It's a Wrap

Although I could have sworn that Christmas beat me up and gave me a nuggie/wedgie combo before stuffing me in a smelly locker this year, this is what I remember of it now:







Funny what three days and a photo editing software package can do.

The jagged edges of Christmas 2007 are already turning soft and blurry in my memory. It's just like childbirth! I might even work up the courage to do it again next year.

The 24th and 25th were a hectic couple of days for the Rama family.

We played the usual game of musical houses and transported an ever growing pile of toys and candy from location to location while attempting to keep tantrums at bay before finally collapsing onto the couch with mugs of tea and hot compresses when the family left on Christmas night.

The P-dog woke up on Christmas morning with a Sinus Infection to End All Sinus Infections. I was prepared to find the V-meister at my bedside at the crack of dawn, but when I skipped into her room at seven-thirty to report that the long awaited Santa had indeed swung by during the night, my four-going-on-fourteen-year-old daughter pulled the covers up over her head and announced that she was sleeping in.

The extended family were sleep-deprived and irritable at my parents' annual Christmas luncheon. And there was some (muffled) swearing when the in-laws showed up at our house an hour early for dessert and libations on Christmas night.

But this is what I'm going to remember:

• The upturned and smiling faces of the people in the pews below as our choir, accompanied by trumpet, clarinet, flute and drums, sang the closing hymn at Midnight Mass.
  
  
• The post-Christmas dinner song circle I organized and directed for the toddler set that will surely live on in Rama family lore for years to come. There is nothing like a rousing round of "Jonas turi viena plaktuka" (John Has a Hammer) or "Pasejau Dobila" (I Planted a Clover) to redirect sugar-fueled toddler energy and give the folk something to smile about.
  
  
• The proud look on the V-meister's face as she helped my mother bring out Jesus' birthday cake, complete with lit candles.
  
  
• My Uncle Vic feeding an adoring J-dog, his new BFF, plum pudding icing straight off the butter knife.
  
  
• The V-meister's unbridled excitement at the fact that Santa ate the cookies (He ATE THEM, Mama!) and the reindeer left only a few gnarled carrot nubbins in their wake. (No one questioned why a mere three shriveled baby carrots were left as offerings for twelve globe-trotting reindeer, or how a fat cat like Santa ever made it down the chimney.)

Oh, yes, and for those of you who are wondering: despite the initial confusion, our not-so-secret Santa gift exchange was a hit. When the dust settled, everyone was accounted for and in possession of a respectable gift. The P-dog, (if you recall, he drew his own name) went the gracious route and bought a bottle of dessert wine which we promptly unscrewed and passed around the room shared with decorum.

But as I turned out my light and cranked up the white noise machine before finally going to bed on Christmas night, I may or may not have said, "Thank God it's over!"

Ah, Christmas.

You hurt so good.

Roar

Guess who got Photoshop software for Christmas?



I'll be busy pasting my head onto various superheroes and celebrities for the next couple of days.

Thanks to Bananas for the tutorial!

Wheelz on Fire

I have always held a certain modicum of respect for and fear of people with F.O.P. (fraternal order of police) stickers on their cars.

Because I was under the impression that only veterans of the force and perhaps a few lucky family members held the unique privilege of brandishing these powerful emblems.

But friends, I am temporarily interrupting my holiday blogging hiatus to announce that I am now the proud owner of not one, but two F.O.P. stickers, one of which I have proudly displayed on the Ramamobile (and only because the P-dog snatched the other one for his own ride.)

You see, a few months ago, officer whatshisname of our city's force called during dinnertime soliciting pledges for their annual fundraising drive. I was extremely busy unwrapping our takeout from Eastside Hunan at the time of his call, and in my haste to dig into my lo mein with two dollar extra tofu, I made a hasty pledge.

(I had recently attended a neighborhood watch group meeting and felt that it was in my family's best interests to stay on the right side of the law. And the ossifer who called was so friendly, I felt like I was talking to someone's grandpa. Also? I couldn't risk forsaking police protection for the Rama household, what with all the drug activity in our hood.)

One thing about cops is, they're nothing if not persistent about collecting their money. Not two days later, I got a friendly letter from the F.O.P. reminding me of my pledge.

