Planet Mom Blog

Card Wars: The Never-Ending Holiday Sequel

 

Well, the mother of all contests has begun. In earnest. The grand event’s official title: Card Wars, for those of you not paying attention to the galaxy-sized battle currently raging among us. More informally, it’s known as the race-to-see-whose-holiday-greeting-card-arrives-first. Sound familiar? Great masses of people consider themselves willing participants in this glorified contest of contests. Gladiators, in a sense—with an unquenchable thirst for victory (i.e. the shameless lot who lurk near bins of leftover holiday merchandise in January, sniffing around to see what good stuff remains, eager to cash in on gigantic savings—to stock up for next year’s Card Wars Event, of course).

 

Said creatures prepare their lists of recipients long before what is considered customary or reasonable, they request cutesy little stamps that feature Christmas wreathes and sprigs of mistletoe (during the month of JULY!) and around Labor Day they begin harvesting nuggets of information to include in one of those wretchedly wonderful family letters which they intend to draft on the eve of Thanksgiving.

 

Sounds a bit dysfunctional to me.

 

I really shouldn’t blame them, though. Frugality and preparedness are, in the truest sense, admirable qualities—ones I hope to possess someday. I’m simply envious, I suppose, and resentful of how organized and prudent and DISTURBINGLY SENSIBLE they are about the whole thing. By contrast, I suck at the getting-cards-in-the-mail-thing, which is why my holiday greetings often show up in January.

 

But it’s not just timeliness anymore that is paramount here in this war of mass mailing and postal insanity. Points are also awarded for beauty and style and hand-written notes for Crissakes! Even penmanship counts—as does being religiously neutral or, better yet, right on the money with the big three denominations. Photos earn truckloads of adulation, too. And those State-of-the-Family addresses we hold near and dear garner mountains upon mountains of praise—IF (and I repeat, IF) they happen to be crafted with an ounce of sincerity, a smidgeon of thoughtfulness and not one hint of haughtiness.

 

I, for one, positively despise the bulletins that broadcast to the world how wonderful it is that this, that and the other thing happened to little Johnny this past year. Or how you AGONIZED over the decision to send Straight-A Suzie to Princeton or Yale next fall. Quite frankly, I don’t want to hear about how perfect your world is. It’s boring. With a capital B. Give me the dirt instead. The real deal. The muck in the middle that makes you crazy, but at the same time keeps you humble and grounded and very likely, human.

 

Then I can appreciate where you’ve been. I can empathize with you—more than you’ll ever know, and perhaps I’ll genuinely enjoy hearing about your life—as if you were in my living room filling me in on the latest: that Suzie plans to skip college and drive an 18-wheeler instead, and that little Johnny recently cracked 16 eggs in the bath tub, locked the babysitter in a closet and summoned the fire department all in the same evening. Now THAT’S entertainment; and it’s precisely what I need right now—a good laugh. It’s almost Christmas and I’m tired and stressed and ready to launch my tree-that-won’t-stand-straight out into the yard. I don’t need to hear the flowery tales you weave—the less-than-profound drivel you spew forth with impeccable ease. It’s nauseating and shallow and smacks of insincerity.

 

But then again, maybe I’ve lost touch with what most deem meaningful these days. Perhaps I should tap my brood to learn what they believe to be most genuine and tuck that information away for future reference. “I like the card with the polar bears on it. They were snuggling together—a mommy and a baby,” one of my charges remarked after rooting around in the heaps of holiday well-wishes we had collected thus far.

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah. And the bears had the cutest little ears and tails and black shaggy stuff under their feet. It was the most beautiful card of all, Mom!”

 

Maybe she did have a point. My friend James had sent me that wonderful card and I fondly remember opening it and smiling when I first laid eyes upon those bears, huddled together in the snow—perhaps pondering the reason for the season.

 

She can’t fool me, though. She liked it best because it was FIRST. Barely into November as I recall. Without question, the Card Wars are alive and well. Charge on, James!

