Reading Rainbow

It is once again time for my Best Of Books list. This year, I read 65 books, a good dozen of which were re-reads at the end of the year, when my brain cannot handle anything new, but I still need to read something. I'm weird that way. I know some people never read the same book twice. I am not one of those people. I have my go-to books the same way others have go-to movies. I did experiment with a Kindle this year and while I understand its appeal, it isn't my thing. Reading a new book on a Kindle made me feel like I was trying to read with only half my senses. You can't feel the weight of the book or the texture of the pages. I also have a very visual memory. I can look at a book, turn to roughly the right section, and know which side of a page, then how high up or down in the paragraph a remembered sentence or section ought to be. All that is lost on a Kindle since it is akin to reading on a computer screen. Also, I need to know how long a book is, how small the font, to help me decide if I am in the mood for it. But my Kindle came preloaded (Thanks A!) with lots of awesome books I have already read, which makes it perfect for waiting rooms, dance class, etc. and my daughter already likes to borrow it for car trips.

In no particular order, the top five:

1.  We Need to Talk about Kevin - Lionel Schriver Why this author isn't more popular is a mystery to me. Her book The Post-Birthday World is one of my top reads of all time. This book is much darker, but equally excellent. The subject matter is horrific (mass murder at a school), but the book asks the most basic question of what makes a child, nature or nurture, in a truly revelatory way. Every sentence is a jewel, hand crafted, and complete all on its own. There are no throwaway words. This is not a light read, but it is a really, really good one.

2. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon  I always take recommendations, especially from people whose taste I trust. In the Raleigh NC airport is perhaps the best used book store I have ever seen, so I trusted the owner when he recommended this book. Set in Barcelona, it is both a mystery and a coming of age story and has, by far, one of the best imaginary locations of all time as a set piece. There is wonderful atmosphere just oozing off the page that once you start, you will find it very difficult to stop reading, and when you do look around, will find yourself surprised to be anywhere as ordinary as your living room.

3. The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern Maybe I just like atmospheric books, because this is another one where you are dropped into a fully realized world where you can practically taste the caramel popcorn and smell the scents that waft out of tiny glass bottles. An tale of magic and love, both twisted and neither very clear, is set among a Night Circus, a roving amusement filled with both the mundane and the fantastic.

4. The Passage - Justin Cronin Part one of a trilogy (part two, The Twelve is already out), it set in a world destroyed by a sort of vampire never before seen in fiction. Part vamp, part zombie, it exists only to feed. Often, books like this feel like fleshed out screenplays, just ready to be made into a movie. And while this one has some truly terrifying sequences (there is a train chapter that will rival the Lincoln Tunnel scene in Stephen King's The Stand) it is the littlest details that are the most riveting.

5. Heart-Shaped Box - Joe Hill. This is an excellent book to read in the darkness of winter. However, if you actually want to go to sleep at night, perhaps a midsummer day would be a better time. It is horror at its finest (the author learned at the knee of a former master). Our protagonist finds himself owning a dead man's suit and things go from bad to worse very quickly. The best part for me was the main character, a complete bastard who is richly detailed and not just a foil for the action.

This year, I don't actually have a bottom five. While I still shake my fist at the heavens to rail against the fact that in a year with no Pulitizer Prize in fiction, 50 Shades made millions, I will allow that it was a gateway book for a lot of people who had stopped reading and/or stopped having sex and that this book helped people come back to both. The rest of the books were good, maybe even very good, but each had one central flaw that kept them from being great.

Angelology - Danielle Trussoni  - Not once, in an entire book set in the real world, with characters who were being introduced to the idea that angels were real and evil, not once did any character ask, "Really?"

Broken Harbor -Tana French  - This book is supposed to be mystery. However, since each "clue" is practically highlighted and bolded on the page, that part falls short of the mark. Instead, read for the excellent interrogation scenes, her gift for characters, and the Irish setting.

There are several others that I would complain about, but to do so would be to give away important plot points and I firmly believe in not spoiling books. Suffice to say that I wouldn't be one of Michael Connelly's clients, I'm tired of long lost loves being reunited at the expense of the memory of the people they loved in between, and while George R.R. Martin is not my bitch, I would highly appreciate it if he actually merged character arcs here and there so that every single character wasn't flailing about in their own storylines with little to no interaction with each other.

