Christmas is a Feeling

And I have very strong feelings about it. Specifically, about Christmas music.

Some of you may recall that I previously discussed my all-consuming hatred of the use of “My Favorite Things” as a Christmas song. That hasn’t changed a bit, but I’d like to talk about some more traditional music.

Caveat: I’m not getting into the modern stuff. If you get me going on “Christmas Shoes” my head will explode, and then Christmas will be ruined for my family and it will be all your fault.

I love traditional Christmas songs. Mostly. However, every year one or two songs come up in my rotation that just make me feel…well, stabby.

Today’s offender: “I Saw Three Ships.” I know! I must be some sort of crazy person to hate that song, right? Well, sort of. We all know I’m some sort of crazy person, but I have a legitimate reason for hating this song. Namely, it makes no sense. Behold:

I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas day, on Christmas day
I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas day in the morning.

And what was in those ships all three?
On Christmas day, on Christmas day
And what was in those ships all three?
On Christmas day in the morning.

Our Savior, Christ, and His Lady,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day
Our Savior, Christ, and His Lady,
On Christmas day in the morning.

Pray, whither sailed those ships all three?
On Christmas day, on Christmas day
Pray, whither sailed those ships all three?
On Christmas day in the morning.

O, they sailed to Bethlehem,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day
O, they sailed to Bethlehem,
On Christmas day in the morning.

Now, I’m going to stop right there and have a little geography refresher course.

Now, if you can tell me just how, exactly, someone sailed into Bethlehem, I might change my opinion. Although it still won’t convince me that any woman wants to get on a boat shortly after giving birth.

If I actually remember, in the next few days I’ll discuss the common Christmas song that Car and I fondly refer to as “the date rape song.”

I know! You can hardly wait, can you?

Happy Halloween, Sinners!

Tonight I clicked a link to a Halloween Chick tract. Chick tracts are, as best I can tell, cartoon gospel tracts meant to be used by evangelical Christians. Approximately 2 hours later, I knew I had to share with you guys. Seriously, it’s like going down the rabbit hole. When you start reading these things, you may never come back. You think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. They’re like crack. Hilarious, overzealous crack.

Here’s a little summary for you:

Sure, Halloween seems all fun and crap, but really, it’s a pagan holiday masterminded by Satan, who’s trying to snatch away your eternal soul. And yes, you may be frickin’ Mother Teresa, but unless you actually say “I accept you into my life, Jesus,” it sucks to be you, because you’re headed straight for Hell. THE END.

Anyway. You really need to check these things out. Just don’t start drinking that Kool-Aid, because then we can’t be friends anymore.

FYI: Here we have a perfect example of how not to comfort your child when his best friend is hit by a car:

And yes, this does all remind me of the “Hilloween” episode of King of the Hill. If you’ve seen it, you know exactly what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, you can Google it, or go on with your merry life blissfully unaware.

I realize this post is a little bit…manic. Life is a little off-kilter right now, but this made me giggle enough that I had to share.

Just remember, kids – the truly frightening people are the ones who give out religious tracts instead of candy.

THE END.

Today I Read

So shalt thou rest: and what if thou withdraw

In silence from the living, and no friend

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe

Will share thy destiny.

~ William Cullen Bryant

 

This afternoon I read on Facebook that a friend’s sister died, and I was sad. 18-year-olds shouldn’t die, but life isn’t fair.

This evening I had dinner with a friend who has cancer. People shouldn’t have cancer, but life isn’t fair.

After dinner I was skimming the past month of obituaries as I occasionally do. It’s a morbid occupational hazard, you know—checking to see if any of my pharmacy customers have died.

Tonight I read your obituary.

I assume you overdosed, though it’s also possible your heart simply gave out after years of drug abuse. There’s no way to know for sure.

It’s pouring rain outside as I write this.

I don’t know how to feel.

The thing is, I felt an abnormal closeness to you but I didn’t particularly like you. You talked about yourself too much. You made references that felt vaguely like come-ons. Hell, I stopped going to a support group that you attended simply because I wasn’t comfortable with you.

I think I feel melancholy, but I’m just not sure. How do I feel melancholy when I didn’t even like you?

I remember once you told me that before drug tests, you would stop at a gas station and cath yourself with urine from a clean donor. It was so clear to me you had a serious problem, and I couldn’t understand how you didn’t see that. You felt clever because you were able to outsmart the system.

Clever, clever.

Dead.

You were an incredibly bright man to do such incredibly dumb things, but you loved the thrill of outsmarting the system.

Now I see it. I recognize myself in you. I see the awful, shameful truth: I want to be smarter than everyone around me. I want to prove that I’m better.

Because that will make me worthy.

Oh, Mike. I’m sorry I disliked you because we were too similar.

I’m so sad for you.

I’m so sad for me.

