Be warned...

Now that it's all over, and I actually pulled it off, I feel like it's safe to tell you that I signed up for this craziness in November:This is actually my 46th post in December, and I bet my drunk ass will have one more coming tonight. My drunk head. If I manage to get my ass drunk, I think I'll have a bit of soul-searching to do.

And now that I have gone since October 28th with at least one post a day (it's quantity, not so much quality, they're going for) I can also tell you that I signed up for even more fabulous fun.As much as I'd love to say all 365 glorious, witty, and mildly questionable posts will show up here, I imagine that at some point in the near future I will get a job have a torrid love affair join a playgroup take up drinking get a freaking life already. My hope is to post one picture every day of my sweet, lovely, clean, pleasant children* on My Own Private Idaho.

I hope that explains why you have been forced to listen to such an astonishing amount of pure dribble from me, or at least warns you to delete me from your readers before tomorrow, when I'm going to hit it. Hard.

*If you're buying that, I have some beach-front property in Denver I'm looking to unload, too.

Craigslist - Crazy goodness

After calling every kid in the neighborhood over the age of 12 to babysit, and getting shot down repeatedly, I did the thing I never thought I'd do....I went hunting for teenaged girls on the internet. My husband was flat out afraid of the whole situation. He wanted to interview someone and have her over for dinner first and get a list of references and perhaps know her blood type first.

I reminded him that if I can manage to not drown these kids, anyone can do it.

I got a lot of replies to my ad. Some were definite no's. Anyone who uses texting type in an email automatically gets bumped. Anyone who types in ALL CAPS gets bumped, too. If you are 52 years old, I'm just not going to hire you to babysit. Nanny, maybe. Babysit on the fly, no way. I've seen the Cat in the Hat. I know about these things.

For someone who was desperate, I sure do have a lot of conditions.

Anyway, it just so happened to work out that a 13 year old responded to the ad, who just so happens to live on the same street as me, who just so happens to have a little sister who goes to school with my kids.

HIRED.

She rocked, and wasn't nervous, and was CPR and sitter certified, which makes her more qualified to be alone with these kids than I am, and the kids were great to her, and I left her out some cream puffs, and she is now my Regular Sitter.

Squee!

We went out with a lady that works for Josh and her husband and their 4 friends. Of course, we went to the restaurant they work at for dinner, which was crazy fancy fun for me and another night at work for him. Still, they make excellent martinis, so it all worked out fine and I may have ever-so-subtly propositioned the man sitting next to me at the table. Vodka is my baby-making drink. Bygones.

And hey! Thanks to you all for offering to sit for me. I have saved, tagged and starred every one of those comments and you can rest assured that I WILL call on you someday. Get those passports ready. I am SICK of these kids.

Which one?

The Question is this:

Would you call us for a job, or would you call child services?

Rate the Hate Version Last Minute

See, I skip one little week and I totally forget the one structured thing on this blog. Bad, naughty, evil blogger.

So, yes, Santa loves me and brought me every stinking thing on my list. I wrote a long list because I usually write short lists (cheap) and Santa is left to his own powers of deduction to figure out gifts for me, which usually end up being too-small sweaters. Santa thinks I am much hotter than I actually am. This year, I figured I would help Santa out by giving him lots of options. Some of them were quite expensive options. I really crossed my fingers and hoped for one of those items to show up under my tree with all my new titty-shirts. They all did. Except the vacuum. Santa has issues with giving vacuums, and I really can't blame him.

I'm going somewhere with this, really. One of those items was this, the Cuisinart Grill thingy they came out with not too long ago. I saw it on t.v. and had to spend a few minutes "alone". Seriously, sha-wing. It is my new boyfriend and we totally messed around the other night.Those are ham and cheese paninis. Leftover Christmas ham may just be the greatest food in the universe. Ham and cheese paninis are in no way remarkable, but here's where it gets good.

2of3 hates ham. I may disown him over this, but it is true. I hate bacon, so I can't judge too harshly. Ham and cheese paninis do not work for him, so I came up with a fast alternative. The paninis are just ham, sharp white cheddar, deli mustard and mayo on ciabatta. The sandwich next to that, though, is all the same minus the ham and plus a sliced apple.

