The Christmas Condom

“Angela, if you get a chance, I would really like you to take down the tree today,” the principal said to me shortly after I had arrived at work.

I was more than happy to take down the tree. I hated the tree almost instantly after it had been erected in the cafeteria.  One of the local gas stations donated a Christmas tree to the high school, and I learned that it was my responsibility, as study hall supervisor, to have the students decorate the tree. 

They decorated the tree in December, and it was a dreadful  embarrassment.  I asked them not to put on any tinsel because I found it horribly tacky, but they threw it all over the branches with great glee and enthusiasm.  The bulbs were random old decorations that had managed to survive the years without breaking, but they didn’t match at all.  The students also got carried away, as teenagers are prone to do, and found the most random of happenings completely hysterical.  They laughed their skinny little asses off when they put a Cheez-it box on top of the tree, like it was the funniest thing in the whole wide world.

While they were prouder than a peacock, I was embarrassed beyond belief.  I went into these neurotic fears of mine that I was going to be reprimanded by the principal and lose my job because the tree was just too damn ugly.  I was supposed to oversee the decorations and what had I allowed them to do?  A Cheez-it box where the star should be? I hung my head in deep shame, but clocked out and went home at the end of the day without mentioning a word of the disastrous holiday décor.

When I arrived at work the next day, the principal asked me about the tree. “So, the kids got the tree decorated, huh?” he asked.  I shook my head and acknowledged, “I think it may be the ugliest tree in the history of all trees. For Christ’s sake, did you see the Cheez-it box? They just got so carried away and they were having fun.”

I was genuinely ashamed, and a little bit fearful of my position in the district, even though I just had dropped the phrase “For Christ’s Sake” in front of my employer.  My fears quickly dissipated as he responded, “It’s perfect.”  I looked at him like he was fucking crazy.  “Well, I would never want the tree in my own house to look such a mess, but it’s perfect for here. You can tell it was decorated by high school students for high school students,” he replied.

He was right, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was also highly relieved today, though, that he wanted the damn ugly thing down.  It may have been perfect for fourteen to seventeen year olds, as my principal had indicated, but it was still a fucking eye sore to me. 

“I will gladly find some students to assist me in taking that tree down today,” I replied with sincerity, “I just hope I don’t find a condom hanging in there as I take it down.”

“Oh, yes, the Christmas Condom,” he smiled and nodded.  The students had warned me that, inevitably, some kid hangs a condom in the tree every year.  I hadn’t noticed it yet, and was not looking forward to its arrival.

“It’s kind of like the tradition of the glass pickle,” my principal said, “Isn’t that a German tradition?”

“Yes,” I replied, as I was most definitely large parts stubborn German in ancestry, “The first to find the pickle on the tree is the first one to open a gift.”

“Yes,” he said, “I guess the condom is just a spin on that.  I haven’t noticed one in the tree yet this year, though.  They may not have done it.  If not, you’re doing a fine job in there, Angela, a fine job.”

As all the ornaments and lights came down today and the tree was thrown outside in the snow, no condom was found among the decorations.  I have done a fine job, a fine job indeed.  I am happy to be the one to bring an end to the tradition to the Christmas Condom, and even happier that I work with individuals who operate in the same world I do – rather than pretending to be holier than thou and acting as though the sight of a condom were a sign of Satan.  Kids will be kids, and I’m so damn glad we can all finally just be real about that. 

Grandpa Stole Santa's Watch

We sat in our tiny plastic seats writing our letters to Santa Claus with large pencils and excited grins.  I asked for a Lite Brite for myself, Transformers for my brother, and a Glo Worm for my little sister.  Would Santa get my letter in time?  I hoped our kindergarten teacher would mail them out that very day after we lay down for our naps on rubber maps while sipping our chocolate milk from straws. 

Then the wonderful news came that made all of our young hearts beat more rapidly with abundant anticipation.   Not only were our letters being stamped and sent off to the North Pole that very afternoon as my little heart had hoped, but Santa himself was coming to our classroom tomorrow.  Following the holiday program for our parents, Santa and one of his elves would be right here – inside these concrete walls where we learned our alphabet and basic mathematics.

