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.

I do love me some kitschy Christmas stuff. I love it all over the house, inside and out. It makes me feel cheerful and jolly, hummy and smile-ful, la la la la.

We did most of the outside yesterday. First we went to buy the Christmas tree and wreaths, and then while Anthony took the kids to swim lessons, I hauled out lights and outdoor decor. It was a miraculous year, in which all our creatures lit up without any effort, and we got everything electrically daisy-chained properly.

It doesn’t look like much here, but you should see those babies when they’re lit up at night. There’s all sorts of tacky there. I just can’t photograph it for you because I don’t have a camera anymore, just an iPhone, so use your imagination.

There are lights outlining the eves of the house, and the wreaths went up this morning.

Look at that big boy over the garage. It’s about 4 feet in diameter. Too bad you can’t make out the incredibly tacky decorations we attached to it. I had to go up the 20-foot extension ladder, because Anthony gets verrrrry anxious on a tall ladder. I held the wreath over my head in a one-armed military press as I climbed. It weighed down on my back as I hung it, and then I had to kind of lay flat on the ladder as I backed down until the wreath slipped off me, pulling my shirt and coat up to my mid-back as I descended so that my plumber butt and waistline blubber were fully aired out. I’m pretty sure Anthony, who was steadying the ladder for me from below, was well entertained. I hope no one was walking by.

The house doesn’t light the street up like a second moon yet, so I’m thinking we need more. Maybe some reindeer, or a series of light-up candy-canes. There can never be too much kitsch, in my opinion.

After doing that, we got busy inside. We decorated the tree, of course.

It’s quite lovely. I think it’s our prettiest tree ever. We say that every year, and every year it’s true. Oops, I messed up the picture. You can’t see the two peace doves hanging out on the top of the tree. This is why I usually post blogs with no pictures. It’s not something I’m good at.

Here are some of the ornaments from the first tree Anthony and I ever shared, which I wrote about yesterday. This is a really good photo of them; they’re uglier in real life. We put them up high, right at the top of the tree where there’s almost no risk of breakage. I’m pretty sure they contain mercury, lead, and other toxic heavy metals.

Look at this lovely little bird. It’s only about 2 inches long, part of a set of a dozen or so little cloisonné birds of different colors and species, which Mom gave us after Jesse was born. I love hanging these little guys.

I also love this funky little ball covered in sand art. My brother Eric and his wife Wendy gave us this when they were still living in Arizona. It reminds me of depositions I had to attend in Phoenix when I was still a lawyer. The depositions sucked. The only good thing about those trips was that I got to see Eric and Wendy.

Here’s a salt-dough gingerbread man that Jesse decorated last year. I told you in an earlier post about how she was traumatized in K4 by the G Man’s demise. Maybe the hole I put through the middle of his head for hanging him on the tree wasn’t such a good idea. But at least she didn’t paint him blood-red, and I think the silver glitter dripping from the purple slash at his neck has a really up-beat quality.

Here are a couple ornaments Grandma (Anthony’s mom) brought back from a trip to Russia.

They were for the kids, one each, but with strict instructions that these are very precious and must be treated with absolute and unrelenting carefulness. Yes you may hang your ornaments, but DON’T BREAK THEM FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

Here’s another of my favorites, a hand-painted clay butterfly (one of three) we received as wedding favors many years ago from a nice couple who married when we were still in Washington, D.C. There was a lot of salsa dancing at the wedding. They actually hired an instructor to help people dance during the reception. So Anthony and I did not dance. We slouched at our table and drank. We fell asleep while we were taking the metro home and woke up at the end of the line. I can’t remember if we were able to take a return train or if we had to catch a cab at that point. It was a long night. But we took home our butterflies. We weren’t sure what to do with them, but I rigged them up with some yarn and now we hang them on our tree every year.

There’s all sorts of other kitsch in the house too. The snow globes.

The creepy night lights.

