I didn't see that one coming. Fugly Sweaters and Power Tools.

I have come to the realization that I am not psychic.  I know it's true for a lot of people, but I never expected it to happen to me.   My psychic abilities begin and end with knowing just how full the kitchen garbage can get before it spills over into the cabinet under the sink.  And even then it's hit and miss.

But there was a time when I thought I could predict the future.  At least where the holidays were concerned.  I was clearly in denial.

Our first Christmas together as a married couple, I got John a cordless power drill. I was completely stoked and couldn't wait to give it to him.  You see, we are perfectly matched and because I LOVE power tools, my husband would undoubtedly love power tools too.  I knew this was the perfect Husband-y Man-type Thing for my beloved life partner.

I could see it all in my mind: he would open this fantastically shiny and useful tool and immediately declare that not only was this the best gift he had ever received, but that I was an even better spouse than he suspected I would be when he signed up for this whole crazy marriage thing.  I would smile sweetly, knowing full well the extent of my awesome as he bragged about this sweet drill that didn't even require an extension cord to use and me, his wonderful wife.

"Did you see what Erika got me for Christmas?!   Isn't it great?!  I'll be able to get shit DONE now!  How did she know?!  Man, she is the BEST. WIFE. EVAR!!"

That's not quite what happened.  Because I'm not psychic.

He opened it, looked at me and said, "Is this my real gift?"

Damn those delusions of grandeur!


Of course he didn't do any better.  One year I asked for a pink sweater.

Anyone who was psychic would have known that what I meant was that I would like one of those super-soft baby pink angora-type cardigans with the faux pearl buttons that were on all the mannequins at Braun's.  (Good God, whatever happened to Braun's?)

What I got on Christmas Day was NOT that.  At all.  Like, AT ALL.  It was indeed pink, as I requested, and made of yarn.  However.  It was Pepto Bismol pink with stripes of silver tinsel throughout.  And holy shoulder pads, Batman!  I could have played defense for the Steelers in that thing!

I suspected that somewhere a clown was naked and cold.

Now, I am not a completely ungracious receiver.  Please stop picturing Nellie Oleson.  I pretended to love the pastel holiday nightmare and actually wore it a few times. But it was hard to mask my disappointment that it was not what I thought I had so clearly asked for when I said "pink sweater".

I still futilely clung to the idea that one of us would be blessed with the gift of second sight, or at least a knack for insightful guessing.  I remember telling him that I didn't care what he got me as long as it was from his heart.  I said that he could get me a yo-yo and if it meant something it would always be special to me. Mistake.

That year I got a Duncan Imperial.

The lesson here, my friends, is that you must be specific.  Non-psychic spouses do not thrive on uncertainty.   You can't leave anything to guesswork.  Pictures help greatly.  Cut out photos and tape them to the toilet seat, and make sure you mark the exact color, size and number that you would like.  

Yes, it takes the surprise out of your holiday, but sometimes that's a good thing.   If you vaguely hint about something specific, and you and your gift-giving honey pie are as psychic as my husband and I are, you're probably gonna end up with a clown sweater.

Have you seen the children?

Why is it that whenever I pass a sign that very specifically states "Happy children at play" I never see any happy children about?  

Where are they? I mean, the abundance of happy children was obviously important enough at one time to warrant a sign, so what happened to them since its posting? Are the happy children missing? Did they grow up and move away? Am I the only one concerned about these children?

I drive past one of those signs at least once a week when I take my daughter to her friend's house and I've never seen even one child anywhere near that sign.

Wait, wait. I take that back. There was one time we passed a boy, about nine years old,  running through the grass with a large pair of scissors in his hand. HE looked happy. Deliriously happy, in fact. Until he saw us watching him, whereupon he stopped dead in his tracks and glared menacingly at us until we were out of sight.  

That was rather frightening.

You know, thinking about it, maybe that particular sign should be changed to "Unbalanced children with sharp objects". It would be more accurate at least.

And still I'm left to wonder what became of the other children. The happy ones at play.  

Have you seen the children??

ToeJam Sam and the Maxi-Pad Aisle

Hi, peoples.  I've got stuff to do today, so please enjoy this piece I wrote a few years ago while I try to find the top of my dining room table again.

