The Fat Assassin's Tacky Sweater Party

Yesterday, my favorite person made all of my wildest dreams come true.  Yesterday, I was thrown my very own, super festive, glorious-er than glorious tacky sweater party.  It was truly phenomenal.

The neckline of my perfect new garment of clothing makes
speech a touch challenging.  Oh I do so love a challenge!

Some of you may have seen pictures that were prematurely leaked to the internet on various social media networks.  You may also have encountered false allegations that I was less than pleased with my new woolen attire.  Let me take this opportunity to set the record straight.  These accusations are completely false.  Not only was I delighted to wriggle into my brand new, brightly colored, form fitting holiday cat sweater, but I was devastated when the party ended early, due to a tragic misunderstanding.  It turns out that the ever-so-flattering turtleneck of my favoritest new article of clothing wreaked havoc on my vocal chords (havoc, which was, by the way, entirely worth every moment of gasping and retching), and I may have accidentally hissed instead of purred with pleasure while luxuriating in my fabulous get-up.

An astute observer, such as the Female Person, would have immediately understood that I intended to communicate only praise and gratitude for my sweater-having situation.  Unfortunately, she was not present, and the less-adept Male Person, wrongly perceiving my ecstasy to be suffering, tore my beautiful sweater from my gorgeous furry self before I knew what hit me.

Let me be absolutely clear.  I am eternally grateful to my People for throwing me such a wonderful tacky sweater party.  I have never longed for anything more than a tacky sweater party.  My tacky sweater was completely worth every cent of the $2.50 the Female Person was so insistent that we spend upon it.  She made the right choice.  She is a genius.  I will always cherish her gift, her intellect, and her desire to see me in a sweater.  Not only did I thoroughly enjoy my very first tacky sweater party, but I excitedly anticipate my next tacky sweater party.  Female person, you made all my dreams come true.  Thank you for cramming me into a paralyzing sweater.  Thank you from the bottom of my furry heart.


I love you.

So what if I couldn't stand upright in my couture sweater?
I'm madly in love with it.  Look at how it slims my torso,
and accentuates my beautiful pear-shaped figure.

All Photos Courtesy of the Bureaucrat, 2011.

Get Me To The Church On Time: The Morton Family Guide to Going to Church Like a Real Suburbanite, INSTALLMENT II

Now that you've perused the church market and carefully selected the suburban church that's just right for you and your family, you'll need to actually make it to church...preferably on time.  This presents an enormous challenge for my family (as I live with three of the slowest moving human beings on earth), but I've come to discover that many other families, the wide suburbia over, struggle with the exactly the same challenge.  Sundays are hard.

Growing up, I thought that it was only my family that endured untold stress and hardship making it to church every Sunday.  My father would be sitting in the running car, honking the horn, as my mother rushed around complaining about all the things he had forgotten to do.  My sister and I would be trying on our thirteenth pants/sweater combos and everyone would end up yelling and angry by the time we finally thrust our way into our seats and got ready to worship the prince of peace, love and forgiveness. 

As I grew, I realized that we were not the only ones who seemed to grow more  impatient, ornery and crazed on Sunday mornings.  People would literally push past one another, "sneaking" out after communion in the time-honored Catholic ritual of The Most Holy Race to the Parking Lot.  Working at a restaurant on Sunday mornings, I would witness family after family, all dressed in their Sunday best, impatiently snap at one another, their servers, cashiers and fellow customers.  Sunday mornings and the pressure of getting to church on time are clearly not good to anyone.  So much for Sabbath rest, eh?

"...but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind
and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on towards
goal for the prize of the heavenly caffeine of fair trade
church coffee."  (Phillipians 3:14, NISV)*

So what's a nice suburban family, struggling to keep up appearances, to do?  Sure, the Bible says that the first shall be last, and the last shall be first, but let's set all that biblical mumbo jumbo aside for a moment and focus on what's really important--maintaining respectability.  Also--getting to church in time to partake of the delicious fair trade coffee offered before the service without missing so much of the service as to raise eyebrows.  You've gotta have priorities, people.    

