finslippy

And so that was Christmas.

As I was saying. Christmas, man. Wow. I am nodding thoughtfully while gazing out the window. Now I am punching my palm with my fist. I don't know why. And I'm biting my knuckles. What am I doing?

Christmas was a roaring success, but on the days leading up to it, I went about 40% too crazy for my physical health. Like, on Christmas Eve, I shouldn't have spent over seven hours in the kitchen preparing Christmas dinner. Four hours, I could have done. But not seven. Seven is too many. It leads to pains in the body and stabby stabbiness in the temples.

I'm biting my knuckles again.

Christmas, though! I was worried that Henry wouldn't experience the heartstopping joy on Christmas morning that I remembered from my long-ago youth, but all my fears were unwarranted. Just the idea that Santa showed up was almost more than he could handle. He leaped into our bed Christmas morning, and I volunteered to go downstairs and see if Santa had come. "Look at the plate of cookies," Henry instructed me. "If the cookies are eaten, that's a good sign that I got presents." Another good sign? Presents.

Anyway, as I am sure you are aware, Santa had indeed visited at some point in the night, leaving as silently as he arrived, and Henry hyperventilated at the sight of his presents in a manner that I found intensely gratifying. "I must have been really good this year," he kept saying. He was pleased with pretty much everything he unwrapped. Just the act of unwrapping was enough for him. I could have wrapped anything. His pillow, nail clippers, a tuning fork. Instant Present! Next year I will wrap each individual Lego piece.

My family came and there were more presents, and drinks, and dinner was actually edible, and best of all, my nephew Paul completed a massive Star Wars Lego project with Henry, helping him build some kind of droid army in a battleship made of over 1300 pieces, and not once was I called upon to assist. Henry would come out once in a while, grab a cookie, and then announce that he had to return to the "Trade Federation." Whatever, kid, as long as it doesn't involve me standing or moving.

One thing would have made it perfect. Scott came up with the idea of dressing as Jacob Marley for Christmas, rattling the chains he forged in life, clutching his head bandage. When someone asked him how his job was going, he was going to wail, MANKIND SHOULD HAVE BEEN MY BUSINESS WAAAIOOOOUUU. I pictured him camping it up as a spectre while my family tried to act nonchalant, and I begged him to do it. But nooo. Something about not having time to construct a costume, and he didn't really mean it, and anyway it would only be funny to us.

Bah.

Anyway, I swallowed my bitter disappointment and enjoyed myself. And now it's two days later and I can barely crawl across the room without wanting to curl up and take a leisurely twelve-hour siesta. I don’t know if it was all the hard work or the many glasses of Amaretto-Cranberry Kiss. Or both! Probably both.

It's been a long day.

One of these boys attended a cookie decorating party at his friend's house, then came home and played for the remainder of the day, occasionally taking a break to enjoy the fruits of his cookie labors. The other one endured six hours of holiday-shopping-related horrors. Guess which one is really asleep?

There you go.

New Wonderland up today. Now I'm off to wrap six million presents and drink some wine. I predict that the gifts will become increasingly less presentable as the night wears on. For my last gift, I'll tape the cat to a box and lurch upstairs to bed.

Preferably one with sunscreen.

I went to see Juno yesterday with Sarah Brown and we laughed and cried and it was everything I could have hoped for. BUT. One line in the movie really stuck in my craw, and it's still in there, festering, waiting for me to BLOG ABOUT IT. In all caps.

It's when Juno plays "All the Young Dudes" for Jason Bateman (whose character's name I have conveniently forgotten) and he says, "I know this song. We danced to it at my prom." In 1988. At first I was going to go on about how Jason Bateman is not a year younger than I am, because he appears in this movie to be about 85, but then I looked at his imdb profile, and actually he's my age. Crap, I'm old. Once I shook that off, I became even more annoyed over the idea that a song from 1972 would be played at a prom in 1988. Sting, George Michael, INXS, Mott the Hoople. Which one of those doesn't belong?

Unless you went to the coolest high school ever, Jason Bateman's character, and you didn't, there was no Mott the Hoople playing at your prom. You danced to Al B. Sure! like the rest of us. Admit it, and maybe you'll be happier. Don't tell me you're not a real person, Jason Bateman's character, that's no excuse. Also? Buy yourself a good facial moisturizer—your cragginess is making me sad.

Someone's been watching The Ten Commandments.

Henry's in a pro-Dad, neutral-on-Mom phase, and I am utterly, completely okay with that. "Only Dad plays right," he tells me, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Oh," I say, and try to look bereft. So I can't sit on the ground and play with guys for hours, is that what you're telling me, son? I have to sit here and read a book or talk on the phone or just NOT PLAY LEGOS while Scott gets all the quality time? I will somehow choke down my disappointment. Somehow.

