Toy Story Redux

December 13, 2010

Greetings from Pre-Holiday Crazytown.  Surely you’ve been there, or perhaps you are even visiting right now.  My stay here will last about two weeks, during which time I may implode.

Big work deadlines.  Hosting 20 people for Christmas.  A not-really-decorated house.  An intimidating shopping list.  And more big work deadlines (bah humbug, Corporate America).

If I did yoga, this would be where I’d insert some appropriate term to describe how I should be clear, calm and focused.  Instead I just had my third cup of coffee and wish I still smoked cigarettes.

In my travels through this land of madness, I went to Toys R Us on Friday night.  No, I wasn’t thinking clearly.  Yes, I regretted it immediately. 

But there was an upside.  In my sort of punchy and way overtired state, I really got a strange kick out of some of the toys on the shelves.  Let me break from my insanity for a few minutes to share some of my amusement.

Item #1:  Barbie Glam Vacation Jet.  So, for those of you who wondered how Barbie fared coming out of the recession, don’t worry.  She’s living large and travels exclusively by private jet now.  I guess she ditched the motorhome of my childhood years, moved on to the convertible and then either met a very handsome multi-millionaire or did a hard-core renogiation of her contract with Mattel.  Either way, well played, Barbie.  And if you’re wondering who the brunette is on the packaging, it must be her new and opportunistic BFF who has latched on to the jet-setting lifestyle.  Or one of the Kardashians.  (As for Barbie’s whereabouts, those are her feet on the far right-hand side of the photo — I couldn’t get the whole box in the shot — but she is sipping drinks in the cabin with her seat definitely not in the upright position). 

Item #2:  The McDonald’s Drive-Through Center.  First of all, it was news to me that McDonald’s has a whole line of toys.  So, not only can you get this fabulous set, but you can also really pimp it out with a host of fast food and other accessories (the cash register and, of course, the McFlurry maker) for the full Golden Arches experience.  Trust me, I’m not all sanctimommy when it comes to fast food, but this just seems, well, a bit off.  I don’t need my toddlers knowing about the McRib just yet (I fear it myself).  Or a deep fryer.  Maybe it’s just me.

Item #3.  The 100% Official Simpsons Super Donut Factory.  Doh!  Now we’re talking.  I could make a case to bump an Easy Bake Oven from any kid’s list in favor of this find.  I’m waiting for them to add the Kwik-E-Mart toy that produces Squishees.  Next year, Santa — please!

If you guys have others to add, please share.  I need the entertainment. 

And now back to my regularly scheduled chaos.

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Christmas Music Confessional

December 10, 2010

It’s true — I love Christmas music.  But that’s not the confession — the confession is that some of my favorites are cheesy.  Extremely cheesy.  And I know I’m not alone — it’s just something nobody talks about openly.  A dirty little secret, if you will.

But, look, I think we all get a pass when it comes to Christmas music.  And I’ll go out on a limb and tell you my favorites if you tell me yours.  Deal? 

(This is feeling like a precarious one-way agreement right about now, but I’ll go ahead and trust you to play fair.  Here we go.)

  • I’ll start out safe and lead with John Lennon’s “Happy Christmas (War is Over).”  This song kills me.  Tears — every time.  Gorgeous and sad and sweet.  As long as John & Yoko weren’t singing it naked in bed — that would ruin it for me.  If you want to veer this song into cheesy territory, it’s just one remake away with Neil Diamond’s cover (I’m not a fan of that one.  Trust me, I can do cheesy — as you’ll soon see — but I need the original in  this case).

 

  • “Do They Know It’s Christmas?”  As a child of the 80s, I won’t even bother apologizing for loving this song.  It’s my birthright.  I remember my sister getting the 45 single (gulp) and we played it over and over.  And the video — Sweet Jesus.  I. Loved.  It.  My friends and I would make sure we knew which artist was singing which part and we especially held our breaths for the killer solos by Simon LeBon and Bono (the latter still being my favorite part of the song).  I just looked online at the full Band Aid roster of singers and I think I feel my leg warmers falling down.  Kool and the Gang?  Really? YouTube Preview Image

 

  • Apparently nobody comes home for Christmas and there are all kinds of ways to sing about it.  In that theme are two of my favorites — similarly titled yet very different songs:  “Baby Please Come Home for Christmas” and “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).”    Both of these have multiple versions, but on the first song I like the Eagles and the Aaron Neville covers the best.  On the second, there is no comparison to the old Darlene Love version  — but the U2 version is also great.