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (still churning out those holiday greetings day and night). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too. Bring stamps.

 

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

 

Dear Santa,

                           

Please believe me, oh great giver-of-gifts, I know you love my children dearly and that you’d do almost anything to make them happy this Christmas. You’re a kind and generous soul. And make no mistake about it; I’ve recognized (with the help of countless reminders) how hard my heathens have tried to be good and grateful and well-mannered these past 336 days. But in the interest of preserving what remains of my sanity, would you please give some consideration to the following bit of information?

 

1)      For the record, I don’t need any lizards or llamas, bats or birds, real live chicks or even eggs that will hatch. Nor do I have any desire whatsoever for an ant farm and an accompanying anteater (“…in case it breaks open and ants are crawling EVERYWHERE, Mom!”). Furthermore, I have absolutely no use for a potbellied pig or a goat for that matter. Are we perfectly clear on that? NO POTBELLIED PIG. NO GOAT. Period. Also, please ignore all future requests—maddeningly incessant as they might be—for another cat. Seriously. Perish the thought.

2)      Additionally, please take note: it is totally unnecessary to spoil my charges by spending $54 (EACH!) on flimsy pajamas that happen to match those worn by the very dolls they begged for last year. That’s simply ludicrous. Get a grip, Santa. Give Mrs. Claus a new nightie or something instead.

3)      Moreover, bear in mind that I have yet to summon the strength necessary to parent those who thirst for danger. More specifically, those who would willfully and gleefully ride a skateboard, a motorcycle or roller skates down an impossibly sheer slope. Blindfolded. On fire. During an earthquake. I have enough trouble tolerating the wretched scooters they so adore. Perhaps by next year I will have purged from memory my own horrific skateboarding disaster (i.e. the face plant I made one summer afternoon on a gravelly patch of pavement at an inordinately high rate of speed). But who could forget eight stitches? They were purple. And stubbly. And infinitely intriguing to all my friends who wanted to touch the freakish goatee I had seemingly sprouted from my chin. That being said, please refrain from delivering any of the aforementioned instruments of evil.

4)      Bratz, begone! I trust this emphatic petition is self-explanatory, oh Jolly One. Barbies, by contrast, are perfectly acceptable in this household. Besides, I find it largely disturbing that many among our sprawling Barbie community have lost heads and limbs for whatever reason. Intactness would be a welcome change.

5)      Also, if you must darken my door with all-that-makes-noise (I mean music), I beg of you that each sinful device (read: trumpet-kazoo-recorder-drum-keyboard-microphone-guitar-tambourine-maraca-like piece of idiocy) be suitably equipped with soundproofing, some sort of on/off switch or at the very least a volume control thingy. Thank you, in advance.

6)      Also, kindly be advised that my humble abode lacks the space necessary to house the grand and glorious, five-story kitty hotel that my kids have been whining about since the middle of summer. Honestly, it is outlandishly opulent, highly impractical and offensively massive. If you so much as think about bestowing such a monstrosity upon us, I will have no choice but to forego the cookies next year. You can count on broccoli instead, you silly little elfin man.

7)      What’s more, I would be immeasurably displeased to discover a pile of pretend dog poop in anyone’s stocking, never mind those repugnant Walter the Farting Dog creatures. Egads!

8)      Furthermore, Santa, read my lips: NO MORE SILLY@$$ ELECTRONIC GADGETRY. I am appallingly inept when it comes to programming any and all gizmos of a technological nature. I hereby resign from said post effective today.

9)      And for the love of God, NO MORE WATER BALLOONS, GLITTER GLUE OR BATHTUB TOYS. They are the bane of my existence. Enough said.