Today I read your obituary and I want you to know that I feel the aching loss of you.

Preschool Picasso

So Little G is going to preschool. I know. Actually, he’s going to two different preschools, which is pretty awesome. (For me!)

Anyway, on Tuesday he brought home something he made in preschool #2. I’m not exaggerating when I say I almost dropped it when I pulled it out of his bag:

Hold me. I’m so very afraid.

So then I was really depressed and Car decided to go camping.

Hey, remember when we went camping last year and didn’t get eaten by bears? Yeah, that was awesome. Good news! I took my notebook again.

5:20 pm Oh, hi. We’re going camping again, because Car hates me. Ha! I kid! Sort of. Somehow we managed to leave even later than last year, which is pretty pathetic.

Car has attempted to stop the never-ending stream of chatter from the back seat by introducing the quiet game. Little G lost after about 30 seconds. Big G is still going strong three minutes in, but now he’s taken to tapping me on the shoulder incessantly. That’s not at all annoying.

5:24 pm Little G: “Pandas hide in the forest. Mountain pandas!”

5:25 pm Ah, crap. Big G gave up.

5:27 pm Little G: “This is what we call a mountain!”

Big G: “No, this is a hill.”

5:28 pm Big G (as we wind our way up the “hill”): “I’m afraid of heights.”

Little G: “Me too!”

Thanks for sharing with your little brother, anxiety boy.

5:30 pm Little G: “Why do leaves change color?”

Me: “Because it’s getting colder.”(What, you expected some big science-y explanation? Silly people.)

Little G: “When it gets colder will they turn blue?

5:32 pm Big G: “OH! BIG WILD COWS!”

5:36 pm 7000 feet up. Looking down into the valley I can easily see why Little G’s asthma has been acting up lately. That’s some nasty air.

5:41 pm Big G: “A lot more wild cows! That’s what I call cool!”

5:45 pm Are you kidding me?

6:15 pm The camp hosts have made us feel very welcome by informing us that badgers have been spotted in the area. I managed to resist saying, “Badgers? We don’t need no stinkin’ badgers!” I also didn’t make any honey badger jokes. All y’all should be so proud of me.

The Gs quickly made friends with the camp hosts’ granddaughter.

6:45 pm I just heard the plucking of a guitar being tuned. The people at the campsite next to us have a guitar. Kill me now.

6:45 pm YOU GUYS. If you take your dog camping, it should probably stop barking at some point so the people in neighboring campsites don’t kill you.

Man make fire!

8:30 pm My phone’s battery has died, and along with it, a little piece of my soul.

9:25 pm Big G asked me to tell a scary story by the campfire. My story: “When I was a little girl, my parents woke me up, packed up the car…and took me camping!”

9:30 pm Big G: “You know, the packing and your parents taking you camping—that’s not what I call a scary story. That’s what I call boring.”

9:35 pm Big G, hands full of marshmallows: “Look how happy I am!”

9:40 pm Little G: “Is it time to go to bed?” Me: “Are you tired?” Little G: “Yes! Let’s go to bed!”

9:45 pm Big G: “I’m really tired, mom.”

9:46 pm Big G: “It’s really dark, mom. I don’t like how dark it is.”

9:47 pm Big G: “Dad, can I have some more chocolate?” Chocolate fixes everything, people.

9:49 pm Big G: “Dad, should we go seeking for creatures tonight?” Sure, buddy. How about some badgers?

9:50 pm Car adds another piece of wood to the fire and says, “Oh, that’s a big one!” My brain automatically adds, “That’s what she said!”

9:52 pm Me, as I start my 4th page of notes: “Apparently camping is good for my writing.”

Big G: “Why, mom?”

Me: “Because there’s nothing else for me to do.”

9:54 pm Little G insists there’s a story about him and Tigger running away from a ghost. Big G: “That’s a made-up story.” Thank you, Captain Obvious.

3:45 am If I pee in the woods and nobody is there to hear it, did it actually happen? I say no.

3:50 am I might be sitting in the car, writing and charging my phone. SHUT UP MY BACK HURTS AND I HATE CAMPING.

I forgot to bring a Pull-Up and a diaper. I have one boy who’s incredibly paranoid he’s going to pee during the night (totally valid) and another who swears he won’t pee in his underwear (probably true). The only dream I recall tonight involves Little G pooping in his underwear. Thanks, subconscious!

Partway through the night, Big G woke up and panicked because HE COULDN’T TOUCH ME AND WHERE WAS HIS MOM? Folks, we have a six-person tent. If you know anything about tents, you know that two adults and two kids basically max it out if you have any regard for personal space. I was probably about six inches away from him. The horror!

4:00 am I really don’t want to go back to the tent.

4:06 am My phone claims it’s at 77% battery. My phone is a lying sack of crap.

