Fired...and Fabulous

So, my new favorite guy this week is AJ Clemente. Did you miss his adventures this week? On Sunday, April 21, Clemente made headlines when he dropped several choice on-air swear words on his first day on the job at NBC affiliate KFYR-TV in Bismarck, North Dakota. Both he and his co-anchor Van Tieu later acknowledged that they were put on-air a little earlier than scheduled, which may have explained why Clemente was obliviously muttering profanity as Tieu attempted to introduce him.

I'll admit, I laughed as I cringed for ol' AJ when I saw the clip. Others found him and his firing funny, too: the video went viral. I then started to feel badly for AJ about how his professional debut went. Haven't we all had those moments when your mouth keeps moving and horrible unplanned words are coming out but your brain is somehow locked and frozen inside your skull shouting an internal NO! STOP TALKING NOW! but it's too late?

Of course you have. We all have. We've all been fired, too probably, at one point or another in your life. It's not a good feeling. And aren't you glad that unlike AJ Clemente, your gaffe and dismissal wasn't captured on tape and featured on every social and internet media site in existence? And on his very first day. Getting fired can be a punch in the gut anyway. But to get served in the national news? Man.

And AJ did respond initially like most of us would: he admits he crawled in bed and called his mom and dad immediately after he was fired. He had his moment of depression and shame. But here's what I love about AJ Clemente: he also tweeted, almost cheerfully, "Well, that could not have gone any worse!" right after it all went down, readily acknowledging his mistake. He admits to looking like a moron on TV. But AJ Clemente, as it turned out, was down but not out.

The fresh-faced TV talent didn't necessarily walk away from the job empty-handed. Though he admits that he is still "the butt of the joke" after being fired from his new position for cursing on-air, Clemente is now focused on moving on. He admits he didn't want to start his career like this, but was quoted as saying:
"But to be right here right now, it's like, wow. Maybe this is what's supposed to happen."

AJ went on to be invited to the Today, Live With Kelly and Michael, and The David Letterman Show, and when Kelly and Michael asked him to work the red carpet for the premiere of Pierce Brosnan's new movie, he agreed.  A little karmic payback, perhaps, for the public pants-down spanking he experienced at the hands of the media this week.

But this is why I like AJ. Speaking with David Letterman, Clemente said, "The next day, you gotta pick yourself up and laugh at yourself and keep going." At that, Letterman praised Clemente for being brave enough to own up to his mistakes and talk so candidly about his firing.

I, too, gotta admire AJ and his attitude. Sure, mistakes were made. He initially got depressed. He slinked into bed for awhile, needed some emotional support from his parents. The universe clearly had plans to thrust him into a a national spotlight, and he could have disappeared in shame, become angry, or rail against his dismissal. I love that his first tweet was what it was: he owned his mistake and refused to disappear in humiliation.

And so AJ ends up on the set of national talk shows. And he gets it: everything does indeed happen for a reason. The universe is actually carefully ordered to support us and to designed for our growth. There is no such thing as coincidence. This series of events indeed was what was supposed to happen, and they're taking AJ where he needs to go. Good for him for being able to learn from the situation (yes, AJ, do treat every mic like it's a hot one), good for him and us that he has a sense of humor and as Letterman pointed out, bravery for speaking so candidly about his widely-viewed screw up.

What can we take away from AJ? Bad and good is mixed up. What seems wrong will take you to the new right thing. Feel what you feel about it. Then, it's time to be in the moment. It's over. Shed any shame you have. AJ's producers started taping early. It wasn't all his fault. Usually, it's not all yours to own. Don't take yourself or the situation too seriously. Use your dilemma to help others. Keep your sense of humor. And don't worry. It IS supposed to happen this way. It's gonna make you bigger and better than you were before. Even if it feels wrong or worst at first. Just keep moving.

Godspeed, AJ! I know you want to work at ESPN. Well, they've heard of you now. I just hope Bismarck forgives you and has you back even though you've evidently shocked and offended the older and more conservative news viewers. It was just a couple of cuss words. Geez. Because it seems to me you might, in spite of yourself, be a good guy to have on the team. And you, dear reader, too: when you can own your mistakes, can learn from them, know what is unfolding was meant to be, can keep a sense of humor and not take yourself so seriously as you move on? You're a great addition to the group.

And We Always Will: A Message of Hope

Holy cats. And how has your week been? To say it's been a tough one for Americans is quite the understatement. This particular week has been a beating, no?. Mondays alone are enough to make me kind of stabby anyway, and it was tax day. So this Monday already hadn't endeared itself to me when I got the horrifying and disturbing news that someone or some group had packed pressure cookers with ball bearings and nails and left them to explode at the finish line of America's most prestigious foot race. As a distance runner myself, I was more than a little chilled: I've crossed many finish lines in my life, too. The finish line is a happy place. It's supposed to be where you feel the most pride. And in Boston, it was where runners lost their legs and innocent bystanders lost their lives.

But this week wasn't done with America. Tuesday, Senator Roger Wicker of Mississippi and our president, Barack Obama, both received letters laced with the deadly poison ricin. There were a few fevered hours while America shared a September 11, 2001 post-traumatic stress attack while we wondered if the bombs in Boston were somehow connected with the murderous mail. Luckily, this incident was isolated from the Boston bombs; thanks to police prowess and a perp that was not exactly a Rhodes Scholar, the hillbilly Elvis impersonator from Tupelo, Mississippi was quickly rounded up.

But the week was just getting warmed up. Next, the US Senate embarrassed us all by not passing a universal background check law for the purchase of guns, despite research clearly indicating most of the country supporting this measure and the out-of-control gun violence that plagues our country uniquely. Most embarassingly, the fearless woman who wrestled the gun and magazine away from from the Tuscon shooter of Gabby Giffords, Patricia Maisch, was removed from the Senate for shouting "Shame on you!" as the Senate refused debate.

In the end, it was as President Obama said: a shameful day for Washington. I hope the NRA got background checks on the Senators they bought. Oh, I kid, I kid. Despite that Facebook gathers more information on you daily than a background check for a gun ever would, it seemed like once again, greed won and Americans lost. Some of you will disagree; go on with the hating if you must. But you're out of step with mainstream America.

And for the piece de resistance of the week in America from hell, West, Texas blew off the map with a fertilizer factory explosion, leaving around a dozen dead, hundreds injured, and more affected and displaced. A nursing home and a school were flattened. Which begs the question: who builds a school and a nursing home next to a highly explosive fertilizer plant? But I digress. And a charming little Czech community known for its roadside kolaches is a thing of our memories here in Texas.

It was not a week for the feint of heart, this week. A time, as they say, that tries human souls. Perhaps you're struggling with the weight of it all if you're a person who thinks or feels. That's why in this trying time, I found some solace in a quote from Fred Rogers, who said: "When I was a boy and I saw scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find the people that are helping.'"

I look and I see the peace activist in a cowboy hat racing to save the life of a runner he's never met before, saving him from bleeding to death in the street. I see police, firefighters, and EMS workers running towards the chaos to help any way they can. I see supplies being sent by the truckloads and hospitals full of those donating blood. I see strangers attending to strangers. I see prayers and love posted all over the internet. I watched a Boston Bruins crowd sing our national anthem with such gusto I got goosebumps and teared up. I see help for Boston and West pouring in from everywhere, all over the world. And finally, I see this wonderful missive posted by comedian Patton Oswalt:

"I remember, when 9/11 went down, my reaction was, 'Well, I've had it with humanity.'

But I was wrong. I don't know what's going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem -- one human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths. 

But here's what I DO know. If it's one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. This is a giant planet and we're lucky to live on it, but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in a while, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they're pointed towards darkness. 

But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evildoers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We'd have eaten ourselves alive long ago. 

So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, 'The good outnumber you, and we always will.'"

Amen, brother. It's been a hell of a week, sure. But like our president says: it's not over yet. Take heart in these dark times. Be a little nicer, a little more patient. Smile at strangers. As long as Americans care, we will overcome. In the meanwhile, like Fred Rogers said, we must just look for the helpers. Give solace to others, and reassure yourself. We are everywhere, and we are the army of love. We are America. We are Texas. And the good outnumber the evil. And we always will. 

What To Expect

Remember that charming book for pregnancy, What to Expect When You're Expecting? I loved that book so much when I was pregnant the first time. This week, my baby is the size of an olive. This week, my baby is developing teeth buds. Outside the occasional shame I felt at how very short I fell according to their stringent nutritional standards, I loved that book. It broke down development of the baby month by month and demystified pregnancy. Who isn't charmed by the idea of a grape-fruit sized baby whose eggs are forming in her tiny uterus?

I was equally edified by What to Expect the First Year and What to Expect from the Toddler Years. Again, the advice was lofty, but as an intellectual and a wanna-be scholar, there's no better feeling for me than being able to pull a book off the shelf, do a little research, jab a finger at a passage and say "AH HA!" The pregnancy and toddler books provided me a touchstone. I like to think there's a book out there to answer most of life's dilemma's and puzzles. College told me so. It should be true, right?

