Not Ready for Mom Jeans (46 page)

Jake did not find it funny when I read him several of the comments on my blog regarding the Great Ice Scraper Calamity.

He also did not find it funny when the return Nazis at Target interrogated him and asked him to provide a full reenactment of the incident before they would refund his $4.99. They also told him he’s only allowed to return like three things per calendar year, so the scraper coupled with the T-shirt and socks he returned three months ago put him at his limit. And with the holiday season coming up, did he really want to use his last chance on a $4.99 ice scraper?

Apparently, he got kind of mad and yelled something about the clerks being in the Gestapo. Whatever.

He may not think any of it is funny, but I still can’t stop laughing. It makes all of the stress of Christmas completely manageable.

Not to mention, as I drove home from work amidst the pre-Christmas flurries, an idea struck me. One that might allow me to intermix my professional strengths with my personal goals. An idea that’s a beautiful shade of gray.

I’m not ready to completely explore it yet, as I still need to allow it percolate for a while, so I’ll just call it my Fabulous New Idea That Shall Not Be Named for Fear of Jinxing It.

Thursday, December 25

The holiday hangover has officially begun.

The past two days, Sara received enough crap to fill Paris Hilton’s closet. Including a toy that is, once again, possessed. It randomly plays music, lights up, and buzzes without anyone pressing a button. Jake yelled, “The power of Christ compels you!” at it a few times and it seemed to stop. Marianne gave her one of those dolls who shit their pants, despite Sara being way too young for dolls and still shitting her own pants. The best part is the doll also laughs and farts. I’m not kidding. While the doll laughs, she also makes fart noises. So Jake and I, being very mature and not at all childish, made the stupid thing fart until the motor wore out.

Not that a trip to my parents’ house was much better. When we walked into my parents’ house on Christmas Eve, my nasal passages were immediately attacked with the stench of glögg. Glögg is some kind of horrible spiced wine my parents’ neighbors from Sweden give them every year for Christmas. Since my dad is the only one who drinks it and the neighbors give them like five gallons every year, my parents have a small arsenal of horrible-tasting holiday wine in their basement.

Anyway, glögg is meant to be served warm, so my dad pours some into a saucepan and lets it simmer on the stove. Which fills the entire house with the smell of brandy and rotting fruit. Not to mention I stole some when I was in high school (during the days when my friends and I would drink just about anything to get drunk) and my friends and I drank it at a sleepover. Well, not surprisingly, we all got sick and puked for hours straight. Mulled wine mixed with Domino’s pizza does not a good combination make. One sniff of warm glögg and I’m brought right back to my friend’s basement, throwing up in her sink and getting yelled at because I’m puking too loud.

After I finished gagging, my dad and I had our usual conversation about our preference for a tree made out of green pipe cleaners while my mom and Jake defended their need for a real tree.

Mark and Casey entertained us with stories about a road trip they took to her parents’ house a few weeks back. Apparently, her parents live downstate. Which means she and Mark had to travel through some pretty hillbilly areas to get there. Mark begged to stop at the live-action Civil War reenactment, but they were running late. He said he really wanted to go since, at this show, the South wins. I think they also said they pulled off an exit and saw a very tall person in a clown costume, pushing a midget in a wheelchair.

Mark also whispered to me that he had picked out some jewelry and winked at me. My mouth dropped open and he quickly turned back into Mark, my brother, and punched me in the arm and said, “Don’t be a loser.”

The gift giving was also a success. Everyone loved their gifts. My parents gushed over our present of converting all our old home movies into DVDs, Sam said a quick “thanks” for the earrings, and Mark feigned surprise when he opened his rugby shirt.

“How did you know?” he said.

“Maybe because you e-mailed everyone your Christmas list, in PowerPoint presentation form, complete with animation,” I said.

Jake also loved his gift. I made him a montage video of Sara’s first year set to music. It included pictures from right after she was born to video of her walking now. We both got a little misty-eyed as we watched it until I heard a crash, turned around, and saw Sara pulling a Pottery Barn vase off an end table.

There’s very little time for sentiment when there’s a toddler around.

And my own little ideas are still germinating, as a Christmas gift to myself.

Saturday, December 27

There’s also very little time for sobriety when Julie’s around. She finally relented and Jake and I met her and Trevor out for a drink last night.

Or it was supposed to be “a drink.” It would up being about fifty.

It started off with some sushi and sake. And then more sake. And then some tequila.

