Tag Archives: life

A Lent-like Non-Sacrifice

Posted on February 22, 2012 | Leave a comment

Today is the first day of Lent.

(YAY!  Lent!)

File that under “shit no one says”.

When I was a Catholic, I used to effing LOVE Lent.

I really cannot explain why except to say that I am a masochist who not only takes pleasure in my own “suffering” but even in the self-perception of such.

I always say that I am not competitive, but man, every Lent I became a first class asshole.  (I think that is sort of contradicting the point of Lent, but I was young and didn’t know much about myself, but I knew I could mind fuck my peers like it was my job.)

Yes, as an adult I realize that that was wrong and likely why I got my ass beat so many times by said peers between the ages of 11 through 15.  Derrrr.

1986 was my most successful Lent…because it lasted until 1999 and I still think that was pretty awesome.  I gave up red meat and pork year-around.  (I have since dabbled in both, but rarely as my body no longer understands how to process either so I have to stay close to home and the porcelain.)

The obvious problem with the extended Lent was that I stopped being a Catholic in 1987 but sort of just kept up the Lent.  I have no idea why.

*shrugs*

It made meals during the 86-87 school year easy because my mom never cooked dinner after August 14, 1982.

(Go Mom!)

When I moved to St. Louis, I became aware of the whole Mardi Gras scene and Lent became a big thing again.

Every year, except this one, I said that I will give up F-bombs…but I really love them a lot and they comfort me.

F-bombs are like the word “dude” or black heels.  They go with many situations, good and bad.  I am not likely to give up F-bombs,  ”dude”, or black heels ever in my life, so you should know this now.

That said, just as with black heels, I know when and where F-bombs are appropriate.  You have never witnessed me wearing heels at the pool or on my bike, so I think I have a handle on it.  I can be your librarian or your truck driver at will.  I am a very talented lady.  Trust.

This year, The Sass and I decided to do this Lent thing together.  I explained Lent to her and she gave me that look with the raised eyebrow which she clearly inherited from her mom.

I told her that I want to give up candy and adult drinks and she seemed impressed.

(To be clear, she was impressed about the candy.  Come on!)

My candy addiction is sort of off the charts.

I do not like chocolate so much and never milk chocolate  (Thanks, Mom!), but I love sugary snacks like red Swedish Fish and Lemonheads.  Those two things alone give me the happies.

Imagine my excitement (and subsequent fear) when Pinnacle Vodka came out with red gummy vodka!!!

Are you effing KIDDING me?!?

Clearly there is a Satan and THAT asshole works at Pinnacle.

They have also killed me with their “cake” and “marshmallow” flavored vodkas.

All it took was for me to open the bottle of the red gummy flavor and I knew I would never buy another bottle.

(I drank that bottle…of course…because…HELLO!)

I have tried the cake and marshmallow flavors in testing the theory that Satan is indeed French and does work for Pinnacle.  He is and he does.

Now, lest I sound all weirdly bible-thumping and blame Satan for vodka, you must know that I jest.

People are to blame for their own likes, dislikes, and curiosities. I have always been one who could take or leave vodka and I am sort of happy that there is such an overwhelming saturation of the market because (in proving my theory that there is a god/goddess who watches over me), I am an individual who does not do well with too many options.

If given too many options, I typically walk straight in the opposite direction because I am a giant “ostrich”.

…plus, I read The Paradox of Choice and I just get it/me.

My god/goddess gave me Pinnacle so that I would walk away.  I did.  Now I feel like I am cheating at Lent because it doesn’t feel like a very big deal…which is why I added the candy component.

Candy is a VERY big deal!

OMIGOSHILOVEITSOMUCH!

I am not even halfway through a candy-less day and I am tweaking like Cupcake Brown back in the day.

This is not pretty.

I told Sass I would drink juice to satisfy my craving, but I don’t have any at the moment and that sort of sucks big hairy ones.

I am pretty sure Sass is going to kick my ass this Lent.

She calculated her decision wisely and put her plan in place.  I did not do the same.

