lump-a-coal, anyone?

Dear Family, Friends and Loved Ones,

I am writing today to apologize in advance for the fact that you will not be receiving a holiday gift from me this year. Please don't take it personally; it's not your fault, and I hope you know that you are extremely important to me. Unfortunately, I have exhausted all of my time and money on people I know and love far less than you.

First, there's the time issue. You may not have realized this but I am extremely popular. I have thirteen holiday parties to attend in the next week alone, each of which necessitates a hostess gift and more often than not, a covered dish that serves fifty to one hundred people. (Isn't the whole idea of a party to provide people with food? I can eat my own sausage balls at home without having to pay a babysitter or put on mascara. But I digress.) I will be enjoying these parties in between attending the kids' respective school Holiday Extravaganzas, dirtying my windows with faux-snow (which I'm hoping will distract the children from the fact that they're not getting a trampoline—again—this year), sweeping up a steady stream of broken ornaments, running thirteen miles a day in the hope of squeezing into the one fancy dress I own by New Years, baking bottomless batches of reindeer cookies (slice-and-bake, but still), working overtime to compensate in advance for the three days I plan to take off work while the kids are out of school, running back to the drug store for yet another roll of Scotch tape and every single day cleaning up at least one pile of tinsel-filled cat puke. So while I really care about you on a deep and profound level—and I certainly understand, theoretically at least, that my holiday energies should be directed toward my nearest and dearest—I just don't have time to shop for a personalized token of my affection for you. (I know, you pick up gifts all year long and stash them away so you can avoid this mess. Naturally you wrapped and shipped the entire haul by Halloween, too. I want to be like you, really I do. But I'm not.)

Even if I did have a spare hour to hit the mall or scour eBay, there's the money part. I don't have any. I'm not eating out of dumpsters or anything, but any disposable income I might have had has already been fully disposed of. I've written more checks this month than a politician does during an entire campaign and bought more useless trinkets than grandma probably owned in her lifetime. It may seem unfair, and it is: Unlike you, the recipients of these gifts do not love me unconditionally; in fact, I don't even know some of their first names. Nevertheless, a combination of obligation and fear has rendered me broke. There's my kindly mail carrier (I get a lot of mail and the man has never once given me a dirty look, even as he limps up my front path buried behind a stack of Pottery Barn catalogs), the trash and recycling collectors (who if recognized promptly and sufficiently tend to overlook the overflowing post-holiday bins and cheerfully whisk the excess away), my hairdresser (the woman is booked six months in advance but somehow manages to squeeze me in when I have a root emergency; can you blame me if I'm not willing to jeopardize this relationship?), our arsenal of babysitters (they put up with our kids and we are pretty sure they don't steal our stuff), the FedEx and UPS guys (both of whom have great legs, wear shorts all year long and bring treats for the dog), the gal who scrubs my toilet once a month (she scrubs my toilet!), the person of unknown age, sex and gender who faithfully launches our newspaper almost all the way to the front door in the darkest pre-dawn hours (I've grown fond of this luxury), my pedicurist (she bows in front of me wielding extremely sharp tools; do I need to say more?), the kids' teachers (and frankly if they don't deserve a little holiday cheer, I don't know who does) and of course the gardener (who actually saves me from having to tip a manicurist as well as a pedicurist, so in a way he's a wash). Thankfully, we walk the kids to school, or I understand the bus driver would be expecting a handout as well.

I do hope you understand, and if you've already bought a gift for me, feel free to return it, regift it, keep it for yourself or hang onto it until my birthday. Maybe your hairdresser might like it? Just a thought.

Love,
Jenna


p.s. You might be happy to note that I no longer have time to work out, so there will be no personal trainer walking around with the iPod you were hoping to get from me.

spring... broken

Ah, spring. Those deliciously long days. Glorious sunsets. Sleeveless tops. Tulips abloom everywhere you turn. Passover celebrations and frilly, impractical, dry-clean-only Easter dresses.

Two weeks off of school.

No, it's good. I mean, I can afford to take ten consecutive days off of work whenever the urge strikes. Really. After all, I'm just a writer. It's not like I'm a brain surgeon or anything.

"What the hell are you doing with your kids over spring break?" my friend Bethany demands. Bethany, you see, is a brain surgeon. For real.

"I'm thinking gymnastics camp or art camp," I tell her, flipping through pages of notes and crossing my fingers that neither of these little luxuries costs more than a week at Canyon Ranch.

