On not loving Christmas

Now that it's over, I feel free to say this: I don't love Christmas. It's nowhere near my favorite holiday. I'm a full-time working mom who already feels guilty about everything, so throw in advent calendars and holiday decorating and crafts and baking - none of which I have time or energy for - and I feel like more of a parental failure than normal. I tend to only like Christmas songs that are in a minor key, and none of that crap from the 1940s and 50s that we as a nation seemed to have latched onto as part of the holiday canon. (If I have to hear about chestnuts or Parson Brown one more f-ing time, I'm going to Barbados. Come get me when it's back in the 70-degree range here and radio stations have ceased playing "Santa Baby.") And if you decorate for Christmas before Thanksgiving, you are dead to me. 

Lest you think I'm a horrible Grinch, I don't hate everything about Christmas. Here is what I do no despise:

* Jesus - This is actually my favorite part. The idea that the king of kings became like us in the most humble of circumstances so he could experience what we do and then save us all. I love the candle-light Christmas service my church does reminding us all of this. I love the beautiful Christmas hymns we sing.

* Giving really thoughtful gifts to people I love and care about.

* Being with my family and extended family. I really do enjoy time with MY parents, aunts, uncles and cousins. They're smart and funny and generally don't spend a lot of time talking about their medical conditions.

* Sweets. My grandma used to make a whole tray of Christmas cookies and candies on Christmas Eve, to include at least three kinds of fudge. It was amazing. One year I had gestational diabetes over Christmas and could eat like one cookie, so I might as well have just stayed in bed. As I have previously stated, pregnancy is among the least-magical things I have experienced. (Unless you think a pelvis that separates in the back is magical.)

That said, here are some of the reasons I don't care much for Christmas:

* "Oppressed" Christians - The people with the "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" signs (yup, there's one in our neighborhood) who get all offended by "happy holidays" and demand nativity scenes on their town squares. When you go to prison for having a Bible, then we can talk. And did you know that if you rearrange the letters in Santa it spells Satan? (I heard that one at church camp as a young'un.)

* Ungrateful, entitled children (to include my own) - I spent a good part of the last week getting Christmas dinners to needy people through some things I helped set up at work. I went into some of their homes. The kids of one immigrant family told me they don't eat on the weekends. Then I offered to let my older kid open a present on Christmas Eve, but it wouldn't be a toy. He screamed that all he wanted was Legos and he hated me and Christmas. Then he stormed into his room and slammed the door. It did not conjure warm yuletide feelings within me. (It was a book and he asked me to read it with him at least four times the following day.) 

* It's the most solsticey time of the year - If you have ever struggled with depression or anxiety, this time of the year and the lack of daylight truly sucks. Something about the sunlight makes our brain's serotonin levels happy, and without it, emotional darkness just seeps in. In my line of work, I've seen how many more suicides happen this time of year, and it's not insignificant. And here in the Midwest, it's cold, but it rarely snows on Christmas. So you're stuck inside in the cold darkness, and your bored kids can't even go sledding. 

* Pinterest-perfect Christmas people - If you read this blog regularly, you know I'm not a Pinterest person. I'm not crafty, I do not enjoy baking and I have no desire to make anything shabby chic. Therefore, be it out of envy or disdain, I don't like the people who do these things. I wanted a pretty, coordinated Christmas tree, but instead we must display every single ornament my husband made in preschool up to what he has accrued to the present day because he and his family keep EVERYTHING. I also know people who decorate even their bathrooms for Christmas. Ain't nobody got time for that. And I'm wiping my hand on the Santa towels because WHAT IS THE POINT OF DECORATIVE TOWELS? If a towel is not intended to dry hands, frame it, don't put it in the bathroom. 

* Inflatable yard decor - It looks like a cartoon genocide during the daytime.

* Finding a place for all the toys for one's already spoiled children. 

* I am super white and have never once been invited to an ugly sweater party. What gives? White people love that stuff. Am I not cool enough? I don't have an ugly sweater, but I feel I deserve such a party invitation. I have lots of ugly Christmas socks.

So, with all of my grumpiness, what is my favorite holiday, you may ask? It's the Fourth of July. A warm summer night that stretches on forever. Running through sprinklers and water balloon fights. Barbecues and popsicles. The thrill a professional fireworks show sends surging through my veins. No worries about where I'm going to fit all the toys. Just warmth, burgers and blowing things up. (But not in urban areas and/or residential neighborhoods. Don't get me started on the issues I have with those people.)