4:15 am Car: “Something something didn’t bring ibuprofen blah blah.” Whatever, dude. You’re the one who wanted to sleep somewhere other than our bed.

4:18 am I’m on page five of notes. Misery is so inspiring!

4:27 am My phone now says it’s at 68% battery. LYING USELESS PIECE OF HOOEY. I’ve decided to go back to the tent to face my fate. Vaya con Dios, me.

7:53 am I’m happy to report there were no potty accidents last night, and this morning the boys quite gladly peed on trees.

Also this morning: I turned on my phone and it’s at 1% battery. My phone is the son of a whore.

8:03 am I am too cold to drink Dr. Pepper. Is this what death feels like?

10:43 am The people are few campsites over have decided everyone enjoys loud country music. They are incorrect. Car has decided this is a sign it’s time for us to pack up our stuff.

10:45 am The campsite across from us has countered with ukulele-accompanied Death Cab for Cutie.

10:49 am …And there goes a car alarm. Ah, nature.

That’s the end of my notes. I’m sure you’re relieved. On our way home, the car in front of us hit and killed a squirrel. Not exactly the best way to end our trip, but—sing it with me—it’s the Circle of Life.

*Oh, hi. So I stopped blogging for a while. I kind of missed you guys! Did you miss me? Please say yes, if only to stroke my ego.

Jeepers Creepers

Actual text conversation yesterday:

Me: Little G informs me he’s going to use his new binoculars to “spy on baby Ian’s mom.” Little Creeper!

Me: If it makes you feel any better, it’s so he can find out what you’re getting Ian for his birthday.

Me: That child is getting cut off from Curious George.

Rachel: Hahahahaha! Holy crap, that’s hilarious.

Rachel: Aren’t you proud of your little peeping tom?

Me: Very.

Me: FYI, You’re getting baby Ian a very big big big box. Inside that box? A blue go-cart.

Rachel: Good to know!

Me: You really ought to get him something more age-appropriate. What is WRONG with you?

♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦

We visited my brother in St. George and just got back yesterday. This morning Little G said, “I miss my uncle.”

Awwww.

“I miss your uncle too, but he’ll be visiting soon.”

“No, my other uncle.”

“Which uncle, buddy?” Car has six brothers, so saying his “other uncle” wasn’t necessarily unreasonable.

“My uncle in the mountains.”

I stopped and thought about every one of Little G’s uncles. “You don’t have an uncle who lives in the mountains.”

He looked at me as if my IQ had suddenly dropped 80 points. “Yes I do. My uncle in the mountains. I go and visit him. He lives in a cave in the mountains.”

Dude.

“Little G, you don’t have an uncle who lives in a cave. If you’ve been visiting someone in a cave in the mountains something is very wrong.”

This, of course, prompted a five-minute dialogue on his visits to his uncle in the cave in the mountains, including all the animals he’d seen. (Fun fact: there are apparently flamingos in the cave in the mountains!)

Oh, Little G. You adorably creepy boy. Never, ever change.

The Best Phone Survey Ever

I know, it sounds impossible. How can a great phone survey exist? And how did I stay on the phone long enough to find out?

I have no good answer to either question, but I believe the following were contributing factors:

1. I have a freakish sense of humor and am far too easily amused.
2. Their phone system lacked the usual long pause that warns me I must immediately hang up.
3. I was trying to get rid of her and told her the youngest male in the home over 18 was unavailable.
4. I was thus unprepared when she asked for the youngest female in the home over 18. (Me: “Crap! If I use the same excuse twice, she’ll know I’m lying!“)
5. I was too tired to come up with another excuse.
6. I am—as a general rule—too polite to simply hang up on someone once I’ve made verbal contact. I make the rare exception when I’ve firmly told someone to go away and he or she just keeps talking.

Anyway.

The woman started by asking a question about Walmart, and then one about Target. Once we established that I’m a Target fangirl and think Walmart can suck it, she moved into the bulk of the survey.

Oh, Walmart. Just give up, already. Phone surveys to find out what people think of you? Just Google it.

Now, I was very honest. From the get-go I told her that I couldn’t possibly be impartial because I used to work for Walmart. She didn’t care, because that wasn’t in her script. Fair enough. Then she asked me all sorts of questions about whether I thought Walmart was a) better than chocolate or b) a minion of Satan.

I was thoroughly bored and about to ask just how much longer she was planning to test my patience, BUT THEN. It went a little something like this:

Survey monkey: “There have been some stories about Walmart’s operations in Mexico in the news lately…blah blah blah…corporate officers bribing Mexican officials….blah blah…have you heard any of these?”

Me: (because I apparently live in a cave) “Nope.”

Survey monkey: “From what I’ve told you about this story, does it make your opinion of Walmart more or less favorable?”

