Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Feeling so much better now. It's embarassing how freaking crazy I got. I'm damned freaking glad it's over, though. I got one positive thing out of the experience, though: I can honestly say (and I'm embarassed to admit) that this is the first year that I truly, honestly didn't care about getting presents. I focused on creating memories for the kids, which naturally involves presents. I'm not saying there was no stress, but it was so much better this year. There was no moment of disappointment when I didn't get something special or as much as someone else... all that silly juvenile ego shit was gone. I hope that attitude sticks, I really do.
I regret that my illness prevented me from updating everyone on the goings on of the season... I often found myself in a moment when I thought to myself that I really had to blog about it, but I rarely had the time, much less the mental energy to sit down and get it out. Like the time at the Thanksgiving dinner table when I was absolutely sure that Rusty's stepmother was about to pull her pants down to show us her tattoo. Turns out it was on her calf, but there was a moment of panic. Or the Christmas Eve at work with the Jamaican priestess who looked exactly like a human characature of a frog... she was mesmerizing, I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was short and fat, with the blackest skin I'd ever seen. Her hair was braided tight and close to her head, and both her hair and skin were so oiled up she glistened like a wet frog. She wore a bright green sweater with matching eyeshadow that would make Rupal look demure. Her huge, plump lips were painted a dark brick red and her eyes bulged out so much I actually wondered if they'd ever fallen out. She spoke with such a heavy Jamaican accent I couldn't understand most of what she said. I hate myself for the stereotyped impression she left me with, but honestly, she set off these big warning bells in my head that she had some Voo-Doo in her and I had better not cross her.
In the meantime, I'm suffering from that phenomenon only a parent of the new millenium understands. Yes, we spend 3 months buying the toys and finding devious ways to hide them, we spend hours wrapping them (at least we've done away with one total pain in the ass: removing all the price tag stickers--hooray for technology!!), they spend 5 minutes unwrapping them, and we spend the next 5 days taking them out of their boxes. Shitfoot informs me that it took him 45 minutes to free Pegasus (of Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus) from his plastic prison. There's a box full of Lego blocks that are being axiously awaited upon in their final configuration as the Millenium Falcon. I won't even buy a new loaf of bread tomorrow because I'll be damned if I touch another twist tie before I get the feeling back in my fingertips... I've read instructions in German, Japanese, French and Spanish, I've installed batteries, snipped tags and plastic bags, peeled cardboard backing, applied stickers, and taken at least 25 pounds of garbage out the door. And we still haven't figured out where we're going to put all these damned toys...
I regret that my illness prevented me from updating everyone on the goings on of the season... I often found myself in a moment when I thought to myself that I really had to blog about it, but I rarely had the time, much less the mental energy to sit down and get it out. Like the time at the Thanksgiving dinner table when I was absolutely sure that Rusty's stepmother was about to pull her pants down to show us her tattoo. Turns out it was on her calf, but there was a moment of panic. Or the Christmas Eve at work with the Jamaican priestess who looked exactly like a human characature of a frog... she was mesmerizing, I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was short and fat, with the blackest skin I'd ever seen. Her hair was braided tight and close to her head, and both her hair and skin were so oiled up she glistened like a wet frog. She wore a bright green sweater with matching eyeshadow that would make Rupal look demure. Her huge, plump lips were painted a dark brick red and her eyes bulged out so much I actually wondered if they'd ever fallen out. She spoke with such a heavy Jamaican accent I couldn't understand most of what she said. I hate myself for the stereotyped impression she left me with, but honestly, she set off these big warning bells in my head that she had some Voo-Doo in her and I had better not cross her.
In the meantime, I'm suffering from that phenomenon only a parent of the new millenium understands. Yes, we spend 3 months buying the toys and finding devious ways to hide them, we spend hours wrapping them (at least we've done away with one total pain in the ass: removing all the price tag stickers--hooray for technology!!), they spend 5 minutes unwrapping them, and we spend the next 5 days taking them out of their boxes. Shitfoot informs me that it took him 45 minutes to free Pegasus (of Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus) from his plastic prison. There's a box full of Lego blocks that are being axiously awaited upon in their final configuration as the Millenium Falcon. I won't even buy a new loaf of bread tomorrow because I'll be damned if I touch another twist tie before I get the feeling back in my fingertips... I've read instructions in German, Japanese, French and Spanish, I've installed batteries, snipped tags and plastic bags, peeled cardboard backing, applied stickers, and taken at least 25 pounds of garbage out the door. And we still haven't figured out where we're going to put all these damned toys...
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