I am.

The Moustache.

You thought I was gone – like that time after the War of 1812.  And that time after Studio 64.  And that time after Disco.  But for once your husband is right.  The Fuzzy Facial Caterpillar is renaissancing.  Upper-Lip Astroturf has never been so sexy as it is now.

Your grandmother knows this.

The firemen of Engine #12 know this.

Hulk Hogan stakes his life on this.

When you have a moustache, you’re saying:  ”I’m not a terrorist, I’m a MAN.  A man who goes fly-fishing in Montana and baits his tackle with STETSON COLOGNE and BEEF JERKEY.”

(You could also be saying:  ”I’m a WOMAN who refuses to bleach or shave.  A woman who DJ’S at the local club and owns a DOG named FRIEDA KHALO.”)

I am The Thin Black Line.  I am Backwoodsman Bob.  I am The Handlebar, The Monkey Bar, Fu Manchu, Pencil and Walrus.

Even the American Indians acknowledge that you don’t need a dream catcher above your bed, you need a food catcher above your lip.  The Moustache will save you that last morsel of meatloaf AND will let the world know you hit puberty.

You might give your significant other 3rd degree facial lacerations, but nothing says ‘I love you’ better than Lip-To-Brillo-Pad action.  Every man since the dawn of time knows this: cave women gravitated to the Neanderthal with the biggest bristles (“Dag, your Mammoth is so Woolly!”);  chicks dug it during the Civil War (“Colonel Custer, your artillery is firing from both handlebars!”); and no gal this side of the Pecos could resist The Earp (“Wyatt, your West is so Wild!”).

And today?  Today I bring more DIMENSION to the  game.

When you ‘Stache it up in 2012, people will look at you and think, “That guy subscribes to Martha Stewart Living AND he owns a firearm!”

Or maybe, “He’s the VP of a software company AND I just saw him in a porn!”

And, “He plays hockey AND he’s the president of the William Howard Taft Fan Club!”

Also, “He buys potpourri AND was third from the left in the Beastie Boys music video for “Sabotage!”

When you ‘Stache it up in 2012, people will know you have the pizazz of Magnum P.I. and the frontal lobe of Nietzsche.  That you’re a DOER and a THINKER.

You do not, however, want people to think you’re a MASS MURDERER (please familiarize yourself with the Moustaches To Avoid Section in the Manly Wallpaper For Your Face Handbook).

This means you, Cat Stevens.

And you, hipster college student studying the origin of the kaftan in Budapest.

Once you have successfully avoided looking like a World War II genocidal maniac, might I point you in the direction of Moustache Pomade?  Tame the Plumage of your Wild Under-Nose Fur!  Shape the Topiary of your Face-Hedge!

There’s Movember and then there’s MOTERNITY.  Moustaches for eternity.  Why dedicate one month to men’s health, when you could dedicate your life to the health of the Hair River Between Nose Mountain and Lip Town?

You don’t have to be a member of the Australian Men’s Rugby Team to be a Mo Bro.  You just have to have the WILL and the DESIRE to the be your own Ambassador of Upper Lip Pubes.

It is time, Ned Flanders, to walk down the street and proclaim, “That’s right, ladies!  If the boys on the CW are doing it!  If that guy in the Progressive commercial is doing it!  If Geraldo has done it for decades!  Then by the hormones vested in me, I WILL ‘STACHE LIKE I’VE NEVER ‘STACHED BEFORE!”

(Do not give any credence to the Amish Motto: Beard-Without-’Stache Is Spiritually Satisfying.)

(Please note: Salvador Dali was a sex machine.)

(Also.  Walter Cronkite.)

Tonight on the Manly Evening News?

The Moustache.

Is back.

The blogosphere is an amazing place.

This person abandoned her evening of Chardonnay to attend one of Keija’s Austin readings for THE RUINS OF US.

This lovely lady helped me set up a virtual bookstore on my sidebar – and then ordered a book just for the hell of it.

This person and this person did (or are doing) giveaways on their websites.

This person is also doing a giveaway and her company even created an online launch strategy for the book.

And then there are those of you who have been tweeting this book until your little fingers bled!