 

  • Veering further into total holiday depressive mode — I love, love Joni Mitchell’s “River,” even if it makes me want to jump out of a window in utter despair.  And — cheesy alert:  There is a little-known remake of this song that is sung by, of all people, Robert Downey, Jr.  Apparently, he sang it during one of his guest spots on Ally McBeal and it’s fabulous (the cover, not the Ally McBeal episode).  The man can sing — and I just love him overall, so there’s that.  Say what you will.

OK I’m saving my truly cheesy favorites for last.  And I’m really hoping someone is going to come to my defense on these. 

  • I can’t even talk to you if you can’t get behind Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne.”  No, I’m not joking.  “Met my old lover in the grocery store — The snow was falling Christmas Eve…”  Yes, that one.  Fucking kills me.

    • ?

And, finally, some real risky choices to tie this up.  Strangely, both of these last two songs have the same name but are entirely different.  So, under the category of “All I Want for Christmas Is You”…

  • This one is a family favorite but not terribly well-known, unless you are one of the five global members of the Vince Vance & the Valiants Fan Club.  I have no idea what else they sing — I think they are a country outfit — but what a great song, released in 1989.   It’s got a twangy, sort of retro feel.  And it’s pretty cheesy.  Bring it! ?
  • Lastly, yes, I’ll say it.  I love the Mariah Carey song.  I know, I know.  Cheesy.  But I’m owning it.  I’m not typically a Mariah fan but there is something about this song.  It reminds me of the old Phil Spector Wall of Sound  (and if you don’t know what that is, then you have no business shaming me for my song choices — that’s a fair deal, I think).  And after all the other downer songs I listed, it’s nice to have an upbeat, (almost) happy one in the mix.

So there you go — those are some of my holiday favorites, in no particular order.  Honorable mention to The Ramones’ “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight),” Ella Fitzgerald/Louis Armstrong’s “Baby It’s Cold Outside” and The Beach Boys’ “Merry Christmas Baby.”  I may add more later.  But in the meantime, who’s going to play nice and tell me theirs?

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To The North Pole, Via NJ

December 3, 2010

My son is a serious train nut.  All day long, he talks of pistons, buffers and coal tenders — words I never breathed before he was born but now have a prominent place in our house.  He obsesses over which trains to couple together, which engine will make the delivery to the quarry and which one  will bring the children in the passenger coaches, over the mountain, to the party (whose party, he hasn’t said).  He wakes up thinking about this stuff.  It’s pretty hard core.

And while Thomas & Friends are his usual trains of choice,  he also loves The Polar Express.  So, off we went to ride the New Jersey version this past weekend.

The whole set-up is really cute  — it’s an old train (a diesel engine, as my son will specify) on a railway line that they run for special occasions, like the Thomas ride we took over the summer.  For The Polar Express, they had the cars all decked out with Christmas lights and decorations.  A lot of kids — and some parents — wear their pajamas.  The audio version of the book plays over the speakers and they have folks come through the cars and serve the kids cookies and hot chocolate.  Santa comes through each car too and the kids even get the little bell from the elves. 

It’s all very sweet.  And waaaay too long. 

Two hours is an eternity to hold any kid’s attention under the age of five.  And, since I was far from the only guilty party bringing small kids to this event, you end up with a train full of very antsy, very impatient kids once the novelty has worn off.  Our son was pretty good — mostly out of train intoxication — but bringing the baby (she’s 16 months) was like being on a flight around the world without buying her a seat.  Our bad.

While she was deciding what damage she could do (to the train and to us), our son, armed with his copy of The Polar Express book, followed along with the story — perfectly content. 

Until his sister went after his cookie.

She’s tough, but he prevailed — and (some) order was restored.  He got a shiny new train from the gift shop to occupy him for the remainder of the never-ending ride.

And the 16-month old ran the aisles with alternating parents, until she (and mostly we) finally tuckered out a bit.

What a trip.  We may, in fact, have gone as far as The North Pole — or so it seemed.  Great in concept, long in execution. 