10)  And sweet Jesus, please, please, please don’t bless us with another puppy this Christmas—at least not one that routinely gnaws on furniture, pees indiscriminately, consumes chew toys, destroys leashes (four and counting), eats holes in the carpet, nibbles on Frisbees, plastic Army men and Barbie stilettos, considers deer droppings a delicacy and is entirely bent on causing bodily harm during jaunts in the great outdoors—via our garrote-like tether coupled with a frenzied demeanor and the pirouette dance I have grown to know and loathe. I simply cannot handle another floppy-eared bundle of joy. Not now. Not ever.

11)  I would, however, be thrilled to receive an indestructible dog leash dipped in Kevlar, perhaps, and maybe a ridiculously huge cardboard box. Empty, of course. The one you so graciously left for my brood three years ago was far and away the most fabulous item under the tree. It was the gift that kept on giving—till early spring, as I recall.

 

Sincerely,

 

Planet Mom

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

 

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Dirty, Rotten Tricksters…

My youngest children recently informed me they weren’t at all interested in being cute, cuddly or even remotely adorable this Halloween. Instead, they’ve opted for the embodiment of all that is wicked, evil and downright horrifying. Forget the plump pumpkins, whiskered kitties, floppy-eared puppies and the most endearing little lumberjacks I ever saw—the ones my husband and I painstakingly adorned with pointillism-inspired beards (read: charcoal eyeliner) and then hauled from porch to porch in his red, wooden wagon, its rugged wheels rumbling over hill and dale, filling the night air with a symphony of sound.

 

Apparently those days are over. My charges have turned the proverbial page as worldly second graders. They’ve gone from charming to chilling, from harmless to haunting from droll to dark. Seemingly overnight. Indeed, they would rather terrorize the neighborhood as a green-faced, broom-wielding witch (“…because witches are scary, Mom!”) and her vicious beast-of-a-pet cat (“…because that would really creep people out, Mom!”). A black cat, of course. With a rubbery and decidedly dead rat dangling from its maw.

 

It could be worse, I suppose. I could have caved to their incessant pleas for costumes that made my skin crawl (read: the vat of horribleness that featured bloodstained fangs, impaled heads and severed limbs). I drew the line at gruesome this year, knowing full well I will lose that battle someday. My concession was agreeing to the purchase of black lipstick and nail polish. I figured I could tolerate at least that much macabre nonsense—as long as they promised not to go goth on me as teens.

 

Yeah right. That’s a promise they’ll soon forget.

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

 

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Be Mine, You Foolish, Foolish Man…

Enough already. Quit it. Stop going overboard on Valentine’s Day, you well-intentioned fool in love. The extravagance is just that—extravagant. We already know you love us dearly, so stop trying to prove it with super-sized mushy cards, chocolate galore and the sweetest-smelling roses that plastic can buy. Well, maybe chocolate isn’t such a bad idea, but the rest of the sentimental journeying you do is just fluff. No offense, Romeo.

My intent here is merely to enlighten (ever so gently), not to patronize those who go to incredible lengths each year to woo the socks off a loved one. Your gallant efforts and unbridled enthusiasm are genuinely appreciated. Trust me. But the time and energy you expend, all in the name of love, might prove more fruitful when coupled with a key bit of information. Consider it a tip, a newsflash or the inside scoop on romance, if you will. Take it for what it’s worth (if you so choose)—and by all means, try not to take it personally.

Basically, in my book there are three essential (and timelessly proven) elements to keeping the love alive in a relationship:

