Santa’s Binge Watching _Bar Rescue_ on Amazon Prime

The newly seven-year-old boy stood stark naked on the arm of the green, overstuffed, comfy chair. Looking like a cow with a mouth full of cud, he slowly chomped the remainder of the Hubba Bubba Bubblegum tape Santa left in his stocking. He tried to grin but only managed a quick lip curl which dripped spit and revealed the giant pink glob. While chewing and proudly displaying his nakedness, he jumped and attempted to taunt me as I aggressively vacuumed the living room floor. His actual intention was tough to discern because his communication was mostly gurgled, drool-filled mumbles, but I believe he was threatening to spit the Bubblicious blob at me.  I felt the mischievous glint in his eye was clue enough; however, I ignored his provocation, repositioned the neck of my t-shirt over my nose, and continued sucking the floor (vacuuming while simultaneously spraying Vanilla & Blossoms Lysol and trying to keep your t-shirt up over your nose is no easy task). 

Moments earlier, I had discovered the Bubblegum Bandit involved in a nefarious dog wrestling ring: he was wrestling the dog in a ring he had outlined in the carpet.  Although the four-legged family member had been confined to a corner of the kitchen area, I was alerted to his unapproved relocation by the strange smell that wafted its way into the den where I was focused on perfectly placing delicate Christmas bulbs into a large, red, Rubbermaid storage container ($2.57 at Walmart). As I gingerly wrapped Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle balls (green ornaments adorned with googly eyes atop colorful ribbon masks) and unwound lights, my nose sensed something foul. It was a slowly accumulating awareness that, once the smell surpassed a certain olfactory threshold, became a shock and awe assault.

Pungent dog odor filled the room like tear gas. Even though he had just received a 4-star shampoo and soak in the tub, the hound generated a less than amiable scent; he’s kind of like a canine version of Pig Pen, never quite “fresh.” Usually spending his time outside, his fetid nature isn’t an issue; however, during the cold winter days he and his perpetual stank comes in. My “oh my God”s elevated from whispers to yells, and I abandoned the tree take down only to find the boy buried under the great fur that was my nasal malcontent.  The boy laughed and wiggled. Like a French chin flick, the dog’s tail rudely fanned more of the smell in my general direction. Mommy monster (kind of like the Hulk without the green or the muscles) then made her appearance. To the dog: “In_ the_ kitchen!” He quickly ran to his designated area. To the boy: “What are you doing?! Oh, my God! Oh_my_God! It smells HORRIBLE! Take off those stinky clothes and get in the bathtub right now! I told you that he wasn't allowed in….” The boy, peeling off his socks, interrupts the tirade with a scold: “Mom, you said ‘God’.” (If he only knew the words I was thinking.)

---And, with this evening event, so concluded our three-week Christmas “vacation.”

 Martha-Mode Carved Gourds

Oh, how the wonder of the season changes. In the beginning, there is baking and decorating, shopping and gift making. For me, the extra time is an opportunity to go into what I call my “Martha Stewart” mode. Without papers to grade or classes to prep, I can carve miniature gourds into ornaments and bake Pebber Nodders (traditional Danish cookies). As time slows and the holiday approaches, everything seems a touch more agreeable. The little boys and girls are on their best behavior because the big elf is on his way and the threat of “Santa is watching” is at its highest level of effectiveness. (Yes, I debated long and hard about using the belief in an imaginary creature to manipulate and how doing so may also solidify a strong commitment to materialism, but, in the end, after taking a mini-football strike to the head, I decided to forgo my lofty principals.) The glow of the hanging lights makes the winter world whimsical and the house is ever so cozy. It’s not odd to find yourself perfectly content watching Home Alone, Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, and even Home Alone 3. And, from the expansive Air Bud franchise, Santa Buddies (starring Christopher Llyod as the dog catcher curmudgeon) even manages to bring a slightly pathetic smile to your face.  Then, sometime after burning the peppermint-infused chocolate cracked cookie balls, wrapping presents until 1:00 AM, and building the 5^th one-thousand piece Lego kit, the mood changes.  How quickly the eggs are nogged and the merriment spent; the holiday sickness (like lovesickness) dissipates.