Scott even won the religion wars. I didn't know we were fighting them, but Henry began and ended the conflict in one devastating blow. Henry and I were talking about his half-Jewish, half-Catholic status, and he asked me, "which one is Dad?" "Jewish," I said, and that was all Henry had to hear. "Then I'm Jewish, too." He kissed me on the cheek. "I love you, but I'm Jewish."

I called the Pope, and we had a good cry over it.

When Scott got home, I told him about our discussion. "What did you decide, Henry?" I prompted.

"That I am a Hebrew," he said, "like my father."

Then Scott muttered something like the metal is ready for the Maker's hand, and they demanded that I set them free, to build their glorious Lego temples to the God of Abraham. Of course I allowed it, for I am a just and benevolent ruler. So it is written, and so it shall be done.

The Festive is upon us.

Hey, I know you've been wondering what my neighborhood looks like, all lit up and Christian in the holiday season, so here you go:

There you see Crazy Joe, the guy who reads the paper all night long, no matter how cold the weather. I'm over on the right, skating my little heart out. Henry's in the newsboy cap, throwing himself at the camera lens. And in case you're wondering why that building is emanating an unearthly glow, well, we don't ask questions, round these parts. We just avert our eyes and we keep on skating.

I tricked you! What! That's not my town at all. Yuletide Fool's!

(Yes, that's right. Jesus loved a good prank.)

So among the Christmas decorations my mother foisted upon me—I mean lovingly offered—was my parents' famed Winter Village, a collection of ceramic figurines and buildings and teeny tiny lights that they hauled out at Christmastime. I balked, because after all, the Winter Village! That's a big commitment to, you know, tiny ceramics. It's a hop and a skip to Hummel figurine collecting, after this. But my parents insisted. The Winter Village is meant for the children, they shouted, to see the wonder and delight in their little angelic faces, and children don't come around their house much anymore, unless it's to ring the doorbell and run away screaming I TOUCHED OLD MAN BRADLEY'S HOUSE BLAAAAARGH.

So we put up a mini version of the Winter Village on our mantelpiece. We don't have a flat surface large enough for the entire Winter Village community, the Winter Village nursing home and Winter Village cell-phone store and Winter Village Great Wall of China. Also our cat wants nothing more than to walk across a table, chucking delicate figurines onto the floor with one swipe of her deadly paw. And she hasn't figured out how to reach the mantelpiece. Yet.

Here we have Santa, sitting on his giant Ice Throne, wondering why no one is coming to greet him. "They all like that smaller Santa right in front of me. Who would put one Santa right in front of another? Probably a Jew," he's thinking, and he would be right. A Jew who cursed a lot and wondered how he got himself into this mess, marrying a Catholic, installing her Norman Rockwell diorama in order for her to better praise Jesus.

After Scott finished cursing and arranging, Henry announced that we had to "do the festive." This apparently meant turning off all the non-Winter Village lights and sitting together on the couch, while Scott sang "do the festive!" to the tune of "The Hustle" and Henry held forth about the Universe blowing up with one push of his self-destruct button. So pretty much it was a dress rehearsal for Christmas.

Do the Festive!

Parenting books I could have used this week

The Baffling Child, or, Why He Finds The Word "Butt" So Endlessly Amusing

How To Talk So Kids Will Listen And Stop Saying "Butt" Already

Children Who Talk About Butts And The Parents Who Live With Them

Seriously, It's Like "Butt" Is The Only Word He Knows

Butts, Butts, Butts!: Giving Up and Joining In

"Butts" Was Only The Beginning: Coping With His Endless Medley of Fart Noises

Why yes, I am an adolescent.

A few weeks ago I was listening to public radio when someone called in to say, "Hi, I have a big penis, I like to play with it." Brian Lehrer, professional that he is, cut him off with nary a comment and moved on. I, however, was thrilled and amused (it doesn't take much) and laughed for too long while hunting for the phone so I could call Scott. What was so funny was not just that a guy said this on the Brian Lehrer show, but that he said it in this perfect WNYC-caller voice, the breezy voice of your average liberal with season passes to Lincoln Center and a lifetime subscription to the New Yorker.

Henry, by the way, was in the room, and undoubtedly heard the words spoken on the radio, but didn't even blink. After all, if one has it, why wouldn't one want to play with it? Sounds like a reasonable topic of discussion.

Anyway, I called Scott, who laughed almost as hard as I did, which is why we get along so well. Then I made a few more calls. Then I thought, can I blog about this? I decided to be mature, and anyway, what else was there to say, except OH MY GOD THIS GUY TALKED ABOUT HIS PENIS ON WNYC HA HA HAAAAR. So after sharing my new favorite anecdote to my entire family on Thanksgiving, I decided to let it go.