Oh, and for the suggestion box:  Put some wine in those hot cocoa cups for the adults.  Because surely we’ll make the same trek next year in the name of holiday tradition — and parental amnesia.

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Filed Under: Family, Holidays, Places Near and Far 2 Comments

Look What Santa Brought

November 29, 2010

Did I mention that one of my less glamorous holiday season tasks is to really tackle the basement purge?  We made some headway with our ill-prepared garage sale in October, but we are going to bring in contractors to properly finish the basement after Christmas and that means it has to be cleared out. 

I thought this might be motivating.

Isn't it pretty?

The name really says it all.

I’ve given P a choice — move his stuff into this lovely pod or take up residence in there.  I know the latter choice sounds mean, but in reality, it’s probably not much smaller than our first NYC apartment — he would really be just fine.  Yes, I do joke with him that he’s a borderline hoarder, but let’s just clarify now — he’s not — well, at least not reality show-worthy by any stretch.  And, yes, I’m becoming increasingly Type A  — so the ever-present boxes of old stuff aren’t so funny anymore.  Time to throw. the. shit. out.

Obviously I’m in the holiday spirit — threatening my husband and obsessing over a clean basement.  I’m great at parties. 

While visions of a clean basement dance in my head, I know it will take a while — I’ll keep you posted, if for no other reason than to keep us accountable.  In the meantime, maybe I should go back to more traditional merriment like making pie, drinking wine and Cyber Monday purchasing now.  Ho, ho, ho.

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Filed Under: Holidays, Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 3 Comments

The Day After

November 26, 2010

Sometimes tradition gets a little warped along the way. 

I’m referring to one of my favorite days of the holiday season, which is today.  Not because it’s Black Friday, but because it’s the day when my dad’s side of the family celebrates — in our own special way. 

This started when my aunt and uncle were in the restuaurant business.  They always had to work on Thanksgiving so they started hosting their dinner on Friday instead.  Yes, we have the whole turkey dinner, lots of friends and family, great conversation, tons of cocktails. 

But we also have a dirty little secret — an annual night of highly competitive and somewhat unorthodox gaming.  Catch Phrase is our Thanksgiving game of choice (come Christmas, I’ll cover Extreme Charades).

The instrument of competitive holiday evil

Quick primer for those who don’t know the game.  Basically, this disc of terror beeps with increasing frequency as it’s passed around a circle, while each person has a turn, and the opposing team gets a point if you’re left holding the game when it buzzes.  Your turn requires you to look at the word you get on the screen and describe it to your team mates until they guess it.  Sounds easy, right?  Wait until you’ve had four glasses of wine and a near-tryptophan overdose while trying to convey “Leningrad” to your equally disadvantaged team mates.

This all seems harmless enough on the surface.  But I need to reiterate that it’s *highly* competitive.  As in, yelling, screaming and utter intimidation — all in the name of advancing to the championship round (yes, we have so many people that we use a bracket tourney set up) and ultimately claiming the title.

Yeah.  We’re out for blood. 

The hard part is the arrival of a few newcomers every year.  These poor people — they arrive for a nice holiday meal and maybe they’ve been told we’ll play a game afterwards.  How sweet. 

Bwahahahaha.

Meanwhile, my cousin, my sister’s boyfriend and I are sizing up the newbies over dinner — their overall global knowledge, speed of response and academic background (would asking for transcripts be too much?). Because the teams are randomly drawn, you can really get hosed by having a new player on board.  Or my Aunt J.  She’s an awful player — truly — but she’s the hostess, so there’s a required level of acceptance/resignation that applies only to her.  A highlight of her Catch Phrase career was calling out “Uncle Ben’s Tavern” instead of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”  It’s true. Then there was my cousin’s neighbor who thought “Lasagna” was “Los Angeles.”  That one really cost us dearly and I have lobbied to never allow him to come back.  What a shit head.  If my kids ever turn into such a Catch Phrase liability, I’ll be so upset.  I have to start training them young.

Keep in mind that this all happens while wearing required, hand-crafted headgear to designate your team affiliation (Pilgrims vs Indians, Santa vs Reindeer, etc). So just picture some tipsy, screaming, competitive lunatics with homemade headgear and a beeping Catch Phrase disc.  It hits a fever pitch at the championship round with all eliminated teams gathered around as spectators.  I’m pretty convinced you can hear us down the street.  Really.

