Life is Better with Lattes

Last night's post was chock full of nooses and razor blades. How do I get so low? How do I find my way to the bottom of that dark pit before crawling out, half-alive, in the morning?

The formula is simple: artist + alcoholic = drama whore.

It's a terrible combination. See, not only am I a writer, and, in my previous non-child-centered life a stage actor, visual artist and musician, but I am also someone who used to drink her feelings away (or use whatever other substance I could find). Artists secretly crave the dramz so that we can experience new shades of darkness and/or elation, which gives us something more to express in our craft. Something to create with.

You didn't think Shakespeare was healthy, did you? Au contraire, my lambs: He was undoubtedly a messed up guy. Didn't he cheat on his wife with pretty much anyone with a pulse? Michaelangelo? A total diva. Frank Sinatra? A bit of a bastard, really, but immensely talented. That's the way of the artist.

Now the alcoholic finds drama oddly comforting. Why? Because we're so used to creating it that living without it is a lot like living without water. I can't speak for all recovering lushes, but I find that, seventeen years sober, I don't tend to create drama as often, but I do get a bit of a high off of it when it happens. Is that healthy? Hell, no! It's like shaking up a can of crazy and spraying it all over the room. But I did notice that, in the dark, moss-covered recesses of my mind, a part of me liked having something more than burned cookies to complain about yesterday.

Last night I had a program friend give me a call. She has several years of sobriety under her belt and, quite frankly, I've always felt she has it more together than I do.In fact, I think most people have it more together than I do. Some people would call that "perfectionism at work", but I would label it as "reality". So, I was relieved when I realized she was calling to let me know that she's been reading my blog, finds my honesty refreshing, and feels very much the same way sometimes: a foundation of sanity with a few crazy cracks in it.

... You mean, I'm not the only one? I'm not the exception to the AA rule? I'm not the sole person who feels completely dysfunctional at times under this seemingly normal life I've created for myself? Well, there goes the fun in that. It's not original or tragic enough to do if I don't stand out of the crowd. If it's just going to make me like everyone else I might have to stop feeding the drama beast so often.

The good news is that I'm done licking Monday's wounds (ew.), have two gremlins in school and plans for a morning involving at least a latte.

Life is better with lattes. I need that on a shirt.

In the 90 minutes I've been awake, we've only had one whiny Gutsy (getting him dressed for the bus is a lot like trying to put Medusa's hair into a ponytail without thick gloves on) and a smashed snow globe (thank you, Spawnling). And, sure, right now the toddlerface is trying to climb up on my lap and have "mommy's milk", which he knows is now strictly a bedtime indulgement, but whatever. After three children I know whow to type while fighting him off. I bribed him with a bagel and The Chipmunks. It seems to be working.

Today, there is no boiling antifreeze pouring onto my basement floor. There is no repair bill for broken furnaces. I haven't spoken to any of my friends so I couldn't possibly be actively judging anyone. And I have a cup of coffee.

So, life is pretty good. Time for the drama beast to go on a diet.

Dear Life,

Thank you for allowing me to breathe. Very nice of you.

That being said, I do not appreciate it when my would-be quiet Monday gets inundated with more crap than a crap-flinging monkey can handle. Not that I am a crap-flinging monkey, although today I wish I was because I would have been able to handle the pile of it a little easier.

I had intended on a very quiet day in my life, Life. But that's not how you roll, is it? No. You like to pull punches when when people don't expect it. Bam! Right to the kidney!

This morning I woke up and it was cold. The furnace fan wasn't working. I sent the boys to school and the biggest boy to work and proceeded to call our repair guy. We have a service contract, you know. One that covers things like broken furnace fans, except when it doesn't.

The furnace fan had broken because it was not big enough to do the job. So we had to get a bigger one in order to meet the minimum manufacturer requirements. That's when we discovered that our service plan doesn't cover the bigger model. So we had to shell out the difference in cost. $136. Not too bad, I suppose, but it still hurt. Life, you may remember giving poor Nat a hard time recently to the tune of over $500. I don't know why don't like her. She's very nice and she even likes Rockband. Why did you do that to her? You're such a jerk.

Anyway, if that was all that went on today I wouldn't be writing you this letter of complaint. But there was more crap to fling my way, wasn't there? For, while the furnace tech was downstairs doing his furnacy-techy stuff, I heard him call to me quite urgently. When I came downstairs there was a flood of what looked like steaming hot water gushing from the ceiling.