Less creepy when they’re turned off.

Anthony’s LeMax and related collection.

Not done yet, still more.

More trivets and cloth things I’ve made in Christmasy fabrics, because arts and crafts, yawn. I mean, yay.

The peace message on the hearth.

The advent calendar, which I bought for something like 2 dollars at Target one year.

The giant nutcracker, who just today threatened to haunt Nick’s nightmares if Nick breaks him. (“What does ‘haunt nightmares’ mean, mommy?”)

And three more in diminishing order.

That little red bowl to the left of the crackers contains caramel chocolates, which Jesse left for the elves. (Say “crackers contains caramel chocolates” many times, over and over again.)

The elf visitation is an unfortunate tradition that developed spontaneously a few years ago. Apparently the elves like to come into our house on random evenings for treats. Jesse leaves them notes with the treats.

“Thank you for giving us great presents at Christmas!” I don’t yet know what the note inside the envelope says. I love that Jesse is being so appreciative before the fact. I thought for sure the treat and note would be received well, but Anthony and I fell asleep early and, interestingly enough, the elves did not come. The bowl and note were untouched this morning, much to Jesse’s quiet dismay. I opined that maybe the elves were busy elsewhere cheering up sad kids, or making toys. Maybe decorating would inspire them to stop by tonight! We’ll see.

Meanwhile, my kids are really enjoying the kitsch and Christmas cheer all over the house. Here they are, basking in the glow of all the decorations as they stare at their iPads. It makes all my hard work worthwhile.

When Anthony and I were in our 20’s and both still in grad school, we shared a tiny apartment on Swann Street in Washington, D.C., just a few blocks from Dupont Circle. Anthony worked full-time and I did some part-time teaching, but we were very broke. And also very cheap. Still, I wanted a Christmas tree. But Anthony was a stubborn curmudgeon. We won’t even be here on Christmas, he argued, rolling his eyes. Why waste money on a tree? What’s the point?

What’s the point? What’s the point???

I remember being very, very sad. But Anthony really didn’t want to get a tree, and rationally I saw his point, and also it wouldn’t feel holly jolly to have a tree filling up our living room while Anthony grumbled about it. So I let it go. It was a win for Mr. Curmudgeon, Mr. Grumpy-in-Training.

One dark cold night, just a few days before Christmas, Anthony walked in from work dragging a small fir tree behind him. It was no more than 3 or 4 feet tall, with dry needles and busted branches. He explained that he couldn’t bear my disappointment. On his way home, he happened to walk past a guy selling a few little trees, leftover dregs at the end of the season. Anthony forked over forty dollars and carried the tree home. It was highway robbery, and probably more money than we spent on a week of food.

I was delighted. We walked a few blocks over to Ace Hardware on 17th Street and bought a tree stand and a string of lights, a couple boxes of the cheapest plasti-glass ball ornaments we could find (2 dozen in all), a really cheap little set of tempura paints, and some glitter. We ran back home and decorated the ornaments so they wouldn’t be so plain, and then we hung them carefully on the tree.

It was a really pathetic, beautiful little tree, a Charlie Brown tree for sure, the first Christmas tree Anthony and I shared as a family of two. We still get a lot of joy out of that tree.

* * * *

My mom has always taken great care in decorating her Christmas trees. She has a special ornament for each year in which one of her grandchildren was born, ornaments that were gifts in particular years or from particular people, ornaments that Dad gave her that made her laugh. Decorating the tree is a historical and emotional journey for her.

By the time I was in high school, my brothers weren’t around for tree trimming. Dad would string up the lights, and then Mom and I would do the ornaments. In those few hours, she would share her journey with me in quiet conversations.

When I was younger, there were some ornaments I thought belonged in the trash — nasty, stained things that lost their glimmer long before I could even remember. I didn’t understand why Mom, who likes everything to be fresh and nice, would put up busted ornaments.