Me: “Wait, what? Does bribing Mexican officials make me like Walmart more or less? That’s, like, the best question ever.“

Survey monkey: “So…more or less favorable?”

Me: *giggling* “Yeah, I’m going to have to go with less favorable.”

Survey monkey: “Would you say it’s a little less favorable ormuch less favorable?”

Me: *snorting with laughter* “Much less favorable.”

Survey monkey: “Now I have some questions simply for demographic purposes…”

That was two hours ago and I’m still giggling. Thank you, dear survey monkey, for doing your thankless job tonight. You made my day.

*I think next week I might blog every day to try to get back in the habit. Remind me about that, won’t you? I’ll probably forget in the next three days.

**I now understand why people don’t sign their kids up for lots of sports. Soccer was entertaining enough, but watching kindergarteners play T-ball? I’m not saying it’s on par with watching paint dry, but it’s no trip to Disneyland.

***Speaking of watching paint dry, still no diagnosis for Big G…

So Tell Me

Little G turns four in 15 days. I know. Don’t ask me where the time went—I’m as stumped as you. Today I got an email from Fisher-Price, because of course they want me to buy his birthday gifts from them.

Question: Do all children now magically turn into girls when they turn four? Because that’s kind of the vibe I’m getting here:

*Still no final diagnosis for Big G. Just waiting, waiting. All the time waiting. Losing my mind waiting…

**Also, I’m sick again, because the universe hates me.

***It’s possible I’m slightly depressed.

****But that’s okay. I’m going to plant a garden.

*****I realize that’s not at all related. I just felt like saying it.

******Plus I have to plan a party for a four-year-old, so I don’t really get to sit around moping. Dammit.

*******Is it really spelled “dammit” and not “damnit”? That doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what the WordPress proofreader claims.

********Why do I suddenly trust the WordPress proofreader? The sickness must be eating my brain! I must immediately take to my sickbed!

Because Today I Can’t Dwell on the Sad

This week sucks. I wish I had a poetic way to phrase that—something that would really resonate with you—but when I try to think it through, I remember that I’ve cried every day this week (multiple times on some days) and I’m overwhelmed by the sad and I can’t deal with that right now. I won’t deal with that right now.

Here’s what I’m going to do instead: I’m going to tell you a funny story about my day today. I’m telling you this story because I need to remember that something made me smile today.

I especially need to remember that Big G made me smile today.

Background: We’re nearing a diagnosis for Big G. It will likely be high-functioning autism or pervasive developmental disorder, not otherwise specified (PPD-NOS). Both are considered autism spectrum disorders. One of the ways this presents in Big G is his very literal mind. Figurative speech and sarcasm are pretty much lost on him.

Yeah. You read that right. I have a kid that doesn’t get sarcasm. It’s all good, though. I’m only a little bit sarcastic. (You know, kind of like the Grand Canyon is just a little fissure in the rock.)

Anyway, today we were having lunch and Little G started whining that he needed someone to take the crusts off his sandwich. (Little G is going through a serious whining phase. It’s awesome.) “Take them off yourself,” I told him.

“But it’s sooooo hard!” he whined.

“Oh, honey. Do I need to do it for you? Are your arms broken? How terrible for you! I had no idea your arms were broken! I’ll take those crusts off right away!”

At this point Big G felt the need to step in. “Mom,” he said, with utter seriousness, “I think he’s trying to tell you that the crusts are hard to take off. I don’t think his arms are actually broken.”

I started giggling. “Thanks, Big G. I appreciate the heads-up.”

It’s good that Little G has a big brother who looks out for him.

*My mantra for the week: I love my children. They are not minions of Satan sent to torment me.

Special Delivery

YOU GUYS.

Yesterday kind of sucked. I’m out of my magical ADD pills and my children, as best I can tell, are minions of Satan (today is obviously going well).

BUT THEN? Car brought home free pizza prepared by the Son of Almighty God.

To make my night even better, Car and I had this conversation:

Car: “How are you going to blog about this without being sacrilegious?”

Me: *chortle*

Car: “Oh. Right.”

Seriously, it’s like for a brief moment he forgot who he was married to.

For the next hour, every time I glanced at the pizza box, I burst into giggles and Car just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Next up: Chinese food from Elijah the prophet. Hey, a girl can dream!

*I will forever be bitter about how sacrilegious is spelled. It’s just wrong.

**The pizza wasn’t that great. You’d think Jesus would have the power to make fabulous pizza.

***Would it be inappropriate to make a joke here about Jews making lousy Italian food?

****Probably.

*****I just checked with my Jewish friend Meredith, and she says the joke is fine, but for the record she makes excellent pizza.

******I assume Meredith speaks for all Jews. It’s only fair since she does the same with Mormons and me. It’s cool. I’d rather she think I speak for Mormons than, say, Mitt Romney.

*******Hahahaha! I kid!

********Maybe.