That's right; a Braeburn apple.

Seriously? This sandwich is so good I could DIE. So, ciabatta bread, good mustard, mayo, white cheddar (not the sliced crap, get the good deli stuff), sliced crisp apples; throw it all on a panini press. If you don't have one, well, if you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up. They rock so bad it hurts.

Sorry, Ron

I am screwing with the blog again. This time, however, I brought in the big guns. I hired a professional. A hot professional. More on that, and her, later.

In the meantime, I have to figure out how I want this thing to feel. I most definitely want to add a FAQ section, in the interest of cleaning up some clutter. The problem is that, aside from some incomprehensible Tron conversations and a rather embarrassing round of emails that included fetishes, handcuffs and vertically challenged Americans, no one has really ever asked me a question. Like, ever.

This is where you come in, dear readers. I want an FAQ, I need and FAQ. So here's the deal. You get to ask me any questions you want. Any. I don't really have personal boundaries, per se, so ask away. I will do my best to dance around a straightforward answer as humanly possible. The most inappropriate frequently asked ones will get slapped in my fancy new Frequently Asked Vaguely Answered Questions section.

Sounds totally awesome, doesn't it? Get crackin', kids.

Dear God in Heaven

I need your help.

See, a few years ago, I sat my kids down to watch Cloak and Dagger. I appreciate that my kids could never, ever understand what the hell an Atari 2600 is, but still, they could've liked the movie if they just opened their minds up to it. They didn't, and it caused a bit of a rift in the family.

Next, I tried Explorers. No luck there, either. Is it possible that both of my children were mistakenly switched at birth?

I thought that perhaps they were a bit too young for such awesomeness, so I waited a little and then, well, and then I pulled out my Trump Card. Yes, that's right, we snuggled up and with ice cream AND popcorn, we watch The Goonies. I was sure this was going to Do The Trick. We were going to be eternally bonded in the ties of holy Goontramony.

Not. So.

Who hates the Goonies? My idiot children, that's who.

I waited more, and prayed to you for an answer, and the answer came to me with trumpets and rainbows and bright, shining light. The Princess Bride.

Duh.

We went in again, this time with even better snackage, but it was no use. Pokemon and grand Theft Auto have rotted the taste receptors in their brains. I almost mailed them to the South Pacific that night.

Tonight, dear lord, tonight I am desperate. I wanted to wait a little longer for this one, but I am at the end of my rope here, and I thought maybe, just maybe, it would work. If it doesn't, I don't know what I'm going to do. I might have to rent them out or list them on eBay or something.

So, if, in your infinite wisdom, you see fit to help a girl out, a girl who has said some rather questionable things about you in the past, I would be grateful. Please, Lord, please let them like Labyrinth*.

*Oddly enough, even as I type this, I am asking myself if this movie is all I cracked it up to be. Maybe it's just because I've seen Jennifer Connelly naked, and now she's not a plausible theater geek to me anymore. Maybe it's David Bowie's hair. Seriously, What The Fuck?

Why Canada is cooler than the USA; A Continuing Series

We have seriously better holidays than you.

Did you know that in Canada, we have TWO holidays in December? That's right, two. And they are right next to each other. First, you get Christmas, the day to buy Jesus a bunch of birthday presents and then regift them to your spoiled children. And then, the very next day, you get Boxing Day. The whole point of Boxing Day is to get your over-stimulated, sugar-crazed, sticky kids in the car and go commune with your fellow Canucks at, you guessed it, the mall. It's National Shopping Day, and the Post Office closes for it. The entire country goes on sale. You get to go buy all the stuff you didn't get under your tree. Cheap. Crazy cheap. Day after Thanksgiving on crack cheap.

