Where I Ruin Christmas For EVERYONE!

I know what you're thinking, "Martha, you already ruined Christmas for everyone.  Remember?  When you took a newly potty trained Ellie Christmas shopping at Target while she had diarrhea last week."  Noooo, I'm not talking about ruining the Holiday shopping mood of  each and every person in Target by racing through the store, cutting people off all while shouting things like: 'Mommy's getting you to the toilet as fast as she can so you can keep your pants dry! Hold it!' or 'We don't put tut-tut-tut in the shopping cart. NoooOOOooo! That's crazy talk! We put it in the toilet!', six times in an hour and a half. No, I'm talking about a more traditional ruining of Christmas.  One that only those you live with 24/7 can appreciate.....

You see, I have a gift.  Well, really, maybe it's more of a skill.....  Yeah! That's it!  A way cool awesome present identifying skill.  Growing up I would look at my presents under the Christmas tree, shake one a little, heft another, and BAM! I knew exactly what I was getting for Christmas-kickball, Malibu Barbie, a new pair of pants, whatever. It was awesome! Plus, it annoyed my sister, so- SCORE!

OK, look people.  I can hear your scoffing snorts from all the way over here. But it's true!  Even Jon believes in my santacular skills now. However, once, just like you, he used his olfactory nerves for more than smelling the annual Christmas grapefruit*....

(cue cool flashback music here-which sounds oddly like Wil Smith's "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It")

One year, before we were married, Jon found out about my amazingly astounding Christmas skill and tried to trick me.  I took one look at his large rectangular Christmas present, rotated it 180 degrees, looked him in the eyes and said, "It's books, a large jingle bell, a pair of socks aaannnddd (the package did another 180) three pens." Even with his jaw on  the floor (from gift identification envy, obviously) he continued to doubt. "What books?" he said. And with four little words, the man never doubted me again. "The Chronicles of Narnia."

So, here it is, Christmas Eve, the presents are wrapped, the children are tucked snugly in their beds, Jon is in the kitchen whipping cream for some secret pie eating, and I have exactly three minutes of unsupervised present snooping guessing skilling**. Awwwww Yeeeaaahhhh!

Present #1, from Ellie:

A picture frame. Possibly of a duck.  Because, even Ellie knows, ducks are cool.  Because they look just like penguins with floaty toys, obviously.

Present #2, from Katie:


A wooden bookmark and a marble. Or a weird juice squeezer/zester thing.

Present #3, from Jon:


Pish! As if a bow the size of a chihuahua could throw me off.  It's a ring that says POW! or a necklace with an elephant on it.

BAM! (I totally just did it again this year!)
Merry Christmas!***



*No, really!  It's totally a thing in Arizona.  Maybe.  Probably.  Or possibly just for my family....

**Can you believe I just made up this word? I know! It ROCKS!

***Disclaimer:  I reserve the right to be wrong. I also reserve the right to then deny it later, even if you pull up this lame blog post.  Because, as everyone knows, you can't believe everything you read on the internet.

More Awkward Conversations With Martha

Proof, once again, that I should only have conversations with other people inside my own head.

Conversation #1:

Yesterday, I braved the cold, the rain, the crowds, the aisles of meat based samples that is Costco in order to pick up our Christmas cards, and, of course had to have this conversation in the restroom:

Tall Lady: (watching me help Ellie wash her hands) She's cute! How old?

Me: (thinking, "that the Tall Lady looks vaguely familiar") She's eighteen months now.

Tall Lady: Awww... She's-

Me: (rudely interrupting, because I spend my days with very small children and that's how they roll) Hey! Olympic High, right? You drive that brown van. You bring your kids there on Mondays and Wednesdays for swim lessons at 6:15. A boy and a girl, right?

Tall Lady: Wooooowwww.... (glances nervously around the restroom) Um. You're, um, very (begins to edge toward the exit) wow, you're (gulp) good.... (chucks paper towel at the trash can, misses and flees as if her life depends on it.)

Conversation #2:

On Tuesday, I called and left this message at Rejuv Spa:

"Hi. Um, my name is Martha and, I'm really not sure if this was legitimate or not, but, um, my husband, his name is Jon, found an iPhone outside your business the other day, and he brought it in and it was some one's that was there. And, anyway, someone else told him that he could have a free massage, but he doesn't want it, in fact he'd rather have the iPhone, not that he wants the iPhone back, that'd be weird and probably illegal, um, anyway, soooo, he said I could have it, the free massage, not the iPhone, that's yours, or someone else's or something. Anyway, like I said before I don't even know if this is for real but if it is, you can call me back at 555-5555. If I just sound insane, and you know, that wasn't a real offer of a free massage, you can just, um, not call me back. Thanks!" (click)

UPDATE:

My massage is scheduled for Saturday. Because Rejuv is awesome. Or because business is really slow and they're bored and nothing perks up a slow weekend like giving that "weirdly awkward lady on the answering machine"* a free massage.