Anyway, it has been a few years since I was on the winning team but I’m feeling pretty good about 2010 — as long as I don’t get any dumb-ass newcomers.  Wish me luck.

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When Tradition Goes Up in Flames

November 25, 2010

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
To warm your hearts, please gather ’round the virtual fire to hear one of my favorite — if not one of the strangest — Turkey Day celebration stories, as told to me by its participants.   All parties shall remain nameless to protect their future eligibility to run for public office or secure employment.

Picture a family with three adult sisters — we’ll call them 1, 2 and 3 to make it easy.  This family is in a weird place — the parents are in the middle of an ongoing divorce, the mother is dealing with some health issues and Sister 1 is on yet another infamous hiatus from her boyfriend.  There was a general lack of merriment all around this family, to say the least.

Sister 2 decided to host the Thanksgiving festivities at the place she shared with her boyfriend in Brooklyn.  It would be just them, Sister 1, Sister 3 (home from college) and the mother.  Nobody was really in the mood but they were pulling it together.  They managed to have a nice meal.

Dessert rolled around.  Sister 2, the hostess, has always been on the non-traditional side.  With all good intentions, she decided to try to smooth out the day with her own special blend of brownies.   So, her guests had a choice between the traditional, all-American pumpkin pie or the far less conventional Brooklyn brownies.  Sister 1 quickly ingested not one, but two of these Brooklyn treats. This is where running for public office could get tricky one day.

Oh dear.

At this point, the family is watching TV in a state of we-ate-way-too-much-and-doesn’t-this-year-just-suck.  Friends comes on (a family favorite) — specifically, the Holiday Armadillo episode.  Sister 1, now in a special post-brownie place, simply cannot hold it together.  In her mind, at that moment, this is clearly the funniest scene in the history of television and she fears she may, in fact, pee her pants.  Just take a few minutes and picture her predicament.

YouTube Preview Image

She had to collect herself.  She went into the bathroom and splashed some water on her face.  There were festive candles flanked along each side of the sink.  She had very long hair at the time.  Oh, and she wasn’t exactly on her A-game.  Here is her inner dialogue as later described to the group:

———–

What the hell is that fireball I see creeping up the side of my head out of my peripheral vision?

What is the awful smell?  It’s like someone’s hair is on…

Fire.  Mine.  My hair is on fire.

I should do something.

I can’t believe this doesn’t hurt. 

God my hair is long.  I really could use a trim.

And that fucking Holiday Armadillo — now, that is funny.

I should put this little fire out…

———

And she did.  No real damage done.  But do you know the smell of burnt hair?  It’s vile. 

She returned to the living room.  Sister 2 and her boyfriend are yelling, wincing — “Ew, that smell.  You set your hair on fire?  Oh God, just leave.  It’s awful.”

So she leaves.  The festivities had run their course, anyway.  Sister 1 gets on the subway.  It’s packed.  Sister 2’s neighborhood in Brooklyn was “in transition” but hadn’t yet approached the good side of transition yet.  People could be sort of tough.  On this particular night, offended by the stench of charred hair, a few passengers hopped up on liquid merriment start making sniffing faces and yelling “Whose hair is burnt?  That’s fucking nasty.”

Or something like that.

Sister 1 begins to cry.  The hair, the bluesy season, the yelling on the subway, the Holiday Armadillo — it’s all too much.  Apparently. 

She makes it home.  She calls her ex — they are on a break but speaking as needed.  She tells him the whole story.  He has no idea who the fuck the Holiday Armadillo is or what she’s saying.  But he gets the gist.  He asks her if her hair looks funny.

She goes to bed and wakes up to the smell of her hair and the muddled memories of the Holiday Armadillo.  To this day, it reminds her of her family’s most unlikely and bizarre Thanksgiving on record.

From that year forward, she opted for the pie.

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Let the Madness Begin

November 22, 2010

It’s here — Thanksgiving Week.  The official kick-off to the holidays, a short work week and time to feast, gather, give thanks.  Maybe even rest (yeah, right).