Except the water was green, and smelly, and it was coming from a pipe.

We have an oil/electric bi-energy furnace. So, when the fan died in the middle of the night, you, Life, decided a funny joke would be to cause the electric part of the furnace to overheat and spew green phlegm (or antifreeze) all over the basement floor and all over the furnace.

We shut breakers off.

We grabbed mops.

We prayed nothing shorted out.

I wondered if my will was up to date as I stepped in liquid and wires.

Anyway, that all seems to be resolved now. Between the furnace tech (who I've now spent enough time with to consider one of my best friends), my husband and dad, we've hopefully sorted everything out.

But, Life, you just had to throw in a couple of other things for good measure, didn't you? Because my quiet Monday couldn't simply get rocked by some waves, it had to be torpedoed out of the bloody ocean.

Having to shell out the money to fix the furnace made Geekster take a closer look at our finances. What did he see? That we may be in a bit of trouble. Again. So apparently I'm going to have to actually make some cashola with this writing thing now. I was hoping I wouldn't have to be a world-famous author for at least another few years. Why do these things always happen when I'm not ready? Why can't I sit on the couch and eat bon-bons a little longer?

And the other thing? It appears you're trying to make me learn something about myself by placing me in or around situations which I find difficult not to judge. Why do you do that to me? Couldn't you, like, put me in a room full of puppies instead? What is there to judge about puppies? They might pee on my clothes, but I can't really fault them for that.

So then I had to apologize to this friend I haven't been very supportive of. Ick. I hate apologizing. It means I'm wrong. I tried to take the easy way out first. I suggested she just find a newer, better friend, but apparently she's not going to do that. I could even give her names of nicer people to spend time with to make the transition easier. Ones who don't have an Evil Ego Maven housed in the cellar, undoubtedly pissed off and reactive because she's covered in antifreeze.

Life, you're making it pour when I didn't even want a drizzle today. Thankfully I have a coffee date planned with Jobthingy tomorrow, who's always down with my dysfunction. She'll set me straight over a latte. And Coffee Fairy? She had words with me today, too. Put me on the straight an narrow. She buttered me up with coffee and homemade muffins first, though. Thank goodness for tell-it-like-it-is friends. They always send Evil Ego Maven back into her cage.

So I dealt with being cold, mopping up antifreeze, spending money I don't have on things I didn't want to spend money on, being a bitch, and being set straight.

I need to go drown myself in a stiff latte tonight. Life, you are not invited. Not unless you're buying.

Resentfully yours (but I'll get over it),
The Maven

Life is like a box of half-eaten chocolates. Want one?

I can't possibly express the immense joy and anticipation I'm feeling about tomorrow morning, for it is the first day back to school for the gremlins and Geekster's first day back at work.

As of around 8:30AM, Spawnling and I will once again fish our tiaras out of the toy box and declare ourselves supreme rulers of the household. Life will return to normal. The house will be relatively quiet until 3:10PM, five days per week, unless I decree otherwise by the invitation of other little ankle biters and crumb snatchers to keep my two-year-old occupied.

Yep. The way things should be. Back to normal. Maven in da house. Rollin' with the Spawnling. Kickin' it oldschool. Eating less chocolate.

Oh. The "eating less chocolate" thing? That's on my list of things to do as well. See, I weighed myself this morning for the first time in over a month. It seems that stuffing gratuitous amounts of calories into one's mouth and deeming it acceptable because, hey, it's Christmas time, is not a good weight loss plan. In fact, it may very well have added a couple of pounds.

Who knew?

Now, that being said, I have a one-way ticket way to Scrawnyville in 2009 between the 1 1/2 miles or so of walking I'll be doing every day (I did 3 miles today because I was out last night and had to make up for my naughtiness), the vegetarianism, and the supplements I'm taking daily (for those who are interested: a veggie-friendly multivitamin, a heavy-duty probiotic for general health, some chromium to balance blood sugars, and a big ol' heaping spoonful of disgusting flax oil for some EFAs).

I mean, really. With all that goodness what's a little chocolate?

The key word here is "little". That means not an entire Terry's Chocolate Orange like you had tonight, Maven. Bad, bad Maven. No more chocolate oranges for you.

(Yes, I feel pretty sick now. That was far more than I would normally have. I don't think I'll eat anything sweet for a week. My pancreas will thank me.)

