A not so heartwarming tale of Christmas past

I have never believed in Santa Claus. It’s a fun little factoid to whip out when playing “Never Have I Ever” or when you want to tell people something that will cause them to stare, open-mouthed, in abject horror. I told some co-workers this today. There was staring. There was abject horror. It was awesome.

This post isn’t about the question of should you or should you not tell your kids about Santa. I have no kids and never will so I needn’t even weigh in on that. (I do have an opinion, and if you know me well, you know what it is.) No, this post is a diverting little tale of what happens when you take a truth-equipped child who is a bit of a smarty-pants and unleash her upon a classroom of unsuspecting 5-year olds.

It was January of my kindergarten year. We had just returned to school after the Christmas break and my teacher, perhaps wanting to ease us back into the school day, asked us who wanted to stand up and tell the class what Santa had brought him or her for Christmas. My hand shot up. Even at age 5, I was able to immediately recognize an incorrect statement and even more immediately wish to correct it as vociferously as possible. It’s not one of my better qualities, but there it is.

My teacher called on two other students before calling on me, and I listened impatiently as they prattled on about Smurf figurines and tricycles. I had gotten a windfall that Christmas, but I wasn’t planning to tell anyone about it. I had something very particular to say that everyone really needed to hear. Finally my teacher called on me, and I stood up tall and announced in a clear, loud voice, “Santa didn’t bring me anything because Santa’s not real.”

I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps a gasp of shock, followed by a clamoring of questions. Really? He’s not? How do you know? Why do you have this important information and we don’t? How are you so smart? How could I have lived this lie for the past five years!

Instead, I was on the business end of a furor. Hissing and shrieking hurled at me from all sides of the room. “Yes he is SO real!” “Santa DOES exist! He brought me a Matchbox General Lee!” “You’re dumb!” Repeat, repeat, repeat.

I remember being genuinely surprised in that moment. I remember thinking, “Seriously? All of you? Every single one of you? It’s such a burden to be the only know who knows what’s really going on here.” (My internal monologue can be insufferable.)

I looked to my teacher, expecting her to back me up, to confirm what we both knew was happening, but her eyes held only panic, incredulity, and a little fear that she might be attacked by a mob of feral, enraged children. She tried to smooth things over as best she could and I took my seat again, imagining a time in five or six years when my classmates would come to me and tell me I had been right all along (they didn’t) and thank me for being a beacon of truth (they SO didn’t.)

I’m really not sure how my parents didn’t feel the need to tell me not to go trumpeting the truth all over kindergarten. Surely they knew what a loud-mouthed little know-it-all they had on their hands. And even if they didn’t, surely Jennifer would have informed them. Furthermore, what was my teacher thinking when she asked that question? How could she not know she was courting disaster? She totally asked for the mayhem that ensued in the classroom once she sparked that inferno. And for the phone calls that evening from angry parents who were putting out fires of their own.

Incidentally, "Never have I ever not told a room full of kindergarteners that Santa doesn't exist" is a bit of a tongue twister, but effective nonetheless.

Somebody help me, please!

I just spent the last nine hours with George Michael’s “Monkey” running through my head. Who know how many more hours of it I have ahead of me?

I don’t think I can take this. I’m not that strong.

Martha wants to eat your baby!

I have this love/fear relationship with Martha Stewart. For example, I love her magazine, but I would be terrified to have dinner with her. (I’m certain she’d yell at me for my salt intake or my Sally Albright-like requests for extra ice in my Coke.) A recent article on her website about costume ideas for babies is a perfect example of my joy tempered with terror in all things Martha. There are some lovely photos with sweet lambs:


...and adorable chickens:


But eventually it all devolves into cannibalism:


That? Is horrifying! Martha wants to eat your baby like a turkey! Or bake him into a pie:


And let’s not forget succulent baby lobster:


At one point, didn’t the photographer have to ask himself, "Why am I putting so many babies on plates today?" And I imagine Martha saw his look of uncertainty, and pulled out her whip. An exquisite, hand-woven whip made of stingray leather and trimmed in ostrich feathers to be sure, but a whip nonetheless. Terrifying!

Now I had this post all typed up and ready to go, and then this evening at dinner two of my closest friends informed me that they bought a lobster costume for their infant son and were planning to take his photo as he sat in a stock pot. Hopefully, they will not read this blog and hopefully no one (I’m not naming any names, Chris) will tell them about it. I adore them and their son, but that photo is going to Wig. Me. Out.

I've been waiting for those chipmunk voices to come back into my life...

Just barely into June! I can usually wait until July, but this year I needed my fix early. That's right, I busted out the Christmas music tonight. I'm in a funk and I'm tired and cranky and feeling weird and it's summer and I HATE summer and I really needed something good going on. And what's gooder* than Christmas music? I'm listening to Bono sing "Baby, Please Come Home" right now, and I can't think of anything more worth my time than that.

*Yes, I realize I just made that word up.

Step into my mint cellar.

Are you like me? Do you enjoy the breath-freshening powers of Altoids, but are too wimpy to actually ingest them? Do you think the tin and the old-timey logo and the paper wrapping inside the tin and the use of the phrase “curiously strong” are all just delightful but the thought of actually putting one in your mouth makes you a little nervous because you anticipate having to spit it out again almost immediately? Do you enjoy the fact that they’re made in Great Britain and have been for about as long as our nation has been in existence, but sucking on one would make you want to throw yourself into Boston Harbor with some teabags in your pockets?