Also, the award for authors who really have to stop destroying their characters is a tie between Steig Larsson (posthumous) and Charlaine Harris. Larsson gets it for the ridiculous choice of relegating Lisbeth Salander to a tertiary character in The GIrl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest and since that book was so bad, I can only hope the two other books supposedly hidden on his computer remain there forever. Charlaine Harris get the whip for apparently forgetting that her main character, Sookie Stackhouse, is a telepath, and perhaps should stop walking into trouble she should have known about long before she entered the room and for writing entire books where no one has any sex.

So, my friends, the new year is almost upon us. My to-be-read shelf is newly stocked, my brain is just about ready to take on new fiction, and the good rocker by the fire is calling. As my buddy Levar says, "Butterflies in the sky/I can fly twice as high/Take a look/It's in a book."

Ritzy's House of Horrors

I consider myself a cultured woman. I've seen everything from Broadway to Cirque de Soleil. I've been to the ballet, to musicals, to Shakespeare in the Park, and to countless dance recitals. In this past week alone, I've seen The Nutcracker (twice) and Scrooged! But, good Lord in Heaven above, save me from local children's theater.

Years ago, I went on the preschool class field trip to see Frosty at, you guessed it, the local children's theater. About ten minutes into the "show", the little girl sitting next to me asked when it was going to start. You see, a bunch of adults wandering around the fully lit theater wearing sweats wasn't exactly her idea of a production. It wasn't my idea of one either, but I did try to keep that to myself.

This year, same preschool, but a different kid and a different show. Instead of Frosty, We were treated to what my husband refers to as Mrs. Tinkerton's Toys of Terror. The plot is simple, a bunch of broken toys are sad that they are relegated to the back of the toy shop, the toy shop owner realizes that they are alive, and one by one, teaches them that they all have different talents that make them lovable. Blah blah blah. What makes this show horrifying is the lead character, Mrs. Tinkerton.

In an artistic choice that leaves me baffled, the sweet (female) toyshop owner is played by a wolf in woman's clothing.

The mascot, as it were, of this theater is a wolf. He is, quite possibly, the most demented looking thing I have ever seen. Red sweat pants, a spangled red sweater stolen off the back of a chair during the annual Boca Raton Senior Citizen Home Christmas Gala, stage makeup more reminiscent of Kabuki than cannibal, and as a final touch, two wolf ears, one of which (I swear) was on backward. He kicks off the show by chatting with the audience and waiting for Mrs. Tinkerton to arrive. Very quickly, we learn that Mrs. Tinkerton is out sick and the wolf has to play her part. He happily dons her apron, capelet, and bonnet (with the already pale and strange makeup, turning himself from a deranged wolf into a zombie Mrs. Claus) and we proceed with the show.

So, to clarify: there is now a guy wearing both a crappy wolf costume AND a crappy knock-off Mrs. Claus costume AT THE SAME TIME pretending to be a woman.

Moving on.

There were other strange artistic choices through the production that I just couldn't wrap my head around. A drummer toy, who had a broken arm and only one drumstick (the other one and the drum itself were the casualty of a what must have been a short-lived but particularly violent war), spent the entire show up on a pedestal conducting the other toys in their various songs and dances using his drumstick as a baton. Yet, when it came his turn to learn his true worth, it wasn't for his skills as a maestro, but for being a one-armed drummer. But! But! He already WAS a one-armed drummer! WTF dude!

The ballerina with a broken foot (who spent the entire show twirling on the one with the cast) learns that she is very good at making funny faces and the dancing bear who can't dance learns that he is an excellent comedian. Well, funny thing that, since they are both toys, I imagine they won't get to make faces or tell jokes to anyone since, you know, they aren't supposed to move! Wouldn't it have been better to teach the ballerina to twirl on her non-broken foot? (Which the actress can't seem to remember to do for love or money.) Or, this being a toy shop and all, actually fix the foot? Also, since the only reason the dancing bear can't boogie bis ecause his batteries ran out, you know, maybe insert new batteries?

I am going to ignore the rest of the toys because, let's face it, a good toymaker could have just fixed them all. Instead, Mrs. Tinkerton finally confesses that she keeps these broken, beaten toys in the back of the shop because she loves them best of all. Isn't there a word for someone who prefers consoling the sick instead of healing them? Munchausen by proxy anyone?

