Deck the Halls with Jugs and Holly

We decorated our Christmas tree on Thanksgiving Day.

Normally, I'm all, "No! No! Don't rush the season."

But when I'm whipping out the Christmas decor for 12 hours straight and spending money on a Frasier fir and leaving halfway through the month of December to visit family?

Well, we can deck the halls as soon as I see fit.

So, yes, on Turkey Day, we were singing carols and showing Ella the advent wreath.

As any baby would be, she was properly non-plussed.

But we kept on trying, dangling her our snowmen and Santa Clauses and ornaments we loved of every shape, color and size right in front of her poor little face.

Finally, she'd had enough.

Girlfriend wanted to nurse, and so, I stopped hanging balls and bells and grabbed her up, turning to the hubs and saying, "Can you just put those last few ornaments on the tree for me?"

He obliged, talking to me while I nursed Ella and ducked her wandering fingers, which like to pinch my nose and any other skin-covered surface she gets her hands on as of late.

He tied and tucked ornaments in all the right places until, finally, he stopped.

In his hand, pinched with semi-disgust and question, he held one of my childhood ornaments.

"Babe, are you sure you want me to hang this one up?"

With barely a glance, I replied, "Yeah, hang all those up."

But he didn't oblige. Instead, he asked again, "You really want to put this on our tree this year?"

Again, I quipped back, "Yes! I want everything I pulled out right there to go on the tree this year."

But he didn't budge. He didn't even move the outstretched ornament in direction of the giant fir in our living room.

I watched him, puzzled, eyes questioning, until finally, I'd had enough.

"Dude! Just hang it up there! Del Del [my God-mother] cross-stitched that ornament for me the year I was born. Of course I want it on our tree! It's been on every tree I've ever had!"

The look on his face would have surprised a court jester.

"Really, Del Del knit this?"

Then, he turned the ornament to face him, wonderingly, and began to laugh.

"Oh, now I see what it says," he explained, seeming relieved. "It says '1984,' the year you were born! That makes a lot more sense. I can see now why you want it hung. It just says '1984!'"

I, undoubtedly, looked at him as if he'd lost his ever-loving mind. My eyebrows were raised, and I was giving them the whole, "Really? Are you that dense?" eye stare, when he finally managed to explain himself.

Or so I thought.

"Before, when I just looked at it, that word knit below the teddy bear, read like 'Jugs,'" he said. "I thought the ornament said 'Jugs.'"
Anyone want to figure that one out?

***

I love my husband, but sometimes, I sincerely wonder where his head has gone.

So tell me, do you have any confusing ornaments on your tree this year?

***

Here's hoping your halls are decked with a whole host of (jug-free and wholly appropriate) ornaments this Christmas.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

A House of Cards

I have approximately 172 other blog posts I should be writing right now.

About Christmas. And cloth diapers. And mom guilt. And the fact that I'm pretty sure my daughter's schedule is so far out of whack thanks to the long holiday weekend that we'll likely never get it back on track.

But not today.

That will all have to wait.

Because today, I am "that mom," who is going to pepper her social networking pages with gobs of gratuitous photos of her child whether her readers like it or not.

As my child is adorable, I feel it is my prerogative.

And also because it's my blog, so I can do what I want.

And also because my child hasn't slept through the night in, well, ever. Because she doesn't. She laughs at the mere thought of waking up less than three times throughout the night-time hours these days. Darn, 6-month growth-spurt.

In other words, I'm probably balding as you read this, and the odds I'll have a chance to even proof-read this post are slim to none.

Furthermore, I am in no place to pen jaunty witticisms and advice about cloth-diapering.

I have too much on my plate right now.

Not to mention the fact that I - gasp! - still haven't finished my Christmas cards.

I know, I know. All of you crazy people who have all your Christmas shopping, shipping, and schlepping done by July can pick up your jaws now.

I am, as they say, an epic fail. Woefully behind. A big, fat loser.

But enough. I'm desperately trying to shake off my woebegone-ness, and I am currently in the process of designing, addressing, and mailing out my Christmas cards this week.

So this is where you come in.

Remember when I said that we had a little photoshoot this weekend? Of Ella's 6-month photos? Specifically for the Christmas card?

Yeah, that.

Well, the photos are back, and I love them all, and gosh darn it! My kid is so cute that I now have no idea what to do.

So, today, I need your help.

I need you to pick a photo.

And, if you're feeling the creative spirit coming on, caption it.

Give it a title. Or a name. Or something I can write on the Christmas card with it besides the usual "Merry Christmas!"

Please. I'm begging you.

Especially before the aforementioned adorable infant under my roof kills every last dilapidated mommy brain cell I have left.

***

The contenders are:

Photo #1

Photo #2

Photo #3

Photo #4

Photo #5

Photo #6

Photo #7

***

It has been pointed out to me by the experts that be - ahem, you know who you are - that our first family Christmas card should likely have our family on it.

Seeing as how I just adore photos of myself - only not! - I have begrudgingly began considering the possibility.

If I do use one of all of us, it will probably be the following:
Because a) it's not horrendous of the hubs or myself, and b) because I like the lighting in it. In fact, if it didn't include my thighs, I'd likely love it.

But there you have it. The above photo may be on the card, as well, just in case you creative types would like to work it into your catchy little caption and/or greeting, for which, of course, I will be eternally grateful.

Heck, I may just send you a Christmas card as a token of my affection.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone! Be back tomorrow withe aforementioned cloth-diapering post!

The Year of The Baby

Ella was but eight hours old when I said it.

I turned to my husband and let out, "I cannot wait till Christmas this year!"

Mind you, it was June, so I'm pretty sure he didn't respond, assuming I was in some sort of post-partum, euphoria-induced hallucination, but I assure you, I knew I what I was saying.

After all, this would be our first Christmas where we could decorate a tree with our baby. And wrap presents for our baby. And bake Christmas cookies with our baby.

This will be an Ella-themed Christmas, mark my words.

Which is why this year? Our baby is going to be smack-dab, front-and-center on the first piece of the holidays anyone is going to receive from us: Our Christmas card.