But as you can see, ultimately I couldn't stop myself from sharing. It had to come out. And now that it's here, I feel so much better.

In conclusion, there's a new Wonderland post today. Happy weekend!

Things are really heating up, over here.

"We have to hurry, my husband will be home any minute."

"You're hilarious."

"I'm just trying to spice things up. Isn't that what married couples are supposed to do?"

"Oh, geez."

"Why, it's the PSE&G guy! Are you here to read the gas meter?"

"(Sigh.) Yes, uh, you sure did use a lot of energy this month."

"Well, I do like things hot. But I can't pay my bill! Whatever will I do?"

"I could, heh, put you on an extended payment plan."

"Ooh, I like that idea. Ooh. How far can it extend?"

"And you know, you can get a rebate on our Energy Saver hot-water heater."

"Oh, yeah, baby."

"Save you a bundle."

"Okay, I'm done."

The worst that could happen.

1. I am driving on the highway and start to panic. The force of my panic is so great that it causes my car to lift into the air. Looking around me, I see that the other cars are also levitating. Now that our cars are in the air, none of us have any control over our direction or speed, and we hurtle higher and higher skyward, smashing into each other repeatedly. As we leave the earth’s atmosphere, I can hear the other drivers screaming, "Why, Alice, why?" before we all blow up.

2. Because I never got my son to eat more than four foods, he grows up--if you can call it that—to become a shred of a man, unable to find love, hold down a job, or walk down the street without breaking something. "The saddest part," his doctor tells me, "is he’s just aware enough to know what you did to him. That if he had only had a few more nutrients in his system, he could have been someone." In fact, Henry writes a memoir called "What Could Have Been." The New York Times declares it "terribly written, lacking in style or subject-verb agreement, that is nonetheless a grueling condemnation of possibly the worst mother the world has ever known."

3. After my haircut, I tip the woman who washed my hair, only I accidentally tip the wrong person. "What the hell is this crap?" the other hair-washer demands. "Why would I want money from you, complete stranger?" The woman whom I meant to tip bursts into tears because I have made her feel like less than a person. She runs out the door and straight into traffic. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE," screams the salon owner. Everyone in the salon, clients and staff alike, beat me up. The next day the headlines read, "Alice Bradley is a Thoughtless Jerk." We have to move.

4. Afraid of tipping the wrong person because after all they all have the same damn hairstyle, I leave without giving money to the hair-washer. A ritual murder-suicide ensues. The note makes it clear that it was my fault.

5. I fail to take proper care of my yard. The earth spins off its axis.

6. I allow Henry to watch an extra half-hour of television while I nap beside him. The show turns out to be a PBS special called "How to Take Drugs and Kill People."

7. I forget to take Charlie for his rabies shot. He immediately contracts rabies and jumps the fence. His deadly rampage begins at the playground and ends at a day care center, with a brief stop at the nursing home.

8. I forget about Henry’s checkup. Somehow he also contracts rabies, even though rabies has nothing to do with his checkup. The world agrees that I am responsible.

9. I put off vacuuming for a few days. The next week there is an ABC special report on neglectful mothers. Turns out that Henry’s new friend from preschool was actually an undercover reporter with a hidden camera. As I watch footage of dust bunnies skittering across our floor, I realize that I should have wondered why his new friend was so tall, and carrying around that briefcase. "A little boy has to live in this squalor," the reporter intones. "That is, unless we intervene in time." The doorbell rings. The authorities are here to take me away, along with some cool girls from my high school, who wanted to see what a dirty loser I had become.

10. I go to the supermarket in my old sweatpants. The sight of my baggy-assed sweats renders everyone so desperately sad that half of them die and the other half throw up into their carts and then die. I am a pariah. The pictures of my ass make the newspapers, and the world is thrown into chaos. God gives up on us. He decides to create a better universe, one without hopeless pants like mine. Before He does, He offers me one last chance to apologize and make things right. But when I try to say something, all my teeth fall out, because I forgot to floss the night before. We are all destroyed.

A quick one, before I go back to sleep.

The new banner is by none other than Ms. Heather Armstrong. I was going to save it for the new year, but look at it. How could I wait to put that up? Thank you, Heather!

In more serious news, Kathryn from Daring Young Mom is helping with the Washington relief efforts. She wrote a moving post about the unbelievable damage that's been wrought from the flooding, and the lives and livelihoods that have been destroyed. Visit her site and donate, if you can.

You might as well go there because there's nothing over here. My throat is sore and I feel all hurty. I'm pretty sure I have the plague. Or one of those new superbugs. Run away! I am unclean! Unclean!