For example, you could pick up 9 CD's for the price of, oh, 4.You could buy yourself a bag full of new sweaters because your fat ass A) needs to break up with Tim Horton's and B) won't fit in any of your totally awesome old ones.You could get yourself a new phone, the phone your wife tried for two months to get you, but since she's spent the last ten years as a stay-at-home-mom who's husband takes care of everything, she doesn't exactly exist in the world of credit, and straight out buying the phone was, like, twice her entire budget for you.I'd show you the actual phone, but he can't stop making out with it yet. You could return the very nice, fancy, totally awesome coffee pot you got under the tree that had nothing at all wrong with it except that it failed in every way to work, and exchange it for some very cute glassware that Good Lordy you needed so very, very much.And when you're all done torturing your poor children by dragging them all over the mall, you could get them something, too. Like jeans, because Santa brought excellent sweaters but it never even occurred to him that boys like to wear more than boxers with their new tops. And you could buy your baby some new clothes, too,
because as you can plainly see, she doesn't havenearly enoughas it is.But, be warned: if your baby, who you are shopping for, happens to be the youngest of 3 and the only girl, you would do well to closely inspect those new footie jammies before you pick them up. (Sweet, aren't they?) And maybe chant a few times, "We have a girl. We have a girl." Because even though she really likes skateboards and worms and stuff, she might prefer rainbows on her new jammies over trucks.And if you do get away with the trucks, which you will, someone, someday, is bound to raise an eyebrow to the footballs.Yeah, America, you so totally need to steal this holiday. It may be the coolest holiday in the whole wide world.

Sucker for the pretty girls

It is (was) exactly 1:57 in the A.M. and I am sitting here with a two year old that could not, for anything in the whole world, go one more minute without her high heeled shoes and Dora's World Adventure.

Gah.

Here's hoping the big ol' slab of peanut butter bread knocks her the hell out the way it would me. Or at least glues her tongue to her mouth so I don't have to listen to her screams. Either way, really.

So, while I sit here missing some hot Donnie Darko action going on in my bedroom (we're WILD like that), I thought I'd do this little Hoopla that a ridiculously hot chick who likes to call herself Judith tagged me for. I thought I'd also make this my Thursday Thirteen. Lazy much? Before I do that, though, I have to do this. There's this new blog that I read by a guy named Dan, and Dan has a meme rule that he will do any meme you send his way as long as you first link to a blog that you think is better than yours. I agree with that rule, and I am going to propagate it. Dan, consider yourself linked.

'Da Rules:
1. List 12 13 random things about yourself that have to do with Christmas
2. Please refer to it as a ‘hoopla’ and not the dreaded ‘m’-word
3. You have to specifically tag people when you’re done. None of this “if you’re reading this, consider yourself tagged” stuff is allowed…then nobody ends up actually doing it. The number of people who you tag is really up to you — but the more, the merrier to get this ‘hoopla’ circulating through the Blog-o-sphere.
4. Please try and do it as quickly as possible. The Christmas season will be over before we know it.

Ok, I'm going to try this. I don't think I have 12 things, let alone 13, but we'll see.

1. This was supposed to be The Preface, but I have 11 more to go, and I need the ammo. I didn't celebrate Christmas as a kid. Yes, most of you know that I was lucky enough to be raised in one of the more awesome pseudo-Judaeo-Christian cults, the one where we didn't celebrate Christmas. It's no biggie, really; I mean, who needs silly old Christmas when you have birthdays the Easter Bunny Halloween your wedding anniversary Sex! that isn't missionary. Well, that turned depressing...



2. Not celebrating Christmas, I never believed in Santa. AND I always knew that Christ wasn't born in December. AND I knew that Christmas was flat out stolen from the Pagans. But I was told to never, ever tell this to people, which really counters everything my "Fun Happy Group of Friends" was all about. I guess, even though Christmas was pure evil, even those guys understood the magic of Christmas. For other people. NEVER for us. Cheap bastards. And I never did spill the beans, by the way, even though I thought it was mind-numbingly stupid.



3. Not celebrating Christmas, I also had no reason to know what day it fell on. I knew that we got out of school towards the end of December and came back in January to a bunch of classmates with cool ass shit to rub in our poor, nasty, weird faces, and so I assumed it happened sometime in-between. I was 23, and had celebrated my second Christmas, before I could remember the date.


4. I cut myself off from my congregation when I was 17, but didn't celebrate Christmas until I was 22 and pregnant. I just didn't get it. And I didn't care to.



