I do 90 percent of my retail shopping on-line. As a result, my kids aren’t excited by UPS and Fed Ex deliveries. Boxes inevitably contain things I say are great, but the minions say are boring — shoes and clothes, books, Korean dry food staples, kid-ish art and office supplies, you name it. So they aren’t curious about box arrivals anymore, and I never fess up that most of their Christmas booty comes via delivery as well.

But once in a while a box arrives that just cries out for attention. Last week an enormous box arrived from Amazon. I thought for sure the kids would question its contents, but no. I emptied it under their noses and spirited away the AWESOME stuff in it to a secret place, and then they attacked the vacant box before I could take it out to the garage. The love affair juvenile mammals have with empty boxes is a banal universal constant, like the speed of light or the smell of a bad fart.

Jesse wanted to get in the box and beat it with her fists and feet until it was flat like a pancake, which is a hostile reaction I can’t really explain. I didn’t let her do that, because Nick had already filled it with sofa pillows and a blanket. Box Dog came to be.

For nigh on 10 days, I’ve been in constant communication with Box Dog. He was born in the box, he hangs out in the box, he sleeps in the box. He likes his privacy in the box. He likes the box closed. Today he asked for a box cover.

Hello? Hello? Is anybody home? Arise, Box Dog, and face a new dawn! Your enemy, fluffy white Poodle Dog, is at your gates!

Fluffy white Poodle Dog is sorely troubled by Box Dog and often attacks him. Box Dog is fearless and always prevails.

But who is Box Dog, and what does he look like? Aha! Just as he descends back into his private universe, Box Dog reveals his true identity. He uses his control over the Force to mess with this observer’s camera, so that the pictures come out all blurry.

Box Dog asked me  to put his darkening blanket back on. He wanted some head room and  decided to keep the flap open for a bit.

Hey, I’m on sick day number 3 with the kids. This is what I’m reduced to. If people can post pictures of cats in containers all day long, I can feel good about posting pictures of my beloved Box Dog. Good times, good times.

Today is the kids’ second consecutive sick day. Yesterday (Monday) morning, Jesse complained vaguely about her brain and throat hurting, and it coincided with my desperate desire to avoid making her school lunch, so I let her stay home. The smile that covered her face when I announced this decision made me second-guess myself. Nick is in half-day K4, and it seemed like a bother to cart Jesse around as I delivered him to school and picked him up, so I kept Nick home too even though he seemed fine. Yay. More time with the kids.

By last night I realized Jesse really was sick, and Nick pooped his pants and also seemed unnaturally tired. Then in the evening we got a recorded message from the school superintendent. More than a hundred staff and students missed school Monday due to illness. Well then. That’s more than 10 percent of the relevant population. I hemmed and hawed about what to do, but Jesse woke up snotty and unwell this morning, so it was an easy decision to keep both kids home again. More time with the kids. Again. Not so yay.

I think I’m sick too, but not enough to justify feeling sorry for myself. I will anyway. I have a long list of retailers I intended to visit yesterday and today for things like gift cards for family and teachers, and toys for the kids, and I can’t do any of that with my minions hanging around dripping snot and whining about aches and pains. But staying at home all day when they’re sick leaves me addled. Things happen that can’t be explained. I was playing a tune on the piano this morning when Nick appeared at the top of the stairs, screaming incoherently and literally shaking in what appeared to be a state of terror. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”

What, what could it be? I asked Nick to tell me what was wrong. “MOMMY!!! I was peeing and I tried to flush the toilet and I held the handle down and down and the water just kept going higher and higher and higher—”

As he said those last words his knife-edge hand moved from his tummy to his forehead in an excellent slo-mo approximation of a military salute.

“—and higher until it went OVER  THE TOP AND JUST KEPT GOING.”

GAH. I raced upstairs and discovered toilet water all over the floor. At least it didn’t contain any turds.