Having gone to church for the past couple of months, and having been on time maybe once or twice during that time period, I think it's obvious that the Morton family has this thing down to a science.  If your family is still struggling to make it to church without killing each other, getting into a car accident, or missing out on your caffeine fix, why don't you check out some of our helpful suggestions:

1.  Lay out your kids' clothes the night before.  Sure, they'll probably refuse to wear the outfit come Sunday morning (or, in the case of our dear Anarchist, have outgrown the outfit by morning), but at least then you can blame them for your tardiness, and not yourselves.  Because if there's one thing that we learn from church, it's that you should totally throw planks into the eyes of others, so as to distract from the specks of dust in your own...or something like that.

2.  Do not even think about starting a Sunday morning pancake breakfast tradition at your home.  Sure, it sounds quaint and cozy on Saturday night, but I guarantee it will ruin your life come Sunday morning.  Pancakes bring, not peace, but the sword.  Fork in hand, family member will turn against family member.  I promise you that it won't be pretty.  Aunt Jemima is the mother of lies.  Avoid the pancakes and save your souls...or at least, your sanity.

3.  Try a page from my dad's book and wait impatiently in the driveway, engine running, a half an hour before your family will be ready to leave.  Honk the horn impatiently at five minute intervals.  When the last family member is finally at least partially in the car, back out of the driveway at top speed before this family member has time to sit down/close the door, allowing his/her limbs to graze the ground as a lesson to everyone that timeliness is next to godliness.

4. Do family calisthenics in preparation for the big day.  When the apostle Paul urges us to "run the good race," he's obviously speaking literally of making it to Sunday morning services in time (however, when he tells us that one of the fruits of the Spirit is patience, he's clearly speaking symbolically).  Thus, every family must physically prepare for the great Sunday race.  Jumping jacks, running laps, even push-ups, will get your family in the best possible shape to make that last minute dash from parking lot to nursery/Sunday school classrooms/sanctuary/gym-turned-alternative-worship-space, effectively elbowing other churchgoers out of the way as you go.  It might also be helpful to practice cheers to raise morale.  Shouting such phrases as, "show me some hustle," and "kill 'em," at one another really gets everyone into the worshiping spirit.

5.  When all else fails, give up and go shopping.  If you're already running late, your simplest solution to avoiding tardiness is simply not to go.  Perhaps you can find a nice Starbucks that closely approximates your churchgoing experience.  Good enough.  You will maintain respectability, get your caffeine fix, and avoid the embarrassment of walking in late.  If you are concerned that any of your fellow customers may judge your for being heathen non-church-attenders, simply behave in an ornery and impatient manner.  They will naturally assume that you have already attended/are about to attend church.  You will also make them feel better about themselves by showing them that they are in good (albeit angry and impatient) company.  This is comforting to them, and you are therefore performing a service.  Love your neighbor and all that jazz.

As you can see, we Morton's are good, wholesome people, and our suggestions are based on warped and distorted sound Biblical principles.  So you should totally take our advice.  But be advised.  We take getting to church seriously.  So if we happen to ride your tail, run you over in the parking lot, or elbow you in the face in the lobby in the midst of our mad dash to church, forgive us.**  Because forgiving is what you're supposed to do.  We know that because we learned it in church this Sunday.  We learned it in church this Sunday because we weren't (too terribly) late...and I have the coffee jitters to prove it.

