I’m psychic.  It’s true, Ava.  Wanna know how I know I’m psychic?  This evening we were coming home from the mall.  My Honey decided that I’d been much too happy lately so he wanted a family portrait done.  He made me wear a dress and smile.  It was horrible.  Having my picture taken makes me hostile.  Seriously.  And then he gets angry at me when I don’t like any of the pictures.  Because I’m in them.  Why is that so hard to understand? 

We also saw Santa.  The very same Santa that promised Isabella’s Bean a turtle.  I offered to deliver a message to the Jolly Old Elf for her, but when I heard the message I politely declined to relate it. 

Tangent Girl has struck again. 

ANYWAY, we were on our way home from the mall when we pulled up along side a pickup truck that was painted with cowboy graphics.  It was really cool – at least from the point of view of a 4 year old cowboy worshiper.

“Daddy, that is so cool!” the Bandit said.  “I could paint that.”

“Yeah, someday maybe you could paint my truck like that,” My Honey agreed.

“I’m a good painter, Daddy.”

Are you psychic, too?  Can you see into the future and imagine a day, not very far in the future, when My Honey walks outside to see his beloved Dodge painted with the loving strokes of an inspired preschool artist?

I looked at My Honey through the dashboard enhanced darkness.  “You understand that he thinks you’ve given him permission to paint your truck.”

“When you grow up and get a job you can paint my truck.  A long time in the future.  Some day far, far away,” My Honey said emphatically, trying his best to qualify his “permission”.

He’s telling this to a boy who thinks that Christmas is still a life time away.  I don’t even need a crystal ball to see what’s coming, and he has no one to blame but himself.  God help us.

Who would like to come over and wrap my presents for me?  Usually this is one of my favorite tasks, but over the last several years my passion for it has dwindled.  I have always enjoyed the precision of gift wrapping.  I like aligning the paper so that the pattern meets up just right.  I savor tucking tissue paper into a box and giving it a precision fold to fit the dimensions  exactly.  I take delight in a crisply folded corner that closes just so.  I appreciate a finely crafted bow out of brightly colored ribbon. 

However, when you wrap presents with short people “helping” what you get is a hunk of wrinkled paper wadded around a box with 57 pieces of jacked up scotch tape placed randomly around the outside and a stick on bow that will last 13.9 seconds under the tree.

And I feel like such a heel, because all they really want to do is help.  But, God perserve me (the God who invented foil paper and wired ribbon) I just want to make my masterpieces by myself.  Is that too much to ask? 

If I promise not to get frustrated when they want to “help” make cookies, can I have this one little thing to myself?

Some more non sequiturs from my brain – these with a Christmas theme since that is the all consuming passion with the short people at my house. 

The Bandit has discovered the joy of singing in the shower.  He usually opts for taking a shower by himself and, if given the option, will always choose his father’s shower because “that’s the boys bathroom.”  As far as I’m concerned, they can keep it, too.  The “boy’s” shower is tall and enclosed with a glass door so there is a really great echo effect.  I keep the bathroom door open so I can monitor his activities in there – he is only 4 1/2 after all.  Lord knows what kind of mischief he could get into in there.  It makes my wallet hurt just thinking of it.  Anyway, his current favorite is Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer – at the top of his lungs.  “…as they shouted out with glee – YIPPEE! – Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, you’ll go down in history – LIKE COLUMBUS.”

I would like to thank Sassy’s first grade teacher yet again.  Not only did she bring the joy of Tikki tikki tembo-no sa rembo-chari bari ruchi-pip peri pembo into our lives, but on Friday she gave the children reindeer food to bring home.  “What pray is reindeer food,” you ask?  Oh it’s just the most lovely concoction of dry oatmeal and glitter in a zip lock sandwich bag.  This substance, when liberally sprinkled on the couch and living room carpet, is more insidious than Christmas tree tinsel and Easter grass combined. You think it’s all vacuumed up and then you plop yourself down exhausted in a chair and the angle of the light changes and lo, there is freaking glitter everywhere.  So thank you.  Thank you very much.  Expect coal in your stocking.

