Tag Archives: Christmas

Lez-Be Friends

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I’m seriously considering becoming a lesbian. Why the hell not? Women seem to be an infinitely better option right now than men. I’ve already got my minions and, even if I don’t like it, I’m pretty good at killing my own bugs, so men are of limited usefulness to me at this point. Let’s ignore for a moment the fact that I am just not gay, as much as I wish I were, and that being gay is not a choice, so I really have no say in this matter. Aside from that, why the hell not?

Let’s take this from a practical, if ludicrously generalizing, perspective (haters, start taking notes here):

  • Women are better at multitasking, so they can, oh, you know, hold babies and text, take phone calls, or poop at the same time.
  • At least real kiwis ALWAYS taste good.

    Women are sexy most of the time, even when we don’t feel sexy, if only because society and marketing have programmed us to see women as sexual objects by barraging us with sexualized images of women 24/7, because “pretty is as pretty does.” Men, on the other hand, look like deflated kiwis that need to go down the disposal when they bend over naked in the bathroom. They can’t all be Northman or Tyler Durden. We can’t all be Cindy Crawford either, but somehow we’re still generally more attractive than they are. Maybe it’s because we aren’t likely to fart, pick our noses, grab our crotches, or be otherwise generally disgusting outside the aforementioned bathroom.

  • Women aren’t as afraid of their feelings as men. They like you or they don’t. They love you or they don’t. None of this, “Well, I really like you, and I want to fuck you, but let’s just keep it casual, k?” crap. The flip side of this has a lot to do with the third-date U-Haul jokes my gay girlfriends tell me. I used to think it meant lesbians do it in trucks on the third date, but apparently I was wrong.  Read the rest of this entry

Behind The Scenes At COASM

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Hey, web dwellers. I really wanted to give you something special for our 2-month anniversary together, but if you can believe it, there’s no set list of anniversary gifts for site followers by month. Get married and they give you a list for the next 60 fucking years. But look for a blog list and you’re S.O.L. Go figure. Anyway, so I had to come up with something on my own. But I can’t give you all life-sized Eric Northman cutouts (because they’re MINE, ALL MINE!), and I really don’t want to spend more than, oh, anything, so I decided that last month’s “word jumble” image will become a tradition, and I’ll do it each month to see how it changes. Maybe that’s more of a gift to myself than to you, because only dorks like me would want to compare word jumble images from month to month, but you know, if you think about it, when I’m happy, I write more. And when I write more, y’all read more of this dirty, crazy lunacy that I call my life. So, yay. Happy anniversary to us. 

So I used the jumble generator, and here’s what it came up with:

What kind of crap is this? It's like they didn't even try! Not good enough for my web dwellers. Also, kind of weird emphasis on Northman, don't you think?

So I figured it was a fluke and I’d just try again. I mean, what are the odds it would do something similarly sufficient in making me seem creepily obsessed with Northman? The real-life one OR the TV one.

Yeah. So it gave me this. WTF?

Not as bad as the first, but still kind of fucked up if you think about it. Which I’m trying not to do. So I tried again. What can I say? I’m persistent.

Ok, how does this even count? "Northman" isn't even in the shape with everything else.

But I would not give up that easily. No. I would not be outdone and made to feel like some kind of whack-job stalker by an auto-word-generating website thingie. So I did it again.

This one is like an ink blot test that makes me think of sex, so I like it, but it's STILL got Northman ridiculously disproportionate to everything else.

And again….

They fit it all in the shape this time. I'll give 'em that.


And again…

Really?

Aaaand again…

Oh, sweet Jesus in Birks.

Yeah, and again.

How is this different from the last one?

I just would not fucking give up.

Maybe a little better, but also only because I was losing a grip at this point.

And finally, I got this:

My favorite and my gift to you. Or me. Whatever.

Here’s the thing, web dwellers, the jumbles are a hell of a lot like my blog. I generate something, and sometimes it’s awesome, and sometimes it’s a big, fat turd. But, apparently, there’s always some Northman in it, so ultimately, it’s awesome. Happy anniversary.

The Monthly Wrap Up: Because I’m too tired to come up with anything that original.