1) TUNE IN TO YOUR PARTNER. And by this I mean observe, listen and really pay attention to what your partner likes, values, needs and genuinely cares about. If you don’t, you will have missed the boat—the Love Boat, that is. If it’s lovey-dovey poetry, a roomful of posies or a glitzy new rock that will make her heart flutter, by all means—go for it. Just be sure that whatever you choose to charm her with does just that. For instance, I’d be charmed to death if my valentine were to surprise me with a weekend getaway for two so I could enjoy a reprieve from Mom Duty. I’d also be thrilled beyond compare to receive a homemade coupon book for that priceless commodity: “alone time” (redeemable in glorious one-hour increments). Foot massages are nice, too. And gentlemen, please please please refrain from last-minute emergency purchases. We weren’t born yesterday, you know. It really shows when little or no thought has gone into a gift—regardless of the price tag.
2) WORK TO IMPROVE YOUR LOVE LIFE ALL YEAR LONG, NOT JUST IN MID-FEBRUARY. A no-brainer, right? Well, almost. Certainly we understand how life’s hectic pace can get in the way of remembering to remember each other day in and day out. Believe me; we GET the term “hectic.” Probably coined it. But doesn’t it sort of smack of making-up-for-lost-time when not so much as a “hello kiss” or an “I love you” shows up for months on end, then lo and behold, February arrives with a deluge of sweet-nothings whispered in our ears? Makes me downright suspicious. When it comes to relationships, daily maintenance makes far more sense than having to undergo a major overhaul—same with vehicles (only they’re less complicated).
3) NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE VALUE OF ROMANCE (OR YOUR ABILITY TO BE ROMANTIC). Come on, Valentino, you know this much is true. It’s the spice of life, the door to the soul and the key to nearly every woman’s heart. And for a lot of women, I’d daresay it has little or nothing to do with sex. It probably has more to do with how you make us feel about ourselves, as well as how valued and respected we are in your eyes. Yep, it’s THAT simple. Once you get that much figured out, understanding women is really a walk in the park. But it’s a really big park, and you’ll probably have to ask for directions at some point, which not many of you are inclined to do. Hence, the mystification problem.

In a nutshell, romance is a powerful thing, but not necessarily viewed the same by all. Naturally, it’s the romancee who determines how romantic (or not) something or someone is. Not the romancer. So be sure to zero in on what will truly melt your valentine’s heart—not just what you THINK will kindle the flames of love, Mr. Casanova. And finally, never ever underestimate yourself; you might be surprisingly romantic when you put your mind (as well as your heart) to the task.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2006 Melinda L. Wentzel

The 10 Commandments of Un-Decorating

February is almost upon us, with its sappy greeting cards, sickly sweet candies and all-that-is-garish-and-heart-shaped-under-the-sun—reminding me that it’s high time I overcome my state of lethargy, yank down the Christmas decorations and move on already. I’ve spent a goodly chunk of time (indeed, too much time!) admiring our glorious crèche and my beloved shrine to reindeer the world over (i.e. the unwieldy hunk of metal that has scratched and scraped my coffee table since the dawn of December). I’ve also whiled away countless hours ogling the 16 million ornaments and Yuletide project-y type hokum we have amassed since the kids entered pre-school (read: the factory for all-things-mawkish-and-inordinately-adorable, made-by-my-very-own-children-but-God-what-will-I-DO-with-this-foolish-tripe?!)

That being said, the time has come for a change of scenery. But first, let us ponder the 10 Commandments of Un-Decorating for sanity’s sake…

1) THOU SHALT CLOSELY SUPERVISE CHILDREN to whom you’ve delegated the taking-down-of-fake-garlandy-stuff, otherwise your little darlings will use it (cleverly, I might add) to jump rope until roughly 73 bajillion pieces of plastic pine needles become embedded in your carpet, or the husband will have a seizure upon discovering said train wreck of an occurrence—whichever comes first.

2) THOU SHALT TRASH ALL-THINGS-GLITTERY (ostensibly, when the kids are busy jumping rope with the mammoth tresses of garland you were stupid enough to hand them). This includes but is not limited to the vat of glittery junk you happen to remove from the tree or that which you find lurking deep in the bowels of ornament havens. Note: GLITTER is EVIL, as is anything even remotely related to glitter (read: shimmery stuff, sparkly remnants and shiny hunks of Lord-knows-what-substances your charges lovingly glued together at the craft table last year). They’ll never miss it and your heart will be glad.