I’m excited.  I’m a holiday dork — I love this season, even though it causes me all kinds of stress.  Every year, I vow to enjoy it more.  Some years I do better than others. Since I’ve had kids, it has become both more important to me to enjoy it and simultaneously more complicated/stressful.

And so it begins this year.  I have a few things up my sleeve this week.  We are going to P’s family for Thanksgiving Day and then off to my family for Thanksgiving 2.0 on Friday (there’s more coming on that soon).  We’re also planning to hit the holiday festivities in town this weekend.  And, on the more practical/less fun, yet highly satisfying side, there will be some purging of the basement — again.  Yesssss.  This time, I’ve upped the ante.  There’s a storage pod coming to our driveway and I’m going to be ruthless (purge, purge, purge).  I’ll fill you in when said eyesore arrives on our property.  I’m sure our neighbors will love our Sanford & Son look as they hang their lovely holiday decorations.

This time of year always brings up some great and even strange memories of past holiday seasons.  We’ve all got the bizarre-yet-funny-in-retrospect family stories, right?  I’m working on recapping one or two of those over the next couple of days, just to help get into the spirit.

In the meantime, let’s talk about the main event — the food.  Everything is pretty traditional fare in our family but I will share with you my mother’s crown jewel Thanksgiving dessert.  Hope that’s OK, Mom.

For those of you who, like me, find pumpkin pie a little too, well, pumpkinny, check out the Pumpkin Chiffon Pie (or, as we call it, P-Chiff).  It’s much lighter — at least in taste, no promises on the calorie front —  and I think much better than the traditional version.   And super easy.

Ev’s P-Chiff

  • 2 pie shells (graham cracker tastes best — psst, I buy mine pre-made but Ev makes her own)
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 2 envelopes unflavored gelatin
  • 1 tsp. salt
  • 1 30 oz. can Pumpkin Pie Mix (make sure it says Mix, not straight pumpkin)
  • 2 cups milk
  • 2 eggs, beaten
  • 2 cups Cool Whip

Combine sugar, gelatin and salt in saucepan.  Blend in milk.  Cook and stir over medium heat until sugar and gelatin are completely dissolved.  Gradually stir mixture into beaten  eggs in bowl.  Slowly blend pumpkin mix into bowl.  Chill until very thick (about 2 or 3 hours). Gently fold about 1 cup of Cool Whip into mixture.  Spoon into pie shell and refrigerate overnight.  Top with Cool Whip.

Enjoy.  And remember, the recipe yields two pies — so keep one at home for yourself (it’s really good for breakfast — trust me on this).

* * *

Gwyneth/Glee Stuck Song Update:  No relief today.  She’s still singing in my head.  My friend Nessa said that this is called a head splinter, according to urbandictionary.com.  I asked her if she had a large cranial tweezer.

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First Halloween in Suburbia

November 3, 2010

Well, it was my first one as an adult, anyway, and here’s what I learned:  Halloween is no joke in the suburbs.  It’s sort of hard core.  From the house and yard decorations to the amount of candy one needs to distribute, we were not entirely prepared.

Who knew that people decorated their homes in our town as if there was a blue ribbon to be handed out, or as though Martha Stewart was coming through with a camera crew?  Not us — we thought our three little yard scarecrows and an uncarved pumpkin were cute.

Who knew that nine large bags of candy was amateurish?  Not us.  Sorry, neighborhood children, we suck. 

But those shortcomings aside, we had a great day.  Nobody pitched a fit over wearing a costume, which was a good start.

Not even the dog, though he did mumble something about abject humiliation, animal cruelty and finding a new home.  But we resolved our differences.

This was the first year our son really understood the whole trick-or-treat gig and the candy payoff.  By the third house, he was a seasoned pro.

And the baby caught on quickly.  She’s in the “Let me run and find danger” phase, so she was on the move — as much as her giant lamb suit would allow.

We finally slowed her down for a milk break.

And with our loot, we went home to comb through our treats.  And by “our treats,” of course I mean some very strategic skimming on my part.  (How come nobody gives out Mounds anymore?  Those are my favorite.  Not a single one in the bag.)

And then there was the sad realization that our nine bags of candy would only last about another hour in prime time.  Next year, we’ll be ready.

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Filed Under: Holidays, New to Town 1 Comment
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