I have never been so excited to address untoward amounts of envelopes in my life.

Last year, we used Shutterfly to make our Christmas cards. They produced a quality photo print. They were quick to arrive at our doorstep. And they let me personalize the heck out of their product.
And this year, we have the same plans. But this year, it will be even better.

Because this year, there will be a roly-poly, widely smiling, chubby-cheeked infant on the front of them. And she belongs to us.

I am obviously a new mama because anything with my baby's face on it? Well, it never gets old for me.

Which is why all the in-laws should probably expect Ella calendars, Ella coffee mugs, and other Ella-themed gifts this year.
The more ways Shutterfly allows me to plaster my kids mug on things, the better.
Lucky for me, they have a host of personalized gifts for the making.

Anyone for Ella-themed playing cards this Christmas?

***

I was given 25 free Christmas cards by Shutterfly in exchange for this post, but the information and opinions written are my own.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

It's Like a Rodeo. With Presents.

I like to travel.

Or, rather, I like the idea of traveling.

Seeing family and friends. Visiting places off the normal beaten path. Hugging those in person who normally talk your ear off only on the telephone.

It all sounds, and seems, lovely.

So you book the plane tickets, gas up the car, pull out the luggage, and Bam!

You realize that traveling is only fun in theory.

Because now, now that you've already spent a fortune on reservations and traveling totes, you start the Three Ps.

Plans. Preparations. And Packing.

The Three Ps, well, they're really the death knell. They are the game-changers when it comes to the joys of traveling.

And they and they alone were the final nail in my coffin yesterday.

My husband returned home to work to find my un-brushed hair sticking up, but just barely, over the piles if rolly bags, Vera Bradley duffels, and laundry baskets stacked on our bed.

I'd spent weeks planning and preparing.

And, finally, a day before take-off, I'd started packing.

And it was the P that finally broke me.

I was sweating and crying and trying to heft my husband's X-Box into a space more suitable for Game Boy. I looked certifiably insane.

And why?

Because we're leaving for two weeks.

To see both of our families.

Whom live in two entirely different states.

Who, combined, we will spend two days driving and two days flying to visit.

And, of course, it's Christmas, which means we not only have to transport ourselves and our belongings, but also,the immense load of presents we've bought, and I've oh-so-carefully wrapped, to give to the members of the two said families.

Plus, there's the dog. The 100-pound dog, who comes with a bed and a Rubbermaid full of food and treats and leashes so he can survive two weeks on the road.

Not to mention the stupid extras everyone insisted we bring. The darn XBox, which my brother and father both requested, as they no longer have one in-house because it's off with said brother in college and he "couldn't get it on the plane."

Likely story.

Oh, and my wedding album, which no one has seen and every woman I know pleaded I bring with me to Christmas.

Let me tell you right now: It's me, wearing a white dress, and smiling profusely. You're not missing much.

And let's not forget the intense of amounts of clothing it takes to survive two entirely different climates - swampy Florida and blustery Arkansas. Especially when one fits in exactly nothing one owns, save one pair of sweat pants that have a large brown stain on one's right butt cheek.

Gotta love packing for a pregnant woman who's regular clothes are too small but who's maternity clothes are too large.

Before it's even started, I think I may be over this trip.

Not that I won't rally.

I will.

Once we've made it to our first destination, safely inched through airport security without being X-rayed and/or groped, and found ourselves a seat on the plane where I can easily access the potty, I will breathe a sigh of relief and enjoy the fact that Christmas vacation is upon us.

And by "enjoy," I mean nervously read a book and grip my husband's arm every five minutes and whimper, "Was that just turbulence? Or are we about to start plummeting toward our deaths?"

Oh, traveling.

Always a good idea.

In theory.

***

Things are going to be a bit scattered around here while we travel for the next two weeks.

I promise to pop in and out, but it won't be very predictable.

So, in case I don't get to say it, Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!

I hope you all have a wonderful holiday!

***

One more thing...

I'm so excited to tell you all that one of my blog posts was syndicated on BlogHer just last night.

Am I a bit embarrassed that it's about me, slapping my own butt? Yes.

But I'm already over it and can't wait to share it with you all! Check it out!

Thank you, BlogHer!

I Believe In Miracles

Hello, all!

I'm not here today.

Instead, I'm over at my friend Sam's blog, talking about why, this Christmas, I choose to believe in the beauty of small miracles.

You can find me at The Ruby Turtle Hippie Times until tomorrow.

Be back Friday!

"You're Running Out of Time, Woman!"

I am not done Christmas shopping.

I am not done with our Christmas cards.

I have packages of presents that need to get to the post office.

I have a Christmas luncheon to plan, prepare and throw.

I have dozens of cookies to bake for my husband's work.

I have a holiday dinner to prepare for a bunch of single sailor's on base.

And, when all that's over, in less than two weeks, I have a seven-hour drive. With a dog and a husband and a back-seat piled with the gifts I haven't bought or wrapped yet.

And then I have an eight-hour plane ride at 5:30 a.m. the following day, with a baby in my womb who wants nothing more than to make me upchuck at that time of day when I've got both feet on land, let alone up in the air.

But first - first! - I have to face, day in and day out, my cranky clients, who, for lack of a better phrase, are driving me crazy, complaining about the fact that they have to exercise when it's cold out. (And by cold, I mean under 60 degrees. And they aren't all Southerners. They're just wimps.)

Plus, I have a house to run and a dog to walk and groceries to buy and stuff to deal with that keeps happening at the most inopportune of times.

And I'm doing it all alone because my husband might as well be deployed, he's working away so much.

In other words, I'm totally stressed out.

I swear, it's like I woke up yesterday morning and yelled, "Crud! We leave for Christmas vacation in 11 days! And I still have so much to do!"

Like every year, I'm just not sure how this happened. Quite honestly, I'm not the type of women who has it all taken care of before Black Friday. I'm never going to be. But, man, I sure I wish didn't keep cutting it this close.

So, I'm taking today off. I haven't the energy to work up something interesting for today's post, especially as my own inner monologue keeps screaming at me, "You're running out of time, woman!"