My other 2009 lifestyle adjustments, such as writing, will keep my hands busy enough that I will forget to eat. That's the goal, anyway. In fact, yesterday, while I had a total of six boys here (seven if one can count Geekster), a character for a book popped into my head. He appeared in full, glorious detail, and I had to stop everything I was doing (baking cookies and cleaning up after boys, mostly) just so I could sit down at the computer and write about him. In all the chaos around me - screaming children, sword fights, barking dogs, things being thrown across the playroom and hitting the walls with a thud - I was incapable of distraction. The words came onto the screen as I typed furiously for a good half hour. It was beautiful and I was damn proud of myself.

I believe that's what is called a stroke of creative genius. I've never had one before because my brain is not terribly genius-friendly. In fact, I think I have more in common with Forest Gump than geniuses. I, too, believe that life is like a box of chocolates. A delicious box of chocolates that you sample from gluttonously, devouring all the good ones and offering the half-eaten yucky ones to everyone else.

Yep. Just like Forest.

At any rate, there's another reason why I have to get my act together in 2009. For the first time in many years I have been asked to be someone's AA sponsor and have accepted without any conditions of 'I can do this temporarily', or what-have-you. I said yes and I committed to helping her work a healthy 12 step program.

Slight problem: Now I have to make sure I'm healthy, too. Damnit. Why didn't I think of that before I said yes? I can't be eating my feelings while I suggest she talk about hers! I can't stay home on those really cold, snowy nights and watch bad reality television if she's counting me to take her to a meeting! I have to actually do good things for myself so I can model what 17 years of sobriety looks like.

What have I gotten myself into?

Oh, fear not. I'm not really griping. This is good for me! It gets me out of that frumpy-mommy mode and into some new, shiny kicks. I'm excited! And she's a very cool sponsee, if I do say so myself. I've had a handful over the years and she's by far my favourite.

... Hmm. I don't think picking favourite sponsees is necessarily healthy, either. What has this poor girl gotten herself into?

I might have to share the better chocolates with her so she doesn't catch on to my dysfunction.

Now, off to bed. I have two boys to usher onto the bus tomorrow morning. Then, coffee. Then, life!

I bow down to superior parenting

I ran into one of my friends around 2PM on New Year's Eve. She's an amazing person, a fellow writer and a single mom of two kids.

"Stocking up on goodies for tonight too, eh?" she asked me as she eyed my cart full of chips, chocolate and pop.

"Yep! It's that lovely night where they try to stay up as late as they can. It's wonderful!" I reply with my classic Maven gleeful/sarcastic tone.

My friend looks around and lowers her voice, a huge smile creeping onto her face as she shares her juicy little secret. "Know what I did? Last night, after the kids went to bed, I put all the clocks in the house forward two hours!"

She giggled as my jaw hit the floor. "You didn't!" I exclaimed.

"I did! They think it's almost dinner time!"

I was speechless. What could I do but high-five the amazing woman before me? The goddess of parenting. The diva of child-enhanced holidays. My new freaking idol.

It's such a simple tactic, but so very effective. They'd have to really pay attention to notice the change, right? And who notices those things when they're smack dab in the middle of a two week holiday? Besides, if you get the kids high on sugar they're not going to have the attention span to check the computer's clock. Hence the grocery store trip she made, I suppose. Ingenious.

My only regret was that I had no run into her the day before so I could have had time to do the same thing.

Anyway, I'm off to bed. This post was short and sweet and chock full of juicy parenting savoir-faire!

You're welcome.

Evil Ego Maven

Well, well, well.

I bet some people didn't think I would post today. I bet some people were thinking I'd shirk my new lifestyle adjustment and not bother with this daily writing stuff.

I bet those same people would be utterly floored if I said the reason I'm blogging so late is because I was busy walking my daily 2.3km with Shadow, the cocker spaniel. There's another lifestyle adjustment I made sure to uphold. Damn, I'm an amazing person. I've blogged and exercised every day this year! Pat me on the back, because I deserve it!

Before training brain and bod, I was buying, and then playing, Rock Band 2.

Yes. I realize we just got Rock Band 1 last week.

Yes. I realize it looks like I have a problem. Thanks for noticing.

No. I don't have a problem. You have the problem. Now get off my back and go point your finger elsewhere. Nobody needs your bad attitude around here. If I weren't trying to uphold yet another one of my lifestyle adjustments I would be judging your need to accuse me of addiction issues.

