I shall begin this blog post with an apology to my friends, Mark and Jen.
Several years ago, when I was really into Sculpey polymer clay, I made them the most God-awful Nativity set the world has ever scene. I thought it was adorable, of course, or I wouldn't have given it to them. It took me forever to make it, and in my defense it was a heartfelt gift. But now when I think about it, I realize it was also horrible, horrible, horrible.
Which brings me to this blog post. Tomorrow I am hitting the streets with my camera in the hopes of catching something awesomely terrible, but until then you will have to settle for a post about Nativity kitsch. There are some downright frightening Nativities out there and I have collected a few for the Christmas Hall of Shame. Let me just say that I love cats, but I will never - NEV-AH - purchase a cat Nativity.
Sometimes words cannot do something justice, so I'll just post the pictures. See for yourself... and weep bitterly.
Happy Black Friday, everyone. Did you survive Thanksgiving? I did. In fact, I got the world's best night sleep last night. I don't think I've slept like that since I was in diapers. If they could put turkey into pill form, I'd swap it out with my Seroquel.
It was an interesting holiday, but aren't they all? This year was particularly interesting because my mother injured herself recently and needed extra help hosting the holiday. She called me sometime around Halloween and said, "I want to have Thanksgiving here this year. How would you like to come and cook it?" Usually, my contribution to Thanksgiving is a delicious sweet potato casserole that nobody eats. Every year I swear I'm never making it again, but of course I do. I haven't always had the best relationship with my mom in the past and it has been going so well I just couldn't say no. But I said yes without fully grasping what I was agreeing to.
"Cooking" Thanksgiving, as it turned out, also meant cleaning my parents' home from top to bottom. This would not have been such an overwhelming task if they did not own a vacuum cleaner that weighs approximately 4,000 pounds. I could have pushed a donkey around the house with greater ease. It's one of those vacuums that sucks up the stuff and you can see it spinning around in the plastic canister. What nobody realizes is, when the vacuum sucks things up and spins them around at warp speed, things get destroyed...things like stink bugs, for example. I sucked up only one in the apartment but it was pulverized by the vacuumed and smelled so terrible that my mother and I both had stinging eyes for about an hour after the fact. Pennies, as it turns out, are harmless, but sucking one up into the vacuum sounds like shelling along the Afghanistan border.
I have been on my own for 10 years, and I have owned my own vacuum for just as long. Despite this, my mother does not have a great deal of confidence in my vacuuming skills. For the most part, I vacuumed while she followed along behind me, telling me I was doing it wrong. First I vacuumed too fast, then I didn't vacuum at the right angle. Then I was down on the floor with a paper towel snagging spider webs from the corners of the floor. Even though all of my parents' dining room chairs are identical, I was told that I didn't put the "right ones" in the "right spots" when I returned them after vacuuming around the table.
When I mopped the kitchen floor, my mother stood in the dining room and instructed me not to make puddles. She told me I needed to ring out the mop before actually mopping. At this point, I stopped what I was doing specifically so I could put my hands on my hips and give her a look that said, "Really, Mother. I do have a normal IQ." She stopped herself and had to laugh. She realized she was being ridiculous. But after I mopped the floor, she handed me a paper towel and told me to mop of my non-existent puddles.
By the time we got to vacuuming the bedrooms, I was exhausted from dragging the donkey vacuum around and she was tired of being the gestapo. "Do you want me to move this and vacuum under it?" I'd ask, and she'd shake her head and say, "Just vacuum around it. Screw it."
On Wednesday, she offered me lunch. Liverwurst. On my way to her place on Thanksgiving day, I stopped at Sheetz for a hotdog.
When I arrived at my parents' place on Thursday, the turkey was already in the oven. I was a bit perturbed at first because I really wanted to learn how to cook a turkey. On the other hand, my mother was right - it was just easier for her to do it. I'm not sure how you can stuff a turkey wrong, but I'm sure I would have figured out a way to do it. I made a few things and mashed a cheese ball together and put appetizers in the living room in an effort to keep all unnecessary personnel out of the kitchen (it worked) and thought things were going fine. They were, actually, going great. It's just that everyone in my family has the patience and overall calm of a squirrel, and so my mother officially started freaking out about two hours before the other guests arrived. This was when my parents started bickering at each other, a la Frank and Marie Barone from "Everybody Loves Raymond."