I can’t tell you how awed I am of everyone’s support for my sister’s book and while I would like to give each and every one of you a signed first edition, the shipping and handling would be a bitch.  Which leads me to the announcement of the big winner (as determined by www.random.org’s true random number generator)…

Shari from Dusty Earth Mother!  Hooray!  I love Shari!  She is wonderfully funny and generous and after having met her at BlogHer, I can say that she is also disgustingly beautiful.

Thank you again to all of you for your support and well wishes – Keija and I are so very grateful.  If you still haven’t forgiven me for not winning, check out the other giveaways mentioned above for more chances to win a free copy!

I leave you with this post that ran on Taming Insanity’s site a few weeks ago.  Enjoy.

___________________

With a new addition to the family, I thought it only appropriate to address the outright lies and offenses being printed on newborn onesies these days.

“My Mom Rocks?”  ”Boob Man?”  ”Future Quarterback?”  ”Santa’s Little Helper?”

Cut the bullshit, Carters.

Parenthood is a battlefield and as Bill Shakespeare used to tell his kids, “The truth will out.”  Which is why I’m starting “The Onesies Crap Stops Here And I’m Not Talking About Meconium” campaign.

I’ve already sent the following slogans to my second cousin who works at the t-shirt kiosk in the mall, so I’m confident you’ll see these soon on a baby near you:

*  I Was Swaddled By An Armless Baboon.

*  Stop Donating To Your Alma-Mater, I Don’t Want To Go There.

*  That Nursing Cover Makes You Look Like Jack Black.

*  My Mom Cries So Much Because She’s Blissfully Happy.

*  ’COLIC’ Spelled Backwards Is ‘Flight To Mexico’

*  Pooping Makes Me Smile. Not Your Elmo Voice.

*  If I Root For The Packers, Will You Still Love Me?

*  Daddy Goes To Work Early And Sleeps Under His Desk.

*  Daddy Stays Late At Work And Sleeps Under His Desk.

*  Grandpa’s Little Bundle Of Terrorist Demands.

*  I Hate My Middle Name.  Thanks.

*  Lay Off The Chili, I’m Gassy Enough.

*  My Reflux Is All Your Fault.

*  That Guy Over There?  Is Totally Watching You Nurse.

*  Sleep-Training Is For Pussies.

*  Daddy, I’ll Take The Bed, You Take The Couch.

*  Burp Me Like That Again, I Call CPS.

*  Don’t Leave Me Alone With My Sibling.

*  Already Rejected By Four Preschools.

*  Future Graduate Of The Preschool That Accepts Un-Pottytrained Biters.

*  I Would Latch Better If You Were Angelina Jolie.

*  Five Generations Of THIS Nose!

I am going to be so rich off my philanthropic effort to make onesies more REAL and less ADORABLE.

You want adorable?

Bust out the ultrasound photo.

Pre-reflux.

Pre-colic.

Pre-The-Poor-Kid-Looks-Just-Like-Uncle-Hal.

This is the week.

The week my sister’s book, THE RUINS OF US, goes on sale.

Keija once equated writing and publishing a novel to giving birth and being a mother – an analogy I detested at the time, being pregnant and fairly certain that her hemorrhoids were smaller than mine.

But the fact remains that THE RUINS OF US is her baby.  A baby that took five long years to gestate and now it’s going out into the world.  And I’m not talking about a sweet little Montessori preschool kind of world.

I’m talking about a world where good books bloom and die on the vine of overcrowded shelves.  Where mother-authors dream of hog-tying Oprah and holding her for ransom until she lets little Suzy Novel into her precious Book Club.  Where hungry plots and characters are left to sing for their publicity and tap dance their way into the hearts of reviewers.

Fortunately, THE RUINS OF US is well prepared for this unforgiving world.  And I’m not just saying this because it’s my niece or because it can do a mean shuffle ball change.  I’m saying this because even after working in publishing, it utterly captivated my cold, jaded heart.  It is beautifully written.  The characters are compelling.  The plot leaves you breathless.

It is the tale of American-born Rosalie and her husband, the powerful Abdullah Baylani, and their life together in Saudi Arabia.  It is the tale of marital betrayal and the chaos that their children must endure.  It is the tale of Faisal, their son, and the decision he makes that could destroy everything his embattled family holds dear.  It is the tale of a family who must confront difficult truths as they fight to preserve what remains of their world.  THE RUINS OF US is a tale about intolerance, family, and the injustices we endure for love.