But then came babies. And now, I have three elementary school-aged kids: aged five, seven, and nine. I'm looking for the right reference to tell me what to expect in the next stage of parenting, not to mention how the heck to handle it. Because I'm starting to get scared that I'm wandering into some dangerously unknown territory. I'm doing the best I can as I stumble along, but y'all? I am seriously outnumbered. So in the interest forewarning, here's my stab at just an excerpt from what I've learned so far that might be printed in What To Expect from Multiple School Aged Children Living in Your House:

Expect to clean your house thoroughly again maybe ten or fifteen years later from now. Embrace crunchy floors and sticky surfaces. Embrace the fact the children's rooms may, indeed, become condemnable. Expect your furniture to buckle and break under fearless feats of living room gymnastics. Expect full contact football games to break out indoors at any given time. Expect pillows to be used as both weapons and launching pads. Expect your carpet to take on the hues of puke, juice, toothpaste, and/or bright pink children's medicines. If it's valuable, put it in storage now, or expect to sweep up the broken shards.

Expect to fully support your pediatrician's golf habit and retirement fund as you will see him often. Expect to enjoy other people's phlegmy children and the looped "Lion King" on the DVD player in the waiting room. Expect to keep the well children you've brought along to bring their Circque Du Living Room to the waiting room furniture. Expect the little hands in the night that wake you with "Mommy? I don't feel good." Expect to work at your laptop with a feverish sidekick who's SO BORED. Expect to spend your 401K on orthodontia.

Expect your children to behave as characters on professional wrestling: there will be bloody fights, drama, constant bickering, and so, so much screaming followed by the occasion illegal body slam. Your elementary school-aged children will fight over any and everything: time to talk. Toys. A plate of invisible cookies. I kid you not. Expect to don your black and white striped jersey: you are honorary referee. Expect to become a time-out ninja, able to move the dead weight of a nine year old boy gone slack all Ghandi-style at a single bound. Expect the debut of fart jokes and dirty words. Expect them to be told to Grandma.

Expect to spend hours at lessons, in studios, on fields, and freezing your heinie off on a metal stadium bench. Expect to coordinate an activity schedule that requires an Excel spreadsheet and a degree from MIT to keep straight. Expect to borrow money from your own parents to pay fees, supplies, and for uniforms. Prepare to be snack parent knowledgeable about both proper nutrition, peanut allergies, gluten intolerance, and possibly the merits of dye-free beverages. Expect to mandatorily "volunteer" at concession stands doling out sketchy, wrinkly hot dogs and cotton candy.

Prepare for homework. Prepare to admit that, yes, indeed, you are not smarter than a fifth grader and to feverishly Google to delay your child's learning how dim you actually are. Expect to huddle on small chairs to help prepare your child's individual education plan. Expect to attend countless crowded gatherings in school multipurpose rooms to hear small children sing in groups. Expect to be phoned by your school's principal or nurse at the exact moment you are due to give a presentation at work or while you're in the produce section, cart over-topped. Expect to attend to cater and attend holiday classroom parties where you will watch your child become insane on carbs while you stare awkwardly at other parents, count ceiling tiles, or examine your shoelaces.

Oh, I could go on. There are so many surprises of the elementary school years of which I could be your harbinger. It's a wild time, and it's all about them. They're the rock stars; we're just the roadies. The good news is you can also expect some pretty funny conversations, increased availability of child labor, and lots of love and cuddles to go with all of the above. If you're lucky like me, expect to feel your heart fill up as you look around the dinner table at all their little darling dirty faces, even as they all simultaneously argue over the menu. And if I'm truly fortunate? After it's all said and done, I expect them to put me in a really swanky nursing home.

Showing Up

Shot through the heart! And you're to blame, Richie Sambora! You had one job. Sorry, folks. Let me back up a bit. I'm gutted this week, and I blame hair metal. Y'all all know I'm forty-mumble, which means my heyday of music was the glorious 1980s. I did: I embraced all music both New Romantic, New Wave, and especially my beloved rock balladeers. Def Leppard, Poison, Motley Crue: if Tipper Gore blamed a band for turning teens into Satanists, it probably found its way into my (vinyl!) record collection. Oh, yeah. What a rebel. Funny to see in retrospect that Twisted Sister did not, indeed, ruin a generation. But grown ups worried about funny things back then.

I was super lucky, though, to have lived in a state college town in the 1980s, too, because I got to see a lot of really popular musical acts come through what was a tiny, tiny town without the college. Not much to do in Starkville, Mississippi. But whoever was in charge of booking acts at Mississippi State University had it going on. Every couple of months or so, it was time to camp out for tickets for the latest, cutting edge band making the college tour.

Tina Turner, The Go-Gos, Dio, Whitesnake, Cinderella: I saw some of the cheesiest, best, and thus most eighties-tastic bands on the planet during the zenith of the times. And in 1987? Be still my hormone-infused teenaged heart: I saw Bon Jovi on their "Slippery When Wet" tour. I even remember what I wore: fringed boots and ripped acid wash jeans (it WAS 1987). What a show. At seventeen in 1987, if you had seen Jon Bon Jovi fly suspended, hair streaming, over a screaming crowd, you could say you had indeed then lived.

Flash forward to today. No longer a teenager, but I like to think I still have a little rock and roll in me. I frequent the occasional live music scene when I can. So imagine how thrilled I was when a good girlfriend of mine asked me a favor: her husband refused to escort her to a Bon Jovi concert (read: would not consider being surrounded by shrieking middle aged women for the night), and she needed a date. Would I be willing to take the ticket? Oh, would I! A chance to howl along to such classics as "Dead or Alive" and "Runaway"? Sign me up, sister!

So plans were made. And as they say: the best laid plans of mice and men...this week, Richie Sambora, he of the bolero hat and star guitarist for Bon Jovi, announced on the band's website he was withdrawing from the band's ironically named "Because We Can" tour. Because...he could, basically. "Personal reasons" were quoted for his going AWOL on Bon Jovi. Effectively immediately and for the rest of the spring tour.

Now, Richie Sambora's had rehab stints in the past. I would get it if you needed some leave for some medical help. But according to TMZ, there's no substance abuse angle to the guitarist's leave of absence. Photogs have captured him, instead, frolicking in Hawaii with his teen daughter for several days.

And I'm gutted, I say! Well, okay, I may be prone to hyperbole. But Bon Jovi just won't be Bon Jovi without Richie Sambora there to play guitar. But Sambora, according to TMZ, is having, God forbid, some man-tension with Jon Bon Jovi. Classic rock and roll Mick/Keith shenanigans. They're squabbling. And here's where the Momma comes out in me. I want to knock their heads together and make them apologize and shake hands. Do they have any idea how many folks paid a pretty penny for their unique services? You play guitar for a living. It's the greatest job in the world. You had this one job, Richie. You're a rock star. You can stand on the stage for a couple of hours with the dude, for the love of Mike.

Oh, well. It's still going to be a fun outing. I'm grateful for the night of music with a good friend. We will refuse to let Sambora's absence keep us from rocking out as only perimenopausal women in a nostalglic frenzy can. I'm told local guitarists will probably replace Sambora, which is cool.  But this situation, as all situations do, holds a lesson for me. This situation reminds me that I, like Richie Sambora, have made commitments, too. Commitments unto which I have freely entered.

 I have a responsibility in my work and in my personal life to deliver what I promised. At the altar, to my work colleagues, to my community, to my family and friends, to myself. Other people are directly affected when we shirk, phone it in, or don't think about how our actions, or lack of action, can impact or cost others. Or how these actions/non-actions can also subtly darken our own self esteem, if the narcissism isn't too strong with you.

So, a wag of the finger to you, Richie Sambora, for bailing on the "Because We Can" 2013 tour. But thanks for reminding me the importance of really always showing up in life. To notice. It matters a lot to other people, and they're counting on me. It matters to me. Maybe you'll come to your senses before the Dallas show. C'mon, kiss and make up with Jon and play through the end of this tour. Do the job you promised. Keep your commitment to your customers, your fans. You might be surprised how much it matters to you, too.

Springtastic!

It's that time of year again! Wonderful spring. Despite the lies of that dastardly Punxsutawny Phil and weather that might indeed have the Easter Bunny freezing his eggs off, I'm determined to go ahead and celebrate one great season. Godspeed, winter! I refuse to wait for the cooperation of the weather. There's simply too many awesome characteristics to this time of year in which to revel. And whether you celebrate Easter, Passover, or the Vernal Equinox, there's something for everyone to enjoy in this, the marvelous season of spring. For your perusal, here's some of my favorites aspects of the season.

Baby things! Only in spring can my favorite butterflies flutter around my feet as I take my daily run. I once ran across a lawn full of hopping baby bunnies (collective "AAWWW" here). A special treat: there's a birdhouse nestled in the corner of our front porch ceiling, and this time every year, I can peek out the window and watch the same purple martins return to their home and raise a new flock of babies right outside my door. Sure, they dive-bomb me when I go out for the paper or the mail, but I'm a parent. I get it. Here's to cute baby things!

New beginnings. The season of spring and the celebration of spring holidays are all focused on rebirth, new promise, and fresh starts. As a perennial screw-up, I am super-fond of the second chance, the idea of spring cleaning, both mentally and physically. The change of the season offers a chance to take inventory and toss out what's extraneous, unneeded, or hindering progress. Spring is a great time to make new goals, shake old habits, and take inventory. What would you like to accomplish by summer's first day?

Candy! With Easter at my house comes chocolate. Let's just say I have faith in the power of the Cadbury Egg to establish world peace. We should hand them out at the United Nations. Want to hear my guiltiest Easter secret? I dream of packing my hollow chocolate bunny with peanut butter. There. I've said it. Don't judge me. But this is the season of jelly beans and the celestial Peep. Related: whoever decided to make Peeps with their little bottoms covered in chocolate deserves the Presidential Medal of Honor. Sorry, Halloween and Valentine's Day. But your candy doesn't hold a candle to the confections of Easter.