ToeJam Sam and the Maxi-Pad Aisle:
I didn't know I wanted three children, but four and some-odd years ago, the urge to have just One More Baby gnawed at me until I finally shrugged, rolled over and ordered hubby to "just do it".   Bingo-Bango-Bongo, I got pregnant (yep, pretty much just like that).  I peed on a stick to be certain of it...on Mother's Day, no less.  Yepperooni.  Pregnant.   
Many moons passed.  Many many moons passed.  So many moons passed that I was beginning to think that I was living on the wrong planet.  This child was setting up shop in there for the long haul.  
I suspected that bambino knew it was wintertime and had hoped to hibernate until the weather warmed up a little.  I had visions of being pregnant forever with that kiddo all warm and toasty in the Womb For Went...*ahem*...RENT.  
So one day in January my doctor gave me a pitocin cocktail with an epidural chaser and a few hours later a very teeny person practically shot out of my vagina (that's "bajingo" for a few of you).  We named her Sam.  Our family was complete with three adorable little girls and the sky was full of lollipops and rainbows.  It was a Lisa Frank world.    
Let's skip a few pages of our story and bring us to the here and now.  We'll title this segment "Never a Dull Moment". 
Yeah, that says it nicely.  Sam is anything but dull.  She's the child who wants to name animals after breakfast cereals and body parts.  ("Cornflakes" was one and I won't say the other one, but it rhymes with Schmagina.) 
This is the same child that cannot watch a toy commercial without stating "I wanna buy that for my birthday" even when she's alone in the room.   This is the child that loves animals so much, she pees on their heads.  (I can just hear her some day, "Jeez Mom. I did that ONE TIME!!") 
The entertainment Sam provides us with is absolutely invaluable.   A trip to the grocery store is never boring.  Just this week, Sam was with me at Wal*Mart.   The surrounding area bustled with my fellow shoppers in search of their favorite shampoos, soaps and various scented shaving creams, when Sam's eagle eye spotted the familiar Always box.  Pointing, and using her I'm Outside And Just Too Doggone Excited About It voice, she exclaimed,
"MOMMY!  YOU BUY THOSE!  YOU PUT THEM IN YOUR UNDERPANTS WHEN YOU GO TO THE BATHROOM!!"  
Those are the moments that take my breath away.  Sometimes they take the breath away from other ladies shopping within earshot, whose shoulders hitch up and down as they try not to laugh loudly at what my daughter just said.  Bless their hearts.
Pardon me.  She just ran past the doorway...naked...with a can of Spaghettio's.   


Yeah, dull I don't get much.

White Sugar Bunnies of Christmas

As a latecomer to the 31 Day Blog Challenge, I guess I'll just pick up where the other, more timely bloggers are at this moment: March 4th.  Best Childhood Memory.

I have so many to choose from, it's embarrassing.  I suppose though, that my best childhood memory is actually more of a conglomeration of memories all lumped together into one giant ball of "OMG, I remember this song/feeling/candy/tv show/friendship pin/gold shoe/pair of earrings"...etc.

The memories that continue to make me smile come from that far away land of "The 80's".

I could go on and on with memory after memory, but since boring you to tears is not the assignment for today's blog post, I'll randomly select one from the file. 


White Sugar Bunny Ornament.


 There once was a bunny made of sugar that hung from our Christmas tree every year.  He didn't look Christmas-y at all, just a 3/4" thick cookie cut-out rabbit silhouette with sculpted eyes and a nose highlighted with pink paint, but the sugar looked like glitter under the multi-colored lights on our tree and I adored that ornament. I remember sitting under the tree looking up at it, mesmerized at the way it caught the light.  It was definitely my favorite.


And that brings the "favorite childhood memory" bit to a close. 

Since tomorrow doesn't appear to be "sad shit that happened" day, I'll tell you now that Bunny met his demise the year our beloved cat Mittens peed in a box of ornaments.  If you haven't seen what happens to a sugar ornament when it meets cat pee, you're better off.   Poor little bunny.  What a way to go.



What's your favorite childhood memory?