3) THOU SHALT INSPECT STOCKINGS BEFORE STORING THEM. Oranges, chocolate and candy canes maintain little freshness tucked in the recesses of an attic or musty basement for some 10 or 11 months following the blessed holiday, although Pez candies will last a lifetime, I’m told. This little nugget of advice is worth remembering—or stapling to your brow for future reference.

4) THOU SHALT REFRAIN FROM LISTENING TO CHRISTMAS CAROLS BACKWARDS. It is the work of the devil and is especially true with reference to “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Such action will cause your head to fill with figgy pudding and at the conclusion of the second verse it will explode. In light of this, perhaps it would be prudent to stuff the CDs in a drawer somewhere with the damned candy canes.

5) THOU SHALT FEIGN FRAILTY AND EMPLOY SHAME IN ORDER TO GET HUSBAND TO LUG BIG BOXES AND OTHER UNWIELDY STUFF WHEREVER NEED BE. Does this really need further explanation? I didn’t think so.

6) THOU SHALT CLEAN THE SWATH OF FLOORING WHERE THE TREE STOOD after it has been safely dragged from the premises. And don’t forget its delightful pine needle trail! Whether that entails hauling out the tired, old vacuum, the Shop Vac or the Swiffer matters not. The action still counts double on the Domestic Goddess Scorecard due to the arduous nature of the task and the undue drudgery endured. Look it up on your scorecard if you don’t believe me. I know you have one.

7) THOU SHALT CHECK BOXES FOR STOWAWAYS PRIOR TO STORAGE OR DISPOSAL. Your search should specifically target small children and/or pets who may have taken refuge there, calling into question, of course, your ability to make a house a home and to provide at least as much comfort and warmth as a cardboard box.

8) THOU SHALT HEAVILY CONSIDER WEATHER FORECASTS BEFORE TAKING DOWN ANY OUTDOOR LIGHTS OR DECORATIONS. The significance and wisdom of this particular recommendation cannot be emphasized enough. Fools beware.

9) THOU SHALT NOT CLUMP OR WAD CHRISTMAS LIGHTS INTO A TANGLED, SORRY MESS FOR STORAGE lest you be tempted to take the Lord’s name in vain upon retrieving them next December, discovering to your dismay how few actually light.

10) THOU SHALT CONVINCE SMALLISH CHILDREN TO DONATE STUFFED SANTAS, REINDEER, ETC. TO THE ORNAMENT-PRESERVATION-CAUSE. The reason being: they’re cushy and soft and will help protect and preserve the breakable stuff en route to the attic. Plus if you seize the ones that emit a maddening little holiday jingle, they will no longer be a source of vexation for you come July.

I sincerely hope the aforementioned tips have been useful to those, who like me, struggle mightily with all that un-decorating entails.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Restoring Order: The Time Has Come…

There’s nothing neat and tidy about Christmas morning—much less, about the days and endless weeks to follow said holiday to end all holidays. The chaos and destruction I customarily face at that time has the ability (and willingness) to crush my spirit and to erase all hope of ever restoring order to my happy home. Not surprisingly, the four-legged, furry “children” who reside here (as well as the two-legged, non-furry variety) have made the resulting devastation especially extreme.

Make that catastrophic.

No less than a dozen times have I used words like “E-ffing Pigsty,” “Annihilation Zone” and “The Ruins of Pennsylvania” to describe ever-so-accurately our post-Christmas-Day household. But unlike ancient Greece or Italy, these particular ruins are nothing that droves of people would flock to see. It’s never stopped us from yanking out the camera though—to preserve the moment for posterity’s sake and to pay tribute to our pitifully disordered world.

We have no shame.

When all is said and done though, pictures like those wind up meaning the most to me. They depict some of the most memorable times in our history together as a family, with or without snow-covered evergreens in the background or perfectly coifed children with painted-on smiles. And although the pix I snap are probably not what the suits at Kodak ever envisioned, there’s a sense of genuineness, warmth and charm about them. Yes, charm.