Having grown up in Saudi Arabia, this book brought back such visceral memories of the desert and the people.  Of my childhood.  Of Keija and I reading together and listening to my parents tell stories and creating our own stories.  A love of the written word has always been a part of who we are and Keija’s words beg to be savored.

Now.

How to savor these words for FREE!

GIVEAWAY ALERT!  GIVEAWAY ALERT!

I would like to give you – yes, you, because I love you – a signed edition of THE RUINS OF US.  And when the movie of the book comes out and Keija ends up winning the National Book Award, you can day, “Damn, I gots me a signed edition from Keija, yo!  How can I sell this on eBay and make a shit load – oh, wait, I would never sell this because these words are solid fucking gold.”

HOW?  HOW CAN YOU WIN THIS?

You can leave a comment!  That’s it.  That’s all you have to do and I will randomly choose a number and announce the winner next Tuesday, 1/24 (shipping to continental US only).

Of course, I also recommend following @KeijaParssinen on the Twit Machine and liking her on Facebook at Keija Parssinen.  She’s a guaranteed good time and better than A-Word-A-Day for improving your vocabulary.

AND YOU SAY YOU’RE IN A BOOK CLUB?

Well hot diggity dog have I got a deal for you!  If your book club chooses THE RUINS OF US, Keija has generously agreed to Skype / FaceTime / call in for an Author Q&A.  Awesome, right?

AND YOU STILL DON’T BELIEVE ME THAT THIS BOOK ROCKS THE CASBAH?

Then maybe you’ll believe these highly intelligent souls:

“While she portays the physical and social landscapes [of Saudi Arabia] with the precision of an impassioned expat, Parssinen also limns – with a wisdom that belies her age – the culture-transcending contours of the human heart.” - National Geographic Traveler, Book of the Month

“Parssinen’s characters are richly conceived, and her evocative petrol universe of wealth, privilege, and intrigue is unforgettable.”  – Anthony Swofford, author of Jarhead

“Parssinen’s gripping, well-crafted debut tracks the awakening of a Saudi Arabian family to the dangers that lurk within…Parssinen deftly illuminates Saudi Arabian family through a family locked in a battle over morality and cultural chasms.” – Publisher’s Weekly

The New York Times Style Magazine

And on the blogosphere -

Adventures of a Tired Coder

Tiny Library

I could go on, but I don’t want to abuse the Proud Sister Role.  Aw hell, that role was meant to be abused.

So comment away, dear readers!  I can’t wait to give this book to you.

And do me a favor?  Tweet this post wantonly?

(Just not From-The-Street-Corner-At-3am-In-Atlantic-City-Wearing-A-Red-Negligee-Wantonly.)

THANK YOU.

1.  Make sure you perform after the General Assembly has their two-drink minimum, but before they reach drink six.  Hugo Chavez will start heckling you.

Dear Peter,

First, might I commend you on your shiny motorcycle?

And no, you don’t look at all like that guy who played the policeman on “The Hangover.”  Only remotely.  By about 93%.  When you carry a taser.

Now.  I think we can agree that “rear-ended” is perhaps too strong a description of what occurred and should only be used in adult films, n’est pas?

I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to be flippant.  I only speak french when close to urinating on myself.

Again, I would like to state that I was going 10 mph.  This has been corroborated by the calculation:

[The song "Pumped Up Kicks" x one million 'why' questions from the 3-yr-old] / conversation with my sister + three hours of sleep the night before x water bottle that would not fit in cup holder.

I was NOT drinking but did rectify that situation at home and would like to invite you over for cosmos to apologize for the taser comment.

I was NOT on the phone but thanks for your number.  Did I tell you how big and shiny your motorcycle was?

I was NOT texting but I’m pretty sure the Big Guy In The Sky sent me one.  I don’t know how else you could explain the cloud in the shape of a middle finger.

Please commend the crew of Fire Engine #7 for their biceps.  Their rippling muscles were a joy to behold as they carried the hysterical lady away in a stretcher.  Although this did make it slightly difficult for me to explain to the 3-yr-old that NOBODY WAS HURT.

