Wow, just about a week left. No time like the present (Ha! Get it? Present!) for some random Christmas thoughts:
• Familiar with the Elf on a Shelf? Concept seems pretty neat to me: It’s a small elf that Santa sits down to keep an eye on everyone in the house. Each night, he flies back to the North Pole to report on everyone’s behavior and then flies back to a different spot, which the kids then search for each morning. I asked the kids if they wanted an Elf on a Shelf. Parker said yes. Allie said, “Uh, I don’t think we need that.” This is the child who, one night before Easter, asked us if the Easter Bunny could leave her basket on the porch, as she really did not want a giant bunny coming in her room. I think I need to stop reading her Stephen King bedtime stories.
• All of the lights are up, and I have sworn off adding any more. My neighborhood gets pretty well decorated, and my cul-de-sac is especially festively bright. How bright, you ask? I replaced my outdoor flood lights the other night when I thought they had both burned out. Turns out, the Christmas lights were bright enough to fool the sensor. Awesome.
• We continued our tradition of getting a real tree this year. By my count, we are one of 11 families in the country that still gets a real tree, which makes it all the more curious as to why it took us four stops to find the right one. I always want to go for the real one because I absolutely love the smell and the feel of a real one. Plus, the chance for a repeat of the cat versus Christmas tree battle from several years ago is worth it.
• You know what I love most about Christmas shopping? The fact that several years ago, my wife told me that a standing birthday present for me would be to have the Christmas shopping done before Thanksgiving. That, my friends, is the gift that never stops giving.
• Do you know what happens when you step on a plastic Smurfette on your way to the bathroom at 4 in the morning? You say things that will get you on the naughty list. And apparently, that crime is worse than the crime of leaving said Smurfette on the floor. At the very least, the Elf could have helped her up before he went to the North Pole.
• I heard on the radio an environmentally friendly way to wrap presents, and that is not to wrap them at all. Instead, the person said, hide the presents all around the house and have kids go find them. While that may be well and good, this brings the distinct possibility of uncovering a Transformer stashed under an end table about 11 years later. Additionally, without wrapping paper, I would not be able to periodically shout, “NO WRAPPING PAPER IN THE FIRE!!!” a time-honored tradition handed down from my father. I cannot wait until Parker can yell it at his own house.
• Now is the time of year when people start asking me what I am getting my wife. I think I am just going to start coming up with insanely off-the-wall things so that people will leave me alone. In the past, I have responded, “Well, we usually give each other a few small items, and some years go in on something for ourselves, such as a TV or a trip or something.” To that, people often respond, “Oh, she SAYS that she doesn’t want a big gift, but she REALLY wants a diamond/gold bracelet/date with Brad Pitt.” And like birthdays and anniversaries and all other gift-giving holidays, I have to say, “No, I know my wife well, and we have our gifting system rather defined and blah blah blah.” So, to avoid that, let’s go ahead and get it out there: This year, for Christmas, I am getting my wife a gold and diamond encrusted date with Brad Pitt.
• That is all for now. (Guess I will ... wait for it ... wrap it up! Ha! OK, I’ll stop.) Hope your final week of Christmas preparation is merry and fun. And never forget what this season is all about – keeping wrapping paper out of the fire.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Free ride
I don’t know much about cars. But I know that when my car can be heard from 11 blocks away, it might be time to get it looked at.
I learned this lesson in college. I had the most sporting 1984 Toyota Corolla that you could imagine. It was my grandmother’s car before my possession, so you know it was practically a muscle car. Toward the end of its noble life, the Corolla could limp to a whopping top speed of about 35 mph. Also, the driver’s side window was permanently stuck halfway down (or halfway up, if you’re an optimist). But the most delightful part of my four-wheeled stud machine was the loud grinding sound that came from the engine. To give you an idea of how loud it was, my wife and I were dating at the time, and if I was going to pick her up at her apartment, she could simply keep a window open. When she heard my car coming, she would start getting ready. By the time I arrived, she had already snuck out of her apartment and headed out with her car, so that no one would pair her with my awful contraption.