I ended up taking the kids to Whole Foods for lunch. I had to get out of the house, and I needed groceries anyway. We got home from shopping and I hadn’t done the breakfast dishes, and the kids wanted milkshakes and I said yes, and I decided to make a cranberry nut quick bread that’s a holiday favorite in our house.  I’m not sure what I was thinking.

I washed up the dishes. I got through about half the bread prep (zest and juice 3 oranges, chop up cranberries and nuts, mix up some egg replacer, cut fat into dry stuff…). Just then Jesse ran in and demanded a milkshake. Right. I also realized I forgot to put the groceries away. Yikes. Well, at least the ice cream I just bought was really, really soft from sitting out for so long. I put away the groceries quickly and mixed up a couple milkshakes for the kids. I turned back to the cake. I was moving fast by this point. Nick marched in. “Mommy, I need a STRAW!” Right. I was in the middle of a lot so I reached quickly into the back of the pantry shelf where the straws are, about 4 feet off the floor…  And my arm knocked Anthony’s ceramic tea-container off the shelf. It landed with a CRASH. I looked down and saw liquid spreading quickly across the floor. Then I saw the Martinelli’s gallon-size glass apple juice bottle. All of it was missing except the base.

That’s when I started keening.

Jesse giggled from the kitchen table. “Oh my God.”

You know the rest. I managed to shoo Nick and the dog out of the kitchen in a panic (“OUT! OUT!!! OUT!!!”). Jesse went and got a bath towel while I tried desperately to keep the juice from flowing under the refrigerator, and then there was all sorts of cleaning up and picking up broken glass and de-sticky-ing all the surfaces of things that were touched by exploding Martinelli’s apple juice. As I took deep breaths and tried to work my way through the incredible mess, Jesse sat peacefully and enjoyed her milkshake. “Wow Mom, this has been some bad days, huh? I’m sick, and Nick pooped in his pants three times, and all the broken glass, and Nick overflowed the toilet this morning–”

I took the opportunity to interrupt Jesse as I headed to the basement for a box of wet swiffers. I yelled back grimly as I stomped down the stairs, “I guess so, but it could have been worse, it could have been worse.”

I heard Jesse answer from afar, an edge of comic skepticism in her voice, “It could have been worse?”

I hollered again as I headed into the storage closet. “Yes, it could have been worse.”

I got back upstairs and said it one last time, still trying to resign myself to this stupid shit. “It could have been worse.”

Jesse looked at me curiously, a twinkle in her eye. “I guess so, Mom. You mean like, the house could have blown up?”

Yes. Exactly.

In December 1985, I met my first English mini-mince pie. Anthony brought some back to Oberlin College with him after spending Thanksgiving with his family in New Jersey. He offered me one, which I now understand was like a parched man who’s been trapped in the desert for a week, offering me the last gulp of water in his canteen. At the time, it was unlike anything I’d ever seen or tasted, a little 3-inch-round pastry. I pulled the top crust off and nibbled it, while I stared suspiciously at the brown, mucky, unappetizing-looking filling.

Hm. I pulled most of that out with my finger and ate the crust.

Anthony was mortified, horrified, shocked, sorely disappointed in me. He chewed me out. I was not allowed to desecrate mince pies in that way. I was not allowed to eat any more mince pies, for a couple years to come. Hmp.

Anthony’s mom makes mince pies each year as a special Christmas treat. She won’t share her method or recipe, and she doles the wee pies out like scarce and costly commodities. I guess they’re HER THING. But now that we live far away, she doesn’t give Anthony mince pies anymore. I’ve been trying to emulate them for years, and I always fail. One year I made them too small, another year I made them too big. The filling is never quite right, plus sometimes I over-fill and sometimes I under-fill. And I always overcook them. The magic of Mum’s mince pies is that they’re ever so slightly undercooked. I think it must be like making kimchi, which is another beloved and generally unappealing ethnic specialty – either it comes naturally because you’ve been doing it all your life, or it doesn’t.

