An early Christmas list for the men in my life

Day 2 of not writing about sex finds me shopping early for Christmas presents for the men in my life. Last year I bought them ties. They were a hit, although I haven't actually seen anybody wearing one.

This year I'm making my list early so I can narrow it down to the one perfect gift for all the men in my life.

First on the list is a goatee shaving template. And yes, I would get this for all of them, because this is so cool once they have one, they will want a goatee.

Wouldn't it be neat if this had a revolving
set of affirmations, written backwards
so they could be read in the mirror?

And because I am a fan of the goatee. Not kidding. I am. They make men's faces look thinner. I wish I could grow a goatee on my stomach.

Anyway, doesn't this gadget looks like one of those gifts a guy wouldn't know he wanted, but once he got it, he'd want to get on his knees in front of the woman who bought it for him and thank her in any way that is not sexual because I'm not writing about sex? Yes, it does!

But I'm not done with my list. As I was perusing the reviews for the goatee shaving template, I noticed a collection of the items people who looked at the goatee template also looked at. Thank you, Amazon, for doing the work for me.

Next on the list is a ninja grappling hook, which I think any man with or without a goatee would appreciate. As would a ninja, and you never know when I might meet one. Who would, of course, be married.

I can imagine so many uses for this baby, I don't even want to start listing them.

Keep one in your car and your office.

And what man doesn't need an inkless black pen? Unfortunately, probably one who wants to keep his brain cells. This pencil doesn't use ink to make marks on paper because it uses .... wait for it ..... lead. Not graphite, but lead. Which might only be dangerous if you lick the paper after you write, but I'm not sure I'd want to take a chance. I crossed this one off my list of potential Christmas gifts. For $33.90, I'll just buy a pencil.

What the hell is wrong with ink anyway?

And the last possible gift on my list is one I want someone to buy for me  any man would love -- as long as he's not a vegetarian. It's skillet bacon spread. Oh, don't you wish you'd thought of this yourself?

Move over Nutella.

I admit I'm a little leery of the disclaimer the company put on the Amazon page. It says, "Actual product packaging and materials may contain more and different information than what is shown on our website. We recommend that you do not rely solely on the information presented and that you always read labels, warnings, and directions before using or consuming a product."

Oh.

I don't know what that means. So I should not believe what I read on their website, but I should instead go ahead and buy the bacon spread and then believe what's on the label? Who does that?

OK, I see one of the ingredients is fairy dust. It all makes perfect sense now. So unpredictable, the fairy dust.

Nevertheless, raise your hand if you'd like to try this stuff, disclaimer or no disclaimer. I see a bunch of hands going up.

Just remember, if you're a man and I know you and I might buy you a Christmas present, you'd better be naughty and nice if you want some of this yummy skillet bacon lube spread. Or a goatee template. Or a ninja grappling hook.

What's on your Christmas list? It's June. Better get on it!

HoodiePillow

I'm not dumb enough to want a Snuggie, because anybody can figure out turning a fluffy robe backwards and sticking your arms through, right? But a pillow with a built-in hood? That is pure genius, right up there with the Glass Tank. Who wouldn't want one?

Know what else is genius? Me, posting my Christmas list right here, item by item, including stocking stuffers like this one. Fuck Pinterest. You have to read my blog to get my Christmas list, Santa Claus. And I know you do, big man.

Anyway, HoodiePillow.* I've always wanted a hood in my pillow, because my ears get cold even in the summer, and I have to sleep with the blanket pulled up over my ear. So this invention is one I've already thought of; I've just been to lazy to sew a hood onto a pillowcase. And now somebody else can do it for me.

Doesn't that look cozy? And if you buy me the black one -- which is the one I would want anyway -- I get a handsome-from-the-nose-down guy with a 5-day beard thrown in for free! Bonus! Hmmm. Maybe we're not talking stocking stuffer any more. Better put this directly in my bed so I'll find him it first thing Christmas morning. Somebody else can stick the orange sweet rolls in the oven, fry the bacon, and call me when it's time to open presents. 

And now I'm going to climb back onto the couch where I've been recovering most of the day, except when I was in bed, and try to wait for the end of this fucking food poisoning Christmas.

What do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas, boys and girls?

* Disclaimer: I don't get paid for writing about anything on this blog. If I did, I would already have a HoodiePillow because companies give this shit out free to bloggers who chase that kind of tail. I don't. But I might someday. For now, I'm just posting my Christmas list.