Suburban mom Facebook posts, translated

Many suburban mom social media posts are cloaked in hidden meaning. As a suburban mom myself (a little closer to the urban side, but I think I still qualify) and someone who does social media as part of my job, I think I’m uniquely qualified to help translate those posts that have been hanging out there on Facebook, trying to portray a perfect family and perfect life, but that make you go, "hmmm..." Let me break it down for you.

Post: [Picture of some uber healthy meal - bonus points if it’s vegan and/or includes quinoa, cauliflower, or coconut milk]

“Made this for lunch. It is sooooo good!”

Translation: “Look at how healthy I am! This tastes like yard and I’m eating Arby’s for dinner.”

Post: [Recipe video of something with Nutella, cream cheese and peanut butter]

“OMG, this looks amazing but so fatty.”

Translation: “This. This is what I really want to eat.” 

Post: “Does anyone have recommendations for a good plumber?”

Translation:  “My kid put a Transformer Rescue Bot, a whole roll of toilet paper and two wash cloths in the toilet.”

Post: [Picture of kids on first day of the school year]

“Look how much they’ve grown! The time goes by too fast.” 

Translation: “HALLELUJAH. They gone!”

Post: [Selfie in car.]

“Just another day in traffic.” 

Translation: “I took this photo seven times. Please tell me I’m pretty.” 

Post: [Selfie of suburban mom with her husband, suburban dad, on a non-anniversary occasion.]

“I love this man more than anything in the world. He is a wonderful father. He is my everything and I’m so glad I found my soulmate.”

Translation: “I’ve been talking on Messenger with my high school boyfriend and sent him a picture of my boobs. Need. To. Compensate.” 

Post: “I got to go to Target by myself! It was glorious!”

Translation: None. This is completely genuine. And “I went for laundry detergent and spent two hours and $200.”

Post: [Photo of family on annual trip to pumpkin patch.]

Translation: “What if I sent them into the corn maze and just left?”

Post: [in swap and shop with picture of clothes] “Super cute jeans. Size 6. New with tags! Smoke-free, pet-free home.”

Translation: “These were my ‘goal pants.’ I’ve given up on meeting that goal. Now pass the cinnamon rolls and let’s binge-watch all of the Hoarders episodes.” 

Post: “BEWARE: You never think it will happen to you until it does. I was at [insert big box store or park here], and I noticed this guy staring at my kids and/or me. We walked away for a minute, and when I turned around, there he was again, still looking at us/me! Now I’m starting to get creeped out. So we go over to the other side and I could tell he was definitely following us. Then a second person came up on the phone, and it was obvious he knew the guy, and they were plotting how they could kidnap us and sell us into human trafficking. It was classic abduction protocol. I called my sister’s best friend, and she told me she saw on her Facebook moms group that there have been a lot of attempted kidnappings in the area lately, so we left as fast as we could. I’m so glad I was alert and paying attention, or else I don’t want to think about what could have happened to us/me. Human trafficking is real! This guy was ready to abduct my well-supervised children and/or me from a public space with lots of other people around and make us sex slaves in southeast Asia. So glad I followed my instincts. How sad is it we can’t go out in public anymore without these monsters trying to rip away our innocence?! Here’s the picture I took of him. Please go out with pitchforks and impale him through the scrotum.”

Translation: PAY ATTENTION TO ME. PAY ATTENTION TO ME. PAY ATTENTION TO ME. AREN’T MY KIDS AMAZING? EVERYONE WANTS TO STEAL THEM! I know he was probably just trying to tell me I dropped something but PAY ATTENTION TO ME. 

Non-foodie vs. foodie: the key differences

I recently returned from a girls’ trip to New York City with three of my friends. (You can read about my last trip to the Big Apple here and why I'd rather live in a place that serves cheese with its soft pretzels as a default.) I spent a lot of quality time with these lovely ladies, during which I discovered some profound differences between us: two of them were foodies. Like, I sort of knew this about them, but until I traveled with them and shared living quarters and meals with them for days in a row, I did not realize the extent to which they fooded. 