Of course Santa was real.  I knew he was real.  He had to be.  How else could one possibly explain the piles of presents that magically appeared under the tree each Christmas morning?  Who else could have conceivably consumed the plate of cookies and glass of milk that had been left out for this wonder of a man? Who else filled our stockings to the brim with candy canes, chocolates, and oranges?  Santa. It was Santa for sure, and I was meeting him.  I boasted about this upcoming encounter to my mother, and was far too excited to notice the look of concern that crossed her face.

Like thoughts of sugar plums described in traditional holiday tales, my thoughts were consumed with Santa until the moment finally came.  Santa sat in front of the decorative fireplace my teacher had assembled in the classroom.  He was dressed all in red velvet, with white fur trimming the edges of his coat and pants.  His beard was white as snow, and he wore a red cap.  He had a twinkle in his eye as he smiled down at me, looking precisely how I had envisioned him from the tales I read and stories I had been told.

He reached down with white gloves and placed me upon his lap.  I began to tell Santa the wishes of myself and my younger siblings.  As I spoke to him, I breathed in his very essence, expecting him to smell of candy canes and newly fallen snow.  His aroma, however, was not new or magical as I had imagined.  This jolly old man felt strangely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place the scent.  When he spoke back, another recognizable trait was heard.  That tone was one I had heard before, but again could not precisely identify.  His nose, his eyes, his smile; I felt already acquainted with all of these features. I looked back to my mom, who looked down at the ground.  I finished my requests, but my mind was rapidly attempting to solve a puzzle.  This man – this Santa – was no longer magic, but was now a mystery to me.

On Christmas day, we went to my grandparent’s house.  I looked at the ornaments hanging on the Christmas tree.  Most of them were personalized with a message to my Grandpa and a different year on them.  “From the Kindergarten Class – 1980,” “From the Kindergarten Class – 1981,” and so on.  Why did the kindergartners, which I now was, like my Grandpa so much?  I didn’t understand.  Then Grandpa handed me a gift that was under the tree.  I smiled at him, and when he smiled back, the mystery started to unravel.  His watch! He’s wearing Santa’s watch!  Why is Grandpa wearing Santa’s watch?  I saw it on Mr. Claus last week.  I know it’s the very same one. 

I dropped the gift to the floor, and ran to my mother’s arms.  “Mom! Grandpa stole Santa’s watch! He stole it! I saw it!”  My mother shook her head and explained to me that Grandpa had not committed an act of thievery.  “But …. But,”  I began, and then I understood.  Grandpa didn’t steal Santa’s watch. Grandpa was Santa.  But, he doesn’t live at the North Pole.  And where are his reindeer?  And … no, no, no! I escaped my mother’s embrace and ran under the kitchen table, where I stayed and cried for forty minutes.  Nothing was ever the same again. Santa wasn’t real. The magic was over for me.  

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I thought the magic was over in that moment, but I was wrong.  The magic is real and it lies in our own hearts, and in the smiles of our own children.  It lies in the love of family and the kindness of strangers. Although it’s been nearly thirty years since I learned the truth about Santa, Christmas remains a magical holiday.  More importantly, I never once stopped believing in the man this holiday was truly meant to celebrate.  Jesus is the real reason for this season, and his gift of salvation is far better than any present wrapped up with ribbons and bows.   


I'm spending the holidays over at Yeah Write.  You should too. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good read.

 
 Second Place Crowd Favorite

 

Baby, It's Cold Outside - But you Better Brave the Weather

I have been more excited for this Christmas than I have in years.  I know this is because my daughter is now two and old enough to understand Christmas.  Every single time she sees an image of Santa Claus on the television or adorning someone’s front yard, she points and smiles, proudly labeling this jolly old man: “Santa.”  After announcing his presence, she begins to repeat, “Ho. Ho. Ho.”  Her enthusiasm for the season is simply infectious, and I have made every attempt to rev it up even more.  Therefore, I have been listening almost exclusively to the all Christmas music station – Holly – on XM whenever Emily is in the vehicle with me.

I have learned a number of things from this frequent listening to holiday tunes.  To begin, no one – no one – really thinks the fucking Chipmunks are cute.  Somewhere along the line we must have been brainwashed to believe kids enjoy that squeaky, obnoxious shit, so we keep on listening to Alvin, Simon, and Theodore sing holiday tunes.  I believed it, so I turned it up when one of their mousy melodies came on, and said, “Emily, listen to the chipmunks sing.  Isn’t it silly?”  I glanced back and smiled at her, and she had the most disgusted expression on her face, like she was really questioning my interest in such irritating music, much like the countenance that crosses my face when I see women wearing Ugg boots in July – or at all.