I particularly remember the ones Mom called “pregnant angels,” a set of three little angels with bulging tummies and knotted hair, their plastic bodies discolored with age, half their arms missing. Mom was so fond of those broken-down angels. During one of our ornament journeys, she explained that Dad gave them to her the year she was pregnant with me; hence, pregnant angels. I could tell from the way she spoke that it must have been a happy, special time in their long life together. The angels belonged on her Christmas tree, always.

So too, every year Anthony and I put up what’s left of the ornaments from our first tree. Many of them have shattered over the years; they’re desperately fragile with age. We hang the remaining handful up high, where the kids can’t reach them. Most of the paint has fallen off. They’re ugly and broken things, but they still cast a spell on me, drawing a bright line of light and memory through the curving dimness of lost days, straight to that little Christmas tree Anthony brought me on Swann Street, almost 25 years ago. They remind me of the long arc of love that binds Anthony and me together. Every year we hang these talismans and tell Nick and Jesse the story of our first tree. We build a little bridge to the past that helped form us and them, just like my mom taught me to do.

Nick’s K4 class just started the gingerbread man unit. They read the story and then they EXPLORE the hell out of it for a couple weeks. They do art activities, they run around the building being chased by various creatures who want to eat G Man, they brainstorm ways he can get away.

For homework, Nick had to decorate a little fellow and then suggest a way for him to escape being eaten. Nick decided to cover him with cotton balls so that he’d be disguised as a white poodle. Nick recommended that G Man climb a tree, but only if the hunter chasing him can’t climb. Otherwise, hide in snowy plants where you blend in. Be very still.

Nick isn’t troubled by G Man. I think he readily accepts, as I used to do, that it’s just a stupid fairy tale. Whatever.

My point of view changed when Jesse got to K4 and faced the gingerbread man unit. She unraveled. She would fall to keening in the classroom. She screamed her way through the school hallways in utter terror as other kids laughed happily, because she was told they were being chased by creatures who wanted to EAT THEM.

It took time and patience for us to tease it out of Jesse. She couldn’t understand why this little cookie person had to be eaten. And why did they have to bring it up every day, reminding her again and again of the horrifying and inevitable doom G Man faces, filling her nightmares with images of his head being bitten off? What was wrong with her classmates and teacher, that they found it FUNNY that G Man was tormented, chased, tricked, killed??

When it was her turn to offer a strategy for G man’s survival, Jesse took it seriously, though her final suggestion was simple: “cover yourself with snow and then the fox will not eat you.” It was an imperative. The G Man needed to make it out alive, just once.

He never did, of course. I remember quite clearly how Jesse’s teacher thought this episode was a good illustration of some of Jesse’s issues, as in, aha there’s something wrong with her. But I think Jesse was right, not wrong. In a season of alleged love, generosity, and hope, when we supposedly celebrate new beginnings and life, what the fu@* is up with the G Man story? Why is it okay to laugh at his demise? It’s twisted.

Sure, the Gingerbread man is obnoxious and annoying. So what? Let’s let him escape this year and live happily ever after, somewhere in Europe in a cookie protection program.

I have a love-hate relationship with my in-laws, who are pathologically practical. Christmas gifts are one looming aspect of that cycle.

Gift-giving in my family has always been something of a free-for-all. You get what you get, based largely on whatever inspiration moves the giver, and that’s part of what makes Christmas magical and awesome. Duds? Doesn’t happen. A gift can never be a dud; just comedy. We embrace the gift of the giving as much as the physical gift itself, because we know which matters more.