Plus, after work, I have plans to go to wrestle the crowds of holiday shoppers, hoping and praying that this time, I'll make my final purchase of the season.

God help the next person who gets in my way. I may just puke on them.

Out of pure spite.

Be back tomorrow, God willing, with something more profound (and less Grinch-y) to say.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Butt Carols

My husband and I shower together.

Which sounds all kinds of sexy.

Except that it's not.

Because the hubs works a lot, we don't have a ton of time together, so we try and spend what few moments we have during the week with each other.

Even if that means he and I hop in the shower together at the same time, spending our bathing time rinsing and repeating, lathering and scrubbing, and - hold onto your hats, ladies! - talking about our days.

It's not at all racy, really.

We've been known to cover the power bill, the grocery list, family disputes, and vacation plans, all while rub-a-dub-ing next to each other.

You'd hardly know we're naked, we're so into the respective self-cleaning and boring, hum-drum talking we do while in there.

It's the most un-thrilling shower scene known to man.

Except for last weekend.

We'd spent several days ready-ing the house for Christmas. We'd put up the tree and festooned the various mantles and all that.

To help get us in the mood, we'd listened to Christmas tunes while doing so. It was pretty standard. Pretty All-American.

And, then, we hit the showers.

We began our squabbles about You-Know-Who hogging all the water spray, and I "accidentally" managed to bean You-Know-Who over the head with my shower gel bottle after he refused to let me warm up the water.

But soon enough, we settled into our peaceful chit-chat and self-cleaning routine.

All the while, in between soap breaks and conversation starts and stops, I began humming Christmas carols.

Songs we'd heard earlier that day. Classic Christmas ditties everyone knows.

But, seeing as I was totally into the Christmas spirit, I didn't just hum them.

Heck, I didn't even just sing them.

Instead, I put on a full-on show, drumming away on the shower curtain, the tile walls, the shampoo dispenser, and, well, my butt.

Yes, my butt.

In the moment, you see, it made sense. I was looking for wet, flat surfaces that gave off a resounding bang.

Enter my behind: The perfect percussive instrument.

In fact, I loved my butt-drum so much that, soon, I forgot the shower walls and curtain all together. I even cast aside the shampoo dispenser.

Instead, I chose to drum solely and exclusively on it, my own rump.

It really did the trick, in fact. So much so that I soon stopped humming and singing the carols all together.

I just drummed them out on my own hiney. Over and over and over again.

It must say something about my marriage that my husband didn't even bat an eye when I went all Blue Man Group on my own rumpus for 10 minutes straight.

In fact, it wasn't until I yelled out exuberantly, "Guess which carol I'm drumming!" that he even said anything at all.

And then, and only then, did he join into my craziness. But not by mocking me.

Oh, no.

Instead, he listened to my drum beat intently, carefully.

Dum-da-dumdum-dum! Dum-da-dumdum-dum! Dum-dum-da-da-da-dummmmm!

Then he yelled out:

"Here Comes Santa Claus!"

And he was dead on. That was, in fact, the song I'd been drumming.

This only encouraged me more.

Which is why I then performed "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," "Frosty the Snowman," and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," all in quick succession for my new, genuinely pleased audience of one.

All, still, on my own butt.

He guessed them all correctly, batting four for four, making the game even more fun.

Which is exactly why I then did a rousing round of "Away in a Manger" on not just my butt but on his, as well.

Along with "Silent Night," "The Little Drummer Boy," and "Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire."

He guessed them all correctly.

And then, much to my surprise, he joined in.

Using all four of our cheeks, he put on a grand solo performance of "Jingle Bells" and "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

An actual former drummer himself, his mastery of butt-drums was impressive right off the bat.

His only loss was his poor rendition of "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas," which he played only my behind, and which, we both agreed, didn't have the right pitch or surface area to get the desired effect to carry out that particular ditty.

Still, the "caroling" continued.

Until, finally, 20 minutes later, and wrinkled to prunes like toddlers in a tub full of toys, we stopped, mostly because we'd run out of carols.

And just like that, life went back to normal.

I toweled off. He toweled off. We both clambered into pajamas, set up his coffee pot for the following day, and tucked ourselves into bed.

Only 15 minutes later, when we were lying there, in the dark, respectively, did he finally have the nerve to say what we'd both been thinking:

"We just played butt carols for 45 minutes, and they're going to let us have a child next year. Something's wrong with this picture."

***

I wish I was making this up. Really.

But I'm not. I couldn't.

It was too funny. And, my friends, it actually happened.

I had the smack marks on my behind for four days to prove it.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

So This Is Christmas

I grew up in a household that celebrated Christmas.

And when I say "celebrated," I mean whooped it up hardcore from the day after Thanksgiving through New Year's Day with everything that was red, green, peppermint-y, Santa-Claus-esque, and Christ-child born to a virgin.

My family takes Christmas seriously.

Very seriously.

Every single room in my parent's house is done up to the -nth degree for Christmas. My mother takes pictures of each crack and crevice of it every year, so she knows where to put every knick-knack and Nativity scene when the next Christmas rolls around.

Not a surface lays un-garlanded. Not a corner goes un-lit.

My own father boasts a Santa collection we'll likely have to give to the Smithsonian by the time he's gone.

In my parent's home, everything has a Christmas theme. Out with the rest-of-the-year, in with the Christmas spirit.

Their soap dispensers. Hand towels. Rugs. Coffee mugs. Kitchen canisters. Books. Photographs. Wall hangings.

All of it comes down.

And, within a day, it's replaced with distinctly Christmas-themed soap dispensers, hand towels, rugs, coffee mugs, kitchen canisters, books, photographs, and wall hangings that decorate my parents home for the most important 31+ days a year.

As kids, we had party after party, commemorating these special moments, complete with tradition after tradition kept alive for years.

For instance, we always set our Nativity scene up first thing during our annual Christmas Decorating Party.

But we didn't place Baby Jesus in the manger until Christmas morning because, after all, that's what the "Christmas season is about, waiting for Him to be born," my mother said.