Look, don't get me wrong. I love my kids. Adore them, in fact. And nothing would float my boat more than frolicking with them for a solid, uninterrupted week, preferably on an exotic beach. We just don't have the funds for that sort of getaway right now. Plus I'm up to my eyeballs in deadlines and really can't afford to miss a week of work. Because of this, I will have to muster the energy to respond to a string of inquisitions that all sound something like, "Why can't we go to Colorado/Cabo/the Caymans like Haley/Hunter/Hannah's family?"

Turns out, finding a singular ongoing activity that is age-appropriate for two or more children that said children are equally enthusiastic about is harder than finding a strapless bra that works without the addition of duct tape. Alas my youngest missed the age deadline for gymnastics camp (by a lousy, bloody, stinkin' week!) and my oldest doesn't want to do art camp. This is because she has her heart set on zoo camp, which again is not appropriate for her younger sister (who "definitely, definitely" doesn't want to go to zoo camp—never mind that she doesn't know what it is and can't go anyhow—so the point is mostly moot). Separate activities mean a) I'm still not getting any work done because I'm driving all over town all day, and b) there are no additional-child discounts, which to me is just a tragic waste.

So my kids are staying home this spring break. With me. I'll get nothing done, they'll watch more TV than I'd prefer them to see in a year's time, and hopefully we won't kill each other. If nothing else, it'll be good practice for summer.

VD, anyone?

Remember when you were dating, and Valentine's Day was a Big Deal? I mean, weeks of planning could go into that single evening. There was the sexy new lingerie you had to buy, along with the thoughtful token of your romantic affection, plus the best-you-could afford wine chosen specifically to accompany the sensual, home-cooked meal you planned to whip up (just as soon as you figured out—and this was without the help of Google, mind you—how the hell to make a prime rib). I won't even mention the weeks of ramped up workouts endured in an effort to dazzle in the aforementioned whisper of lace.

These days, at least in my house, the preparations are much simpler (Push-up bra? Check!) and the only thing being made in my kitchen is a dinner reservation. No longer do I fantasize about candlelit, champagne-soaked celebrations involving hours of intense eye-gazing; my heart-day hopes are pinned to a successful combination of a) landing a babysitter and b) not being too full to fool around after dinner.

We're so programmed by the Hallmark Holiday mentality that we actually fall for the hype. We buy dozens of boxes of chalky, heart-shaped candy and Disney-character cards for our kids to distribute so their classmates will know how much they care. We fork over ridiculous sums for overpriced foliage and prix-fixe dinners at fancy restaurants when in truth, we prefer tulips to roses and would honestly rather stay home and eat pizza in our PJs. We pretend to be thrilled to receive approximately 17 million calories worth of drugstore chocolate we don't really like and swear we won't touch but somehow wind up polishing off in a matter of days.

The U.S. Greeting Card Association estimates that somewhere in the neighborhood of one billion valentines are sent each year worldwide—85% of which are purchased by women. (Way to go, guys.) I haven't stumbled across any restaurant, flower or candy industry statistics, but I imagine they are equally staggering. And here's the irony of this so-called holiday: All that money, all that effort, is sort of meaningless because it's expected. He sees that relentless parade of diamonds-are-forever commercials, too, and knows he'll be in the doghouse if he doesn't do or buy you something.

I don't know about you, but I could definitely live without the forced affection. I'd find it infinitely more touching if my kids came home with a hand-picked assortment of weeds one random day in March, or my husband slipped a sweet, hand-written love note into my desk—unprompted by any official holiday or celebration—for me to find later at work. And honey, if you're reading this, just so we're clear: I'll take a diamond tennis bracelet any day of the year.

Piece o' cake!

I'm famous for my cakes. Actually, infamous is probably more accurate. Ask anyone who's been to one of my parties and they'll tell you my confections are consistently dry, suspiciously tilted, usually burnt on one side and batter-y on the other, and my icing "flowers" would more aptly be described as icing "turds." So you can understand why my children's birthdays can make me a little anxious.



I have friends who swear by those high-end bakery cakes, but—and go ahead and call me cheap here—a hundred bucks seems a slightly obscene amount to pay for some frosted flour and eggs. Besides, the kids only ever eat the icing anyway. If I didn't think the other moms would disapprove, I'd buy a case of Betty Crocker frosting, scoop a dollop into two dozen Dixie cups, add some plastic spoons and a couple sprinkles and call it a day.



Last year the birthday girl wanted a princess cake. Not just a cake with the likeness of a princess painted on top of it; no, she wanted one of those elaborate feats of culinary engineering where the plastic princess—that year, it was Belle—stands in the middle of her edible gown, its folds forming layer upon syrupy layer of decadent goodness. We'd seen one at a party, so I called the child's mom. Martha-Rachel Stewart-Ray (not her real name) informed me that you could buy everything you needed at the local craft store. "You made it yourself?" I asked incredulously. Pumped by the powerful combination of her impolite snickering and my own indignation (if Martha-Rachel could do it, then so could I!), I drove recklessly to Michaels and traded the cost of approximately two months worth of lattes for the Wilton Wonder Mold.