I am so screwed.

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Love…Actually

Posted on February 15, 2012 | 1 Comment

Love Actually is a fantastic movie.

This post has nothing at all to do with that movie, but I had to acknowledge it for what it is.

This post is about how a person who loathes Valentine’s day with the passion of one thousand suns got past that little issue and realized how gosh darn lucky she really is.

The adorable little hateress in today’s story is none other than the super, mega, awesome biotchness who typed the post you are now reading.

ME!!!!  (Duh.)

So the story goes like this…

I have always hated Valentine’s Day.  It started when I was 6 and I had a crush on  the butcher.

(Yep.  The butcher.  The guy who slices deli meats, not some freaking serial murderer.  Sheesh!)

I would go see him every Saturday morning during the shopping trip and man was he a hottie.

To clarify my idea of “hottie” at the age of 6, I liked Andy Gibb, Jon from CHiPs, and Potsie on Happy Days.  I was an odd child.

Well, I dug this butcher. His name was John (or Jon); I never asked.

What I do know is that someone revealed my love for him.  A love I had kindled since I was about 5.  I used to try to dazzle him with my mad dancing skills and Snoopy knee socks.  (This shocks you, yes?)

John gave me a gift the year I was 6.  On Valentine’s Day he gave me a gift of 2 stuffed monkeys hugging.  (I know.  That was technically very sweet and technically, John was a good guy.)

What he did after he gave me the monkeys is tell me that he was getting married.

Ummmm…’scuuuuuuze, me…?!?!?

To whom?

Not me.  (Again, Brooklyn; not Bayou Country.)

Since I was not then as I am not now in possession of a credible “poker face”, I can only imagine what my look must have said.  What I do know is that I stormed right out of the deli and stood next to the bike awaiting Anna to finish the shopping and get us on with my life without John/Jon.

I refused to go back into that deli on any following Saturday and did not attend his wedding, to which Anna and I were both invited.

That was it.

I considered Valentines’ Day a day of people giving you gifts because they fall short in the ways in which you wish they would not…

…and more importantly, a day on which people (like my 6-year old self) hold unrealistic expectations of the people whom we allegedly love.

I didn’t need that stress.

When I got older and was what we now call a “tween”, the V Day stress came up again.  Oh my GAWD, do junior high school girls stress out about this shit!

Ugh.  I had to play the game because they already thought I was a freak and that would have been worse if I didn’t act like I gave a shit about holidays and “love”.  Double ugh.

“Love” when you are 12 is some boy with braces and big blue eyes who you hope will grow up to be cool like your grandpa but of whom you could not currently imagine kissing because there seems to be a lot of spit going on there and you have heard horror stories about braces wires and said wires poking through people’s mouths…which would not only be painful but would get you in a heap of steaming trouble at home.

No thanks.

You might still let this boy kiss you with what you will later realize is the messiest excuse for a kiss ever and wonder how it is that your gag reflexes were not triggered by having to wipe that person’s spit off your face.

BLEH!

(Hi!  I was a little bit uptight as a kid, if you have not guessed that by now.)

So, yeah…V Day was about unrealistic expectations which turned into unrealistic physical expectations, which by high school had turned into all that PLUS a full-blown competition amongst the study body…even if unspoken.

Just what I needed; another reason to absolutely loathe high school and the fact that I was not a tall/petite blonde who was adorable with perfect skin and the whitest Keds on the planet.  Awesome.  Go me!

Later in life, once my body grew into itself and I figured out how to maintain my eyebrows, V Day took on  a different spin.  A spin in which I was left with the unfortunate task of having to plan things or receive ill-conceived gifts (like the XL white down MEN’S jacket  and red lace Onesie I got in ’97)…

…or irrational gifts (like the 2.06 ct diamond I was presented with by a friend who knew I was engaged to someone else but believed himself to be the better catch, in 1999).  Maybe he was a better catch, but the act freaked me out enough to run far, far away.  As far as I know, he has not hurled himself off a cliff and is married to a lovely girl who said yes.

