know, it’s so sad. You might as well just throw some chick lit and chocolates at me and call me a lost cause. Despite my best efforts to be deep and meaningful and all edu-ma-cated and crap, I’ll take Gone With the Wind and Sleepless in Seattle over some flipping documentary any damn day of the week.

I suck. And admitting it is the first step.

Now you know the real me. Go ahead and pick on me, my husband does. As do all those who know and love me. But try and take my Vanessa Williams and I’ll beat your ass.

I’m making lemonade and I’m sure it will mean an ER trip

Pray. Rub a rabbit’s foot. Do a chant. Light a candle. Spin in a circle and spit three times.

Do what you have to do, but please, for the love of all that is holy…take the curse off my family.

I am convinced there are hidden cameras trailing us, capturing the current tragedy/comedy that is our lives. Only Hollywood could manufacture such a fantastic story:

In a world where SUV’s and Suburban Families rule…watch as one brood goes from having it all to living out of a cardboard box! You’ll laugh and you’ll cry while the world hands the Queen of Spain’s Family hilarious and madcap situations including: an unemployed husband, a brother-in-law going to war, an attempted robbery, raw sewage in the shower, and even toddler diarrhea! But just when you think this family can’t take anymore, you’ll roll with laughter as the matriarch coughs up blood and mucus and everyone gets stuck in LA’s worst traffic jam EVER! It’s non stop fun!

I give.

Hell (the place I’m going) YES!

“Despite a full century of scientific insights attesting to the antiquity of life and the greater antiquity of the Earth, more than half the American population believes that the entire cosmos was created 6,000 years ago. This is, incidentally, about a thousand years after the Sumerians invented glue. Those with the power to elect presidents and congressmen and many who themselves get elected believe that dinosaurs lived two by two upon Noah’s Ark, that light from distant galaxies was created en route to the Earth and that the first members of our species were fashioned out of dirt and divine breath, in a garden with a talking snake, by the hand of an invisible God. This is embarrassing.” –Sam Harris, Newsweek

Can I get an “Amen” for Sam??

I swear I’m not trying to offend anyone here. I swear to God –snort– it’s that I just don’t get it. I really, for the life of me, do not get it. I want to get it. I’d like to be let in on the secret. But apparently I’m not worthy. Or I’m not trying hard enough. Or I really, really, really am not trying hard enough.

That, in a nutshell, is why I do not belong or believe in any sort of organized religion. And as we gear up for tomorrow’s election, everything seems to be boiling down to the believers and the nonbelievers. The chosen and the damned. Sure, sure…there is some gray in the middle there somewhere, but mostly it’s the followers and the free thinkers. The Republicans and the Democrats. Baby killers against the stem cell preservers.

I’d like to call a truce, but I feel my own life is at stake. My children’s lives. My thoughts, my ideas, my ability to reason.

My son and I spent part of Sunday at a garden center. It was late in the afternoon and there were many customers. Many of them were dressed as if they had just left church, and like every day in our heathen lives, we were in sweats. Dirty, mismatched, Sunday on-the-couch-praying-to-the-NFL-and-not-the-Lord-Your-God sweats.

It wasn’t long before a well meaning (stupid) woman looking at the same glass case of Christmas figurines as my son and I said “oh, someone must have gone to church early today!” My little guy didn’t even hear her, as he was too busy watching red and white striped elves skate magically on a fake glass rink, but I heard her. I heard her and was pissed she just assumed we were Christian. Not that there is anything wrong with that. The Christian part, I mean.

Ok, I’m lying. There is something wrong with it. Something really, really wrong. It’s so wrong and twisted that it has politicians showing off their faithfulness and actually trying sway me by promoting their Christianity. Yeah, I’m getting mailings with that little fish on it. And important issue information on my candidate like where he stands on global warming and which local church he attends.

Oh! Wait! John Doe goes to Christ Loves Everyone But Gays and Women Holy Mother of Bleeding Hearts! Well, fuck his voting record and bending over for lobbiest! He’s one of us! We’re voting for him!

I’m not impressed. You’re going to have to do more than tell me where you attend services to get my vote. I know, I’m such a bitch. Just call me informed.

Maybe I’m batty here, but it seems this country has gone a little Christian crazy. It’s so cool to be into the Jesus these days. I know kids who have actually asked their parents to take them to church. On behalf of all the former kids of the world, I would just like to say “WHAT THE FUCK??”

In my day, we found ways to skip mass and screw in the parking lot. In my day, it wasn’t cool or uncool to be into God. It just was. You didn’t promote your faith like some new pair of shoes. And you certainly didn’t bust it out to win over voters. Or just assume the entire US population was right there with you, dressed in your Sunday best at a Garden Center at 2pm. Because THAT is how trendy it is now, everyone who is anyone has, of course, gone to church on Sunday.

The inmates are running the asylum. Get your asses out to vote tomorrow. Because there is no way in hell I’m missing Sunday football or lazy days in my garden with my son. Not for Jesus, Buddha, Allah, or anyone else. The last time I checked there was still that whole free religion thing going on in the good old US of A. The one that lets you be who you are. Worship who you want. Worship no one if you want.

Go vote. Now. Before they amend that one too.

*Queen’s note: I would just like to say how proud I am of myself for not using this post to say “meth” “hyprocrite” or “up the ass.” Crossposted at the Huffington Post

Fall-it’s not for sissies

Excuse me just a second…


Ah. Ok.

I haven’t seen my pediatrician since April. But wouldn’t you know that Labor Day (which I’d like to now beat up) came and so did the automatic colds for my children.

Nevermind preschool hasn’t actually started yet. Nevermind it’s 106 degrees here today. Nevermind we were swimming in the pool this week. Nevermind they have been healthy all freaking summer.

It was as if both their little bodies just sensed other kids were back to school and getting runny noses, so they needed to join in on the fun. And here I thought I was teaching them to be independent leaders, not followers.

One ear infection and two fevers later, we’ve got antibiotics, triaminic, pedicare, infant tylenol, children’s motrin, and assorted tissues scattered around the house.

Fucking Fall can suck it.

PBS Kids Sprout Host & Anal Sex

No. Really. I’m not kidding. I watch Melanie and her sugary, singsong voice every. single, day. Via AP:

(AP) � The PBS Kids Sprout network has fired the host of The Good Night Show after learning she had appeared in videos called Technical Virgin.

The host, Melanie Martinez, had alerted network officials about one of the videos late last week and she was immediately taken off the air.

“PBS Kids Sprout has determined that the dialogue in this video is inappropriate for her role as a preschool program host and may undermine her character’s credibility with our audience,” said Sandy Wax, network president.

If I can stop laughing for just a second, and SHOW YOU THE VIDEO

Did she think that as host of a HUGE kid’s program no one would find the ANAL SEX video? Really?

Melanie drove me nuts on Sprout. Now I think I like her.