Sentences which may have been uttered in my house yesterday:

“I will make you care!”

“Fine! No electronics! No t.v.! No video games! No computer! Is that what you’d like?”

“Yes, you’re lucky that you’re nothing like Daddy or me.”

“DO YOUR WORK!”

“Stop arguing with me! Don’t say anything!”

“Your job is school! (I don’t get paid.) You get room and board! We let you live here, we feed you, we buy you stuff!”

“I AM NOT GOING TO ARGUE WITH A FOURTEEN YEAR OLD!”

“I think the boys need to go to Christian high school next year.”

Today is much better, thanks for asking. But my voice is a little hoarse.

Dear Stupid Driver:

Please use your turn signal when you intend to turn. Doing so will prevent me from freaking out and calling you names while I avoid crashing. Please! Use the blinker! The blinker is easy to use–just use your little pinky finger–and I promise, fewer people will be screaming at you if you simply display a little courtesy–and a tiny blinking light.

Sincerely,

The lady in the blue van

* * *

Dear Children:

Stop talking to me. Stop bickering. Stop tattling when your bickering turns into a brawl. Go away.

Love,

Mom

* * *

Dear Guy at Sports Authority:

You are not helpful. Thanks for nothing.

From,

The fortysomething woman with no make-up on who just wants to buy a bike

* * *

Dear Frangos:

I love you. Please, stay wrapped in your plastic until December 22 when I am done eating only the food on the PureFoods Fresh Start program. Don’t go away. Just wait for me.

Warmly,

The Chocoholic

* * *

Dear Cats,

Stop pooping. I don’t want to clean out your litter-box ever again.

Sincerely,

The Pooper-Scooper

* * *

Dear Manufacturer of Christmas Tree Lights,

My lights are dead. I bought them two years ago. What gives? Is this a conspiracy so I have to buy more every year? I am annoyed with you.

Ho-ho-no,

The Grinch

* * *

Dear Saturday,

Finally, we have a whole day to spend together. Let’s not be strangers. I’ll see you tomorrow!

Signed,

Stir-crazy near Seattle

Here is a sign of aging:  Thirty minutes after you wake up, as you plaster make-up on your face, you see that the sleep-wrinkles caused by your pillow are still plainly etched on your temple.  Hypothetically speaking, of course.

According to Ben Franklin, there is some virtue in going to sleep early and waking up early. But Ben Franklin didn’t have the Internet or electricity, so what did he know? How does it matter when, exactly, we accumulate our hours of sleep? Right? Can I hear an “amen”?

This time of year is so busy for me. I sang a song at the Church Ladies’ Christmas Salad Potluck last night . . . and for some reason, I wasn’t sitting quite at the center of the piano and thus, my hands were to the left and my microphone to the right . . . and then I could see someone watching me to my immediate left and somehow, I was distracted by all this. I was just happy to be done with the whole thing.

The funny thing is that I am on a 3-week preplanned eating program (see my other blog for details) and I brought my own salad. The lady next to me kept looking at my plate suspiciously, like she couldn’t quite figure out why I had one thing and not an assortment of salads like everyone else.

Sundays are always crammed full. My husband usually leaves by 5:30 a.m. and often doesn’t return until after dark. I spent the afternoon cleaning so that I could put up Christmas decorations. I have had the same fake tree for ten years now–ever since the winter I was 7 months pregnant at Christmas and decided I could not face struggling to make a real tree stand up straight in its stand.

However, after all these years, I am sick to death of my fake tree and plan to upgrade to a prelit fake tree–but not until I can buy one 50% off after Christmas.

So, I put all the branches on the fake tree while my 5-year old daughter harassed me. “Is it time? Is it time?” She was dying to hang ornaments. After all these years, I’ve learned to string the lights as I put on each layer of branches. Efficient, if not Martha Stewart approved. For whatever reason, two hefty strings of lights absolutely refused to light up. Odd, since they were purchased new after a similar dead light fiasco a year or two ago. I settled for a string of colored lights (put on first, before I discovered the dead colored lights), followed by white lights. I topped that with the only other lights I found, another string of colored ones.

The kids hung all the ornaments with no thought to balance or symmetry or beauty.

So my tree is a pathetic disaster, but if you squint your eyes, you can’t tell. So, squint your eyes.

I light a scented Yankee candle and you’d never know the tree was fake. So squint your eyes and breath deeply.

Now, continuing my backwards glance, let’s recount Saturday. On Saturday I took my daughter to a birthday party, a “princess” birthday party where all the girls wore princess costumes. (Long two hours for me!)

After the party, I ran errands–hello, CHRISTMAS IS COMING. I am so behind on the whole Christmas shopping thing.

Friday was the funeral in Seaside. I drove three hours each way. . . and didn’t even catch a glimpse of the ocean. I was in such a hurry to get home because we had plans to see a movie (“Bella”–great movie!). I was home for thirty minutes before we left again.