I always felt a lot of pressure on Valentine’s Day to do or be something that I am not.

I was either supposed to act romantic toward someone to whom I did not wish or  I had to explain to this person or that person why I did not wish to spend my day doing alleged romantic things.

Blah, blah, blah…

Every year, whether single, dating, engaged, or married, there has been some sort of mess associated with Valentine’s Day.

…and someone’s feelings getting hurt; typically (TYPICALLY) not mine.

I do as well at Valentine’s Day as I do with dating.  I do not do well with forced discomfort that relies on others for a result.

I can make myself damn uncomfortable on the bike any old time and know that the only thing keeping me from and/or getting me my happy ending is me…and sometimes a stray tree.

Yesterday, I was reminded, without intent, by some friends and my kiddos that Valentine’s Day can just be about a good meal (or two) and eating candy while watching a sappy movie with sparkly vampires while your dogs work out their issues with each other.

There doesn’t have to be an expensive gift, or a restaurant, or dressing up.

There can be happiness about roses given to your little girl by her daddy…

…and happiness about the fact that you have surrounded yourself with the kind of people who would rather chill out than exploit and diminish the grandeur of real love for superficial demonstration of commercialism.

Don’t get me wrong, plenty of people truly love the people for whom they make February 14th a romantic day…but I am also willing to bet that those people demonstrate their love the other 364/365 days per year as well.

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The Blame Game

Posted on February 8, 2012 | Leave a comment

Ty, Meg Pie, and I just got roped into a discussion while watching AndersonCooper…for the few moments that we could tolerate the position being presented and the sloppy manner in which it was presented.

In a nutshell, some scorned wives were blaming legalized prostitution for their spouses’ infidelity.

Hmmmm….

Really?

How many states have legalized prostitution in theUS?

*crickets chirping*

Exactly one state.

How many people commit adultery in the US (male and female)?

(pssssstttt….LOTS!)

I assure you that the cheaters in the other 49 states are not trekking their sweet asses to Nevada to get their groove on.

First, I am pretty sure prostitution (legal or otherwise) has ZERO to do with the cause of infidelity.

I know my fair share of cheaters and only one has ever sought out professional services.

What about the female cheaters?  How do they do it? There is not exactly the same prostitution market available for women who wish to stray.  Yet, women cheat too…and I am guessing the statistics are not too far behind their male counterparts.

People cheat for a variety of reasons, including but not limited to psychological issues stemming from insecurity, narcissism, antisocial personality disorder, and histrionic personality disorder.

Secondly, no one can force someone to stray.  If there is force involved, it is not cheating; it is rape/assault, so one might want to watch how they toss around the whole “force” angle.

To blame anyone for the actions of another is ludicrous.  Come on now.

The one wife actually said, “My ex said that the reason he utilized the services of a prostitute was because it was there and the service was as easy as ordering a pizza.”

Yep.  It is true that it is easy to acquire the services of a professional.

You know what?

It’s just as easy to acquire the services of a therapist to assist you in working through why you feel the urge to break the vows of your marriage and act is such a selfish and destructive way, but your husband chose anchovy.  Own that.

It’s easy to buy cigarettes or go to McDonald’s too and Lord knows both markets have pretty strong campaigns whoring out their products, and yet plenty of people choose to not smoke and not eat McDonald’s.  Go figure.

Give me a McFuggin’ break, man.  How about a little accountability in this world?

I don’t know if I am more amused that the husband used the “availability” excuse or that the wife bought it and is now blaming the prostitute.

Your husband/wife cheated because they are selfish and rather douchebaggish.  You may not want to believe that because you want to keep the door unlocked for a possible reconciliation and you are having difficulty swallowing how that fact makes you feel about yourself, but that is your own issue.  The licensed whore was simply performing her job. 

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of non-prostitutes who seek out people in relationships/marriages because they like the challenge/conquest and those people have their own bags of issues to deal with, but even the most talented seductress/seductor cannot make a non-cheater cheat.

