p.s. Alright, Daddy, if you’re reading this, remember two things… One, at the stroke of 10pm, HunkyDory’s bedroom turns into a 1950s black and white sitcom complete with two twin beds with pajamas laid out on them. Full top and bottom on His and a long flannel nightgown that buttons up to the chin on Hers. And Two, the fact that my sense of humor has such a desert-dry sarcastic quality to it is all your fault. Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. But be careful you don’t wipe out on those crushed candy conversation hearts all over the ground.

12/24/2007: Wonderful Christmas Memories, my BUTT.

So… I thought, what we need is a Holiday Family Quality Time Activity. I decided that we could make a double batch of Chex Mix together. Afterward, I thought, what I really needed is A Healthy Dose Of Reality. Because for a minute I forgot that we’re completely incapable of making poignant holiday Kodak moments. Oh, well. Witness the festive dysfunction.

Let me start out by saying, my point-and-shoot takes really fantastic pics. If by fantastic, you mean, taking pictures that look either like they were inside a deep bat infested cave or on the surface of the sun. Photoshop is my BFF. I don’t get out much. That said, let’s proceed with the merriment.

It all starts out very bright and shiny.
The table is clean, the boys are on their very best mediocre behavior,
and I haven’t cried or done any shots. Yet.
“Cheeeeeeeese!”

Let’s start out by putting the dry ingredients together.
Within one minute, Dino wandered off.
“Mom, why are we measuring? Why can’t we just dump it all into one big bowl?”
“Because… because I said so. Where did your brother go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dino, get back in here, dammit!”

The battles begin.
“I want to put in the Chex.” “No, I want to put in the Chex!”
“No fair!” “Shut up!”
“I am going to take this box of Chex and
cram it right up your dookyhole
if you don’t quit fighting.”

Hunky reminds me that this is supposed to be fun and
we are making Wonderful Christmas Memories.
I clench my teeth behind the “smile”.
“Yeah, yeah; sure, sure; just take the friggin’ picture already.”

I blow my referee whistle and remind them that there is still time
to take all the presents back to the store.
The sudden quiet allows me to lay down the law.
“Ok, you can put in that Chex, and you can put in that Chex,
and you can put in the pretzels, and you can put in the nuts.”

The kitchen buzzes with activity. The war is in a temporary truce.
I inhale and exhale for the first time since we started.
“I’m trying to make Wonderful Christmas Memories for you here.
Let’s try to get along so we can make some
damn Wonderful Christmas Memories!”

I doggedly plod on and start putting the butter and spices together.
[buzz of busy activity]

I ask Hunky to shake it (the dry mix, not his pockets) like a
poloroid picture while I slowly pour the wet stuff in.
Hunky wisely wastes no time in obeying my every whim.
Rocky snatches up the abandoned camera and
captures the edge-of-your-seat action.
“Pour it slower.”
“Shake it faster.”
[Barry White voice] “Slower, baby.”
“I want you so much right now.”

I’ve poured the evidence of our weird family dynamics (i.e. the first batch)
into the pans and started on the second batch. Notice the natives have deserted.
[humming] “Gramma got run over by a reindeer…”

Oh, God help me, they’re back. And wired for sound. Notice Dino’s eyes.
That amount of energy in one child is quite the spectacle to behold.
[electrical buzzing of energy]

They start running around the house trying to test their theory
that if they run fast enough, the camera can’t catch them. True story.
[click]
“Was I a blur then?” “Can I see the picture?”
“Dang it, we have to try it again faster!”

This time I move fast enough the camera can’t catch me.
I go the cupboard for alcohol.
[racetrack sound fx]

I breathe for the second time since we started, in anticipation
of the holiday joy that is Eggnog with a Double Shot of Kahlua.
The boys continue to test their theory.
I stand oblivious; I’m gettin’ my holiday drink on, baby.
[zoooom... brakes screech]
“Was I a blur then?” “Can I see the picture?”
“Dang it, we have to try it again faster!”

Rocky buzzes with energy. He looks like he may be close to exploding, does he not?
I contemplate beaning him with the bottle, but that would be alcohol abuse.
“Don’t test me, boy. I can make another one just like you.”

Finally. It’s just me and my creamy, nutmeg-y, alcoholic friend.
[twisting cap breaks safety seal]

Dino continues the research for the “faster than the camera” theory.
“Back off, kid; Mom’s busy. Oh, yeah. Come to mama.”

