Elf on the Shelf? Not at Our Place. More Like Crackheads on the Counter

(Post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

Elf on the shelf? Ain't nobody got time for that!

Yes, it's driven me to bad grammar and a double negative, this disturbing trend wherein the good, energetic and altogether better-than-me-moms of the world have rushed out to purchase the “Elf on the Shelf.” He's a very cool, very retro, completely silly doll who - each night - SOMEHOW seems to find himself in all kinds of cutesy, goofy-ass trouble.

He climbs Christmas trees:

He makes snow/flour angels.

I have even seen him in scantily clad situations with a Barbie. Or three. I won't post those pictures here, because this isn't that kind of blog and also - ahem - I don't have permission to use the pictures.

But believe me when I say photos of this industrious little dude are all over over the Internet, and he is very, very creative with his naughtiness. I suspect maternal assistance.


Now, you may not know this, but I am not your average mom. No - I am far, far below average. In general, I do not have my, how you say, "shit together."


I used to. I used to bake, I used to decorate, I used to hang lights outside. Back in the day, I could Martha Stewart the hell out of a mantle.


Holy Hallmark, people. I used to send out Christmas cards.


But these days, I am very busy and not at all, not even close to important, on account of working, Facebooking and ensuring my status as a below-average mom. Getting an Elf on the Shelf into fun, creative, PG-13 shenanigans looks like something that has to happen very late at night. Like at 9:15 p.m. or some shit.

So, when it comes to the EOTS, let me again quote Internet sensation, bronchitis sufferer and my new BFF Sweet Brown God, I love this woman when I say to you: Ain't nobody got time for that.

Exhibit A - my counter: 

Now, I may be far below average, but never let it said I completely deny my children. That’s right. Hold tight, party people - I’m going to the attic. 

Shit's about to get fancy.

Meet Frank. Also Paddy:

Frank and Paddy are a couple of easy-going, flat-out lazy, possibly tipsy elves dating back from, oh, the Nixon administration. About ten days before Christmas, I - dating from the Nixon administration myself - drag my easy-going, flat-out lazy, occasionally tipsy ass up to the attic and haul them down from their box.

Red cheeks, beer bellies, raggedy clothes - our boys Frank and Paddy have the carriage and demeanor of two drunken Irishmen, with a work ethic to match. Paddy looks very much like one of our female family members - whiskers and all.



Which family member? I’m not going to say. C’mon, man, do I look stupid?


Hey now - don’t answer that.

Paddy and Frank are nothing at all like their lithe, industrious, famous young cousin, Mr. Elf on the Shelf.

These two park themselves near a little sleigh that houses our incoming Christmas cards. And there they hang out, for weeks on end, probably hung over. Like a couple of homeless crackheads.

Damn, boys, you are out of control. Keep it together, Paddy!

What do they do? Well, like good crackhead/homeless/alcoholic elves, they work hard at doing nothing. They don't get into mischief. They don't climb the Christmas tree.They don't make snow angels in powdered sugar. And they don’t care that their fit, trim, famous cousin Mr. Elf on the Shelf Trendy McPants, has garnered international attention.

In fact, they don’t care about anything. Like me, they are far, far below average.


Isn't that right elves? Paddy? Frank? Guys? Lean closer, folks, I think I hear them - I think they have something to say!

"Ain't nobody got time for that!"

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Merry, Merry Christmas, readers! And thank you so much for stopping in, reading and/or commenting. I hope you and your family have one FANTASTIC flippin' holiday!

And thank you, thank you, to my dear friend NML who was a VERY good sport about letting me use her Elf on the Shelf pictures. She is a great friend, far, far above average and clearly an altogether better mom than me. See NML? It was pretty painless!
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And as promised, here is an excerpt from this week's chapter, tentatively titled: "Staff Meetings: Yes, You Can Sleep With Your Eyes Open," which will be in my upcoming book:

. . . I attempt to listen, as we discuss pointless concepts using ridiculous words that nobody understands. Yes, we use our “knowledge base” to “revisit” our “game plan.”

It’s all a bunch of “bullshit.”


The following are actual notes I've taken at meetings, along with my translations:

• “We’re going to re-vamp our best practices.” - You’ll be required to learn a shit-load of new idiotic rules, regulations and procedures that make absolutely no sense.
• “We’ve been discussing our bottom line . . . “ - Somebody is getting laid off.
• “We need to change our mindset.” - You’ll be changing job descriptions.
• “Our new customer service module synergizes with our core values.” - Nobody f*cking knows what synergize means.

..... Stay tuned!

;)

"Words With Friends." Words With "Old Friends." Words With Old Friends Who "CHEAT!" (And next book excerpt)

(post and pictures copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

In a quest for new and unique ways to waste time, I have started playing Words With Friends.


It's all Craig's fault.


Play Words With Friends, he said. It will be fun, he said.


Yep, Craig Gobel - high school classmate. Football player. Always smiling. Wanted me to play Words With Friends. I could tell because of the notification on my phone:


"Craig Gobel wants you to play Words With Friends!"


I had just installed the WWF app the day before, in order to do something, ANYTHING with my son, the Hobo, a boy perpetually glued to - and enamored of - electronics. The game also includes a handy feature where you can chat with fellow players. Exciting! A way to "communicate" with my son! Perhaps he'd even "answer."

Yes, every day, he's "shufflein."

I have to admit - I groaned a little bit when I received Craig's Words WF invitation. Sorry, Craig. It wasn't him - I just didn't want to get pulled into another online game, another time-suck, after kicking a particularly addictive Farmville habit not long ago:

Lord, I miss my little cartoon cornfields. And cartoon kegs.