5. I was one of those people who never replied to a kind "Merry Christmas!" from someone; I totally was all, "Thank you but I don't celebrate you evil Devil worship holiday." Well, maybe not that last bit, but I was a party pooper. And now, my big fat hypocritical ass freaking hates it when people don't say Merry Christmas back. Like the girl at the mall today, who replied with, "And a very happy holiday season to you, too!" Self-righteous bitch.



6. I get the Holiday Mascots mixed up sometimes. Like, this one time, I was trying to explain Easter to my boys and it went something like this; "So, guys, you go to bed and while you sleep, the Easter Bunny comes. He hides eggs full of toys and candy all over the house, and when you wake up, you get to find them and open them! Because he loves you and you have been so GOOD!" My husband stood back while I told this story, came up to us after, put a sad, condescending hand on my shoulder and said, "Um, that's Christmas, you dork."



7. I still, to this very day, have no idea what the story is behind the Easter Bunny.



8. And I don't care to.



9. I really, really like Christmas now. I like hiding the presents from the kids. I like the surprise in the morning. I have never once shaken a box or undone wrapping paper with razor blades to peek inside gifts. I like to wait for it.



10. I also really like all the pomp that goes into Christmas. I like(d) going and picking a tree. I liked forgetting to water it and sitting on a fire hazard for a month straight. I like hanging the freaking son-of-a-nutcracker lights. I like the candy canes and the special Hershey Kisses and wearing a Santa hat everywhere I go, no matter how inappropriate.



11. I never sang Christmas songs, even though I was in the choir my whole life, so I never learned the words. I did, however, learn all the super awful naughty words to all the crazy evil raunchy spoof songs. My kids have gotten quite an education just listening to me try and sing along to my Starbucks Christmas CD.



12. I am deathly, horridly afraid that my kids are going to stop believing in Santa. I have given myself panic attacks about it. They are 9 and 7, and one of those kids is well past his belief window, and yet they sit with hearts and minds wide open, and it is one of the few parts of them that is still small and quiet and little. They are wide eyed wondrous children come December. Thank god I'm so flipping cheap, or I think this gig would have been up a few years ago. Last Christmas, 2of3 came home and said that someone in his class told him that there was no Santa. I threw up in my mouth a little and then asked him what he thought about that. He said, and I quote, "Mom, he thinks the parents are Santa. PLEASE! You never would have spent that much money on me!"



13. I need a thirteen, for Thursday Thirteen. My favorite presents to give my kids are the stocking presents. I think I like them because they have nothing to do with the Million Dollar list. I like trying to find treasure to put in there; little charms, crystals and rocks, cool candy, all the little crap I usually yell at them for leaving all over the floor for the baby to eat. I still, however, suck a large amount of ass at the whole "Grown Up Stocking" bit. It's almost sad, really.

Is that thirteen? IT IS! I did it! And now I have to do the thing I hate most in the whole world, and that is tagging people. Hmmm, who hasn't done this? Ok, I'm totally representin' Vancouver here by tagging Huckdoll and LatteMommy and I'm tagging Kelly, too, provided she's all settled into her new old digs. I will also tag my BFF's Molly and Sarah because I bet they have awesome stories. But, you know what? Christmas is OVER, so let's kill this thing already. Mr Lady says Don't Tag Anyone Else!

Christmas Means Dinner

Dinner means death.
Death means Carnage.
Christmas means CARNAGE!

Dude, we totally ate Babe. Your favorite movie and your favorite dinner should have NOTHING in common.

After a rather freakish display of materialism love and appreciation for each family member, I got busy cooking the dinner I totally could have prepped the night before, but didn't because I chose to drink a bunch of wine instead. Bygones. We didn't have anything special, except that I borrowed recipes from people, so even that we weren't with them, their holidays could be with us, at least at our table. That makes it totally special. I made Gigi's family green beans, which were good but not nearly as good as when she makes them, and I made Leslie Dillinger's Gruyere scalloped potatoes. Holy Greasy Jumping Jesus Christ on a Popsicle Cupcake Crutch! Those are some damn delicious potatoes. Leslie, I'm stealing your recipe for myself. Gigi, I'm letting you cook next year. You bring the beans, I'll bring the cookies.