*NISV, New Impatient Suburbanite Version  
**Or not.  After all, "in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize...Run in such a way that you may win it...so I do not run aimlessly, nor do I box as though beating the air, but I elbow the others, and mow them down, so that after removing them from my path, I myself should not be disqualified. "  (I Corinthians 9:24-27, NISV)

He Totally Smurfed Them the Bird

It's story time at the Morton household.  The Dictator and Anarchist have been working busily for a week, creating elaborately illustrated story books on sheets of blank paper that the Bureaucrat brought home from work as a special surprise (this is what children get excited about when you have no money...oh, who am I fooling, this is what children get excited about even when you have money...why do we even buy them toys?).  Both children have chosen to write about--surprise, surprise--Smurfs, and the Dictator is dying to read her story to an audience this very moment (the Anarchist has already run off to stir up anarchy in another part of the house).*  The Dictator, having secured her captive audience (the Bureaucrat and, most likely, his iPhone), pauses, and then opens her book with a dramatic flourish.  She begins reading:

The Smurfs: A Halloween Advnter Story

Pg. 3  A Hollween Advnter

Pg. 15  The Leaves Are Falling Somware On Us

Pg. 20 A Smurfing Thanksgving 

Oh, good Lord!  Over twenty pages of Smurfin' goodness!  Good thing the Bureaucrat is patient...

Papa Smurf encounters a Smurf in ghost get-up, in the
Dictator's riveting tale of depression and decay.

A Hlloween Advntre

One day boffore Hlloween, Papa and brainy were makeing the Smurfs' costumes.  But...Brainy was being too bossy.  That's when Papa left the knitting table.  Brainy was shoked to see him leave the knitting table.

Because no one, but no one, leaves the knitting table except in the case of a dire emergency or government mandate.  Man, this book is getting intense.

Skipping ahead a few pages (in which Papa encounters several Smurfs who--to his great frustration--are prematurely clad in Halloween costumes):

Just then Gargamel found the villige to ruin the Smurfs' Hloween, but...The Smurfs stoped him by pelting him with berries, pies, nuts and frying pans.

Gargamel's really just upset because he has such
awkwardly curved eyebrows.  Poor pumpkin.  It's
hard to be an evil sorcerer these days.

And if this is as violent as the Dictator knows how to be, so much the better for the free world when she comes into a position of world domination.  Just be sure to duck when you see a frying pan with the seal of the Empire flying through the air.

 Gargamel ran all the way to his castle.  The Smurfs cheered.  Then all of them went out trick or traeting.  Then Papa noticed Grouchy did not come.  When Papa opened the door [to trick or treat], Grouchy stuck his middle finger out at him and closed the door.  Papa saw a sign that said "No Trick or Treat Candy."

Well, that makes perfect sense.  If any Smurf isn't going to participate in community activities with the rest of the Smurfs, that Smurf would be Grouchy, after all...wait...WHAT did he do?!  He did WHAT with his middle finger?!!  From what loathsome, awful person/television show did my precious, pure and innocent Dictator learn such a crude gesture?!  That's it, we're throwing away the television, pulling her out of school and becoming one of those unfathomable homeschooling families.  I'll find the patience somewhere (no I won't).

The good news is that I was nowhere present at the first reading of "The Smurfs: A Halloween Advnter."  And I am told, and we'll have to take his word for this, that the Bureaucrat maintained his composure and allowed the oblivious Dictator to finish her epic Halloween saga uninterrupted.  It was only in this way that he would discover, with a shocked Brainy Smurf, that Grouchy was sitting alone in his mushroom consuming last year's Halloween candy while the other Smurfs trick-or-treated until sunrise.

Tragic.

Perhaps more tragic still were the events that followed.  Grouchy, in a fit of expired-candy-induced delirium, staggered into Papa's lab, tried a "bad" spell, and set the entire place on fire.  (With the obvious omission of the requisite implied incest, this is almost becoming Faulknerian).

But no one was around, so he left it alone.  [Meanwhile,] at the last house, they even got 8 Smurfberries.  They loved the costumes.  They even visited Gargamel's castle.  Then Papa saw his own house on fire.  Oh no!  He blamed Grouchy and he got in trouble.  Then Smurfette rang the bell, got he fire hose and got to work.  The end.