I definitively knew something was wrong with my Corolla many moons ago. And for the several months I drove it like that, I confirmed to most people that, yes, I did realize it sounded like an incredibly loud blender was under my hood. When I finally had someone check out my car, I was informed that I had a cracked mount. When I was told this, I said, “Hmmmm. A mount, huh? And it’s cracked, you say?” I still have no idea what that means, but I have decided it is bad.
So using the knowledge I gained in college, I had a fairly good inkling that something might be wrong when my current car started sounding like a very loud creaking box spring. I have several friends who know more about cars than I do (for example, they know what spark plugs do). I asked them what they thought was wrong. Someone suggested it was the bushings. “Hmmmm,” I said. “The bushings, huh? Do you think they’re cracked?”
Eventually, I took my car in for repairs. The bushings were somehow involved, but the needed work included replacing arms. I assume my car has these.
The repairs, unfortunately, were not free that day, so I opted to park the Creakymobile in the driveway and borrow my mother-in-law’s car. The car is a fine car, a large luxury sedan. And, apparently, I don’t belong in a large, luxury sedan. Every time I step out of her car, I get strange looks from people, as though I have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat.
People I know have even remarked things such as, “What’s with the car?” and “Did you get a new car?” and “Do you have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat?” (My responses: Loaner; No; You saw nothing.)
Driving the great big boat of a car reminds me of when I got my driver’s license when I was 15, which is the single worst law ever put into effect anywhere. I base this on the scientific study of having been a 15-year-old. It would have been safer for me to unicycle over a Grand Canyon tight rope. For me personally, I had several things going against me:
1. I was not even 5 feet tall.
2. I looked like I was 8 years old, causing other drivers to be distracted as to why a third-grader was cruising around town.
3. My mother’s car was a Mercury Grand Marquis, which was about the size of a Taco Bell.
I guess I shouldn’t complain too much about my current ride. I mean, at least I have a car to get me from point A to point B. And, as soon as I get my car fixed, I will be able to park the Grand Marquis, V 2.0. Besides, I don’t want to drive it too much. Something might crack.
I learned this lesson in college. I had the most sporting 1984 Toyota Corolla that you could imagine. It was my grandmother’s car before my possession, so you know it was practically a muscle car. Toward the end of its noble life, the Corolla could limp to a whopping top speed of about 35 mph. Also, the driver’s side window was permanently stuck halfway down (or halfway up, if you’re an optimist). But the most delightful part of my four-wheeled stud machine was the loud grinding sound that came from the engine. To give you an idea of how loud it was, my wife and I were dating at the time, and if I was going to pick her up at her apartment, she could simply keep a window open. When she heard my car coming, she would start getting ready. By the time I arrived, she had already snuck out of her apartment and headed out with her car, so that no one would pair her with my awful contraption.
I definitively knew something was wrong with my Corolla many moons ago. And for the several months I drove it like that, I confirmed to most people that, yes, I did realize it sounded like an incredibly loud blender was under my hood. When I finally had someone check out my car, I was informed that I had a cracked mount. When I was told this, I said, “Hmmmm. A mount, huh? And it’s cracked, you say?” I still have no idea what that means, but I have decided it is bad.
So using the knowledge I gained in college, I had a fairly good inkling that something might be wrong when my current car started sounding like a very loud creaking box spring. I have several friends who know more about cars than I do (for example, they know what spark plugs do). I asked them what they thought was wrong. Someone suggested it was the bushings. “Hmmmm,” I said. “The bushings, huh? Do you think they’re cracked?”
Eventually, I took my car in for repairs. The bushings were somehow involved, but the needed work included replacing arms. I assume my car has these.
The repairs, unfortunately, were not free that day, so I opted to park the Creakymobile in the driveway and borrow my mother-in-law’s car. The car is a fine car, a large luxury sedan. And, apparently, I don’t belong in a large, luxury sedan. Every time I step out of her car, I get strange looks from people, as though I have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat.
People I know have even remarked things such as, “What’s with the car?” and “Did you get a new car?” and “Do you have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat?” (My responses: Loaner; No; You saw nothing.)