And that’s how we wound up at a karaoke bar.

Jake and Trevor did a duet to “Soul Man,” complete with sunglasses. Jake may or may not have convinced me to join him onstage for a stirring rendition of “O.P.P.” In the middle of which he realized his jackassery and left me onstage to rap all by myself.

I also may or may not have eaten a gyro sometime around midnight.

Jake, thankfully, had slightly more sense than I did. Because at one point, Julie actually convinced me that we should call up Matt and tell him how much we hate him. Jake apparently distracted us by showing us how to take pictures with his cell phone. For which I am so, so grateful. Because I have a slight suspicion that calling up Matt when drinking would fall into the Things That Make Clare Trashy category. Not to mention Reese would probably strangle us to death with one of her Frette hand towels.

Anyway, the bottom line: Trevor’s fantastic.

Tuesday, December 30

Today was a perfect day.

As I drove home from work yesterday, with Sara in the back snoozing away, a light dusting of snow began to fall. The meteorologists on just about every news channel predicted a snowstorm. I didn’t hold my breath, since they usually say that at least four times each year and we wind up with an inch. I drove home, the radio muted, the only sound Sara’s light snoring. I twisted my car through the already-slushy streets and took in the slowly forming Winter Wonderland. Kids, still on school break, began to run outside and throw themselves down into the snow, furiously forming snow angels. Evergreen bushes, decorated with strands of white lights, donned tufts of snow, looking like radioactive green cupcakes with glowing sprinkles.

And, sure enough, every driver in the Chicagoland area drove like either (a) They had never seen this white stuff: Apparently it’s called snow? Whatever it is, I better not hit my accelerator
at all
, or (b) Snow! Whee! Let’s see if I can get my Toyota Camry to turn this corner on two wheels!

I wanted to attach a speaker atop my car and drive through the streets screaming,
Two inches! Two! I guarantee that’s how much snow we’ll actually get.

But, by about eight o’clock, the snow started falling in sheets and Jake and I could barely see out the front door.

By the time Sara went to bed, snow was piled up against our back door.

By the time Jake and I went to bed, our cars had a good foot of snow atop them. We snuggled into bed, each not daring to ask if the other thought we could stay home from work the next day. Like kids in grade school, we didn’t want to jinx it.

So, when I woke up at four this morning, I dared to peek out our bedroom window. I silently pumped my fist as I saw the snow still furiously coming down. I jumped back into bed and rubbed my feet together before drifting off.

Two feet of snow—that’s how much fell by the time we woke up this morning.

The city restricted all travel to only emergency vehicles on the roads, to allow the snowplows to get through. Victory!

Jake and I curled up on the couch with Sara and watched Christmas movies, drank cider, and napped while Sara did. It was glorious. The three of us, a couch, and three fuzzy blankets made the best family day ever.

And I realized how amazing it was as it happened. Too many times in my life, I’ve been only able to appreciate moments like these after they’re long gone. But this was one time, as I settled down in our worn couch, Sara in between Jake and me, plush blanket pulled around us, that I was able to see the picture as it was being painted. I peeked under the white cover before the masterpiece was finished. And as I munched on leftover Christmas cookies and sipped eggnog, I felt the comfort of enjoying the day as it happened, not from the distorted lens of the future or the long distance of the past.

The only problem was I hadn’t been to the grocery store yet, so we were forced to eat ramen noodles like college students, but we didn’t mind.

I caught up on all my daytime television—soap operas, horrible talk shows titled
Please Help Me Find My Baby Daddy,
and canceled sitcoms like
Step by Step.

I also spent a gluttonous time watching the Food Network, swearing I would make the shitake mushroom and spinach ragout. One thing that bothered me was how every cook, at the end of their show, tastes their own food and is like “OH GOD! YUM! IT’S SO GOOD!”

Like they’re going to say anything else.

I want to see a show sometime when one of the chefs takes a bite of their own food and quickly spits it out and says,
Ew! Gross! I really screwed this one up!

The upside is that the day off really gave me a chance to think about my Non-Jinxed Idea. After a bit of mental marinating, it’s starting to come into focus and I think I’ll be ready soon to start making it a reality.

Thursday, January 1

Last night was New Year’s Eve.

I was so depressed last year when I couldn’t go out and party like everyone else on New Year’s Eve. I swore I’d go out the following year and have a killer time, to make up for taking a year off. This year, I’m so over it.