I have learned that following my mother around saying, "Calm down, Mom!" doesn't help. It anything, it just lights her fuse. Pointing out that everything was ready and that the turkey just had to come out of the oven only made her chain smoke. I tried a shoulder rub but she told me to get off of her because she was sweaty. All I could do was sip my cup of my father's famous old coffee (he drinks the same pot for 3 days in a row) and listen to my mother tell my father that if he didn't go shave, she was going to lose it.
With nothing to do in our spare time but sit and listen to my mother stress over whether or not her turkey was going to turn out dry, my father recruited me to help him fix his computer. My parents' computer was built somewhere around 1950 and runs on Windows 98. They still use dial-up internet. To be honest, I didn't think dial-up internet service still existed. My parents have regular computer problems because my father tinkers around with it and doesn't really know what he's doing. Oh, and also because it was built in 1950 and runs on Windows 98. Did I mention that? My parents are not techies by any stretch. My brother and his wife got them a cell phone a few years ago for Christmas and I think my brother was a little peeved at me because when my parents opened it, I immediately erupted into uncontrollable laughter. Nobody likes someone to tell them that they wasted their money, but I had to speak the truth. To date, the phone has been used about 5 times... by me, trying to show my folks how to use it. It now sits atop my dad's stereo, collecting dust. He has no idea where the charger is.
It took his computer about 30 minutes to load when I turned it on. Upon discovering that he had old AOL software slowing down his system, I attempted to open the control panel, which took an additional 30 minutes to load. After waiting nearly an hour to open the application to uninstall software, I declared it a lost cause and gave up. My brother - the same one who gave them the cell phone - said he'd stop by tonight to help him. Again, I dissolved into uproarious laughter. My mother pulled me aside and whispered, "You do know your father has no clue what he's doing, don't you?" I assured her that, yes, it was apparent. She rolled her eyes and cursed at her messy kitchen.
Dinner itself went well... apart from a niece who refuses to eat anything that isn't a goldfish cracker or dessert, and my mother nearly tripping over her own chair and killing herself. Like little sardines stuffed into a can, we sat elbow-to-elbow at the table, all 11 of us, pigging out as my mother's blood pressure slowly returned to a normal level. The turkey was perfect - neither raw nor dry, as my mother always fears it will be every year. Every year I slave over that stupid sweet potato casserole that nobody touches, but this year I just mashed them with brown sugar and put some marshmallows on top and there was barely a drop left after dinner. Note to self.
And now it's officially Christmas. I didn't shop today. I have never shopped on Black Friday and I never will. My husband was going to brave the crowds but opted to sleep in instead. My tree-in-a-box has been successfully assembled and my oldest niece is on her way to help me decorate it. This is the part of the holiday season I enjoy the most. Nearly every ornament has a story behind it and I get a little misty when I hang them on the tree. Maybe not this year, though - my niece will never let me live it down if she catches me crying over a Christmas ball.
Let the season take wing! Here's a clip from "Everybody Loves Raymond." This is par for the course in my family.
What is WRONG with me?
Those of you who write for a living might know what I'm talking about. You know what you want to say, but it won't come out the way you want it to. It's like getting a Pez stuck in the little dispenser. I always tell people I'm much better at writing a story than I am at telling it off-the-cuff because I always forget important tidbits and have to say "let me reverse" and go back the parts I missed that are necessary to understanding what I'm trying to say. I very rarely have this problem when I'm writing, but I'm having that problem today.
I'm still 99.9% sure I have ADD. Nobody could be this distracted all the time and not have a chemical imbalance. I used to go to coffee shops to work, but I'd wind up spending the day people-watching or re-reading the menu 800 times. Now I write from home but I'm just as distracted. The cat needs to be fed, laundry needs to be done, the dishwasher needs to be unloaded, dinner needs to be figured out. Even taking a shower annoys me. Sometimes I walk by my art supplies and have to fight the urge to drop everything and paint.
I never did homework when I was a kid. Like, ever. I think I got into college because God knew my parents needed an extended break. It's not any easier for me now, except that if I don't do my work now, I don't eat, have clothes, or have a home. Twenty years ago, my only consequence was having to deal with my furious mother. Now, the consequences include homelessness and starvation. Homelessness and starvation are pretty good motivators, but they don't kill distractions.