Thankfully, the show itself is short and ends, as everything must during the Christmas season, with a visit from Santa Claus. And while I want to put both preschool teachers on the naughty list for subjecting all of us parents to this little slice of madness, the kids laughed, sang, and enjoyed themselves immensely. They didn't notice the bad puns, the bad cross-dressing, and the even worse singing. But I did. Oh, I did indeed.

Is There a Santa Claus?

At this time of year, my goal is to keep my children out of stores as much as possible. It isn't because they are whiners and beg for all that they see. Put them in a toy store, and they will simply ask for me to take pictures of stuff to put on their birthday or Christmas list, depending on which is closer. I'm always very proud of their behavior - which, because I am nothing but truthful here - is a direct opposite of their behavior in a bookstore, where they act like circus animals until they get a new book. Yeah, I created my own monsters there, I know.

Anyway, the main reason I keep my kids out of stores is all the explaining I have to do.

"Mommy, why doesn't our Elf look like that one? " (pointing to stacks of Elf on the Shelf boxes)

Those Elves are tricky bastards. Last year, a kid in my daughter's class told her she didn't have a "real" elf because he wasn't the standard issue one sold in stores (proving irrefutably that little girls are bitches pretty much right out of the cradle). This question was relatively easy - my daughter has a private, family nickname and our Elf references that name. The next one was harder, "Why do people buy Elves when Santa sends one to your house?" Hmph. I think my answer here was something about wanting the book that came with it, so people understood what to do when their real Elf arrived, and that the Elf included was just a stuffed animal. This of course led to a long discussion about what the elves do the rest of the year. (Just so you know, they work from February to November in Santa's workshop, are sent to spy on families for the month of December, then get January off. They like to vacation in Bali.)

"Mommy, why doesn't Santa bring toys to everyone?" (after listening to a Toys for Tots commercial)

Toys for Tots is an excellent organization and one that has received many a toy from me (especially if there is a Marine doing pushups in the front of the store. YUM!) However, in my son's world, Santa brings toys to all good children. Period. End of story. There are no parents involved. No money. No midnight sales or online shopping. Elves help Santa build all his toys at his workshop in the North Pole, then delivers them on Christmas Eve via sleigh and reindeer.

So, who, exactly, are these children who aren't getting any toys? As an adult, I realize that many situations can occur that keep kids from getting toys -but they all involve parents and/or money. But as a kid, the only way you don't get a toy is if you are bad. Luckily, the little guy got distracted and I didn't have to answer the question, but woe is me if my daughter gets hold of that train of thought. She's got a little streak of evil in her and would see the loophole immediately; i.e., if Santa doesn't bring you toys, then the people at Toys for Tots will, regardless of the good vs. bad question.

"Mommy, why are those stores so busy?" (in Toys R Us, buying a birthday present for a party)

See above about the Santa myth. No parents. No money. No shopping necessary. I told her there were a lot of birthdays in December.

And finally, "Mommy, we've seen six Santa's today. Which one is the real Santa?"

That one led to an explanation of how Santa has helpers, dressed just like him that he sends all around the world to keep an eye on kids and to visit with them to find out what they like and dislike. The helpers report back to the one true Santa. But then, to make sure they kept waving and giving all those hard-working Santas the respect they deserve, we told the kids that the real Santa does spot checks. He likes to nip out during his lunch break and randomly show up on street corners waving a bell, or at the mall to take pictures, or to preside over a breakfast at a firehouse. Today, he may decide to visit our town, tomorrow, he may be in Guam. Or Hawaii. Or the Netherlands. You never know which one could be the REAL Santa, so better be nice to all of them.

One day soon, Santa will be a mystery no more.

One day, some nasty child will share that he isn't real, or I'll slip and talk about buying a gift that was supposed to come from Santa, or she'll finally figure out that all the boxes that arrive in December aren't all for Daddy's job (a hide-in-plain-sight trick that still miraculously works), or she will catch us in the act of either moving an Elf or the gifts. I know that I'm tap dancing on quicksand trying to keep the magic alive for another year for my daughter and hopefully another few years for my son. I know that while I bitch and moan endlessly about the Elf, and all the running around I do during this season, that the magic of Santa really surrounds the entire family. I love hearing the kids giggle as they find the Elf in a different hiding spot every morning. The serious discussions about what Santa does with his time, the look of utter delight as Santa talks directly to them (via video), or when they receive a personalized letter from Santa in the mail. Their eyes really do shine, their faces really do glow. They really, really do believe. And I'll do anything in the world to keep that going as long as humanly possible, even if it does mean shopping at 3am on Black Friday or racing around like a lunatic the one day per week my son is in school til 2pm to get all everything on my list. Helping Santa may be hard work, but it really does pay off.