And now . . . Christmas is coming in three weeks. Three weeks? Three weeks. And then . . . it will be all over, time to take down the tree, donate it to Goodwill and live happily ever after. And turn 43! My birthday’s in January . Start saving your money so you can buy me something real nice.

Family pictures . . . does the thought strike fear into your heart? I spent a whole weekend in search of clothes that matched without being cutesy. We pulled our 9-year old out of school two hours early for the appointment. I gave my 5-year old tons of warning and emotional preparation, hoping that she would cooperate. The last time I took her to the photographer’s studio, she ran off crying. (She was three.)

But my mother-in-law called and told me she wanted pictures of the kids for Christmas and since my boys do school at home, they have no school pictures. And this was the perfect opportunity to schedule a family picture. Plus, I’m not as fat as I used to be (I’ve lost 55 pounds, you know). Do it now before my neck totally turns into a turkey waddle.

The photographer, Crystal, is the best. She’s fast, sweet, gentle, funny and efficient. Today I rushed to the studio to pick out the pictures. I had an hour to drive over, choose the pictures and drive home.

Oh. Hello, disjointed post! Did you know I’m working now? Twenty-two hours a week, until next week when I work 29 hours a week. In January, I’ll be up to forty hours a week. Yes, a full-time employee with (gasp!) benefits. And I work at home. How lucky am I? I know. Very, very.

But I’ve done no Christmas shopping. I think we might have to celebrate Christmas on Valentine’s Day. I’m just too busy. Friday morning at 6:30 a.m., I’ll be driving with my mother and my 101 and a HALF year old grandmother to Oregon to attend my aunt’s funeral. (My poor aunt was very ill for a long time.) Three hours there and back.

Disjointed!

So, the family pictures will be done in three weeks. How long until Christmas? My neighbor said the other day, “Oh look! Christmas is one month from today!” and I said, “TAKE THAT BACK!” Because, really. I’m not ready or even close to ready. I told the kids we’d decorate Friday, but now I’ll be in the back seat of my mother’s sedan for six hours on Friday, reliving what it was like to go on long car trips as a child.

One word, no, two words: Carsick sister. (My parents just gave her a coffee can to throw up in so we didn’t have to stop. And we were too poor for hotels, so my parents took turns driving day and night across the country . . . to Wisconsin from Washington state. Oh, yes. Fun.)

We had pizza for dinner tonight and it was rather ghastly, but only cost $5 a pizza. A bargain, right? Especially when you’re feeding teenagers who have hollow legs (as my dad used to say). Speaking of my dad, how can it be that he died three weeks after he turned 47 and my husband will turn 47 next summer? That is one weird time warp.

Incidentally, you should know that I don’t dance. At all. Ever. Dancing was a sin in the eyes of my childhood church. Some of the kids I went to church with even received permission to miss the square dancing unit in P.E., lest their souls be cursed, I guess. I personally square-danced, even though I was loathe to touch the sweaty hands of the junior high boys. So, I guess I did dance. But I don’t dance anymore because I have no innate rhythm.

But I can type really, really, really fast.

On the horizon, shining like a supernova, is Christmas. My five-year old cannot wait for Santa to land his flying sleigh on our snow-covered rooftop and deliver a gigantic load of toys in our living room. Nevermind the minor fact that we rarely have a rooftop covered with snow, especially on Christmas Eve. And nevermind the glaring major fact that we do not include Santa in our celebrations.

I have no personal grudge against Santa Claus, but I also have no photographs of myself ever sitting on his lap, nor did he ever give me a present of any kind.

Santa is like someone else’s uncle. I admire him from afar, knowing that he is said to be a jolly, kind, bearded man, but he doesn’t come to our family gatherings because he’s not our relative. We just don’t do Santa.

Angels in the Outfield hd

That doesn’t stop my kids, though. Each of them have gone through the fervent-Santa-believer stage of Christmas wonderland. My daughter suspects Santa is not real–she’s five, but she has older siblings who cannot keep the truth of these matters to themselves. Because she teeters on the brink of focusing on Santa Claus and presents–lots and lots of presents–I have begun my annual Let’s Remember Whose Birthday Is Coming reminders.

Yesterday, as we drove along, I said to my daughter, “You know, Jesus’ birthday is coming. That’s why we celebrate Christmas.”

“What does Jesus look like?” she says. “Does he look like God?”

Huh. I say, “Well, probably. Sure. But no one really knows what God looks like.”

And she says, “Does God look like an old man?”

“Well, God doesn’t have a body,” I say to her, knowing that I sound like a lunatic.

She pauses.

“So,” she says, “God only has a head?”

And here is what I should have said: “Go ask your father.” But I was too busy biting my lip to keep from laughing.

We spent Friday and half of today in Long Beach, Washington, relaxing with our friends. Last night, the full moon lit our way as we hunted for the tell-tale signs of razor clams under the sand.

Although we found only six clams total, two of my kids dug up four of them and every one had a memorable time.