A few years ago Mum finally fessed up to me: she doesn’t make the filling herself. She uses a jar of Robertson’s mincemeat. I felt so special when she told me. I buy a couple jars each year around this time, and I give it a go. I try not to read the ingredient list too carefully. It includes things like suet, which I thought was for the birds. But my pies still don’t taste quite like Mum’s. I’m certain she enhances the jar ingredients somehow, but she’ll never tell.

Making bad mince pies year after year is hard for me to bear; I can usually work out how to make good food. Last year I finally made tasty mince pies — which means they passed muster with Anthony, who is a harsh and unrelenting critic. The trick was booze. I added some Cointreau to the brown muck that comes out of the Robertson’s jar, and also I undercooked the pies properly.

That was apparently a one-off. I tried to make mince pies yesterday. My crusts were tough instead of flaky or even tender. I forgot about the Cointreau and used some rye whiskey instead. I added too many currants to the mix, and I think I put too much filling in each wee pie. I over-baked them. Again. Meh. I must get bound up by performance anxiety.  But at least they look pretty-ish.

Good thing I bought two jars of Robertson’s mincemeat. You can never have too much suet in a diet, so I think in a couple days I’ll try to make some more pies. Hopefully I’ll do better.

Imagine a world in which I, a self-respecting helicopter parent, would allow my tiny child to sit in the lap of a man I’ve never met before. He’s wearing an enormous fake wig that hides his true identity. I can’t make out his facial features, and I don’t know if he’s in the sexual predator database. He puts his arms out and clasps my child, who whispers secrets in his ear, in exchange for which he promises to give my child toys and candy. Since I can’t get close to him, I don’t know if he smells like candy-canes, weed, or alcohol. Or lies. Mall Santa sits on a throne of lies, as Buddy the Elf so aptly put it.

I can’t imagine what’s gone wrong in this world. Parents beat themselves up over so many stupid things. Car seat! Is the seatbelt properly fastened? Make sure you take that kid’s coat off before you strap him in, or else if you tap the brakes too hard he will shoot out of the coat and through the front windshield. Cribs! Thou shalt not co-sleep or else your child will DIE, and also cribs are incredibly dangerous unless you place your baby flat on her back with no buntings or stuffed animals, in pajamas that are so tight her fingers turn purple by the morning. Rice! Rice cereal is the perfect first solid food. No. Rice cereal must be avoided because of arsenic; feed it to your baby and she will DIE. Vaccines! No vaccines or else your child will DIE. Yes vaccines or else your child will DIE. Electrical outlets! Put those plastic covers on or else your baby will stick a finger in that outlet and… DIE. No, wait. Make sure those plastic covers aren’t made of plastic but are instead made of some environmentally conscious product, or else the plastic will leach toxins into the air and your child will… DIE. God forbid you should fail to enroll your kids in 18 extracurriculars by the time they’re 5 (and in their 4th year of school). They will surely be intellectually stunted and NEVER understand Kierkegaard, let alone ever remember how to spell his bloody name. Stranger danger! Teach your children that strangers are potential predators, murderers, rapists, kidnappers, bad bad bad.  Never, ever, ever under any circumstances talk to a stranger, look sidewise at a stranger, nod at a stranger, or acknowledge a stranger’s existence.

Unless it’s Mall Santa. Then, you know, never mind. “Hi there, Mr. Fake Claus. I can’t imagine why you would want or need to take this job touching many children all day long, but hey, I offer up my child to sit on your red-panted leg, for you to hug and say sweet nothings to.”

I DON’T THINK SO.

Jesse once sat on a Santa’s lap in a Home Depot. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly, it’s like we were sucked into a Santa black hole. Jesse sat anxiously on that red lap, and Fake Santa asked her what she wanted for Christmas. She was thoughtful, and she was skeptical about this guy. She answered finally. “A red car.” Okay then. We could have done that in a letter. No lap dance required.