And thank you, Officer, for eying me only somewhat suspiciously when the 3-yr old declared that “oh, wait, I’m hurt YES I’M HURT MOMMY CAN I RIDE WITH THE PARAMEDICS RIGHT NOW?”

I do apologize for stopping traffic on the only road in town during the holiday lunch hour rush, but I must admit it was a wonderful opportunity to catch up with friends and acquaintances as they slowly passed by, curious about the dipshit who made them late for the Crocs ‘N Quinoa Holiday Sale:

“Yes, friends, it is I!  Another mom in an SUV!  Happy holidays and God bless!  Move along there, Yukon Cornelius.  Whatchu lookin’ at, C. Everett Koop’s-bearded-older-sister?”

But Pete – may I call you Pete? – what do you know about the litigious-inclined?  Have the majority attended the Barbara Streisand School Of Histrionics?  Are burly rescuers swayed by running mascara?  Because it’s too bad that my mascara-wearing days are on hiatus and that I wasted all my tears on Sarah Mclachlan’s ASPCA commercial the previous night.  Although I was almost able to secrete some moisture out of the corner of one eye when I learned that the cocker spaniel in the passenger seat escaped unscathed.

I don’t think I’m going to get sued by the cocker, but honestly Pierre – may I call you Pierre? – what are the chances that Streisand is gonna lawyer-up?  I know you’ll be straight with me.  You’re a single dad, after all.  One who has a girlfriend with short arms.  I appreciated that story.  I’m sorry I dozed off.

In conclusion, thank you for making Wednesday such a successful Take-Your-Children-To-The-Scene-Of-An-Accident Day.

You wear knee-high black boots with aplomb.

May 2012 be filled with enough speeding tickets to give you the highest quota in the squad.

Love,

Your law-abiding rear-ender

Today marks the last of my Guesty Mondays.  Sob.

Lactation leave is over and I would like to thank all of my fabulous bloggy buddies for taking time out of their busy lives to whip up a fresh post for me.  My stale, forlorn little site was most grateful.

Without further ado, let me introduce Nancy from the blog Midlife Mixtape!  I had the pleasure of meeting Nancy, a freelance writer, at BlogHer last year and listening to her read at the Listen To Your Mother Salon.  I know you’ll love her candid humor as much as I do.

________________

Truth in Movie Childbirth

by Nancy Davis Kho

Now that my children have both reached the Age of Reason, by which I mean I vividly remember being their ages, I’m working hard to spare them my own traumatic childhood memories. For instance, I believed that if my mother took off her wedding ring, her finger would fall off. I regularly take my rings off in front of the girls so they won’t have the same fear, although they may believe that losing one’s wedding rings is a common daily occurrence for most people.

I also grew up believing that childbirth was accurately depicted in movies, which was why I pledged never to have children. EVER. My mother used to say to me, “If it were so bad, everyone in the world would be an only child.” But she also said that if I ate bread crusts my hair would curl, so  she wasn’t particularly credible.

I eventually got over my fear and birthed two babies. Which is why, after seeing two childbirth scenes in movies over the past week, I did a pole vault onto the “let me deflate that particular myth for you with facts and anecdotes” pedestal and started lecturing.

First off – and you can judge me for this all you like – the 13 year old caught the childbirth scenes of “Knocked Up” with us, on HBO. Yes, we probably should have sent her to bed, but we felt that the Cirque-de-Soleil-on-shrooms scene reinforced our “NO DRUGS EVER” rule. You may recall that when Katherine Heigl’s character gives birth, there’s a veritable revolving door of visitors to her delivery room, including a hapless friends of her boyfriend, who’s treated to the doctor’s view of the baby crowning. Her doctor is mean but omnipresent, and the only nurse on duty is snarky and snaps gum throughout the delivery.

Then – and you should probably judge me harder for this – we saw “New Year’s Day” in which Jessica Biel and Seth Meyers play a couple whose first baby is due on 12/31. They’re trying very hard to have the first baby of the New Year, because the hospital is giving a big $25,000 prize to the first baby born! Because that happens ALL the time, hospitals giving cash prizes to patients.