Family traditions. It's such a pleasure to participate in all the Easter traditions my little family has. Before long, my babies will be too old to color eggs. But for now, they're all so excited to roll those eggs around in bowls of dye. They're still little enough to wonder what the Easter Bunny might leave them in their baskets overnight. I love picking out little toys for their baskets and trying to figure out how to keep the dogs from eating hidden boiled eggs each year. These traditions will change, so I'm very aware of making the most of making memories now.

Clothes. I don't know about y'all, but I am bored to death with bulky sweaters, corderoys, and chunky boots. Here's to less clothing as the weather warms! Bring on the sundresses and open toed shoes. Emily Post says we can wear white now. Bring on, even, the cute pedicures and capri pants. Yes, I might be a bit frighteningly pasty for some of you at first. Okay, the light reflected from my white legs could provide the reflection to illuminate a cave, I'm sure. But I'm ready to bare 'em! I'm a Texan, folks. I'm tropical.

There are so many reasons to love the season. So whether you're celebrating a religious holiday this weekend, or observed Passover, or maybe just happened to hold a ceremony for the Vernal Equinox, I think we can all agree spring is a time of reasons to find joy, renewal, and hope. Here's hoping the season finds you refreshed and renewed. Time to get your toes done and whip out the white capri pants! Just don't get any chocolate on them. Those Cadbury Eggs can be messy.

Happy spring!

Stranger than Fiction: This Week in News

Ah, the weekend. At last! It's been a long week, folks. Winter is persisting in the weather patterns if not on the calendar. You've been working the grind, too busy to relax. Times like these call for what I like to call a mommy time-out, but they're really not restricted to gender. Sometimes, everyone needs to disappear into the bathroom for 45 minutes with a trashy magazine and a glass of wine in the interest of self care. And on that note, I bring you a cheat sheet of the week's most interesting stories you'll be able to finish before the kids start wiggling their fingers under the crack in the door. Pour that glass of pinot. I give you the week in review!

Our president was in the news this week, if you missed it. It was hard out there for a prez, it turns out. First, he's captured on a hot mike admitting he's happy to get away from that conclave of clowns we call Congress. Who can blame the man? None of us like 'em. He's just not allowed to say so. Bad Obama. But off our Commander in Chief jets to Israel, and the populace is warned as a whole not to expect anything. Hm. I guess underpromising and overdelivering is a thing. But still.

But that wasn't it for Mr. Obama. He must have been having a down day on his biorythm chart or something, because next his limo breaks down in the streets of Israel. Are you kidding me? The leader of the free world even drives a lemon? Was this an American made car? Quelle embarrassment! And then he's on to his speech where he's heckled. Even if you're not a fan, you've got to admit Obama had a tough week. At least no one threw a shoe. But the capper for Obama had to be being featured as the devil in the History Channel's series The Bible:



Wow. Roma Downey pulls no punches. However, I can forgive. Remember when Game of Thrones put Dubya's head on a pike?



Oh, Hollyweird. I love you.

Republicans also had their bonehead moments this week: New Jersey Governor Chris Christie expressed that he was "unsure" regarding the efficacy of what is called "conversion therapy," the practice of using counseling to "change" someone from gay to not gay. Which is ridiculous. Clinically speaking, of course. And star of the Republican Conservative Political Action Conference this week was Sarah Palin's Big Gulp. Anyone else looking forward to the return of the Grand Old Party?

No matter how tough your week, guess things could be worse in perspective: You could be Lindsay Lohan, she of the 50 plus arrests for partaying. Lindsay Lohan had another week of, well, being Lindsay Lohan, in the meanwhile. Back to rehab! Or Katy Perry, who got dumped (again!) by John Mayer. Or you could be poor pregnant Kim Kardashian, who is not having a glamorous pregnancy (shocking! Some of us were not "cute pregnant." I could have told Kim what would happen with that behind of hers. But I digress).

Yes, poor Kim Kardashian is having trouble dressing for pregnancy. She looks so uncomfortable in all those tight peplums and skirts. I hope it's not Kanye keeping her out of her rightful pregnancy mu-mus. Embrace the belly, lady. You'll be relieved to know Kim has hired Jennifer Lopez's stylists to help dress her for pregnancy after the internet did THIS to her:



This shouldn't happen even to a Kardashian. But if she names that baby "North," as rumors are suggesting? I may find it more difficult to defend her. North West. I. Just. Can't.

In happier news, Twilight fans (and admit it, TwiMoms, we know you're out there). Kirsten Stewart and Robert Pattinson seem to have moved past their troubles and have reunited! SQUEE! And in other romance news, Patrick Stewart, known fondly as Captain Picard by Trekkies everywhere, has found love: the 72 year old married his 35 year old girlfriend this week. Because he could. And had the wedding officiated by Gandalf himself (actor Ian McKellan). You go, Picard. Make it so.

Also this week, Twitter turned seven. Thank god I now can keep up every day with what Lady Gaga had for lunch. Happy birthday, Twitter. Curse your addictive nature and steady stream of entertainment and information. But never leave me.

Yep, it was a long week in wacky. But here's my favorite story of the week: the construction of an Equality Center across the street from controversial Westborough Baptist Church. Feast your eyes on the building:



Magnificent. And a nice bit of good news. They're here. They're queer. And they're beautiful! Here's to activists for the powers of good.

And just like that, you're all caught up with my news of the weird for the week. You can count on me for rounding up the best for your limited self-care moments. Time's up, though. Time to come out of wherever you're hiding to read this. Close up your tablet, finish that glass of wine: guilty pleasures are fleeting. But be assured there will be more to come next week. Because truth really is stranger than fiction and a lot more entertaining. You can't make this stuff up.

Stress Busting: Momma Style

With three kids under the age of nine, a Hubs, and two jobs, there is plenty in life to stress me out if I let it. And I know you're with me, dear reader: stress is the way of the world these days. We're all running the proverbial rat race at full speed, and life can be like a gallon of milk in a shot glass if I let it. It got me to thinking: there's gonna have to be some places where my give-a-damn just won't apply if I plan to stay sane. In this vein, here's five examples of situations and events I hereby proclaim I refuse to stress about:

My dirty house. Let's face it. I've got three kids aged nine, seven, and five. A clean house is a pipe dream for the next ten years. I might as well strip the living room down to concrete with a drain in the middle of the floor so I can just hose the whole thing down. My kitchen floor is, indeed, crunchy. Your elbows may or may not stick to my kitchen table.

But I'm over it. Life is too short, in my humble opinion, to lose sleep over whether or not there are ground Goldfish in my carpet. I assure you I do not know nor have any desire to know what exactly is hidden under the cushions of my couch. But one day, when my little ones are big and grown and gone, I will miss the many Legos I step on. I will remember the days of voluminous laundry and a gazillion muddy footprints and long for them. Well, maybe.

Exercise time. See above: running is part of the reason my house is such a disaster. I often choose to work out instead of pushing a broom or a dust rag. But taking that time to run is something I refuse to give up, feel badly about, or worry about what's not getting done instead while I'm about it. Running keeps me from strangling people. The time is well spent. It makes me a better mother, a healthier person, and gives me the energy to deal with the three ring circus of a life of which I am ringmaster. Other tasks can wait. Trust me. You wouldn't like me if I didn't exercise.

Getting old. Let's face it. I'm forty-mumble. I know I live in a city that prizes its smooth brows and pert ta-tas. Oh, Dallas. You're so cute, wanting to be Los Angeles. But all the Miss Me jeans and M.A.C. makeup in the world ain't gonna make me 25 again. There'll be no Botox for this puss. I've earned every wrinkle and line. I may have to kick 'em out of the way, but these boobs have fed three babies: pretty impressive to be the dairy business as long as I was. So I'll take my sags, lumps, and folds where they come. Every scar tells a story of my life, and I wouldn't go back and change a thing.

My guilty pleasures. Oh, go ahead and post on Facebook that you're diligently finishing up your Eckhart Tolle novel. We know the truth: you're convalesed in your bathroom with a glass of wine and Us magazine just like me. I know so many degreed engineers and professionals who have taste in television like a Teen Mom but refuse to own it. Not me! I refuse to apologize for my love of People, The Young and the Restless, and the Twilight franchise, all better paired with a cheap chardonnay. Bliss. There's a time and a place to use your brain, but I refuse to apologize for enjoying switching if off for periods of time. Here's to shaving a few points off the old IQ every now and then.

My occasionally craptacular diet. On the whole, I can take care of myself. But every now and then, usually during some seriously tense moments every 28 days (apologizes, gentlemen), there must be terrible, terrible food consumed. A nasty cheeseburger with slabs of breath-withering onion. Movie theater popcorn with extra butter. A chili dog, God help me. It's true confession time: sometimes nothing says a hug for your belly like fourteen double stuffed Oreos. Don't get me wrong: these aren't choices I make most days of the week, but if I crave cheese enchiladas for enough days? Nothing says congratulations for surviving another weekend with the kids like a carb coma.