I hate any argument that forces me to argue on behalf of whores because frankly, the exploitation of our gender is sad and insulting to those of us who have worked hard to make sure we stayed off our backs and the pole.

The above statement made, the infidelity topic is separate and deserved to be addressed as even broken women need a defense at times when they are ill equipped to do so themselves.  These sad females have enough psychological issues of their own without taking on the baggage of wives who married the wrong man.

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The Tricky Church Trap

Posted on February 7, 2012 | 2 Comments

I know what you are thinking.  You are thinking this will be one of my fantastically uncomfortable anti-church rants.

You know what?

It is…sort of…but not really.

I mean, it is, but it has nothing to to with religion; it has to do with the Town and Country Popo.

Dear T&C Police:

You are an amusingly menacing bunch.  You know that?  I mean that in the nicest, law-abiding way possible, but really, you need to chill the hell out and allow some things to be “sacred”.

You know what is wrong?

Hiding in a church parking lot attempting to trap speeders who are just trying to get their asses to work in the morning.

What’s worse?

Hiding in a church parking lot on a HILL so that when the alleged speeders see you, they all slam on their effing brakes and fuck shit up for the masses behind them.

I feel alright with myself in a non-guilty way because I happened to be doing 56 MPH at the time that I saw you and I was going with the flow, so really, how many speeders were out there this morning?  Let it go, man.

There is just something fundamentally wrong with someone (ANYONE) hiding behind a cross, lying in wait to do evil things like ruin someone’s morning.

(haha…get it?  ”Lying in wait”.  I’m funny.)

You want to do that shit, at least do it on the shoulder or in the driveway of an assisted living facility, but not the church where (some) people go to feel safe.

Let’s be honest, people in general (unless they are on bikes) feel safe in Town and Country because traffic crimes are the big deal; not “real” stuff.

As a former Catholic, I for one get a little sick/anxious when I see a cop car in a church lot because…well…you know…The Catholic Church is a little messy with the laws right now/forever.

What I do know is that for all the people who rant about Jesus and God and what he/they would want, I can say that Jesus is NOT (N-O-T = not) down with speed traps set up at his house.

I have never read in the Bible that he hated the gays, or a particular race, or other religions.  (Though I do have some doubts that the authors of The Old Testament thought highly of women, but that is another post entirely.  Jesus clearly liked the ladies and loved his mommy and that is all good with me.)

What I have read in the Bible is that The Big JC LOVED sinners!  LOVED them!  He didn’t fuck their shit up and oddly enough, he had more than an ounce of perspective regarding the level of sins.

Speeding, though not a thing in his time, could not have been that big a deal if he forgave the assholes who crucified him.  Come on.

[weighs crucifiction v. speeding and raises one snarky eyebrow and smirks]

All I am saying is that if you must speed trap sweet and semi-innocent lead-footed folks, park somewhere else.

Park someplace that will have added benefits….like McFugginDonalds!  That would be a fantastic idea and a community service because folks might start looking at it with scorn since the whole “nutritional facts” thing is clearly a big fail.  Oy.

[drops head in hands and sighs]

Anyway, that was my two cents, which I was able to write without bias because I was not one of the unfortunate souls caught in your web this morning.  I feel fortunate that you did not write me a ticket for which I would need to contribute more of my adorably tiny salary because frankly, I don’t have much more than two cents at the moment so please also allow this paragraph to perform as a formal “Thank You” on my behalf.  You guys are awesome…and pretty…and strong…*GRRRRR!*…and your cars are really neato!

*kisses*

-Me

*Disclaimer:  This post was written in humor and I have no beef with the T&C Police.  They have not screwed with me since 2004 and I deserved it one of the two times.  (Twas an odd year.)  I really do not care where they park but do believe parking in front of fast food restaurants (this works for any police department, really) would deter people from eating there and thus might actually provide said folks an additional (if unintentional) service.

I do not dislike cops and am rather fascinated with much of what they do outside of the ticket-writing which has been a thorn in my side since I was 16 with a Mustang.  My late grandmother, aka “Racer Annie”, also agreed with me on tickets and I write this in homage to her spectacularly-shoed lead foot.