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So, ok, end of our first month here at Confessions of a Sexy Mom, and I gotta tell you, web dwellers, you people are fucking awesome. I just love the heck out of you, and I’m in touch with my emotions enough to say so without having to go bench press or deep fry anything. Damn, I just love being a woman.

So, I figured I’d do a little monthly retrospective. A “confession-all” if you will (see how much lamer the jokes and puns are when I’m tired?), and I’ll toss in some random stuff I laughed at this month but, for whatever reason, didn’t post here earlier.

Heeeere we go.

Northman loves my drunken texts. Which is good, because with the blue-hairs around last month, there were plenty.

First, I saw this ( ←) yesterday and laughed my ass off. This is 100% a GREAT idea, and if you can keep your sense-of-humor hat on instead of going all, “Ooooh, that’s too ‘Big Brother’ if my phone knows I’m wasted,” then it’s pretty fucking funny.

Second, take a gander over yonder at the site hit numbers →. Oh, yeah. That’s more than 2,000 hits in a month. THAT is a blog-gasm. I’m super excited. Now let’s just get some more fans on the Facebook page so people will know when there’s something new here.

Numero Tres: Did you know if you go to the WordPress home page and select “topics” and then type in “fucking” that you’ll find some really freaky crap? Well, shit, searching for “sexy” or “Northman” wasn’t yielding great results, so I went the other direction. I thought maybe I’d find some blogs like mine with some random sexiness in there. Uh, no. Warning! If you don’t want to know what “fisting” is, DO NOT TRY THIS SEARCH. Wow. A lot has changed since I was last out there, people. A fucking lot has changed.

And Four: I found this neat site that lets you make graphic representations of relevant words on your site. I don’t know what people really use this for, but I thought it was neat, and here’s what I made. Didn’t even need to paint any macaroni!

Cinco de Awesome-o: Damn, that would have pissed my high school Spanish teacher off big time. No sense of humor. Anyway, this ↓ is what I posted this month in no particular order (and in kind of a mess because I don’t have a hell of a lot of control over the formatting here), not counting just little crap like a poll and letting y’all know I’m on Facebook. Which I am. And you should be too.

Six…more months until True Blood Season Five, so here’s one of my favorite scenes from Season Four, which I just rewatched because there’s so much Northman sex. Oh, Pam. I thank Mr. Coffee for whomever cast you and made your role so much bigger in the show than the books.

Also… A shout out to Karen B., Liesel B., Rebecca Z., Nicole S., and Tara C. for all your super funny posts on the Facebook wall!! Y’all are hilarious, ladies!! Keep it up, gals!!

And Now, A Message From Mr. Northman

Taking One For The Team

Elves, Men, Monkeys, and MartinisThe 12 Hours of Christmas

JPAMDD

The Versatile Blogger Award.

You People Need Help.

This Is Why Republicans Fear Me

I Sound My Barbaric Yawp Over The Roofs Of The World.

It's Always The Guy With The Panel Van

Did I Miss Something Here?

Blog-gasms

Shaved Pussies Are For Pussies

There Isn't Enough Purrell On The Planet For This Shit.

You're Just Coitusing With Me, Aren't You?

You People Need Help. (This one actually IS a PMS-Driven Rant.)

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After 18 days of winter vacation (not that anyone’s counting), I dropped the minions back off at school this morning, came home, praised Mr. Coffee at great length, and sat down to check Facebook while I had some Lucky Charms and lactose-free “milk.” I really gotta go grocery shopping because both of those things suck, but I was hungry and there wasn’t any cold pizza. Or warm pizza for that matter.

If it's crunchy, it's not a marshmallow. If it's lactose-free, it's not milk.

Anyway, I sat down with my bowl and almost spit magical dehydrated unicorn tail-shaped “marshmallows” all over my keyboard when I saw post after post of crap like this:

  • Janie McSpecialPants: “Can’t believe the kiddos are going back to school ALREADY! Where did vacation go?!? I want my little snuggle muffins home with Momma!”
  • Angie Smoochmuffin: “Only 96 days ‘til Easter! Can’t believe I haven’t stocked up on supplies for our annual three-county bike-race/egg hunt yet! Who’s up for making some decoupage Jesus figurines this afternoon to get things started?”
  • Gracie Loveykins: “Dear Summer Vacation: Could you please come super duper early this year? My kids have only been back at school an hour and I miss those little pumpkin-butts already!”