*Um, I don't actually know if this is my new nickname from the employees at Rejuv, but, let's face it, it totally could be!

Conversation #3:

I went to a Christmas brunch last weekend. There was Egg Thing. There was French Toast Thing. There was the Sufjan Stevens Christmas album playing in the background. There was coffee. A lot of coffee. And with all this you'd think it would have been more than enough to keep me busy for hours. Oh, nooooooo. And, unfortunately, I was fully aware that an hour long soliloquy with my coffee cup would have just looked weird so instead...

Me: Hi! My name is Martha. (sitting down at a table and sipping my coffee at the same time) Good coffee. And you are?

Stranger: Um, hi. I'm Thelma. (smiles nicely) Yeah it is.

Me: Oh! You're Marshall's wife! You guys just moved back from Illinois. You were there for, what, two years?

Thelma: Um, yeah. Something like that....

Me: (shoveling Egg Thing and French Toast Thing into my mouth at top speed because I just know one of my kids is going to demand my attention soon and, gosh darn it, I am hungry) So, did you guys move back to that cute little blue house with the hydrangea bushes that Marshall bought before you were married? Or are you somewhere else now?

Thelma: (nervously) Um...no...we're off of Mountain Crest now....

Me: (gulping coffee, shoveling food and whipping my head around like I'm watching a supersonic tennis match while searching for those Mommy attention seeking children of mine) Nice. (more coffee gulping) Hey.... (my brain finally starts catching up to my coffee consumption) You know I'm Jon's wife, right? He and Marshall used to work together. Because I just realized that I could have sounded like a total stalker just then, knowing where you've lived and when you'd moved and all that. Totally not a stalker here! (nervous giggle) That'd be weird. Jon, over there (points to Jon across the room) he's my husband. He knows Marshall. So, you know, that makes me not a freaky scary stalker....

Thelma: (nervous eye flicker)

Me: You know, I probably should have just stuck with talking with my coffee cup. I mean, that's what I normally do at these kind of part- Yeeeeaaaahhhh. Um. I think I'm just gonna stop talking now.

I Need A Hero

Do you remember when you were in junior high and you had all those Teen Bop magazine posters wallpapering your room? Maybe Kirk Cameron on the back of your door,

Debbie Gibson over your dresser,

Jason Priestly and Luke Perry taped to your closet door,

or New Kids on the Block over your bed?

Me neither.

Because, as you all know, my sister pulled an Extreme Make Over: Dorky Little Sister's Room Edition and plastered every cat poster know to mankind on my walls and accented with a bucket of Pepto-pink paint. Of course, before that, I was sleeping with The Declaration of Independence taped to my wall and a cow mobile over my bed, so she was probably totally justified. But I still say that my TURKEY! poster was the height of coolness!

Nay, the absolute height of AWESOMENESS! (For extra cool points say that last sentence in your best WWF Hulk Hogan vs. The Iron Sheik ring side commentator voice. Like I did.)

But, lately, I've been thinking, "Did I miss some important right of teenhood by drifting off to sleep each night with visions of cats cavorting through daisies in my head instead of pictures of currently culturally relevant celebraties?" So, I did what any normal person would do. I went in search of a hero.

Now, I know what you're thinking, "Martha, you already have a hero. You changed the lyrics to 'You are the Wind Beneath My Wings' and made up a weird interpretive dance for her, that you never recorded and therefore never posted on YouTube (and THANK YOU by the way). Where's the love??? She made your grass shorter for goodness sake!!!" You're right, she is totally my hero. But, it's winter, my grass isn't growing and I'm as fickle as a kitten running through the daisies on a spring morning.

You see, this November instead of participating in NANO-WAMO (or NaNoWriMo as some people call it, and by some, I mean everyone but me) and butchering even more obscure grammatical rules while slapping 1,666 words a day from my brain into a spiral notebook or spending all my free time cheering on beard growing men in the name of prostate cancer, I found her:

My hero.