I am getting better, however. I've learned that all necessary housework MUST BE DONE before I try to write. If not, they are little open windows in my brain that refuse to close until I take care of them. (Read Shaunti Feldhahn's book For Women Only for more on this concept.) If I know the kitchen looks like a war zone, nothing can be truly accomplished until I have cleaned it.
I have also learned that dry-erase boards are a wonderful thing. I have one on my fridge and that's where I write down my deadlines. Day planners are nice, but I usually lose mine or forget to look at it. I go to the fridge, however, on a daily basis.
And now I have run out of things to say and I know I need to get back to work. I have about 90 minutes left of quiet isolation and I need to make the most of it. Books don't write themselves... though that would be super awesome.
Christmas music and Christmas decorations have one major theme in common: they can either be really cool, or be really terrible. I always knew this to be true but never fully grasped the concept until the first Christmas my husband and I were married. When I think of Christmases past, I think of carols being sung by choirs, candlelight, and a lit Christmas tree. When my husband thinks of Christmases past, he thinks about working at Record Town and The Wall and all of the awful music they played over their speaker system. He grew to love this music; I try to find a hiding spot for said music every year.
Old Christmas music seems to be the best. When people try to write new classics, they usually either make me laugh or they nauseate me. Let's discuss laughable Christmas music first.
Much to my chagrin, husband is especially fond of the "Very Special Christmas" collections.
Not everything on these albums are crap, but most of it is, including Hootie & the Blowfish's 1997 version of "The Christmas Song" on volume 3. Either it's SUPPOSED to be off-key, or the producer fell asleep at the console while this was being recorded. It serves as a reminder to me that you don't really need tons of talent to get a record deal. You can preview the slaughter here.
It also includes Sheryl Crow singing a terrible version of "Blue Christmas," which is a song I never liked to begin with. This song made me briefly feel ashamed of being a Sheryl Crow fan.
Volume 1 includes the extremely popular Madonna tune "Santa Baby." I can stand the music, but I can't stand Madonna's baby voice, nor do I want the image of Madonna seducing Santa Claus to replace the visions of sugar plums dancing in my head. In defense of Madonna, this song came out in 1987, so she was already in the midst of her I-Want-To-Sleep-With-Everything-That-Moves phase. Hopefully she has matured and would now opt to give Santa cookies and milk instead of her body.
HO HO HO! Literally...
Stevie Nicks croons "Silent Night" on volume 1, as well. I love Stevie Nicks... when it comes to pop/rock music. Christmas music, though? Not so much. Her voice reminds me of a drunken wino singing flat Christmas carols through the alleys of the Bronx.
Volume 5's insult to Christmas is Tom Petty singing "Little Red Rooster." Apparently, dude has a little red rooster that wakes him up every Christmas morning. C'mon, that's not very realistic. Like the rooster knows when it's Christmas? That's ridiculous. We can sing about a fat guy in a red suit traveling by airborne sleigh who stuffs his great big butt down our chimneys and leaves us presents under our Christmas trees, but a red rooster that knows when it's Christmas? That's just baloney.
On volume 7 (released in '09), Miley Cyrus stops by to sing an extremely bubble-gum version of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" that is sure to please anyone who is under the age of 12, or deaf. Sean Kingston sings "Little Drummer Boy" in a fashion that probably not only annoys me, but annoys the baby Jesus. If the Little Drummer Boy had ever tried to sing this to our Lord and Savior, I'm pretty sure He would have learned to walk then and there and would have booked it out of Bethlehem. Lastly, Carrie Underwood sings "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" on this album, and while I LOVE Carrie Underwood's voice, I have major issues with country Christmas music. (Read: I hate country Christmas music!)
Here are a few of my other least favorites:
Paul McCartney - "Wonderful Christmastime" MAN I can't stand this song! I know it's a classic that is literally as old as I am, but I still hate it. The synthesizers, the weirdness... It's too trippy. It's like listening to Pink Floyd, in a way. If you're sober it's just nonsense, but I'll bet if you listen to it while you're on drugs, it's really DEEP, man.
George Michael - "Last Christmas" Anything by George Michael should be considered an abomination to mankind. This year, to save him from tears, he'll give his love to someone special? Really? And by "special" does he mean some random dude in a public bathroom stall?
