Holiday Commercialism and Totino's Pizza Rolls

A common theme voiced throughout the fall and winter months is that we're all sick to death of the commercialism that the holiday season brings.

So my question for you is this: What can you do or do you already do to counteract the commercialism brought into our homes via television, internet and written media? How do you make the holidays about something other than "what am I getting" and "I want that"?

I know for my family, we use it as a time (at least for our nuclear family) to be together, showing each other how much we value one another and enjoying the season for its beauty. We love the snow, the cold, the perfect blue sky (on those days when the sky is blue and perfect), the lights, the warmth of the house, seasonal foods, etc.

We have our own family traditions like lighting a red candle in the middle of the dinner table throughout December. While we enjoy our meal together, we go around and tell one great thing that happened to us that day or something that made us smile and made us feel blessed. This year we are planning to open any cards we receive at dinner as well.'

Each year my girls and I watch the movies I grew up with: all those wonderful Rankin and Bass productions, George C. Scott as everyone's favorite crotchety Ebenezer Scrooge and of course my Emmet Otter and his holey washtub.

We got hooked on The Polar Express a few years ago and every year we fall into making fun of the commercials we see. I guess that's our way of working commercialism in as a source of amusement. Last year it was an advertisement for Totino's Pizza Rolls. (Shut up, Nicholas!) It stuck with us all year long and still brings a laugh every time someone mentions them. So I guess for us, in a way, we prefer not to have our holidays commercialism-free, as some of our holiday traditions are the direct result of commercials!

While the holidays do find us huddled around the warmth of the flat-screen TV for a large portion of December, they also bring us together to be entertained and laugh with each other and that doesn't cost a thing.

What do you do to make the holidays more about family and less about the gifts?

Indecent Proposal.

This is an older piece, but it still makes me giggle.

At bedtime tonight my three-year-old says, "My bottom hurts."

Me: "It does? Why?" (I know the answer.)

Three year old: "Because I didn't wipe it enough."

Me, nodding, "Oh. Well, what should we do now?"

"Make it better," she says.

"Okay," I reply, "Can you bring me what I need?"

"Yes! Shoo-were! I'll get the Andy Owntment!" (That's A&D Ointment to anyone over the age of three.)

"Okay, sweetie. Hurry back."

Time passes and as I finish tucking the older two into their beds, Three-Year-Old enters the room without the miracle-working, bottom-soothing, baboon-butt cure-all.

Me: "Samantha, couldn't you find it, honey?"

Three Year Old shrugs and says, "Well, I found THIS."

*cue giggling from the other two*

I look at the older girls sternly for a moment and then back to Three-Year-Old.

"What will that do?" I ask.

"Fix it," she says, clarifying, "Tape it." (Her tone seems to imply that Mommy is completely daft...Really, Mother.)

*raucous laughter from seven and nine year old roommates*

"Oh, I see. Well, honey, we can't fix bottoms with tape...

(snicker)

...and that's a CASSETTE tape."

*sigh*

Ew! Mommy Nasty! - the holiday Kiosk Sniper Story

My kids still ask me to tell the story of "that one time at the mall."

I am only too happy to oblige, and it goes a little something like this:

I was at the mall with the spawn, heading toward the exit when a woman approached me. I know I never should have made eye contact, but she wasn't standing right near her kiosk, so I was caught completely off guard when this woman I'd never met before stepped out and asked me what brand of hair straightener I used. I had flat ironed my hair that day (a mistake I won't be making again) and I totally thought she was complimenting me for real. This woman then beckoned me over to her little shop of horrors.  I blame being hungry and tired on my inability to say no, because I followed her like an obedient lap dog.  You would have thought she had enticed me with a fistful of bacon. Mmm...bacon.

She led me to her stand, where I thought I'd hear a little blurb about how great this new hair straightener is and instead I found myself with a gigantic glob of Dead Sea Salt Exfoliant on my hand. 

"Let us rub that in", she said quickly.  

Holding my hand over a white plastic bowl, she played twenty questions with me, asking me my name, how old I was, if I had a husband, how long we've been married and whether or not I was gainfully employed while she exfoliated the everloving crap out of my arm.  Oh, she was good, this one.  She had me right where she wanted me: wet and trapped.  I knew she had a towel hidden there somewhere, but I couldn't see it and I wasn't too keen on the idea of walking off with one hand covered in this weird Dead Sea Salt scrub, so I remained her captive customer.  She then showed the children and me just how terrific this product was as she hosed my hand off with a spray bottle of water.  

Then...it got gross. And weird. And actually sort of rude.

She laughed loudly as she told my children, "Look how NASTY Mommy is!" and how "Mommy need a shower!", while surveying the depths of the white plastic bowl which was now full of water and my dead skin.  

Um...ick...and WHAT?!  Did she just say that, really? 

I think we were all more than a little taken aback that she actually said those words in her sales pitch.  "Nasty" and "needs a shower".  Yup.  Well, that'll sell a bundle of this shit, right?  Absolutely.  Give me 100 units right now!

I was offered a few backhanded compliments for my trouble as she lathered my arm up with her magical moisturizing lotion: "Your oily skin is a gift from God."   My what is a huh??    Lady, are you kidding me with this? 

Mesmerized by the audacity, I stayed planted on the spot to listen to what else she found hideous about my apparently troll-like skin and greasy, gunk-filled pores, while my children stood by and helplessly watched the drama unfold, their eyes big as saucers.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.  I had accepted her free presentation with good humor and didn't bloody her lip when she basically told me I was too grotesque to be walking around with normal people.  It was time to end this before one of us got hurt.  

In an effort to bring about the end of my Trial by Esthetics, I asked, "How much?"

I don't know how they train these people for this stuff, but they do have a knack for it. We got the rundown of a professional salesclerk and were told that the skin of a princess could be all mine for the "low price" of $250.  Jeez, for THAT, I could buy actual princess skin and make myself a princess suit!  

She sensed my apprehension and suddenly, as if by magic, the Discount Gnome came along and bippity-boppidy-booped the entire line of skin care down to $125.  I don't know how she did it!  Amazing!

Still too pricey for my blood, I declined to purchase her wares.  Maybe her brother needed a new kidney or maybe it was costing her too much to keep fuzzy Uggs on her little feetsies this winter, because she was not giving up.  She was so intent on making the sale, that she whipped out that magical Discount Gnome again and this time the price poofed from $125 to a mere $39.99 for two of the four miracle working products with the additional promise that I could come back tomorrow and get the other two for $15 off the price. 

Wait, what?  Was that $15 off the original price or off the discounted price? 

Ah, forget it.  Doesn't matter anyway.  Somehow I managed to peel myself from her evil clutches and escape with my children, my one soft arm and what was left of my dignity.  

Later, while I was at the grocery store, I bought a jar of really good-smelling dead sea salt exfoliant and a bottle of super-hydrating princess skin lotion (probably not made with real princesses). 

The price?  Just twelve dollars. 

Eff you, Kiosk Sniper.


(I should have punched her in the throat, right? Tell me the truth:
What would you have done if it was you?)