Category Archives: Holiday Hijinks

Dear Santa, please bring us a gift that really sucks this Christmas

My wife wants a new vacuum for Christmas. Before anyone mounts their “this-is-the-21st-century.-How-could-you-think-of-giving-a-cleaning-appliance-to-your-wife-as-a-Chritmas-gift?” ponies and rides to the sound of the guns, let me explain. She doesn’t normally ask for cleaning equipment for Christmas, and I don’t usually get her such gifts. Cleaning is as non-festive an event in our household as it is in the households of people eons more enlightened than we are.

Vacuuming is different, though. She vacuums every day, if she can manage it. It’s a comfort chore. It’s like certain types of yard work to me. I don’t necessarily look forward to the work, but I can be alone with my thoughts when I’m doing it, and I feel better knowing it gets done on a regular basis.

Our old vacuum has suffered many infirmities. One of the wheels keeps falling off. I tried to fix it with that crazy putty stuff they used to hawk on TV all the time until they convinced my wife to give me some one Christmas. Now, when the wheel comes off, as it does quite often, it leaves crumbs that look like gray, dried Play-Doh.

the wheel keeps coming off

Anyone know if we can extend our Triple-A coverage to our vacuum? We seem to be plagued by “flat” tires.

The hose from the floor unit to the canister leaps free of its connections at random times. This would greatly affect the vacuum’s usefulness, except that it doesn’t really pick up much when the hose is firmly in place. Any lint or crumb that is big enough to be seen with the naked eye has to be carefully hand-fed to the machine. What happens to dirt too small for the naked eye is anybody’s guess. I’d say our vacuum just plain sucks, except it doesn’t, and that’s the problem.

The one thing our vacuum does pick up is cat hair. This is no great accomplishment, considering that anything in the same house with a cat picks up cat hair, regardless of how sincere are its attempts to avoid it.

The hook that the cord wraps around is broken off. We have to wrap the cord around the shoulder and torso of the machine like a bandolier. Add a sombrero and our vacuum might have ridden with Pancho Villa. Whomever it rode with, there can be no doubt that it got shot off its horse a few times.

villa directing battle

“The enemy line is crumbling. Send the vacuums around the flank to mop up. Also, make a note to bring mops to the next battle.” (Image: Wilbur H. Durborough)

 

I would have bought a new vacuum at the asking, but my wife has been too wise to ask for one. She knows I would have picked up another $84.99 model and presented it as if it were the end of her worries for all time. She’s sick of burning through these Fisher Price vacuums, and now she wants a good one. And if you want a good one, you’d better get somebody reliable, like Santa, involved.

vacuum wears his cord like a bandolier

With his bandolier firmly in place, he’s ready to ride. Before he accomplishes any marauding, his horse will throw a shoe and he will limp humbly back to his village to recover.

My wife has been a real trooper, putting up with our shameful vacuum for far too long. I just hope Santa has been watching to see how good she’s been. It’s out of my hands now. All I can do is point out the need and the deservingness. By the way, Santa, if you’re reading this, please consider it a letter to you.

The elf couldn’t make it to the shelf this year; he’s serving a life sentence in the closet

This Elf on the Shelf is becoming quite a widespread Christmas tradition it seems. There’s nothing wrong with that; not all traditions have to be old. I wish the best to all the elves on shelves and those who abide by them.

We have an Elf on the Shelf too, but our elf isn’t on the shelf, and never has been. Our elf has spent his entire three-year sojourn with us securely stuffed into his box, beneath a pile of other heavy boxes. Our elf is sealed in his cardboard tomb, where all puppets susceptible to springing to life at any moment belong.

Our elf was given to us by some kind people who hoped that we would enjoy the tradition as much as their family did. We knew nothing of the tradition, but when we learned that this nosey little troll would be watching all of our comings and goings from his seemingly innocent perch on the mantel, my wife and I shook our heads at each other.

We both imagined a scene like this:

WIFE: I see you set the elf on top of the book case last night.

ME: I didn’t touch any elf.

WIFE: Oh, I guess the boy must have left him there.

ME: The boy can’t reach the top of the book case.

Cue scary music. . .

Elf on shelf marketing

At significant risk to my own safety, I dug the box out of the closet to provide illustration to those who may be unfamiliar with this nefarious plot Christmas tradition.

If there is one thing Hollywood has proven to us, it is that magic little dolls always turn out to be evil. They chase you around and stab you with sharp things until you toss them into the oven for one hour at 450 degrees. And even then, you’ve got a hot mess of evil spirit taking up all your baking space next time you need to roast a turkey.

Of course, we could not tell the generous givers that their gift elf would never see the light of day in our house; that would be rude. So we thanked them like the polite people we are on the surface and proceeded to pile heavy objects onto the lid of that little devil’s coffin.

Elf with breathing hole

If he were never intended to spring to life, why did his creators make sure there was a breathing hole in his holding cell?