Here’s a little Public Service Announcement, Cathy-Style: If you wrote a Facebook status update, Tweet, blog post, article comment, or any other publicly visible bit of online material today that looked anything like the above, call your doctor to have your meds adjusted and then delete that shit right fucking now. No one wants to read that crap. It’s either not true, or something is really, really wrong with you. Also, don’t expect any responses from me on Facebook ever again, because I am hiding you in my newsfeed.

Next time someone tags me in a pic like this, I am going to upload a pic of a gigantic turd and tag them back.

Posts like that are right up there with entire photo albums of people’s dogs in various holiday-related outfits. You know what I’m talking about. We all have that friend who treats her dog like it’s a kid and then tags you in the dog picture to make absolutely sure you see it, so then your “Photos of Angie Smoochmuffin” include a fucking schnauzer in a leprechaun suit. I gotta say this once: Cut that shit out, people. Cut that out now. Dogs are not people, web dwellers. And I like dogs. But they’re dogs, and I am not, so don’t fucking tag me in your pooch-pic.

But as usual, I digress (But that digression was important, admit it.). It’s one thing to post pictures and updates about having a great time with your kids or even about feeling so lucky to have such great minions once in a while. Kids are great … when they’re not, oh, say, awake or talking to me (relax, it’s a joke, people), but really? Your kids go back to school, from which they will return TODAY, and you likely haven’t had a moment of quiet in almost three weeks, and you miss them so much you have to shout it from the modern proverbial rooftop that is Facebook? Or you need to get a head start on making every normal parent you know feel inadequate through your ludicrously over-achieving wastes of time? Don’t you people work? Shit. If I had a whole fucking morning to myself, I’d take a damn nap, not tweet about how sad I am that it’s quiet enough to do so.

So, that’s it. That’s all I have in me this morning, web dwellers. Who’s up for martinis? School is in session and I am fucking celebrating.

Joyous Passive Aggression and Martyrdom Display Day: AKA, The Reason I Need Unlimited Texting

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Festivus For The RestOfUs!

Merry Christmas. Or happy Hanukkah. Or festive Kwanzaa. Or Cheery Celebration of Greatest Revenue Day For Chinese Food Restaurants in Jewish Areas. In my house, it’s Acknowledgment of The Grace of Mr. Coffee Day (Say it with me! “Praised Be!”). And with the multiple generations of estrogen-infused family upon us, it’s also Joyous Passive Aggression and Martyrdom Display Day (J.P.A.M.D.E.). This is preceded by Joyous Passive Aggression and Martyrdom Display Eve, which is preceded by a full J.P.A.M.D.E. (I say it “JayPamDee”) advent, known as the 30 Days of J.P.A.M.D.E. For Seinfeld fans, this is a lot like Festivus, complete with the airing of grievances, but without the weird pole thing, and because it’s led by women, it’s more like the airing of, “Reasons I Should Have Jewels Upon Jewels in My Crown in Heaven For All I Do For My Ungrateful Family – but not you, Dear, the other parts of the family, you know who I’m talking about.”

This year’s J.P.A.M.D.E. celebration began with the J.P.A.M.D.E. advent the day after Thanksgiving (this has a lot to do with volunteering to go shopping and then complaining about how sore your feet are even though half of what you bought was for yourself) and is still in progress at the moment, which is why I haven’t had time to blog about it for you guys (Sorry, web dwellers!). In our multi-age, multi-generation, fractured, extended, slightly crazy, often surprising, incredibly well-intentioned yet annoying as an eyelash in your eye while you’re driving, clique-ish as a Long Island all-girls’ high school, made-for-cable-tv family, there are some pretty interesting characters. You know how people say, “There’s one in every family,”? Well, there are four in mine. So, for your reading amusement, and my own catharsis, here’s a little reverse-peephole into my house this week.