Amy Grant - "Mister Santa" I'm sorry, Amy. You know I love you, girl, but it had to be done. If you look up "cheese" in the dictionary, you will see the name of this song right next to it. Amy set the Christmas bar pretty high with her 1992 release, "Home For Christmas." It was the ultimate in class and all others fall short. Unfortunately, that includes this album. But you're still my favorite, AG.
The holiday season without Amy Grant is like Christmas morning without a little, red, mind-reading rooster.
If I weren't such a nice person, I'd say "NEVER" and leave it at that, but I've gotten a few comments on my last post from people insisting their children want inflatable yard thingies in the yard this Christmas. How do I respond? First, I would like to ask you, simply:
Do you want your child to grow up to be this?
Or do you want your child to grow up to be this?
The choice is yours. Would you put moonshine in your kids' sippy cups? Of course not. Don't settle!
There are some cases in which inflatable yard thingies might be considered acceptable. I don't expect people in wheelchairs to climb their roof with lights. Midgets with a fear of heights might also get a free pass. If you live in the middle of nowhere, go for it; we won't see it anyway. Living in a trailer park is no excuse. I've seen lots of nice trailer parks. Set an example for the rest of the park dwellers and skip baby balloon Jesus. Elderly people, also, might be exempt. Even in these situations, I would say skip the air pump and hang a wreath.
I hope this sheds some light on the DOs and DON'Ts of inflatable Christmas yard thingies. Now get out there and start stapling 25,000 imported Italian twinkle lights to your roof!
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A few years ago, while driving down a major Pennsylvania route, I encountered the Christmas insult to end all Christmas insults. There was a large green house on the corner of one of the intersection - overgrown brush, trees in need of trimming, and paint chipping off every inch of the home. Even more disturbing than the landscape were the 6 inflatable yard decorations nailed into the lawn. Take away the ornaments and you would immediately assume this was a poor family trying to cover up their shack; however, I did a little research online and I found that inflatable yard thingies are actually quite expensive. That was when I knew these people were not poor, they were just lazy.
It's funny how my idea of "lazy" has changed over the years. I used to think people who took a single string of lights and haphazardly threw it on a tree were lazy (eh hem, Dad...) but inflatable yard thingies have taken laziness to a whole new low. Just plug in, inflate, and voila! And if there is a wind storm, it looks like your yard thingy is having an epileptic seizure, so I guess that's kind of cool. But still lazy.
Anyway, getting back to the green house of laziness...
As I sat there in my car, making fun of of the green house of laziness and its occupants, I realized I needed to get out there with my digital camera and start ridiculing people publicly. I never got around to it last year, but this year I'm determined to hide in the shrubs and snap pictures of people inflating Homer Simpson dressed as Santa Claus on their roof. It has to be done. This injustice to all things Christmas must be brought out of the darkness. People who inflate nativity scenes...God help you. I hope God has a sense of humor and a little bit of redneck in Him because I'd hate to hear my Lord ask me on judgment day, "Why did you nail my only Son to your yard and inflate him like a Wal-Mart basketball?" An inflatable nativity scene in a wind storm has got to be 20 times more offensive than Homer Simpson Claus or even one of those awful inflatable carousels that not only inflate, but spin, light up, and play music. It's just wrong to think that I could be driving past your house in a storm when the baby Jesus decides to deflate and detach from the rest of the nativity. Picture it - inflated baby Jesus flies off, lands on my windshield, and I crash into a tree.
It's wrong. It's unholy. If nothing else, it's more hillbilly than Larry the Cable Guy.
All this isn't to say I haven't seen worse decorations, because I have.
At our last apartment, new neighbors moved into the house next-door. We were a little stunned when they uprooted their lawn, paved it, and proceeded to park no less than 10 vehicles on it, but the "shock and awe" phase came when the holiday season rolled around and they put what must have been a 15-foot, faded, plastic Santa Claus on top of a lawn chair on their front porch. That was when we realized we weren't in Kansas anymore. How I wish I'd had a digital camera back then. It would probably be my profile picture on Facebook right now.
If you're feeling lazy, just don't decorate, OK? Inflatable yard thingies may be expensive but they don't say "class" they say... "GIT-R-DOOOOOOONE!" And, no, I don't mean that in a nice way.
So Merry Christmas. Enjoy the holiday season. I'll be watching you.
I know God is bigger than we could ever imagine, but c'mon...