I support all law enforcement with regard to their DUI/DWI efforts and always will.

I would also support law enforcement fucking with people who drive slow in the left lane, but T&C does that and they get a HUGE thumbs up from me for those efforts and it makes me want to give them a giant hug.

*SQUEEEEEZE!* 

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The OTHER Sickness

Posted on January 24, 2012 | Leave a comment

Normally, when I talk about “The Sickness”, I am talking about Jens Boom, my 29′er boyfriend who lets me ride him as hard or easy as I want and lets me get a little wild.

Lately, I have been having to talk about some other sickness and I cannot lie, it has crawled right into my mind and given me the sads.

The first week of November, during the Cincy3 CX festival, I started to get sick.

At first I was just a little run down, then it grew bigger/worse.

Because I am me and not all that brilliant at times (and grossly selfish during cx season), I did not take a break and kept up with the traveling and racing and the all-around not resting of self and body.

I was at my old company and things were ugly and cx made me happy on weekends that my daughter was at her dad’s.

Well, I ended up with walking pneumonia.  I have written about this before.

I went to State CX Championships anyway, inhaler, antibiotics, and all.

I was on so many meds at the time that I would have been happy to stay in bed.  I didn’t.

On the day of the Championships, I realized I had made a truly awful mistake the day before…

I had left some items in the back of the velowagon after that day’s race and they were now still very wet…including shoes and gloves.

My skinsuit was fine because I had a spare, but ummm…so what?

I lined up freezing, wet, and miserable, and tossed the idea of taking my gloves off back and forth until I decided to just go with them.

Big mistake.  HUGE.

If you have ever seen the SAW films, you will know that there is one scene where people have to put their hands in a box and let the saw slice through until a certain amount of blood fills a container. Click here to see that scene if you have an iron stomach; ignore link if you do not.

(Nice image, huh?)

Yeah, well that is what my hands felt like after 2 laps in the freezing wet that was the Championship race.

What’s worse, I kept seeing that scene in my head as I was racing and that was not really a good thing.

I started crying from the pain in my hands and lungs and the gasps were strong enough to cause me to lose my breakfast, which was a pretty spectacular way to end a race, so that is all I am saying about that day.  I hated that day.  That day was the entire 2009 cx season in 30 minutes.  That day sucked.

I now have what is potentially permanent nerve damage to my right pinky, constant acute pain, and limited function of the digit.  Good stuff.  I’m pretty excited about it myself, because you know how much fun I have with my malfunctioning and/or rogue body parts.

*semi-dramatic sigh*

OK, so I took a break and forfeited some racing and mentally shredded myself while trying really hard not to.

I got back on the bike a few days before Christmas.

I got on The Sickness to kick the ass out of my sickness.

Now sure, I had gone to some spin classes and had been swimming and doing some funnish things at the gym, but to really ride….well, that was pure happiness.

I had to take it easy and went out with some good people who wouldn’t let me do anything stupid.

And while I maybe started with a more challenging ride than I should have, I was over the moon excited to have had my ass kicked and couldn’t wait to measure my health and wellness by returning to that final climb.

I felt the sparkle returning to my eyes and the mischievous smirk playing on my mouth.

We continued to go out…somewhere…anywhere…almost every day.  My addiction had returned.

Fast forward to the week of CX Nats.  A trip we had always planned and one that had never included me actually racing.

I spoke to Kirk just before the weekend and he said there was no point in me racing after how sick I have been and missing the races leading up to the event.

He was of course right and said that the only benefit I would receive from racing that race would be for novelty. He told me to take my bike and ride the course with Jim and get my workout that way.

I agreed that that was a great idea!  Originally, my travel partner-in-crime was also going on the trip and we were going to run while out there; no bikes.  Once a schedule glitch kept Suze from traveling with us, running didn’t seem all that fun.

So we went out to Madison and I decided I was absolutely without a doubt not racing and said it out loud to anyone whom would ask.

Nope, not racing.