Don’t worry, Mr. Northman was around via text for encouragement and tension relief.

So, like I said the other day, the blue-hairs did descend on us, and it was just nuts from the get-go. The real joy of J.P.A.M.D.E. had already started last month with the advent, which makes me super grateful I have unlimited emailing and texting on my cell for two reasons:

  1. The blue-hairs (and would-be blue-hairs if they didn’t have their salons on speed dial) have been constantly asking, via email and many, many texts, for lists of presents to give my minions (Yes, the blue-hairs text. Impressive and yet so annoying.), and I’ve been emailing and texting them all back with lists of favorite characters and suggestions for things they’ve been jonesing for every time we pass Target like diabetics in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. I just have two requests: No religious stuff, and no weapons or weapon-y toys. Other than that, knock your suspendered knee socks off. Then, while they’re at the mall, they text me again to ask what color/flavor/size/character/scent, and then they text me again to ask if it’s a good price, and then they text me again to complain that the “oriental fellow” at customer service wouldn’t let them use the coupon from Target at Macy’s even though they have all the same crap, and then they text me again to ask if they can just send me a check and have me go out and buy what they’re currently holding themselves and wrap it even though they’re arriving in two weeks by car, and then they text me again to make sure I know who the text was from. Oh, and then they showed up last week and gave my kids some phaser guns, pirate swords, and books about how Elmo learns the Joy of Knowing God.
  1. If I couldn’t text my girlfriends and Mr. Northman about this crap (and check my site stats here!), I’d lose my fucking mind. And if I couldn’t receive texts back from Mr. Northman including creative suggestions for how he’d like to help me relax, I’d be even more wired than I already am, and that’s really saying something.

So, J.P.A.M.D.E. advent had already been fairly crazy before a single relative arrived. But arrive, they did. My mother showed up, which is usually enough to make me gain five pounds of guilt weight before she gets off the plane (yeah, you Catholic, Greek, and Jewish gals know what I’m talking about – and if any of you are Catholic, Greek, AND Jewish and not on significant amounts of medication, I will buy you a drink because you fucking deserve it.). So my mom arrived, walked into my kitchen, and said, “Wow, Cathy! This is certainly the cleanest I’ve ever seen your kitchen!” My mother: Queen of the Backhanded Compliment and #1 Source of Job Security For My Therapist. Then she proceeded to inform me that Kid #1 was much too thin and Kid #2 was much too not-thin, and spent the next 6 days commenting on what each kid ate or didn’t eat while making sure to save some energy for evaluating my vegetable intake, wine consumption, and disinfecting methods.

Second only to Mr. Coffee

To be fair, if my only concept of a person’s average daily alcohol consumption were based on the amount of red wine I drink when my mother’s in town, I’d be considering an intervention, myself. But we don’t really do that namby-pamby shit in my family. We just pester the crap out of people about their drinking or overeating or occasional cigar or cigarette smoking and then guilt them into not drinking (when anyone’s looking), eating at all, or enjoying quarterly Cohibas.

This method has had a pretty good success rate in my family, as it usually just leads to smoking pot (but at least that’s done in private) or going to therapy. Of course, then the over-50 women in the family can complain about how their daughters waste their money telling all their private family business to strange therapists – who might be atheists for God’s sake! – when they’ve never done anything but just love their families and give up everylastthingever for their children and why does everyone blame the mother it’s just so unfair. Or, my favorite, we give up and join them so we’re a bunch of smelly, overeating drunks, but at least we’re together and reasonably happy (or so drunk, buzzed, or full that we can’t remember why we were annoyed). Unless you’re my mother, grandmother, or aunt, in which case you revert to this favorite method: making passive aggressive comments about how they have this girlfriend whose daughter is an alcoholic and now the grandmother (girlfriend) has to raise the grandkids while the daughter is in rehab and it’s such a shame on the family and such agita for the grandmother and what did that poor angel of a woman ever do to deserve such an ungrateful daughter who would burden her finally retired saint of a mother like that?