So, the moral of the story is, don't leave a depressed and volatile Smurf alone to consume toxic candy when no one is around.  The village will burn, with only the single female of your society to save it from utter destruction.

In the final scenes of "A Halloween Advnter," Papa's
house, a symbol reminiscent of Grouchy's raised middle finger
(yes, I'm going with "finger" here, because I can't even imagine
what else this mushroom might symbolically resemble...) is consumed
by the flames of destruction and purification, providing for Grouchy,
and the Smurf community at large, a redemptive purgation of the darkness and
depression gnawing at the soul of Grouchy, and, it is implied,
the world of all the Smurfs who hide their depression and emptiness
with knitted costumes and smurfberries.

 Depression kills.  So be on the lookout for signs of depression (or "the blues," Get it?  Smurfs?  Blues?  Ah ha ha ha!  Wow.  I hate puns).  Signs might include lack of interest in things the Smurf previously enjoyed (for example, smurfing for smurfberries, smurfing up some costumes at the knitting table, smurfing a happy song), change in sleep and eating patterns, and of course, sudden crude and offensive hand gestures.  Like smurfing the middle finger.  Completely inappropriate, but a sign, perhaps, of deeper problems.

Deeper problems like the problems that plague the little 6-year-old boy--we'll just go ahead and call him Batman Jr., after his Halloween costume--who introduced my angelic daughter to things in which only a drunk Smurf in the throes of depression should dabble.  We found out later that Batman Jr. put up his  middle finger in response to provocation by Super Girl Jr. (and if anyone can provoke such a gesture, it's definitely Super Girl Jr., who the Dictator describes as someone "who has a little trouble remembering to be nice, and also she's too loud") during library class.  According to the Dictator, Batman Jr. "got blamed for that and got in a lot of trouble, because that's not a nice thing to do, even when you're mad."

Well, at least she's aware that it isn't exactly acceptable.  More importantly, she's unaware of exactly what, specifically, the gesture means.  And we'll keep it that way.  At least, we will until one of the bus stop hooligans decides to fill her in.

And once more, homeschooling is starting to look like a more sane option.

Seriously, what the Smurf?!



*The Anarchist's story is a postmodern commentary on the loss of meaning and coherence in our communication.  While it looks, on the surface, like a cross between the crazed etchings of a serial killer and a delightful romp through Smurf Village, there can be no doubt that this format points beyond itself to the uneasiness of Smurf culture in an age where invocation is met with uncertainty, and often, flames.

Play Dates, Crippling Shyness, and Me

If you know me, but not well enough to have married me, emerged from my womb, given birth to me, or grown up in the same house as I did, there are two things you should know:

1. I love you.  For real.
2. I am terrified of you.

Things have been this way for as long as I can remember.  I say "as long as I can remember" because my parents tell me that I was an outgoing, friendly and charming baby, waving at complete strangers from the comfort of my stroller, calling out "Hi-ch!" to everyone I met.  

My parents might be liars.  

My first memories involve melting inconspicuously behind the nearest parental leg the minute I was introduced to someone new, assuming that everyone that smiled at me was secretly judging me for being young, ignorant, and possibly ugly, and shaking in terror whenever I was forced to pick up the telephone.*

This isn't to say that I haven't developed some social skills.  For example, I no longer hide behind the nearest adult's calves in frightening social situations.

I have found much more sophisticated hiding spots.

Behind my hand.  A more sophisticated
hiding spot.

In fact, I have actually had people act surprised when I tell them that I suffer from social anxiety.   So I must be good at acting like a well-adjusted, socially competent adult.  But having children has introduced me to a whole new social scenario for which I have no coping mechanisms whatsoever: the dreaded "Play Date."