... Alright, I'll admit it. I do really enjoy that game, and not in an entirely healthy way. The music is fun, sure, but there's something more to it. Something deep inside of me that comes alive when I stick the mic in my hand and make my scrawny little punk persona do some diva wailing on the screen. An embarrassing truth comes bubbling to the surface every time the crowd cheers: I've always wanted to be famous.

There: I've said it. Now I shall blush, but no one will see it because I am behind a keyboard and monitor. Thank goodness for the interwebs.

Back when I was a complete loser nobody in school, I used to sit in my little corner of the cafeteria and, when people weren't throwing crusts at me, I would admire the beautiful ones. The popular ones. The girls with perfect bodies and great hair. The boys with chiseled looks and, well, great hair. They laughed, they flirted and they mostly stuck to themselves. They sat high and mighty at their table while the guys made the gals laugh at the gals pretended to eat their lunches but in actuality took no more than two bites because they didn't want to get fat and be cast from the golden circle.

Outcasts like myself both admired and loathed the people at that table. They were looked up to yet could pretty much do whatever they wanted to those who didn't hang out with them. Sort of like... rock stars. Once a band gets a few number one hits under their spiked leather belt, they can trash hotel rooms, tell off reporters and throw things at roadies with few repercussions. That's more power than any human being should have.

Well, except me.

I recently commented on XUP's blog and said I'm a nice person. I may have lied a little bit. See, there are two Mavens and only one of them fits that bill.

Nice Maven loves her simple, stay-at-home life. She loves the quiet life, if one can call three boys in a house "quiet". She enjoys the company of good friends. She dreams of a modest career that allows her to work from her home office and see her children off the bus every day. She helps women and babies learn to breastfeed successfully and accepts no money. She smiles at puppies, even if they pee on her shoes.

Nice Maven is, well, nice. She's sweet and thoughtful and wouldn't hurt a fly.

Then there's my darker side. The one I keep hidden away in the cellar (well, basement. We don't really have a cellar, per se, but that sounded way cooler), in a straight jacket and Hannibal Lecter mask so she doesn't eat babies and puppies for breakfast. And this Maven is a force to be reckoned with; with all those safety devices in place she still manages to work her twisted thoughts into Nice Maven's mind.

Clarice.... er, I mean, Nice Maven. Come in and sit for a while, is what Evil Ego Maven will say from the other side of her Plexiglas cell. Then she'll ask me all sorts of questions about a barn and some bleating sheep and childhood memories and what-have-you. It's very creepy and makes absolutely no sense, as I grew up in the suburbs with a dog and pet rat, but whatever. The point is, she figures out ways to disturb the peace, and before long she comes up with some interesting thoughts.

Nice Maven, do you remember when all those kids used to pick on you? They thought you were such a geek, didn't they? They made you cry, did they not? What would you tell them about yourself now, Maven? Would you tell them about how you're still a nobody in your little house and your piddly career? That you never made anything out of yourself? That you're still invisible?

That's about the time when I tell Evil Ego Maven that asking me a string of questions is very annoying and could she please get to the point because I'm busy trying to scrub the permanent marker off a toilet seat.

The point is, Maven, that it would be so much better if you put your energy into being rich and famous. Those little junior high brats would be dumbfounded to see you interviewed by Oprah because you made her latest book club selection. They would eat their hearts at not having the opportunity to drop your name around the water cooler as someone they used to be friends with. You could go on book signing tours! Make the cover of magazines! Be a celebrity! Imagine how nice it would be to snub the snubbers of years gone by as you pass them on the street. Then you could go home and roll around naked in your money...

And, you know, she does have a point. The rolling around naked in money sounds gross, but I'm oddly inclined to try it at least once if given the chance. But the rest of it: the book tours, the signings, the interviews, the traveling, and even the snubbing, sounds like work.

And work is icky.

I have enough to do just scrubbing toilet seats. I don't have time to be famous. I'll leave that to people with drive and motivation. Besides, my life is pretty great as it is. I'm not a nobody. I'm the freaking Maven. And I've risen from the ashes of those dreaded school days as someone who, let's face it, can hold her own in a room full of people these days. I would throw those crusts right back, and maybe some spit. Besides, I know how to play roshambo now. I looked it up. That makes me scary.