In an effort to induce labor, Biel eats anchovies, almost drinks castor oil, and does headstands on a yoga mat. All of which, if I remember correctly from my birth classes, could pretty much kill the baby.

But the biggest deviation from real life comes when Biel is seated cross legged on the couch in a pair of grey sweatpants. She grunts prettily, once, and declares, “Huh! My water broke!” The camera pulls back to reveal her still sitting on the couch, the only droplet of water on top of her thigh. She grabs two tissues from a box and throws them vaguely towards her lap, but that’s it. She is ready to crack wise with the husband and hail herself a taxi. And, by the way, the husband is able to tell the admitting nurse how many centimeters dilated his wife is. Not only is that implausible. It’s gross.

In both cases the moms scream like they’re buried alive and calling for far-off rescuers, throughout the labor. Murderous threats are made by the ladies, drugs are begged for – too late, of course – and C-sections are requested.

And then, beautiful three month old babies with big fat rolls are presented to adoring parents.

In my Truth in Movie Childbirth rant, I assured the girls that actual childbirth can be both LESS dramatic and MORE dramatic than the movies make it seem. For me, both times, mild contractions went on for two days before they even got close to the 5-minutes-apart rule our doctor had told us to wait for. I attended a Hanukkah party while in labor with one kid, and for the other one I went on a short hike around the county perimeter, hoping to move things along.

Even at the hospital, things were mellow-ish. I got the epidural, and I watched a lot of Seinfeld from my bed while things progressed. My husband, a nervous eater, ordered out for food three separate times with the first child, so there was some debate whether the Chinese food delivery guy was in the room when she was born, but that was truly the only RomCom-worthy moment in either situation.

There was pain, of course, but it was so temporary – like a train station you know you’re just passing through – that I truly can’t remember its contours. I had compassionate nurses, the doctor showed up just as I was ready to deliver, my husband and mom and best friend there making sure I was ok. The feeling I remember most clearly from labor is anticipation.

But when they hand you the real baby – the one that’s smaller than a turkey you’d cook for a dinner party, red and bawling and totally dependent on you already – THAT’S when you feel meaningful fear. Fear that you will screw up and fail this child, a fear that makes worries about childbirth seem trivial by comparison, a fear that has lasted almost 14 years for me (so far) and is as strong as it was the first day I felt it.

After my lecture, both kids will probably swear to never have children.

At least they’re doing it for the right reason.

Nancy Davis Kho lives in Northern California and blogs at http://midlifemixtape.com. And now she will probably never have grandchildren.

My Guesty Mondays are almost over, but not before I present one of my favorite bloggers:  Erin, from  I’m Gonna Kill Him.  Hilarity and talented story-telling abound at her site, where she riffs on marriage and family.  And here’s your belated Christmas gift: click here to follow her on twitter.

So say adieu to the holidays and hello to 2012 with this slice of pumpkin pie genius.

____________________

Let’s Pop Some Low Sodium Popcorn and Watch Our Family Slideshow!

Put it up on the big TV! Nana can’t see it on the computer. It doesn’t matter if she can’t hear it from either place; She can’t see it from the computer. You kids treat her like she’s Helen Keller when she’s got full control of her faculties even if she has been mistaking Cascade for Metamucil lately.

Pause it! Your father isn’t here. He’s in the restroom. Yes, again, young man. He’s in the midst of another Crohn’s flare-up. Tell him he looks good when he gets out. He’s lost a lot of weight with it. A lot more than I lost with that Susan Lucci diet. Yes, I know I didn’t realize the point was to scoop out the bagel and fill it with melon.

Alright, we’re all here.  Roll it!

Awww, look at you, Brittany! We were so proud of you from the minute you were born regardless of the fact your Apgar score was closer to Simian than Human. No, boys, you were not at the hospital when your sister was born. We left you in the care of our neighbor, Father Dale, a high-ranking priest at St. Timothy’s.  In fact, was he a Monsignor, Stan?  No, he was not defrocked by then, but we don’t give credence to the allegations anyway.

First day of school! Look at you all waiting to board that bus! What’s that? No, all the kids wore those signs with their address on it so the bus driver would know their stops. Not just the ones that looked developmentally delayed. That’s true, John, you were still wearing a pull-up. Really should have left you in a Pamper at night till you went off to college. You boys went right from pissing all over the sheets to making them stic – alright, alright. But, really, futons were a huge mistake.

