Christmas Antics -Revealed

I know this is coming a day late. Everyone is probably sick of Christmas stuff and is ready to bring in the New Year. But I thought today would be a great time to reveal some of the Arnesons past Christmas antics. Especially since my kids are a bit older and Santa (who's never really been a big deal in our house to begin with) has pretty much been debunked. Tucker informed a few weeks ago that he's belief in Santa is more for my benefit than his. He noticed that Santa and Tom have the same style of handwriting, so he put two and two together. 


My kids have always had a tenuous relationship with Santa. They usually get one Santa present and when they were younger, it was the nicest one. We've always maintained our Christian belief and brought the kids up to give props to Jesus on his special day. So we try to make Santa a peripheral figure in the Christmas background. One Christmas, when Tucker was six or so, he thought the Holy Trinity was God, Jesus and Santa Claus. When I informed that it was God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit, he looked at me with his big brown eyes and a duh-mom expression on his face, he declared "Then what's the deal with Santa mom? He spies on you like God and doesn't give you presents if you're bad, which being bad is sinning." It took awhile to unravel that mess, but I have to admit from a six-year old's perspective his logic was sound. I told him Santa Claus is the Americanized version of the Dutch name for St. Nicholas (Sinter Klaus). Then I had to explain who St.Nicholas was, which led to what a saint is, and that led to why we don't celebrate saints' lives in our church, but yes Grandma Lizzy's church has saints in it. And true to my parenting style thus far, I over explained everything. 


Bridget has had a rougher time with the whole Santa thing, starting at age four, when I had the genius idea to put "reindeer" poop on our deck. I'm a creative, imaginative person and I want to foster that sense of wonderment in my children. Sometimes things backfire a wee, little bit. A co-worker of mine had llamas and another co-worker of mine would ask for a little baggie of poo to leave around their house as evidence of Santa's nightly visit. She had been acquiring llama excrement for several years now and her kids where thoroughly surprised and excited each Christmas. They would even leave carrots for the reindeer along with cookies for Santa. I asked the llama-owning co-worker to make a baggie for me to surprise my kids. It felt like a weird drug-deal. I met her at work in the parking lot, looking over my shoulder and fidgeting a lot, grabbed my zip lock baggie of feces, asked about storage and spreading procedures (I had two days to go with a bag o'poo that I really didn't want my four and two year old to find). Llama poo, for those curious about it, isn't very big, about the size of a date (like the noun version of the word, not the verb). I had a sandwich size bag of it nicely stored in my garage. On Christmas Eve night, after I had read "The Night Before Christmas" (an annual tradition that at ages 15 and 13 they still beg me to read), Tom and I, well me, since Tom thought the reindeer proof was weird and doomed to failure, donned the plastic gloves and dropped poop around the deck of the house. I went to bed, but hardly slept, the anticipation of excited children hung in the air making sleep impossible. At precisely 5:30am, my little ones woke up to a tree so full that it vomited presents. They checked to see if Santa ate his cookies and if the reindeer ate any of the carrots they left out. This was turning out to be a mighty fine Christmas. I encouraged Bridget to look on the deck, and she spied the reindeer surprise. Her eyes got wide and I exclaimed, "look Santa's reindeer pooped on our deck! Santa was really here!" Her little face got red and she put her hands on her hips and said "oh great mom! How could Santa let his reindeer poop on our deck and not clean it up? This is terrible!" She was horrified, but not nearly as horrified as I was that my four-year was quite indigent over the poop. Tom later pulled my side, thankful he didn't "I told you so," but thought it might have been better if we had used black licorice or something other than actual poo, because now we'd have to clean this up. I was still stunned that Bridget didn't find the whole thing endearing, but was mortified and still scarred by the whole experience eleven years later. I did have the privilege of further adding to her therapy bill concerning Santa.