So here's to letting go every now and then. I may not be perfect. My house may or may not be condemned by the city. I may not return your voicemail, email, or message as quickly as I like because I've spent the time out running. I may pick April's edition of In Style magazine to peruse instead of Faulkner, all the while polishing off a box of Thin Mints. But I'm sane, ladies and gentlemen. As long as you don't ask my husband, that is. Here's to imperfection and all it's glory. It's called balance. Here's to all things in moderation. Now if you'll excuse me, it's Saturday night. Time for a glass of gloriously cheap wine and an encore screening of this week's episode of Dallas.

Margarita, Por Favor: Family Dinner Out

My first mistake: I didn't check to make sure the place had a liquor license. Because really, if I'm going to take my three children, aged nine, seven, and five into a public place to sit down and consume a meal, I'm assuring you: it's better if I have a margarita. Or three. Yep, me and Hubs decided to make a bold move last weekend: we packed up the whole clan for a dinner out at our local, small town Mexican restaurant. Silly, silly us.

Now, I know what you smug singletons and childless folk are muttering under your breath right now: So what? You went out to eat? That merits a blog entry and/or liquor buzz? Oh, it so does. Because I should have earned a medal for the experience. And any parent of multiple children will tell you the same: dining out with young people is not for the feint of heart. Indeed, it may just be the Ph.D. in parenting. And yes: it's much easier with tequila.

Just making the kids appear less feral is the first part of any family evening out. Mismatched clothes must be replaced. All capes, costumes, and masks must be lovingly separated from the children that would have them as dinner attire. Have you ever eaten a meal while being glared at through the eye-slits of an Iron Man mask? Okay at home, perhaps, but not in public. But separating small boys from their superhero garb can be a tall order.

Hair must be de-ratted and flattened down. Faces must not display remains of the last meal or snot in liquid or solid form. Convincing arguments for not bringing Barbie and the entirety of her wardrobe to the restaurant must be brokered. Matching socks must be acquired. Add half an hour here if your laundry is partially folded. Debates must be made against the wearing of flip-flops in 30 degree weather. After you give up, the right flip flop will never be near the left flip flop. Never.

Several punches and shoves later, we made it into the van (lovingly referred to as the Blazebago) for the brief, five minute drive across town to the restaurant. Time to cue the arguments and tears: no television for a whole five minutes! Calamity! Evidently my children draw their power from the light cast from cathode ray tubes. Without their glow, you would think my children lose power like Superman near a glowing hunk of Kryptonite.

At the restaurant, Hubs wisely picked us a table in the way back. I'm ashamed to say, inside voices were not used as another fight ensued: I WANT TO SIT BY MOMMY. Why, oh, why, do they never want to sit by Daddy? I have three kids, mind you. Not three sides. You can see the inherent problem with the math. There is no winner here, folks. Bribery involving dessert may or may not have played a role in resolving that issue. But like with most traumatic events, I seem to have repressed it.

Next: to the orders! Here is where I learn the devastating news: Lo siento mucho, no vendemos alcohol. Egads! But press on we would. We came to the Mexican restaurant because last week all the children found something on the menu to eat. Same restaurant, next Saturday: and they all want chicken nuggets. LE SIGH. But they can all agree on chips and queso...and I'm standing up serving little bowls of queso when the first, dreaded bathroom call comes.

My children, for some reason unbeknownst and unfathomable to me, are on a mission to deflower every restaurant and retail establishment bathroom in the county of Collin, Texas. How do they time it? I swear, it's like a Rain Man type gift. And by the time my daughter and I return from the facilities, my sons have decided it is dire and time for them to inspect the Gentlemen's. When they return with Hubs, my daughter pipes up in her adorable, oh-so-clear voice, "NOW I HAVE TO POO, MOMMY," which might also help explain why we always get a table near the back and the occasional fish-eye from other diners.

Up and back to the bathroom. Where we sit, she smiling and swinging her darling little feet with her panties pooled around them until she looks up at me and says, "I don't have to poo, Mommy." Back to the table, where she announced she actually DOES have to poo, but insists her father takes her this time. Much discussion ensues about which gender bathroom to enter. In the meanwhile, my sons have applied at least two layers of queso to themselves.

The food arrives. It is too hot. There are tears. There is me blowing on multiple plates of food until I have a head rush that would make Keith Richards proud. Finally, mercifully, there is eating. And some singing and banging of silverware, but yes, there is at last consumption of nutrition. Praise Jesus. I am Captain Shush throughout it all as my children are generally shouters. And then...dessert.

Sopapillas for all! We were given one apiece. Each child had to have theirs cut, sugared, and honeyed. When I didn't eat mine, I thought they were going to go all Lord of the Flies on me trying to decide which one would claim it. I was forced to surgically create three, identical pieces, once again to sugar and honey, then cut into bite size pieces. Johnnie Cochran and Robert Kardashian in their hey could not have arranged a more equitable divisions of assets.

To say I was tired by the time we loaded everybody back up and at end of this expenditure would be to say Lindsay Lohan has just a spot of legal trouble. Holy cats. The lengths to which we parents will strive for family time and a couple of nice memories. Ai yi yi. Don't get me wrong. I love my kids, and one day I'll look back on this and laaaaaugh...but in the meanwhile, do me a favor, eh? When you're at a restaurant near a table full of kids, save me the stink eye. Or maybe just send me over a margarita.

The Care and Feeding of Wives

Hard to believe I'll be married seventeen years in June. Harder still to believe no one's been killed in a splattery homicide. Oh, I kid, I kid. But it takes a special man to hang in there with his lady love over so much time. And from what I hear, men are interested in taking on this particular mission. It's not for lack of wanting to understand the female of the species and create a cozy, intimate partnership with that one special girl.

No, it seems many married men simply express some profound lack on insight into how to make their lady happy, or, indeed, understand what motivates her. I'm told women are mysteries to men. We do bleed for five days in a row without dying, which does make us seems a little magical, but really? There's no big secret to be cyphered. Allow me to be your personal Nancy Drew (outdated references aside. If you're under forty, Google it).

I'm delighted to say: heterosexual married men, today is your day.  A little late for Valentine's Day but good for all year 'round, here's my top four pieces of advice designed to score points with your woman and strengthen your bond:

1. First and always, be her friend. Remember before you fell in love, and you were friends? Don't quit playing together, and most importantly, always have her best interest in heart. Do everything you can think of to be worthy of her love. She's worth it. She's the main stakeholder in you and deserves your focused time and energy.

2. Use your words. Start talking. Talk about what you think. Talk about what you feel. It's damaging to your relationship to withhold. Don't brood. You might find conversation not as painful as you remember. How and when you express yourself can be, believe it or not, learned! Even if you feel you were born with the gift of anti-gab, just like with juggling or headstands, communication may be difficult. But it ain't impossible. Take some notes about how Howard Stern, David Letterman, or any good talk show host makes conversation work.

3. Take a visit into Lady World. Come in! Take your shoes off. Look around. It's pink and pretty in here. It smells good. And most men don't take the time. When women gather, some men stare like we're from some other civilization on the cover of National Geographic. Yes, we use the word "cute" to describe everything from babies to belts.

Nevertheless: buy a Cosmo, Elle, or Glamor and read it cover to cover. You might be surprised how sexy you become when you know this season's top five cutest ways to cover up at the beach. Sit and watch "Say Yes to the Dress" not to watch it, but to watch it with her. It's a portal to common ground.There is a reason we own all those shoes and ponytail holders and know color blocking your clothes is so last season. And it is worth it to you to get to the bottom of it.

4. Be present in the moment when you're with your lady. Participate. When dining out with your wife, it's possible it's not the best time to be reformulating what you would have said to your boss if you had that conversation over. Pay attention! It sounds so simple, and yet, both men and women can have a tendency to tune out a long-term partner. Order and control is not as important as enjoying your wife...or your kids, for that matter.

Marriage and long term love: it's not for the feint of heart, people. But it can be navigated with a lot of fun. A successful one doesn't just happen. But men, if you know a little bit more about the best practices of it, you too can enjoy a long and mostly emotional scar-free love affair. Women. We're not that complicated. We may or may not have an obsession with toliet seat position, true. We all may be a little be crazy to the male of the species. But I think everyone can agree: man, are we definitely worth it.

Slouching Towards Spring

Is it me, fellow Texans, or has this been one of the gloomiest winters ever? It seems like there's been day after day of gray skies. It won't rain; it won't clear up. I'm okay with some precipitation having grown up in the rain forrests of Mississippi. But this overcast-living-in-a-cloud thing that's been going on around here has gotten a little old, can we agree? Is this London? Or Seattle, for the love of all that's holy? Where is that confounded sun?

I don't know about you, but I'm a Southerner. We're a tropical people. Around this time every year, we below the Mason-Dixon line are about done with what we can only label Yankee weather. So what's a Southern boy or girl to do to survive? Here's some ideas to keep from going starkers while we wait for that glowing orb in the sky to return:

I can't speak for the rest of the people of the region, but me? I need me some light, folks. Stat. I'm thisclose to purchasing one of those fake-sun visors the cast of Northern Exposure used to wear. In the meanwhile, I'm following the light like a house cat with a laser pointer. I literally sit in pools of sunlight in my house if I can't get outside. I think I may, indeed, photosynthesize. And I'm about to pull on a parka and have a picnic, I swear, even if it's cloudy and 40 degrees.

And thanks to my seasonally-affected decreased levels of the brain neurotransmitter serotonin, guess who's craving the carbs? Why, oh why are all the warm foods so very fattening? Hot chocolate, clam chowder, chili...no wonder I've put on what I lovingly refer to as my "winter coat." Comfort food: it's a hug for your belly. And guess what, folks? I'm perfectly fine with that. You might as well put a nipple on the giant latte I'm drinking. Here's to meat loaf and crockpot roasts and pretending I will never have to wear a bathing suit again.

