Pictures From Hell - A Holiday Photo

"...Hallelujah! Holy Shit! Where's the Tylenol?!"
Clark W. Grizwold

I wanted to take a nice picture of my kids for a holiday card. That's all. I didn't want to chisel their likeness into stone. I didn't want them to sit and pose while I painted a reproduction of the Nativity. A sweet photograph of my offspring grinning merrily at the camera was all I was looking for.

The dog was not in the room, Sugar Daddy wasn't mugging for the camera, no cats were running in and out of the room chasing one another or their tails or an imaginary mouse. It was just the spawn, the tree and me and it went something like this:

Sam, sit there for a minute and let me check the lighting for this shot. *click*

Okay, that's not bad. That's All That and a bag of - can we lose the bag of chips, please? Thanks, honey. Okay let's try it one more time. Ready? Say "Cheese".
Sam: "CHEESE." *click*

*sigh* Dammit! Go away, John!

*enter rest of spawn*
Okay, is everyone ready? Good.
1, 2, 3. *click*

Good! Now, Samantha, when you say "cheese", can you sit really still? You were a bit blurry in that one. Let's try again, but this time when I say "3" everyone freeze.

1, 2, 3. *click*
No, Sam. Not REALLY "freeze". Just smile and sit still, okay? Again... 1,2, *click*

"WE WEREN'T READY!"

I was trying to be sneaky about it. I guess that didn't work. Just look at me and smile, will you? *click*
*click*
"She farted! GROSS, SAM! MO-ommm!"

Samantha, sit. STILL.
Madison: "Ha ha, you got in trouble! Ha ha! UNGH!"
*click*
*click*
Lily, thank you for continuing to smile throughout this incredible mayhem.
Okay, people. Let's just work with your hyperactivity and try a crazy picture. Shall we? Let's give it a whirl.

1, 2, 3 *click*

*click*


Nope. Okay, bad idea. And you all still have to sit relatively still.
Again...WAIT! STOP! Samantha, sit still! Girls, stop TICKLING HER, THAT DOESN'T HELP!
*click*

And then Lily had had enough.*click*

*click**click*
Where the hell are your sisters?! Oh, good Lord.


Lily! Stop choking your sister! Get back over here and let's just DO this damned thing before I completely lose it with you people!! NOW SMILE!!
Really, Sam?! Now you're incapable of smiling?! After all that?!
*click*

Oh, forget it!! I'll work with whatever else I've got! Get out of my sight!! Go to bed NOW, all of you!!! THERE WILL BE NO CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR!!!






Please note: 
**When the children were nestled all snug in their beds, their adventure but a memory, I cleared my head and transferred the carnage from camera to computer, I think I managed to piece together a holiday photo that truly captures their essence:

So yeah. Happy Holidays and all that junk. :P

Oh Christmas Tree - The Battle of The Green Giant

While I set up the tree with the kids, enjoy my story from last Christmas:

My Christmas tree is assembled, the lights are on, and the pepper-berry garland is in place. The ornaments are already beginning to go through a series of trips to various boughs of the tree (as I rearrange them daily) and should reach their final destination on or by Christmas Eve. That is when I shall take one final look at my masterpiece and exclaim, "That's as good as it's ever going to get!" And then resolve that next year it will look even better. :)

I was off to a slow start in filling up my cup of Christmas Cheer this year, but I finally managed to get around to that tree. For those who go the "real" route, getting the family Christmas tree can be a lively excursion - loading all of the kids into the minivan and driving out to the country. Crouched on the snowy shoulder of a dirt and gravel road, knees numb from the cold, you nearly freeze your "aspidistra" off sawing for dear life while the kids keep an eye out for Johnny Law! Of course, the less adventurous folk buy one from a tree lot. I, on the other hand, head to the lowest level of my house...to do battle. To take but one prisoner.

This is my tale....

For eleven long months, my artificial tree has sat dormant in the "Basement Du Frigidaire", waiting under boxes of Easter decorations, old baby clothes, and furnace filters. It waits by the broken lamp, smelling faintly of cat litter, rust and cinnamon candles, for the day to come when I would once again free it from the evil clutches of The Roughneck Tote of Entrapment.

Last weekend that day had arrived. I headed down the narrow and dark basement steps (Note to self: change basement light bulb), holding onto the railing every inch of the way. I pushed aside the clothes basket blocking my path. Pausing for a moment to pay homage to the beloved baby swing that had served us so well over the years, I headed for the tote that contained the beast. I could sense its fury as I began to unearth it from the pile of rubble set atop the mighty tree. It sought the warmth and freedom of the main floor, but in order to get those luxuries it must first bend to my will. I knew it would not leave this place easily.

The Tote of Entrapment bulged at the sides, barely able to contain the incredible mass of the tree. It was secured with duct tape to reinforce its hold and still the tree threatened to break free. Grasping the end of the box, I surveyed the path back to the stairs. It looked clear. I gave a great push and felt the muscles in my legs cinch tight, but the tree didn't budge. I recovered quickly and moved around to the front of the green plastic sarcophagus to see what was impeding my progress. I saw there was a length of two by four under the Tote of Entrapment. Mumbling my frustration into the dank basement air, I dislodged the board and returned to my position behind the box. With another forceful shove I felt the box move smoothly toward the bottom of the basement steps.