I will play Rock Band and pretend to be popular. And maybe I'll secretly revel in the slow but steady climb of "followers" on my blog. It's a small ego trip, without all the effort. Evil Ego Maven can stay in her cell and grin at me through the cannibal mask. I'll feed her animal-shaped - or maybe people-shaped? - crackers in between songs and blog posts.

2009 "Lifestyle Adjustments"

Well, here we are. Goodbye, 2008 and hello, 2009! It's me, The Maven! You must be so excited that I'm here!

I've made a few - ahem - "lifestyle adjustments" to my current situation. I refuse to call them resolutions because that sounds like way too much of a commitment. The pressure of even more obligations in 2009 would cause an ugly vein to pop out between my eyes and I certainly don't want that. Could I even cover that with concealer? I think not.

Making "lifestyle adjustments" sounds more manageable, which is good, as I tend to slack in all areas that aren't absolutely essential, such as childcare, going pee, and breathing.

To make myself accountable for my adjustments, here they are, for all to see:

I will adjust my writing schedule and write every day. Yes, write every single day, in my blog and elsewhere. For serious! I need something else to do every day like I need a hole in the head, but blogging a fun way to practice my writing and it also increases my street cred. As I've said before: it's all about street cred, yo. There will be a few exceptions to the rule, including, but not limited to: the threat of vomitting on my new keyboard, alien abduction, the loss of both my arms, and if scientists discover that blogging can cause instantaneous death.

I will adjust my economic intake, as in, I will get paid to write. Not on my blog, obviously, because no one in their right mind would pay for this crap. I intend to get paid by a publication of some sort. Probably one with a drunken editor-in-chief who won't realize I can't put a sentence together to save my life. Inebriated editors are a newbie writer's best friend.

I will make further adjustments to my diet and eat less fat. Sigh. I love fat. I'll have to dismiss my previous belief that all that the fat undoubtedly lining my arteries helps to keep my heart snuggly warm. The new mantra shall be: Salad is now my drug of choice, salad is now my drug of choice, salad...

I'm already crying.

I will adjust my volume level when dealing with the gremlins. I will yell less. This means I'll actually have to parent more which really sucks, but I've heard it might be good for their self-esteem. Who knew I had anything to do with building that? Don't I have enough to do as their mom? Now I have to make them feel good, too? Damn.

I will adjust my behaviour towards other people's actions. I will be less judgmental. Just because someone is making stupid decisions and if they'd only listen to me for once they'd be making better ones and not messing up all the time doesn't mean I have the right to point fingers or anything. Not everyone is as perfect as I am and that's just the world we live in. So I'll be perfect(ly smug) and lead by example. I shine, baby. Others should bask in it.

I will adjust how I use my limited spare time. I already cancelled my World of Warcrack account so I can focus on activities that breathe life into my soul and make me feel good (yes, I've been reading philosphy books lately. Your point?) The Madre made me a basket of art supplies for Christmas. A hint, perhaps? Once upon a time I used to actually be interested in and fairly good at visual arts. Then I got knocked up and all creativity was absorbed by the fetus now known as Intrepid. Twelve years later it's time to rekindle the romance with my former self. I also miss the copious amounts of reading I used to do, the mounds of documentaries I digested, and the guitar I used to know how to strum. So those are things I'll be getting back in touc with as soon as I find that spare time gift certificate.

I will adjust the frequency of my exercise. Pilates? What are those again? I haven't used my exercise balls since dinosaurs roamed the earth. About the only thing I've been doing is walking the dogs nearly every day. The awesomeness that is Nat turned me on to RunningMap.com where I plotted in my almost-daily doggy stroll. As it turns out, I'm walking 1.44 miles every time I do it, which is awesome considering how I'm on my feet and millling about domestically about 80% of my waking life as it is. 1.44 miles is 2.3kms, and if you add that up over a year it's a whopping 837.2kms. Whoa! I'm going to be bitchin' skinny!

... Well, probably not, but I might melt some of the fat off the ol' artery walls, which would make room for more chocolate.

Whatever. Happy New Year!

Only Got 5 Questions to Save the World

The lovely XUP has a neat-o time sink on her blog called 5 questions, or something very much like that. Essentially, I begged her to interview me (because, like that obnoxious guy you were out on a blind date with last week, I love to talk about myself). She sent me five questions of her choosing. I had to reply to them on my blog, which I have. How exciting for everyone!