At pretty much the 11th hour (because why would it not be?), I looked at Jim and told him I wanted to do the novelty race.

The novelty race being the Women’s Elite race.  My first Elite race and not at all intimidating, right?

No stress.  Just fun, heckling, and counting the minutes before Katie F’n Compton lapped me.

Jim looked at me in that way that Jim does because he knows I am like this.

(Yes, I routinely feel for my friends for having to deal with my spontaneous whims of doing things”just for fun”.)

So, I registered, looked oddly at my number fully absorbing how many women were in my race, (93) and then very oddly…I did all the right things!  I hydrated, didn’t party, took it easy, and went to bed early.

(Technically, right there should have been a sign that I was still sick.  Just saying.  I almost never do the right thing the night before a race.  I am very bad at the night before.  Mostly because I over-think it and I stress out, so I do stupid shit to keep me from doing the stressing/thinking thing.)

I bought that HotHands/Feet stuff so I could be a ginormous pussy with snuggly warm hands in the race (because we all know I would not be going fast enough to stay warm) and some red Swedish Fish for post-race and I was ready.

The shortest (and bestest) race report EVER from the 2012 CX Nats Women’s Elite Race is below:

Yep…Kirk was right…and in being right, he allowed me to get my spirit back.

I did my novelty race and was excited by all the new year held.

He put my plan together and man was I excited!

At the end of the plan he wrote, “Small steps – stay healthy.”

So that brings me to now.

Last week I jumped into my plan and rode mostly indoors.  On Thursday, I decided to do my intervals outside because I was going nuts in the house.  It was 37 degrees, but I layered up and wore super warm lobster gloves (because I am just that Pro!) and the HotHands/Feet thingies.

I even wore a hat.

Immediately upon getting off the bike, I went to the steam room and sat inside making sure to loosen up any gunk that may have crept in while I was outside.

I took a steamy hot shower, and felt pretty good about things.

I felt alive.

SOOOOOO alive and good and happy.

I almost did a naked podium stand in the locker room, but…you know, I get a little tired of those ladies judging me, so I didn’t.

*smirk*

Friday, I felt less alive…and each day since has been worse.

Now I am back on the inhaler and antibiotics and feel worse than I had during the worst of the walking pneumonia.

When I look back at the year, I have been some version of sick since the end of June when I kicked my own ass in Colorado.

I cannot seem to get it together with this whole breathing thing and every time I turn around I am sick.

I have taken breaks. I have rested. I have hydrated.

I have been off the bike for four (FOUR) effing days.  FOUR!

Now, I am crawling out of my bleeping skin because I want to ride my bike and while I know that technically I could do it, I wounder…should I?

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Santa Fraud

Posted on December 19, 2011 | Leave a comment

It’s no secret that I do not like the “Santa Game” and all that comes with that.  Like another friend mentioned yesterday, my seemingly irrational dislike for the fat, jolly one stems from my belief that it is OK for children to learn that their parents’ hard work, sacrifice, and generosity afforded them their treasures on Christmas morning.

I never understood the desire to give children the impression that these gifts were created effortlessly by caffeinated little people.  Whaaaaaat?

Look, I don’t need to be patted on the back for the gifts given because frankly along with the thanks comes the blame too…for all the wrong things purchased or things not received.

The Sass put Santa in “time out” when she was 3 for bringing her the wrong talking kitchen.  She mentioned Santa’s blunder repeatedly throughout the year when someone would suggest she put her desired items on her Xmas list.  I even have video of her having a “chat” with Santa the following year to make sure he got his shit straight.

Guess what? She received the correct talking kitchen that year…and then declared it a “baby toy”.

[slaps head with hand]

That year, she also got that awful, ginormous mechanical horse that Target was whoring. That thing made me dread Target and when she got it, she then told us that when turned on (something she delighted in at the store), the horse freaked her out and was obnoxious.  (Yes, she said “obnoxious”.)