I am a decided non-foodie. Maybe this just means I’m unsophisticated. I generally don’t do fancy or weird ingredients. I do not get any joy from cooking. After much angst, I only in the past few years have figured out a way to effectively make wholesome and healthyish meals for our family on a regular basis, thanks to a freezer meal prep program offered at a local grocery store. I don’t know if you can work full time, have little kids and still be a foodie, but I’m sure those super-parents are out there somewhere and I hate them. I’m lucky to get pubes cleaned out of the shower on a bi-monthly basis. I’m not left with a lot of time to reduce sauces. Anyway, here are the key differences I noticed between foodies and me, the non-foodie:

Foodies consume foodie media

* They watch cooking shows - Throughout the trip, my foodie friends were often referencing the shows they watched, and they set aside large chunks of the trip to go to the restaurants of chefs they saw on these shows. One was called Milkbar and featured ice cream made from milk that had had cereal soaking in it. (Them: “This is some of the best ice cream I’ve ever consumed!” Me: “Not so much, but look at how it’s made the millennials line up around the block! It’s like they’re giving away free rent money or skinny pants.”) The only cooking show I’ve ever watched without being bored to tears is Master Chef Junior, and I end up feeling ashamed most of the time because there are 8-year-old kids on there who are hand-making gnocchi and putting it in a brown-butter sage sauce, and I’m in my mid-30s and am still too scared to use my broiler. (I technically don’t know where it is in my oven, but I think it’s in the part where I store my pans.)

* They read foodie magazines and blogs - My friend was kind enough to let me peruse her new cooking magazine while I answered nature’s call. There were like 1,000 words of text for each recipe. How can you opine about shallots for four paragraphs?! I consistently read one cooking magazine, and it’s a subscription to Taste of Home that was purchased for me by my grandmother, who passed away a few years ago. I’m not sure how the subscription is funded from beyond the grave, but I’m going to ride this free magazine train for as long as it lasts. Anyway, most of the recipes in Taste of Home are preceded by just a few sentences along the lines of, “Everyone at the church potluck ate this.” That’s all I need. Same with blogs. As a non-foodie, I am uninterested in the life story that led to you creating a burger featuring feta cheese. I just need to see if it has anything gross in it and whether I can prepare and cook it in less than 30 minutes on a weeknight. 

Foodies make food a destination

I was content to alternate between hot dogs and salads for our entire trip to New York: Basically just enough food to give me the energy to walk the miles we did everyday with enough roughage to fend off traveler’s constipation. While we were in NYC, I wanted to see exhibits and museums and parks and shows. My foodie friends wanted to go to restaurants, like as destinations. This was weird to me. One was apparently the restaurant that started the resurgence of ramen as a gourmet food. Another was an Italian restaurant that charged us $55 for a pitcher of sangria, which we were not aware of until the bill came. The food there was amazingly good, but I could buy close to a week’s worth of Aldi groceries at that price, or close to two months’ worth of cat thyroid medicine. (In Midwestern terms, I live pretty large.)

Foodies like sweet and salty mixed together

This combination is anathema to me - so much so that you will see it in my blog bio. From what I have seen from fancy-pants foodies in general, you can’t call yourself a bona fide foodie unless you cover your meat in fruit or vice versa. Real foodies love prosciutto drizzled in honey rolled up with wilted spinach in a wrap smeared with bacon jam served with a raspberry-lime-teriyaki-salted caramel-balsamic vinaigrette dipping sauce. A nice, tomato-based savory salsa with a kick of lime juice? Ha! That’s for unsophisticated food simpletons. If you’re a real foodie, you want your salsa made with pineapples, jalapeños, capers, cherries, roasted garlic, jicama, pieces of cedar-plank-grilled salmon and marshmallows. Then instead of tortilla chips, you use homemade sweet potato chips because foodies CANNOT HAVE ENOUGH SWEET POTATOES. It is the pinnacle of their sweet-salty foodie love. (Also beets. Foodies love those brightly colored veggies that taste of soil.) 

Even their desserts must mix the savory and the sweet. I envision this on a foodie blog:

“(… long story about how twisting an ankle in a childhood dance class led to the creation of) this amazing rhubarb tart with apricots and seared pork on an Oreo crust!”  

Foodies like to cook

Things I would rather do than cook:

Read a book, sleep, snuggle my kids, clean bathrooms, sleep, sweep, write about how I’m not a foodie, sleep, watch TV, do laundry, work out, sleep.