For dinner, I decided I'd try something I haven't tried before. Because I like to experiment, that's why. I thought it would be fun to try out 'Suburban Soccer Mom Martha WannaBe'. Yep, that's just about everything I rally against. But I can't fight it anymore, I like the suburbs and Martha, and soccer moms are crazy hot. And so, my normally white on white table was set with gramma's china, my dad's silver, and kitsch.Even the baby got in on the action. She has a thing for Martha. Just ask her Gramma Gigi.We had "Champagne"And since a certain Godfather has taught all of my children to toast, properly, we said "Cheers!" (or Earws!, depending on the person) 4,936 times.
We had a ham that actually didn't suck, though I expected it to, seeings how the last time I roasted a ham I was still A) less than 23 and B) single. A gorgeous bouquet of flowers capped it all off nicely, and then we ate that poor, helpless little pig.Why, yes, I DO have an enormous ring on my table, thank you for asking. That table is one bazillion years old. YOU try and keep rings from forming on it.

Dinner was lovely and quiet. We did not have to run to Gramma's and then my dad's and then Aunt Jane's and then home before bed. We didn't have to vacuum before company came over. We didn't have to put on deodorant (though maybe we should have). We had to sit on our butts and eat too much food and enjoy each other's company in a way we rarely get to in my house. It was nice, and the nice made it a little easier for us all to ditch the sad we were all feeling on our first Christmas away from everything we hold dear. The staying put was great, the staying put at Gigi's would have been heaven.

I made dessert, and I learned something.I learned that what takes you 3 days the first time may only take you two hours the second time, and that you should only substitute almonds for hazelnuts if you want your Busch de Noel to, although sweet-looking on the outside, be bitter on the inside to a freakish degree.

And then we took pictures and then we watched movies and then we were so tired one eye wouldn't stay open anymore and so we went to bed. And that was our amazing, action packed holiday. Go big or go home. Apparently, we went home.
(Nine years olds just don't take the world's best pictures)

Everything we wanted, even the front tooth

Anyone know a good maid?

Dude, my house is a WRECK. Seriously, my mother-in-law would have a conniption fit if she walked in here right now. Thank God South Africa is a really long walk from here.

We spent yesterday getting ready for the big guy, baking cookies and making food for the reindeer. Feeding the reindeer is right up there at the top of my Favorite Christmas Shit list. We made food for them from oatmeal, some left-over cereal, raisins, brown sugar, cinnamon bark and pralines. Yumma. Nummy.Then, it was cookie time. You know how I'm all 'I can't bake cookies' and you are all 'Pshaw, I totally know you can'? You are WRONG. I made Shortbread cookies, the easiest cookies in the known universe, for the kids to frost and even busted out my fancy cutters. This is how they turned out.They aren't just burnt; I managed to melt them. We scraped that idea, and thank Baby Jesus (who's home now, by the way) that mom keeps a box of mini-eclairs in the freezer. Santa got some gourmet shit from us last night.

After the milk was poured and sweet faces were made, the kids were off to bed and I wrapped like I've never wrapped before. Like it was 1999. Like a virgin. You get it. (No Molly, I haven't killed the hamsters yet. Patience, dude.) That closet full of presents turned into a pile of boxes so large, I wished I had a bigger tree. And I have a big motherfucking tree.It seems that Santa found his way into the living room, but perhaps went a little too heavy on the eggnog last night.The chair over-turned, the cold, blank stare at the ceiling....I know drunk when I see drunk. For shame, Santa, for shame.

I got to bed at 1:30, and at two o'clock in the gosh darn morning, those boys woke up. I think the only thing I managed to say to them was, "Um, NO." They were back up at 7 this morning and the mayhem ensued.

Santa, I kid you not, brought the left side of the mall to my house last night. Every kid got the thing they wished most for. 1of3 got his iPod and some very cool Olympics schwag(half off at Please Mum right now, Canucks!). 2of3 got an iCoaster, which I rolled my eyes at fairly hard, but soon realized was Wicked. Cool.He also got a Power Tour electric guitar, because no 7 year old can have too many guitars. (We're at 3 right now. Yikes!)

