Yet another educational toy that cost $14: Are you kidding me?
"Star Wars" toy that cost $20: Great. Thanks. But I wanted BOBA Fettt. Not JANGO Fett.
Batman: The Dark Knight Rapid Fire Utility Belt that was begged for repeatedly for 3 solid weeks until mommy finally cracked and bought it for $22 lousy bucks against her better judgment because mommy KNOWS it's really a dangerous piece of plastic crap but for the love of God, she has to give in to the holiday spirit at least once a year, right? I mean, Gawd. She's not made of stone, people: Thaaannnkkk yoooouuuu....but I don't like Batman anymore.
New outfit from The Gap: Clothes? For CHRISTMAS?Am I being PUNISHED?
Shiny, new Razor scooter that daddy proudly brought home after triumphing in a near-fistfight with a roving pack of bargain-hunting rednecks on Black Friday: Oh. A scooter? Yawn.
But--
Four dollar novelty-store mustache kit that turns you into a 5 year-old Riverboat Gambler named Diamond Jim:
Today's guest post Friday topic is "The Holidays". I have no idea why, but I'm sure my neighbor who just put fake reindeer antlers on her Toyota Camry does. Marinka's very funny post about holiday icebreakers is over at Jessica's today.
My "How to Make Gingerbread Men" is at Marinka's. (And since I wrote this last December, if you've seen it before, that must mean you've been reading my blog for a year. Which means I now owe you a cheese log and a referral to a good therapist, so please send me an e-mail with your details.)
And Jessica's hilariously thoughtful take on Christmas v. Hanukkah is right here. Oy.
CAUGHT BETWEEN A CANDLE AND A CRAZY PLACE
By Jessica Bern
I was at a friend's house the other day talking about how much Hanukkah blows in comparison to Christmas, especially now that I have a kid. So in an attempt to make me feel better, my friend said to me:
FRIEND: Well, then, don't just light the candles and toss her a gift. Get a book about the story of Hanukkah, then sit down and read it with her. I'm sure if she knew more about it, it would mean more to her.
Now, I'm going to have to disagree here. Jewish holidays are tough. Why? Because if you think about it, the story behind every one of them is incredibly depressing. Every story, it's the same: "Well, there were the Jews and then one day these people came along and, of course, they wanted nothing more than to get rid of said Jews, so they started a war, bang, bang, bang, the Jews were in big trouble, things didn't look good, yada, yada, yada, and the next thing you know, the Jews won, and well, happy holiday." Try sitting around a fire and telling that to your five year-old.
When I reminded my friend of this, all she could say to me was:
FRIEND: I hadn't thought about it that way. You're right, you are f*&#ed.
I grew up in the only Jewish family on our entire block. I was SURROUNDED by Christmas. I always envied the other kids sitting at home with their families, ripping open tons of presents, the smell of some kind of pork dish wafting through the air, everyone singing Christmas carols, carols that everyone in the entire world knew the lyrics to. To this day, I've never walked into a store and heard them playing songs like, "Oh, Chanukah, Oh Chanukah". I used to wish, just once, that I could watch as a salesgirl tapped her foot to the wonderful rhythms of my personal Hanukkah favorite, "Dreidel, Dreidel" or catch her unlocking a dressing room door all while mouthing the lyrics to "Maoz Tur", both the slow version and the hip-hop one.
It's no surprise that I married a non-Jew. Got fourteen Christmases out of it. But now that I'm divorced, it would be too weird. Plus, I have no dsire to ever again attempt to wrap up the lights, a task which never accomplished anything except to remind me and my parents that perhaps sending me to a "regular" school wasn't really in my best interest. Then again, I could do like my neighbor who had the bright idea of not only buying a fake tree, but decorating it and then never taking it down, EVER. It's amazing. Every year, for the past few years, from January through November, the guy's considered a nut job, but then starting Thanksgiving, "he's not crazy, he's just getting an early start".
You better watch out, Better not cry, Better be good, I'm telling you why... Santa Claus is comin' to town and mommy's thisclose to texting the old man a "cease and desist" about showing up at our house because mommy's had it up to HERE with you and your brother fighting like two ferrets in a gunny sack. I mean, honestly, kid. Are you not down with this whole "naughty list" thing yet? Think, man. There are toys at stake here.