When I saw Craig's WWF request, I thought back to the good old days in school and how he was always in my homeroom. At the time, our names were alphabetically close, so he sat beside me in the early mornings as I tried - drooling, and in vain - to stay awake after the previous night's McDonald's shift. 

I liked Craig, always smiling. I didn't want to ruin his smile by denying his request.


"Craig Gobel wants you to play Words With Friends!"


As I recall, he was a pretty good football player. I was not blessed with the, how you say, "athleticism of any sort." I had three talents in high school: 

1. Spelling/vocabulary;
2. Working at McDonald's;
3. Attending parties.

Of these skills, number 3, I felt, was the most important.


But I was a pretty damn good speller, usually runner-up at the school spelling bee. A solid second place, that's always, always, AL-F*CKING-WAYS! me. 

And with 22 years of experience in journalism, marketing, corporate and state communications, words - along with photos - are pretty much my life. I figured I could take on Craig Gobel, football star.

Play Words With Friends and beat Craig, I said. It will be fun, I said.

We begin, and pretty much out of the gate, Craig plays the word "LOGE." I am displeased. I tell him so.

Yes, I'm a pretty good speller, az u can n see.

But I shake it off, power through, and come back with "DAHLIA" for about 18 points.  

Take that, football star.

He steals my "DAHLIA" pluralizing it with an S and using the s to make "SNOW," thus earning something like 600 points. 

I hate him.

Despite my threats of violence, we keep going, using such scholarly vocabulary as "PERV," "PEES" and "WARP."  Our teachers would be proud.



Craig Gobel apparently has his own gott-dang dictionary, which includes the alleged words ...FER and GROD and TI. You might say, "FER, GROD and TI are in Webster's, Dawn - they ARE real words." But I've never seen them. Therefore, they don't exist.

I'm pretty sure Craig Gobel is just making shit up. Craig Gobel apparently has his own reference source, called the "Fictionary."

Craig Gobel cheats.

In the end, much time was wasted and many LOLs exchanged. 

And Craig Gobel, former classmate, football star, jock extraordinaire, beat the living snot out of me with a score of, like, 7,013 to 142.

Have I mentioned he cheats?

But I bet he's still smiling.

Well played, football star. Well played.

________________________________________________________

I promised you a chapter a week (or there-abouts), here's an excerpt of the chapter I wrote this week, "Reasons to Stay in the Closet"

". . . While eating, I thought of all the good times in my closet, where I might possibly also store some cookies at Christmas . . . a tub of frosting during the summer . . . maybe a bottle of wine when my mother visits. 

Do not judge me.


Emergency sugar, emergency wine - whatever. It's the secret bomb shelter of a middle aged woman.


Yeah, this closet is too small for clothes. But the size makes it a great mini-vacation for one - nobody bothering me, asking for things, taking my chocolate. It could use something in the way of cookie dough, so I'm thinking of putting in a little fridge . . . perhaps a wet bar. The conversation pit will go over there, past the Nikes . . ."

Stay tuned!

"Jingle Bell Rock?" Nope. "Santa's a Chick." (And First Book Blurb)

In the time-honored tradition of my 2010 radio standard - "It's the Most Wonderful Time for a Beer," I bring you another Holiday Classic. I write the songs that make one or two people the whole world sing, yo. (To the tune of "Jingle Bell Rock.")

(post and lyrics copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

Santa Claus, Santa Claus, Santa's a chick,
She lacks a dick, Santa's a chick,
No dude could do all they say that he does,
Only chicks could get all that done.

Santa Claus, Santa Claus, Santa's a chick
Ain’t that a kick, Santa’s a chick,
Bakin’ and wrappin’ and deckin’ the hall,
With her wine bottle!

What a headache, how her back aches,
Fifty-nine things to do,
It's pure chaos, runs her ass off,
Most of these men don't even have a clue.

Santa Claus, Santa Claus, Santa’s a girl,
All 'round the world, Santa’s a girl,
Started her list around June 24,
Men they wait until the day before.

Santa Claus, Santa Claus, Santa has boobs,
Thirty-six Cs, average boobs,
Bouncing and flouncing all over the mall,
Since the early fall!

On Black Friday, she’s up early,
Left before the crack of dawn,
Flat-screen TVs, she’d like one, please,
“I'm sorry ma’am - they’re already gone.”

Hurry up, Santa Chick, get the hell home,
Cookies don't make themselves,
Hubs he's asleep and he's no help at all,
That's why Santa's a . . .
Surely Santa's a . . .
That's why Santa's a chick!

____________________________________________________________
And on a Completely Unrelated Note . . .

Yeah, I know this picture's blurry. 

But it's all been a blur. She-was-born-she-was-a-girl-and-then

*Poof!*

She's 15. And a half.

My daughter has her driver's permit now, and I cannot flipping believe it, and there's the picture and that's what I've written about for my first book chapter, and as promised, here's a blurb from this essay, "Left of Center" copyright 2012, Dawn Weber:

Clearly it's time for me to give her advice. I do this often. Is she awake? Is she walking? Is she breathing? I should definitely offer her my guidance on these activities.

"Now, when you're on these back roads like this . . ."

"I know. I know what you're going to say, Mom - watch out for the deer."

She knows, she says.

I see her eye-roll, but it doesn't stop me. No sir.

"Well, it's not just the deer, you gotta  . . ."

"I know, Mom - you told me. Watch out for the Amish."

"Yeah, you have to watch out for the buggies, but . . ."

"I know, Mom, go slow."

"Go slow, but what I'm TRYING to tell you is" . . .

Stay tuned!

;)