Hunky enjoys eggnog sans Kahlua.
I’m having a difficult time fathoming the point of Kahlua-less eggnog.
“No, I will not smile. I’m very gruff and rugged and manly.”

Hunky gets Rocky to try eggnog. Will he like it?
[audience holds collective breath]

I think that’s a no.
“BLEK!”

Hunky breaks gruff and rugged and manly character.
“Now that’s funny, I don’t care who ya are!”

Now Hunky says Dino has to try eggnog.
He reassures him it is quite tasty; Dino remains a skeptic.
“Awwww, do I hafta?” “Yes, you certainly do.”

Dino employs an oft-attempted stalling tactic. It goes over like a fart in church.

“Yes. Down the hatch.”
“But this is my new Bionicle and his name is…”
“NOW.”

Dino sees the futility of the maneuver and reluctantly complies.
[audience holds collective breath]

Dino dittos Rocky’s vote. Hunky empathizes.
Final Tally: Boys, 2; Eggnog, 0.
“YUCK!” “Yuck.”

My cat is so stoo-pid.

[Audience choruses] How. Stoo-pid. Is. He.

He so stoo-pid, he chewed the cord on the LitterMaid, gave himself a pretty good jolt, and is now afraid of his own litterbox. In his feeble mind, The Potty Bit-ted Me On My Mouf.

A couple weeks ago, the LitterMaid stopped working with the pooper-scooper arm extended all the way across to the pooper keeper. I played with the cord a little bit, and discovered that it had been chewed and now had a short in it. If I fiddled with it, it would make a little connection and move about an inch and stop. It was now officially junk.

Meanwhile, one of the cats peed smack in the middle of our bed. We figured it was Elmer and that he was pissed-off [everybody groans] about something, maybe because I wasn’t scooping as often as the box used to (c’mon, I don’t care who you are, you can’t scoop every time 10 minutes after the cat leaves the box). We had to strip the bed and clean it which is a great big, pain-in-the-ass job and about as popular around here as a root canal and forgoing anesthesia for hypnosis.

I scooped old-skool fashion for a couple days and Elmer peed on the bed again. I sent Hunky to the store for a new LitterMaid and a Bissell Little Green Machine. He cleaned the bed and the BLGM worked much better than rags and a ShopVac. I dismantled LitterMaid I (AKA LandfillMatter), set up LitterMaid II, and I declared “all good in da ‘hood”. But I kept checking the new box periodically and it seemed like the cats weren’t generating as much stinky stuff as usual. A week went by and the pooper keeper hadn’t even filled up yet. Elmer peed on our bed a couple more times, necessitating stripping and cleaning AGAIN. Well, you know I was about ready to send Mr. Elmer to Kitty Orphanage, because if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s for my house to stink like cat pee.

The proverbial last straw came when Hunky was having a lovely nap on the couch. Elmer had been enjoying his favorite activity, which is laying on the top of the couch, keeping watch over his front yard; the people walking by, and the birds and squirrels brave enough to venture into his territory. I saw him out of the corner of my eye as he rose and jumped down to Hunky’s lap.

As I watched first in confusion then in abject horror, manymanymany things happened at approximately the speed of technology.

Hunky’s eyes fluttered, then opened, and his eyes got rilly, rilly big.

He jumped up off the couch holding Elmer by the scruff of the neck, an arc of pee still streaming from Elmer.

He was yelling like a Tazmanian Devil. I couldn’t tell a single word he was saying.

I jumped up and yelled, “What do you want me to do?!” mostly because I had to yell over him to make myself heard.

He continued his Tazmanian Devil impression on the way to the basement door where he tossed the cat (he didn’t hurt him; don’t sic the ASPCA on us) down the stairs.

Doors slammed.

Cat mmmrrrOOOOWWWWed.

Much yelling and groaning and gnashing of teeth.

It wasn’t pretty. At all. By any stretch of the imagination.

Something had to be done.

In a last ditch effort, I bought a cheap, simple litterbox in a different color than the Scary Potty. I filled it up for him and showed him where it was, and right away he got in and hunkered down. Well, now I’m all, mentally high fiving myself and doing a little victory dance in my head, chalking up Dory 1, Elmer 0. But he sat there for over a minute, and I’m thinking, day-um, that’s a lot of peeing. But then he got up and walked away and there’s two tiny little drops for all of his effort. Now I’m thinking, ok,now he’s stoo-pid and broken.