I also plagued my brothers by insisting on reading - aloud - every single book in our extensive Christmas novel collection, which, last I checked, topped off at about 56 children's books.

And, as always, when decorating the tree, we placed on each individual ornament separately, remembering what year we got it and who gave it to us, while waiting for Christmas Eve to place the ornament my parent's gave us that year, normally suited to match what we'd been up to in the last 365 days - gymnasts suspended on candy canes for my years in gymnastics, Florida Gator ornaments for my first year at college, and "Our First Christmas" ornaments the year the hubs and I got married.
Christmas was special. Heck, it is special. Though they have an empty nest now, my parents still carry out all their traditions, and when we return home for the holiday, we jump right back in.

Which is why, this year, I was adamant about starting my own collection of Christmas decor and various traditions we could carry on through the years.

After all, next year, we'll have a six-month-old baby, God willing, who will be right in the thick of our new little family's Christmas celebration.

So, on Friday, the hubs and I busted out all the stops.

We hunted down a tree, bought extra candles and light hooks, and began the laborious process of dragging out the 10 boxes of decor I stored away when we moved.

Then, chaos broke through.

I tackled the inside of the house while my husband took the outside.

But with pregnancy fatigue in full force and an unfortunate rain storm, it took us nine hours to get the house up and running.

I kept having to take breaks to keep from passing out. The poor hubs, meanwhile, dodged lightening while standing on the roof.

But, still, we persevered.

We hung tough.

And we won.

Christmas Decor 2010 is up and raging in the C House.

We've even got a table-scape.
And, ladies, I am not one of those women who sets up a table-scape year-round. It requires far too much dusting.

I've also replaced my normal decor with Christmas-themed pieces.
And I even found a place for the ridiculously intricate and large four-part Santa piece my parents bought me two years ago.
The tree sparkles.
With personalized memories that clearly state our allegiances. (Well, my allegiances.)

Hello? Of course I have popcorn on my tree!

My favorite ornament of all time. Because it's true.

This one is my husband's. It matches one of his tattoos.

I even have a Nativity scene in several rooms.

I love Nativity scenes. They are so beautiful, and I intend to have one in every room of our home by the time we're done. My other Nativity set, given to me as a child from my God-mother, is in our current office/nursery-to-be. Which is a hot mess right now, as it's filled with Christmas gifts, things for baby, all manner of business material, and laundry that desperately needs folding. But trust me, it's there. And I love it. It will be there next year for our new baby to enjoy, too.

Even my couch has been festooned.
Can't you tell my husband is thrilled?

We didn't forget the little touches outside, either. My husband did a great job, despite the rain.

I'd show you the whole house, but the hubs has some crazy fear that we'll develop some sort of stalkers or something. You know, thekind that want to take our $2 candy canes straight out of our yard. What scoundrels!

Yep. I made another holiday wreath. So sue me. I can be crafty now and then.

Needless to say, all that hard-work aside, I adore my house right now. It's filled with Christmas cheer.

I'm not quite at the level of my parent's yet. I don't have a personalized yule log in every room, for instance.

But it's my home. My Christmas-y, warm and cozy home.

And I love it.

Honestly, I'd keep it like this year-round, if it wasn't for the fact that most Southerners frown upon a snowflake tablecloth and holly-rimmed wine glasses being used to serve an Easter brunch.

For shame.

***

So, Merry Christmas, my dear friends!

This baby in my belly has totally filled me with the Christmas spirit, and I am so excited to celebrate this season.

Hope you all have fun decking your halls!

Because I'm a Big Girl

I'm no spring chicken.

I can't ignore my monthly bills.

I can't go outside without a severe layer of SPF 30.

And I can't leave the house without wearing a bra (most of the time.)

But, most importantly, I can no longer ignore the fact that it's high time that the hubs and I sent out a proper Christmas card.

No more home-made mumbo-jumbo for this girl.

It's high time I broke out the big guns.

To find out about my Christmas card journey, continue reading here.

Breaking, Breaking...

I'm currently typing on a laptop on which the screen is, ahem, precariously attached to the keyboard.

Seriously, this old computer is the technological equivalent of "hanging by a thread."

Its CD-burner no longer works; its stopped streaming video. And, if you dare to shut it down, it takes approximately four days to boot back up.

Not that our other laptop is in much better shape.

Heck, it really doesn't serve as a laptop anymore, as it's lost the ability to connect to it's power source unless you are standing on your head, holding the power cord perpendicular to and approximately three centimeters above the floor.

Needless to say, once we establish a connection between the power cord and the computer, we don't move it. It's a desktop in everything but name.

Which is why I'm using the wobbly-screened oldster today. It, at least, allows me to sit on the couch, sip soup, and watch the news while blogging.

I know, I know. I know exactly what you're thinking.

Buy a new computer, Cheapy McCheaperson!

Trust me, that's what we've been thinking, too.

But then we had to pay bills and go to work and pay more bills. And, well, these old computers didn't seem so bad.

Until my husband volunteered to vacuum last week.

He got a good 30 seconds into gliding over the carpets when - splutterspluttercoughcough - the thing died. It whined pathetically and stopped sucking up dirt and dog hair altogether.

It was tragic, really.

So I immediately blamed my husband. After all, he's known in some circles as the Man Who Leaves A Path of Destruction in His Wake, even when he doesn't mean to.

My theory was encouraged by the fact that, indeed, when I flipped the vacuum back on, it worked, suction and all. As inevitably happens with almost all things that belong to both of us, he broke it with his sheer force.

Sigh.

I yelled at him for being too hard on our appliances and let him go on his merry way.

Until a few days later, when the darn vacuum did the same thing again.

And the same thing again the day after that.

And the day after that.

And the day after that and after that and after that.

Every single time we turned the vacuum on, it died. And each time, it also took longer and longer to revive.

It was not a comforting pattern.

Still, we are holding out.

We'll buy a new vacuum when this one really won't turn on anymore, we said. We can probably still get a few good uses out of it still.

This, of course, was before we realized we had to repair our dented front door - a penalty for having a very large and excited dog, who also developed hook worms, thanks to our plethora of neighbors who refuse to pick up their pooch's poop every time they stroll on by.