I have also learned that people tend to make very rash decisions during the holiday season.  For example, in “Winter Wonderland,” the couple suddenly decides to get married and allows a snowman to proceed over said ceremony.  That’s not romantic; that’s ridiculous.  I hope that the tooth fairy will be around in a few months to grant them a divorce.  In “Last Christmas,” the singer laments, “Last Christmas, I gave you my heart. The very next day, you gave it away.  This year, to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special.”  Now, why the fuck would you give your heart to someone not special in the first place, you fool?  That’s just damn stupid.  You don’t fall in love because of mistletoe, folks. 

The worst lyrics, though, are found in “Baby, it’s Cold Outside.”  Have you ever closely listened to this song? Damn, I guess nothing says Christmas like a sweet little ditty about potential date rape.  I imagine we’re expected to believe the woman is just being coy and this banter back and forth is charming, but when Colbie Caillat recently covered this tune, she added “I don’t trust you” to the very end of this song.  I wouldn’t trust him either.  Listen more closely next time, and you’ll notice the female duet partner asks, “Say, what’s in this drink?”  Once I recognized this, I have been unable to shake the image of the Family Guy character Glenn Quagmire’s “roofie colada.”  Bitch, you better just wrap your scarf a little tighter and brave the weather because you’re being serenaded by a bad, bad man.

If I want to enjoy my Christmas music in the future I either need to listen less carefully or steer entirely clear of pop music.  I know “Away in a Manger” and “The First Noel” are safe bets.  Even seemingly sweet children’s songs like “Frosty the Snowman” could be interpreted as a song about a predatory monster that only the children know comes to life because, you know, Frosty told them to keep it a secret from the adults.  Sometimes I wish my mind didn’t work this way.  Nonetheless, I wish you all a very magical holiday season.  Just promise me there will be no weddings attended by chipmunks and governed by a magical snowman.

 

Do you still think this is a sweet holiday song?

Shatter Proof

I have been divorced for ten years.  It has been one entire decade since I walked away from an emotionally and physically abusive relationship.  And yet, as my current husband recently pulled down the Rubbermaid storage boxes from their garage shelves, many of the holiday decorations contained within are still those purchased while in that first marriage.   I unpacked snowman decorations that had been given as gifts by my former spouse, and opened a container that held the blue and silver glass bulbs that we hung on our Christmas tree.

I can’t precisely tell you why I never replaced them.  I suppose I just considered these decorations as mere objects, and never really thought of them as symbols of a failed relationship.  Did looking at a snowman candle holder from Kohl’s bring tears to my eyes as I painfully recalled the night my former husband attempted to choke me?  No, it did not; I just thought it looked appropriately festive sitting on the fireplace mantle.  Replacing the decorations and the ornaments would be expensive, and I deemed this act unnecessary.
 

This year, however, a different feeling generated in me when I looked at those blue and silver bulbs.  I simply could not bear to hang them upon my tree for one more Christmas. I wasn’t disturbed by memories; I didn’t regret my divorce.  I simply did not wish to hang those ornaments up one more year as I had grown tired of them.  Beyond that, I now have a toddler who has the natural curiosity of a kitten, getting into things she doesn’t belong in. I could imagine her pawing and batting at them with her hands like the furry, little paws of the cats of my childhood, breaking bulbs and making my mom furious every single holiday season. 

Those silver and blue bulbs of a marriage past were as fragile as our relationship – easily broken.  I did not want my daughter to injure herself on the sharp, fragmented bits of glass in the same manner I had been emotionally injured when my reality was shattered through the revelation of my spouse’s unceasing dishonesty.  I thought then of the false mystique of splintered glass along the edges of roadways.  When those bits of broken glass are illuminated by a vehicle’s headlights, they sparkle and shine like diamonds and gold.  It’s all an illusion, though, just as my happy, blissful marriage was. 