One day you're sitting in a warm, evergreen-scented room happily performing Web searches for a LEGO Gollum and hot toddy ingredients, and then, just a few days later, the monotony of life returns. Tasks are no longer sugar-plum fairy dusted. And, suddenly, you find that you're all out of turkey food and since you spent your last dollar on a LEGO Gandalf, you must scour the farm for some kind of grain. The Christmas whimsy is a distant memory as you precariously balance on a 5-gallon bucket on top of a straw bale trying to throw your snowpants-ed leg up onto the bed of an old Peterbilt truck (not an easy feat because the snow pants have become even more restrictive due to overconsumption of Nog and Pebber Nodders). Someone (possibly your father) told you that there might be grain in “that there truck” (he didn't say it like that, but you imagine it that way) and after all grain-on-the-ground searches produce nary a kernel, you feel it necessary to scale the Peterbilt.  After throwing a shovel into the truck bed and performing an action movie kind of jump and roll, you proudly stand, brush off the snow and prepare to scoop. Excited by the big grain prospects, you swing the shovel at the snow-covered mound. Then, suddenly, like a cartoon character, you find yourself rapidly and violently shaking from the intense reverberation of a great clang. The pile is only frozen dirt (or some other brown, farm related material).  Feeling defeated, standing in the truck, holding the still vibrating shovel, and receiving  frigid wind slaps to the face, you look across the tundra and the thought enters your mind: When the shovel hits the frozen ---- (well, you know), the grain is all gone,  and your snow pants no longer fit, the magic of the season has taken a deathblow hit.

Shortly after the big day, the “time off” becomes a routine-less, power-struggled filled, toy minefield dodging nightmare. Rationality and common sense are lost as one is sucked into some peculiar post-Christmas parallel universe.  The LEGO kits are partially dismantled and pieces are mixed in strange and unnatural ways. The LEGO King of the Dead signs autographs with the LEGO Aragon at a LEGO Lakers/Cavaliers game. A Mordor Orc is stuck in the net. The child constantly moans “I’m bored” and frequently tries to engage his mother in another game of Headbandz. Food prep is no longer a fun or creative activity. Hours are spent fashioning meat pies from frozen Pillsbury crust and ground turkey (not one of my turkeys, not because there was no grain). Making the pies is tedious and takes abnormally long because trying to guess the image on the card stuck to one's head (Headbandz) and watching the scullery maids’ desperation on every episode of the show Manor House can be kind of distracting. Television is no longer restricted to small, daily doses which adds to the insanity. It is neither wrong nor pathetic to stay up past midnight watching multiple episodes of Bar Rescue. There even comes a time when, for some reason, it seems like a good idea to watch the movie Labyrinth and the Steelers/Ravens game simultaneously. After switching back and forth between the gridiron and the Goblin King a few times, in a sudden moment of clarity (following a profoundly troubled look), the boy sighs heavily and loudly determines “Wow! That guy cannot sing! I just want to watch the game,” and the rest of the evening is spent watching “Roethslesshamburger” (the boy’s pronunciation) move a touch too slowly. (No offense to Bowie or Roethlisberger fans.)

"I Am A Bathtub."

Finally, during a much needed trip away from the toys and the TV, the surreal nature of the holiday break’s tail-end reaches its pinnacle, when zipping down a country highway trying to beat an impending ground blizzard, I happen upon a huge cornstalk bale blocking my lane.  And, instead of just passing by, I find myself stopped directly in front of the massive stock roadblock thinking of Per Hansa’s fate in Giants of the Earth (I won’t specify as to avoid a spoiler but crawling into a bale during a blizzard is involved). I snap a picture with my cell phone and wonder if the bale in my lane could be some kind of omen. Is there trouble ahead? Is this some kind of metaphorical warning for the new year? I squint and ponder and look around for a farmer. Then, I think “can turkeys eat corn stalk bales?”

    

And, just when it all starts to become unbearable—when the Bubblegum Bandit pushes it to the limit and the dog regurgitates a pheasant head on his designated rug (yes, that happened, and it happened after the stink ordeal), and sustaining turkey farts in the face while bending to retrieve frozen chicken eggs becomes commonplace (due to the birds’ out-of-the-ordinary diet –“nary a kernel”), and you believe it’s a good thing there isn't a gas oven in the house because Sylvia Plath begins to make perfect sense, it’s back-to-school time and there are only 352 days until next Christmas!