Yeah, so I went through about 6 bottles of merlot this week (oh, like you wouldn’t?) and partly I did it just to fuck with the blue-hairs and give them something to talk about, and no, I didn’t drink it all myself (just most of it). But it was all good, because it was only at night when the minions were in bed, and Mr. Northman loves it when I drunk text him (complete with typos because I have no patience for fixing typos on my stupid phone when I drink, so it reads like I’m really drunk when really I’ve only had two glasses of wine):

Me: Merry FestiKwanziChrissHanuSolstiCa! I dinimb bisy as hell. How r u?

Northman: You’re dinimb bisy? That’s great! Is that code for drunk as hell because ur mom’s there?

Me: Wine is good. You r so sexy. No it means I am BUSY. Old people r a lot of wirk.

Northman: LOL. What r u doing?

Me: Flinshined dinner. Family making fun of me for drinking but im the one getting our of dish detail because they think I’ll drop something. Oh yeah, suck it.

Northman: Awesome! Suck it, bitches! LOL!!

Me: Yeah suck it dish bitches! I get to watch football with the men and then I am going to bed and I wish youwere hereto tuckmein.

Northman: What r u wearing?

This Jesus would wear Birks. Go rent "Dogma" on Netflix, web dwellers. That's some funny shit.

Me: That red dress from that pic. Remember? And so sorry you’re not here to enjoy my pretty red lipstick. I know you like it.

Northman: I do like your pretty red lipstick. It would look even better all (HOLY SHIT YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER WITH THAT MOUTH?!?!) and then I would (Sorry, web dwellers, you know the drill.) but your dress would probably (That’s all, folks!) my lap.

Me: Sweet Jesus in Birkenstocks. I need another glass of wine.

Whoooooo baby. What was I saying? Ummm…. ummmm…. Oh, yeah, this is why I need unlimited text: So the blue-hairs can drive me crazy and then Northman can give me sexy little presents like that one. Damn.

I hope all your holiday wishes came true, web dwellers. See you in the new year.

(P.S. Leave comments here ↓.)

P.P.S. How many of you noticed that J.P.A.M.D.E. should have been J.P.A.M.D.D.? Maybe I do need to lay off the merlot.

The 12 Hours of Christmas: Because I don’t have time to journal for 12 days, people. You get what you pay for, and this shit is free.

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So I’m baking holiday cookies before all the blue-hairs descend on us. I’ve got my hands covered in raw-egg-infested dough (which just gives me the boo-hoo-jeebies), I just realized I’m out of powdered sugar, the oven is beeping incessantly, and I burned the shit out of my favorite kitchen towel with the little chickens on it. As I’m opening the oven to put in the next batch of job security for my aerobics instructor, my five-year-old comes tearing ass through the kitchen on a tricycle, buck naked, using one hand to drag along a broken doll stroller with a football strapped into it, singing “Snape, Snape, Seeeeeberus Snape, DUNGLEDORB!It’s 8 a.m.

Puppets rule.

I don’t even know why I bother with the whole cookie-making deal, and I said as much to the checker at the grocery store while I was getting powdered sugar and a bottle of Patron. Both of these purchases have to do with the cookies, but only one is strictly called for in the recipe my girlfriend put on Facebook to shame me into baking. “Oh,” said the perky checker, “It’s not about making cookies. It’s about making memories with your children!” Really? Which part? The part where I say, “That’s hot! Don’t touch!” sixty times a minute? Or maybe the part where my kids lose interest four minutes into the prep work and take off on me to play Super Mario so I drip egg goo all over the floor and yell at them to, “GET BACK IN HERE AND MAKE SOME FREAKING MEMORIES WITH YOUR MOTHER!”? Or the part where I give up on cookies and decide to make rum balls because then I can drink while I bake and it’s totally a necessary part of making sure I have the right ingredients? Fuck. It’s only 10 a.m.