Feel like getting involved? Read below how you can ask ME to interview YOU. Yes, I will do that for you. I won't even charge. I am a giving person with my limited time.

XUP's burning questions for The Maven:

1. If you could go back in time for 10 minutes and change something about your life, what would it be?

Easy: I would appear in my parents' house sometime around 1982 and sit next to my six-year-old self on the couch. She would have been holding the box of Smarties she bought at the store because she was having a bad day. I would say to her "Hey, shorty. Listen to me. Eating your feelings? Soooo not worth it. Don't do it, man. You're going to have acne and a rather large nose to contend with, and you'll be going grey by your mid-twenties. Do you really want a weight problem, too? I didn't think so. Now, be a sweetheart and hand me the chocolate, ok? Time travel is very stressful."

2. Do you really love all your kids exactly the same or do you love one more than the others? (or one less?)

This is a complicated question and I'm not a very complicated girl. First, I shall grab my smarties.

I don't think it's possible to love them all exactly the same, but I do love them all equally. Gutsy makes me want to tear my hair out sometimes, but he also makes me laugh more than the others so that's saved him a trip to the sausage factory on more than one occasion (What? Like you didn't know that's how they make sausages so tender.)

Intrepid has the whole drama queen pre-teen angst stuff going on and was by far the most challenging baby/toddler/preschooler, but these days he likes to have in-depth discussions about global warming, politics and religion with me while I make dinner or drive us somewhere. He really is a Mini-Maven (but came with the optional penis package). Between you, me, and my massive blog readership, the fact that someone so intelligent came from my body makes me feel like somewhat of a genius myself.

And Spawnling? He's the baby. Of course I'm going to love him a lot. He could kick me in the nose every day and I'd still consider him golden. That's the beauty of being the baby.

But to answer your question: I love them all very much. I just prefer one's company a little bit more sometimes. Right now it's the one who can play Rock Band with me, but don't tell the others. They might take up some nose kicking.

3. What TV program do you never want to miss?

House. Anyone who can pull the crap Greg House does and still have a job is my freaking hero. I want to be as cool as he is. I thought about faking an injury so I could get pimped out with a cane like him, but then logic kicked in. Damn logic. And popping painkillers like Pez might not work out so well for this recovering addict.

4. How would you resolve the current transit strike?

With a simple game of roshambo (source).

This form of roshambo, which can be played by members of either sex, involves two players taking turns kicking each other's genitals. The first player to fall down in pain loses. This game is not only a form of mortification of the flesh, but as a manifestation of the groin attack, is potentially deadly.

It's fairly straightforward, isn't it? Imagine how quickly issues could be resolved with a few kicks in the junk. I, for one, think the world would be a better place, complete with running buses.

5. What's the most disgusting thing you've ever personally witnessed and/or seen?

George W. Bush being elected for a second time.

Here are the rules if you want to participate in 5 Questions.

1. Send me an email saying: ”Interview Me” to mavenmayhem@gmail.com
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You can then answer the questions on your blog.
4. You should also post these rules along with an offer to interview anyone else who emails you wanting to be interviewed.
5. Anyone who asks to be interviewed should be sent 5 questions to answer on their blog. I would be nice if the questions were individualized for each blogger.

Tired Mavens and Terrorized Mangers

So I thought I would take a cute picture of me in a Santa hat. I see sexy-pouty pics of hot girls all the time in festive headgear. Why couldn't I have one, too? Sure I'm a little pudgy and have a funny looking nose, but I can pull off cute, right?

Right?

Damnit.

Wrong. After about ten attempts I threw the hat off and took this. Sadly, it was my best one. My best one! Can you believe it? When I saw the other pictures I nearly relapsed on leftover meat pie.

But that's ok. I'm feeling better now. I was just tired, that's all. And bloated from the thousands of calories I mainlined into my system over the last couple of weeks. And shiny.... Why am I so shiny? Someone once told me that my problematic skin will mean fewer wrinkles later. Please let that be the silver lining for the current glare on my forehead. I would really like that.

The gremlins had a blast on Christmas morning. Mrs. Claus had money to buy Rock Band for herself... um... Intrepid... yeah... because she bought some of the other big ticket items at a consignment store. Two-year-olds don't notice that their talking vacuum has a My Little Pony sticker on its eyeball unless you point it out. Six-year-olds don't notice the slightly scuffed tail on their remote controlled dragon because it has flashy red eyes and it's really, really loud (why did Mrs. Claus get that again?)