Anthony’s family is at the far opposite end of the whimsy spectrum. When we were younger, the Cross clan would go to an outlet mall in New Jersey on Christmas Eve day. We would walk into shops and point to desirable things (clothes, shoes, socks) in line-of-sight of a witness, who would in turn go find the gift purchaser and tell him or her what to buy. We were required to make like it was a secret. Then we’d all drive back to Anthony’s parents’ house and wrap the gifts (secretly) to place under the tree. On Christmas morning we slowly opened them one at a time, feigning surprise and saying things like, “oh how lovely. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

When Anthony and I stopped being available for the shopping expeditions, I was required to tell Anthony’s mum what I wanted for a gift, in awkward telephone conversations. It made me feel like I was nine, sitting on creepy Santa’s lap — but I tried my best to offer legitimate options. It always got mixed up.

One year I asked for “kitchen sheers.” Mum seemed to think that was odd. I didn’t get her reaction until I unwrapped the gift and discovered chicken sheers. Hearing loss can make for complications.

Frequently mum would answer my requests with dismissive comments like, “Hmp. I don’t know where to get that.” Or her best comeback ever: “No. I don’t want to shop for that. I won’t get you that.” (Imagine these words with a deep-throated English accent for best effect.)

It wasn’t about what I wanted after all. It was about what she would enjoy shopping for. So it turned into this strange chore: what could I tell Anthony’s mom to get for me that she would like to get for me?

Eventually it grated on me so badly that I told Anthony I refused to play the game any more. I would tell him some stuff I could actually use, and if he felt like it he could deal with his mom. Or not. Whatever.

One year I had nothing, no ideas, but I always like kitchen tools so I suggested an immersion blender. In his diplomatic role, Anthony reported back that mum had one that she received as a gift, but which she had never used. She wanted to know if it would offend me to receive a re-gift? Of course not, I told him. I don’t need her to spend money on me.

Christmas morning came. I opened the gift from my in-laws. Sure enough, there was the immersion blender. “Never used” was apparently idiomatic. The tool was used. Parts were missing, and whatever remained was haphazardly shoved back in the box. It was visibly unclean, with food stains and all. I guess I was put in my right place with that gift.

Meanwhile, mum has perfected the art of gift-asking. Duds are not allowed. She apparently spends significant time selecting the gifts she will receive. One year she gave me the catalog name, PLU number, color and size of the clothing item she wanted. All I had to do was go on line and enter the information. She even gave me the URL. It was like a middle school computer lab exercise. Another year she wanted a personal training session. She gave Anthony the gym phone number and the trainer’s name, and the exact amount of money to expend for the amount of training she sought.

Bah. I think I need to get on the bandwagon this year, for diplomatic reasons. I think I know what I want. I want a small saucepan with rounded sides, stainless steel or copper, so I can make sauces and such without having to root around in the corners and seams of my current saucepan options. Now all I have to do is shop heartily for it, find a URL and a PLU, and have Anthony invite mum to go for it. If that doesn’t work, I can always order it myself, send her the receipt and seek Christmas reimbursement. The check will come in 7 to 10 business days.

Everyone wants to talk about giving THANKS this time of year, being thankful for this and that. It’s the HOLIDAY SEASON, let’s all pretend the world is better for the next 20 to 30 days than it really is! People are actually awesome!

At the tae kwon do studio, they’re making a thankfulness chain. Every time we go, we’re supposed to write something we’re thankful for on a little strip of paper, and then they’re making a linked paper chain that goes around the wall. Jesse’s really good at it. She can always come up with something she’s thankful about — friends, family, moments of patience, the weather, life. Nick — who is pretty darn happy most of the time — not so much.

“What are you thankful for today, Nick?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t know.”

“What does that mean?”

“Candy.”

We’ve always worked hard to help Jesse see the brighter side. She was born a sad, self-critical, tortured little thing inside, an old soul who sees all the hurting around her, the misfits and meanness that seem to give so much ugly shape to human relations. She was full of a story recently about a little boy Dan (not really, but I can’t use his real name) at her school who she says is autistic. I don’t know how she would conclude that; but I know from observing him and chatting with his mom that he does have some differences and disabilities. Dan wanted to play with Jesse and some other little girls at recess one day. Jesse was totally fine with it; she includes, and she’s untroubled by differences (she has her own, though they don’t fit well in a DSM niche). Jesse noticed right away that the other girls were “irritated” by Dan’s behaviors; he was crunching the crust of snow all wrong and saying the wrong things. So Jesse reached out even harder to include him and help him be confident joining in whatever make-believe game they were working their way through.