The vet bill was enormous, and Marvin the Dog was as good as new, albeit a little non-plussed with his parents, who began to dedicate all their free time to saving pennies in a jar to figure out how to buy a new computer and vacuum.

As well as buy plane tickets for the holidays and Christmas gifts for Christmas and food for our bellies and clothes for our backs, and, well, you get the picture.

Makes you wish money really does grow on trees.

Or that Target gave away free vacuums. And computers. And, while we're at, underwear and canned goods.

Don't even get me started on the Christmas gifts.

Because I've got two words for you:

Home. Made.

You're welcome.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

This Means War

We're not huge fans of one set of our neighbors.

They don't wave back when we wave hello. They refuse to so much as exchange a kind word with us. And I know it sounds weird, but if I should so much as walk outside my house to get my mail, I feel the glaring eyes of at least one of them boring into me through their window or from their favorite smoking spot on the front porch.

It's weird, honestly.

But because we're social people, and they don't seem to know how to talk, for the most part, we've just kept our distance.

We have plenty of wonderful friends and neighbors to talk to already, so we weren't terribly offended or anything.

Until they won Yard of the Month.

I've mentioned before that the Navy base here holds a monthly contest, in which service members and spouses can deck out their yards in hopes of winning a $25 gift card.

And, within one week of moving in, our grumpy neighbors had taken on the challenge.

Three hundred dollars or so later, their yard looked like a well-maintained floral minefield. And they won September's Yard of the Month no questions asked.

I was flummoxed. And slightly irritated.

Oh, OK, let's just face it: I was jealous.

How could people so un-friendly have such green thumbs? And what was wrong with me?

Still, I tried to write it off: They were new to the neighborhood. They just got lucky.

And I went on my merry way.

When autumn hit, I did my part to beautify our street. I made a wreath. I potted a few fall plants. And I hung a "Welcome" sign near my door.

It was tasteful. It was subtle. And it was keeping within my strict October standards of banning all things "Halloween" from my home.

I was pleased as punch.

Until last week, when The Crazy started.

All Halloween You-Know-What broke loose. And right next door, to boot.

Our neighbor is no longer parking in her car port because she's strung intense amounts of cobwebs clear across the opening.

The tree we share in our yard has branches weighed down by larger-than-life spiders.*

Her windows and door frames are plastered with huge posters of ghoulish faces and scary countenances.

And her entire yard - the entire thing! - is stuck full of fake gravestones and a skeleton rowing an inflatable boat.*

It's Tacky Central around there. And it totally figures that the girl that hates Halloween would have to live next door to the world's biggest fan of it.

Whatever. I'm over it. Really.

But only after joking with friends that, sure, they may have September's Yard of the Month. And, yeah, they may be running their own haunted house come Sunday, but the next holiday?

The next holiday is all ours.

You see, we're big fans of Christmas.

And thus, the husband and I have been big ole talkers about how we plan to bedeck our house like none other come December.

Our cranky old neighbors, we said, have met their match.

We joked with one group of friends, who have a baby boy, that we were considering hiring them out to play Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus in our live Nativity scene, complete with Marvin the Dog dressed up as a sheep.

We laughed about the fact that no one on our street would be able to sleep 25 days before Christmas due to the bright glow coming from our home.

And we swore up down and around that our neighbors wouldn't be able to take us when it came to the number of Christmas lights we'd use per square inch of yard space.

But, underneath all our braggadocio, I was laughing at myself.

I really thought we were all talk. I assumed we were exaggerating our claims.

I knew we'd string some lights up and celebrate the holiday, but I honestly didn't think we'd take it that far.

And then I came home yesterday and found these on the coffee table:
No, your eyes do not deceive you. Here, take a closer look:
Contrary to popular opinion, those are not a child's sketches, but are, instead, schematics.

Christmas light schematics.^

Apparently, my husband really does mean business. He's drawn up plans, in fact.

And, lest we forget, he's drawn up plans in October.

So far, it seems, he's planned on stringing together a life-sized Christmas tree made entirely of lights.

He wants to write out "Merry Christmas" in twinkly bulbs.

And he hopes to fashion a sailor snowman out of strings of tree lights and Navy-grade camouflage.

Oh, sweet heavens.

I've created a monster.

A Christmas-crazed monster.

Consider this your formal warning that there may be unplanned power outtages throughout the Carolinas from Nov. 26 onward.

My sincerest apologies.

But, honestly, I still blame it all on my neighbors.

After all, they started it.

***

*Due to inclement weather yesterday, my neighbor seems to have removed several non-waterproof items from her yard. Please pray that the rain lasts through Sunday.

^My husband would like to specify that these are "rough sketches." And that they are, indeed, copyrighted (in his own mind.) And that he will find any Christmas copycats and hunt them down and well, you get the picture...

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Conquering the Mouse House

I grew up in Orlando, Fla.

And yes, I've seen alligators and Mickey Mouse.

A whole bunch.

In fact, since the tender age of 3, I've been to Walt Disney World at least once a year.

Because when you grow up in the greater Orlando area, you always know some Disney employee who can get you into the Great Mouse House for free, and since it's right in your own backyard - or 40 minutes down the interstate, but who's counting? - you go.

A lot.

For me, that person was Sherri, my best friend. Or more specifically, Sherri's father, a long-time Disney employee who got us into Disney all the time. Once, he even got us - then lowly teenagers seeking a thrill - into Walt Disney World's Epcot at 3 a.m. to test-drive a new ride.

Frankly, it was a pretty awesome.

Needless to say, Sherri and I, along with our Third Musketeer - or Mousketeer, if you will - Melissa, often ventured to Disney World to celebrate birthdays, Christmases, or free summer evenings. It was a great way to grow up.

And now, as married ladies, it's a great way to re-unite and spend time with our families.

But being that we're such seasoned Disney veterans, we don't just "visit" the most magical place on Earth anymore.

No way. That would be entirely too easy.

These Three Mousketeers? These Three Mousketeers like a challenge.