I love Altoids. I love the tin and the fact that when you open the tin there’s a little historical tale printed inside and the fact that the tale uses the word “confectioner.” The only thing I don’t like about Altoids is their taste. I understand this is a significant hurdle to overcome when dealing with an edible product. But now I’ve got a solution: age them. Age them like fine wine. Take your adorable Altoid tins, put them on a shelf, and leave them there for a few years. When you revisit them, their flavor will have dissipated down to a tolerable level and you can be free to enjoy them.

I discovered this when I opened my desk drawer and found a tin of cinnamon Altoids that had been forgotten in there for a few years. And by “forgotten” I mean “tossed in the drawer because I couldn’t stand the torture unleashed upon my tongue when one of those foul discs was placed into my mouth.” For some reason, I decided to try one of the rediscovered mints. Perhaps it was the beautiful tin that drew me in, or the siren song of the pretty pink pieces, untouched by years of neglect and protected inside their tin casing. Whatever the reason, I tried one, and found to my utter delight that after all this time they had only now become edible! Eureka!

I realize there’s a sizeable downside to this plan: you have to purchase mints now in anticipation of enjoying them in 2 – 3 years. But think how cute the tins will look lined up on a kitchen shelf. And why are you in such a terrible rush anyway?

Swing states!

This morning I heard a news report about the presidential candidates campaigning in this area. And can I just say, I love living in a swing state. Candidates court you. On election night, they talk about your state a lot, because they’re eager to find out which way your coveted electoral votes will go. They refer to your state as one of the Big Three, and candidates spend heaps of time and money trying to win your affections. It all gives me that overstuffed sense of importance that I enjoy so much.

Plus, it’s always easy to find someone who will debate you and someone who will agree with you, both of which are necessary for a happy, balanced life.

Sure, California has lots of electoral votes, but since they always go Democrat, who even cares about them? They’re boring. Swing states are where it’s at.

Take-out Queen, dethroned?

Tonight I did something shocking, just shocking. I made myself dinner. The last time I made myself dinner was probably during the Reagan administration. I really don’t know what came over me. Even more, I kind of made up a recipe. I made a breakfast burrito! For the filling, I stole Zack’s Polish Breakfast recipe and removed the sausage because I am afraid to touch meat (Thanks Zack!) and I wrapped it up in a warmed-up sandwich wrap shell. It was quite delicious. Next time I would add some green peppers or possibly some cheese. I also got to use the cool carved wood cooking utensil that my friend’s dad made for me, and at no time was my kitchen in danger of being set ablaze. This was such a positive experience, I may even try it again next month.

There's a reason William Shatner's face wigs me out

So, I was in Gallina’s yesterday, waiting to pick up my lunch (Buffalo chicken salad, extra Buffalo sauce), when suddenly the theme music from John Carpenter’s classic horror film Halloween filled my ears. I recoiled and started looking around me like a schizophrenic who is hearing voices for the first time since she went off her meds. I was searching for the source of the music and wondering if I was just imagining it. It turns out that the final jump into the abyss of insanity that I have been anticipating for so long had not come at last. It was just the cell phone ringtone of some sicko two tables away. As I tried to recover my composure, the old man next to me in the takeout line regarded me with caution while he mentally mapped out his exit strategy.

You may recall that this is not the first time I’ve been startled by a Halloween theme music ringtone. A few years ago I was browsing in a small bookshop in Greenwich Village when that ringtone sounded, causing me to drop my book and hastily exit the store. This was in daylight, people. That music is so frightening, so disturbing, so inherently wrong that I cannot maintain any sort of self-possession in its presence. Please, for the love of decency, Americans, STOP choosing that theme song for your ringtone! Choose something more cheerful, like the Jaws theme or Tubular Bells.

You really ought to know about this movie

So I created this Excel spreadsheet to track all my DVDs and books because I am a freak. The DVD one is a thing of beauty because I have columns detailing the genre, format, and special notes so that I can do things like separate out my Coen Brothers movies in a jiffy. There’s also a column to track who gave it to me if it was a gift and, most importantly, who has it if it was lent out. I spent quite a bit of time on this since I have such a ludicrous number of DVDs that they really ought to preclude me from having a Netflix membership, but I love Netflix so deeply that I don’t even let thoughts like that bother me. So, imagine how I felt when all my planning and freakish organization failed me as I looked for my Suicide Kings DVD to no avail. It turns out I lent it to Josh before I even made the spreadsheet and it’s now packed in his DVD boxes in his new house in Virginia. I’ll be getting it back soon, so that’s cool but that brings me to the point of this post: Suicide Kings is such a fantastic film, people.

Suicide Kings is one of those movies that most people don’t seem to know about. Most people I know, anyway. When I find someone who has seen that movie and loves it like I do, I feel like I’ve found a kindred spirit. It’s like, “Ah, you love Suicide Kings, so now I feel like I understand you and we will never run out of things to talk about.”

I just love Christopher Walken and Denis Leary so much that I couldn’t believe my luck when I found them in the same movie together. It is utterly quotable in almost any situation, except for the fact that it is laden with so much profanity, but after years of movie watching I am pretty much desensitized to profanity, so that’s really not a problem for me. (Sorry Mom.) If you are also moderately desensitized to profanity and have a love of awesome movies and/or would like to never run out of things to talk about with me, go rent it!

Okay, fine. FINE.

I ate the shoe cookie.

Life's full of tough choices, innit?

So, I'm sitting here eating a really good cookie and, because I am clumsy, I dropped the last two bites into my shoe (I'm sitting here in my socks.) So, now I'm trying to decide if I should eat the shoe cookie or throw it away.

Boy, Ursula, you weren't kidding.