For the safety of my children, who might naively be fascinated with the shine of those silver, fragile bulbs, I could not in good conscience place them upon the bows of the already erect tree.  The lights had been strung, and my daughter awed at the sight.  However, we would not finish decorating the tree that night.  I took that plastic container full of easily broken ornaments and put it back out in the garage, stashed away behind other storage containers and a large cooler. 

The very next evening I went to the store and bought new ornaments – shatter proof ornaments.  On the most basic level, these ornaments are a wise decision of a protective mother who rightly predicted that her daughter would knock ornaments off the tree.  When my daughter did this, though, after all the new bulbs hung beautifully from the limbs of the pine, the bulb remained unbroken.  It held together, just as I know and believe that this family will hold together through all difficult times.  This marriage – this beautiful, blessed family – is shatter-proof too.

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I hooked up with the wonderful writers over at Yeah Write.  Once again, I am telling you the posts on the challenge grid are well worth reading.  Happy Holidays!

<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/87-open/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/challenge861.png"></a>

 

 

I made a Zazzle Shop, and I'm Sorry

I thought the wine was to blame, but wine couldn’t possibly be the culprit.  I can handle my wine, my friends.  So why the fuck was I up until 5 a.m. last night?  Aaah, yes.  It was that delicious, tempting Peppermint Mocha that I purchased after work; I often have a difficult time with caffeine.  However, I did not anticipate that sweet holiday classic coffee blend keeping me up all hours of the night.  The mocha is to blame for what transpired when I couldn’t sleep.

It all started out harmless.  In fact, I started out amazing after I picked up the children and got home.  I made a stunning chicken casserole of which I am very proud.  I cleaned up and put the toys and books that were scattered all over the floor away, I readied the table with plates, silverware, and wine glasses. I opened a lovely bottle of Clos Do Bois Chardonnay (this is a plug because this is my favorite Chardonnay, and you should so try it), and the family sat down for a meal together. 

After the meal was done and the dishes in the sink, I asked my husband if he could handle the kids so I could do my “bloggy stuff.”  So, I wrote and published a new post, read and commented on the great posts over on the yeah write challenge grid, uploaded some fun stuff to my facebook page, and interacted with the wonderful blogging community I have developed on twitter.  Bloggy stuff done, I snuggled the children for a while and then put them to bed when they nodded off.  I watched some Comedy Central with my husband, and then he headed for bed too, but I wasn’t tired.

The house was clean, and the family asleep.  I could have read a novel, but instead I found my way to Pinterest.  Fucking Pinterest.  There, I added some new stuff to my “CraftyShit I will Probably Never Do” Board (Isn't that wine cork wreath so cool, though?) and also pinned a few new recipes, seeing as I can actually be surprisingly and amazingly domestic when I so choose.  I started looking at Christmas pins and gaining inspiration for new traditions to celebrate with my family.  If you, too, wish to create new family traditions, check out Six Sisters Stuff.  Those crafty bitches really do have some wonderful ideas.  Clearly I am jealous of these women and all their wholesome, crafty, domestic goodness – but I sincerely do recommend following them.

Okay, envy aside (damn your green head for making me digress), I also encountered a wonderful ornament in my Christmas pinning, created by Jennifer Hall at Just Jennifer.  This is when I had one of my Liz Lemon “I want to go to there” moments.  I let Jennifer know how great I thought her ornament was, and noted that I really hope I end up receiving this ornament in the awesome exchange currently being hosted by the Sarcasm Goddess (sign up now – it closes December 10^th).  Then I decided I needed to make an ornament too, so I cruised on over to zazzle and set up shop.

I could have probably just made the ornament, but that’s not how my mind works (you know this by now) and it was about 3:00 a.m.  As I was still blaming the wine for my alert state at the time, I tried to name my shop “I Got Drunk and Made this Shop,” but zazzle said that name was too long.  Therefore, you will see my shop – “The Purple Tutu” – over on the sidebar.  My apologies, sincerely.  “This Shit is Really Expensive” is also too long for a zazzle shop name, just in case you were wondering.

So, yes, there’s a shop on my sidebar now.  Random products will probably appear during further bouts of insomnia, but I understand that no one really wants to buy that shit.  It’s okay.  If you forgive me for the shop, I will forgive you for not supporting it.  Let’s still be best friends.  However, you should know that if you buy a button, I will earn royalties of exactly twenty-five cents for every button sold.  Now, I figured this shit out, and right now my son is five months old (just turned today – smiley face).  So, if I earn one quarter every day until he is eighteen, I will have $1,605.25 towards his college fund.  Why don’t you want to my kid to go to college?  Just buy a fucking button! No, no, nevermind.  My apologies again. And all apologies for this really long post that basically boils down to an embarrassing sorry.