But I didn't know it at the time, because I put the unopened envelope on top of my Snyder's of Hanover Jumbo Pretzel Canister Bill Stack, which I instituted to replace my "bill bowl" after being strong armed into taking over the family's bill paying responsibilities:


Snyder's of Hanover Jumbo Pretzel Canister Bill Stack
with Shattered Nativity Snow Globe

It sat there, unopened, until a second reminder notice was received this past week. (Also, the P-dog finally took note of the towering stack of bills on top of the pretzel jar and began paying them willy-nilly out of fear that our power might be shut off at any moment.)

And that's when I discovered the F.O.P. stickers.

How awesome are my city's cops, that they sent me a second sticker in my follow-up pledge reminder letter, even though I hadn't yet sent the money I had promised? I salute you, men and women of the Dope Slope PD.

As I stated earlier, the P-dog is hoarding the second sticker for himself, so I was only able to put one of them on the Ramamobile (an '05 Chrysler Pacifica minivan hybrid, if you must know), but I think it sends a message loud and clear:

"You can't touch this."

You all may be wrapping up holiday preparations today, but the kids and I? Are going down to the Po-leece Depot.

Gonna pimp out the Ramamobile with some flashing lights and maybe a siren or two.

Lookout.

Link Love on the Lam

Guess what I saw at the post office the other day?



"Suspect hovers around the five foot mark, and was last seen wearing a leopard print leotard with crazy stripe leg warmers. Suspect is not armed, but considered dangerous. Distinguishing features include a minuscule post-skin tag removal scar on the inner left nostril and unusually lustrous hair."

Can you freakin' believe it?

I did return those dang library books, I just haven't paid my (greatly discounted) fine yet. Sheesh.

I'm going to go under the radar for awhile until this whole thing blows over, so posting will be light for the next few weeks.

But before I go, I also have some long overdue bling to pass on. The last thing I need is my mug on the front of blogging's Most Wanted list, as well. I am already being tailed by the meme police.

I received this Reflective Blogger award (shaddup!) eons ago from a person who asked to be nameless, and I would like to pass it on to Chani at Thailand Gal, because she is a reflective blogger if there ever was one. Peace, Chani!



Works for Mom bestowed upon me the Community Blogger award and I want to pass it on to Liv at Madness, Madness I Say! Girlfriend is all about the communi-tay and she is also one of those amazing bloggers who responds to every comment left on her posts!


Painted Maypole and Oh, the Joys tickled me pink with the "Blogging that Hits the Mark" award. I would like to launch this award at Heidi of Viking Conquest and at Avery Gray because their blogging is splat-tastic!


Sugarplum's Mom gave me the "You Make Me Smile" award, and I am passing it on to Janet at Three and Holding. I find that, in general, Canadians make me smile.



It has also recently come to my attention that Slouching Mom, who has been called the Meryl Streep of blogging, and who has been nominated for a Blogitzer (among other awards) herself, recently nominated my little old blog for this (thanks, Sarah!):



So far, my blog has FOUR VOTES!!!!

That means I'm only 76 votes away from running neck and neck with the current leader!!! (As the P-dog always says, you have to shoot for the stars if you want to hit the roof.)

But I would be happy just to break into the double-digits by the end of 2008, which is when voting closes. (I think you need to create an account in order to vote, but it is quick and painless, and would make one Lithuanian hobbit diva's entire year. )

Peace and joy, dear readers.

I Come From a Land Down Under

I'm short.

Not freakishly short, mind you, but short enough that I've contemplated disabling my driver's side airbag, just in case.

During my tortuous school days (when I was short with a boy's haircut, braces, glasses, a weird name, and plastic hoop earrings), it used to really get me down.

"Dear God, it's me, Rimarama. Please let me get my period before Dawn Bachmeier, let T.J. Trumpower like me and, even if we don't get married, please make it so that he asks me to the Howdy Dance. And Dear God, please let me grow at least four more inches in Jesus' name, Amen."

I'm a bit more comfortable in my skin these days, but every once in awhile somebody will come along and burst my bubble.

Like today at Jazzercise.

(I left the J-dog with my parents, in case anyone is interested.)