As Jesse told me the story, I sensed that she was pretty disappointed by her friends. There was a time (not so long ago) when this would have really laid waste to Jesse for days,  as she struggled to understand why her friends were “bad”, if she was “bad” for playing with them, if she should have called them out, turned them in, done more to stand up for Dan.  But she’s turned a corner for now. Even more than disappointment, she felt some small pride in herself, which was a beautiful thing to see. And there was a nice epilogue, which Jesse told me in a way that suggested a punch line, a moral lesson. At the end of the school day, Jesse was walking down the hall with all her stuff when she heard someone call her name from behind. It was Dan, running to catch up with her.

Jesse instinctively knows that this is something to be thankful for, though the reasons why may still be just an inchoate idea in her heart. She connected with a little boy who lives in an alienated place, who doesn’t quite fit in, who gets made fun of and bullied. She’s the same as him, just more high-functioning. I think what filled my heart the most about her story was that she didn’t seem to be patronizing Dan. She was just pleased with herself for bringing another kid a spot of happiness, and she was glad to have a new friend whose smiling face lifts her up a little. Now that’s something I can be thankful for too.

Since Jesse was about 5, I’ve dreamed of a time when she could handle after-school activities without degenerating into a strange, writhing, noisy mass of anxiety, panic, and tics. We tried a few different things when she was really little – ballet, soccer, music class, violin, gymnastics, ee tee see – and we consistently failed. I used to listen enviously to parents talking about sports leagues, gymnastics tournaments, regular play dates, horse riding lessons. None of it was for us.

Jesse broke me completely, leaving me ripe to catch an extreme case of second-child syndrome. I never signed Nick up for anything except private swim lessons. But this fall everything changed. We’re IN. Jesse joined the kids’ swim team at our gym and she takes diving lessons. She and Nick take private swim lessons and do tae kwon do.

This is a light load by a lot of modern parents’ reckonings, but I’m sub-standard. I think it’s insanity. Extracurriculars take up four weeknights for Jesse, two overlapping weeknights for Nick, Saturday mornings for both. The fifth weekday afternoon in Jesse’s schedule is reserved for the shrink. Then there are the little extras – belt testing, weekend tournaments, meets, random events. And the time I spend putting together bags and making sure everyone has their gear and snacks and so on. And also there’s the laundry, a solid 4 extra loads a week, which is like four straws on the broken laundry camel’s back.

Have I ever bothered to tell you just how MUCH laundry Jesse’s OCD generates? Some days I go into the laundry room in the basement, open the door of the laundry chute, and brace myself in numb horror as an avalanche of clothing quite literally crashes over me. My only wish in those moments is for no stanky underwear to touch my face.

And of course there’s the expense of all these activities. I’m spending hundreds and hundreds of dollars a month on basic fees, plus extras. I had to on-line-order the swim team uniform for Jesse. It cost FIFTY FOUR dollars (plus tax and shipping), but the European sizing is totally off the wall so the first suit I got her comes down to practically her mid-thigh. She tried to wear it anyway to a swim practice. She reported back that her boobs came out (she’s 9, it’s not a big deal yet) and the sag on her butt made it look like she pooped her pants (now that was untenable). So I had to order her another suit that’s smaller, and I can no longer return the giganto-suit, and that’s a lot of money down the drain.

Maybe I’ll just give Jesse the smaller swimsuit for Christmas.

Tae kwon do is even more of a budget sucker. Each time we do a belt test, it’s fifty bucks a pop. Tournament was seventy a pop. Now that we’re out of the virgin phase, we have to start sparring. That means sparring equipment times three (for me too). I ordered it last week during the studio’s 2-day sale. A whopping fifteen percent discount, so I only spent $580-something! Woo hoo!!