Fill 'er up

I hope you don't mind, but I found what I want you to get me for Christmas.* And the reason I bring it up in August is because you might want to save up for it. But it will be so worth it to me. And I promise I'll share with you at parties.

Oh, you don't know what you're getting me yet. Sorry. How rude. Here it is.

(http://www.gnr8.biz/product_info.php?products_id=1015)

It's called a Glass Tank. Which is, I suppose, clever if your first language isn't English. I was pretty excited when I saw it. It's like a perpetual dog-watering dish for wine. No more lapping.

And it kind of has the same shape as a rabbit vibrator, so it's sexy. I mean if you think rabbit vibrators are sexy. Not that the wine vibrates, because what would be the use of that? It just has that shape.

I really do want one of these ... at least theoretically I do. I just don't want one enough to pay for it myself.

The first reason is obvious. It costs $419.00. No, I didn't misplace the decimal point. In spite of all those rumors about English teachers, some of us are also good at math. It's a little out of my price range for one wine glass, and I predict I'll never see one at Good Will .... although I was surprised when I realized you can buy lingerie there. (Oh, come on. You were too.) But it's not too much for a gift. I mean a gift someone gives me. I'm worth it.

And then there's that weird angle. I'm not sure how that would work. It seems like the top of the glass would hit me on the bridge of my nose, which sounds painful. That shape might work for concurrent vaginal/clitoral contact, and might even touch on the elusive G-spot, but it doesn't look like a great angle for drinking. In fact, it looks like if I tip it far enough to drink from the glass, the wine might spill out of the top, and I definitely don't want red wine spilling onto my face. People might think I'm drunk before I ever really get a chance to get drunk.

But I still really really really want one.

And yet, I have one more tiny beef with this glass, and that's the size. If it holds enough to get me through a long dinner or an evening catching up with Breaking Bad on my DVR, it must hold close to a bottle of wine. Ideally, that is. So I wonder if I'd have to hold it with both hands ..... and that just doesn't seem very elegant.

In fact, a cheaper solution would probably be to buy a dog dish at Walmart just drink straight from the bottle. I could then throw it straight into the recycle bin and not have a glass to wash at all.

Hmmmm. That gives me an idea. How about if all of you buy me a bottle of wine for Christmas and none of you buy me this glass tank! And then we'll have a party and I'll provide the wine. What a perfect idea!

Whew. I can go to bed happy now knowing your Christmas shopping is done -- well, the important part -- and I'm going to get what I want for Christmas. Win/win!

(Just so you know: I prefer white wine. Thank you.)

* While I would be more than willing to take money for doing almost anything, up to and including product reviews, I have not been paid or in any way compensated for writing about this wine carafe/glass. If I had been, I'd probably be fired for comparing it to both a sex toy and a dog dish.

The Weight of Santa.....again

Happy Holidays, no matter what you celebrate or don't celebrate. Whatever your reason for the season, I hope you ate lots of cookies. As for me, I cooked a big dinner today and ate way too much of it. I have a lot to say, but no energy to sit here and tap on this keyboard. So I will simply share again this post from two years ago--it seems like a lifetime ago that I wrote this, but the story still warms my heart.*

The Weight of Santa (from December, 2009)

Christmas is over. This year happened to be a pretty good one. I've enjoyed some wonderful Christmases and suffered though others that were almost unbearably painful. This year I passed the first one that found me living alone. It was different, but that's not what I'm thinking about tonight. Yesterday one of my Facebook friends wrote about wanting his son to believe in Santa Claus for one more year. I can understand that desire we have for our children to keep their innocence, their belief in a Christmas spirit who shares his generosity with other kids all over the world, asking only cookies and milk in return. And it reminded me of one of my "selfish mom" moments, when I....well, here's the story.

That Christmas LtColEx was on a remote tour to Korea. He'd been gone almost a year and a half--six months in Washington DC, followed immediately by a year-long stint in Korea to which his family wasn't invited. Drake was ten, Elvira was four, and by the time LtColEx came home, Elvira couldn't remember when he used to live with us. We didn't have email and phone calls were rare. I won't bore you with the details of how difficult that winter was--flu, record snowfalls that stranded us at home, spending all day together homeschooling with no relief at 5:30 and too little adult contact. I'll just say it's really hard to keep somebody's space open in your life for that long, and that's the reason 75% of marriages end after just a one-year remote tour.