Hunky took him to the vet. When I picked him up, the vet explained that he had a nasty bladder infection. Every time he tried to pee for about the week prior, it must’ve burned horribly. She gave me antibiotics and some special food that cost more per pound than a nice New York Strip steak. I ordered this cranberry medicine from 1-800-Pet-Meds to go in his steak/food. So now Elmer is on the mend, I guess. He’s still not peeing much yet, but his course of antibiotics isn’t finished.

So here’s my theory: when his Potty Bit-ted Him In His Mouf, he started holding his pee to avoid it, and consequently developed a bladder infection.

He’s still terrified of the litterbox, of course. We’ve tried a cardboard box filled with shredded paper shavings. We’ve tried holding him close to the new cheap litterbox and offering treats or scratching his neck just like he likes. But he still won’t use it.

Because his feeble mind, My Potty Bit-ted Me In My Mouf AND Has A Scary Mean Monster Hiding In It That Bit-ted Me In My Junk.

Too bad there’s no medicine for stoo-pid.

Where’s the research grants for that? Surely it’s as big a problem as erectile dysfunction.

I bet we all could think of a lot of folks that would benefit greatly from some IStoopidium DA.

If you must know, it’s 17% – pii × a warty frog ? e=mc° + ?Ç™, that’s how.

Is actually scheduling time for blogging and housework and project time in my planner just too pocket-protectored, color-coded, anal-retentive? Because It feels like my To Do List always wins. I’m pretty sure he cheats, but I can’t prove it. One of these days I’ll invest in one of those Vegas Casino Security Cameras, but until then I’ll just self-flagellate. I suck ass.

When I checkmark something complete, I feel a tiny little *bing* of accomplishment. It’s like one *bing* in a 50 gallon drum full of *bzzzzzzzzzzt*. Maybe I’m expecting too much of myself. Maybe I’m trying to cram 50 pounds of flour in a 10 pound sack. But every day, no matter how much I did get done, To Do List, with an insolent roll of his eyes, flips me off defiantly. So anyway, I need to do something to totally pwn him and bring him down to his knees. Should I kick him in the nuts? Too harsh? Well, before you answer, consider this. I have items on him that I’ve had for literally years. Like finishing the vector rebuild in illustrator of my linear perspective picture from Drawing I in 2004. And scanning all my film negatives into digital files. And finishing the Sister Scrapbook I started in January 2006. And finishing the toy train montage in photoshop that I started in 2005. Some are just months old, like re-designing my other website with my online portfolio. And tagging the pics on my hard drive with people’s names so I can search easier/faster. And cleaning my basement. And gathering all those hastily scribbled post-its and backs of bills and bar napkins with friends’ new addresses and numbers, and getting my address book updated.

Hey, you remember the Friends & Family plan that MCI had in 1995ish? Just in case you don’t, that’s the long distance calling plan that worked like this: half of America called MCI and gave them the numbers of everyone they knew to get a .0271% discount off their long distance calls to them. The other half took the first half behind the barn and pounded on them a little bit with a weathered 2×4. While America was engaged in mortal combat over telecommunications, MCI telemarketers instantly had in their sales arsenal a tool that has been wielded since the first time Adam spaced off Eve’s birthday; that’s right, pack your bags, we’re goin’ on a guilt trip!

“Hi there, I’m interrupting your dinner tonight to share with you some very exciting news! Cousin Thelma has added you to her Friends & Family list! But, wait… I see here on my computer that you haven’t added her to your list. What on God’s green earth did she ever do to you to make you hate her so venomously? I don’t want to have to call her and tell her how much you apparently despise her very existance… she might cry. You really need to add her to your list or she’s liable to drive off a cliff and you don’t want that on your conscience, do you? Oh, waaait, you don’t have a list because you’re not an MCI customer. But if you’d like to sign up with MCI, you can put her on your list and she might forgive you for the time you put a baby garter snake down her parachute pants at the 1987 Jones Family Reunion! Wow, that was a close call! Get out your phone book, whaddya say?”

Yeah, that was awesome. I just loved being a corporate pawn in MCI’s little game. The customer would call in, recite the number and then invariably they would ask, “Now what’s the discount again?”

And I’d reply, “Can I interest you in a lecture in quantum physics instead? It might be a tad easier to understand.”

And they’d give me a derisive snort and hang up on me.