My boy will never have a life in a major crime family.  Or even a minor crime family.  He wouldn’t last five minutes.  I know you faithful readers think that he’s headed for a life of dubious honesty.  I disagree – perhaps if cowboys still roamed the west and he could join a gang of train robbers or something akin to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, then yeah.  He’d be Butch by the way – he’s definitely a mastermind.  However, he’s never going to make it in the mob.  The boy can’t keep a secret to save his life.  He very excitedly announced to his father and the entire tools department at Sears that we bought him a new Maglight flashlight.  It’s red, he said with glee.  His sister is apoplectic over it.

But it’s not always the boy that’s the problem.  Christmas has made them both a little extra “jolly”.  You can blame it on the sugar, or the extra toy commercials, or just the knowledge that Santa is 10 short days away.  Either way, they’re completely manic, and sometimes they annoy each other as much as they do their father and I.  Yesterday Bandit looked balefully at me and said, “My sister’s a pain in the ass.”  I couldn’t agree more little man.

Tis the season to be jolly, Fa-la-la-la-la  La-la-la-la

The entire Bright extended family went to the Christmas Parade that our city holds downtown every year.  I’ve lived here my entire life and I didn’t even know this parade was held until last year.  It gets a pretty good turn out, too.  It’s free and it’s fun.   And it’s free.  With all the money spent every year at this time, finding free entertainment is a joyous occasion indeed.

The thing about this parade is that it’s very local centric – and because of that I find it terribly amusing.  Some of the participants in the parade last evening were the local Accordion Club.  Hee hee – really.  Also, there was the Beagle Adoption Society, the members of the Raiders football team fan club (chuckle), the Greyhound Adoption Society (the beagles are definitely funnier than the greyhounds – the greyhounds just seem stuck up while the beagles are natural comedians),  some sort of crazy bicycle club including a “bicycle” that was shaped like a rowboat and the oars moved the vehicle, the bookmobile, and the ladies from the Roller Derby. 

There were a few people I know.  For example, Mrs. World, Diane Tucker.  Sassy was just delighted to see her because she’s always thrilled to remember that she knows a real Queen.  Sassy even got to try her crown on once.

There was also a fair collection of city vehicles lit up and decorated such as a street sweeper, a garbage truck, and City Parks and Recreation.

But my favorite entry by a mile was Dune Sea Garrison/501 Legion.  I had to look them up on the Internet.  Holy Crap!  It was an entire group of Star Wars characters: Darth Vadar, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, countless Storm Troopers, Boba Fett, Princess Leia, Chewbacca, R2D2, various generals, Darth Maul, Anakin Skywalker, Sand People, Obi Wan Kenobi – both young and old, and the evil emperor.  HOLY CRAP – it was awesome. 

The Bandit and My Honey nearly burst they were so excited.  While I think it was fun and cool to see them in the parade, I am wholeheartedly against supporting My Honey’s desire to find out where they meet and join up.  It’s one thing to go to see his band play, but I don’t want to have to tell people that we can’t come over because he’s putting on his Storm Trooper outfit.

Our evening was just disturbed by some real, honest to God, Christmas Carolers.  With two guitarists and battery operated candles.

I didn’t even know that those people still existed.

This weekend was the Christmas party for the local chapter of RWA in which the Sisters belong.  Ava and I were there – Isabella was “with child” so she was unable to attend, but we know that she was there in spirit. 

She missed out on a delightful lunch and fun company, but more importantly, she missed out on a moment when I was speechless.  That comes all too rarely, I assure you.

Ava and I lingered at the table as the meeting broke up.  I think we were both loathe to go home where there was sure to be loud and uncontrolled short people and harried fathers that were most likely ready to flee the country.  The restaurant began to clear the tables of linens and such, and still we lingered, talking and laughing as is our usual habit. 

Out of the blue a busboy stopped at our table and looked me in the eye and said the following:

“I dreamed about you last night and you broke my heart.”  This was said with a straight face and included a sweeping hand gesture.