The Twelve Wines of Christmas

#ChristmasStress is trending on twitter.  In between their shopping and baking, billions of twitter users have still apparently found the time to bitch about the holidays to a world of folks that don’t really give a shit.  People are still complaining about Black Friday madness, the difficulty of buying presents for boys, and the detangling of outdoor lights.  Black Friday got you pulling out your hair?  Here’s an idea: don’t shop that day! And so what if your neighbor’s holiday lights are better than yours?  Is there a cash prize being awarded on your block?  If not, relax and avoid that Christmas stress you feel it necessary to tweet about. 

Unfortunately, for as much as we all bitch about it, I think the majority of Americans love the holiday stress.  Misery loves company, right?  What brings two co-workers together more than complaining about the mother-in-law’s deathly fruit cake? I have tried to make a point of doing only what I want at the holidays.  I like buying gifts; I like seeing someone’s face light up when they unwrap a present I selected for them.  However, I sometimes don’t find the perfect gift and so I just don’t bother.  My best friend and I have been exchanging gifts since the fifth grade.  Some years she gets a present from me, and some years she doesn’t.   I don’t buy her a gift out of obligation; I buy her a gift when I spot something that speaks to me (like penguins and reindeer do at Pier 1).  If I receive no gift from her this year it won't matter either because, as cheesy and cliché as it sounds, I already have everything I need for the holidays right here in my home – my loving husband and adoring children. 

Despite having everything I need, I did bravely venture out on Black Friday this year, although I knew it might generate some of that much tweeted about Christmas stress.  I didn’t go out in my hometown either – there were no door-busting deals at the Ben Franklin that I know of.  We were visiting family in a larger city – a city with a mall (big time stuff given where I live).  We avoided the mall like the plague, though, and also steered clear of all major chain stores like Wal-Mart and Target. I wasn’t in search of one specific super deal like a flat screen TV for $99.00 or Crock Pot for only $4.99. I didn’t need any $1.00 DVDs or fucking half-price Fidget Friends or Furbies (Why are furbies back?!?).

In fact, I must boast that I actually had the majority of my Christmas shopping done before Thanksgiving.  Given this, the primary reason I had to go shopping was because I was down to two bottles of wine.  Two bottles!  Therefore, my first stop was to the World Market.  I left the store having made zero purchases for friends or family members, and 12 bottles of wine for myself.  You want to know how to make it through the holidays this year?  Do it the Not Appropriate Angela way – sleigh bells and shit loads of red wine. 

 

My Shopping Cart on Black Friday

After the purchase of wine, although I had not actually consumed any, I felt confident and brave enough to venture to Toys R Us to see if there were any super values for my children.  Okay, I got annoyed as fuck with the crowds there and left with only one item: an aqua doodle.  My daughter needs this so that she stops giving herself face tats (this is what I call it when she draws on her cheeks). Although no great bargains were found because I lack patience, I am immensely glad that we stopped at Toys R Us as I overheard one of the best conversations ever. 

“Mommy,” the little boy in the aisle next to me said while tugging at his mother’s winter coat, “This year, for Christmas I’m going to tell Santa Claus our house burnt down so I can get lots of extra toys.”

His mother looked back at him, appalled, and said, “Honey, that’s really not a nice thing to do.”

“Don’t worry, Mom,” he confidently replied, “I’m just telling Santa.  I won’t tell Jesus.”

So, go ahead my friends and get through this holiday season with Merlot, Cabernet, and Shiraz instead of holly and berries. Don’t worry.  I won’t tell Jesus that Christmas time makes you consume a bit more wine, and Santa clearly can’t judge you on overindulgences (as he approaches Diabetes with his cookie consumption).  Stop tweeting about your Christmas stress and simply start pouring the twelve wines of Christmas.  Merry Christmas to all and to all a fine wine!

The Twelve Wines of Christmas: Revised Christmas Carol

Do you think I can get Micheal Buble to sing this shit?