KC-135

As Christmas neared, I did everything I could to make it special and, at the same time, normal for the kids. After they went to bed, I sewed a big, faux suede cape for Drake and painted wooden eggs to look like dragon eggs (one cracking open) for Elvira. They were going to go in her stocking and, knowing how much she would love them, I wished I could share the suspense with someone who would understand. It was lonely work being Santa that year, and, anyway it's a special feeling when you're chosen to share imminent surprises, right? I remember how mature I felt when I came out as a Santa disbeliever, and how much fun it was to be in on the secret and help play the Santa game with my four younger sibs.

Like I said, Drake was ten, so you would probably expect I could let him in on some of the Santa prep. And I would have, except he still believed in old St. Nick. If he had been most kids...hell, if he had been his sister....I would have suspected he was saying he believed just so he'd still get presents. A lot of kids think if they tell anybody they're on to us, they won't get any more Santa presents. But Drake wasn't like that. He's just never learned how to play those games. As far as I could tell, he'd never even questioned whether Santa existed or not.

And yet, how could he not have doubts? He had friends. Surely they talked. I thought he had to know. At his age, how could he not? Unless what they said about homeschoolers was really true, and we were hiding our kids from the real world, not letting them be "normal," whatever the hell that is. I was—fuck it, I'm just going to admit this--kind of embarrassed that he still believed some fat guy in a red suit slipped down our chimney and left filled stockings and Legos by the tree. And I really wanted to show him these cool eggs I was making and bring him in on the fun of playing Santa.

So one night a few days before Christmas as I was tucking him in I thought I was going to get my chance. He started the conversation. "Mom, Scott Murphy (a kid in his scout troop) said there isn't really a Santa. I told him he's wrong, but he said I should stop being a baby."

"Oh, yeah. What else did he say?" Finally somebody had let the kitty out.

"He said you and Dad are Santa and you're the ones who put the presents under the tree. I told him my dad can't put presents under our tree this year, and I know I'll still get some. And I told him Santa always eats the milk and cookies we put out for him. I don't know why he would say that. He's such a jerk sometimes." Not going well. Such indignation. "He's wrong, right, Mom? There really is a Santa Claus?"

This seemed like my chance. I was afraid he'd really get teased if other kids knew he still believed at his age. Still.....I loved his innocence, his belief in heroes and people who do good just because they can.

"Would you want to know if there wasn't a Santa? Would you want to know if I was the one putting the presents under the tree this year?"

A pretty broad hint, I thought, but I didn't expect his reaction. He started crying. "No!" He could barely get the words out he was crying so hard. "I wouldn't want to know if Santa wasn't real because that would mean all those kids all over the world aren't really getting presents for Christmas. And I know a lot of them don't even have enough food to eat the rest of the year, so they need to get presents for Christmas." He was sobbing, in his own little super-hero world, worrying not about whether he'd stop getting presents from Santa, but whether all the other kids in the world would have a Christmas. Not really what I expected from a ten-year-old boy.

I lay down beside him and put my arms around him. "Don't be silly," I said. "Of course there's a Santa. How could there not be a Santa?"

He finally calmed down and said, "That's what I thought. Scott Murphy is just wrong and I feel sorry for him."

"I do too," I said. And that Christmas I played Santa all by myself for my two excited, elf-believing children. Elvira thought the dragon eggs were real and patiently waited for them to hatch. Drake flew around the house in his cape fighting bad guys. There were children all over the world who didn't celebrate Christmas, who didn't have enough to eat, much less presents under a shiny evergreen tree, but for one more year I kept that secret to myself. These are burdens our kids will share soon enough, and I've always been ashamed that I forgot for even an instant how short that time of innocence is.

The next year, Drake no longer believed in Santa Claus, and I wished, just like my FB friend, that he'd had one more year of believing Santa really existed. I wish I had one more year too.

* If reposting is something naughty bloggers do, don't tell me. I already struggle with the size of my tiny e-peen. I won't make a habit of reposting. Promise.

The Weight of Santa

Christmas is over. This year happened to be a pretty good one. I've enjoyed some wonderful Christmases and suffered though others that were almost unbearably painful. This year I passed the first one that found me living alone. It was different, but that's not what I'm thinking about tonight. Yesterday one of my Facebook friends wrote about wanting his son to believe in Santa Claus for one more year. I can understand that desire we have for our children to keep their innocence, their belief in a Christmas spirit who shares his generosity with other kids all over the world, asking only cookies and milk in return. And it reminded me of one of my "selfish mom" moments, when I....well, here's the story.