It wasn't until I got home that I realized that the doll figure torso (they don't even give you the whole doll!) that came with the mold was blonde—unlike my daughter—so I returned to the store and purchased a brunette head separately. Back at home again, I read the frosting and decorating instructions, which revealed I'd be heading back to the store yet again for some mysterious cake-topper known as fondant. At this point, I had well over $60 invested in my daughter's three-dimensional dessert, a figure which did not include the $350 cake-decorating class I would clearly need to take in order to assure the final result would be even remotely princess-like.



In the end I gave up, made one last trip to the craft store to return the whole lot and got a standard issue princess cake at Albertsons. It cost $17 and had four princesses on it. (With the money I saved, I was able to buy her a doll that had legs and everything!) Amid all of the other party festivities, there wasn't a single complaint. The birthday girl expected her friends to bring presents to her party. (They did.) These friends expected to get some sort of torched, sugary dessert in exchange. (They did.) Everyone was happy—but none of them happier than me.



And that, my friends, takes the cake.

The sound... and the fury

My husband is a great guy. He’s smart, funny, handsome. A great dad. Knows his way around a grill. Will watch America’s Funniest Videos with me. Can catch and kill mosquitoes in mid-air with one hand. For eleven years, night after magical night, I have lain beside him in bed, studying the strong curve of his face, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and mentally rehearsing exactly how I’m going to kill him.

He knows he snores, and he’s really, really sorry. He’s tried nose strips, throat sprays, homeopathic remedies, palate guards, ergonomic pillows. The man paid close to a monthly mortgage payment to spend a miserable night in a sleep clinic, where the doctors—upon vigilant observation—were able to rule out UARS (upper airway resistance syndrome) and OSA (obstructive sleep apnea). Eventually he was sent home with a diagnosis of MWCSBMSS (My Wife Can’t Sleep Because of My Snoring Syndrome), otherwise known as NMP (Not My Problem).

I really, really love him. And I probably definitely won’t actually kill him. Instead of lying in bed and seething and imagining, for instance, using his $200 postural-alignment pillow to snuff the last deafening breath out of him, I will close my eyes and envision all of the millions of men out there who have an even more annoying habit than his. If your guy hums while he eats or showers you with spit when he talks, please drop me a line. I’ll take all the support I can get.

Wood you know?

The other day the girls and I were at the park. We were sitting at a lovely, rough-hewn pine picnic table.

“Mommy, why does this bench have a hole in it?” five-year-old Sophie wanted to know, pointing at a spot where one of the knots had fallen through.

“Well, honey, what do you think this bench is made out of?” I prompted.

“Wood!” she replied.

“That’s right,” I told her. “And where does wood come from?”

“Home Depot!” she bellowed proudly.

And they say we’re raising a generation of consumers.

Little bag ladies...

I’m squished into a tiny bathroom stall at our health club with my two precocious daughters when the older one spots something irresistible.

“Mom, can I have it, please?” five-year-old Sophie begs, pulling the beautiful-to-her, faintly aromatic piece of waxy artwork from its wall-mounted sleeve and making a delightful discovery in the process. “There are lots of them! Sash, you want one?” she offers kindly, handing a duplicate to her three-year-old sister. “They’re bags! We can put all of our makeup and lip gloss and stuff in ‘em!” It is at this point she discovers that the rose motif is a multi-sensory experience.

“Sasha! Smell it!” she screams with glee. “It smells like perfume!”

“Can we have them mommy, can we? Can we? Please?” they plead in unison.

“Sure, okay,” I mutter, stuffing them into my gym bag. Well they are complimentary. “I’ll give them to you when we get in the car,” I add, not about to broadcast my children’s obvious fascination with feminine hygiene paraphernalia.

“But mom!” Sophie says suddenly. “What if someone has to puke?” This from the kid who’s stolen every air-sickness bag from every seat pocket in her vicinity on every flight she’s ever been on, with nary a second thought for any subsequently queasy passengers.

“They can puke in the toilet,” I tell her, shuffling them out of the stall. (Of course I don’t explain what it really is. The kid’s five. She’s got enough to worry about.)

“I’m going to make mine into a puppet,” Sasha announces in the car.

“I’m going to bring mine to school for show-and-tell!” Sophie one-ups her.

Note to self: Stop overspending on birthdays and holidays. Who needs a Wii when you’ve got a barf bag filled with Sweet & Low packets, a handful of straws and a half dozen sporks? Maybe we’ll get to take that vacation next year after all.