Maybe it’s just me. Does anyone else think it’s kind of creepy having a doll follow your children around the house, spying on them? When I was a kid, Santa didn’t need quisling helpers, ratting out children at every turn. Santa knew if you were bad or good. He just knew. That’s why I’m suspicious. I have my doubts that these so-called elves have any connection to Santa at all.

And even if Santa is getting up there in years, and does need help monitoring my naughty children, he’s got me. I’m forever threatening to tattle to Santa the boy’s every transgression. And I’m only 40% evil, at most. That doll could pull a knife on my family at any minute, but the worst I’d ever do to them is make them eat vegetables.

Elf face

Look deeply into his eyes. He knows you’ve been bad, very bad indeed. And now you must be punished.

Well, to each their own. If you enjoy your Elf on the Shelf, more power to you. And if you wake to find him in a strange place, it must be because someone in your family put him there. It must be.

Happy Thanksgiving, now let’s talk about Christmas

One Saturday in the middle of October, the four-year-old came downstairs as I was making breakfast. He still wore his pajamas and had a groggy look about him. He stepped into the kitchen and, without troubling himself with the exchange of any top-of-the-morning niceties, asked. “Is it Thanksgiving?”

He was disappointed to learn that it was not. His disappointment stemmed, not from a particular childlike love of the thrill-devoid holiday known as Thanksgiving, but from a recently gained knowledge that Thanksgiving was an obstacle that must necessarily be removed from the way if Christmas were ever to come.

A couple of weeks before, I had explained to him that we would have Halloween first, followed by Thanksgiving. Then, it would get to be winter and Christmas would come. I can only attribute the fact that he forgot all about Halloween to the early hour of day, his sleepy disposition, and the proven fact that toys are more exciting than candy.

Well, if it weren’t even Thanksgiving yet, there was still time to go brush his teeth.

Today, I have good news for the boy, because now it is Thanksgiving, and that is practically the doorstep of Christmas. Winter is such an unreliable arrival that it is hardly worth counting, which means Christmas is up next.

Halloween

Thanksgiving

→Christmas!!!!←

All the lesser holidays are out of the way! Christmas is almost here! So let’s put this turkey to bed and start the countdown!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

P.S. I’m not telling him it’s Thanksgiving until after he brushes his teeth.

November calendar

Only one more page to go!

“Trick-or-Character Development” – Halloween makes us better men

Another Halloween has come and gone, and my son and I are both better men for it. It was not the best weather we’ve ever had, but it could have been worse. There was a light mist in the air and it was pretty chilly. Considering what others were going through this Halloween, we felt fortunate to be able to trick-or-treat at all.

I’m glad we got to go, because it gave us both a chance to demonstrate how much we’ve grown since last year.

This year we took two friends along with us: a six-year-old and a two-year-old (the baby stayed home to pass out candy with mom). Nothing makes you more aware of the differences between a first-grader, a preschooler, and a toddler than trying to take such a motley crew from house to house in the dark.

The two older kids forgot all about the toddler and I as soon as they got out the door. I’ve been chasing a preschooler around so long, I’ve forgotten how slowly two-year-olds run. If I had a candy bar for every time I had to yell, “Wait for us!” I’d have, well, about as much candy as we now have in the house.

skunk boy ready to go

We’re ready to go out and get that candy! This year, we might even say “Trick or Treat” at some doors, not because we like saying it, because we’re more mature now and we know it’s the right thing to do.

By the time I’d realized my folly in not bringing a wagon, we were too far into the jungle of houses to go back. The big kids didn’t want to slow down and the little kid couldn’t speed up. Guess what slow-witted adult got to carry her. Two-year-olds are much heavier than babies; seems like I’ve forgotten a lot about two-year-olds.

There should be some kind of consortium where children can be brought in and redistributed to trick-or-treating chaperons by age, so that one adult doesn’t have to try to keep track of several children spread out over a block of houses – but mostly so no aging parent has to wake up on All Saints Day with an aching back.

We finally looped around to where we could drop off the toddler at home and then get some serious trick-or-treating done. When my son saw the welcoming lights of home, he decided he was getting a little tired too. The six-year-old would have gone longer, but not without his friends. Our night was over.

Lest you think the night was a disappointment, here is the good news. We quit with an entire hour left to trick-or-treat, and I didn’t even put up any stink about it. I didn’t give anybody any flak about being soft; I didn’t act like a greedy, Type A, German Virgo at all. Now, you might chalk this up to sore arms or cold hands, but I call it spiritual growth.

And the news gets even better. My son willingly said, “Trick-or-Treat” at half of the houses we went to. He didn’t even make it sound like he was only saying it to avoid receiving an electric shock or some such punishment. He said it almost nearly like he meant it.

All in all, it was great night for our family. I hope someone is holding onto these moments because it’s true: we grow up so fast.