I just stood there staring at him.  Ava, on the other hand, guffawed loudly and smacked me on the shoulder. 

Now one might say that I should be flattered.  I would be flattered if say Daniel Craig stopped by my table and said something that absurd.  Or Viggo Mortensen, or Bono, or (dear God it makes me tremble to think of such a thing) a 1969  tag team version of Robert Redford and Paul Newman.  However, this is not my luck.  I get hit on by short, goofy bus boys.

Ava teased me about it for hours.  She wanted to know if I told My Honey that I was running off with a busboy. 

I really don’t think that he would be able to keep me in the style that I’m become accustomed. 

And then it occurred to me.  The harsh truth.  My ego is crushed.

They just wanted us to get the hell out of the restaurant.  I’ll bet that the whole lot of them did Rock Paper Scissors in the kitchen to see who had to scare the middle aged women out of the dining room.

I am writing this post from Hell.  Ava thinks Hell is a 4th grade holiday concert, but I’ll bet Ed will agree with me that Hell is actually talking to a cell phone company.

I got my cell phone bill today.  It is 418.68.  After the paramedics used the defibrillators on me, I got on the phone with the “Customer Care Department”.  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHA.  This trend in naming departments and their employees absolutely slays me.  Do they really thing that naming it Customer Care will convince me that they:

A. Know what they are doing?

B. Really care about making you happy while they’re making minimum wage.

The answer is unequivicably NO.   As I write this, I’ve already been transferred 3 times and sat on the phone 47:01.  That’s 47 minutes of my life I’m never getting back. 

Other things I could be doing with 47 minutes that would be LESS stressfull than talking to my cell phone company:

A root canal, child birth, giving birth while having a root canal, hiding in a bathtub during a tornado, grocery shopping with my kids.

Deep cleansing breaths…………..Namaste.

I have been assured that the bill has been rectified.  Who would like to lay odds with me that I’ll be calling Sprint in about 30 more days and blogging about it?

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Santa Claus

North Pole

Earth 

RE: Amended Wish List

Dear Santa,

After the week I’ve had, both professionally and personally, I’d like to change my request.  While I do believe that the windshield wipers are a practical gift and, with the parameters that I have listed, may only be obtained from you, I have reconsidered my request.

Instead, I would like some of those chocolates filled with liquor (it’s been a very disappointing week).  That way I can take care of two sins at once.  I understand that this may put me on the Naughty List for next year, but that is a chance I’m willing to take.

I know that this is a tad late, but I also have faith that you will be able to accommodate this wish.

Your ever faithful servant,

Amylynn

Dear Santa,

For Christmas this year I need a little magic.  I know that this is in your wheel house, Santa.  You’re a magical guy.

All I’m asking for from you is one simple little thing, but it’s going to take all the wizardry you and your elves can muster.

This year I would really like windshield wipers that work for longer than three swipes.  I don’t know how this always happens, but the wipers I currently have always fail on the driver’s side.  Directly in front of the steering wheel, there will be a mud streaked, filthy view of kaleidoscope lights.  If I do some tag team driving, I can have the passenger relate the activities out of their perfectly clean, streak free arch of window and we can all just hope that things go well.  Or, I can lean very far to the right, but really, if I’m going to be doing yoga in the car, I might as well be texting and drinking while I’m driving.  It doesn’t seem to matter what brand I buy or how much they cost.  They’re all crap.

Do you think that wish is even a possibility? 

And for Ava, I’d like to ask for a Hello Kitty helmet.  She knows why.  I’d get her one myself but my passport has expired.  (Cryptic for you readers, but Santa will understand.  He’s magical, you know.)

For Isabella, I’d like to arrange for a dragon.  It would be helpful if this dragon weren’t too terribly large, but really I don’t want to be too picky.  I know dragons are hard to come by.  Besides, we’ll share.

Thank you very much, Santa.  Of course, there will be a snack waiting when you get here.  I have it on very good authority that you like cupcakes.  I have a really good source.

XOXO

-Amylynn (your biggest fan)