The mere phrase sets my heart racing.  This is partially due, of course, to the fact that someone decided--at some point between when I was a child and this present moment--to give what we used to call "having a friend over to play" a terror-inducing name.  Think about it, "first date," "blind date," "due date," are all frightening concepts even for non-neurotic, normal people.  The name "play date" evokes an ancient terror that dates back to the very first awkward dinner and a movie.  On the other hand, I doubt very much that non-neurotic, normal people, have a significant change in blood pressure and a fight or flight response (I choose flight) that rivals that of most woodland creatures at the mere mention of "play dates."**  I think those things happen to me because I'm crazy.  

This is no help to my beloved children, the eldest of whom could use some practice developing her social skills (no, Dictator, people will not want to be your friend if your first hour of playing is spent going over the minutia of the lengthy list of playtime rules you have created), the youngest of whom shares none of my inhibitions ("Look!!!  A FRIEND!!" she yells upon spying someone under the age of 12 in the grocery store, "Be my FRIEND!  We can PLAY!!!").

As such, I've come up with a list of helpful things that I can do to get myself through the horrors of my children's play dates:

1. Make my kids make the phone calls.  I have a friend who does this and it seems to work.  Kids are adorable and their social awkwardness is still acceptable.  Who can say no to the Anarchist?   No one.  That's who.
2. Try to have most play dates with children of people who are already my friends.  These people are already aware of what a nut I am and, for some reason, do not seem to care.  This makes the whole situation of forcing them to spend time with me/my children way less stressful.
3. If my children insist on choosing their own friends, attempt to steer them towards friends whose parents are either just as neurotic as I am, or who are way more outgoing than I am.  That way, they'll either understand why I'm shaking like a leaf when I drop the Dictator off to play, or they simply won't notice/care.  
4. If sticking around during a play date--I still haven't figured out the "should I stay or should I go" rules of play dates yet, so if anyone wants to clue me in, I'd be ever so grateful--locate emergency exits as soon as possible.  Also, map the locations of the nearest adult legs, as these still make good hiding spots in a pinch.
5. If all else fails, hand my children off to better parents and become the cave-dwelling hermit I secretly am deep down inside.

I admit that there are probably better/healthier ways to deal with my anxiety.  Maybe someday I'll regain the courage to enter the Anarchist's preschool classroom grinning like a fool, waving, and yelling "Hi-ch!" at every parent I encounter.  In the meantime, I'll try to calm the heart palpitations that I'm currently experiencing as I wait for a nice mom of one of the Anarchist's little friends to call about that-which-shall-not-be-named.  Let's just say that, if I can bring myself to pick up the phone when she calls, the Anarchist might be able to "have a friend over to play," that is, if I can stop hyperventilating long enough to make that happen.  

*Actually, my very first memory is of a dream in which a rabid wolf that lived in the laundry closet adjacent to our kitchen attacked me as I ran past in a desperate bid to get out the door to Chuck E. Cheese.  The dream closed with a vivid image of the laundry wolf gnawing happily on my severed arm as I deliberated over whether or not to go to Chuck E. Cheese limbless.  I know you wanted to hear about that.

**As a side note, I would make an excellent gazelle, as my ability to turn and flee danger--i.e. a person walking in my general direction, the ringing of my telephone, etc.--can only be described as graceful and awe-inspiring.

Seriously, What the Smurf?!

Two pieces of Smurf-related news:

The Good News:  The Dictator has finally exited her Only Pink phase, and has admitted Smurf-blue shades into her wardrobe, declaring this particular shade of blue her "new favorite color."  (In other news, the Anarchist has assumed the role of "pink wearer" in our family...thank goodness we have loads of princess colored hand-me-downs in which to stuff her little pink-loving self).

The Bad News: I have a weather-induced migraine that no amount of caffeine/medication/rocking and drooling can vanquish...and the kids are playing "Smurf" again.

Smurfs can be temporarily subdued
with lollipops.

