Confession -- New Year's Resolutions Worth Keeping

So before I leave for Palm Springs this weekend...

(Sidenote: If that opening has at all inspired you to come rob my house, let me just warn you not to bother. There's nothing of real value here and you'd be wasting your time. Unless you are really into non-HD, non-flat screen televisions. If so, be my guest and take ours. Maybe I'll finally get a new TV befitting my (imagined) stature in life.)

....I wanted to leave you with the 10 resolutions I shall be mentally preparing for whilst relaxing by the pool. Feel free to borrow any of them to improve your own existence in this world. 

I have organized them by important categories in my life. 

1. Husband. Hmm.....hmmmm.......hmmmmmmmm......Oh shit. This isn't starting out well. I cannot think of any resolutions related to my husband and our relationship. I'm thinking it's probably because I treat him so damn well. No improvement is necessary. Yes. That must be it. I'll come back to him if I think of anything.

2. Children. Again. Treat them pretty fucking good. Maybe too good. I got it. I resolve to put their little behinds to work more. This evening Maya was rubbing me feet and I thought, "This could work." The other day I got Lincoln to put away his socks and I thought, "This is swell." From January 1st on, the Ferchaw household will be more sweatshop-y in nature. More productive and fewer breaks. For them. Not me. 

3. Dieting. Shit just got real. Boo. But I think I have a plan to work my diet thing. I do plan to diet this year. But only every OTHER month. So, we're talking about being a mega-hungry-devil-bitch ONLY in the months of January, March, May, July, etc. I dieted in November and lost 13 lbs. Since then, I've gained 2 back but that's not bad, right? I think this could work. It could be like interval training. But without the running because I HATE to run. Which leads me to...

4. Gym. I've been going to the gym fairly regularly but there's always room for improvement there. But what I really resolve to do is improve my gym experience. More specifically, AVOID THE SMELLIES AND THE NAKIES. Nothing ruins my time on the elliptical more than when a smelly jumps on the machine next to me. It happened the other day. This woman looked perfectly hygienic until she got within five feet of me. Then I was suddenly accosted with the odor one may encounter when you take some cheese, shove it in a fat man's belly button and have him sit in a sauna for a couple hours. It was that pleasant.  Normally, I would just soldier through it but this time I could not. I was only 10 minutes into my hour and there was no way I was going to last. So I moved. Does that make me a horrible person? Probably. But if I'm going to the gym, there's only so much suffering I can take. Second, I gotta pee before I get there because our locker room is Wrinkle Ranch. I am NOT trying to look but there are always at least 5 fully naked, old, old, old, OLD ladies in there. What is the etiquette for this sort of thing? I have to look where I am going or I'll run into a wall! But they are prancing around the room like show ponies! There is no way to avoid the sags. Oh the sags!!! Lord, help me. I'm all for women being comfortable in their skin but I can't even watch Skinemax for heavens sake. And this is like Skinemax meets Lawrence Welk. Yep.

5. Drinking. Clearly I need to do this waaayyyyyy more. 

6. Reading. I need to branch out my literature this year to include more than just tales of vampires and/or rich pervs. Though I do love me some vamps and pervs, it really just isn't fair to Larry. Mid-way through a book, I start getting all grumpy that he can never be a vampire or a rich pervert. And then eventually I start whining about why he doesn't save my life more often or send bodyguards to buy me new wardrobes of clothes. I gotta think of his feelings. Wait. This could be my resolution twofer! It helps me AND him. Score!

7. Politics. About halfway through 2012, I decided to see how many people in Orange County I could piss off with just my existence. So I began wearing a NOH8 hat and sported an Obama sticker on my car. Oh, the fun I had when old ladies flipped me off from their cars. (Maybe it was just one old lady. But she was as mad as a swarm of killer Romney bees.) Then I got a little more vocal on Facebook and people started unfriending me. More good times. And, now, as we enter 2013, I resolve to find more ways to make my existence count. Because I like to believe, in my probably-delusional imagination, that for every crazy old lady, there 10 more people who are inspired by my bravery. That's right. I said bravery. Do you think it's safe to be a Democrat in Anaheim Hills? That shit will get you cut at Chick-Fil-A. 

8. Language. I resolve to only use the F-word when appropriate. Which means I do not use it enough. 

9. Friends. I can always use more....and fewer. Am I the only person who sees people on Facebook and thinks, "Gosh. I wish I were actually friends with him or her?" No? Just me? I'll own my patheticness. Lately, I've been thinking about friends past and present and wondering why some relationships stay strong and some do not. I'm using my time in 2013 to nourish the friendships I have and accepting that some weren't meant to be. At the same time, I am always looking for people to help me with resolutions 5 and 8. Message me! Maybe?