So, Bridget has only written one letter to Santa, and Tucker, after seeing the result of thus-said letter has skipped on the opportunity ever since. She was seven years old and we had just moved from Kirkland back to Blaine. Tom took a huge pay-cut when we moved making that Christmas a bit tight. At his previous place of employment, Tom would get an extra paycheck as a Christmas bonus and he would go hog-wild with the presents. Tom and I were still trying to make ends meet after moving four months earlier. Bridget decided to make things easier for us by going directly to Santa himself for her gift needs. It was a nice letter, very polite. She asked how he was doing and then informed him that she would like a Nintendo DS. That was all she asked for. In 2004, a Nintendo DS  was ridiculously expensive, and there was no way Tom and I could afford such a gift for one kid. I didn't want the kids to worry about Christmas and all that good stuff, so I, in my infinite wisdom decided to head off this DS thing as quickly as possible, but still trying to maintain that wonderment thing I previously mentioned. I pulled Bridget aside that next morning in all seriousness (Bridget had me proofread her Santa letter before she had me send it off) and told her about what I had heard last night on the news. I informed her that Santa's elves were on strike. They were demanding health care benefits, more time off and extra pay since they work all year and only get one day off. They wanted to unionize but Santa wont let them. I would like to mention here that Bridget at age seven (and now) has always been a bit political and enjoys the news. She gave me that I-don't-believe-you-because-you-seem-to-enjoy-messing-with-me-90%-of-the-time look and asks why hasn't the morning local news reported on this new development at the North Pole. Dang. Wasn't expecting the seven-year-old to come up with that one. I quickly recovered with I heard it briefly on CNN and Santa can't get you a DS because he spending so much money on attorney fees and he had to hire a PR firm to keep the elves unionization out of the media. I think she finally believed me, because she asked me all kinds of questions on why wouldn't Santa want to give the elves health care and it isn't fair that they work all year around and Santa only works one night, somehow this led to illegal immigration and child sweatshops in Indonesia. I'm not sure how much of this creative lying has affected my kids, they seem pretty normal. Bridget is home-schooled, so maybe not that normal. Well, there you have it. Arneson antics revealed for all. Okay, not all our antics. Just the Christmas ones. I still have plenty of stories on my awesome parenting tactics to blog about :)

My Own Bedford Falls

So last Sunday I was feeling a bit under the weather. More precisely, I was cranky as heck with stuffed up sinus and coughing nasty things from my lungs. As I laid in bed miserable, I thought this would be the perfect time to watch "It's A Wonderful Life" with my son.  This is mine and Tucker's go to sick-day movie. This and Star Wars. Since it was the holidays and I was borderline crossing over to the darkside, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to view this holiday classic.

 I'm sure everyone is familar with the plotline. If you aren't, what rock have you been living under? Basically guy thinks that everyone would be better off without him, so he contemplates ending it all. Of course, God intervenes by sending an angel who shows him what his life and everyone elses would be like in an alternate universe Bedford falls. Turns out George Bailey was one heck of guy who helped out a lot of people and the world is a better place with him in it. Now, I'm not saying that I'm a heck of girl and the world is a better place with me in it (insert nice comments about me here), but I do try and that should be worth something.  I have seen "It's A Wonderful Life" close to a million times, but this Sunday was the first time I've noticed how similar my life is with George Bailey's. He is one frustrated dude. 

George had some big dreams. He wanted to travel the world, make a million dollars and more importantly, leave Bedford Falls. He didn't want to settle into the life his father had, working hard for nothing, raising a family in a small town. If you had asked my twenty years ago what my life would be like, I would've said "I'm a famous author!" or "I'm a famous actress!" (I couldn't decide at 14 what I wanted to do more, write or act). I definitely didn't think I would be living in the same small town I grew up in.

But here I am. In Blaine. My Bedford Falls where everyone knows me, which is a blessing and a curse. I'm married to a great guy (like the male version of Mary. Gentle, and deals well with my mood swings), I have two great kids and my job isn't too bad. I'm not famous, unless being Bridget and Tucker's mom counts as fame (personally, I think it should). Sometimes, I think I haven't done anything big in my life, then I look at my family and realize I probably have.

I finished watching the movie and Tucker, my 13-year-old who is full of wisdom (and does a pretty good Jimmy Steward impression) declared, "This is my favorite movie, because George Bailey got see what his life would be like if he wasn't alive, and then he got see all the he accomplished and what God gave him in his life." We probably wont see the impact we've made in this world until the end. I don't know how my life affects those around me each day. I do want the people I come in contact with to be able to laugh and feel good about themselves. I always try to give a friendly smile, if only to get one back in return. And like George, I've come to appreciate my Bedford Falls and the people who live in it. It really is a wonderful life. Okay, I know this was a bit cheesy, but I'm still getting over a cold and am all kinds of emotional right now. :D