It’s those candid shots—in our pajamas and tousled hair—that have forever held a special place in my heart, clearly revealing that a warm and cozy sort of chaos exists here. Somehow, it justifies the madness. And the unsightly mess.

Come Christmas morning, “neat and tidy” is nowhere to be found. A suffocating shroud of holiday carnage reigns supreme. Hideous heaps of wadded-up wrapping paper and bazillions of crushed bows (along with an army of plastic dinosaurs and Lego people) take over at that time—gunking-up what was once a lovely bit of crumb-covered flooring.

I suppose my husband and I deserve as much—fools that we are. Each year we willingly license our children to do the unthinkable—to dump package after package into their already package-filled laps—to maul each present with glee, pawing and clawing to reach the prize, only to discard it moments later, their sights set on bigger and better things wedged underneath that grand and glorious tree.

Nothing but a jumble of Christmas joy is left in their collective wake.

It seems that nothing will ever be returned to its rightful place in the universe. Scooters and skates. Puzzles and paints. Bikes and books and BAZILLIONS of teensy-weensy pieces that belong to God-knows-which-hootenanny are strewn about for days on end. Without fail, priceless commodities like gift cards, how-to blurbages and cold hard cash get lost in the shuffle. Grok! Monstrous cardboard boxes now litter the landscape, wayward ornaments (sans hookage devices) rest precariously on end tables and tiny fistfuls of silver tinsel hang from lampshades like Spanish moss. But since entertainment of the natives (who have been restless since sunrise!) is of paramount importance, I for one consider the Godzilla-sized boxes decidedly tolerable (see pic above).

By day’s end I’m spent and likely to discover anything from cashews in my slippers to a lost (but not forgotten) Manhattan on the back of the loo. I often stumble into those oh-so-endearing candy-cane remnants, too; the crumbled-up, sticky variety that are partially wrapped, partially consumed and completely bedecked with a bevy of lint, Goldfish crumbs and tufts of cat fur. Ugh.

The challenge: To avoid having a meltdown while welcome guests are still…welcome guests.

Eventually, though, some semblance of order must be restored—in the name of preserving what’s left of my sanity. Footpaths throughout the house and around the tree, especially, must be carved out and subsequently declared safe and suitable for travel. Broken bulbs are hardly compatible with the multitude of bare feet that will pass that way. Sparkly new gizmos and gadgets must be reunited with their beloved manuals (decipherable or not). And as a bare minimum, one-half to three-quarters of the pine needles embedded within the carpet under said tree must be removed—along with the vat of sugary sprinkles the kids peppered here there and everywhere as they munched and crunched their way through the day.

Indeed, restoration following such a monumental event is a dirty job. And tremendously taxing to boot. But it often leads to interesting discoveries amidst the holiday rubble.

Speaking of discovery, whose Christmas would be complete without conducting a frenzied search and rescue mission for some new cuddle toy or priceless doodad that was inadvertently tossed into that mammoth trash bag we all know and love (aka the holiday centerpiece)? Just picture nine of your closest friends and relatives buried headfirst inside such a bag, rummaging through the remains of the day. Now THERE’S a Kodak moment worth capturing.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

“Sound Horn and I’ll Pull Over”

Yep. That’s what the sign stated. Said bizarreness was curiously broadcast on the back of a Bud Light truck I happened to be following the other day. Like everyone else on the planet, I was in the throes of last minute Christmas shopping, ready to rip the clappers out of as many Salvation Army bells as would be physically possible. So it was terrific timing, actually, because at that particular point in time I desperately needed some sort of distraction to keep me from going off the deep end—Grinch style.

Naturally, I shook my head and wondered aloud, “What in the hell does that blurb mean?! If I honk my horn will elves suddenly burst out of the cab and fetch me a cold one, scuttling across the snow in their curled-up elf feet, jingling all the way to my Cheerio-laden minivan? Or perhaps a response such as this would require laying on the horn for a while—boldly sending a message that I simply cannot deal with the holiday traffic anymore and MUST quaff a beer immediately or sooner.”

