The Language of Christmas

I recall (back in the days when I was young and dating) hearing lots of talk about "The Language of Flowers." You know, the manner in which one might creatively express respect (daffodils), affection (red chrysanthemum) and virginity (orange blossom), to name a very few.

So, on this Christmas morning, as I opened the gifts which my dear husband had lovingly chosen for me, I just had to ask myself: "What sort of message am I to infer from a Daisy Seal?"

Okay, so it's not exactly a flower. More like a superheated foodsaver device. But it's got that "Daisy" bit in the title, only without the usual connotation of "childhood innocence."

Don't get me wrong, I know exactly what he meant to convey with the purple bikini underpants and the push-up bra. It's just ... vacuum-packed leftovers? What's up with that?

Holiday Wishes

Mike and I attended the company's annual Holiday Party on Saturday night. It was a nice opportunity for me to catch up with the wives of his engineer colleagues. We all have the same look: "He was cute when I married him, I swear!"

Just kidding. (Mike's still sort of cute; he has all of his hair, and his pocket protector has been permanently retired.)

I'm happy to report that I did nothing to embarass my husband, and I was completely sober throughout the evening. On the flipside, I was repeatedly assaulted by geeky engineer-types who thought it positively hysterical to sneak up behind me, place an ice-cold bottle of beer against my shoulderblades, and watch me leap for the chandeliers. Mike was drunk off his six-foot arse, and so was unavailable to come to my rescue.

Note to self: next year, no bare shoulders. Second note to self: next year, taser!

Lazy

My husband was just talking (his first mistake) about how, in a few years, our kids will be in Junior High, and I'll have to get up "early." I cocked an eyebrow at him, and watched as he prepared the noose, and slipped his head right on through.

"Because, you know, you sleep 'till like seven, and you're still tired all the time."

I wasn't really prepared to have to give the Mommy's-on-duty-24/7 speech this evening, but since he insisted on prompting me, I improvised a little.

And screamed right in his ungrateful little face. Because the truth is, women are the first line of defense against midnight fevers and vomiting; we do do the lion's share of the chores. They can call it nagging, but that doesn't mean what we're saying isn't true.

"And don't kid yourself, sucker," I said as I glared into that treacherous mug of his. "I know what's out there in the wife department, and what you need," I paused for emphasis, "you ain't gonna get from some Martha Stewart, up-with-the-birds Uber-housewife."

He knew it. He kissed me and apologized.

But he's not getting any monkey love for at least a week. 'Cause if Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

A Christmas Mitzvah

Every year my Mom does a big bash for Christmas Eve. Too much food, too much fun, just ... too much. And, every single year since there was a "family" in our family, we've had a visit from a real live Santa Claus. He brings a few presents and some holiday cheer to the whole assembly, and then departs before anyone notices that he smells like Grandpa, or that he’s wearing Uncle Ernie’s shoes.

In our house, Santa is decidedly non-sectarian. He brings gifts for Christian and Jew alike (because we usually have plenty of both), and everyone gets to sit on his lap. The problem in recent years, however, is that the kids are getting smarter and more inquisitive, and it's getting harder to find a Santa capable of fooling our little detectives, even for a few moments.

But this year's gonna be different. My sister and her husband are hosting an old friend of his for a couple of weeks, an Israeli Special Forces Something-or-Other who's in town for the holidays. His name is Ori (or something equally sexy and exotic), and he’s agreed to wear the Big Red Suit.

I think I’ve mentioned my little Catholic-girls-gone-wild fetish for the sons of Israel. Every one I ever dated treated me like a goddess, and my mother will never, ever forgive me for The One That Got Away back in 1994. So I’m positively quivering at the prospect of Ori, resplendent in the velvet suit and white wig, beckoning for me to sit in his lap and tell him what I really want for Christmas.

There’s just one problem: Mike and I are supposed to spend this Christmas Eve with his parents, as we do every second year. But I think that my flu shot must have been defective or something. I feel a little fever coming on …

Today I thought ...

I watch over my children as though my sanity were dependent upon their survival.

Then I realized: it is.

Vincent D'Onofrio ...

... is going to be at the NBC Experience this morning signing copies of the Season 2 DVD. And, despite the fact that I am within shouting distance of NBC, and that I love each and every one of my far-away (yet devoted) LO:CI friends, I'm afraid that I won't be able to get myself there.

"Chain me to the bedpost," I begged my husband.

"Pardon?" he replied, a little astonished.

"It's just that I'm afraid I won't be able to resist the urge to head on over there and scream in his face like a teenager on crack: 'Ann wanted to be here, but she's planning a wedding! Jill has a teenage daughter and two dogs! Kate has boys and a congregation! Jen has a child and a business to run! Riccie is up to her knees is new technology and a grandchild! Finn is in Israel, for God's sake! I'm here for them!!'

"So please - if you love me - lock me in the basement and hide the car keys, won't you honey?"

"Of course I will, darling," he replied, and kissed me on the forehead. "Now go take your meds."

Again, I'm sorry for having failed you all.