There's another thing that makes winter and three months mostly indoors bearable, and it's called Netflix. Are you aware there are four seasons of Sons of Anarchy available to watch back to back? That you can indeed catch up on the entirety of the likes of Breaking Bad or Downton Abbey over a dreary weekend? With all due respect to Benjamin Franklin, Netflix is proof that God loves us and wants to be happy.

Guess what else is an indoor sport? Shopping! No need to bundle up or stretch beforehand. If there were an Olympic gold medal in it, I would possess as many as Michael Phelps. But Target is heated, folks, and filled with so many wonderful shiny things. And speaking as a girl: I love shiny things. Maybe I'll get that sequinned bikini. For when I give up my winter food, natch. And boy does an excellent sale purchase from Kohl's ever warm the cockles.

Yes, and best of all winter is the time to embrace your inner geezer and put on the thermals and the wool socks, don the Snuggie and take to the couch. And if there's a little red wine to sip or a hot toddy at your elbow, I'm not telling. Sometimes warmth comes in a recyclable container, correct? I think Faulkner used to drink hot buttered rum. If I drink it with my glasses on, I'm classy and smart, right? You say right.

So here's the to final push to spring and whatever we Texans have to do to slog through the last bit of this godforsaken season. Before we know it, it'll be time once again to start talking about how to avoid dehydration and heat stroke and we'll be watching local news anchors attempt to bake cookies on the dashboard of a car. Keep warm in the meanwhile, my tender Southerners. Those Northerners do this all the time, and naturally we can't let 'em show us up.

Ladies: Embrace Your Face

Character flaws. Along with our character virtues and like bellybuttons, we've all got 'em. And true confession time? I have a deadly sin problem, and it's name is pride. Okay, well, pride is one I've really perfected, anyway. You know how I know I'm a little vain? I'm writing this to you while wearing a Gladys Kravitz-like mud mask on my face.

I have to apply this mask when the kids are at school because my appearance frightens them while I'm in it. I assure you, I am the sexy. Surely Hubs finds this my most come-hither look. Why bother with the trouble of this facial treatment? Because I'm going to not be middle aged if I do, you see. Were you aware among my many powers is the ability to stop the march of time? And it seems like I'm not the only girl under that particular delusion, either.

Oh, of course I see the madness in the idea that a certain regime will give me Natalie Portman's skin at my age. But Dermalogica and Cellex-C brands would beg to differ, thank you. They promise no less than a time machine. I am a reasonable, grown woman. And yet, the knowledge magic products don't exist simply doesn't keep me from both indulging in and the use of ridiculously priced skin care stuff.

It's so strange: in most areas of my life. I'm not an extravagant person, really. I was raised in Mississippi, and trust me: not much money circulating around there, necessarily. There was not money for extravagance. And in many ways, I am both a frugal and sane person as a result. But when it comes to skin care products? I am officially a crazy person.

It is not without some shame I admit to you: I would likely sell my first born in order to continue the use of my current skin care products and routine. I have cut many, many corners as a primarily stay-at-home mom. I haven't bought an on-brand tampon since 2003. And I say I admit this with shame because I, as a professional and logically, know there's a limit to what serums and washes can do to stave off time. But damned if I'm haven't been going into hock trying.

What is wrong with me? I swear, it's pathological. Pre-wash. Wash. Tone. Eye gel. Moisturizer. Sunscreen. Neck cream, as I am officially my grandmother. Masks. Peels. I'm still wearing maternity underwear when my oldest is six because I refuse to buy new underwear. But by God I'm gonna fork out big bucks for any skin care product that promises to shrink my dinner-plate sized pores back into something more normal.

Guys. I have advanced college degrees. I have healthy self-esteem. But I also seem to have an addiction to facial products from which a twelve-step program couldn't keep me clean. And as I write this to you as I simultaneously tighten my aforementioned gargantuan pores, I contemplate what drives me and so many women I know to, let's face it, waste a ton of money of stuff for a feeling we can't buy.

So it occurs to me as I scour off my facial mask and return to the keyboard that I, like many women, despite our obvious evolution as a female gender, still have growing to do when it comes to realizing where our worth comes from. I am not my pores. And that you don't become less attractive as you age. No expensive wash or treatment will, in the end, really make that much of a difference. Time to channel our inner David Bowie: time to turn and face the change.

Have you SEEN Helen Mirren, Meryl Streep, Catherine Zeta Jones? Advancing age does not preclude hotness, my sisters. Time for an intervention. Here's to killing the proverbial two birds with one stone: let's cut down on consumerism, spend less, and shrink our carbon footprint...all at the same time dealing a blow to the nonsense message you're getting that you have to look twenty when you're forty. Or that there's actually some product you can buy to accomplish the reversal of time. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to check into the cost of some good old fashioned Ivory Soap and baby lotion.

In Sickness

Holy cow, what a week. Just when you think you have the Ph.D in parenting, there's always another phase to the course work. I know I'm not alone in this particular learning curve, though, because my pharmacist, otherwise known as my new best friend, has told me so. It's official: whether it's the flu, the norovirus, or a nasty stomach bug, every kid in the county is sick. And this week? It was our turn to wrestle with some Africanized virus that nearly took the family down. Yep: this was the week sickness nearly took down the Counce house.

Oh, you just think I'm exaggerating! But no...it was truly touch and go this week. Part of the problem was that Hubs went down with it first. It takes a lot to stagger Hubs, but whatever particular respiratory slice of hell this disease was certainly did it. They don't include "night sweats" in the wedding vows, folks, but they should. Shudder. I haven't allowed him to so much as break a five foot imaginary barrier around me all week. If I'd a had a SARS mask, I would have broken that sucker out days ago.

And what is it about men and doctors? His arm could be dangling by a tendon, and the average man will glance over at it and murmur something about duct tape being good for almost any repair. Not me. I'm a giant woman-baby. One degree of fever, a hint of discomfort, and I'm making a nuisance of myself to my PCP. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, or in this particular case, the appropriate antibiotics.

So about day three of Hubs' unmedicated misery, the inevitable: my five year old daughter got quiet and still. And if you know anything about my five year old daughter, there is no more dangerous time than when she is quiet and still. She is either plotting world domination or has a fever. This time, it was no murderous plot. But it was a nasty, nasty virus. Let the disease games begin. The quiet and still was soon replaced with nuclear-strength whining and weeping.

And begin the games certainly did: for three days, Hubs and daughter were laid low together. Who knew so much fluid could come out of such a little person? And forget sleep. A sore throat did not seem to deter my darling girl from screaming for her parents in the middle of the night every couple hours. Hours were spent half-dozing, half-upright on the sofa. Sheets practically had to be boiled.

And the medicine drama! Please tell me I am not alone in having to pin my kid to the floor with my knees on their shoulders in order to administer what must be medicine mostly made of sugar. I cannot the only parent who brings back a bloody stump trying to wipe raw noses. Antibiotics. Fever reducers. Mucus looseners. Throat sprays. It was a march of pharmaceuticals of which Michael Jackson would have been proud. And my daughter wasn't having a one of them without a slug fest.

Doctor's offices. Missed school and work. And a My Little Pony marathon played out over the week that I am certain has shaved a dozen IQ points off me. Tantrums. Whining. Yards and yards of snotty Kleenex. Steamy baths. I have been Nurse Ratched, transformed to Nurse Wretched by miserable family members. It turns out the old saying is true: familiarity breeds contempt. And by the end of this week, I have been with these patients way too much.

So here's to the Earth turning on its axis, time passing, and the end of this horrid cold and flu season. And here's to every parent out there dealing with sick kids or being sick yourself. It takes everything you have. I have no patience for it. And no more patience for the patients. So those of us who so far seem to have escaped getting sick, let's toast to our health, wash our hands, and invest in some vitatmin C or something. Because I've had enough of playing nursemaid to last me the rest of the year. Now you'll have to pardon me. I'm off to look into laminating my children. Here's to health.

Sing Loudly and Badly

The presidential inauguration this week! Did you catch the festivites? What fun! Okay, so if you're more of a right-winger, it might not have been your kind of party. I get that. But I enjoy a good celebration as much as the next girl, and when it comes to shindigs, it doesn't really get more exciting than the parades and balls and patriotism. So despite who's getting sworn in, I've always liked watching the presidential inauguration festivities. Not to mention Michelle's bangs! Swoon! If they don't have their own Twitter account by now, it's only a matter of time.

And the formal balls! President Obama looking oh-so Downtown Abbey in his white tie. Michelle and her arms rocking a red dress...move over, Nancy Reagan! Malia and Sasha adorably taking photos. Jill Biden dancing with Joe! The parade! Oh, there was something for everyone; even the most hardened Tea Partier must have enjoyed the twenty-one gun salute.

And since our president is such a cool cat, the parties and guests were particularly ogle-worthy. Jennifer Hudson looked so lovely crooning to the First Couple as they had the first dance of the evening. What talent! I wish I had her size six figure and her Weight Watchers dollars, too. But I digress. Jennifer Hudson was only one of several A-list entertainers on the docket that day, too. Although I thoroughly missed Aretha Franklin and her hat.