Soccer! We spent a lot of time at that field, didn’t we? Brittany was always sitting alone on the top of those monkey bars while you boys played your soccer games. No, that’s not true, hon! We forgot you there one time. Not that hard to do as you just sat there silently stringing together friendship bracelets for those girls who made you pay them a dollar just to play with them. Saying you were nearly abducted is going a tad far. We were already on our way back when that man approached you. You should be grateful we established the family password for situations like that! Yes, maybe ‘hola’ was not the most inventive word, but there weren’t a lot of Latinos in Dubuque at the time.

Thumper! What a dog. Yes, the neighbors did call him Humper, which I blame on your father because the hallmark of dog training is to establish an Alpha, and your father was too busy whittling those figurines of the Vietcong to work with the dog. Always humping legs and chewing underwear. It’s been 10 years since we had him destroyed, and I still find crotchless panties in my unmentionables drawer. What’d I say? Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I figured someone let it slip by now that we put that dog down. Really, it was a favor.  He got that glaze over his eyes every now and then, and you just knew he was thinking about which of our faces he’d like to mutilate. 

Those speech and debate tournaments! Brittany, chewing your nails in a mock turtleneck and a string of pearls, waiting to hear whether you were arguing for or against the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy. Some irony in that one after Mrs. Kupfer found you and Denise kissing on the bus while the rest of the debaters were getting personal pan pizzas. Bet Lincoln and Douglas were never caught doing that! Oh, relax! We know you got into Berkeley and that you’re confident with your sexuality today.

Look! Jacob’s senior prom. What was her name? How could we forget? You woke the whole house shouting her name in your sleep every night for a year. We had to stop going to the Orange Julius she worked at after she dumped you. Did she ever tell you what is actually in an Orange Julius because that diet didn’t work for me either?

Our 20^th wedding anniversary. Wow, look at me! I was big into the water aerobics. Still wasn’t good enough for your father, though. No, no, we’ve gotten past it, but he was at the height of his affair with Joanne at that time. And she had the nerve to show up to our anniversary party as if I didn’t know what they were up to. Three months of eating nothing but steamed leeks and a spoonful of Karo syrup enhances the extrasensory abilities! I could smell it on him, and not just her Contempo Casuals fragrance, if you know what I mean. I got through it, though, thanks to a lot of Sally Jesse Raphael and low-calorie éclairs. I’ve forgiven him. Whether God has, however, is not for me to -

Hey! Where you all going? It’s not over! 

Nana, you are living in my house with a wee wee pad on my guest bed so you had better sit your ass down on that lumbar pillow and finish this with me!

This was originally published last December.  Happy holidays, compadres!  May your days be merry and your nights not be ruled by the iron fist of 2-3 hour feedings.

__________________

On the second day of Christmas, the holiday spirit vomited in my living room.

Fortunately, the ancient Chinese art of feng shui was strictly adhered to and the positive flow of chi is now co-mingling nicely with the pine-scented air-freshener.

An easy education in aesthetics?  No.  This most glorious balance of yin and yuletide was an arduous process.

Let this be a guide to us all.  Please substitute ‘menorah’ or ‘gelt’ or ‘kwanzaa bush’ in the appropriate places.

1.  At some point after Thanksgiving, acknowledge the path of your soul – the one that leads to your basement closet.

2.  Enlightenment awaits you.  In each of the 15 boxes marked CHRISTMAS! and FRAGILE! and OSTER TOASTER OVEN!

3.  Use the laws of Heaven and Earth to move Heaven and Earth and that enormous fake tree in a hellish one-man endeavor.  Ask if he needs help without any intention of helping.

4.  Find the magnetic compass that you bought from the Sharper Image in 1996.  Determine the north-south axis of the living room and ponder astrology:  which direction would the tree of a Leo and an Aquarius face?  In the center of the room with an objective but intellectual-bent?  Oh.  Astronomy.  Check out the constellations ‘n shit.

