We are stuck in a blizzard, which is fabulous since I love to ski. However, after skiing in knee-deep snow all morning, my Jello legs needed some hot tub time.
I don't allow bathing suits in the hot tub, since whatever gallon of soap most people feel compelled to wash their suits in ruins the water for weeks.
So, there I am, naked in the tub when the neighbors, who have not set foot in their condo for TWO YEARS decide to not only show up, but have a shoveling party on their deck. As the 105-degree water began to make me feel sick and I could feel my skin peeling off, my body was screaming to get out. If it was just the woman, I could have laughed about the situation and asked her to turn around. But I doubted the teenage son and father would feel the same way.
50 minutes of scalding hot, bromine laced water later, I think I should have either sucked up the muscle cramps or flashing the twins.
As the hectic energy of Christmas Day passes out on the couch and I assess the olio of presents (and bags of ribbons and wrappings to be recycled) I am seeing there are several ways to make any kid's game into a late-night drinking game.
My favorite one is this: I bought Baby Boy a Dentist Crocodile where you take turns pressing on teeth. When you hit the wrong one, the mouth slams down on your hand. CHOMP.
After 7, whoever gets CHOMPED has to do a shot of Petron.
(See where the mind goes after 5 hours of putting together a train table last night.)
I bought this gorgeous, expensive bottle of Extra Virgin Olive Oil. The bottle is too tall to fit into our cabinets, so it found a home in the wine rack.
Guess who just came home (after a visit to "Santa,"http://sexynaptime.blogspot.com/2010/12/highly-informed-santa.html(20 mins) being stuck in the mall parking lot (45 mins) and a snowy drive home (25 mins) with a howling toddler in the backseat) and poured herself a giant glass of "wine." And yes, that includes a giant gulp before the reality sunk in...
I have been a bad Mommy about Christmas this year. We made a huge deal about Hanukkah, which was like three weeks ago, and now I am over it. We don't even have our tree yet--save for a tiny table top thing I got from Trader Joe's. If Santa is watching, I am so on the Black Coal list--and not even the good coal that turns in a diamond if I sit on it long enough.
So, despite every instinct, I took Baby Boy to the mall to see Santa. I wasn't sure if the sitting on the lap part would happen, but at least he could look and maybe fist bump an elf.
The third store when you walk in our mall is the Apple store. More festive than the North Pole itself, there was a huge Santa in the front window looking at an iPhone.
Baby Boy sprinted to the display. "Oh Santa, Santa..." he cooed. Santa, of course, didn't react.
"Huh," BB said. "Santa busy watching the news." And he turned to go.
I wasn't sure if I should walk him down to the real Santa or let him think Santa was deeply involved with CNN on his Smart Phone.
I chose the latter and yes, I know I am going to Christmas Hell for it.
During a quick trip to the noontime rush grocery store, we made a quick potty stop (for me).
It was at the check out line when Baby Boy decided to ask (yell) in front of the cute, young, male cashier (as well as the 12 people behind us), "Mama, what was that string for?" As he jammed a finger toward my crotch.
On yet another cold and raw day, the dog was whining for me to take him out...immediately. I like to bribe him with cookies to wait until Darling Husband gets home, but even peanut butter treats were not an alluring compromise to his bladder.
Bundled up as much as possible, I dragged him from yard to yard amazed as always how much pee he can target for certain shrubs.
Anyway, partly through the jaunt, a trash truck sidled up. The man hanging off the back was wearing a ski mask and looked like he was about to rob a bank. I could hear him yelling in my direction as I yanked the dog away faster. ( I was in no mood to be hit on by someone who had an old banana peel stuck to their pants).
He chased us and panting, said he had a biscuit for the dog. "It helps them not be scared of the trucks," he explained. Since my dog had not even glanced at the truck never the less acted afraid of it, I hesitated. But he waved the cookie in the dog's face, and produced several more as I shivered in the freezing rain.
That was two days ago. Now thank to Trash Man and his Scaredy Dog Biscuits, the damn pooch runs after every truck that goes by barking for more.
Today was one of those days. A whine fest to rival none other. So, after a non-existent nap, I decided a trip to Tar-zhay would put a smile on faces all around.
Things were going pretty well until Baby Boy spotted a goddam mountain of Tickle Me Elmos smack in the middle of the aisle. I had already sent a disclaimer instead of Christmas cards out warning that anyone that brought that Devil toy into the house would be unfriended, ASAP.
The next several minutes torpedoed into a full-on, like nothing I have ever witnessed from my child, tantrum with him throwing himself atop the red beast's (thankfully quite secure) box screaming "Get Him Out Now!"
As the crowd gathered (I saw a look of relief pass amongst the moms that at least it wasn't their child--this time.) I realized that perhaps none of them had made the connection that he was actually mine (thankfully, he has started to look more like Darling Husband--and that is the first time I have been grateful for that).
My second thought was the horror of someone recognizing me as the parenting columnist--if word got out that THIS is how my child behaved, I would be fired, run from town, banned from restaurants--tagged as artificial as my blonde hair and boobs.
Around this time, BB triggered the button that makes Elmo laugh, and now all bets were off. I managed to get him into the cart and sprinted for the register--he still had death grip on the now quite mangled box, which I still had zero intention of buying.
As soon as we got to the line, he saw the latest US Weekly. Elmo fell to the floor with a thud (I gracefully kicked him into the vacant neighboring checkout booth) and celebrity rag took over.
Baby Boy was alone for 30 seconds and dumped 499 Q-tips all over the floor. When I saw giant mess (as I was trying to get into the car) this I screeched (hypothetically), "Do you have any idea how many Q-tips there are now all over the floor?"
Then he stared at the pile very intently, almost as if he was counting them. I was stunned for a moment he may actually come up with the number a la Rainman and the toothpicks.
Then he met my eyes and said, "Too many."
Guess we aren't on the next flight to Vegas after all.