Oh, and they both got scratch tickets in their stockings. Because that's how Santa rolls around here, that's what. 2of3 won $9, which is like $9.17 American, or 3 jawbreakers.

We tried, repeatedly, to get the baby out of her bed, but she just groaned at us and rolled over, back to sleep. She slept until 10:15. Which rocked. She got up, played with her dollhouse and Dora toys, clomped about in her high heeled shoes and refused to open any more presents. She still has one under the tree right now.Dad got clothes and golf stuff and some more clothes and did I mention golf stuff? Thank god his kids are more creative than Santa, and got him an Avalanche jersey and a shining new crazy hot pair of skates. When in Rome and all.Me? Oh, I got everything. It's almost embarrasing. We'll get to that later.

And then we failed miserably to clean up, I cooked a little (a freaking ton) and the kids tried to break each other's toys. We talked to the family, all of them, Josh's and mine, which killed me simply because I want to be home with them so bad it aches, and even Gramma in Africa, and then there was dinner.And that is a story for another day. And a different color scheme. Right now, I have to try and find my floor. Merry Christmas to you all!

HURRY! Time's almost up!

Oh dear god, HOW THE HELL could I forget this?

Do you know that the friendly folks at Norad in Colorado Springs track the big guy in red every year? THEY DO. Here's the YouTube link, if you don't want to mess with Google Earth. It's updated every thirty minutes.They use Google Earth and fancy satellite feeds to track him in his travels all over the world tonight. You can watch him in real time. This is seriously THE COOLEST SHIT EVER. It is our one dire-hard family tradition. I totally meant to tell you about it yesterday, but I am an idiot. I hope you catch it tonight so your kids can watch Santa work his magic!

Also, it makes a lovely "Get To Bed So Momma Can Drink Eggnog" tool. 'Oh shit, guys, he's in OHIO! He's COMING!!! SLEEP NOW!!!!'

Crucial Information

You Are a Christmas Sweater!

Over the top, colorful, and totally flashy. You're not afraid to be a little tacky.

What Crappy Christmas Gift Are You?

Truer words? Never Spoken.

Christmas; Take One

I am sure there will be something completely inappropriate going up here later, but for now, it's with the mush.

I have this tree full of presents and all 4 of the people who are contractually obligated to hang out with me all under the same roof for Christmas this year, and you think that would be the best gift of all.

It. Gets. Better.

I can't believe it either. This morning, my family grew. Not in size, but in reality. My niece, my beautiful niece who lives somewhere very far away, who is waiting for her momma and daddy to be allowed to go get her, well, I got a PICTURE of her today. 4 pictures. She is fine and beautiful and has a smile that could stop a train. My heart exploded. BLAM.

And, as if that wasn't enough, the phone rang. That in itself is a Christmas miracle. That bitch never rings. But then, oh, and then, I answered it and on the other line was my babiest baby brother, the one who was in diapers the last time I saw him, the one who didn't know any single stinking thing about us until my other baby brother forwarded him a MySpace message I sent. He's 23, in the military, stationed in Italy. And he called me. ME.

I think I could die.

So, good luck topping that this Christmas. I don't care if Santa leaves bubble-wrap*, I just got everything I could ever ask for.

*Honestly, I wish Santa would leave bubble-wrap. I loves me some bubble-wrap.

Silver Linings

One silver lining:
At least, by not actually owning any clothing that I would have put in this closet, I have room for all this.Good lord, do I ever have some wrapping to do.

Another:
Dudes, yes, you are stuck in the basement storage room right there next to the paint cans, in the dark, but in a day and a half, it's gonna be all with the climbing and the carrots and the apples and stuff.*Two little boys are going to love the hell out of you.

One last one:
We may not ever see more of each other than the eyes over dueling laptops, but it's super hard to make more babies this way.And man oh lordy do we ever have a lot of gigs. Big. Hard. Drives. Mmmmm.

See all of Sarcastic Mom's Weekly Winners right here!


*The creepy basement domes are full of hamsters. I know, I know. They're going into their new homes tonight. They chewed through every box I put them in. And I kinda have a history with killing hamsters. That's me, serial-hamster-killers. Molly, I cannot wait to hear what you have to say about this.