Spawnling is going to be a rock star one day. Mark my words. It's all in how you hold your guitar. Observe:



Pretty pimp, if I do say so myself. He even has the attitude. For example, he had no qualms about telling Geekster's aunt off when she said anything at all to him on Boxing Day. "No! Don't talk to me!" he stated while pointing his finger at her. Then he would glare for a second or two more before turning his back on her. That's on par with walking out of an interview with Rolling Stone because they asked about your musical influences for the upcoming album. Rock on, Spawnling, Rock Star Diva. Rock on.

The manger survived the Christmas season (mostly) intact. I took on a picture on J-Day before all the guests arrived and it was (mostly) unmolested.


I said mostly.

Also, if you ever read the manger post (and if you haven't read it you probably want to) you would recall that I was relieved the *ahem* Christmas deer were non-breakable. Since Mary is now an amputee and Joseph has made his way toward the light it's good that mini J.C. has all these critters to care for him.

But upon closer inspection I do have some questions and concerns about what's going on during the postpartum period.


I knew someone should put some clothes on poor baby Jesus. He's so cold that he's pulled a fawn on top of himself for warmth. But... what's this? Are they branding the animals now? Have they turned the manger into a venison farm? With Mary being a single mom now I can hardly blame her, but it just seems so against my own principles as a vegetarian. I will need to talk to her about this delicate topic. I'll pretty much let her do what she wants though. The girl has some backup given who her baby daddy is.

Also, I think they're using some funky growth hormones to up production. The only problem is that some of the steer are growing fawns out of their necks. That can't be healthy.


AHHH! What the hell is on the roof?!


Bambi and the "fairy" have been replaced with Super Kabu Animee Santa Starzilla! He's big scary and his belt is crooked. What a badass! Watch out, everyone! He's throwing giant snowflakes at you while screaming "DECLAN".

It's a good thing the manger is going away for the year or we'd probably have more destruction to contend with. I wonder if I can eBay a Joseph? I bet I can. Forget housework and diaper changes: I now have some real work to do - the work of God!

Merry Christmas from The Maven

Merry Christmas, happy (belated) Hanukkah, joyous Kwanzaa! May your day be merry and your stocking full of loot. May you have a moment to sneak off and use the computer when no one else is looking because they're too busy assembling Rock Band that you specifically bought for your child so you could play it with him.

May you stuff your face full of calories and with no guilt because it's Christmas, and yet feel oddly conflicted if you're a Christian because gluttony is a sin (good thing I'm not religious). May you drink too many coffees because you have a lot of cleaning and cooking to do before everyone shows up at 4PM for Christmas dinner, and your fridge stinks and you have to clean it before someone opens the door and barfs on your kitchen floor.

May you remember all the wonderful people in your life and hope they are truly blessed this fine Christmas day. May you also remember the people you don't like and, try as you might to overcome your resentments, secretly hope they get the American Idol runner up CD as their "big" gift so you can imagine them trying not to cry. And, when you feel a little bad for snickering to yourself over such a thought, may you unceremoniously stuff your face with chocolate from your own, bountiful stocking.

May your husband surprise you by installing new phones last night that don't crap out when you're talking to them and not tell you he did it, so that when you get something from the kitchen this morning you practically jump for joy at seeing the non-archaic technology on the counter, and anxiously await your first Christmas phone call. May he also buy you a new keyboard so that you once again have a back arrow and an ALT and SHIFT key on the left side (thanks Spawnling).

May your hearts be merry this day, my friends. Be nice to the guy down the road who's never nice to you; wave at him or, better yet, go right up and french kiss him. Nothing says "peace on earth" like a tongue down your throat.

May your gremlins behave themselves for at least a few hours so you can get stuff done today, and not constantly ask you to play with them or help them figure out a new toy or break up a fight or make one of their brothers share. May they hide their horns for just a short while, please oh please oh please. May you now disappear before your husband figures out you're on the computer and plots a terrible gift for next year.

Must go: Gutsy is showing me his loud, beeping metal detector (what was I thinking?!)

Seriously though: Have fun, party people. Embrace the day. Love everyone. Eat your turkey, save me some cake. Thanks.

(Photo credit: Photolush, my wonderful sister, who I didn't have to buy for this year because we did a gift exchange, but who I will share my new magazine with)