So, this year, while in Orlando for Christmas vacation, we stepped Disney up a notch.
We invented our own mini-obstacles - small little road-blocks on the way to Disney magic - just to see how well we could overcome them.

To test, if you will, our Disney prowess.

You know, for fun.

So, without further ado, allow me to introduce...

You Know You're a Disney Veteran If...

...You Have Very Pregnant Women Join in on the Fun
Not that pregnant women aren't any fun. No, definitely not that. It's just that tottering around Disney with swollen ankles and an aching back does not for a good time make.

But that doesn't stop a true, seasoned Disney veteran.

Not when there are handy wheelchairs available and plenty of able-bodied friends to push Prego along the way.
In fact, we've gotten so good at dragging pregnant women through Disney that this isn't even the first year we've done it.

Last year, the now-pregnant Sherri and I dragged poor Melissa - who was less than a month away from delivering her second baby (Ethan, shown below in Sherri's lap) - through three different Walt Disney theme parks.

So this year, Sherri got a taste of her own medicine.
And I am planning on never being pregnant in December, just in case they both decided to gang up on me next year.

...You Also Bring a Baby with You
Sure, babies are cute and cuddly. And babies are tons of fun to ogle at during the average backyard barbeque. But toss one into the arms of your resident Disney character for that perfect photo op, and you're asking for a wailing.

Still, we Disney veterans know how to train our babies.
We start them in utero (See: Pregnant Sherri.)

And this year, we brought along Ethan, who was in Melissa's belly for last year's trip.

He was a real champ for the most part.

When things got a little harry, we plied him with food and live fish. Because honestly, what baby doesn't love a little marine life action?
You gotta start 'em young.

...You Bring a Toddler on Rides that Involve Mechanical Bears, Dark Places, and Loud Voices
While some rides are a thrill a minute around Disney World, children should stay far away from certain others.

Or at the very least, any decent adult should remember that little children most likely won't like anima-tronic beasts that seem to pop up in the darkest of places around every corner of every Disney ride.

Furthermore, any decent adult should not bring an almost-4 year old on a ride that plunges into darkness at every other turn.

Unless you're this girl. This girl, who is apparently applying for the World's Worst Aunt Award.
Because I, in fact, brought my much-beloved nephew, Elijah, on one such ride.

Not that he didn't try to warn me.

As we were waiting our turn to board our little boat, he turned to me and said, "Brittany, I might be a wee bit scared."

I told him I'd hold him tight and that it was all just pretend and that it would be OK.

But when his little face got all sad and scared in the dark parts of the ride - and when a mechanical polar bear popped out of the darkness - I wanted to cry right along with him.

"What am I? Some kind of animal?" I thought. "This poor child is going to have nightmares about stupid bears, and only 20 years down the line is he finally going to trace all those issues back to me and this stupid, stupid ride I thought he'd like!"

But then I remembered that I'm Disney veteran, and that, by golly, we were supposed to be having fun.

So I reminded him that those silly bears were just pretend, before fake-laughing hysterically - as if that scary bear was just the funniest, silliest thing I've ever seen.

Elijah looked at me like I'd gone crazy.

Which - most likely - I had.

But once we exited the ride, he informed my husband and the rest of the group of 10 we were with that that those "silly bears were just pretend."
Although, his death grip on the hub's neck here tells a slightly different story.

...You Bring a Newbie with You.
Any Disney veteran worth her salt wants to share the joy that a good theme park can bring.

She wants to show her friends and family the sights, the attractions, the hidden Mickey Mouses hiding on every cobblestone and every pagoda you cross.

And yet, most Disney veterans forget that amateurs can't keep up the pace; very often, they can't handle the crowds; sometimes, they can't even handle the sheer amount of options that the Disney parks offer.
And do you know what else some Disney veterans forget?

They also forget that they're married to the very Disney newbie they so often point and laugh at.
Look at him: Doesn't he just look like a real novice?

At the beginning of the day, my very own husband actually shied away from waiting in a 20-minute queue.

It was at this point that my dear friend Sherri had to tell him that 20 minutes was as good as it got around these parks: If you weren't waiting more than an hour, you weren't really waiting, in Disney terms.

Poor guy didn't even know what he signed up for.

...You Charm the Disney Characters into Spending Inordinate Amounts of Time at Your Dinner Table
It doesn't matter if you're so old that your only Mickey-Mouse reference is a comic-strip cartoon.

In black and white.

You still love having your picture taken with that venerable mouse.

And any other members of his charming, plush posse, for that matter.
But if you're true Disney vet, you know how to bribe Disney characters into giving you and yours a little more TLC Time (that's "Touching Live Character Time," for all of you who are unfamiliar with Disney-veteran speak.)
So, you pack along some cute kids.
And you make sure one of those cute kids has an acorn stashed in his pocket that he can offer to that poor teenage girl getting minimum wage to dress up as Chip and/or Dale. (For real: Elijah actually had an acorn in his pocket, and he pulled it out to give Chip. Or Dale. Well, one of them, anyways.)

You also play along with all those other silly characters' silent mime games; throwing them air high-fives, allowing them to sneak up behind you and feigning surprise, even letting Pluto fake-lick your face with his worn, felt tongue.

As a Disney veteran, you do what you have to keep those characters around.

For the kids, of course.
...You Run Like You're Usain Bolt to Cover the Distance Between You and the Disney Fireworks Show
It doesn't matter that you just ate a four-course meal.

It doesn't matter that you had seconds.

It doesn't matter that all you want to do is prop up your tired, Disney-vet feet because after all, you've seen these fireworks a million times.

No, not when the 4 year old you're with has been asking for fireworks since 9 a.m.

You run like a bat out of you-know-where - full stomach and all - to get that 4 year old to the already-exploding fireworks show.

And then you try to keep down your just-ingested, four-course dinner, which is none too happy about your hasty trot across the park, while that beautiful little boy dances around gleefully among the bright plumes of color.

Because honestly, it's the cutest thing you've ever seen.

***

Thanks, Melissa, who blogs over at The Missionary Mama, for letting me use her photos! What a good friend!
And thanks to the dear friends of mine pictured here (and to Sherri's parents and our non-pictured husbands.) We had such a fun time with all of them.