I was minding my own business before class got underway, practicing my deep breathing exercises and copying the warm-up stretches the lady in front of me was performing in a nonchalant "I do this all the time" kind of way, when I noticed the girlfriend to my left was checking me out.

At first I assumed she was coveting my totally kick-ass leopard print leotard and crazy stripe leg warmers, but after a time, she turned to me and said,

"How tall are you? Because you are NOT five feet tall!!!!"

(Fur bristles, talons release. Engage Rimarama fight mode.)

Because excuse me? Did I forget to take down the sign on my back? The one that sez I'm "FIVE FOOT FOUR AND FULL OF MUSCLE" ????

For what other earthly reason could this person be so interested in whether or not my stature reaches the highly esteemed five foot mark?

Rather than karate-chopping her a$$ according to my first instinct, I gingerly turned my head to face my attacker.

(Gingerly, because it's almost Christmas and plus, I woke up with a touch of vertigo this morning. Word to the wise: vertigo and Jazzercise, not a winning combo. Post for another day, my friends.)

"Just barely and not quite, why do you ask?" I said brightly.

I sized her up and that's when I saw it.

Girlfriend and I were at eye level. She was just as vertically challenged as yours truly, except bigger boned, if you will.

(But I knew I could take her down, if need be, 'cause I'm full of muscle.)

But no harm, no foul, my friends!

It turns out she was just happy to meet a fellow shortypants.

We bonded.

"How old were you when you finally got to ride Space Mountain? OhMahGah, me too!!!!"

"I think Ann Taylor petites have changed their sizing scheme, the bastards."

and

"Were you in love with Michael J. Fox?"

Now we're Best Friends Forever.

Or at least for Jazzercise.

Dress Rehearsal

The family Rama officially kicked off the holiday season yesterday with our annual trip to the Christmas tree farm:



With the V-meister and J-dog in tow on a sled, we trekked up and down the rows, searching for the perfect specimen.

While the P-dog, rent-a-saw in hand, was prepared to fell the first fir that batted an eyelash at him, I felt that none of the trees were speaking to me on a personal level.

But two meltdowns and one half hour later, an executive decision had to be made.

"OK, P-dog, I've had enough. Just pick a freakin' tree and start hacking."

("Not that one! GOD!")

*********************************************************************

Back at the homestead, we trimmed:


And decked the halls:


Migraine-O-Matic Jingle Bells


Santa Tankard


Stockings


The Button-Eyed Reindeer Quilt I Love to Hate


The V-meister and J-dog were positively giddy with excitement.

After all the decorating was done, the P-dog and I put on some Christmas music and relaxed on the couch with a glass of wine while the kids played the "Run Back and Forth Screaming Until Someone Gets Injured" game and fought over the nativity snow globe.

A festive vibe was most definitely in the air.

It took the little V-meister a bit longer than normal to fall asleep last night, but we chalked it up to the excitement of the day and a lingering cold.

And were therefore unprepared to find her at our bedside early this morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, fully dressed, and wearing a ginormous grin as she greeted us with a heartfelt:

"MERRY CHRISTMAS MAMA and DADDY!!!!!!"

(Awe, shit.)

She thought it was Christmas morning.

She had washed, dressed, and made her little bed.

Then waited, waited, waited.

Unable to stand the suspense any longer, she had decided it was time to rouse her lazy bones parents and let the present opening begin.

The look on her face when the P-dog gently explained that it wasn't Christmas just yet . . . it was heartbreaking.

It was all I could do not to scramble down to the basement and present her with an offering from my present stash as an early delivery from Santa.

Instead, we reminded her how many more times it would be necessary to go to bed and wake up before the big day finally arrived and allowed her to eat her chocolate Advent calendar for breakfast with a side of cartoons.

And after a brief moment of extreme pensiveness, she was OK with it.

She's a trooper, the little V.

Advent can be a real bitch.


Ooops, My Bad!

Exercising is Not for the Faint of Heart

So, I think I may have to throw in the towel on the Jazzercising.

I've attended the morning session three times now and left the little J-dog in the adjacent child care room each time.

Instead of looking up, things are getting progressively worse, and yesterday just might have been the last straw.