Driving the great big boat of a car reminds me of when I got my driver’s license when I was 15, which is the single worst law ever put into effect anywhere. I base this on the scientific study of having been a 15-year-old. It would have been safer for me to unicycle over a Grand Canyon tight rope. For me personally, I had several things going against me:
1. I was not even 5 feet tall.
2. I looked like I was 8 years old, causing other drivers to be distracted as to why a third-grader was cruising around town.
3. My mother’s car was a Mercury Grand Marquis, which was about the size of a Taco Bell.
I guess I shouldn’t complain too much about my current ride. I mean, at least I have a car to get me from point A to point B. And, as soon as I get my car fixed, I will be able to park the Grand Marquis, V 2.0. Besides, I don’t want to drive it too much. Something might crack.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Cinderella meets her match
We walked out of the tent and into the cold winter air. My 5-year-old son did not even notice the chill. He grabbed my coat sleeve and tugged. I looked down and saw the grin was still on his face. “Daddy,” he said, “she’s beautiful.”
And so began my son’s fascination with the Stone Mountain Snow Angel, a lovely young woman with whom children can have their picture taken. In fact, he was so fond of the Snow Angel that she has dethroned Cinderella as his No. 1 crush, a spot she held for two years. (Cinderella ascended to the top spot at Disney two years ago when, during a photo op, Parker and his perma-grin decided he would be quite content staying there hugging the princess.
We went to Stone Mountain for Thanksgiving to visit my inlaws. On the Wednesday before, we decided to head to the big ol’ hunk of granite to take in its Christmas display, which includes roughly 48 trillion lights and gobs of Christmas-related entertainment. Some would argue that the Wednesday before Thanksgiving is not, in fact, Christmas season, and would then go on to make the never-before made point that “Christmas season just keeps starting earlier and earlier each year,” and then spin the memories back to a simpler time – a time when Christmas apparently began around 4 p.m. on Christmas Eve.
For me, Christmas can be year-round. I’m a big Christmas nerd, and can’t wait for the season to start each year. Even when stuff starts going up in the stores around October, I find it not a reason to harumph the early start, but rather to chastise the other holidays for not being nearly interesting enough to hold their own month. And you call yourself a holiday, Halloween!?!?!? (Yes, I know that I wrote a while back that Christmas music cannot be sung until after Thanksgiving. That still holds true, but the decorations can stay up all the time. Hypocrite? Yes. Yes, I am.)
When we arrived at the park, it was clear they had the place dressed to the nines with lights. It was like a little winter Vegas. Lights. Everywhere. To show you what a Christmas nerd I am, as I stood in front of the illuminated entrance, I realized that I had pretty much left my entire family several rows back in the parking lot. Hey, Christmas might start without me.
Eventually, I took a deep breath and vowed not to abandon my family any more. Inside the park are restaurants and shops, and the pathways were all light-lined. We strolled a little ways in, trying to figure out which of the myriad of activities to take on first. And when you’re in a decision making pinch, there is one tried and true solution: Ask Mrs. Claus.
As we stood there looking at a map and generally appearing lost, Mrs. Claus just happened to be strolling by. The kids stared at her and back at us. Mrs. Claus greeted the kids and paused for a quick picture. She then said, “You probably want to head that way,” pointing to a side path, “and see Santa and the Snow Angel.” She leaned into my wife and whispered where the best spot to watch the fireworks was. Insider trading from Mrs. Claus. Nice.
Indeed, Mrs. Claus had guided us wisely, as we were in no time visiting with the Snow Angel, and then with the big man himself. When my daughter informed him that she would like the whole family to get a Nintendo Wii, Santa said that he had received that request quite a bit, and that his elves were having to put in a lot of time in the electronics workshop to fill all of those requests.
Toward the end of our visit, we prepared for the fireworks show, staking out a spot just where Mrs. Claus had directed us. The Snow Angel was going to make another appearance, we were told, which made the fact that Parker was two hours past his bedtime irrelevant, as there would be no fussing as long as the Snow Angel was coming back out.
Parker was perched on my shoulders when a bright light appeared above one of the buildings. And there she came. Flying. Yes, the Snow Angel can fly. Or, as Parker said, “And she can fly!?!?!?!” Not only did she fly, but she made it snow, too. Snow Angel – she’s practically a superhero?