"A thousand years from now Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood." - editor, The Sun of Chicago, 1897

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

I recently talked about traditions. The joy of them, the pleasure of reliving cherished memories. But, there is a dark side. There are those things that once done, cannot be undone, and you suffer through them year after year after endless year, hoping that one day, there will be a merciful end.

First, it was the pajamas.

Every year, the kids get matching pjs for Christmas (from the Elf, but more on that later). Both kids were once happy wearing gender neutral footie pajamas in a T size. All I had to do was find a pattern I liked and order two of them. Easy! Then another year passed. One left the T's behind, so I found myself running back and forth between the toddler boy and the little girl department, but both still wore footies, so life was still good. Another year later, and I had to match a nightgown to a pair of button downs. It took two adults, two laptops, multiple web sites, and a lot of cursing to find a match. This year, I thought the search would kill me. Black Friday? Nothing. I must have gone through a bottle of Visine hopping from site to site clicking on this pair of pjs for him, then that pair for her. Every time, one pair was sold out of the size I needed. This went on for days. DAYS. I even contemplated the wicked expensive ones that coordinate with embroidered names on the shirts, but I couldn't quite stomach the price. Finally, finally, Amazon answered my call. Then, filled with the thrill of victory, I went and found a matching set of pj's for the damned American Girl doll, complete with era-appropriate sleep cap. Who's the dumb shit who will now have to accomplish this hat trick again next year? That would be me.

Then, it was the Elf on the Shelf.

(Side note: our Elf is not the standard issue one, but a miniature green Care Bear with a Santa hat and vest.)

The problem started last year when one over-achieving parent at school started "doing things" with the Elf. (See the link below about how crazy some people get about these dumb things.) So-and-so's Elf left pictures of his family. I dutifully found a close up of a different Care Bear online (so I can claim it is our Elf's "sister"), this one wearing a jaunty scarf and left it lying around. Then So-and-Sos buddy decided to ask her Elf questions. So I dutifully wrote out answers in teeny tiny block letters to such questions as where do you live (Guam), how old are you (186), and what is your favorite color (magenta), which I, of course, dutifully wrote down so I wouldn't forget. I even congratulated myself on acquiring that second Care Bear during the course of the year. The day after Thanksgiving arrives, both the old Elf and the new Elf appears, my son is thrilled, my daughter turns to me and asks, "Where's the scarf?" Oh. Fuck. Me. So what do I do? I get a (very kind) friend to make the stupid scarf. For a stuffed animal that I tell my kids is a magic spy from Santa. It is this type of thinking that gets people put into asylums.

Finally, it is the Christmas Calendar.

When the kids were tiny and still completely adorable no matter what they did, I took hundreds of pictures of them. When one got into the cookie batter, I made sure the whip out the camera, then let the other one do the same so I could get matching shots. Thus, making the end-of-year calendar at the online photo store was really easy. Both were out playing in the snow - January! Both were swimming in the pool - June! You get the picture. (Groan.) Then, I added in individual photos of every family member on their birthday. The entire job would take me roughly one televised football game. You know where this is going, don't you? This year, it took me four days. They aren't so cute covering in food anymore, so I take far fewer pictures.  They also don't do matching activities, so finding shots of both kids doing anything, let alone something relevant to each other and the month in question is incredibly difficult. So, the first day was spent picking pictures. Then another day to try to match in pictures of their adorable cousin. A third day was spent actually uploading the photos and trying to make the calendar itself, pulling and adding shots, moving things around, etc. The final day was spent on the birthday shots and trying to get my BILs photo sharing website to stop crashing long enough for me to illegally download pictures from it. Of course, there was a time crunch as it had to be done by midnight of a certain day in order to get roughly 65 percent off the order. (I also usually have to do two separate ones for each side of the family.) By the time I hit the order button, I was ready to throw my computer through the nearest window. And where do BOTH sets of parents hang this fantastic work of art that I shed blood, sweat, and tears for? On the INSIDE door of the pantry. 