That Christmas LtColEx was on a remote tour to Korea. He'd been gone almost a year and a half--six months in Washington DC, followed immediately by a year-long stint in Korea to which his family wasn't invited. Drake was ten, Elvira was four, and by the time LtColEx came home, Elvira couldn't remember when he used to live with us. We didn't have email and phone calls were rare. I won't bore you with the details of how difficult that winter was--flu, record snowfalls that stranded us at home, spending all day together homeschooling with no relief at 5:30 and too little adult contact. I'll just say it's really hard to keep somebody's space open in your life for that long, and that's the reason 75% of marriages end after just a one-year remote tour.

As Christmas neared, I did everything I could to make it special and, at the same time, normal for the kids. After they went to bed, I sewed a big, faux suede cape for Drake and painted wooden eggs to look like dragon eggs (one cracking open) for Elvira. They were going to go in her stocking and, knowing how much she would love them, I wished I could share the suspense with someone who would understand. It was lonely work being Santa that year, and, anyway it's a special feeling when you're chosen to share imminent surprises, right? I remember how mature I felt when I came out as a Santa disbeliever, and how much fun it was to be in on the secret and help play the Santa game with my four younger sibs.

Like I said, Drake was ten, so you would probably expect I could let him in on some of the Santa prep. And I would have, except he still believed in old St. Nick. If he had been most kids...hell, if he had been his sister....I would have suspected he was saying he believed just so he'd still get presents. A lot of kids think if they tell anybody they're on to us, they won't get any more Santa presents. But Drake wasn't like that. He's just never learned how to play those games. As far as I could tell, he'd never even questioned whether Santa existed or not.

And yet, how could he not have doubts? He had friends. Surely they talked. I thought he had to know. At his age, how could he not? Unless what they said about homeschoolers was really true, and we were hiding our kids from the real world, not letting them be "normal," whatever the hell that is. I was—fuck it, I'm just going to admit this--kind of embarrassed that he still believed some fat guy in a red suit slipped down our chimney and left filled stockings and Legos by the tree. And I really wanted to show him these cool eggs I was making and bring him in on the fun of playing Santa.

So one night a few days before Christmas as I was tucking him in I thought I was going to get my chance. He started the conversation. "Mom, Scott Murphy (a kid in his scout troop) said there isn't really a Santa. I told him he's wrong, but he said I should stop being a baby."

"Oh, yeah. What else did he say?" Finally somebody had let the kitty out.

"He said you and Dad are Santa and you're the ones who put the presents under the tree. I told him my dad can't put presents under our tree this year, and I know I'll still get some. And I told him Santa always eats the milk and cookies we put out for him. I don't know why he would say that. He's such a jerk sometimes." Not going well. Such indignation. "He's wrong, right, Mom? There really is a Santa Claus?"

This seemed like my chance. I was afraid he'd really get teased if other kids knew he still believed at his age. Still.....I loved his innocence, his belief in heroes and people who do good just because they can.

"Would you want to know if there wasn't a Santa? Would you want to know if I was the one putting the presents under the tree this year?"

A pretty broad hint, I thought, but I didn't expect his reaction. He started crying. "No!" He could barely get the words out he was crying so hard. "I wouldn't want to know if Santa wasn't real because that would mean all those kids all over the world aren't really getting presents for Christmas. And I know a lot of them don't even have enough food to eat the rest of the year, so they need to get presents for Christmas." He was sobbing, in his own little super-hero world, worrying not about whether he'd stop getting presents from Santa, but whether all the other kids in the world would have a Christmas. Not really what I expected from a ten-year-old boy.

I lay down beside him and put my arms around him. "Don't be silly," I said. "Of course there's a Santa. How could there not be a Santa?"

He finally calmed down and said, "That's what I thought. Scott Murphy is just wrong and I feel sorry for him."

"I do too," I said. And that Christmas I played Santa all by myself for my two excited, elf-believing children. Elvira thought the dragon eggs were real and patiently waited for them to hatch. Drake flew around the house in his cape fighting bad guys. There were children all over the world who didn't celebrate Christmas, who didn't have enough to eat, much less presents under a shiny evergreen tree, but for one more year I kept that secret to myself. These are burdens our kids will share soon enough, and I've always been ashamed that I forgot for even an instant how short that time of innocence is.

The next year, Drake no longer believed in Santa Claus, and I wished, just like my FB friend, that he'd had one more year of believing Santa really existed. I wish I had one more year too.