I loved hang ups. They make your stats look phenomenal. And after all, isn’t that what being an Inbound Customer Care Representative is all about, the stellar stats? Some pie-in-the-sky dreamer once said it was about doing what’s right for the customer, but they were sadly mistaken. I know this because all the supervisors cared about was our numbers. I can even remember one of the goals… AHT (Average Handling Time, i.e. the length of the call) was set to 213 seconds at one point. Man, I took the abuse from the customers for four loooong years; first, three years at MCI then another year at McLeodUSA. I can tell you that now because neither of these companies exist any longer. Well, that, and it’s my blog, and I’ll tell you anything I want to.
Ahhh, that’s back in the days I could still use a phone with an amp. Then I finally gave up my cell phone about a year ago because I was so frickin’ tired of the business-like “Pardon?” or the impatient “What?!” and the hopelessly resigned “Sorry, say again?” and then finally, “Here, just a second; tell Hunky and he’ll tell me.”

It was quite entertaining for me when some unsuspecting victim would ask me, “Hey, can I use your phone real quick?” then dial the number and hold it up to their ear. Two seconds later, they’re holding it at arm’s length and asking, “Wholly Crap, how do you take it off speakerphone?! I think my ear’s bleeding!”

“It’s not on speakerphone.”

[uncomfortable moment]

“Oh.”

We kept the phone for emergencies (it’s even bright red!) and (ok, and because those Sprint brother-duckers said they’d charge me a $200 early disconnect fee) the library calls it every time one of my holds become available. I keep forgetting to change the number on their records. Imagine that.

Upon the highly respected recommendation of City Girl (who I am beginning to fall a little bit in love with in a totally non-lesbian sort of way), I picked up gods in Alabama by Joshilyn Jackson, and it was fabulous! I absolutely shiny crimson heart her voice; it’s dry and sarcastic and sassy and all “Girlfren’, pleeeeeeze!” complete with neck roll. I’m looking forward to reading more of her books, but first I’m gonna read Devil in the Details as recommended by Ali. I’ve found that I like finding a cushy chair and reading through my lunchtime.

I’m not so much in love with being back in the rat race. I haven’t seen Hunky for more than five minutes at at time (except, well, duh, sleeping next to each other for a few hours) since last weekend. I miss my Hunkeroo. By the by, if you have a minute, give him a comment to encourage him, because between the part-time job and part-time internship and full-time school, his candle is so burnt at both ends you can’t even hold it without burning your finger off. And also because when I told you it was his birthday, he didn’t get any comments and he tried to act like it was no big deal, but he was bummed out. (bags… guilt trip… *ahem*)

Crap, where was I?! *blinks* *shakes head*

Ah, yes; back in the rat race. I’m working on a PC again for the first time in four years, and then when I get home on my Mac, I Ctrl-V to paste and it doesn’t work. Then halfway through a rip-roaring good tantrum, I sheepishly realize I need to Apple-V. Because it’s like speaking Russian to a Aussie.

And I totally abhor getting up early. That alarm goes off at 4:30am and I sit up, die a little bit, hit snooze once, and doze back off. When it goes off again, I force my lazy ass up outta bed and get ready. Then from 6am-2:30pm I type stuff . At 3, I pick up the boys from school and for the rest of the evening, I keep like a running countdown in my head. Only 4 hours til 9 … Only 2 and a half hours til bed… Crap, it’s 9pm and I forgot to put out clothes and lunch for tomorrow! etc. etc. and on and on and I try to cram as much into the time as possible. I hate it. I don’t get things accomplished like I want to do, so then I beat myself over the head with “How does everyone else do it? Blogging and housework and projects and quality time with the kids? What the hell is wrong with me?” et al.

Which brings us back ’round to…

Maybe I should put it all on my never-ending, cheeky, openly taunting, impertinent To Do list. And then knee him in the nuts.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. And [in meandering southern drawl] Thank You Again For Your Support.

So… I thought, what we need is a Holiday Family Quality Time Activity. I decided that we could make a double batch of Chex Mix together.

Afterward, I thought, what I really needed is A Healthy Dose Of Reality. Because for a minute I forgot that we’re completely incapable of making poignant holiday Kodak moments. Oh, well. Witness the festive dysfunction.

Let me start out by saying, my point-and-shoot takes really fantastic pics. If by fantastic, you mean, taking pictures that look either like they were inside a deep bat infested cave or on the surface of the sun. Photoshop is my BFF. I don’t get out much. That said, let’s proceed with the merriment.