So for those of you who think that going the extra mile this year is a good idea - think of the marathon you'll wind up running before it is all said and done. I'm looking at you, Queen B, who has already posted pictures of your Elf zip-lining across the living room. Instead, follow the example of my very wise SIL, enjoying her first Christmas as a mom, whom, when I asked if I could buy her son pjs to match my kids (for a picture), laughed and told me that if I wanted to drive myself crazy, it was all on me.

Truer words were never spoken.

http://www.peopleiwanttopunchinthethroat.com/2011/12/over-achieving-elf-on-shelf-mommies.html

Once More, with Feeling

Traditions are funny things. One year, you do something because it seems like it would be a lot of fun. The next year, you do it again, and by the third year, you have stumbled into a tradition.

When I was in college, and for a number of years after, my Thanksgiving tradition was to come home Tuesday night and spend all day Wednesday in New York City with my friend T. He and I would go in bright and early, spend the morning wandering the Village, hit Ray's Pizza for lunch, then go to Times Square to buy half-priced tickets to whatever Broadway show was available. While I blank on what we did for dinner, we always ended the night watching the balloons being blown up for the Macy's Day Parade. T was (and still is) a big guy at 6'4", so we never had a problem moving through the crowds and making quick time from block to block. I probably carried nothing more than a wad of cash and chap stick and we walked, window-shopped, and blissfully chatted a day away.

While T and I remain friends, due to distance, time, and our respective spouses (Hi D!), that tradition had to end. What replaced it was one build on travel. Once my husband and I started dating, we started sharing family holidays. In fact, he met my parents for the first time at Thanksgiving during one of the last years we had a big family dinner at my uncle's house, so he got to meet everyone all at once. Poor guy. Until we finally moved to the same state (roughly) as our parents, we spent each year on the road, trying to avoid traffic. Some years we succeeded and made the trek from Boston to either Jersey or Pennsylvania in record time (usually helped along by the fact that we left insanely late at night.) Other years, we got stuck and once spent seven (or nine, we can't remember) hours making a three-hour drive. Once we moved to the area, we split holidays, alternating Thursdays and Saturdays with either set of parents (and siblings on his side, random hanger-ons on my side). As per tradition, we do celebrate my daughter's birthday (as we once did mine) because it falls so close to the holiday.

Now, I've added a new tradition to the mix, spending at least one day with my best friend (my old college roommate and the godmother to my oldest) and her daughter, who usually fly in for a week or two from the West Coast. Our daughters are three years apart in age, but only one day apart in birthdays, which means we get to celebrate them together. The past few years, this meant taking them for ice cream. This year, it meant taking them to NYC and the American Girl store.

Obviously, this trip was a tad different than the ones of my halcyon youth. No Village (though we did get cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery), no Broadway show, and we were all probably in a dead sleep long before that first balloon got blown up, but it was still awesome in its own way. This time, I saw NYC from a child's eyes. Times Square, in all its lurid glory, at nighttime is like being stuck in an overly bright, crowded, and commercial-filled laboratory. It's unnatural brightness made it seem like an alien planet. While the grownups marveled at the tree at Rockefeller Center, a survivor of Hurricane Sandy straight from the Jersey shore, the kids just wanted to know why it wasn't lit yet. They enjoyed the Ferris Wheel in the giant Toys R'Us, but had no interest in looking at toys they weren't allowed to buy. Instead of window-shopping along 5th Ave, they sang and held hands, ignoring the diamonds beckoning from the displays. When we asked them to take a picture in front of a dazzling array of jewels, my daughter looked at the storefront and asked if it would be a good place to buy her new earrings. The store in question? Cartier. The answer, no.