Who knows? If I honked, maybe Mr. Bud Light guy would pull over and offer to wrap all my Christmas presents, and then he’d finish addressing the vat of cards I have yet to mail and after that he’d perform a magnificent scene from the Nutcracker, leaping and twirling in sexy white tights to my utter delight. A Real American Heeeeeero! That’s what he’d be. A chorus of cheers from all around would then erupt from those still gridlocked in traffic (but decidedly, no longer dwelling on such frivolities).

I’d be waiting in his toasty cab, of course, frosty mug in hand, hoping to be ravished till I begged for more. Or mercy or something.

Sadly, however, the story remains untold. I will never know what might have been that day because I never blew my silly horn.

What a dolt.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (in a deranged mental state much of the time). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2007 Melinda L. Wentzel

The Week before Christmas

‘Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the land
Not a shopper was idle, the stores were all jammed.

The carts were all taken, the traffic—a bear,
We hoped that a parking place still would be there.

The children were whining from dawn until dusk,
“You must spoil us rotten!” they grumbled and fussed.

With MasterCard, Visa, Discover and Saks,
The plastic was certain to work to its max.

When out in the shrubs there arose such a clatter,
I tossed up the bills to see what was the matter.

Away to the bushes I ran like a deer,
“The ladder’s so tipsy; he’s fallen, I fear!”

The cursing and shouting that came from his lips,
Ranked higher than ALL of his Freudian slips.

When, what to my wondering eyes should be found,
But a tangle of lights and my spouse on the ground!

He had twisted and twirled our new lights ‘round his head,
His ankles, an arm—so mad he was red.

More wrath than the Grinch and the Scrooge put together,
He stomped and he thrashed in the cold, snowy weather.

“Now tangles! Now snarls! Be gone in a jiffy!”
“Stop blinking! Stop flashing! Light right now! Look spiffy!”

“To the top of the hedge, to the top of the pine,
Now, light away! Light away! Give us a sign!”

As I helped him untangle himself from the mess,
We spoke of the folks who would soon be our guests.

My brother! His sister! Oh how the list grew!
My parents! His mother! Just WHAT would we do?!

I had not one inkling, how we would endure—
A day so immersed with our kinfolk, for sure.

“There are carrots to peel, and beds to be made!
This floor must be scrubbed! I’m beginning to FADE!”

“The gifts should be wrapped, the tree trimmed just right,
I wonder why I thought my plan was so bright!”

“It’s a bungled up mess!” my husband exclaimed.
“And I know exactly, WHO should be blamed.”

His brow—how it wrinkled! His manner—how wary!
Like the day that America failed to pick Kerry.

The smile he once wore there, oh where did it go?
I searched high and low, there. I just didn’t know.

“So why all the fussing? What IS your big beef?”
“You’d think that Osama was coming! GOOD GRIEF!”

“Your mother—she’ll cook, and my brother—he’ll scrub.”
“When things get too stressful, we’ll all hit the pub.”

“Your sister will wrap all the gifts up with glee!”
“And all will contribute to trimming the tree!”

Then a wink of his eye and something he said,
Soon made me recall, just why we were wed.

“There’s no doubt that our mottled clans have their own quirks.
But stranger than fiction, it actually works.

Like everyone’s crew, we all share some woes.
Each life has some oddness; that’s just how it goes.”

So I hugged him and thanked him for telling me so,
How fitting it was, to be near mistletoe.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2004 Melinda L. Wentzel

Dashing Through the Aisles...

Although shopping during the season of giving can be a wonderfully uplifting experience that fills me with the warm fuzzies, it can drive me to the brink of insanity faster than being struck in the ankles with a loaded cart—repeatedly. That being said, I embark with joy in my heart and green in my wallet come December, eager to spread Christmas cheer, but before I can check one gift from my list, my spirits become dampened—for a sleigh-full of reasons.

The challenge: To survive the ordeal—merriment still intact.