He sees you when you're sleeping, He knows when you're awake (and so does the rest of the neighborhood), He knows if you've been bad or good... So be good for your mommy's mental health sake or said mommy might just hire a couple of nasty, Finnish elves to babysit you two while she heads to the day spa for a Mistletoe Salt Scrub & Poinsettia Polish. Oh, yeah. That's right. You heard me.
So, you'd better shape up, Better not cry, Better be good and not do something completely insane like put toothpaste on the cat again. I mean, come on, what were you thinking? Colgate on whiskers? How could you do that to Miss Dickens? You know she hates the smell of mint. Anyway, better be good, I'm tellin' you why... Santa Claus is comin' to tow-nnnnnnn.
If you're anything like me, you enjoy spending your cold December nights drinking hot toddies, numbly staring at the blinking Christmas lights and wondering just when you're going to cough up a lung and die already. No? It's just me? Seriously? Huh. Probably should call somebody about that.
Today's Guest Post Friday topic is Death. (I know! I'm laughing already! Oh, man, let me just catch my breath here...No, I can't! It's just TOO hilarious!) Anyway, Jessica, Marinka & I decided to give our takes on what we think about our own demises. And you'll see that we were all very introspective and deep about it. Uh-huh.
I am such a hypochondriac that when Jessica suggested that she, Wendi and I each do a post about our funerals, my first thought was "OMG, DOES SHE KNOW THAT I AM DYING?!" Because apparently in addition to being a mom, blogger and an actress, Jessica is now a part-time psychic who breaks the news of horrific ailments to other bloggers by email.
After I took my Paranoia-Be-Gone pill, however, I thought a little more about the assignment and realized that although I'd devoted a large part of my life to hypochondriazation, I had completely neglected to obsess over my own funeral. Needless to say, I was grateful for the opportunity to set that right.
I got the easy part out of the way first. I would like to be taxidermied and placed in a strategic place in our apartment. Preferably near the refrigerator, so that my family may remember me in my natural habitat.
If possible, I'd like my favorite TV shows played in a continuous loop, because what if the ancient Egyptians were right and I’ll be just in another place, without cable?
As for the service itself, I know what I don't want--I don't want a party where everyone has a lot of fun and remembers my life. Fuck that. I don't give a shit about parties unless either I am there or a celebrity is. And the only way that a celebrity will be at my funeral is if Lohan runs me over and is forced to attend to show her probation officer that she can do remorseful.
I also don't want a lot of music, because I'll probably be en route to harp lessons myself, and too many extraneous melodies will distract me.
Speeches? Eh. I've heard my nearest and dearest and believe me, I don't need to hear them again and neither do you. So, the bottom line is, to quote Yogi Berra, "surprise me." If I don't like what you've all come up with, I'll blog about it on my new blog--Motherhood in NYC and The Great Beyond. I’ll be running Google Ads there, because I figure over the course of eternity, I’ll probably get the fifty bucks.
(And yes, I know that I totally cheated with this post. But your pointing it out is really disrespectful to the dead.)
Shhh, mommy! You're too loud! Those people over there are looking at us.
Just eat your popcorn, Sam. It's almost time for the talking squirrel movie to start.
It's a talking dog movie, mommy.
Whatever. All I know is I'm facing 72 minutes of animated hell.
What?
Man, I wish I'd smuggled in a six-pack with us today. Now THAT would have been a genius move. In fact, that's the only way my friend Karen kept herself from taking a cyanide pill during "Space Chimps". Maybe there's a liquor store that delivers...like a 1-800-WineNow place? Nah. There's probably some obscure "law" that bans bringing alcohol into a kid's movie, anyway. Stupid MPAA. Although, maybe that pimply kid manning the popcorn machine is holding. Lord knows those dark circles had to come from SOMETHING illegal, so...
What are you saying? Just that this movie is going to be AWESOME!
Shhhh! Those people are looking at us again.
OK, OK. Let's be quiet. No more talking.
OK, no talking. HEY, MOMMY--WHO'S THAT GIRL?
Shhh! Her name is Jennifer Aniston.
Jennifer Apiston?
Annn-i-ston.
Oh. Who's she?
