Ya know… a good deal of my, ehem… charm comes from the fact I over extend myself. If I was relaxed and well rested with no obligations, I don’t think I’d be this “charming”. Why, just the other day Dan and I were chatting about how fucking charming I am:
Dan: I feel bad enough that I can’t help more with the kids… I’m sorry my job isn’t conducive to helping more but I’m doing what I can!
Me: what in the hell makes you think I’d let you do more? Have you never met me????? 22 years later – you still don’t know I have control issues! I don’t want you to DO anything, I want you to be a little more tolerant when I’m being a bitch because I’m tired from handling everything…
don’t worry – we’re solid.
My point is this – my personality thrives on too many responsibilities. I’m at my best when I’m stretched too thin; whether by choice or by obligation, when I’m overwhelmed – my cynical humor peaks. I honestly think most of my hair-brained schemes are born out of a need to tell a tale; or at the very least to give my kids plenty to talk about after I’m gone.
The only aspect of my life that falls into the category of cluster fuck – through no fault of my own, is Buddy. Buddy, thank you for asking, is our friggin Elf on the Shelf.
For those of you who are lucky enough to not know about this Elf on the Shelf asshole – let me give you a brief synopsis. Because Carol Aebersold and her daughter Chandra Bell clearly have a hatred for humanity; they thought they’d kill us all slowly by writing a book about an Elf who travels from a child’s home back to the North Pole every night from Thanksgiving(ish) to Christmas. The Elf, you see, is charged with reporting to Santa information about the child’s behavior.
The Elf naturally enjoys a rousing game of hide and go seek each morning upon his return from the North Pole.
I’m gonna let you in on something here…
there is no such thing as North Pole traveling, hide-and-seeking Elves.
There is, however, a shitload of people standing around every morning in December saying, “…I was juuuuust drifting off to sleep when I remembered I had to move that fuckin’ Elf!”
These Elf on the Shelf creators were geniuses – parents love them because they basically police behavior for a month; kids… love the magic. Not to mention – when they turn that cherubic face up to you expectantly, you can’t very well say, “Mommy has loads of holiday parties to attend in the next 30 days – I plan to be way too drunk, way too often to keep up with that shit.” No, you gotta go along with it, because childhood naiveté is so rare and precious…..
When Abby asked… nay – begged for an Elf on the Shelf, I said, “No” (childhood naiveté my ass, she’s plotting a coup and she needs to have me in a weakened state, no way was I voluntarily losing sleep for a dumbass Elf). I knew. dammit! I KNEW it was trouble – nothing good can come of an every night obligation (trust me – we had trouble conceiving the 1st time… NOTHING is fun every.single.night); Dan however, said, “oh yeah… I’ve heard of these – seems like fun.”
Well… uh… yah… I’m sure it does seem like fun to some asshat who shrugs his shoulders every fucking night and says, “I don’t know where to put him…. I’m just not creative like you are, g’night.”
So (because I’m funnier when I’m miserable) Buddy came home with us.
To the average adult – this means a nightly ritual of moving the Elf from one spot to another…
apparently, I’m not the average adult
All I can think is: I must have done something really shitty in a previous life.
Ignore the fact that I never remember while I’m on the same floor as Buddy, going back downstairs every night is the least of my worries; no… I have to have a daughter who thinks her Elf is also…
her pen pal.
Yep… honest to goodness true story. Abby writes a note to Buddy almost every night. Sounds darling, right?
Fuck that
Not only do I have to trudge back downstairs to move his ass but I have to hop on the computer, answer her note (like an Elf would) and then remember all the stuff Buddy has said (“momma a while ago Buddy said ‘Elf’ is his favorite movie but this note says Rudolph is”).
Last year she inadvertently touched Buddy… In this sick Elf world – if the kid touches the Elf, it must go back to Santa permanently (this must be kept in mind at all times when finding a new spot, s’not as easy as it sounds). On the day of the accidental touch, I had Buddy in a bin that holds our hats and gloves (he was in the midst of a bender – suckin’ down a bottle of syrup) the kids were running late so Abby popped open the lid and reached in for gloves – never seeing Buddy.
oh….
my….
gawwwwwwwd
the sobbing…
I actually emailed her teacher as she walked to the bus, ‘I am so sorry to send Abby to you like this…’ Then I sat down and wrote a 2-page letter from Santa explaining why Buddy could stay (I actually cited Section 75. subsection (c) paragraphs 2-4 of the Elf handbook which states an incidental touching is forgiven under certain circumstances; I then listed the circumstances).
It’s mind-numbing
The other 3 I’s don’t even enjoy my misery – it’s that bad.
It’s so bad in fact, my own living, breathing Buddy got involved, “Mom, Abby keeps talking about Buddy and the letters she’s going to write to him; I told her I’m pretty sure Buddy isn’t supposed to be writing letters. I’m not sure if it worked or not, but I’m trying.”
I’ve never loved Calvin Iseminger more than at that very moment….
So on the morning of 1 December I walked into our bedroom and asked Dan for the damned elf (I do 98% of the work, he’s somehow ‘Keeper of Buddy’); he reached into his underwear drawer {this fact is disturbing on a thousand levels}, grabbed Buddy and as he handed him to me, said, “Now don’t start out with a note from Buddy, don’t even get that shit started…”
I have to say – as a lover of self inflicted misery – it did take everything I had in me to not write an “I’m backkkk” note, but… I stood tall; I held firm in my determination to keep this holiday season as simple and stress free as possible. I do a lot of writing for Christmas – a ‘year in review’ for each kid, a letter to the family and numerous letters of instruction for our mystery Christmas trip – all in poem form. I’m pretty much maxed out with the writing – no need to instigate Buddy letters…
I perched Buddy on Abby’s catchall locker in the living room and waited…
“Mom!!!! Mom!!!! Buddy’s back!!!!! And look momma – he’s up high; I was so worried he would be in a spot that Lucy could get to him and chew him up! He needs to always hide in places Lucy can’t reach, I’ll tell him tonight in my note…..”