As the Snow Angel wrapped up her snow-producing flight, the fireworks show began. Everyone turned their eyes to the mountain and the huge bursts of color. Well, everyone but Parker. His eyes were on the Snow Angel. He saw her zip to the other end of the park, and then descend down behind a fence, I guess heading off to her snow castle. Cinderella, you might want to start flying lessons.
And so began my son’s fascination with the Stone Mountain Snow Angel, a lovely young woman with whom children can have their picture taken. In fact, he was so fond of the Snow Angel that she has dethroned Cinderella as his No. 1 crush, a spot she held for two years. (Cinderella ascended to the top spot at Disney two years ago when, during a photo op, Parker and his perma-grin decided he would be quite content staying there hugging the princess.
We went to Stone Mountain for Thanksgiving to visit my inlaws. On the Wednesday before, we decided to head to the big ol’ hunk of granite to take in its Christmas display, which includes roughly 48 trillion lights and gobs of Christmas-related entertainment. Some would argue that the Wednesday before Thanksgiving is not, in fact, Christmas season, and would then go on to make the never-before made point that “Christmas season just keeps starting earlier and earlier each year,” and then spin the memories back to a simpler time – a time when Christmas apparently began around 4 p.m. on Christmas Eve.
For me, Christmas can be year-round. I’m a big Christmas nerd, and can’t wait for the season to start each year. Even when stuff starts going up in the stores around October, I find it not a reason to harumph the early start, but rather to chastise the other holidays for not being nearly interesting enough to hold their own month. And you call yourself a holiday, Halloween!?!?!? (Yes, I know that I wrote a while back that Christmas music cannot be sung until after Thanksgiving. That still holds true, but the decorations can stay up all the time. Hypocrite? Yes. Yes, I am.)
When we arrived at the park, it was clear they had the place dressed to the nines with lights. It was like a little winter Vegas. Lights. Everywhere. To show you what a Christmas nerd I am, as I stood in front of the illuminated entrance, I realized that I had pretty much left my entire family several rows back in the parking lot. Hey, Christmas might start without me.
Eventually, I took a deep breath and vowed not to abandon my family any more. Inside the park are restaurants and shops, and the pathways were all light-lined. We strolled a little ways in, trying to figure out which of the myriad of activities to take on first. And when you’re in a decision making pinch, there is one tried and true solution: Ask Mrs. Claus.
As we stood there looking at a map and generally appearing lost, Mrs. Claus just happened to be strolling by. The kids stared at her and back at us. Mrs. Claus greeted the kids and paused for a quick picture. She then said, “You probably want to head that way,” pointing to a side path, “and see Santa and the Snow Angel.” She leaned into my wife and whispered where the best spot to watch the fireworks was. Insider trading from Mrs. Claus. Nice.
Indeed, Mrs. Claus had guided us wisely, as we were in no time visiting with the Snow Angel, and then with the big man himself. When my daughter informed him that she would like the whole family to get a Nintendo Wii, Santa said that he had received that request quite a bit, and that his elves were having to put in a lot of time in the electronics workshop to fill all of those requests.
Toward the end of our visit, we prepared for the fireworks show, staking out a spot just where Mrs. Claus had directed us. The Snow Angel was going to make another appearance, we were told, which made the fact that Parker was two hours past his bedtime irrelevant, as there would be no fussing as long as the Snow Angel was coming back out.
Parker was perched on my shoulders when a bright light appeared above one of the buildings. And there she came. Flying. Yes, the Snow Angel can fly. Or, as Parker said, “And she can fly!?!?!?!” Not only did she fly, but she made it snow, too. Snow Angel – she’s practically a superhero?
As the Snow Angel wrapped up her snow-producing flight, the fireworks show began. Everyone turned their eyes to the mountain and the huge bursts of color. Well, everyone but Parker. His eyes were on the Snow Angel. He saw her zip to the other end of the park, and then descend down behind a fence, I guess heading off to her snow castle. Cinderella, you might want to start flying lessons.
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