I think that shit is going under the tree too. The kids have been asking me to get them the sparring gear. I’ll just tell them we can’t afford it, and then they’ll be so happy on 12/25. I finally understand why parents give their kids socks and underwear for Christmas.

Why did I ever dream of extracurriculars? It’s almost enough to make me nostalgic for the days when Jesse was a complete lunatic. My Christmas shopping budget is feeling as cramped as my schedule.

This is it, December 1 and I have just 24 days until the Big Scary Red Man breaks into my home and fills it with useless crap, much to the short term delight of my kids.

But first BSRM will threaten and intimidate the kids for several weeks, demanding that they not pout, cry, shout, or be naughty — that they stop acting like kids — or else they face the doom of NO TOYS. Instead, they must pretend they’re lobotomized drones, tucking their self-esteem issues and imperfections away in the dark corners of their hearts to fester into adulthood; and they must write a beggar’s letter to BSRM asking for trinkets and baubles, because they can’t ask for really amazing and important things like world peace or an effective ebola vaccine or an end to religious hostility or world-wide equality for women or food for all the hungry kids. BSRM is just a toy-making elf, after all, whose once-a-year delivery service has somehow come to be conflated with all that is goodness and kindness in human nature.

Still, how come BSRM gets all the credit? Why not me? I’d like to have Jesse and Nick fawn all over me, with my huge gut popping and hair all over my face and a PIPE to smoke, for god’s sake.

The kids would blow several gaskets if they had to connect all that unbounded and whimsical generosity with me. I’m just the bitch who makes the food, does the laundry, cleans the house, wipes the asses, helps with the homework, provides taxi service, schedules life, and disciplines the little shits to make sure they’re ship-shape for BSRM’s Christmas Coming, grumbling all the while about the marginal levels of intellectual stimulation I extract from these activities.

I don’t even want to say BSRM’s name out loud. I’m tired of being used by The Man. Like the peeps who basked in the auras of Mia Hamm and Tiger Woods, I want to own the cultural consciousness that has been filtered and concentrated into the shape of BSRM. I want to stand up and speak — in a voice that rings across the tiny wannabe mountains of Wisconsin — the words that will empower me and join me to the gestalt of happy little children reveling in the magic of Christmas:

I AM SANTA CLAUS.

I. Am. Santa Claus.

i am santa claus

* * * *

Oh fu^* it. That’s not doing anything for me. I can make it through another 24 days of secrets and lies. I don’t look good in fire-engine red and a beard anyway. I’m good.

What’s up with “life hacks?” That turn of phrase makes me grumpy in a split second. All you have to say to me is “LIFE HA–” and my eyes are rolling and I’m making you-smell-like-kimchi-fart faces. You don’t even have to get to the “CK” for me to lose my shit, which means I’ve given you a life hack. You can just drop the “CK” and save your mouth an extra sound, and still make me lose my shit. Efficiency with a cap-E.

When I first started hearing the phrase, I thought it was a new way to refer to identity theft, or maybe it meant robbing someone of part of their life, like by stalking them. “That guy hacked my life after I broke up with him. He got a key to my apartment and put kitty litter in my underwear drawer and stole my cat.”

Eventually I deduced that “life hack” actually refers to some cool trick that makes a mundane task easy and fast, or a simple process that solves an intractable but common problem. Internet osmosis brought me to this understanding, but I don’t know how. Very mystifying.

After seeing some really stupid “life hack” posts on facebook recently, I decided to do some research and bring closure to this question of definition. I went to the source of all knowledge and wisdom, my guru, my sage. I started with the basics and engaged in four iterations of expanding awareness, as I tried to come to grips with LIFE HA–.