Seriously. I <3 her so much I may print a gigantic poster of her face, tape it to my bathroom wall and post little love notes on her nose every time Ellie puts her pee-pee and tut-tut-tut in the toilet. Because, dude, NO MORE DIAPERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (You know what? That's sooo not enough exclamation points. I think I'll add some more, just for you Jamie Glowacki. Just for you.) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, people of the internet, you can keep your hoodie wearing Justin Beibers, your paper collating Wil Wheatons, I'm sticking with Jamie Glowacki and her "Oh Crap Potty Training" technique. Because she's awesome. And, because there ain't nothin' cuter than an Ellie butt goin' commando.

Someone Is The Bee's Knees And It Isn't Me

Did I ever tell you that Jon gave me Richard Simmons: "Sweatin' to the Oldies" for my birthday one year? I know what you're thinking, "No you did not! WHY HAVE YOU BEEN HIDING THIS FROM US!!!" Yeeeaaaahhhh.... and I was eight months pregnant at the time too.

Exactly.

Now, in his defense, he thought he was being funny. But what he failed to remember is that at eight months pregnant I found nothing funny.

Nothing.

In hind sight, I probably should have sat on his chest or something when I opened his present, considering it was the first time since high school that I outweighed him. You know, now that I think about it, I probably should have sat on his chest more in high school too, put my extra three pounds to good use. I would have been all, "Where's your well thought out logic now, Mr. Smarty Pants? Huh!?! Got any more of those fancy statistics to prove my take on the economic security of Belgium is skewed? Huh!?! Do ya!?! Yeah. (gratuitous flick to the ear) Didn't think so." Then again, he had sisters so they probably totally did that for me. Because when it comes to Belgium, we need to represent! (Mostly because they have good waffles. I think. I've never actually been to Belgium, but when I do, I'm totally ordering waffles like every day. Man.... I really hope their waffles live up to all this hype in my head.)

Scrumptolicious waffles aside, I'm not really going to be complaining about my husband in this post, I'm simply documenting a few... facts. However, to be fair, if you are one of those people who think he's "the bees knees"* then I have one word for you: quantum.

Dude! Can I clear a room or what!?!

Do you remember a few months ago, when Jon dragged me to Best Buy to look at new laptops, which forced me to find an awesome penguin video, download it onto every machine in the store, invent a penguin dance with Katie and Ellie, freak out pre-teen boys by seeing how many laptops fit in my diaper bag (3), and ask every employee inane questions like "Do fins come standard or will I have to pay extra to have them retro-fitted"? Those were the good times. Goooood times.

Because, dudes, Jon bought me a new laptop.

Apparently, the internet has these buttons you can push that say stupid things like "BUY NOW". Stupid buttons....

Now, if you're first question is something like, "Sweet! What kind of battery life does it have?" I have one word for you: quantum.

That's right! You heard me. Quuuaaantuuum. Just move yourself over to the corner and stand with all those buzzing knee people and discuss trochanters and coaxes or whatever. But not waffles. Waffles are mine. (insert deadly serious stare here)

I mean, sure, Jon had been throwing around words like "dieing", "on its last legs", "it's harder to recover information files from a dead computer than a working one" and other stuff. But he was talking about computers, people! Why in the world would I listen to that? (*cough*boring*cough*)

So, now I find myself typing away on some weirdly clean black keyboard, trying to figure out why this new computer is so gosh darn cool, because obviously it's not going to sell me itself by just listing out its geek statistics. Seriously, what the heck does "atom-based 12-incher with only 16 GB of onboard storage" mean anyway? And, if you know the answer to that: quantum. And just go stand over there. (waves vaguely at the huge rager going on in the corner)

Hmmmm.....

Maybe it's made me wittier!

.....

.....

.....

.....

.....

Apparently not.

Maybe it just plain make me smar-Oooooo! Look! Penguin videos!!!

I know! I bet the computer made me look prettier!

Or just point out what an ugly green sweater I'm wearing. Dude. That's harsh, new laptop. Real harsh.

Hmmmm......

You know what? I totally figured it out. My laptop is cool because it makes waffles. Tasty, melt in your mouth fluffy Belgium waffles. On Saturday morning. While I'm out for a run. And then it does the dishes.

Right, Jon?

Jon??

Hey! Helllloooo over there! Don't make me pull out that Richard Simmons DVD and send Katie over to ask you to dance with her! I'd join you all, but, apparently, I have a new computer to figure out.

*Give yourself 10 extra credit points if you've heard Jon use this entomologically confusing colloquialism in everyday conversation. And while you're at it, give yourself an additional 20 extra credit points if, like me, you just googled "Do bees have knees?" Woo hoo! Thirty points! (high five! Let's party dance! Hey! Why am I the only one dancing?)