Alright, so here’s the deal.  I’ve told you that I’m surprise challenged.  I can’t take it.  Really.  I’m 41 years old and my husband still can’t bring my presents into the house until Christmas Eve due to the very real fear that I’ll get up in the dark of the night and unwrap them to find out what they are, re-wrap them and then do an outstanding job of being “surprised” on Christmas morning.

I try.  I really do, but their call is too strong.  I can hear it when I’m sleeping, burrowing into my dreams and begging to be discovered. 

Additionally, my hard and fast rule is: anything that comes in the mail is free game and will be opened in the yard on the way in from the mail box.  I honestly don’t understand people who can wait.  I don’t think we’re even from the same species.

How is this for a cruel twist of fate.  Now, I have a five year old who absolutely can’t keep a secret.

Mom was over last weekend to do the ritual cookie baking.  We did it at my house because we knew Sassy and The Bandit would want to help however, at my house, once they got bored, there’d be stuff for them to wander off and do.  At some point, the seven year old asked Grandma to tell her some of the presents she bought.  Of course, Bandit wasn’t about to be left out and said he wanted to know, too. 

I warned my Mom, “Don’t tell him anything.  He can’t keep a secret.”

“I know,” she replied. 

Umhummm.

So the three of them trooped off to the hall so Grandma could whisper without my dog-like hearing picking anything up.  I am certain Grandma had barely let the last syllable leave her lips before the boy was back in the kitchen.

“Grandma got you some special pe…..”  He got that much out before I slapped my hand over his mouth.

How fair is this?  I’m dying to know and yet it’s not very sporting to allow him to tell me like that.

Sassy is thrilled because I’ve given her carte blanche to lie to him.  I’ve explained that it only applies to Christmas, but somehow I don’t think that stipulation has fully registered in her brain.  I’ve got no choice though, because otherwise he’d blab everything he new.

It’s a cruel, cruel world.

I put my shoulder out again.  Sometimes I think my spine and ribs are assembled from legos and someone has snuck in there and discombobulated them all.  I have a perfectly lovely doctor – my primary care physician is also an osteopath, so she puts be back together several times a year.

This time, I don’t know if some of the legos are missing or what, but I’m just not going back together as smoothly as I always hope.

Anyway, the point is – I’m way too sore to sit at a computer tonight.  I’m going to take a hot, hot bath with a glass of wine and maybe even a muscle relaxant.  I’m going to finish the book I’ve been reading for a week – the great one by Sabrina Jeffries from up in the right hand corner.

I’ll have a good story for you tomorrow.  If not, I’ll make something up.  Deal?

The last couple of years Christmas in the Bright household has come to mean tears and hysteria over loose teeth and pending visits from the Tooth Fairy.  If you’ll remember last year, The Idiot dog knocked out one of Sassy’s front teeth the week of Christmas and then The Bandit knocked out the other on Christmas Eve.   That was also the same evening my brand new Blackberry went for a swim in bloody bathwater. 

Everyone recovered.  Sassy grew in new teeth – although they are crooked and widely spaced so I’m hoping when she’s twelve, Santa Claus brings braces.  She’s also lost several more over the year.  For the last several days, she’s had a very loose bottom tooth.  She has moaned and whined and groaned and cried and starved herself because “I can’t eaaaaaaat with my toooooooooth!” 

I’m sorry to say, I’m not a very good commisserator.  “Just pull it out!”

This drool is nothing. Really.

“NOOOOOOO!” Then, as God as my witness, a string of drool will come from her mouth to rival one from my old Newfoundland, Sophie. 

I’ve told her repeatedly the more hysterical she makes herself, the more it’s going to hurt but she can’t listen to my sage advice because she’s hyperventilating.  I pity her husband some day in the delivery room with her. 

About 100 times a day she drags me into the bathroom  to hold her hand while she fusses about and pretends that she’s gonna pull it out, but in the end, she chickens out.  Every.  Single.  Time.  For days and days.

This morning her tooth was so tender she couldn’t eat yogurt because there were blueberries in there. 

“Honey, there is nothing softer on the planet than yogurt.  I don’t know what to tell you.  I guess you’ll just starve to death.”  I know I’m not going to win any Mommy of the year awards, but a person can only put up with so much self-created drama.

Right now, as Kurt is reading this, he’s falling over laughing because, once upon a time, I was the Queen of Self-Created Drama.  Now, however, I’m the Mom and FOR GOD’S SAKE JUST PULL IT OUT ALREADY!

Finally at dinner tonight I could take it no more.  The crocodile tears and dragons’ breath eminating  from my child due to several days of poorly brushed teeth pushed me over the edge. 