The little J-dog is on to my game by now, and sensed trouble from the moment we arrived.

He tried to escape while I was filling out the sign-up sheet and was all the way out the door and halfway down the hall when I caught up to him.

He was hy.ste.ri.cal. Not in a "ha ha" kind of way.

It didn't help matters at all when I went to get his sippy cup of milk, only to find that all six ounces had spilled inside my purse (Damn you, Gerber.)

I considered just going home.

But, I let the other mothers there convince me that he would come around, he just needs to get used to it, how many times has he been here? Etc., etc.

So I walked around with him a bit more, hugged him, kissed him, told him I'd be right back, and then I left.

This time, the safety gate was up, but that didn't stop little J-dog from trying to scale it while screaming, "MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!" after me.

Yeah, we were both crying by then.

I peeked in on him about twenty minutes into the class (without him seeing me).

Still crying.

I gave it about ten more minutes and came back to get him.

He was actually NOT crying the moment I happened to walk in, but he looked like a wreck, with red rimmed eyes and hair molded into an entirely new dried up snot 'do.

So, what should I do?

The other mothers there told me to keep coming back, sometimes it takes awhile for kids to come around, but I can't bear the thought of it.

I mean, he was desperate in there. Desperate, I tell you. How can I possibly force him to go back?

My mom told me to give it up, that I shouldn't expect him to tolerate it, he's only a year and a half old, he's not used to the environment, what are you gonna do?

Which kind of makes me feel selfish for having attempted it. It's something I want to do, not something I have to do.

Advice?

The One Where I Make Like a Shepherd and Get the Flock Out

Have you ever been stone cold busted trying to sneak out of a social gathering?

It happened to me this very weekend at the annual choir Christmas party.

The P-dog and I had had enough of the festivities and were making a stealthy exit when I realized that I had left my purse down in the basement, where the party was still going strong.

(And by going strong, I mean that a group of tenors and sopranos were playing "Spin the Bottle" while the altos and basses stood around the bar singing the one about the horse.)

Just as I had grabbed my purse and was heading back up the stairs, our choir director pops out of nowhere and commands me not to leave just yet.

Me, (in my coat and mittens, hoisting purse over shoulder): "Oh, no, I'm not leaving, just, you know, Hey, look! A communist!!!"

No sooner was I back upstairs with one foot out the door than a veritable stampede of angry choristers came lurching up after me.

I made one last stab at pretending I was just going out to my car to retrieve something, but it was a no go.

The P-dog and I shamefacedly went back down, where it came to pass that everyone was waiting to present me with the prize for "Most Unique Communal Christmas Tree Ornament and Supporting Presentation."

(It was a pair of binoculars, in case you're interested. The ornament, I mean. The prize was a pillar candle with pedestal and decorative rocks.)

Talk about embarrassing.

It's not that I don't enjoy the annual choir Christmas party. I usually hem and haw for a good couple days before it takes place, but then end up swinging from the chandeliers yodeling having a good time after a tumbler of eggnog and maybe a shot or two of Lithuanian honey liqueur.

My big beef with the Christmas party and most choir-related social events comes down to the fact that my fellow choristers do not consider it a party unless organized activities abound, and sometimes I'm just not in the mood for Lithuanian charades, Lithuanian bingo, or Name That Lithuanian Folk Song.

At last year's party, I was pitted against two sopranos in a Play-Doh sculpting contest. The assignment was to sculpt a falcon in one minute or less (I'm not going to go into too much detail about the rules, because I'm assuming you all are familiar with the falcon sculpting game?).

The contestant whose creation most closely resembled an actual falcon was to be named victor. Now, I can usually sculpt a pretty mean falcon, but in all the excitement, I momentarily got my birds of prey mixed up and ended up with a rather sinister looking vulture instead of its much nobler cousin.


Vulture


Falcon

(Kind of like mistaking a turkey for the glorious bald eagle here stateside.)

I did not take home any door prizes that evening.

I wasn't expecting any accolades for the binoculars, either, but I'm guessing the judges were blown away by my accompanying PowerPoint presentation, complete with seizure-inducing special animation effects.

Ha! I didn't really do a PowerPoint, but I did just give myself an idea for next year.