In other words, I googled four times and lo, I partook of the tree of knowledge:

“What is a hack.”
“What is a life hack.”
“Life hacks.”
“Best life hacks.”

Brilliant, I know. Three suffocating years of law school and 12 years as a litigator gave me the skills to carefully craft this small array of sophisticated google inquiries. And in case you’re wondering, yes, each question netted different (albeit overlapping) results. I browsed and read and browsed and read. More osmosis occurred. Then I sat back and realized that the banal world has hacked what used to be a nice turn of phrase.

“Life hack” apparently was first used in the computer nerd community to refer to a clever or ingenious, quick-and-dirty solution to some everyday problem, originally in the programming context and eventually in all of life. So my understanding was pretty close.

But people will call ANYTHING a life hack these days.

There are obvious and much-used ideas that float about, like sticking a fork in citrus to juice it. Can you call it a life hack if a ton of people already do it? That doesn’t seem right.

There are the silly tricks that look like cool ideas but couldn’t possibly add value to my life in a pinch. Jam a potato onto a power drill so it spins while you peel it. Awesome, if the potato is a perfect ovoid shape with no dimples, which none of mine ever are, because I buy local and organic and everyone knows local, organic produce is funny-looking. Just look at this massive (alleged) parsnip that came in my farmshare box last week:

Try sticking that on a power drill. Maybe organic farmers need a life hack to help them grow less scary vegetables.

What was I talking about… Oh, power drill, potato. Right, great idea except I’d be bringing my greasy, industrial power drill into the kitchen and applying it to ingestible food. And also if I need to peel a hundred potatoes. I guess I could spend an hour at the grocery store sorting over the potatoes for the perfect shaped ones to impale on my drill, and I could carefully clean the drill, but that would defeat the purpose of saving time, wouldn’t it. Anyway, I have a better hack for the potato-peeling-takes-too-long problem: don’t peel your potatoes. BAM. Cap-E.

How about the trick of putting cherry tomatoes between two plates and running a knife between the plates to cut them all in half at once. I saw the video. I wonder how many takes they filmed to get it right. Out of curiosity, I tried it. It took me a really long time to arrange the tomatoes properly, and also I had to sort them by size because just one oversized tomato could blow the whole thing off balance, and then anyway none of the plates I tried had the right amount of convexity or concavity (are those words?) to work right. Also my knife wasn’t sharp enough, so I tried to sharpen it on my little honing thingy but it didn’t help. Fail.

I bet I could find a cherry-tomato-life-hack-cutting-plate-and-knife-set on Amazon, but I don’t think anything that requires special equipment and has limited application should count as a life hack. I have a better hack for the cherry tomatoes: eat them whole. BAM.

I was angry about the tomato episode, because it turned out to be a life hack in my original sense of the phrase. I went through a whole pint of tomatoes, dirtied a bunch of dishes, and wasted a good hour of my precious spare time. Whoever came up with that lame idea hacked an hour of my life. Cap-A-hole.

My friend Erin texted me a couple days ago. She was watching the local news and saw this idea presented as a “life hack”: when cutting a  loaf of bread that isn’t already sliced, use a bread knife.

Oh COME ON. That’s consumerism, not a hack. Wait, no. It’s a WALLET HACK.

I checked out a variety of life hack sites. 100 life hacks that make life easier.  Life Tricks. 40 Clever Life Hacks to Simplify Your World. The 30 Best, Most Genius Life Hacks EVER. (ever, seriously. EVER.)

And so on. Sifting through web sites that offer life hacks is just exactly like waking up in a Martha Stewart nightmare. Make crumbling blacktop into Christmas tree ornaments! Collect dryer lint and use it to insulate your leaky windows! Mount your blow dryer on your camera tripod for hands-free hair styling! Some cute ideas, but very little that will actually speed up my life, solve intractable problems quickly, or otherwise make my day. And a lot of the so-called hacks aren’t even clever; they’re just common-sense ways most of us get through life already, like putting your shoes on shelves, or organizing your stuff in boxes.