So, the kids are off at playdates, and I can get some work done. And by work, I mean, I can sit here and type random crap for you people (you’re welcome) while procrastinating and trying to ignore the scent of the demise of my favorite jeans wafting from the oven. Why can’t cookies be thin-ening instead of fattening? Why can’t we get caloric credits for what we DON’T eat? Considering how much effort it takes not to eat a dozen snowman cookies an hour, you’d think it would at least count for something. If I got credited 10 calories for every 100 calories of ChrismaKwanziHanukkah treats I don’t eat, I’d be in my really-really favorite jeans by now, and it’s been so long since I wore those that they’re actually acid washed with ankle zippers, but if I could get into them I’d wear the shit out of those skinny fuckers. And you would too. It’s noon, and now I’m hungry.

Before I pick up my kids, I have to run to Target. Again. Last week the manager told me that if I increase my monthly average shopping time by just another 37 minutes, I’ll get my own designated parking spot and a pimped-out cart with my name vajazzled on the handle. Or that could have been a dream. But probably not. Anyway, I make the rounds through Target and get a good look at Middle America while I do so. If what I see at Target is any indication of where we’re going as a society, we are fucking doomed, people. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. It’s 2 p.m. and I really need to pee, but it will have to wait because I’m afraid to pee in Target in case my cell phone rings while I’m on the toilet and I have to answer it because it’s important but then the person in the next stall starts answering me like in a bad SNL skit and then I’d have to tell her to shut up and then I’d have to explain to my client/friend/grandma/lawyer that I’m peeing in public while talking on my cell. No thanks. I’ll hold it.

Back at home, my kids are quiet. Too quiet. I wash more heebie jeebie egg plasma off my hands. Twice. And then I go in search of mischief. It doesn’t take long to find it. Kid #1 has built a fort by completely disassembling the bed and is playing under the mattress. Kid #2 is naked. Again. And now the oven is beeping. Again. It’s 4 p.m., people. And I am fucking tired.

I spent some time reading in the mattress fort, which was actually pretty damn cool, and later I draped my naked kid in a big tee-shirt for finger painting. We cleaned up all our messes (and by “we” I mean “mostly I”), then bagged and boxed up dozens of cookies and brownies and all sorts of other crap “we” made today, and then started the evening routine: Wash hands. Eat dinner. Wash bodies. Eat cookies. Go potty. Wash hands. Brush teeth. Read a story. Read another story. Go to bed. Come out. Drink water. Go back to bed. Come out. Go potty. Wash hands. Go back to bed. Come out. Beg for snack like a stoner at Burning Man begs for special brownies. Go back to bed. Come out. Get told to go back to bed. Claim to just be coming out for a hug (they learn early). Get hug. And get kiss. And get another hug and kiss. And some Eskimo kisses and tummy raspberries. And some tickles. And another tucking in. Go to bed. Snore. It’s 8 p.m.

Bonus Hour 8-9 p.m. (Don’t say I never do anything nice for you people.)

Fuck you, Sue. You stole my Northman glee.

I texted Mr. Northman to see what he was up to, mostly because the only adult conversation I’d had all day was with the damn grocery checker, and anyone that cheerily stupid doesn’t count as an adult. He texted me that he was getting in the car, and I really love to fuck with him, so I started texting him this really fucking sexy story about what I’d do if I were sitting there in the front seat with him. I mean, I know he can’t read it while he’s driving, but he can hear the little “bloop!” every 20 seconds, and he knows exactly what that means. So, yeah, I’m fucking with him a little, but that’s only because I’m not actually fucking him, seeing as he lives so damn far away. Plus, he really likes it. So, I finished the story and laid down on the couch watching Glee. But it was mostly about Sue, and I can’t fucking stand her, so I fell asleep before Mr. Northman got home and responded (enthusiastically) to my sext-y story. Yeah. Nice for him and all, but all I got out of it was sore texting thumbs and a crick in my neck from sleeping on the damn couch.

Merry Christmas, web dwellers. I’m off to Target.

Elves, Men, Monkeys, and Martinis

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I went out to dinner with my girls last night, and now I can’t fucking sleep, so, thanks to the waitress for dosing me with caffeine instead of giving me the caffeine-free Diet Coke I asked for. Anyway, I woke up at 3 a.m. after only two hours of sleep only to realize that I forgot to move our damn Elf on The Shelf guy (ours is named George – we’re in a Curious George phase at the moment), so I guess maybe I should actually thank the waitress for keeping me up because now my kids won’t be freaking out that the elf didn’t move. God forbid that fucking thing isn’t parasailing from the ceiling fan when those two wake up at 5 a.m. What IS it with kids and waking up at ridiculously unholy hours on weekends and vacations but then needing to be dragged out of bed by their feet on school days?