5.  According to the Big Dipper and the cable satellite that looks like a star, the three-piece-blue-fur should go in the corner, displacing the activity table, easel, and box of trucks.  Artfully place toys in special nooks throughout room.  The fire engine makes a lovely magazine rack.

6.  Use the Five-Element Theory to disperse paraphernalia:

* METAL: Place decomposing 1980-circa tinsel on the tree.  The mantle.  The banister.  The entry-way table.  An Evil Axis of Tinsel, one might say.

* FIRE: Learn how to use the fire place.  Who needs an open flue?  Breathe the smell of burning wood.  Just like a Native American smoke ceremony.  Is that sage?  No.  No, that’s not right.  It’s too smokey.  Put it out.  PUT IT OUT.  Artfully place candles on the table.  The mantle.  The entry-way table.

* WOOD: Salvage tin of pine cones collected circa 1978.  Relish the memory of your parents telling you what great memories you have of that.  Contemplate your lack of wreath.  Time for arts-and-crafts!  Create strange and mysterious Wiccan symbols using sticks and acorns.

* EARTH: It’s time to make sure the community knows you are filled with the holiday spirit.  Check out the chi of your dwelling.  The orientation of the house.  Is it auspicious?  Does it face Bed, Bath & Beyond?  Was it built on the ancient burial grounds of housing permits and neighborhood feuds?  Let the earth experience renewal and positivity.  Place the plastic Santa firmly in the ground.  The sleigh and eight huge reindeer.  The inflatable manger scene.  Make sure the Baby Jesus is looking squarely in your neighbor’s bathroom window.  And just as ancient Chinese custom dictates, make sure your house is lit up brighter than a Chinese buffet on Kids-Eat-Free-Fridays.

* WATER: Perhaps most important of all, dust off the Frosty-the-Snowman wine decanter.  The “Christmas With the Carpenters” beer steins.  The chi of everything hangs on proximity to bodies of water like chardonnay and Anchor Steam Holiday Ale.  Positivity increases with harder bodies of water, such as Red Label and Black Label.  In fact, “feng shui” literally translates as “wind-water.” In other words, “the spiritual aesthetics of passing gas while drinking hot-toddies.”

7.  When boxes are emptied, focus on the centerpiece of the dining room table.  With generous measurements, you can fit approximately three:  the red glittered gem from Costco, the artfully arranged tray of candles, the must-have vase of ornaments recommended by the Crate and Barrel catalog.  Perfect.  Not only do you not have to make eye-contact with anyone at dinner, you can enjoy the peace and quiet afforded by the sound barrier of a 2-ft by 4-ft holiday hedge.

8.  Discover lost stash of bows.  Bows make everything look better.  Bow up the faux-snowed boughs, bow up the mini-trees festooned on the forgotten east-west axis, then bow up the bows.

9.  Pause in remembrance of the Sinatra-singing-&-dancing reindeer than never was.

10.  Remember to rehydrate.  Water out the yang and yin to the gin on the rocks.  FA-LA-LA-LA-FUCK-YEAH-THIS-IS-FUN!  The chi is overflowing like red and green lava erupting from Mount St. Nick.

11.  Pretend you’re the Chinese Dean Martin.  Dance by yourself  beneath the dollar-store mistletoe.

I can hear the sounds of jingle bells
Long before Batman smells
Make me thrill as only Chi knows how
Fung Shway me smooth, fung shway me now
You know how
Fung Shway me smooth, fung shway me nooooooow!

12.  Your job is done.  The place is looking like the set to “Ernest Saves Christmas.”  Give your chi a pat on the yang.

13.  Set out a plate of milk and cookies.  It’s never too early and the Tao of Indulgence demands it.

Do I even need to introduce today’s Guesty Guest?  It’s the Empress.  From Good Day, Regular People.

Eeeeeeee!  I know!  I’m excited too!

And not just because she’s the mother of three boys and one of the nicest ladies on the planet but because she has already abandoned her New Year’s resolution and it isn’t even January.

Isn’t that so sweet?  Making us feel better about our own future-abandoned resolutions?  What a gal.

And ps – you really should be following her on twitter too.  You’ll read this post and be sad you aren’t.

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I’m a Fake

I’m a fake.

A big, fat fake.