Things foodies would rather do than cook:

Win money, meet celebrity chefs.

Foodies like to share their food on social media

I don’t think I have ever taken a picture of my meal. Several of the freezer meals I make end up looking a little vomity by the time they’re thawed and prepared (my husband says those are usually the tastiest, though), so that’s not going to impress anyone. I just can’t imagine anyone cares what I eat. I don’t go out to restaurants much anymore because I have little, uncivilized children to whom I’m not going to subject unsuspecting diners who just want to eat some roasted chicken in peace. If I’m going to share pictures on social media, it’s going to be either of my ridiculously adorable children or cats (which I’m absolutely certain everyone wants to see) or funny/weird stuff I encounter. I mean, if I see a chicken strip shaped like Bill Clinton, I’m taking a picture of that. But the Instagram foodies of the world with their filtered plates of bone marrow, “to-die-for risotto” and sautéed kale cannot stop themselves. #foodporn. For the record, my foodie friends on this trip never do that. Bless them. 

I am glad my friends opened my eyes to the lives of foodies and gave me a first-hand glimpse into their sweet and salty world. I have loved them for years and never knew the extent to which my juvenile palate differed from their sophisticated ones. We were basically cats and dogs living together, and the world is a better place because of our harmony. I mean, if foodies and non-foodies can be besties, all of our nation’s immigration issues should work themselves out shortly. As the kids say: squad goals!

Confessions of a giant pooper

If you have lived the life that I have lived, you would know what it means to stare at a flushing toilet with a building sense of dread. People are being persecuted and dying of cancer, but I hope over the prayers for them, God can hear me quietly pleading, “Please flush! Please flush! Don’t overflow!”

You see, I have been afflicted with giant turds my whole life. I was stopping up our home’s plumbing in preschool. It’s not every poop, but it’s enough to be disturbing and make me think twice about dropping the kids off at the pool in any house besides my own. (Public toilets can usually handle my output, but I try to avoid pooping in public at all costs because I’m a woman and we hate it when other people can hear/smell our plops.) My hypothesis is that my colon has a larger diameter than most normal people’s. I take fiber supplements, probiotics and try to eat plenty of roughage, but sometimes stuff still comes out the size of sweet potatoes.

My 22nd birthday was one of the three or four times in my life I’ve been really drunk. Friends bought me drinks until I told a girl in line for the bathroom that her shirt made her look fat. Shortly after that I started laying my head on the table, and the friend charged with my custody for the evening, Heather, took me back to the apartment she and her boyfriend (now husband) shared. He had his best friend and that friend’s girlfriend over. I was too inebriated to take much notice of their presence, but I knew one thing for sure: I had to make a deposit in the porcelain bank. 

I guess I did, but then I fell asleep on the toilet with my head on my knees. Maybe you’d call it passing out. I’m not sure how much time elapsed before Heather knocked and asked if I was OK. It woke me up enough to clean up, flush, wash hands and exit. I then changed out of my sequin shirt (I had exactly one “clubbin’” shirt in my early 20’s) and into some of her PJs, and then she led me to the futon, which she’d made up as a guest bed for me. Alcohol makes me really, really tired, so I fell asleep almost immediately, but I was awoken by her boyfriend yelling, “It’s the size of my whole arm!” I drifted off again, and then there were some screams. But no one came to get me, so I figured it didn’t concern me and went to sleep.

The next morning, I was informed what happened.

“You made the biggest turd we’ve ever seen,” Heather said.

“How could something that size come out of you?” her boyfriend chimed in. “It was the size of my arm, no, my thigh!”

Apparently he’d called his guests in to check it out as well. Not the first impression I usually like to make on people. And, as one might guess, turdzilla did not flush. A plunger did nothing because it evidently was rocks-solid and sideways. So he had a brilliant idea: a barbecue fork. He would poke it into flushable pieces. Heather and his other guests came to watch. But then the barbecue fork pierced right through my fecal deposit and wouldn’t come loose. The screams I’d heard evidently were elicited when Heather’s boyfriend thrusted the poo-fork at her in jest. I guess it took some more work, but eventually he was able to dice it up into what the average apartment plumbing could handle. Heather told me he initially tossed around the idea of putting the barbecue fork in the dishwasher afterward, but they jointly agreed the trashcan was best. And his friends whom I don’t remember if I ever saw again shall forevermore remember me as the drunk girl with the ginormous turd. 

