Spearin' the hoo-hoo

Last night I was out at a real, live adult party. Seriously. The kind with appetizers and booze and rum balls, not just chicken nuggets and Santa sticker books and sippy cups full of white grape juice. It was such a good time that I sat in the kitchen with the cool kids and talked about how one woman got booted from her sorority for smoking too much pot and how another guy has a whole hope chest leftover photos of genital warts from his first pharmaceutical sales job that he's saved to one day scare the abstaining crap out of his soon-to-be child (See? I told you this was totally an adult party. Oh, and not to worry about revealing secrets of the unwillingly blogged as we all know no cool kids read this thing...no offense...and I mean that).

It is probably no surprise or coincidence that after tucking into several bottles of wine (What kind? Who cares? It was an adult party, friends, which I am pretty sure means you don't care what kind of booze you're downing as long as it wears off a bit before you have to drive a bunch of people home. OK, OK, as long as it wears off for the designated driver before you all have to go home. Don't forget to buckle up either, party-goers, the roads are slick this time of year. And adults can be really shitty drivers), the conversation turned from STDs and excessive stonerdom to the Spears grrrls.

Ohhhhhh, Jamie-Lynn Jamie-Lynn Jamie-Lynn. Why must you do this?

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Who are we kidding here? We all know you're not reading blog posts today.

No, you're out, dragging your kids through mall corridors, praying to God/Allah/Athena/Holy Mother of Starbucks/SOMEONE PLEASE! that they keep their way overpriced holiday outfits on long enough to take one freaking photo with the musty smelling Santa outside Old Navy.

You're downing double-caf nonfat peppermint white mochas in an effort to survive last-minute present shopping in Target with your mother.

You're baking some fussy little desserty thing you saw Giada fix in five minutes but have devoted an entire afternoon to attempting even though you will inevitably stop off at Trader Joe's for a big bag of Moose Munch, of which you will eat half and dole out another quarter to the sobbing child in the carseat, on the way to the party.

You're seriously thinking about wrapping up the same half-zip cashmegora sweater you bought the hubs last Christmas just to see if he realizes he already owns it or even recognizes it as last year's big ticket item at all.

You're avoiding holiday hell at all costs by surfing for your own little mommy goodies.

But honey, I know you're not paying attention to posts. That is, unless it is 2:30 a.m. and you are out of those little reindeer adhesive tags. Or possibly, you are one of those Rachel Ray types who got all the shopping and wrapping done and presents put under the tree, all by Fourth of July. And then I despise you and think you should not be reading this slack-ass mommy blog anyway, so move along.

But just in case you are here needing some kind of diversion from the fourth Black Russian you've downed during the Peanuts Christmas Pageant show, here's a bit of what I recommend but clearly have absolutely no time or holiday-wacked energy to read myself (or very thoroughly anyway). But dudes, it looks funny, and that counts for something.

Give yourself some ammo for Christmas Eve dinner with the NRAers you're related to by law alone.

Remind yourself why a little 3-years-post-partum jelly belly is so much better than some crazy old fucking fitness New Year's resolutions.

Shooooooes.

Cocktaiiiiiiils.

Goss.

There it is, kittens. That's all you need.

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What Would Jesus Cha-Cha-Cha?

Lil E's co-op Christmas has arrived, in full and frenzied co-op style. With homemade ornaments masking-taped to the wall and a visit from Santa and a church full of kids in marabou-fringed holiday dresses and untucked oxford shirts.

As the kids made their way to the altar stage, wearing jingle bells at their wrists, the parents were waving from behind cameras.

I admit, I took a few pictures after all. I couldn't help it in the moment, with my boy smiling and singing and so engaged with the audience, and I took a few photos and a bit of video myself.  Not too many or too much, just enough to remind us all of happy he is with those other delicious kids and singing his heart out about Santa.

Of course, we cheered. And the kids hugged and ran back to their parents in the pews. When it was all over and every class had performed some version of some vaguely-recognizable holiday song, the director took the mic and reminded us that, without Jesus, there would be no Christmas.

And this is true. Then she asked that we all join in a round of "Happy Birthday, Jesus," just to mark the moment. With one long, introductory "Haaaaaaaaa...," all of the small children and parents and grandparents fell into the verse.

But because this is not just a Christian co-op but also one of those places where keeping kids engaged is a priority and where some traditions override any semblance of world outside the walls of the church where it is held, we sang a slightly modified version of Happy Birthday.

The one with the cha-cha-cha added to the end of every line.

I kid you not. As if it is not bizarre enough to sing a rousing birthday song to the King of Kings Host of Hosts Son of God, we added in seven or so cha-cha-chas for good measure.

I couldn't help it. I got the giggles.  When I did, I met my mom in barely-managed laughter, and then my dad, who was shaking his head at the whole scene.

In my family, we know the birthday Jesus song well. My dad's dad was Methodist minister and my grandmother once made a cake for my aunts...oh, and The Mighty Carpenter...that read:

Happy Birthday
Joy,
Shirley
and Baby Jesus

I am pretty sure it had red and green frosted flowers, maybe even sprinkles, on top. So we've hallelujahed in this way before and laughed about it then and many times since.

Still...still. Even with the chocolate cake with a Cool-Whip center, even with sharing icing space with my aunts and washing up the relish dishes and gravy boats before we could really dive into celebrating whatever big mark Jesus hit that year (heyyyyy, JC...1982 AGAIN, huh?!)  , when we sang Happy Birthday, it was at least with some reverence.  OK, maybe not reverence but at least without shoulder moves and hip shakes.

But that was then, back when the holiday pictures are full of a lovely mix of diverse shades of browns and golds and my cousin is wearing a Keep On Truckin' t-shirt for the big gift opening. It was back when everyone's hair flipped up and back somewhere and we all still said God in the Pledge at school and life was holy, people.

Apparently, it was back before Jesus entertained the idea of handing out goodie bags full of kazoos and Pop Rocks and temporary Sponge Bob in a Santa hat tattoos to all the kids who praise Him, play Hot Potato and hide and seek, eat cupcakes and hot dogs, sing The Song and then go home for naps and sugar crashes.

Today -- or at least last night in the fully-amped sanctuary full of tired kids and pipe cleaners -- Jesus was getting his birthday on, celebrating with the families and really giving into the Reason for the Season.

Maybe, just maybe, just like the children and the director and all of us giggling parents following behind, what Jesus would do is to lead us through the commercialism and chaos and co-op crazies in that chorus, all for Him.

All for Jesus. Cha-cha-cha.

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