There was something for everyone. James Taylor crooned for the white baby boomers. That man is amazing. He's clean now, but he took enough heroin in his lifetime to take down a small village yet still is smooth as butter onstage in the cold, hitting those "fruited plains" notes effortlessly. He's seen fire, and he's seen rain. Seriously, what kind of iron-clad DNA is this man in possession of?

Then there was fellow Texan Kelly Clarkson. Woo hoo! Did that girl belt it out! Chuck Shumer looked a little afraid of her as he returned to the podium when she was done singing. "Wow!" Shumer exclaimed, and he was right: it was cold, crowded, and for the lousy acoustics, sister truly did wear it out. My country 'tis of thee indeed!

And then President Obama opened for Beyonce, which was weird enough in itself. She "sang" the Star Spangled Banner, even gaining additional audience praise when she whipped out her earpiece mid-song and kept her perfect pitch. I use quotation marks around "sang," of course, because of the controversy of which we are all now very well aware: Lip-Syncgate. Followed by an epidemic of eyerolls.

Cue the sturm und drang for a nation of people with clearly not enough to worry about: now everyone's got their proverbial dainties in a bunch because Beyonce didn't sing live. Aside: if you are emotionally involved in whether or not Beyonce lip-synched for Barack, you clearly need a hobby or a cause. So why the hubbub, bub?

Perhaps the real controversy is about authenticity. Displaying confidence in one's abilities. James Taylor and Kelly Clarkson took their chances with the poor acoustics, the cold weather, and the huge crowd. Bey took the safer road by taping her performance. I get it; the stakes were high, and she wanted to cover her bases.

 Beyonce is one of the best at what she does, but Americans value authenticity. She baited and switched us, and no one likes feeling duped. We'd rather you sing loudly and badly and own it. We like individuals who take risks, who don't play it safely, and have confidence. As long as you can mea culpa, we'll give you chance after chance.

So here's to being our most authentic selves, as messy and flawed as we can be. Let your freak flag fly. Do your thing fearlessly. Here's to taking risks, having confidence in our gifts and abilities, and to singing loudly and making mistakes. It's not only okay to be human, it kind of rocks. So what if we come off more like Roseanne tackling the national anthem at a major league baseball game? She lived to tell the tale. And so will we. Here's to singing loudly and authentically. Like they taught us on Sesame Street: doesn't matter if it's not good enough for anyone else to hear. Just sing a song.

Just Keep Swimming

It's January 19, people! Do you know where your New Year's Resolutions are? Scientists say it's around 21 days that repeating a behavior makes it a habit. We're just about there. What did you choose this year? Quit smoking? Do more charity work? Or like me, did you just resolve to take off that pesky five pounds of egg nog and sugar cookies from December? I don't know about you, but I gain weight when I breathe in deeply around food. And it takes a will of iron to take weight off. So I've hit 2013 armed with a new Jillian Michaels work out video and a freezer full of Lean Cuisines.

To my deepest chagrin, I cannot yet report success in my weight loss endeavors despite some considerable effort. Yeppers, I'm officially struggling. Plateau city. I'm working out, I'm restricting food...and yet? Nada. The numbers on the scale refuse to budge. It's scientifically impossible, I tell you, but there it is. Magically, my body is holding on to what I lovingly like to call my "winter coat" with a vengeance.

I was in such denial about my holiday padding that I actually bought a second scale in belief the first one must truly be lying to me. Alas, now they work in tandem to make me cry first thing in the morning when I do my obligatory weigh-in. There is no mistake. All scales are in agreement, and I cannot deny: I am chubbier than I was in the majority of 2012. Not by a lot, mind you. But enough to bother me.

And I have been a good, good girl, y'all, this January. I have been a resolutions poster girl. You would not believe the delicacies I've turned down lately in my quest for a more narrow behind. There was that staff breakfast with the doughnuts, muffins, and lovely egg and cheese casserole. Bread pudding, guys. There was BREAD PUDDING and I said no. No small feat for a girl of Cajun ancestry.

And there was that lovely Square Off remote we shot at the resplendent Henry's of Plano, home of gorgonzola-smothered fries and comped creme brulee for desert. Did I bend? NO! Who ate grilled salmon and asparagus and demurred from deep fried doughnut holes, all the while screaming internally from the effort? THIS CHICK. I'm telling you, if desire burned calories, I would have dropped a dress size at that lunch.

But am I rewarded on my nemesis, that bitch-goddess I call the scale? No! Despite this month's application of what I call extreme austerity measures, that needle refuses to move. I think I quite literally banged my head on the wall this morning after I weighed in. How? How is it possible? More calories burned than taken in...it's just mathematically impossible! Related: ARGLE BARGLE.

It's so frustrating to behave yourself and have few results. But in the interest of my sanity, here's what I'm telling myself about all this eating well and exercising like mad I've been doing:

It's the process, not the product. Being motivated to get to the gym or go running in the cold is hard. Being unhappy and unable to fit in my pants is hard. I need to choose my hard, because at the end of the day, taking care of myself isn't a short term project. It's not like there's an end to diet and exercise even when you're at your goal weight. You don't get to be done.

Self esteem comes from within. A number on a scale doesn't define you or your attractiveness any more than the size tag on your pants. Self esteem is that feeling you get during the stretch after a run or when you complete your first 5K. Resolutions aren't about reaching a size or a number but changing from within and living differently.

Forget arbitrary start dates. So, you blew it. Maybe you did eat your weight in Doritos during the last NFL playoff game. That doesn't mean 2013 is blown. And for me, that means no matter what the calendar says, every day can be New Year's Day at least as far as resolutions are concerned. Every minute is a new minute in which I can make decisions that feed my self-esteem as opposed to tearing it down.

Just keep swimming. My favorite character in Finding Nemo is Dory. I like her short term memory loss. It works for her, and we'd probably benefit from forgetting a little more ourselves. And when she doesn't know what else to do? She just keeps swimming. And, taking a page from Dory's book, I will just keeping running...no matter what that damnable scale wants to tell me. It is after all impossible to get nowhere if you refuse to give up.

So wish me well as we head into the latter part of January, 2013. I just know that scale and I are going to come to an understanding here soon. But in the meanwhile, if you see me, don't offer me anything fattening, please. I know clean living will prevail. I send you Godspeed as you tackle your own 2013 resolutions. We'll just try to remember this is the new normal, right? We've picked our hard. Here's to making our resolutions into habits.

Multiple Madness

Yo, parents. Did you survive the winter school break? Holy cow. The situation was dicey around here. Two weeks, mano e mano, with three bored children under the age of nine. Surly, surly children. How did you survive, dear reader? It's true confession time here: I let 'em vegetate. Lay, as they say, like broccoli. Before the end of our school vacation, I am ashamed to admit the depths I sank to as a parent to entertain my hellions lest they run amok.

There were so, so many screens. The children's programming flowed like water. Nutritional rules were relaxed. Whims were indulged. I know, I know. I'm not proud. But desperate times call for desperate measures. When you're in survival mode, you just might sink to cannibalism. And two solid weeks with my babies aged five, seven, and nine? Comparable to an Artic circle plane crash. Anything could happen. And it did.

Yep, I'm here to once again make you feel like parent of the year. Or at least reach out in camaraderie to my other desperate, slacker parents who are simply overwhelmed most of the time. Yes, yes, I chose to have three babies in four years. I really don't have a right to complain. But today I'm talking to the other parents out there who are also outnumbered and reduced to playing zone defense instead of man. We're soldiers, people.

It's hard out there for us with multiple children. And then, there's your "special needs" kids. And I'm afraid I've got a couple. Dyslexia, spectrum emotional stuff. Not to mention the crackers don't fall from the dramatic box, if you know what I mean. They are mine after all. Hilarity ensues.

So special. Case in point: how many of YOU had to carry your seven year old out to the van late to school as he kicked and screamed because he wanted an umbrella we didn't have time to find? Anyone else have to endure daily freak outs over brushing teeth and other basic hygiene activities? How about pulling your children off one another as they slug it out? Good, good times.

SIGH. So bear with me, darlings, because I'm writing what I'm doing. And like a lot of you, I am rearing some children. It is my number one job. And a lot of the time it feels like it is kicking my behind. Who else is chief cook and bottle washer out there?

And a big huzzah to those of you who are raising multiple children while also taking on full time employment. Holy cow, I don't know how you do it. I am also lucky enough to make child rearing and domestic engineering my chief mission in life right now, but with apologies to the army, it's the toughest job you'll ever love. And sometimes, let's be honest, loathe.

Admit it! Intensive parenting is tough. It's repetitive. It's dirty. It's tedious, nay, I'll say it: boring. I'm currently and actively avoiding the daily sweep and mop of the kitchen floor by penning this little missive. I'm writing this today to salute parents everywhere and to the sleep we don't get. A tip of the hat to every one of you who hasn't had an uninterrupted night of sleep for five days due to nightmares and/or puking.

Yes, here's to you, parents. For every homework tear, for every meltdown over tangled hair or clipping nails, for each wardrobe battle and wiped bottom. Here's to all those bodily fluids that come with being a parent, no? They don't tell you about that, folks. So many bodily fluids.

Why do we do it? On account of the love. And the really cushy retirement homes these children will eventually place us in. We knew the job was dangerous when we took it. Well, okay, there may be surprises when you're raising more than two young children at a time. When they handed me that first little bundle there in the hospital, I truly had no idea what was to come. But I'm here to remind you it's okay to be imperfect in this child-rearing thing. In fact, it's to be expected an embraced.