It turns out the barbecue fork wasn’t so far-fetched. I hope you saw this awesome account of one family’s poop knife. It makes me think I should have one. 

As with any medical weirdness, you learn coping mechanisms. My best ones are time and Tucks pads. Time softens all turds. What requires a barbecue fork today will flush like soggy cereal tomorrow. You just have to be patient and declare that toilet off-limits until the softening occurs, usually 8 to 24 hours. Tucks pads soothe an achy anus that has liberated sizable chocolate hostages.  

My husband and I did not live together before we married, but on our honeymoon, he got a real taste of what he was getting into. I clogged up the toilet of the hotel room we stayed in before departing for our Caribbean cruise. Fearing an impending overflow, we had to call maintenance. As we waited for them to come, I looked my husband dead in the eye and said, “They’re going to think you did this. And I’m not going to give them any reason to think otherwise.” Because as Heather’s boyfriend noted, I am not a large person. One would not think I could pinch off a loaf of those proportions. 

It doesn’t look like this ends with me. Our 4-year-old is coming up with some toilet-cloggers of his own. He’s very proud of their size and usually wants me to see the impressive ones. He recently proclaimed, “Mommy, come see! It looks like a breadstick and a snake!” Apparently this wide-diameter colon thing is genetic.

...

And here is Kansas City Royals baseball legend George Brett at spring training talking about how he poops his pants that I'm gratuitously including because it's about poop and makes me quake with laughter. 

Brief controversial statements about mostly inconsequential things

I’ve been doing 2.5 people’s jobs lately and writing a whole lot of stuff for work (for which other people usually get to take all the credit), leaving little time to write for me. So my apologies for the delay in posting. But I hope this will be worth the wait. 

Our current president has been a real inspiration to me on this one. It seems like every day, this thought bounces around his head: “Whom can I offend today with a thoughtless, baseless tweet?” (Well, I doubt he thinks the word “whom” because it’s pretty apparent his grammar proficiency stopped short well before the who/whom stage, which frankly few people ever reach. I only sort of get it because of a college editing class. What has become of our nation’s grammar education?!) 

Anyway, in true style of our current president, I will offer tweetish-length (which are now 280 characters, ICYMI) controversial statements about my beliefs, one of which is sure to offend at least everyone I know. I do promise to refrain from politics and religion. Believe me, there are plenty of other things to vehemently disagree about and unfriend someone on social media for. 

These are in order from least- to most-controversial, with the typeface also indicating the level of controversy: 

* The Costco magazine is a pleasant read before bed, but some of the article’s ledes are really, really bad. Several read like the first assignment given in a college feature-writing class. 

* I really like Panera, but it’s over-priced. 

* Proficiency in a foreign language should be required for high school graduation. Get with the rest of the world, America. 

* Stop putting fruit and meat together. You think it’s fancy, but no one really likes it. 

* Babies’ ears should not be pierced. It’s mean and unnecessary.

* People who commute by bicycle are meaner and whinier than pretty much everyone else on social media. Surely this carries over to their life offline, as well. Second place: vegans. 

* I have never met a home-schooled kid who seemed normal. Something just seems off about every single one I ever have interacted with, (yes, even those from the heavily lauded “co-ops”) leading me to believe K-12 home-schooling stunts social growth and exposure to alternative viewpoints and is therefore a bad idea. Those kids often are very smart and well-versed on certain topics but weird. Emotional intelligence is important, too.

* About 95 percent of people are annoyed by multi-level-marketing sales. The other 5 percent are in multi-level-marketing sales. Despite the flier’s promises, only three women actually make a living at it. (OK, OK, I do love some of the products, though, especially Norwex and Beauty Counter.)

* Celiac disease is a real thing. Gluten sensitivity is not. 

* It is inhospitable to make people take their shoes off in your home unless it’s wet or muddy outside. (I have previously opined about this.)

* Similar to what was done to American Indians but for a much more legitimate reason, reservations should be created for parents who choose not to vaccinate their children. Their families either must live there or wear a shirt or facial tattoo that clearly identifies their status as potential transmitters of once-eradicated deadly diseases. 

* Essential oils don’t do anything but smell good. 

If you’re still friends with me, feel free to agree/disagree with me in the comments.