If I wake up with this thing looking at me, I'm going to sue Santa.

I have to admit, I dig this whole Elf thing. Whoever came up with this idea: thanks, and also, fuck you. Like I don’t have enough to do without coming up with 30 ways to pose a creepy doll? Still, there’s something really pretty fun about the whole concept, and my kids think it’s as cool as having Santa come every night for a month, so overall, pretty awesome. Now if I could just pay someone to move the damn thing every night or at least come up with new places to put him that don’t require expertise in Scenic Design, that would be freaking fantastic.

But, of course, elves don’t come with instructions, and, much like men, they’re a lot of work for short little bursts of Happy. Worth it, but also kind of a pain in the ass. Case in point, I’m having martinis with the girls a couple weeks ago, and my recently divorced partner in crime, Anna, starts telling some dating horror stories. She’s been back in the single life a little longer than I have, and she’s managed to find time for dating because her kids are only with her half the time. Every story starts the same way, “So, I met this guy…” and then we all wait expectantly, because Anna pretty much never tells us about the fantastic guys who rock her world, just the whack jobs who freak her out.

Anna: “So, I met this guy.”

Us: *Anticipatory hush*

Anna: “And his name is Mark, but all his buddies call him ‘Big Dog’ for some reason.”

Me: “This is not a good sign.”

Anna: “So, first phone conversation, he’s like, ‘You can call me ‘Big Dog’ too, everyone does.”

Me: “Nope. Not a good sign.”

Anna: “Yeah, and I’m like, ‘Oh, that’s… fun,’ right? I mean, what kind of idiotic name is that? But you know, everyone’s got some little thing, so whatever.”

Friend A: “That’s not a little thing. That’s a stupid thing.”

Friend B: “Get to the good part.”

Friend C: “Another martini here!”

Anna: “You guys want to hear this shit or not?”

Me: “Proceed with the douche-baggery.”

Anna: “Ok, so we’re like, on the phone. Pre-first-date, ok? And the guy’s like, ‘Ruff ruff, Big Dog needs a bone.’”

Us: *Two beats of complete silence followed by martini-infused guffaws that turn every head within a 20-foot radius.*

Me: “I’m sorry, wait … he …. barked at you?” This is the part that stands out to me, not the lame-ass play on words he created with his nickname because anyone who goes by “Big Dog” probably didn’t come up with that crap himself.

Anna: “Yup. The man barked.”

Friend C: “Oh, fuck. I am so glad I’m married. You two girls are screwed. Where’s my martini?”

Friend B: “So did you give him a bone?”

Anna: “We were on the phone, you lush. No. Wait. It gets better.”

Me: “Not possible.”

Anna: “Shut up. So he’s like, ‘Ruff ruff, Big Dog needs a bone.’ And I have no fucking idea what to say, because there’s now no way I can go out with this moron, and so I say the first thing I think of. I go, ‘Oh, that’s funny. I think I saw that on a Big Dogs tee-shirt at the beach once.’”

That's Mr. Big Dog to You!

 

Us: *More alcohol-fueled cackling.*

 

Anna: “And he goes, no lie, ‘Woof.’”

Us: *All laughing hysterically like monkeys on nitrous, smacking the table and wiping mascara off our faces.*

This is the shit I have to look forward to? Men barking at me before the first date? I’d rather stay home and come up with places to put George the Elf every night for a year. Even if George doesn’t come with an instruction manual, at least I’m pretty freaking sure the elf won’t bark at me. I mean, really? What the hell, people? Is this normal now? When the hell did that become ok? Crap. Now I’m going to be thinking about barking men for the next hour while I try to get back to sleep. Whatever. If it gives me nightmares, at least I know I can count on my kids to wake me up early. It’s Sunday.