I did not have a lot of money and that thing was a ridiculous amount of money.  My heart almost audibly cracked from the double-punch and it took everything I had not to burst into tears and spill the beans about the old fatty.  But, I remembered that The Sass was 4 and was in fact happy, but just pointing out the obvious. I also learned a lot about my daughter that day.  She will do something on principle. She asked Santa for the Dora Talking Kitchen and Santa could not be released from time-out until he made it right.  Point made, Sister!

My own Santa discovery came the year following the Great Coal Incident.

I am pretty sure I was 9 when the incident occurred, because my sister was still pretty young.  I believe this is also the year I mastered the raised-eye brow-stare-combo.

So, let’s call it the Christmas when I was 9.

We went to bed and were later woken by my mom to come downstairs in our ridiculous matching candy cane-striped night gowns.

Well what do you know?  Old fatty is down there with his ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!” and all that nonsense.  My parents’ friends are down there too and my sister and I are very confused.

My sister is of course also terrified because seriously, what the fuck? She’s 2.5 years old and Santa is a loud stranger in the middle of the night…

He gets to me and yabbers on about good girl/bad girl hoopla and then presents me with a bag of coal and a speech on how I need to try better next year to be a good girl.

Hmmmm…

I’m gonna try very hard not to “Deck the Balls” at the moment, fat man.

(OK, I didn’t think that.  A) I didn’t know what balls were back then and, B) I wasn’t even snarky back then…but we can all thank Santa for playing his part in my snark development.)

Anyway, this adorable little speech went over pretty well as you might imagine.

I was devastated.

They sent us off to bed…with me a mess of mental anguish and wishing someone would form The Smiths so I could sing along and cry.

Imagine for a moment the stress I had on my 9-year old shoulders that night as I lie there staring at the ceiling and sobbing and shredding my brain trying to think of what I did that was bad enough for him to pull that shit…in front of other people too.  I mean, he didn’t even take me aside and have a little talk.

Just WHAM!  Here’s your coal, Bitch…and also you are bad at being a kid.

(For the record, that Santa moment also taught me how NOT to manage my co-workers.  Ugh.)

I dragged my butt downstairs in the morning and was shocked (SHOCKED!!!!) to see a ton of presents under the tree.

My mom said Santa told her that he thought I was sincere in my promise to do better and so the slate was now clean.  I had no idea what that meant, but whatever…TOYS!

I was without a doubt very excited by all of this and it was a good Christmas.

(Let us recall that the previous Christmas had my mom throwing the tree out the front door in a psychotic fit literally over spilled milk, so yeah, this was cake.)

Between that Christmas and the next, I learned a lot…and I was pissed.

No Santa meant that it was my assclown mom and idiotic step-dad who staged that Santa session and that Santa was the fat neighbor friend (a drunk, mind you) from down the block.

That meant that my mom and step-dad intentionally inflicted that mental pain on me and let me go to bed like a whipped puppy.

What assholes.

Of course, years later when I stopped hating Santa, it also dawned on me that my mom busted her ass to get me presents.  I always seemed to know that the gifts at my grandparents’ came form the rest of my family, because my grandma was not as great at secret-keeping as she thought.

When later the next year my mom went ape shit and threw all my toys out one day while she was angry at me, I learned the truth.

She said she bought them, so she can toss them.

When I later cried to my grandpa, he was angry because he and my grandma had purchased much of what my mom had thrown away.

I ended up having a separate stash of toys at their house, but Christmas was never the same and my mom left before Christmas the following year, when I was 10.

I knew that regardless of whether I liked some hideous bath robe that someone gave me, that they had taken the time to select it for me and that I wasn’t some name on a list of gazillions.

When my daughter, who is now 9, told me recently that she believes me to be Santa, she said it with pride.  She seemed so grateful that it made every sacrifice worth it.  She knows her dad and I coordinate the gifts and she likes that we work together.  That makes her happier than the idea of Santa…and I can’t really argue with that.

Santa gave me a great kid…or was that the Pumpkin Fairy?

Whatever your beliefs, don’t sweat the Santa…or miss the lessons, good and bad, in the magic of Christmas.

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