We joke around, but these Three Mousketeers really have visited Disney during the holidays together since we were kids; it is just one of our special little traditions.

And we don't let age - gestational or otherwise - or newbie husbands stand in the way of tradition.

I just can't wait to see who will join the trip in 2010.

We'll be casting for the part of Pregnant Disney Veteran come April.

Stay tuned.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

It's a Christmas miracle

Just when I thought he was beyond hope...

Just when I imagined he'd never get there...

Just when I'd all but given up on my dream...

The husband purchased me Vera Bradley all on his very own.

Because, believe it or not, I unwrapped this little beauty on Christmas morning, courtesy of my dearly beloved!
The man bought me his very first Vera Bradley.

And it only took me two years of dropping hints to get him to do it.

Apparently, weeks before Christmas, he had the bravery to walk into one of those amazingly chicky stores - aptly and honestly named Simply Gorgeous, if you can believe it - and bought me a brand-new, calypso blue, Vera Bradley Laptop Portfolio bag.

He didn't even know that I had had a Facebook conversation with a dear bloggy friend of mine, Sam, which basically went something like this (and by "basically," I totally mean I've taken creative liberties to summarize our 30-minute Vera Bradley love-fest, which culminated with us sharing our mutual excitement over the fact that we heard rumors that Vera's making dog collars):

Sam: You mean, he's never bought you even a single piece of Vera? That's my husband's safe bet! His go-to gift! Does he know what he's missing out on?
Me: No, not ever. Not even so much as a key chain. I don't think he even knows where to get it. To be fair, I'm not even sure he knows it exists. I think he thinks it's a word I throw around, much like "pretty." You know, like, 'Look at this pretty bag,' but instead, I'm all, 'Look at this Vera bag,' and on the inside, he's all, 'Is Vera Spanish for pretty?'"

Sam, you'll be glad to hear that I was, in fact, wrong.

Apparently, he does know Vera exists (and that the Spanish word for "pretty" is, in fact, "bonita.")

And, oh, my laptop and I are so, so glad.

Still, the man couldn't stop there.

He did not want to be out done.

He just couldn't leave well enough alone.

Because the second gift I unwrapped on Christmas morning?

Muy bonita, no?

***

I hope you all and your families had a wonderful Christmas! We're still celebrating the season around here, as my entire family has the week off. So my blog presence will still be sporadic until next week. Hopefully I can post a few more funny family photos, etc., as we make our last memories of 2009 this week!

Happy Monday, everyone!

There's not much left to say but...

Merry Christmas!

As you read this, I am riding down the highway on my version of a one-horse open sleigh, my little Nissan Rogue.

My husband is in tow (actually he's driving - because he's the man, and I don't know why, but that seems a good enough reason as any at the moment,) and we're sipping our road-trip, non-fat, no-whip peppermint mocha lattes.

I'm pretty sure he's pulled the "I'm the driver, so I get to call what we're listening to, and I call All Sports Talk Radio, All the Time!" card, which means no Christmas carols for us, but hey, I pick my battles.

Our bags are packed, and our gifts are half-wrapped. The rest are sneakily stuffed in Target bags and swaddled in tissue paper, ready to be wrapped right before Christmas Eve.

The dogs are in the hands of capable care-takers; my cell-phone is fully charged, and I've packed enough clothes for a month, as Florida winters are temperamental, plus I'm not sure what all we're doing while we're away.

Because besides Christmas, we've heard mutterings of a reunion with my friends from college, a family camping trip, some post-Christmas sales shopping, a trip to Disney World, and even a movie or two.

And just like every Christmas, I will also need a good store of church-going clothes because with my father, just because we go to church on Christmas doesn't mean we don't turn around and go again in 48 hours, because, after all, it's a Sunday, and nothing keeps that man out of the pew on Sunday, even if that Sunday falls less than two days away from Christmas.

Yes, believe it or not, we're off for our own little version of a Christmas vacation.

Not even to return until after the New Year is upon us.

This, my friends, is going to be interesting.

So, as I'm sure once we reach my parents' door, I won't have a spare second to say it while it counts....

Merry Christmas!

I wish you and yours a wonderful holiday, filled with joy, celebration, memories, and a father-figure who drags you to some much-needed quiet moments of prayer two times in one weekend.

Please know how much you all mean to me during this Christmas season. You all are a blessing and true, real friends and factors in my life. I wish I could send each one of you a big, gift-wrapped package this year!

But instead, all I've got is this lil' ole Christmas blessing.

But I still want to give it to you.

To all of you.

So without further ado...

I wish you have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

***

P.S. I will do my best to post sporadically next week once Christmas is passed. I will still be with my family, and I don't expect to have too much time, but I hope I'll be able to check in! I will make sure I'm at least reading your blogs; I just can't promise regular posting on this front until after we return home. In 2010! Wow! I'll miss you all! "See" when we get back!

Happy Holidays!

Where only a thank-you will do

Being a high school teacher is often a thank-less job.

Not always, but often.

Because unlike my fellow teachers who work with children under the age of 12, my students rarely think I'm cool.

They really, truly only associate with me when forced.

I'm not exactly who they'd like to spend their free time with.

In my job, I get more eye rolls than hugs, more rude laughs then cheers.

It's just all part of the calling.

It's in teenagers' genetic make-up to fight "The Man," so to speak.

And woman though I am, I am "The Man," in their lives.

I am "The Establishment."

And they can't think I'm cool - heck, they can't even think I'm kinda-sorta OK-ish - without selling out to "The Establishment."

It goes against their Adolescent Code.

Around Christmas time, this becomes all the more apparent.

Because while the elementary teachers leave the school days before Winter Break often laden down with presents, we high school teachers are lucky if we get a wave good-bye before the kids head out the door for the holiday.

Sure, a few of my students - mostly females - will bring me Christmas cards; the occasional child brings me baked goods, and I have one mother of a student who buys me a gift card before every winter and summer break.

But last Friday, when I left for this year's winter break, my arms were definitely not laden with gifts.