Former sitcom star turned movie-actress. Who, if you ask me, definitely can't open a movie on her own. Probably why she's in a Christmas picture with a dog and a Wilson brother. Anyway, Jennifer once had a great haircut and was married to hottie Brad Pitt, but then he left her for that homewrecker/ humanitarian Angelina Jolie and now he's called "Brangelina" and has 15 kids who eat a lot of Cheetos. But don't worry, because Jennifer's still strong. Even though I hear she's now on-again with John Mayer, who's really kind of icky but still has some great songs if you pretend it's not him singing when you listen to them. I myself usually pretend it's the Doobie Brothers. Anyway, will Jennifer ever find true love? Will she ever have a baby? Will she ever agree to a pay-per-view cage match with Angelina? At this point, Sam, we can only hope.
Well, you look like her.
What?
I SAID, MOMMY, YOU LOOK LIKE JENNIFER ANISTON!
Shhhh! Those people over there just heard you.
Oh. Is that why they're laughing so much?
Just hand me the popcorn, Sam. I think I hear the squirrels talking.
Since I can't get everyone out there a holiday present, I'm instead treating you all to Guest Posting Fridays! YOU get a laugh! YOU get a laugh! (OK, that was bad.) (Even for me.) (I blame the accident.) For the next three Fridays, two hilarious bloggers, Jessica Bern and Marinka, will post their very funny writing on my blog. And my sort-of-funny writing will be posted on theirs. (And please excuse any formatting issues. Apparently I'm cut/paste challenged.)
Jessica is a single mother/actress/bad ass who lives in L.A. Be sure to check out her amazingly funny webisodes. She's like the female Larry David. Except she's a hell of a lot cuter and was never married to Laurie David. And Marinka lives in NYC where she gets to do glamorous things like ride the subway and dodge spitting street people. She also likes to end words in "inka" and is very, very funny every day.
Today's posts are about the cities we live in. My story, "Why Austin" can be found at both of their sites. Happy Friday!
I'M JUST NOT FEELING THE LOVE TODAY
By Jessica Bern at www.bernthis.typepad.com/bernthiscom/
Want to know of a great way to commit suicide in Los Angeles? Try standing in an empty parking spot along the side of a busy thoroughfare, lined with restaurants, at the heart of rush hour and refuse to move, no matter what.
You want a nice way to raise your blood pressure? Stand in said parking spot for over TEN MINUTES while a variety of people try to back into the space while you yell out, "You wanna park here? Fine, but you're going to have to run me over first!"
You want to know how many people in Los Angeles care when you tell them you're holding the spot because you're trying to help out a friend with two small children? ZERO.
You want to know how many people in Los Angeles care when you switch your reason to "a friend with two small children and advanced Multiple Sclerosis" because you are now becoming afraid that the whole "then you're going to have to run me over" line is becoming less of a threat and more of an impending reality? ZERO.
This really happened to me the other day.
First, there was the gal in the Jeep Cherokee. She didn't put up much of a fight, I'll grant you, but did take a moment to call me a stupid c&$*t before driving away, all without ever getting off of her cell phone.
Then there was the man who pulled up and then just sat at the wheEl and glared at me for what felt like forever. I can't tell you exactly what kind of car he was in, but I do remember feeling this rush of joy because I finally came face to face with someone who actually drives a bigger piece of crap than I do.
After that came the old lady in her Jaguar with the handicap sign hanging from her rearview mirror. I honestly told myself that if she started to back in, the spot was hers. This is exactly the type that you read about in the paper, you know the ones who drive through a storefront, killing everyone inside because they could have sworn they put the car in reverse.
The best (worst) of them all was the Prius. The car was filled with girls in their twenties. At first, the driver slowly backed in and didn't stop until her bumper was a mere couple of feet from me. I only know this because, although I had my back to them and refused to turn around, Phoebe, who was standing on the sidewalk at the time, yelled out, "Mommy, they're coming!" I'm guessing, after realizing that my kid was right there, they actually grew a conscience, which is why they finally drove away, but of course not before tossing a dollar out the window and yelling, "Get a f&#*ing babysitter."
"We are the World, We are the Children, We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let's start giving..." Yeah, right.
For the past twenty years, I've lived in various apartment buildings in NYC, most of which had a doorman. If you're thinking that I have some nerve asking for sympathy while being lucky enough to live in doorman buildings, that's probably because you have vastly underestimated my capacity for whining.