Well if that’s all it’s about, here’s my critical list of the FIVE BEST LIFE HACKS EVER, which I magnanimously share with you, in the hopes that your life, like mine, will be filled with chirping little birds and smell like ripe mangos:

1. Wipe your butt with wet wipes when you poop.  Every. Time. You will smell better, and your laundry won’t be contaminated with unholy PPMs of fecal matter. Skid marks will be a thing of the past. Same goes for the kids. Until you’re sure they can keep at it until they see a clean wipe, wipe their butts for them. With wet wipes. Back in the early 90’s, at a time when I was unaware of any wet-wipe products marketed or sold for adult usage, I started buying Tidy Tykes butt wipes for my household. It really improved the funk factor in our home. Now I can buy butt wipes at Costco in bulk quantities, and the world is a better place.

2. This is for the moms with little ones: unless your kid smells bad (pull that underwear waistband out and take a sniff) or her hair is visibly greasy or she’s getting rashes, don’t bother with a bath or shower. Visible dirt can be removed with a wet washcloth or paper towel in seconds. You’ll save lots of time and water, and no one will notice.  Kids don’t sweat and smell the same way adolescents and adults do. Nb: this life ha– works best in conjunction with hack #1.

3. Just don’t do that shit. Whatever it is you think you’re supposed to do, don’t do it. You will save SO MUCH TIME, and your life really won’t be much more fu**ed up than it already is.

4. Another one for moms: smack your kids once in a while. It takes all the edges off the guilt you feel about more trivial things, like putting dirty athletic gear on them because you didn’t do laundry (see #3 above), or forgetting to send lunch to school. The head slap is stress-relieving and cheaper than therapy, and you save on commuting time to your shrink’s office. Your children can take care of their own therapy when they grow up and leave.

5. Disregard # 4. I was just kidding. The actual hack I try to implement, but it’s really hard, is to HUG my kids when they’re being little monsters. It also takes the edges off all the guilt, and it’s also cheaper than therapy. In fact, you may be able to avoid therapy altogether if you go this route. But it takes a bit of thought, planning ahead, and self control. So it’s not really a hack. Damn. But it’s still a nice idea so I’m calling it a life hack. Sue me.

Okay I admit it. I’m making this shit up. Just like all the other people who are posting up so-called life hacks.

When I get to meditating on this, I realize that the real issue I have with “life hacking” is that it suggests organic life is analogous to whatever happens in a bunch of tiny metallic circuits driven by binary code. I don’t like AI analogies for life. It gets me all metaphysical and shivery, and I don’t go in for deep thoughts. It’s not one of my strengths. I’m not well-read and it reminds me of how superfluous and shallow and redundant my soul really is.

Because what if we really are just part of a computer simulation operated by some unimaginable being, watching us unroll this scenario out to its bitter and inevitable end? Or even worse, what if we’re just background characters in a computer game, like humans who lived in the time of the Greek gods, catastrophes tumbling down on our heads as the game advances through harder and harder levels, over-sized historical characters like Hitler and Joan of Arc actually being the avatars of the players in the game, until the inevitable GAME OVER, each Big Bang nothing more than a tap of the “REPLAY” button. If that’s true, then maybe we SHOULD be trying to hack our way out of this shit hole, in which case putting swimming pool noodles in our cowboy boots to keep them from flopping or folding our sweaters correctly over hangers so the armpits don’t sag all weird is stuff that’s so trivially trivial that it’s madness to waste any attention on it. The life hacks we should be concerned with are things like stopping large asteroids before they hit earth, or turning back global warming, or solving cancer. You know, things that’ll keep the game going a while longer for Player Number 1, so that we can keep going too.

I sound like the guys who wrote The Matrix, and we all know how that spun itself down the toilet by movie three. Somebody slap me and tell me to shut the f*&# up.