Monday, December 19, 2011

Shopping Shenanigans

Gift giving is always an interesting concept to me this time of year. I understand why we have Christmas (thank you, Macedonia Baptist Church for my good Christian upbringin') but I've never figured out how the Santa/tree/presents thing figures into it. Now, don't get me wrong, I have no problem with it-- hell, these are my favorite parts of the holiday (sorry about that, Jesus). But does it REALLY make sense if you consider why we have Christmas in the first place? No. However, being a girl who scoffs at things that DO make sense, I say, bring on the tinsel, bitches.

I love buying presents for other people. The best feeling is when you think of/run across something that you know is absolutely perfect for somebody you love (or pretend to love, which is usually the case regarding people for whom I buy things-- I AM A HARDCORE BADASS. WE LOVE NO ONE.) On the other hand, it's always funny to me when people ask me what I want for Christmas. I DON'T KNOW. I honestly don't really think about that. And despite my high level of awesomeness and my affinity for reminding others that I AM A SUPREME BEING WHO DEMANDS YOUR RESPECT I can truly say that I don't give a damn if anyone buys me anything. I know that sounds all fucking selfless and shit, but just this once, that's how I'm gonna roll. Which is likely a really positive thing for B, as, after excessive hounding about what I wanted for Christmas, I finally responded with "a peacock blue peacoat." Did I know where one could purchase said item? No. Have I ever seen one? No. Do they make them? Hell if I know. But I like peacock blue, I would like a new coat, and I like peacoats, so there you have it. A peacock blue peacoat. Unfortunately, as we were strolling through the mall a week or so later, B touches an item of clothing in one of my favorite stores and said, "What would you call this?" I glanced at it. "A royal blue poncho." He looked nervous and beads of sweat broke out on his brow. "You mean it's not PEACOCK blue? And it's kind of a coat....." I gave him the Skeptical One Eyebrow (of which I am a master). "No. That is clearly ROYAL BLUE. And it's KNITTED. There's nothing COATLIKE about it {motherfucker}" (note that the "motherfucker" was understood, but not actually stated).

It seems that I may be getting a royal blue poncho for Christmas. But, anyway.

Don't get me wrong. I am excessively grateful for gifts, especially when they are particularly thoughtful or unexpected. Few things touch this heart of stone more than someone thinking of me when they have no obligation to do so. I still am a little amazed when I look back at my gift of flight from a sweet friend or the beautiful sparkly necklace from E for no reason at all, or all the things from Ray that I can't begin to list. Don't even get me started on the amazing things that B has done over the years. The "things" don't matter, but the thought? That is love.

I got really frustrated with my father in law this year because he's been making passive aggressive remarks regarding gifts for pretty much the last twelve months. YOU CANNOT BUY FOR THIS MAN. You give him personal things like a framed photo of the kids, he will wait three months and make some offhanded comment that the frame looks cheap (YOU AREN'T GOING TO PUT IT ANYWHERE ANYWAY. THERE IS NO ROOM BECAUSE YOU HAVE DEVOTED ALL OF YOUR PHOTOGRAPH SPACE TO WEDDING PHOTOS OF JAY.) You give him wine and he complains that it isn't expensive enough ALL YEAR LONG. (WHY WOULD WE BUY YOU EXPENSIVE WINE WHEN YOU ARE JUST GOING TO OPEN IT, DRINK HALF A GLASS, THEN LET IT SIT AND GO BAD BECAUSE YOU PREFER TO DRINK BEER?). There's no point in giving him clothes, as he has three times the amount of clothes that I do. I tell you, he's DAMN LUCKY that I'm not making him another Star Wars Chewbacca layer cake this year (see the birthday blog back in September) as I've reached the point of Subversive Shopping in regard to my FIL. (This is where you make every effort to find the weirdest, potentially most offensive and unsuitable item possible, wrap it beautifully, and present it with glee. It's actually my favorite way to gift someone, now that I think about it.) I'm DYING to peruse the Adam & Eve website and order him a Head Honcho or Ass Princesses 4 (on blue ray!) and put it under their perfect Christmas tree. But I won't do that, because I'M NICE.

Yeah. You read that right. I'M NICE.

At this point, all the gifts are wrapped and under the tree. I look forward to seeing the looks on the faces of the kids when they realize that Mommy has indeed been telling the truth and those boxes ARE filled with rocks because they are NAUGHTY LITTLE MINIONS. B will be excited when he receives his gift card to Club Magestical, the purple cinder block "gentleman's club" in the "ethnically diverse" section of Newport News. Mom will LOVE her Forever Lazy fleece jumpsuit. And me? Well, I'll be wearing the hell out of my royal blue poncho.