When we finally entered the Holy Land of overpriced dolls, the monument to parental stupidity and indulgence that is the American Girl store, the girls made the most of it. Each one deliberated carefully over her choice of doll and clothing. The adults just made gagging noises over the prices. My daughter was using her own hard-earned money for the doll and one outfit, but still managed to con me and her godmother into buying her additional ones. The other little girl was enjoying the benefits of birthday money from grandparents (and me). We reminisced over the first time I had my eyebrows waxed (a complete disaster), while watching her daughter's new doll get a complicated new hairstyle at the doll hair salon. (Yes, a hair salon for dolls. Dolls!). We finished out our long and exhausting day at the American Girl Cafe, a restaurant on the third floor of the building designed to delight children and adults alike. Honestly, it was the cutest restaurant I have ever seen. The dolls get to sit in chairs at the table and are served little plates and cups, right alongside their new owners. The staff talk directly to the children and the food is surprisingly good and very prettily arranged. Back in college, my old roommate and I would have never missed an opportunity to drink with dinner. While the store had an extensive drinks menu (to soften the edge of the credit card bill, I'm sure), I stuck to lemonade, she went with unsweetened iced tea and coffee. Boy, how times have changed.

Next year, we might take the girls to Radio City Hall and tea at the Plaza. We may even try to include their little brothers. Who knows? But it's been three years, so the tradition of a shared birthday for our girls is pretty much stuck. This is a good thing. One day, the girls will get to old for this, or situations will change and my friend will no longer be able to visit us during the holiday, or any number of things could happen. But I'll always look back on these days as good ones, filled with love and joy, gossip and goofiness. Maybe one day, T and I will do the city again, with spouses and kids in tow, and take our lives full circle. Maybe not. Maybe my old roommate and I will ditch the kids and spend the day shopping, or taking a tour, or getting facials. Who knows what the future will bring? But for now, I will enjoy what I have and take next year when it comes. With or without the overpriced doll.

 

Rise! Rise! RISE!

My husband has a problem. He is obsessed with inflatables.

He doesn't have a life-size blow up doll issue, like Lars and the Real Girl. That would be weird. No, I'm talking about those inflatable monstrosities you see on people's lawns around the Christmas holidays. Except in our yard, we don't wait til Christmas.  This year, we had an inflatable pumpkin and are now proudly displaying an inflatable turkey, which my son keeps calling a chicken. Every night, my kids fight over who gets to plug it in and every night, when I unplug it, the turkey head falls right over like I've just hacked it down with an ax.

Last year, if you recall, my husband was on a mission to find and purchase an 18-foot tall reindeer. http://www.thepantlesswonder.blogspot.com/2011/11/tis-season-to-send-catalogs.html. Well, I honestly think he spent all year secretly trolling eBay for the blow up decorations of his dreams (and my nightmares.) I have evidence - namely the fact that every now and then, he sent me a random e-mail with no description, just a link to a website. I received notices about multi-hued Christmas trees, Snowman families, and Santas the size of SUVs. But the true quest was that damn reindeer.

So, being a loving and supportive wife, I joined in the search one night. And all I can say is, Santa is one busy, busy (inflatable) man. Name a mode of transportation and Santa is riding it. There is the standard train, plane, and automobile (in your choice of sled, RV, Harley, fishing boat, quad, tractor, snowmobile, helicopter, bi-plane, tow-truck, food truck, dump truck, fire truck, and of course, rocket ship.) Distinctly non-standard but also available are Santa riding a hot-air balloon, sailing a pirate ship, and quite improbably, riding both a polar bear and black bear.

Would you like to display Santa in a more candid scene, straight from his daily life? You can inflate Santa at the stables feeding the reindeer, making toys in his workshop, hosting an ugly sweater party with a group of snowmen, and of course, taking a bath. Who doesn't want naked Santa on their front lawn?

Would you prefer Santa in action mode? He jet skies. He walks the dogs. He plays soccer (in shorts, no less.) He reads a story to a gaggle of small children and he also sing carols with gentle woodland creatures. He checks his mailbox. He makes snow angels. He also obviously spends his off-season down the shore because there are many tableaus of him carrying a surfboard, reclining under palm trees, taking a turn in the lifeguard stand, and driving a Woody.  

For those of, shall we say, less discerning tastes (and I realize what a slippery slope that is in terms of inflatable Christmas decorations), there is also Santa in a deer stand, riding a John Deere tractor, wearing a cowboy hat and gun belt (with our without stage couch), and of course, taking a dump in an outhouse. Really Santa? You can't just use one of the bajillion indoor bathrooms during your rounds? The pinnacle of tastelessness is not a Santa, thank God, but a "redneck" Nutcracker, which has a gut overhanging his pants, a trucker hat, and, I shit you not people, an actual inflatable can of beer in his fat little hand.