Nick has never had the opportunity to sit on the lap of a Mall Santa. He never will, unless another black hole opens near me.

When I was little, I got my dad all grumpy one weekend over Mall Santa. Dad and I were running around doing stuff. I was 6 or 7, and arguably even more clueless than I am now. He was driving from here to there on the Eighth Army base in Seoul, probably shopping. I saw a Santa at two different locations, within minutes of each other. I interrogated Dad. How was this possible? How could Santa be in both places?? How come he looked different in each place??? Dad didn’t have the right answers, so I kept at him. Finally, he snapped in exasperation. “Aigoo, Carla!! He’s MAGIC. That’s how he’s in two places at the same time!!”

I may have explained this before, but “ai-go” is a Korean exclamatory sound that can be used to express many different feelings, from utter terror to absolute joy. A good modern American equivalency would be something like “oh” or “jeez” or “wow.” Dad used it primarily in a grumpy way to express irritation, and he pronounced it to sound exactly like this: “eye goo.” Dad could elongate these two syllables in the most annoying way, with a furrow in his brow and a grimace on his face, hanging his head over to the side and down a little as he shook it back and forth. It created a mood that was a combination of belligerent and broken-down. Brilliant.

Foiled again by my attentional issues. What was I saying about Santa?

Wait. Wait a second. Anthony just got home with the kids. He’s yelling, “Mommy we need you!” Bah. Oh. Nick crapped his pants. I’ll be right back.

* * * *

There’s nothing like fecal matter to transform a little boy’s cute little tooshy into a thing to be feared. Anthony and I have just finished a debate about whether it was worse for Anthony — who claims that he used his own hand (held up dramatically to show me the victim appendage) to reach down and scoop poop out of the “cavity of Nick’s butt” — or for me, since I had to bathe Nick’s poop-smeared butt and wash out his poopy clothes. The smell that arises when poop meets warm water… Just thinking about it is enough to make my eyes water.

Right. SANTA. Because this is a grumpy about the HOLIDAYS blog series, not grumpy about POOP.

After the Home Depot Santa event with Jesse, I remembered my own run-in with multiple Santas, and my dad’s unsatisfying explanation. I realized that Jesse would see right through these false Santas too soon for her own good. That’s when we came clean and explained that Mall Santa is not actually Santa. The Santas you see around town are contractors. They dress like Santa for fun and receive requests from children, and then they report back to Real Santa. This explanation works perfectly well for my children.

If you ever see me walking past a Mall Santa, and if you hear my kids ask me if they can stop and see Santa, you will hear me reply with these very words: “No. That’s not Santa. That’s a contractor. You’re better off writing a letter.”

And if you happen to be a Mall Santa, please don’t be offended. Just know that, if you ever want my child to sit on your lap, I’m going to need your social security number, fingerprints, and permission to run a background check first.

Today was gingerbread house day. I can’t really buy kits because of Jesse’s egg allergy, so I bake the house pieces from scratch and we glue them together with frosting made from Crisco and powdered sugar. Yummy and totally disgusting at the same time. Last year the kids decorated the houses with their babysitter Sarah. It was a rousing success. I stocked them with much candy and frosting, and they got busy. Sarah is the best babysitter in the whole entire world. I know this because not only is she great with the kids and a very cool person and incredibly tolerant, but she also used the micro-grater to grate candy canes to make snow on the rooftop of her gingerbread house. She planted tiny candy canes next to her house as light poles, and glued little jelly beans on the underside of each hook to look like a light bulb. It was amazing.

So we repeated this year. I baked the house materials last night, and Anthony and I constructed the homes today.

 
Look at that. Anthony just had to put his house at an angle on the board. What a rebel. Also he used the construction adhesive in excess. Whatever. I’m not being anal or OCD about it or anything. Just… it seems like a lot of adhesive. Is all I’m saying.