We went to the bathroom: her to pull out her tooth, me to be a cheerleader.

“Ready?  On three.  One…..two….”

“No! I can’t. I can’t,” she sobs.

“Yes you can.” I squeeze her hand for moral support.  “Just grab a hold of it and give it a little twist.”

“OoooooKaaaaay,” she stutters, drool hanging from her quivering bottom lip.

“Alright, one….two…..”

“NO!  It’s goooooooona huuuuuuuurt,” she tells me.

” You have to breathe, Sassy,” I say.  “And it’s only going to hurt for a minute.”

“A MINUTE!?” she asks, complete and total panic written across her face. 

“A second,” I backpedal quickly, “Only a second.  Baby, it’s holding on by a thread, a tiny little piece of skin.”

Now she’s standing on the toilet so she can peer at it in the mirror over the sink.  “But it’s gonna bleed,” she tells me.

“Not much.”  OH COME ON.  “Do you want me to do it?”

Now she glares at me like I’m a monster.  “NO!”

“Alright then, grab hold of it and pull on three.  One…..two….”

This goes on for about fifteen minutes.  The whole while my dinner is getting cold.  Finally a tiny bit of porcelain smaller than a Chicklet is plucked from her mouth.  There is no blood.  No pain.  The drama has ended and the Tooth Fairy has come and gone.

I can’t wait to do this with The Bandit.

In the spirit of romance:

I have doen what I pleased, so that every bit of exual impulse in me has expressed itself,” H.G. Wells

H.G. Wells

 wrote in his autobiography.  A staunch advocate of “free love,” Wells cheated on both wives, claiming at one point that he had the “right” to do so with impunity.  (It’s unclear whether he believed this “right” belonged to his wives as well.)  Such brazen horndogging didn’t seem to scare off too many paramours.  Wells remained a veritable babe magnet well into his seventies.  One lover attributed his erotic prowess to the fact that his body gave off an irresistible honey-like aroma.

H(erbert) G(eorge) Wells is big, again, right now with the popularity of steam punk.  His stuff, after Jules Verne, is probably the most stylized science fiction out there. 

Of course, there’s not a lot of romance in his stuff, but I found it very intriguing that he was described as smelling like honey.  Interesting.  I looked him up on Google images and I don’t see it, but then Google doesn’t have a smell option so I’m not getting hit by the full force of his charisma.  I’m just going to have to take them on their word.

I Twitter – Amylynnbright is my name.  You probably would have never guessed that, right?  One would think I’d be pretty good at it with all the random things that run through my head, and all the silly thoughts, but I sort of get stage fright.  In the beginning, I was afraid to tweet just any old thing, but seriously, if you follow Twitter at all you know that being profound isn’t a requirement. 

I am making a concerted effort to be more consistent.  I follow quite a few people: Publishing industry folk, some of the bloggers I really enjoy – especially The Bloggess and Dooce, but there is only one I person in which I follow every single tweet.  I have MY AGENT’s tweets come to my phone.

Today she had the following Tweet: Just got “the call” that is going to make someone very happy…a Merry Christmas indeed! She needs to answer her phone tho!

I’m telling you – I stared at my phone all day and it didn’t ring once.  DRAT!

Still waiting.

Truly, Christmas sweaters are an abomination.  If you don’t believe me, you should check out the local buffet restaurants.

Also, I’m not crazy about The Waitresses but Bowie and Lenon are spot on.

And I really love the old fashioned ones.  Anything with Bing Crosby or Nat King Cole makes me very happy.  Or, and I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this, Johnny Mathis is always good too.

And who doesn’t love the Muppets rendition of The 12 Days of Christmas?

In the spirit of dragging you along on all the highs and lows of my budding career, let me tell you about the latest email from MY AGENT.  Oh my word, do I love this woman. 

I’m having some trouble with the current publisher of my novellas, so I emailed her my contracts so she can look them over and give some advice, but that’s a story for another blog, a rather epic blog.  But I’m not here to talk trash.  Not today.

The email exchange today was wonderfully motivating.  She’d finally heard from the editor of one of my dream publishers.  Her opinion of my book?  “LOVED IT!”  The all caps were hers. 

How awesome is that?  This editor is a bit junior so she’ll have to sell her editorial board on it, but MY AGENT says I have the right to be “THRILLED”.  Again, the caps are hers. 

Understandably, the euphoria I’m feeling is overwhelming.  And motivating.  I want to call in sick every day for the rest of the year and immerse myself in the writing of book 2. 

And more exciting than that, is that there is still a Sr. Editor for another HUGE publisher that still has my manuscript.

Cross your crossables – there is still every opportunity for a bidding war!