Would you like a Black Santa? No problem.

Santa roasting to death while stuck in a chimney while a hapless reindeer tries to work a fire extinguisher? Yes, Virginia, there is a third-degree burnt Santa Claus.

There are also a multitude of Mickey Mouse, Snoopy, and assorted polar bears, penguins, snowmen, and reindeers doing all sorts of odd and bizarre things for your lawn. Would you like to keep the Christ in Christmas? Then you can inflate the Three Wise Men, the Holy Family, and even Jesus Christ himself. (Personally, I think if Jesus is going to deflate and rise again every night, it at least should be around Easter.)

The little plastic figurines of my youth are gone. They've been eaten by the Godzilla-like Santas and snowmen that loom over the tops of houses and take up every square inch of lawn space. Last year, we found a home that displayed the 18-foot tall reindeer of my husband's dreams. The oversized mansion sat on a plot of several acres with the blow-up right up front. When driving past, the wind made its head shake and I think my son almost wet himself in fear. If a creature that size actually existed and tried to pop a squat on my front yard, I'd call down the National Guard.

So, come by the day after Thanksgiving, when my husband ceremoniously blows up the 10-foot tall reindeer (we compromised) and the 10-foot long "Sexy Snowman" (so called because he reclines on his elbows while giving a come-hither look), please come by to take a picture, have a laugh, and watch law enforcement arrive. Will it be the fire department come to make sure I don't Griswald my home into ashes? Will it be the police department, reacting to neighbor complaints and/or gunshots from those hell-bent on bringing down the biggest buck of their lives? Or will it be the town council informing me of code violations? Because I assure you, if there isn't a law on the books in my little town that regulates the size of outdoor decorations on Black Friday, there will be my Cyber Monday.

Frankenstorm

It's been a long couple of weeks for the local meteorologists. Sunny skies, balmy temperatures, nary a cloud in sight. It might have rained one day, but just for a little while. In short, they are bored out of their ever-loving minds. This explains why this current storm, Hurricane Sandy, has their panties in such a bunch.

I understand the storm is historic in that it isn't following the normal epicenter of destruction, with outlying circles of mess and mayhem. Instead, this one is sort of cone-shaped, so it is going to hit everywhere all at once. The weathermen (yes, I know there are women in that profession but typing weather people is just ridiculous) are behaving as if this storm may just wind up being the End of Days. I understand that trees filled with leaves are bad news for storms. The heavy leaves clog storm drains, adding to flooding, which adds to the number of tree roots that become oversaturated and fall down. Plus, high winds cause lots of limbs to crash down on stuff like cars, roadways, people, and power lines. I understand all of this is a problem.

What I do not understand is why we are all acting as if losing power equates losing our lives. Surely we all have a few candles around? Even if they are banana bread scented, they still expel light. Everyone has batteries, even if you have to pry them out of remote controls? Our land lines may go out but I somehow doubt Facebook and Twitter will go silent being that we all have smart phones. We won't be able to play Words with Friends so we can save our charge, but we'll still be able to text friends and relatives to check on safety and ask for/offer help. Schools will find a way to tell us they are closed, even if they have to break out semaphore flags. In short of an actual generator, I'm pretty sure we all have enough of the basics to survive.

If you can read this blog, I will bet that you already have enough food in your pantry, fridge, and possibly second freezer/beer fridge to feed yourself and your family for a week. The meals may not be well-balanced, but everyone has enough cans of old soup, frozen food, and snacks to survive for a few days. This isn't a television show - if the power goes out, it will go back on! Long before we perish from rickets or stupidity, we can just drive to the local big box store, convenience store, chain restaurant, grocery store, or diner to eat a hot meal or buy a cold one. While it may take days for suburbia to get power, I've never yet heard of a situation where Fortune 500 companies let their stores languish in darkness. No power equals no money and how can you sell the necessities of life at twice their market value if you don't have operating cash registers? Even if it takes a few days, we all have enough friends, family, and gym memberships that we can get ourselves washed. The laundry may pile up, the dust bunnies may start to party plan, and you may go through enough paper plates and cups to start your own landfill, but you will survive.

And if the power fails and you have to go to bed early with your significant other, well, there are worse ways to spend a long night, ya know?