Still, I wasn't upset at all.

Because earlier that day...

I positioned myself at my desk just as the bell rang to cue our morning rush to the first class.

Students filtered in, grabbed an exam, dropped their bags and began to write.

The room was peaceful for close to 90 minutes, until the last student handed in their mid-term essay with 15 minutes in the period left to spare.

The talk began; friendly conversation about where they were going for break, what they wanted to get for Christmas, and who they hoped to see over the two-week hiatus from school.

A few kids - again, mostly girls - handed me Christmas cards.

The others did what they do best: Ignored me and tried to keep their swearing down below my hearing level.

Until one boy slouched over to me, dug around in his backpack, and slammed a crumpled card and small box of Christmas cookies down on my desk, muttering the following:

"Look, my Mom makes me do this every year, OK? So here. This is for you. Merry Christmas."

Aww. What a heart-warming sentiment, don't you think?

I kind of laughed and told the student, "You know, I wouldn't think any less of you if you actually wanted to give your teachers a Christmas card. It doesn't make a bad person, you know?"

The boy, who obviously felt this Christmas-card charade had catapulted him straight into the ninth-layer of high-school hell - immediate and total peer ridicule - slumped back to his desk with a grunt and a shrug.

I put the card on top of the stack of exams I had to grade and went about my day.

It wasn't until I was packing up to leave that evening when I opened the card haphazardly, realizing I'd forgotten to open it earlier.

Inside, a generic Nativity scene opened up to an otherwise blank card, except for one simple little phrase, scribbled in pencil, in the inevitably bad hand-writing any high-school English teacher can easily identify belongs to a boy between the ages of 14 and 17.

The message read:

"Thank you for being a teacher. Love, A(students' name.)"

That was it.

"Thank you for being a teacher."

No "Merry Christmas."

No "Happy New Year."

Not even a "Hope you enjoy the break!"

Just "Thank you for being a teacher."

Written not by the child's mother, but by the child himself.

I burst into tears.

Because this child - this sullen, semi-cranky, too-cool-for-school boy - put aside all the pleasantries that we normally associate with the holidays and called it like he saw it.

He just thanked me for being who I was.

He didn't wrap it in tinsel and sprinkle it with candy-cane dust.

He just expressed gratitude where he saw it necessary.

It was better than any expensive present I've ever gotten.

It was my little reminder that finding the perfect gift for your loved ones, swaddling it in parchment and tissue paper and ribbon, and watching them unwrap it hungrily is really just a metaphor for what we want them to get out of the presents we give them in the name of Christmas.

It's just a simile for our love and appreciation of them and all that they do for us.

We buy gifts to show our love, to show our care, to show our hearts for one another.

We send Christmas cards to express our passion and our admiration for those we love.

We leave voice mails in the name of the almighty holidays to let others know we're thinking of them, that we wish we could be with them.

But underneath that Vera Bradley purse, that iPod docking station, or that sparkly set of diamond earrings, all we're really trying to say is "Thank you."

Thank you for being who you are and what you are to me.

So, in light of these hard economic times, and because, in fact, Christmas is right around the corner, let's all step away from the crowded malls and picked-over Targets and Wal-Marts.

Let's just take a second to tell our loved ones what my sullen student said better than any big box with a bow could:

Thank you. Thank for being you.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone! Be back tomorrow with one final post before we leave to visit family for Christmas!

Christmas v. Ill-Prepared Woman: Round One

I'm not one of those women who finishes Christmas shopping before Black Friday.

Heck, I'm not one of those women who has even finished her Christmas shopping list yet.

I'll admit, I dream of a day where I have the most organized, put-together, detail-oriented Christmas around.

But, my friends, it hasn't happened yet.

I'd like to blame my job; teaching teenagers over the Christmas season is one heck of a crazy ride.

I'd like to blame my husband; being married to a man who sees outdoor lights as his only Christmas job can be frustrating.

And I'd like to blame my income; shopping for gifts may have to replace shopping for groceries, if you know what I mean.

But the fact is, I just haven't gotten Christmas down pat yet.

My house never got completely decorated last weekend.

I've bought four gifts.

I'm listening to the same music I play January through November.

No "Silver Bells" for me yet. I simply can't find the CD.

As the kids would say, Epic. Fail.

My father - a man who has a strict Christmas-decorating regimen and December calendar of perfectly timed Christmas traditions - and my mother - who helps him carry them all out - would be so ashamed.

Still, it's not like I wanted it this way.

In fact, I set out determined to do my first photo Christmas card of the hubs and I this year, since I'm a big girl who is apparently supposed to send out Christmas cards since I'm married and all.

It's part of my marital contract, I'm pretty sure.

So, with full intention of performing my marital duties to the utmost of my abilities, I planned ahead.

And by planned ahead, I mean I totally said to myself before Thanksgiving, "Brittany, you need to plan to take your Christmas card photo over Thanksgiving, OK?"

Best-laid plans.

I didn't use my camera once while visiting family for the holiday.

As the kids would say, Epic. Fail.

So imagine my glee when my cousin told me he'd snapped a shot of my whole family before the turkey feast.

I figured it wasn't ideal; I'd have to include my parents and brothers on my first big-girl, grown-up Christmas card.

But heck and holly, it was something.

Or, I thought it was something.

I'm not sure what's worse; the fact that my father looks like he's regally presiding over everything while sitting in my mother's broken wicker chair. Or the fact that we all look like possessed vampires. I'll be frank: Glowing eyes was not the motif I was going for, despite the fact that being vampire-ish is apparently what all the cool kids are doing this year.

So we're back to square one around here.

Still no decorated tree.

Still no wreath on my front door.

Still no Christmas cards to mail out.

As the kids would say, Epic. Fail.

Now, I'm left hoping and praying that I can finish decorating the house this weekend. I could have all my shopping done by next week, too, if I put my mind to it. And gosh darn it, I'll buy a new "Silver Bells" CD if I have to.

And as for the cards?

Expect a "Happy New Year!" greeting to grace your mailbox come, oh, Jan. 6.

***

Happy Thursday everyone!