So we left those house structures with the kids, and I got them all of these decorating materials:

That doesn’t seem like too much, does it? I think there are about 40,000 calories looking at you from that sideboard. I organized it in little containers for the little people:

I know, the photo is at a sort of funny angle. Here are close-ups.

Christmas gummy bears, berry-looking candy things, jellybeans, two types of candy canes, and some sort of Christmas candy and licorice mix that tastes like shit but should make for good decor —

Lego candy blocks, chocolate pretzels, sugary thingies in different colors, some more disgusting-tasting licorice-like candies, and candy raspberries and blackberries —

Chocolate-covered sunflower seeds (YUM), red hots, M&M thingies, butterscotch chips, white pearls, chocolate sprinkles…

The pee-ass day la rez-eez-stance — ribbon candy…

Maybe I overdid it.

Nah. Anthony and I went out and left the kids with Sarah. While Anthony and I played Santa at Toys R Us, and then drank and ate dinner, and then drank some more and saw the latest Hunger Games movie (long title, decent flick), the peeps at home got creative. Sarah made a very understated house.

There are candy lights on the eaves! D’OH! Candy cane chimney! And she made a piping bag out of one of the empty baggies the candies came in. So practical!

Look at the structural beam over the house’s front door, and the shrubberies:

So cool.

Jesse didn’t finish her house, but she got a good start. She’s less orderly than Sarah, and slightly more demented. But overall, I think she did a really nice job.

Yes, that’s a little snowman in her yard, and here’s the Dali-inspired front entrance:

And finally, Nick. At five years of age, I’m not sure how he filters the world. But now I know how he decorates gingerbread houses. He was very understated, really. Here’s his front entrance — 2 windows, door. Simple and classy.

Oh wait. here are the other elevations. That’s more like it.

I like the candy-cane detritus in the yard as well. Maybe that’s supposed to be firewood?

I know it’s a disgusting amount of candy and sugar, and a total waste of the earth’s resources, but gingerbread houses make me feel so Christmasy and cheery. I love them.

Oh god. Only 12 more days until Christmas. I’ve achieved panic mode. It might also be that I’m displacing some of my anxiety over tae kwon do purple belt testing tomorrow, but I don’t think so.

I have so much irrelevant holiday-related stuff to do — shopping for gifts in person and on-line (family, kids, Santa, teachers, yah yah yah), a few visits and small dinner get-togethers, meals, mince pies, cookies… I feel desperately that we need more bling on the front lawn. None of it is worthy of complaining about, but I don’t let that stop me. I get very little time to myself to accomplish things in secret.

The one really amazing thing that I never have to panic about is this, at least so far: Jesse and Nick don’t go around hunting for gifts. I don’t understand it. They don’t open closed doors and closets. When I put a sign on a door that says “DO NOT ENTER (don’t even think about it),” they actually obey.

It’s awesome. I have some enormous stuff stashed in obvious places already. I feel confident the kids won’t find anything, because they’ll never look. But I think it also means there’s something seriously wrong with them.

I better make an extra appointment with the therapist next week.

Nick walked out of school yesterday beaming with pride. A smile ear to ear, I tell you, and carrying a piece of paper.

What could it be?? I wondered. What amazing feat had he accomplished? Did he write his name correctly? Write some numbers and letters? Spell something? Add two and two? Make a pattern?

Pregnant moment of silence.

WooHOOOOOOO. YEAH! Happy dance, happy dance, happy dance. Fist pumps while spinny-jumping. Marching around the room while bellowing the theme from Star Trek Next Generation.

At five, Nick is firmly establishing that he has verrrry strong mechanical skills. Next stop, MIT.

This is just, so, awesome. It’s why we send our little ones to school. It validates all my hard work as a parent. It’s all I want for Christmas.

My brother Ted visited us last night for a few hours. He’s never visited my home before, in all our adult years. I’ve always lived so far away that it’s hard for family to get to me, and also Ted is perpetually too busy. As for the latter bit, I have full-on empathy, because it’s exactly how I felt when I worked for a monetary living.