Don't despair the condition of your once clean and organized home! One day, we will have done our jobs with these little people. We will, egad, probably miss the chaos and the hand prints and the occasional nuclear-level skirmish. But what we get to take advantage of for the rest of their lives and ours? The love. There will always be lots of that. I'm thinking: in the end? This insanity just might be totally worth it.

What Should Happen: The 2013 Edition

2013! New year, new starts, new attitudes. I like the feeling of a clean slate, don't you? I have some definite ideas about how this new year can show 2012 how it's supposed to be done, too. I was kind of glad to see 2012 end. In between hurricanes, elections, shootings, the Mayan apocalypse, fiscal cliffs and reality TV, it was a bit of a rough ride there. So I've taken it upon myself to make a list of how 2013 can kick 2012's behind. Here's some things that should happen, in my humble opinion, this year:

They're here. They're queer. And that's awesome. It's time for America to embrace the next civil rights movement. Homophobia is so 1880s. Time for America to embrace the rainbow. No one's getting a toaster for recruiting. Your heterosexual lifestyle is safe, truly. You can't convince me gays present the threat to heterosexual marriage that Kim Kardashian does. I'm not gay, but I am totally supportive of each of our citizens having a right to marry and all the legal goodies that go with that. 2013 should be the year when America starts spreading the love...and the legal rights. Love is a good thing, folks. We need more of it.

The stigma of mental health care should go away. Want to curb gun violence in America? Let's make a mental care checkup as innocuous as a physical care check up. Like your body, if you don't take hygiene into account, you'll be at risk for poor health. Everyone, everyone struggles. You wouldn't break your arm and put a bandaid on it. Let's make 2013 the year we all connect with someone to talk with if we struggle. No one should have it held against them that they took care of themselves. No one looks sideways at you for a well check for your body. News flash: your psyche is part of your body. You don't carry it in a shopping bag. Tend to it.


Acrimony should go out of style. This Us and Them politics we showcased for the 2012 election season was seriously not attractive. On both side of the political argument, I saw heinies being worn as hats way too often. Yeah, yeah, yeah...easy for me to say, I suppose, when my politics seem to be more popular. But it's a circular process, people. Notice: Bush. Clinton. Bush. Obama. Trust me. Let's make a deal, shall we? I'll try to keep from throwing shade when your guy's in power. Grin and bear it until 2016. Times are always a'changing.

Redneck TV should go away. I mean, really. Reality TV was pernicious enough when it focused on the uber-rich Housewives of Various Cities and, god help us, the Kardashian circus. But at least that reality featured some blingy excess to enjoy. But this new trend: Duck Dynasty? Moonshiners? Or MTV's Buckwild, which is a cringeworthy Honey Boo Boo meets Jersey Shore? We're better than this, America. I know we are. There's an antidote for this pablum, and it's called the "off" button. Or a nice viewing of Nova. Related:

We need a better hobby than celebrity watching.  I know, I know. The siren call of Us magazine is strong. But balance is the key. They're called "books," y'all. Let's look into them. Can we all make an agreement to never speak the smush name "Kimye" ever, ever again? I mean, I think we can all survive without knowing what's in Beyonce's purse, right? I shudder to think that when I'm retirement age,  Blue Ivy Carter, Willow Smith, and Jessica Simpson's children might hold elected office if we continue at this rate.

Grown ups should act like grown ups. It's children who are "me first" people, y'all. It's a toddler who grabs what he can for himself without thinking of others. I'm getting a little weary of you charging in front of me in the grocery line, wearing your heinie as a hat in traffic, listening to you be rude to waitstaff or cashiers. 2013 is your year for personal growth. I don't want to hear about any politicians telling each other to perform, well, acts that are physically impossible to perform in the halls of congress. We're adults, people. Let's act like them. And finally:

Let's keep random acts of kindness a thing. After the Newton shooting, I was touched to my core by the outreach of kindness to the Connecticut town from all over the world. For a little while, everyone was a little nicer to one another. I heard local stories about people committing random acts of kindness everywhere: compelled to pay for the coffee of the guy behind you in line, offers of help, and generosity galore. Here's to continuing this trend in 2013. Smile at a stranger. Let that guy merge in, for the love of Mike. Allow the guy with fewer items to go ahead of you in line. You'll be glad you did.

Here's to an fantastic new year for our country and American culture! These are only a few ideas for how 2013 can be our best yet, dear reader. It doesn't have to suck. 2012 was a trial at times for us as a nation and a people. Here's to making 2013 a little more awesome.

The New Year of Your Choice

Imma need someone to explain myself to me, really. I'm throwing a New Year's Eve party, and it's going to be epic. Oh, no, not in that drink-to-hallucination and wear the lampshade kind of sense. It's just that I'm lucky enough to ring in the new year with some very old (not elderly, long term) and dear friends. A lot of them. A lot of them that have bottomless children. We're talking two full days of eating, drinking, and gratuitous merrymaking that's gonna require lots of fun fuel. Folks, how to feed the locusts? I'm getting a little breathless.

I'm just one person! Don't get me wrong. Man, am I excited to fete BFF. She and I have been tight since the days of neon clothing and Duran Duran. But I digress. Because in the meanwhile, she's married a big dude and had two hulking children. And unlike the Counce offspring, they ain't picky about what they consume. I don't know how she did it, but those kids love veggies. And fruit. And...well, pretty much anything that won't bite back first. I am in charge of feeding these people for two days.

The other couple we're inviting for the New Year's Eve party  has three teenagers. There is no metaphor that does justice to the amount of food these young adults can put back. Again: I could not love these people more. It gives me great pleasure to ply them with food. But I'm going to need one of those Home Depot carts at Target in order to get all the food swag I need home. And perhaps some sherpas. Man, does this Carol Brady need an Alice.

But I'm so in. I need a spreadsheet and a Ph.D to plan for the next several days, but Momma always did say I was hardheaded. Who can get up at 3 a.m. to turn on a crockpot? I can! But we're going to have a brisket that hopefully could feed a small African nation for a week. Four breakfasts. Four dinners. Three lunches. Good thing I own stock in my grocery store.

So why do I do it? You very well may ask. Because, dear reader, in the end? I love it. I love to host. I love a house full of laughter and company. I love to stuff people I love with fine, homemade food. It makes me happy to induce carb comas to those I hold most dear. Food is a big part of my family tradition. I mean, what's New Year's Day without Good Luck Jambalaya made with black eyed peas? You simply can't risk a bad 2012 all because you didn't get your black eyed peas, people! Priorities!

So in the end, I may dither and flap over going to lengths to entertain my dear ones. But I know first: I choose this. I choose to surround myself with my darling family and friends and I chose the admittedly challenging menu. I could scale back. We could get some Kentucky Fried, and my friends would love me and our party just the same. I choose the hustle and the bustle; I arranged it.

Eat, drink, and be merry! There's no more appropriate time for said than New Year's Eve. I will not complain about my Homeric grocery store journeys. I will not lament the time and care preparation will take in my making merry. I'm just grateful to have so many loved ones, so much love, at this holiday time. It's ridiculous what an American princess I am. So spoiled.

So friends, eat McDonald's off a paper plate. Or prepare the most lavish New Year's Eve party you ever had and drink Cristal. But know you've chosen the way you want it, and enjoy. Count your blessings as we welcome in 2013. I'm so grateful to have the means to stuff my friends with a ridiculous amount of food and drink. So grateful they're taking the long ride here with their kids and a Boston terrier in a small car, just to eyeball me and my little brood.

I wish you a happy New Year and a fun New Year's Eve, whether you're in sequins and heels or your bathrobe, whether with twenty people at a rowdy club or with just yourself and Ryan Seacrest. However you've arranged it, my wish for you is to find the joy and positives associated with the choices you've made and choices that bring you serenity and moments of great joy in 2013. Now, if you don't mind, you'll have to excuse me. I've got a grocery run to make.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

How's it going, Fat Man? How's tricks? This week is your big scene! Everyone outside the North Pole is so jonesing for your arrival. I hope you're on schedule. Fitting all those flat screens in the sleigh? Got me an iPad? I know you and the Mrs. are super busy this time of year keeping elves in line, grooming reindeer, watching the weather forecasts and in general bending the laws of physics and time. I don't mean to hassle you. But since you're in the business, I thought I'd drop you a line.

Because I've been giving some thought to what I want on my Christmas list this year, and I need your help. I could certainly use some of your Christmas magic if not a full-on Christmas miracle to make my Christmas dreams come true. It's not that what I want is expensive. Well, okay, the iPad is outrageously high. But material objects are not so much at the top of my list this year.

No, Santa, instead I need mental gifts to survive two weeks home with my family and the holiday season in general. Don't get me wrong! I love my spouse and children. When they're not actively trying to commit crimes. You think I exaggerate. But have you seen their act in that magic snowball of yours? The threat of the naughty list seems negligible. Alas, my children fear nothing, not even a childhood icon of your considerable weight. No pun or offense intended.

And I love the holidays! Christmas Eve, in particular, still feels magical to this old broad: like love is in the air, and no problem is too big to be solved by Christmas magic. I still feel the romance. I did grow up with some great Christmas specials and movies that may or may not have convinced me miracles can happen before end credits. But in spite of my natural affection for all things Christmas,  I still must say keeping the old goodwill intact while wrestling other shoppers and the traffic? Bah. Humbug. 