It all starts out very bright and shiny.
The table is clean, the boys are on their very best mediocre behavior,
and I haven’t cried or done any shots. Yet.
“Cheeeeeeeese!”

Let’s start out by putting the dry ingredients together.
Within one minute, Dino wandered off.
“Mom, why are we measuring? Why can’t we just dump it all into one big bowl?”
“Because… because I said so. Where did your brother go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dino, get back in here, dammit!”

The battles begin.
“I want to put in the Chex.” “No, I want to put in the Chex!”
“No fair!” “Shut up!”
“I am going to take this box of Chex and
cram it right up your dookyhole
if you don’t quit fighting.”

Hunky reminds me that this is supposed to be fun and
we are making Wonderful Christmas Memories.
I clench my teeth behind the “smile”.
“Yeah, yeah; sure, sure; just take the friggin’ picture already.”

I blow my referee whistle and remind them that there is still time
to take all the presents back to the store.
The sudden quiet allows me to lay down the law.
“Ok, you can put in that Chex, and you can put in that Chex,
and you can put in the pretzels, and you can put in the nuts.”

The kitchen buzzes with activity. The war is in a temporary truce.
I inhale and exhale for the first time since we started.
“I’m trying to make Wonderful Christmas Memories for you here.
Let’s try to get along so we can make some
damn Wonderful Christmas Memories!”

I doggedly plod on and start putting the butter and spices together.
[buzz of busy activity]

I ask Hunky to shake it (the dry mix, not his pockets) like a
poloroid picture while I slowly pour the wet stuff in.
Hunky wisely wastes no time in obeying my every whim.
Rocky snatches up the abandoned camera and
captures the edge-of-your-seat action.
“Pour it slower.”
“Shake it faster.”
[Barry White voice] “Slower, baby.”
“I want you so much right now.”

I’ve poured the evidence of our weird family dynamics (i.e. the first batch)
into the pans and started on the second batch. Notice the natives have deserted.
[humming] “Gramma got run over by a reindeer…”

Oh, God help me, they’re back. And wired for sound. Notice Dino’s eyes.
That amount of energy in one child is quite the spectacle to behold.
[electrical buzzing of energy]

They start running around the house trying to test their theory
that if they run fast enough, the camera can’t catch them. True story.
[click]
“Was I a blur then?” “Can I see the picture?”
“Dang it, we have to try it again faster!”

This time I move fast enough the camera can’t catch me.
I go the cupboard for alcohol.
[racetrack sound fx]

I breathe for the second time since we started, in anticipation
of the holiday joy that is Eggnog with a Double Shot of Kahlua.
The boys continue to test their theory.
I stand oblivious; I’m gettin’ my holiday drink on, baby.
[zoooom... brakes screech]
“Was I a blur then?” “Can I see the picture?”
“Dang it, we have to try it again faster!”

Rocky buzzes with energy. He looks like he may be close to exploding, does he not?
I contemplate beaning him with the bottle, but that would be alcohol abuse.
“Don’t test me, boy. I can make another one just like you.”

Finally. It’s just me and my creamy, nutmeg-y, alcoholic friend.
[twisting cap breaks safety seal]

Dino continues the research for the “faster than the camera” theory.
“Back off, kid; Mom’s busy. Oh, yeah. Come to mama.”

Hunky enjoys eggnog sans Kahlua.
I’m having a difficult time fathoming the point of Kahlua-less eggnog.
“No, I will not smile. I’m very gruff and rugged and manly.”

Hunky gets Rocky to try eggnog. Will he like it?
[audience holds collective breath]

I think that’s a no.
“BLEK!”

Hunky breaks gruff and rugged and manly character.
“Now that’s funny, I don’t care who ya are!”

Now Hunky says Dino has to try eggnog.
He reassures him it is quite tasty; Dino remains a skeptic.
“Awwww, do I hafta?” “Yes, you certainly do.”

Dino employs an oft-attempted stalling tactic. It goes over like a fart in church.

“Yes. Down the hatch.”
“But this is my new Bionicle and his name is…”
“NOW.”

Dino sees the futility of the maneuver and reluctantly complies.
[audience holds collective breath]

Dino dittos Rocky’s vote. Hunky empathizes.
Final Tally: Boys, 2; Eggnog, 0.
“YUCK!” “Yuck.”