My troubles usually begin long before I join the frenzied masses of fools who flock to shopping meccas (like a bunch of deranged squirrels scuttling around inside an acorn factory). Often, the fun starts in the parking lot, where scads upon scads of idiots polish and perfect the art of being hostile, in preparation for the main event that will likely occur inside. Each stop is nearly identical. “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” rings clearly in the background, as do the cheerful clangs of Salvation Army bells. All the while horns blare, people shout and fists wave anything but hello.

The irony is uncanny.

Frantically I circle, AND circle, AND CIRCLE the silly lot, praying to God that I’ll someday find a space in the same county. As I pass others, all vying for the same tiny sliver of pavement, it’s clear that the mood is anything but cheery. At best, most offer a halfhearted smile. Others, a glare that bellows “If you so much as THINK about taking that spot, I’ll deck your halls for sure, Holly!”

So much for peace on earth.

As a result, I’ve devised a rather clever strategy for expediting the parking process. In brief, it involves creeping alongside those who appear to be leaving for the day. Naturally, I target the poor souls loaded down with boxes and bags, indicating an imminent departure. Unfortunately, my methodology is far from foolproof. Sometimes said behavior is merely associated with making a deposit—the first of many for some—which is what I would likely be doing if I weren’t touring the damned parking lot.

Upon surviving the pandemonium outside, it’s on to the shopper’s circus inside where I toss my cherubs into one of those charming carts with rickety wheels, a drool-covered handle and a child-restraint strap so filthy its original color cannot be detected. You know the one. Of course, I choose it because it’s the best of the bunch.

Aimlessly, I wander the aisles dodging errant carts left and right and dealing with any number of irksome obstacles. Fallen merchandise, empty boxes, abandoned children—you name it; if it interrupts the flow of traffic, it’ll be there. Not to mention, “the help” is often anything BUT helpful. I’m fascinated by the ease with which the phrase, “We’re out of stock,” seems to roll off their pierced tongues and how readily they roll their eyes if we so much as ask, “What the hell is a Webkin?”

Stinking little freaks anyway.

As I swim through a sea of patrons, it’s plain to see that not all temperaments are created equal—even during this hap-happiest time of the year. There are those on a frenzied mission, wearing a look that can only be described as pure panic. In these instances, I’ve determined it’s best to simply clear a path.

Others, whose indecisiveness is rivaled only by a propensity to dawdle, might make it to the check-out line before January—provided there’s a healthy tailwind. All the while Christmas melodies fill the air interspersed with those maddening little store ads at roughly 120 decibels. Joy.

But the day just wouldn’t be complete without coping with unruly children—namely, mine. Holiday shopping with kids in tow is akin to taking a dog to a picnic. When it’s good it’s great; but when it’s bad, it’s downright ugly. Something about being immersed in a veritable toy-lover’s paradise magically sets the stage for one of those kicking, screaming, red-faced tantrumish performances. But never mind MY behavior.

My charges whine about toys they can’t have, food they must wait for, bathroom breaks that are too few and far between and check-out lines without sugary junk. No wonder I mutter to myself as I dash through the aisles—something about having a merry little STRESS-FREE Christmas…or at least one with tolerable stress.

It’s definitely on my wish list, Santa.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2007 Melinda L. Wentzel

Let It Go! (sung to the tune, “Let it Snow!”)

Oh, the holiday bills are frightful
But the smiles are so delightful
And since we just can’t say “no”
Let it go, let it go, let it go!

The wishes just keep on growing
And our money we keep on blowing
Don’t ya know we love ‘em so
Let it go, let it go, let it go!

When those credit card bills roll in
How I’ll hate paying interest till spring
But we’ll all be wearin’ a grin
Once we see what Santa brings

The funds are slowly dying
But my dear, we can’t stop buyin’
‘Cause you know we love ‘em so
Let it go, let it go, let it go!

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2007 Melinda L. Wentzel