So Santa, send me some patience. Patience to make it through this school break. Make board games and children's programming less torturous. Intervene in battles over game controllers, computer time, and who called whom what. Inspire my children to change out of pajamas happily and quickly and in to clothing that doesn't make them look feral. Send some Christmas magic that returns shoes to their proper resting place so I am less likely to lose my life tripping over them. If you can re-animate Frosty, surely you can motivate my offspring to get off the couch.

Yes, Santa, this year I ask for fortitude, as I'm unlikely to get what I'd really like for Christmas: a chef, a team of muscle-bound nannies, and a housekeeping service. Related: if Hubs gets me any type of cleaning implement at all this year, that sucker better be diamond-encrusted. But I digress. Your gift to me, Santa, will be in my refusal to throttle the first one that says "I'm bored!" Christmas afternoon.

Get me through the cooking. The scrubbing. The hosting. The intense sibling rivalry as familarity breeds contempt. All with a giant cheese-eating grin on my face no matter how many times the dishwasher needs to be unloaded or my golden retriever's feet need to be cleaned before she can come in the house. No matter how many empty milk cartons Hubs abandons on the counter.

Peace on earth! Goodwill to men! It's not just a phrase from a Christmas carol, Santa. And I gots to get me some. It's a tall order, Santa, and I know it. But I've seen bigger Christmas miracles. And if anyone can bring the Christmas magic, it's you, Kringle. I'm convinced with your Christmas mojo, I can sail through the Yuletide with the best attitude yet. 

Peace on earth! Goodwill towards men, my children, and the gum-snapping, impossibly bored cashier with the pink hair and eyebrow ring who moves like she's on Quaaludes. Let nothing me dismay, including the elbow in the ribs from that lady who just has to get to that on-sale ceramic Santa before I do. Make me tender and mild to that driver who's tailgating me...with reindeer antlers on his car.

Thanks for looking into my Christmas list, Santa, even if what I crave doesn't come in boxes or bags. Peace on Earth? Hell, I'll take peace in my living room first. But we've all got to start somewhere, right? And I know I can count on you, Santa. Here's to a New Year featuring clean, well-behaved children, a clean house that stays that way, and goodwill towards siblings. See you Christmas Eve, Santa. As always, there's cookies and milk in it for you. Thanks in advance.

Love,
Eliska




 

Leaps of Faith

Ever do something you're incredibly excited about that at the same time scares the hell out of you? Set a goal for yourself that seems almost impossible but at the same time totally doable? Strike out to achieve, build, or create something at a risk to yourself? Even when you didn't completely understand what was pushing you to expand your boundaries?

Think about it. Did you train for a race? Interview for that job? Quit that job? Put down that deposit on that Harley Davidson? Did you say yes, or did you say no when the universe gave you the opening to make a big change? Is the window still open? Do you still dream? Or does fear almost imperceptibly hold you back from taking up a challenge?

Man, do I dream. And on that note, I've been making some plans that thrill me...and at the same time scare the poo out of me. What am I thinking? I've got a house full of kids and plenty to occupy me. But ever since I decided being a counselor would be a good idea, I also believed in my community having access to free mental health care.

So I decided to wander over to Community Lifeline Center (check us out at communitylifeline.org) to see if they might need a mental health gun-for-hire. Turns out they think I can not only think I can counsel, but that I can run a whole community counseling center for them. Insert spit take here!

Am I on crack that I would take this on? Evidently I am certifiable, because I've not only brought on some lovely helpers but we're plotting to find you and give you free counseling if you live in Collin County. I, the electronically challenged. I, the harried mother of three. I, the clearly crazed.

But I, like you, have a calling. What is the Source daring you to do? What would you do if money and resources were not an issue? What do you do a little better than other people do, get lost in the moment doing it? Can you make it a gift to the world? Do you dare?

I may be making a huge mistake. I may be biting off more than I can chew. Can I really direct a mental health initiative for the county? Who the hell do I think I am?

Hey. Maybe I can't pull this off. Maybe it's a mistake. But it's not feeling that way. It's feeling like the Universe is lining up for something good to happen. All I know is I've been putting this dream out there in the form of energy for years, and here's my counseling building for the community.

So, onward and upward. I'll take it a day at a time. When there's a knot, I'll get people to help me. Especially when it comes to electronic records which scare me most of all. But I digress. I truly believe as long as I'm working to give my Source-given talents to the world, I will be guided in the right direction. But it's up to me not to give an inch to fear, to answer the call, to take the risk.

So what about you? Who the hell are you? What's presenting itself to you? What's a risk you could take to give your gift an airing? Can you step out of our comfort zone in order to make your gifts count in the world? I have to confess, it's breathtaking sometimes. It's also terrifying and some work for you. But I'd argue it's why we're here.

So let's hold hands and jump off a cliff together, shall we? Here's what author Martha Beck had to say about this:

"Some  cartoon characters whip out hankies, improvise parachutes, and float daintily to Earth. Others crash-land and pop up only slightly woozy. The more leaps of faith you take, the more you'll find your own hankies: ways of solving problems when they appear. When you crash, you'll keep getting better at the pop-up. You'll live through every leap except the big one at the end. And even if you never leap, you'll die anyway."

So this kind of thinking leads me to the door of a community service agency, where I'm being called to adventure. Fear makes bad decisions anyway. Join me and take a leap of faith. You just might be looking at a dream come true.  If the call keeps coming? Answer it.

The Great Santa Caper

I'm getting nervous, y'all. It seems my nine year old is, age appropriately, starting to be suspicious of the Santa thing. He's no dummy, and it turns out he's kind of on to us. He's got hardened criminals for friends as elementary school, evidently, who are jaded. They've left Santa behind already, and they're talking to him. Now, he is becoming a skeptic. Asking questions. And he, in fact, has told me he will be no less than brokenhearted (his words! Egad!) if it turns out his parents actually engaged in years of subterfuge and what must only add up in his little head to no less than felony identity theft and betrayal: lying about leaving presents instead of the Big Guy. The parental stakes are high.

Twice, my son has mentioned it! The depths to which he will feel pain if Dad and I are the ones leaving the gifts under the tree. We were safe for awhile after we bought him his hand-held gaming system for awhile. He told us he knew Santa was real after getting his Nintendo a year ago because and according to him: "You're way too poor to buy me a Nintendo!" But this year, I can tell the school peers have been bending his ear a bit about Saint Nick and his faith has been tested.

And it's time; the average age kids find out Santa's presents come from mom and dad is actually age seven. So we've squeezed a good bit of magic out of the Fat Man for my oldest boy. But he's got two younger siblings, seven and five, for whom we'd like to make the magic last a bit longer. So we're juking in a Yuletide minefield over here, folks. We can't afford a misstep that blows the experience up for everyone. A meltdown must be avoided.

He wants to know how Santa bends the laws of physics. He's curious about all those "Santa's helpers" dressed up as Santa and exactly how these grownups are in league with the Head Elf. He's especially curious why Santa would be limited in his electronics availability. He's starting to notice toys are not stamped "Made At the North Pole." And that the UPS driver seems to keep delivering packages to me that quickly disappear. But he doesn't want to give Santa, or being a kid, up just yet. 

Because my oldest, also known as Borg Designation 1 of 3, is a little different from boys his age. He's still living a rich fantasy life; he's a dreamer, a softie. He just might be one of those kids who has some trouble if Santa is yanked out from behind the curtain in a sudden kind of way. And after trolling the internet researching, as is wont to happen, I've not been encouraged by what I've read about how Hubs and I should have been handling Santa.

Evidently, and according the interwebs, by perpetuating the Santa myth to my kids I make them question the existence of God, turn them into materialistic takers, ruin the trust between us, and compromise own morality. I've learned my true motive in being Santa is to bribe my kids into good behavior. Silly me! Even Brad Pitt claims to have been emotionally scarred by the dawning of enlightenment where Santa was concerned. Although he seems to have turned out okay. And with his kind of money, I'm sure Christmas is every day for his pack of kids. But I digress.

So has Santa been worth it? Seems to me and looking around, most people I know were raised with some belief in Santa if you have a certain socio-cultural experience. As I recall it happening to me, logic and reason by age nine had me knowing that there was no way Santa was a true entity.

And that fateful day when my dad popped the trunk open to reveal accidentally our suddenly unveiled Christmas bounty and then turned to my brother and me to say, "You knew Santa wasn't real," I was not torn asunder emotionally. I felt mature. Smart and sophisticated. I was among the adult ranks now.

In fact, since our younger sibling was still Santa-aged, we were brought in as honorary adults at Christmas, care-taking the Santa magic for our baby brother. It felt like a right of passage and a responsibility. And Santa still brought surprise gifts for us and was part of our family long after we knew he was a myth along with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.

So, Santa lives on at Chez Counce. Perhaps I've done my children a disservice with all those reindeer-nibbled carrots and cookie crumbs left on the plate, notes from the tooth fairy, and hidden eggs.  But I've decided when asked the Big Question at last by my children regarding Santa's reality, I will channel writer Frank Church who wrote these words on the pages of the New York Sun in his classic 1897 response to eight year old Virginia O'Hanlon's question about whether Santa Claus was real:

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.

Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

So here's to milk-and-cookie-ing Santa for all he's worth. Most of us come out of childhood with minimal scarring about the existence of Santa. And he's a great way to pass down culture and values to our kiddos, too. Let's enjoy him at every age. After all, if worse comes to worst, it's just more grist for my kids' future therapy mills, after all, right?

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.