Now Introducing My Imaginary Friend-Jack Johnson

Well, maybe imaginary friend is pushing it a little. It's not like I talk to some invisible person named Jack Johnson and ask his opinion on the U.S. economic crisis. Not often anyway. I more or less have this completely benign fantasy where Jack Johnson is one of my best guy friends and we hang out all the time at the beach with my hubby and friends. After a long day of imaginary surfing (I am the best imaginary surfer in all the world BTW), Jack Johnson whips out his guitar and we all sit around the bonfire in our baja hoodies--which are a bit itchy--just chillin'.  I find this imaginary(but highly awesome)scenario pops into my head when a)one of Jack Johnson's songs comes on the radio or b)I may have had a bit of a stressful day. Most often that not it's a, except for finals week when I was college.  My husband is fully aware of my imaginary relationship with Jack Johnson, occasionally taunting me with "if you sell a book and make a lot of money Jack Johnson might be more willing to play his guitar at our beach parties." The Jack Johnson I know isn't impressed by material gain, he's all about the salty surf and riding the waves man. 

On more than one occasion I might have imagined Jack Johnson either married to my sister-in-law or my younger sister. Both are nice girls, but Jack Johnson is married with three kids, and as much as I love my sisters, I can't in good conscience break up a happy home.  I've already invented two really nice brother-in-laws that I hope they'll one day get to meet.

So if you see a girl with frizzy red-hair walking around with a far off look in her eye, it more than like is me hanging out with my imaginary friend, Jack Johnson.

I'm A Geek

It's true. I am a geek. I used to be in geek denial but that changed when my husband outed me from the geek closet--he's the king of geeks, he took a quiz to prove it-- and since then I've been letting my geek-flag fly. I love all things Star Wars, except for the ill fated prequels (I'll save my opinions on that one for another blog). I do like Star Trek, but will never admit it in certain company. The animosity between Star Trek and Star Wars is greater than the beef between Biggie Smalls and Tupac.

There is something about geeks you should know. We tend to categorize and judge other geeks harshly. Not all geeks are this severe, but know that there are some tough geeks floating around, and you better have your facts straight about the best gaming systems, tech-speak, and comic book story lines or its a hard fall down the geek ladder. Right now I hang around the lower rungs, mostly because I'm a drama, movie, sort-of comic geek. The upper echelon of geekdom is the tech-geeks.  These are the nameless IT guys that hang around your office or work for corporate retail chain stores (you all know whom I'm talking about). They often play devils advocate and generally try to make you look like an donkey's behind. They throw the word "logic" or "logical" around a lot. They're a bit spockish as a people. A drama geek like me, well, we're more of a Captain Kirk; brave, good-looking and emotional. I know, if I'm a Kirk don't I outrank Spock thus putting me higher on the ladder? Yet again the ability to problem solve a blue screen of death escapes me. I'm too busy working on a skit to put up on YouTube. 

So it was a room full of Spocks that brings to the nightmare I experienced last night. I had a dream I was in a giant comic book shop. Yes, I know, it's not bad right now,just stay with me because the nightmare part is coming up. I'm looking at all the fun things geeks like to collect when someone comes up to me and tells me the costume contest is starting. Next thing I know I'm dressed like Thor--the comic book hero, not the Norse God of Thunder, although it's the same thing really only one looks more Norsey--not only am I dressed like Thor, but it's a Halloween costume (a big no-no in dress alike contests among the geek elite. It's a carefully, 1800-hour hand stitched replica, or you had enough cash to purchase the actual costume on eBay). Even worse, there is a Q & A portion to determine whom possess the most Thor knowledge.  A cold sweat envelopes me, since I only have movie version knowledge of Thor. I still refer to the hammer in my dream as "meow-meow." Movie knowledge is a big faux-paux amongst comic fans, since the movies "loosely" interpret key story lines condensing ten years of drama into two hours. Most movie directors (I'm looking at you Bryan Singer) tend to mutilate the comic beyond fan recognition and we use that as a test to determine the true fans from the fake ones. I walk onto the stage and before me is a sea of judges dressed like Spock. I shoot out of bed in a terrifying scream. I relayed this dream to husband, who sympathetically patted my head and told me it would be okay. I'm still a bit shaken. It was worse than a naked-in-school-on-test-day-and-I-forgot-the-answers dream I usually have.

So, this is basically the type of stuff I'll be blogging about. My geekishness and my internal strife with humanity.