ammogirl

I can’t think right now because of the Christmas carols drilling into my head.  Not that I don’t like them.  It’s more like, I hear one and become instantly hypnotized into a green and red colored trance.  Sort of like an acid trip, but more festive.  Seriously - candycanes were floating around my head, and the Grinch flew by on his sled, Max’s little legs going as fast as they could, and there were plates of deviled eggs and I’m pretty sure I saw a carton of egg nog…and then the song ended and I realized I had just been sitting there staring at the screen the whole time, fingers suspended over the home keys.  Feliz Navidad indeed. 

Speaking of Christmas, I have this huge dilemma, which I’m sure y’all will totally laugh at, but…what’s new, right?  Here goes:  We are having a battle of sorts in our  house over Santa Claus.  See, the girls still TELL me they believe in the old guy.  Even though they are…11 and 12.  Shut up. I know I’m being had, but what would YOU do?  Unmask him? Well then…WHAT HAPPENS IF THEY DON’T REALLY KNOW?  I’m serious!  They lived in the North Pole most of their life! It’s such a dilemma, with everyone talking around the issue.  It goes like this: "Mom, <assumes wide-eyed stare and a cherubic look>so, like…will Santa be able to get down the chimney here?"  "Ummm…<looking hard to determine if girl is SERIOUS or the best actress ever> <sees nothing but INNOCENCE and YOUTH and the FACE OF AN ANGEL who totally believes in Santa>of course Santa can get down that chimney, sweets!" "Oh yay! Thanks, mom, you’re the best <and most gullilble> mom ever!!!" 

I ask you - faced with that, would you be able to say "Santa?  Santa isn’t REAL, silly!"  No.  You wouldn’t. So there you have it. I am pushing falsehoods onto my children.  It’s the dirty little secret of the Williams household.  My children are playing me like a fiddle for the extra Santa gifts.  I think. 

I don’t even remember when I realized Santa was pretend…do you?  For me, it was more of one day I thought he was real, and the next time I thought about it, I didn’t.  No earth shattering revelations, no older kid breaking the news.  Just…a total loss of all that was good about childhood.  Just kidding.  There’s always the Easter Bunny, and he brings Creme Eggs, so don’t even TRY to sell me the story that HE’S fake.  Or she.  Whatever.

You guys are so smart, it totally was John as the Mad Barfer this weekend.  The ironic thing was I had JUST told my coworkers the day before that I have never seen my husband drunk…and I haven’t, he’s the smartest drinker ever, and no matter how much he drinks, he NEVER ACTS DRUNK.  Unlike me, but of course this story is about him.  So.  Party.  There were something like eight people buying rounds all night long, and while this German beer is definitely not Bud Light, they were all drinking it like it was water.  John was fine until we got in the car, and then…he wasn’t.  And then he wasn’t again, when we stopped to get our car, and then AGAIN, immediately after I exited the Autobahn.  So.  It was pretty funny, and I took the opportunity to make lots of fun.  Oh stop, I was nice too, and actually spent the whole night in a state of wakefulness, because I was sure he would die of alcohol poisoning. 

And finally, my Autobahn de-virgin-ing.  It was my first time on it, it was midnight, raining, and my husband was hanging out in the passenger seat breathing the way you do when you are totally trying to keep from puking.  Oh.  And, it was the BMW, which I NEVER drive because it’s…weird…sort of…or maybe that’s just me.  Hmm.  Anyway, raising the seat up in the BMW requires you to practice Hatha Yoga while saying a few chants and throwing some magic powder around, which I totally didn’t have time to do, so to see over the steering wheel I had to grip the 10-and-2 and hold myself suspended over the seat.  And all those things were going on at once, and this was how it went.

     me: so…um…is there ANY OTHER WAY to get home besides the Autobahn
     john: ….inhale…exxxxxhaaaallllleee.  inhale…exxxxhallllleeeee.  Noooouuugghhhh.
     me:  great!  okay!  here I go.
     john:  stop moving and talking.  bleeecccchhhhhhgggggg.

I’m just kidding.  He didn’t really say that last part. 

Oh look!  Lunchtime is over!

Tschuss!!