Keeping Happy Holidays in Christmas

I don't get this War on Christmas. Seems like Christ was taken out of Christmas when reindeers began to fly and Pooh got stuck in a giant blowup snowglobe.  For me, as with many others, Christmas is a cutural holiday. 

There's the tree--which tests my OCD as I rearrange the bulbs every time I walk by; there's the mall--which tests my claustrophobia and makes me wish I had a cattle prod; and there's the cards--which test my procrastination-al leanings.  The latter has consistently been a FAIL for me.  My cards never get out on time. 

Hence, the real beauty of Happy Holidays is the cards can arrive before New Years and I'm still good.  The S in holidays saves me every year.

I am Harriet Nelson--Almost

Thanksgiving was weird. 

I spent the day with my soon-to-be-ex, our kids, and my mom.  My soon-to-be-ex's girlfriend had dinner with her soon-to-be-ex, their kids and his mom.  My brother did nothing, depressed that his girlfriend spent the holiday with her soon-to-be-ex and their kids.


As a dysfunctional family, we win the prize for being the most functional.

Like Mother Like Meg?

Mom was up to it again.

“Dear Sir” was written on the top of page in the lost art of cursive. I didn’t have to ask. It was probably to a bank threatening to withdraw her money if they continued to address correspondences to her as Ms. (to address me as Ms. is to say I’m nothing).

Or maybe to a local charity who sent a thank you to her son for the donation when in fact it was she who signed the check (why do they assume the man sent it just because I share an account with him).

I knew better than to point out the possible contradiction of her feminism.

Recently, she wrote to the local food bank and stated that if that they wanted any more money from her, they were to address their requests to Margaret instead of Peggy.

What? Margaret? I asked.

Yes, that’s my name.

But you’ve been called Peggy for 80 years.

I never liked the name Peggy. I prefer to be called Margaret now. If people want money from me, they will address me as Margaret.

Stubborn German, my dad called her.

Turns out her latest letter was to the National Park Service. In appreciation for her donation they sent her a calendar.

That’s kind of nice, I remarked.

It's made in China.

Mum was the word.

I already knew that was a no-no. Even though she had enough nic nacs made in China to fill her own General Dollar, you do not ask my mom for money to support an American cause and then repay her with some thing un-American.

We had been through this when she cut the tag off a baseball cap and sent it back to the Olympic Committee requesting to be removed from their list.

Now with the calendar from the National Parks, her Dear Sir letter included a question. “Since you have a fondness for the Chinese, can I use Chinese money when I pay the entrance fee to Yellowstone?”

Yes, my mom can be illogical and even down-right crazy. But she does believe in exercising her First Amendment rights.

And she's been doing for a long time now.

When I was 16, I skipped school and my mom drove me the 60 miles to Detroit to get tickets for Paul McCartney and Wings. This was pre-Ticket Master days and one had to wait in line outside in the snow for 6 hours or more. A neighbor, who apparently was not interested in the Today Show like our other neighbors, saw us driving away and reported it to the school.

In my defense, my mother wrote a letter to the principal:

“If boys can take time off school on the first day of hunting season to kill poor baby deer, then my daughter can surely miss school to get tickets to see one of the greatest musicians of our time.”

Did I say I love this woman?

Teen's First Mammary

In almost 200 posts, I have only reposted once before. But in honor of Breast Awareness Month, I am once again sharing my son's first mammaries--outside my own, that is. He was 6 and excited about his first homework assignment in Kindergarten.
Spouse was sitting at the dining room table helping him. He was to cut out six pictures of things that begin with the letter "M" and glue them on a piece of paper.

"Let your child find the pictures himself," the instructions read. "Your role is to guide him."

Spouse had a pile of Newsweeks on the table.

"Here's an M-picture," he said excitedly. "M-M-Marilyn Monroe."

"Great, Dad, I'll cut it out."

"Ahem," I said from the kitchen where I was doing the dishes. "What is Marilyn wearing?"

"Something M-M-Marvelous," said Spouse.



"Nix that one," I said. "Remember these are kindergartners, after all."

"Mom! What's wrong with Marilyn?"

"Yeah, Mom," said Spouse. "What's wrong with Marilyn?"

"I don't think 'Mistress' is on the kindergarten vocabulary list yet, guys."

They turned the page. "Here's a man," Spouse pointed.

"All right, Dad!"

"Ahem. Kindergartner’s supposed to find the pictures," I reminded them.

"OK," said Spouse. "He can find the next one."

"Hey, here's a map," Spouse shouted.

"Ahem. Let Kindergartner find the M pictures."

"OK. OK. Next time."

"Look, here's another map," Spouse whispered.

"You can't have two maps. Try to find some other picture," I called from the doorway.

"Micromanager. That starts with M," he called back.

I vowed to keep my M shut. Men and women have different approaches to things. That's supposed to be good, right? And then I heard:

"Hey, look at these pictures. They're famous. See that man? That's President Kennedy. And he was riding in that limo with the top down and some guy shot him. And see, this is his wife. She's reaching for a chunk of his head."



“Spouse!" My vow went down the drain.

"Well, Murder starts with M," he declared.

And so does Mistake. “Nix it," I ordered. They turned the page.

"Hey, Kid, look, here's a machine gun."

"Spouse!"

"Mom!"

"Micromanager!"

I was out-voted. Thankfully, Kindergartner’s motor skills were uneven. He cut the gun in half and they decided to nix it.

"Here's a monkey," Spouse announced.

"Great, Dad. Thanks for finding it. I like doing homework with you."

I should have been minding my Ms & Qs, but I snuck a peek.

It was a monkey, all right. And a bald man next to him. Charles Darwin. "I hope the kindergarten teacher, Mrs. O'Reily, Mrs. O'Reily from St John's parish, you know, the former nun, doesn't think this is some sort of hidden message," I said.

M's the word.

By then, they have a man, two maps, and Darwin and his ape. And it only took 45 minutes.

But next: "Where have all the Ms gone, Dad?” Kindergartner asked.

"Oh, here's one, honey. Mammary gland."

It took me a minute to process this. Then I rushed into the dining room and saw my son had just cut out an illustrated picture of a breast.



"You can't use that." I ripped it out of his hand.

"I can, too."

"He can, too."

"He can not."

"Mom," my son began to cry. “That's my M, that's my M."

"This M is rated X," I said. "Sorry."

"But Mom..."

I decided it was time for the big M herself to take over the project. Spouse was just as happy. Now he could find his own Ms on the nightly news--murder, mayhem, and mammary glands.

I flipped through some pages determined to find some benign Ms. But the M-hunt was harder that I thought.

We found another man, another map, another machine gun, and more mammaries —this time belonging to the mistress M-M-M-onica.



Where were all those people with the milk mustaches when you needed them?
Kindergartner was quickly losing interest. Finally we hit a gold mine. "Look! Here's a monster, and a moon, and wow, Mickey Mouse."

"Hey, I thought I was supposed to find..."

"Just cut," I said, handing him the scissors.



Five minutes later, we were finished. I sent Kindergartner to bed and continued the M-Hunt myself. The M&M Hunt, that is.

I thought I deserved a reward for making it through Kindergartner’s first homework assignment!