10. Blog. Finally I resolve to blog more consistently. Because it's the best way I can think of to embarrass my parents now and my kids in the future. It's the gift that keeps on giving me giggles.   

Cheers to 2013!

Culture -- The Tree That Killed Christmas

So this happened....

I blame Larry. I blame Larry because he hates Christmas. Well, he doesn't actually hate Christmas but he does hate Christmas trees. At least real ones. And, to me, that's as heinous as hating the baby Jesus. 

Maybe that's a tad harsh. But he is Jewish. So I'm not too far off.

Have I offended everyone yet? Anyone left out there?

OK. Let me back up and start again. 

Larry dislikes the hassles and tribulations of real Christmas trees. And, as he is not a Christian, I guess it would be hard for him to appreciate the tradition of a beautiful, large, full, pine-smelling tree in one's living room.

It would be really hard for him to appreciate it because it has never actually happened in the Ferchaw home.

Year after year, we've brought home a Charlie Brown tree. But without the charm and retro soundtrack. 

Our trees are never tall. They are never full. And, most of the time, they are never alive.

So by December 26th, we are pretty much throwing our tree out the front door before it catches on fire. 

But this year was a doozy, I tell you.

I had a million errands to run the weekend after Thanksgiving, so I sent Larry and the kids by themselves to a Christmas tree farm. It was one of those places where there are live trees you can cut down on the spot so they are fresh as fresh can be. 

Now I don't particularly trust Larry's judgement in Christmas trees. 

And I don't want to say that Larry is trying to sabotage Christmas....

But Larry is TOTALLY trying to sabotage Christmas. He's been angling to get a fake tree from the moment he said "I do." I'm sure of it. And that's why he's been wearing me down, year after year, with these horrible bushes he brings home.

But, being lazy, I sent him by himself with specific instructions. If you don't find the perfect tree, DON'T BUY ANYTHING.

Well, he bought something all right. And apparently he bought it from some crazy gun-wielding libertarians who owned the farm. Shoulda been a sign right there, Larry!

When he finally brought it home this past weekend, I thought at first, "It's not TOO bad."

But it was bad. It had wire-y looking branches and big, gaping holes all over it. But, even weirder for freshly-cut tree, it looked dead instead. Both figuratively and literally.

But I bit my tongue because I didn't pick it. Never send a Jewish man to do a Christian woman's job. Will I ever learn that?

The kids and I decorated it in hopes that ornaments would liven it up. They didn't. It looked even worse, if that's possible. Looking at it, you could see that its trunk was curved almost like an S. So it didn't exactly stand up straight no matter how you turned or tilted it. I called it Scoliosis Tree. Maya called it Mr. Bendy Bones. We shrugged.

 Then Mr. Bendy Bones got evil. Its weak branches couldn't wouldn't hold the ornaments, so priceless memories began to fall and shatter on the floor.

Maya's tears fell as she cursed the tree with her eyes. I turned her head so that it wouldn't seek revenge later.

Then, last night. I'm upstairs on the computer when I get a phone call from Larry....who is inside the house. 

"Hello?"

"Come downstairs," he whispers.

"Why?" Should I be scared? Or excited? Maybe he has a cool surprise for me like jewelry or chili cheese fries? No. I should be scared.

"The tree is falling!"

Shit. 

I make my way downstairs. But I guess I wasn't quick enough to catch it because the pinche tree came crashing down onto my chair -- ornaments shattering in its wake. 

Crap.

My first reaction is to take pictures. Then laugh. Then freak out because our new puppy is about to step on the broken glass. I try to help Larry pick it up but more ornaments begin to rain down. 

So I took a deep breath, looked at that evil tree and calmly told Larry, "Remove all the ornaments quickly before any more break. We are getting rid of this lemon."

And that's just what we did. I broke the news to Maya that Mr. Bendy Bones was no longer part of the family. She said she would now call him Mr. Broken Bones. I said I would call him Firewood.

So tonight was rather depressing as we went from Target to Home Depot to Sears looking at picked-over, clearance display artificial trees to pick one that will become a poor stand-in at the biggest moment of our kids' year.  We found one and Larry was practically giddy.

I was not.

"Cheer up," he said. "It will only be our tree for a couple years. Ten years max! And we got a screaming deal on it! A screaming deal!"

Nothing says Christmas to a Jew like a screaming deal. 

Annoyed and tired, I told him to just get us home because I had "lady issues."

He shut the ef up, shoved the three parts of our new "tree" in the car and drove us home.

Merry Christmas to the Baby Jesus.