Happy Gift Giving, Bitches.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Fa la la la fuck you

Christmas seems to be rolling in this year with all the usual fucking awesomeness. I've already blown the lights on the Christmas tree three damn times because I SEE NO REASON WHY YOU CANNOT PLUG FIFTEEN SETS OF LIGHTS TOGETHER AND HAVE ONLY ONE PLUG LEADING FROM THE TREE TO THE OUTLET. B, with all his engineering knowledge, has replaced the fuse three times and gently tried to explain to me why this is an issue twice. The third time, he just re-coordinated the plugs so that every single string of lights is no longer connected together, but are broken up a few times. At least he finally figured out that his lectures were falling on deaf ears, poor boy. I PUT THE DAMN LIGHTS ON THE TREE. I DO NOT RECONFIGURE THEM. The garland has fallen off the fireplace two or three times because I AM A GIRL AND NOT GOOD AT HANGING THINGS (push-pins are my answer to nearly everything that must hang) AND I baked a batch of peppermint sugar cookies that Sutton declared "burned and a little funny." Well, Merry Fucking Christmas to you too, minion. Next time, you can bake your own goddamn cookies.

You and I both know that I want to give Christmas the finger.

I took the kids to see Santa a couple of weeks ago and they were pretty stoked. As far as I'm concerned, I'm down with the kids believing in Santa, but I don't think my hopes and dreams will be crushed when they one day stop. I don't believe the magic of Christmas comes from Santa, although I'M not going to tell them any differently. They'll figure it out one day on their own. Anyway, we were at the mall and they were perched on the Big Man's lap, yammering on about Wii games and Polly Pocket as I tried to ignore the OVERACHIEVER MOMMY behind me who had her two toddlers in MATCHING FUCKING OUTFITS (who DOES that-- well, except you, Meredith, if you are reading this. I will cut you some slack on H and M) and kept telling them how they had to "smile big for Santa!" when Santa looked over at me. "Mommy," he said, "What do you want for Christmas?" Hmmmm. Here was an opportunity. Should I tell him "new purple Nikes and Cupcake Vodka?" (what I really wanted) or "world peace" (like a good girl should) or "my Dad back" (the impossible request)? How does one answer Santa when he asks what he can bring you for Christmas?

The kids were watching me expectantly. Overachiever Mommy had quieted down and was likely plotting her own answer, should Santa ask her next ("World Peace!"). I was tired. I was hungry. Fighting my way through Gymboree and Bath and Body Works had felt like engaging in a triathlon (not that I would ever engage in a triathlon-- I'm not stupid). So I told him the truth, Haley style.

"Well, Santa. I would like that one (pointing at Bellamy) to stop calling her brother 'noggin head' and making him punch her in retaliation, where she then bursts into tears because we ALL KNOW that that 34 pounds he weighs packs a lot of power when he punches. I would like that one (pointing at Sutt) to agree to wear underpants to school without the discussion coming to bribery and/or name-calling, as one can only hear 'Noggin head is SUCH a baby and his yoda is going to FREEZE OFF if he doesn't put on his underpants' so often before one (me) wants to SHOOT SOMEONE IN THE FUCKING HEAD. I want the dog, who is old, to quit puking in the floor because it is IMPOSSIBLE to scrub the stain out of the carpet and, despite my proclivity for spot-cleaning I AM TIRED. I want my husband to remember to turn on his work mobile when he is in meetings. which is ALWAYS since his promotion, because WHEN I FUCKING DRINK A GALLON OF BLEACH AND JUMP OFF A GODDAMN BRIDGE FROM FRUSTRATION WITH OUR CHILDREN he is going to need to know about it. YES. That, Santa, is what I want."

All was quiet for a moment. Or, perhaps, a few moments. Then Santa patted each kid on the head and gave them a miniature candy cane. "You kids be nice to your Mommy. I want you to hug her every day." Then Santa winked at me and gestured for me to come closer. "You hang in there, Mommy," he whispered.

Santa knew. He could tell Mommy was hanging by a thread. Hell, after that, most anybody ought to be able to tell Mommy was hanging by a thread. Christmas can go fuck itself. Ho ho fucking ho.

Here's to hoping I'm getting that Cupcake Vodka for Christmas this year after all.