I love hockey.  It’s my deep dark secret.  I love everything about it.   I love the speed of the game and the intensity of the sport.  I love the way it’s divided into three periods instead of two.  I especially love the fights.  I don’t know why, it’s brutal.  Perhaps that’s the draw – it’s rough, physical and intense.  It’s the only sport I watch on tv. 

I couldn’t even conduct a proper text conversation with Kelli this evening because the new HBO special on the Philadelphia Penguins/Washington Capitals was on.  When she found out it was because of hockey she was appalled.  And Ava just found out about my infatuation with the sport this year as well.  You can blame it all on Kurt.  He’s the one who taught me the game in high school.  We still talk about hockey and it’s been more than 20 years.  Back then he made me follow the Minnesota North Stars.  Now days I root for the Coyotes because they’re the home team, but I’m a closet Blackhawks fan.

At this very moment, I’m watching a rerun of the Phoenix Coyotes vs New Jersey Devils at 11:45 on a Wednesday night.  My whole house is asleep except me and the boys on the ice.

And speaking of boys.  That could be another reason I love hockey.  Holy moley.  Have you seen some of these guys?  There has long been a stereotype of the hockey player as a toothless thug.  Of course, there are some missing teeth among the guys, but I assure not all of them fit that image.  But they are all big, big men (mercy!).  Let me give you a few example

Lauri Korpikoski

 Look at this pretty boy.  Granted he’s a baby, but still, he’s officially legal.

Or another member of the Coyotes:

Taylor Pyatt

He’s also just a baby, but this guy has the bluest eyes in the NHL today.

And last but not least, take a look at this one.  He’s a grown man and dear lord it gives me just one more reason why I should visit Sweden.

Heinrick Lundqvist

Would you like one more look?  Heinrick again, deep sigh.

Heinrick again, deep sigh.

If you need a quick dose of testosterone, watch my favorite fight video.

I have so much going on in my head, that it’s damn near impossible to concentrate on a topic for the blog tonight.   There’s a lot of crap going on, but lets just zero on in something funny, shall we?

The Bandit is, well, he’s the Bandit.  We’ve been having trouble with him in kindergarten: he’s too social (in kindergarten? clearly he’s my child), he’s stubborn (that’s his father’s influence), and most frustrating, he’s not doing his work in class which means we have to do it for homework with the other assigned homework.  Yesterday, the very first thing said to me when I walked in the door was that he’d done all his work in class that day.  I was ecstatic.  I must have told him a gazillion times how proud I was of him.  His daddy had bought him a special treat on the way home from school as a reward. 

I bounded in to kindergarten this morning, jubulient about it. 

“So, he did all his work in class yesterday!” His teacher and I have a running dialogue on his “issues” and I considered this a huge breakthrough.

“Ummmmm,” she hesitated and my heart dropped.  It turns out he didn’t do his work in class.  It seems he’d hidden it.  My darling son, The Bandit, has come up with very complicated ways to avoid doing his work.  These schemes of his take way more time and energy than he would expend if he just did the damn work.  He really reminds me of his uncle.  My father would send my brother out to clean up the dog poop and instead of doing the assigned task in a half an hour, he’d spend 2 hours covering up each little dog poop pile with a pile of dirt.  As if my father wasn’t going to notice 20 little piles of dirt in the yard exactly where the poop was a mere two hours before. 

And the little shit let me gush over him with praise.  And he let his daddy buy him a special treat on the way home.

Deep sigh.

On an different note, I am really charmed by how Sassy’s sense of humor is developing.  She’s finally beginning to pick up on the subtleties of sarcasm.  Thank goodness, since it is my first language.  I’m also fluent in back talk and huffing loudly to express my displeasure.  Sassy’s sense of humor is subtly rising to a more sophisticated level.  Unfortunately, that is not to say she doesn’t enjoy a good knock knock joke.  Or even a bad knock knock joke.  Sadly, she’s not very discerning about her knock knock jokes.

“Knock knock.”

“Oh, not again.”  Please God, not again.

“Come on, knock knock.”

I slump in my chair, resigned.  “Who’s there?”

“Dwayne.”

I roll my eyes.  “Dwayne who?”  I sigh.

“Dwayne the tub, I’m dwowning.” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

I’ve heard this joke 4,847,473,749 times since last Tuesday. 

But I’m also happy to report, she is getting more sophisticated.  Thank heaven, because I don’t know how much more of the knock knock jokes her father and I can take.

When we were Christmas shopping this weekend, we went to Michael’s to

It even has a sale rack!

 look for something and found the Christmas village pieces were on sale – 50% off. 

Oh what a coup! I found a bookstore.  I’d have paid a million dollars for it.

I absolutely love it!