To clarify, the Smurfs are not responsible for my extremely painful headache; I blame the month of November for that.  But they aren't exactly helping.  See, playing "Smurf" is a loud endeavor.  Loud and physically active.  The game begins with non-stop, panicked shrieking and consistently ends with someone bleeding.  We need to buy stock in Hello Kitty bandages.  Can you even buy stock in Hello Kitty bandages?

Phrases overheard during "Smurf" include:

"Oh, how shall we ever survive in a universe with two Gargamels?" 

"C'mon. Let's go up to my mushroom."  

"I'll lead the way through the dark, dark night." 

"We should just start throwing things." 

"Apparently, I want you to stop laughing and start being not crazy."

"Stop big-sheeping me!" 

And my all time favorite:

"I don't care what you want.  I just care what you need.  And right now, you need a throw-up bucket."

When did Smurf culture become this passionate and intense (and, for that matter, nauseated)?  When I was little, the Smurfs were on the television in the background, but I mostly ignored them...because they were weird.*  My children, on the other hand, run around from dawn until dusk in chemical saturated, cancer-inducing white foam hats, diving off of furniture, slamming headlong into one another, and tormenting the Fat Assassin (who has unwillingly been cast in the role of  "Azrael"), in a Smurf-inspired frenzy.  The Anarchist has even announced her intentions of becoming a Smurf when she grows up.**

The Anarchist dressed for her
future occupation of Smurf.

Fortunately, there are good things that come out of this noisy, violent, cat-torturing, furniture-destroying game:

1. The Anarchist and the Dictator willingly (and cooperatively) play together for hours.  This is a game with something for everyone: a world to control for the Dictator, untold anarchy for the Anarchist.
2. Smurf Village has enacted a new Politeness Initiative.  Thus, I hear my blue and white clad offspring muttering things such as, "I love to help you out.  This is so polite.  Thank you so much.  I just adore being a kind, polite person...I mean, Smurf."
3. It encourages imagination.  I know.  This is obvious.  You probably heard me complaining about all of this and thought, "What an awful parent!  Doesn't she know that imaginative play is an essential part of childhood development?"  Why yes.  Yes I do.  But knowing that doesn't make my migraine any less painful.
4. The children's vocabulary has been--somehow--positively influenced by the world of Smurfs.  New words include, "miserable," "sickly," "survival," and "scattering."  
5. It gives the Dictator an opportunity to practice dictating...and also an environment in which to experiment with bureaucracy.  Smurf Village has at least five town meetings a day. Smurfette, the Dictator's alter ego, will often "adjourney" the meetings after "motioning" that they schedule another for later in the day.  Recently, the Smurfs' politeness awareness combined with the Dictator's new-found love of meetings to produce this little gem:
   "I move to end this stupid meeting until a later date.  Also, I move that we make a rule never to say 'stupid.'"
6. As a result of repeatedly viewing a compilation DVD of vintage Smurf episodes, the Anarchist and the Dictator are learning important lessons about life and death***.  In Season 2, Episode 12, Smurfette loses a pet mouse (who is also a village hero) to smoke inhalation and "runs away from life" in order to protect herself from more loss.  I mean, it's better than an After School Special.  They just don't make 'em like they used to.****

So, I guess I don't have too much to complain about.  They're being creative, expanding their vocabularies, playing cooperatively, practicing manners, and brushing up on their meeting lingo.  Now, if I could only pry them out of their filthy, flea-infested Smurf costumes for two seconds and get them to stop "invoking" things all the time, we'd be good to go...and then I wouldn't have to run away from life.

The Dictator in her new "favorite color,"
Smurf Blue.  Note that she is not currently
trying to run away from life.

*She-Ra, with its much more plausible plot and realistically rendered animation, was by far the more rational choice.
**A far less realistic career role than my chosen future occupation of "She-Ra's long lost sister."
***The Anarchist has actually become a touch obsessed with death.  She talks about dying rodents constantly.  It's rather morbid.
****You have to see it for yourself. That way, you'll be fully prepared to deal with the most profound problems of existence, too.