And still, I felt like my Prodigal Brother was coming to town, and I was very happy and excited. I went shopping Sunday and I planned a special meal and I cleaned the house. I marinated a flank steak and, in honor of Wisconsin, I made a cheesy potato gratin. I baked bread and a blueberry orange bundt cake. I interrupted my work Monday afternoon to text Ted, along the lines of “we can’t wait to see you tonight!” He wrote back promptly. “It’s tomorrow Tuesday that I’m arriving.”

Phhtttthhhpphh.

I hope he liked the leftovers, anyway.

We had a great visit, despite my calendar brain fart. The kids got all over Uncle Ted, and Madeline the 6-pound poodle got all territorial. She sat on Ted, climbed on Ted, followed him around, sniffed him, licked him, glared at him. She can get weird when we have visitors and start peeing and pooing in inappropriate places, but she seemed fine.

Jesse didn’t get to her homework, so we tried to do it this morning. Unfortunately, sleep deprivation and the excitement of a familial visit didn’t mix well with tough word problems. Jesse had a full-blown meltdown, and eventually I did too. It was ugly. That kind of tension can get to the dog too.

I took some time to snuggle with Madeline this afternoon, in case she was feeling off kilter. When the alarm went off to tell me it was time to pick up the kids from school, Madeline stood up on the sofa right next to me and gagged like an emperor penguin feeding its young, and then she vomited. Damn. I swooped her onto the hardwood while I ran for paper towels, but when I got back 1.5 seconds later she had moved over to the Tibetan wool rug for a second round of yack.

Grrrrrr. Stupid fussy dog. Stupid stupid dog vomit.

Hurray for the spotbot!

What would I do without my family and my power tools?

I’m slowing down on Costco shopping, because they have too many oversized options and I end up throwing a lot out. As Anthony once said, everything comes in a three-pack, and inevitably there’s one really awful option, like the three-jar jam pack that includes strawberry, raspberry, and dingleberry flavors.

But when Christmas approaches, I look to Costco for gift ideas. They’ve got all those cookie boxes, and Harry & David gift sets, and over-packaged kids’ toys, and enormous outdoor holiday decorations… So I went on-line to shop today, which is always a mistake. I’m easily distracted when I shop on-line, because I can click my mouse sooooo fast, and then I get lost in the labyrinth. There’s an on-line “grocery and floral” menu option, which led me to ask myself, what grocery items can be sold on-line? Can I buy my seaweed snack packs on-line? Mmmm. Tempting.

But when I entered that screen room, the real bait was waiting for me. 109 items available under the category “Emergency Kits and Supplies.” Excellent! Must explore! Last year Anthony turned me on to the idea of buying an Emergency Cube of dehydrated food, which would feed our family for a full year. I had forgotten all about it until now.

What could be better than hermetically sealed, dehydrated foods for the holidays? All I have to do on Christmas day is boil some water and voila! Instead of cooking from scratch for several days before Christmas, I can spend those precious hours yelling at my kids for being overstimulated and anxious about Big Scary Red Man breaking into the house on Christmas Eve. Then on Christmas day, instead of throwing a large chunk of animal flesh in the oven and fussing about over a special meal that ends up being served cold anyway, I can focus on yelling at the kids some more for breaking half their Christmas booty already and leaving the other half all over the floor for me to step on.

I’m in. With the high quality emergency food supplies available at Costco, I’ll make a feast even our dog can enjoy by starting with this excellent meat product:

Doesn’t that look yum? That’s the premium freeze-dried variety meat pack, chicken, ground beef and roast beef. I think I’ll use all three, because these tasty meat bits are “the perfect building blocks for tasty meals in a jiffy.” I’ll serve the premium rehydrated meat over Macaroni Pasta —

— with this cheese and alfredo sauce, which “will make any ordinary plate of pasta more appetizing.” Not delicious, tasty, or amazing, mind you. Just “more appetizing.” I think they could have replaced those two words with “suck less,” but I guess that’s why I’m not in marketing.