For those of you who follow Chalupa, and who may have come to know me Six Degrees of Separation Style via the oracle Kevin Bacon, it’s possible you were innocent victims to my recent twitter stream mentions of “gettin’ in shape.” To those of you who did see this tweeted out, I must apologize for taking up your precious twitter space. I don’t know what I was thinking. Wait, yes, I do, file yesterday’s tweets under “denial.”

Who am I trying to kid (that answer would be? me, of course). Try and understand. It bugs me to no end (ha! wish it was no end) to have a big butt. It was funny yesterday, not so much today. I have nothing to wear. And I can’t find anything to buy to wear. There are no cute jeans for me in stores. Oh, if I ever decided to move my butt out off this chair, there might be, but not for another 18 months — which is the amount of time I have determined it will take to build up a new body.

I don’t blame designers for not coming up with a line of jeans for a bodacious bottom like mine. Face it, what designer wants me advertising their wares across these buns? “Hey! dying to look like this? Buy our pants!!” Don’t think so. They save the cute stuff for the waifs. Please don’t misunderstand me, I’m not saying I want to be that size. I’m at that point in my life where I must choose “your ass or your face.” I choose ass. Who wants to look like Munch’s The Scream?

I don’t mind the junk in the trunk, I just want it packed in there a little better.

The Universe heard my plea because this past Sunday, when our local paper came and I picked it up, out fell a very special sales insert.  Oh my god but if Tarjay didn’t have the 30 Day Shred on sale.

Have you seen this DVD box? It’s serious: “Get ready for the BEST body you’ve EVER had!” I.am.ready. Ready enough to clog up people’s twitter streams with it. Ahh, the promises on this box. ”Lose up to 20 pounds in 30 days!” Oh, I knew I had to tweet that out! “@Everybody! I’m going to do it! The Shred! Work out and shit! And lose 20 pounds! And get the best body I’ve EV-ER had!” *tweettweettweet*

Hand weights. Check. Purple yoga mat that was recommended. Check. Matching Jillian yoga pants and stripey tank. Check.

Get off twitter. Errrrrrrrrrrrr…..no check.

Maybe this butt doesn’t look that bad. If you don’t look at it, it doesn’t look that bad.

Sorry, people. If I misled you and had you put your hopes for a better body through vicariously living my tweets, I apologize.

Anyway, we’re entering Sweater Weather in Wisconsin. Everyone knows sweaters look better over a nice plump rump.

 

 

It pains me to say that I am a holiday card enthusiast.

I am the person I made fun of before I had kids.

Several of my single friends place my holiday cards in the center of their dart board or use them as coasters.

Because they’re blinded by their cuteness.

I, myself, am blinded by their cuteness.  But I can’t stop myself.  Each year, I send them to the far reaches of the world with the cutest little holiday stamp affixed to them – happy holidays, grad student that my father taught in the 1970′s that I met briefly when I was eight!

In the spirit of admitting that I have a problem, I revisited a post I wrote for Kelley’s Break Room (love Kelley, go check her out).  A post that reminded me that cute is never the answer.

Snark is the answer.  Unless you’re sending a card to Grandma Lucy, in which case cute is always the answer and you should avoid using the following slogans on your holiday card:

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Making Spirits Bright…With Spirits!  Vodka Tonic?

Oh, Holy Night!  Check Out My Kid’s Sweater Vest.

Joyeux Noel!  We Kind Of Speak French.  Jealous?

Peace On Earth.  Does My Smile Seem Strained?

Fa La La La La!  My Family Is Better Than Yours.

Have A Holly Jolly Christmas!  Our City’s Jobless Rate Is Lower Than Yours.

Love & Joy!  Our Dog Is Cuter Than Yours.

Dreaming Of A White Christmas…Enjoy Our Brag Letter!

Happy Hanukkah!  Enjoy Our Son’s Photoshopped Smile!

Merry Kwanzaa!  Yes.  I’m Only Wearing One Earring.

Feliz Navidad!  That’s Right.  We’re Christmasing On a Beach.  Losers.

Joy To The World, Co-Worker Of My Husband’s That I’ve Never Met!

Merry Christmas!  Does My Belly Fat Make Me Look Fat?

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas…And I’m Putting Together A 300-Piece Train Table!