As most New Yorkers will tell you, doormen are a great convenience. The mailman leaves your package with the doorman so that you don't have to go to the post office, the doorman announces your visitors so that you are not rudely interrupted by random downstairs buzzing with a "Yo, crack whore, I'm here!" and he provides necessary gossip about your neighbors so you don't have to spend valuable time snooping. And yet, for me, it's mostly a safety issue. Somehow, having a man who is roughly the size of my thigh in the lobby of my building is a source of great comfort for me. For some reason, the fact that anyone over the age of 4 could best him in a jostle does not alarm me. I suspect that the reason is that I'm an idiot.
No question, it's a luxury, but with a hefty price. Although there are as many types of doormen as there are snowflakes, in my two decades of apartment living, I have met only a handful of doormen who are not suffering from a back injury so debilitating that they are unable to lift anything heavier than an envelope with their Christmas tip. So they cannot help you with your grocery bags and please, don't even mention your suitcases. You're lucky they can lift their own donuts.
But you know what's more annoying than the doorman who won't carry your bags for you? The one who insists on carrying your bag, no matter how tiny and no matter how mortifying the contents (hello, Tampon-cum-Vibrator!) (Which, by the way, is Latin. Veni, Vidi, Vici, y'all) to the elevator, ripping the package out of your hands in an effort to be helpful. Yes, this does happen more frequently as we approach the holiday season, why do you ask?
My favorite doorman had a habit of pressing my floor button once I got into the elevator, assuming, apparently, that I am either senile and don't remember where I live or that I am one of those morons who thought that the elevator was voice-activated or would know intuitively where to take me without any direction on my part. Sometimes he pressed the wrong floor, so that I got to stop and check in on my neighbors.
Of course, what annoys me most about doormen is not their fault. Throughout the day, I am constantly in and out of the building--to take the kids to school, to get coffee, to get a snack, to get another snack, to run errands, and another snack never hurt anyone. Every time I pass through the lobby, there's the inevitable small talk.
"Have a great day!" the doorman will say.
"I'm coming back soon!" I'll say, because have a great day implies that I'll be gone for the entire day and I don't want there to be any misunderstandings between us.
"OK! See you later!"
"Alright, but I don't know how much later. I have to go to the dry cleaners and stop at the gym. I may be gone for awhile."
"I'll be here!" he says.
"I also have to go to the library. I don't know, I may be late. Maybe after your shift ends. Have a great night, if I miss you."
"OK."
"But I may be back immediately, I can't predict these things."
"OK."
Obviously, I am completely exhausted by this exchange and have to go right back upstairs for a brisk nap. Fortunately, the doorman is right there to press the elevator button for me. Because that's luxury.
As some of you know, last week I completely disqualified myself from ever appearing on "Top Chef" when I splashed my face with hot oil while trying to cook a chicken. It wasn't one of my finest moments in the kitchen, to say the least. (And, just for the record, the evil chicken in question was actually frozen at the time of the incident. Not alive. I'm not into organic food that much.)
(Or voodoo.)
But as a result of my amazing ineptitude, I was left with a lovely array of first and second-degree burns on the left side of my face, including my eyelid and my neck. It was nasty. It was painful. And it made me look like I should be out somewhere haunting an opera. And although all I wanted to do was just get under the covers and pout for a few days, unfortunately, it was Thanksgiving, so I instead had to get up, dust myself off and put my Vicodin back in the medicine cabinet until the day comes when I will once again be in dire need of it. Like the next time I have a c-section or a parent/teacher conference or something.
Anyway, despite the fact that I spent the weekend slouching around with a giant lavender bucket hat on my head that made me look like a butch Woody Allen, as of today, everything has healed very nicely and my skin now looks like it's back to normal. Well, actually, it looks better than normal. It looks fantastic. Seriously, the left side of my face is now smoother than a baby's bottom and the wrinkles, age spots and dryness have all but disappeared for good. Something that no expensive spa treatment has ever been able accomplish in all my years of trying. Which has me thinking--do you suppose Estee Lauder would be interested in hearing about my new Age-Defying Wrinkle-Reversing Glow-Inducing Hot-Chicken-And-Grease beauty treatment?
Yeah. Neither do I.
And that's why I'm planning on making dinner in the microwave from now on.
(Thanks to everyone for all of the sweet comments and e-mails last week. I really, truly appreciate the concern and promise to not get hurt again. At least for a couple of days.)