I wrestled with the enormous tree, lifting and pushing and lifting and pushing every step of the journey. Near the turn at the top I caught my sleeve on the railing and for a moment I lost my grip on the monstrous, tree-filled box. I felt the tree slide backward. "No!", I cried. I could see I was close to the end of my battle. I couldn't give up now. I wouldn't give up now! Like a laboring mother who has just learned that her baby's head is crowning, I gave one more fantastic push and the tree sprang forth into the kitchen. Carried by the momentum of that fierce push, I charged through the kitchen and dining room yelling a war cry that sounded something like this, "GETOUTTATHEWAYGETOUTTATHEWAYGETOUTTATHEWAY!!!"

At last the battle was won! I was triumphant! I danced jubilantly around the living room while my children sang my praises and my dog cocked his ears, turning his head to one side. The children helped me to unfasten the box that held the tree captive. It burst out of the Tote of Entrapment with the same sound heard when opening a new two liter of pop. Freed from its plastic cage, we set it up in the corner of the living room where it now stands, obediently holding up strands of lights and brightly colored ornaments on its "lifelike" boughs.

Once again I have tamed the mighty beast. Another year...victory is mine!!

Behold awesomeness of the Green Giant:

And the Truth Shall Set You Free (Even Though You Smell Like Pee).

Fade in: My living room. Picture me cuddling with my seven year old and my nine year old daughters. Enter husband, wearing serious face.

"Honey, you'll want to come see this."

Me: *sigh*

I followed him to the kitchen, where my husband, soul-mate, sugar daddy said, "That's pee on the floor," as he made a grand, sweeping gesture with his hand. Yes, indeedily, it certainly was pee, and a good portion of the kitchen floor and a step-stool were covered with it. The dog hasn't hosed down a room like that in some time and quite frankly, the husband hasn't either. I knew who the culprit was by the fact that the dog wasn't the only pantless one in the kitchen. I looked at the guilty three-year-old Samantha and said, "Sam, did you pee on the floor?" She said, "Yes, but I said I was sorry." This surprised me (marking her territory on the linoleum, not her apology) and I asked her why she would do that. Sam looked up from cleaning her mess like a miniature Cinderella and said, "Well, I had to GO." ...Um...Yeah. Okay, that served me right for asking a three-year-old to explain herself.

Fast forward five minutes.

Back to the kitchen to refill my water. Seeing the monster of a dog, I give him a pat on the head as I pass. His head is damp. Wha...? *double take* "How did your head get...Oh, no." I smelled his furry melon and sure enough, that unmistakeable odor reached my nose. Lovely. Just lovely.

"SAM?!" *walks quickly to the living room where Sam sits watching t.v. with her sisters*

"Why is Brinkley's head wet?"

"He got it wet," said Sam.

"Yes, I know, but HOW did he get it wet, Samantha?"

Child makes up story quicker than you can blink..."He put his head in his water bowl."

I said, "No, his head is wet on TOP. How did that happen?"

Oldest sister Madison pipes up, "Sam, if you tell the truth you won't get in trouble." (Yes! Good thinking, Madison. That's how we'll get it out of her! I was just about to get the folding chair, rubber hose and a VERY bright light.)

Sam confesses. "Yes, I pee-peed on the doggy's head." (Mommy hides behind a pillow, giggling silently, thinking "Remember, you're her mother. Laugh later.")

"WHY did you pee on the dog's head?"

Sam, very matter-of-fact, shrugs her shoulders, explaining, "Because it was kinda FUNNY."

Note: Sam has apologized to the dog and promised not to pee on anyone ever again. Madison and I have recovered from our fits of laughter out of Sam's earshot and the floor and dog are once again, clean and pee-free. Thanks for your support.

NO means "NO" - A Lesson In Self-Control

Pizza seduces me. It tempts me with its slightly browned cheese and its rich and nommable tomato sauce. It whispers, "Eat me" and without hesitation I do. I can't help myself.

I was having a(nother) piece of pizza at dinner tonight, despite the annoying little voice that said,

"No, Erika. Put that back. You don't want another slice."

I ignored that voice and went for the second helping:

"Add more crushed red pepper! Mama-Mia, I like-a the spicy pizza!"

*shake-a shake-a shak-AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!! MYEYESITBURNSMYEYESOWOWOWOWOW!!!*

Yes. In my fevered frenzy of seasoning, the smallest particles of (really) crushed red pepper caught the wind of the ceiling fan and...I peppered myself.

Ow.

After about ten minutes of flushing my very sore, very red eyes under the bathroom faucet and cursing the employees of McCormick Spices and their offspring and their offspring's offspring and anyone who knew their offspring's offspring, I spent another ten minutes enduring watery eyes and an uncontrollably runny nose. I now understand what it is that pepper spray will do to an assailant.

I have learned my lesson. If I insist on forcing myself on the pizza, I MUST NOT ARM THE PIZZA. (Clearly, I was asking for it.) Better yet, I should steer clear of that Italian-American tease and never think of it again.

"NO" means "NO". I get that now.

I guess I didn't really want that piece of pizza after all. Now that I think about it, it probably had a parasite in its pepperoni.

(Ah-HA! Did you see what I did there? I rejected the pizza, it didn't reject me. I dumped it first, therefore I win. Humph!)

*quietly* Slut.