That’s 540 servings of more appetizing alfredo sauce in the six gallon weather-proof bucket, my friends, and we only have five in the house (including the dog). So if the apocalypse comes sooner than I anticipate, I can use any leftover alfredo sauce to caulk the windows and keep out toxic air, and then I can use the empty bucket to haul water from the river, assuming it hasn’t been poisoned with radioactive sludge.

Let’s not forget veggies. Peas. Potatoes. More yum.

Maybe I can mix them together for some sort of vegetable porridge. Then I don’t have to worry about measuring the amount of boiling water I add.

By the way, why is it important to market this packaging method?

This is what I’d expect for a crate of Depends or tampons, maybe a life-time supply of preparation H for those apocalyptic hemorrhoids… But potatoes in a can? I don’t get it.

Anyway, I’m losing my way here. Oh. Dessert. Fruit of course. I guess I don’t have to stew it. Just add water.

Or maybe I’ll serve it just like they’ve shown it here. It’s like a cornucopia thing, only with cans.

Alright then. My menu is set for Christmas.

I try to read “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” to the kids every year, but I do think Dr. Seuss was unfair in making him the bad guy. If ever there was a victim of unfair treatment and the worst kind of manipulation, it’s the Grinch.

So he hates Christmas. I wonder why. The smug, self-righteous Whos all live down in this cozy little town, making noise, decorating, feasting, singing, exchanging gifts, being all full of their own awesome happy, like the worst kind of exhibitionist clique — while the poor Grinch lives in a dirty cave. Alone. (Except for his loyal dog, of course, who really ought to get more credit.) Is there any evidence that the Whos ever invited the Grinch to join them? No! They don’t seem to care at all what might be hurting inside his mind, what sadness or trauma might be driving his grumpy; they don’t make any effort to really understand him. They blame his shoes (too tight?), his head (not screwed on right?), his heart (two sizes too small?). Maybe they could have some compassion for the poor lonely guy instead of judging him and making fun of him.

After 53 years of that shit, no wonder he decides to steal all the Whos’ toys and decorations and food. If I had to survive 53 years of watching the Whos celebrate Christmas without including me, all the while mocking my attire and my body, I’d look forward to hearing those awful creatures boo-boo too.

I always love the part where the Grinch lies to Cindy Lou, that sweet little smug thing. Sure he lies to her, just like all of us who allow Santa into the house on Christmas Eve lie to our kids. What’s the difference? And am I supposed to feel sorry for her, in all her innocence? If she’s so unobservant that she can’t tell the Grinch from the real Santa, then maybe she’s the one with the head screwed on wrong.

Anyway, the Grinch proves he isn’t all bad by getting Little Cindy Lou a drink as he sends her back to bad. I think that’s quite thoughtful.

The worst part of the whole story is when the Whos start singing on Christmas morning,  It’s the ultimate act of manipulation. The Grinch took everything from them. Instead of investigating, calling the police, getting even a little frustrated, or otherwise acting like NORMAL people, they go stand outside in a big circle and SING. What a bunch of horse shit. They’re obviously faking it because they know the Grinch finally got back at them, but they aren’t going to let him win. No sir. They fight back by entrenching themselves with the same smug singing they pounded the poor Grinch with for FIFTY THREE YEARS already.

It’s so disappointing that the Grinch caves in and takes all their toys and food back, so that  they finally let him join in their Christmas games. It’s extortion: you bring us back all our shit, and we’ll let you feel like you’re one of us (at least this once – no telling what happens 365 days later). If I was the Grinch, I would have held out for more. I would have made the Whos come to me and celebrate their Christmas in my cave. With my dog.

Screw the Whos. I’m with the Grinch.