And Merry Christmas, one and all! I am sincerely happy to have you all in my life. And nothing about my feelings are fake. ;-)

Cooking -- Reindeer Games

It's the annual Mom Christmas Craft Olympics around Anaheim Hills. Sound the trumpets! Da da-da daaaaa!!!

I'm proud to report that I usually medal in these exercises. Not a gold. Oh no no no... 

Golds go to Room Moms who give a shit about more than just their kid. They plan games and crafts and treats for the masses. I would need to live in Colorado and have access to some quality ganja to handle that kind of pressure.

And Silvers go to Crafty Moms who scrapbook and come up with original ideas. They whip out their stamps and their hot glue guns and sew and shit. I'm afraid of needles. And glue.

I get the Bronze. I do lots of Pinterest research and rip-off the best idea. I throw lots of cash away at Michaels and then execute with mediocre skill and quality.

Yay me! 

So for my first event, baking, I made these darlings for my Girl Scout Troop. (How I was ever allowed to be a leader, I do not know.)

I think they look a little more like bears than reindeer but does that really matter? The girls only cared about who got to eat Rudolph first which I think it just sick since Rudolph seems to have the most human-like qualities of all of them. 

In my next event, classroom treats, I made assembled these bad boys. 

 
I asked Lincoln if he thought they looked like Reindeer Noses and he said they looked more like poo poo. 

I find this interesting for many reasons. 

First, what about the red one? Does Rudolph shit red? I think NOT!

Second, Lincoln usually says his poop looks like other things (worms, people, etc.)  So, NOW he says something looks like feces? Thanks a lot, Linc. 

Third, it totally looks like caca. 

But it's my caca. And I stand behind it. 

This is coming out all wrong. 

OMG, I cannot even stop it if I tried!!!

I give up.  

So I'm still deciding on a third event. But all the poop talk sugar is giving me a belly ache. (Sidenote: Is it normal to be simultaneously nauseated and craving nachos from Taco Bell?)

So, while I ponder my next great project, feel free to knock-off my knock-offs and do them even better. If you want, I can send you template of the tags I used for the Reindeer NOSES. 

 And may the crafty odds be ever in your favor!

Obsession -- Open Letter to Santa Larry

My dearest husband, 

This holiday season, I live only to serve you and to make your life as easy as possible. With those humble mantras beating in my heart, I write you this brief note to aid you in your time of battle -- at the shopping mall. 
 
Please let these DOs and DON'Ts guide your heart and your wallet. I wrote them with your well-being in mind. 

This Christmas, please...

DO NOT get me a Target gift card. I know I say it is my favorite store (and it truly is) but I do not want my gift to eventually turn into socks for the kids, Swiffer refills and 10 bottles of hand sanitizer I bought on impulse while checking out.

DO get me gift cards from stores such as Nordstrom, J. Crew or Anthropologie.  But don't ONLY get me gift cards because clothes are kinda a basic human right and I shouldn't only be allowed to get them at Christmas. Just sayin'.

DO NOT get me jewelry. While I think you have better taste than the average husband, I do not think you have enough taste to make such an investment. Don't feel bad. If you were really good at choosing my jewelry, I would worry the whole day about whether or not you may actually like boys.

DO get me jewelry. That is, get me this exact piece of jewelry. 



Do not buy anything "close" or "similar." Do not assume that I will be grateful for anything you buy me.  You must know me better than that by now.

DO NOT feel the need to get me anything romantically-inspired for Christmas. It ain't Valentine's Day and it ain't our anniversary.  We will have been awake for an un-Jesus-y amount hours on Christmas Eve, so there will be no "afterparty" on Christmas night -- if you catch my drift.

DO feel free to make me laugh. It is what you do best, my love. So anything at ShopbyBravo would be a breath of fresh-Housewife air. What better way to celebrate the birth of Christ than with a Mazel t-shirt?

And speaking of which...

DO NOT assume being Jewish gets you some sort of "free pass" on Christmas. Try it and I have a few Jewish guilt tricks that may "pass" your way.

DO remember that I love you very very much and that I only grumbled a little and cursed your soul once when I was picking up the 10 pairs of dirty socks you've left by the bed over the past week or two. Good news! No live animals were found  under them and the children didn't contract gangrene from touching them. Yay! Point being, it would be helpful to keep such things in mind when you are deciding on how many presents is enough presents.

But...

DON'T stress too much. After all, my birthday is about three weeks after Christmas and all disappoints can be remedied by a simple Sunday shopping spree. 

It's the Jesus way. Just ask those three kings. 

Love,

The mother of your two beautiful but high-maintenance children

Confession - Never Put Baby On the Couch

Ok.

I know it's been a million fucking days since I've posted but a traumatic event has just occurred. I need to share this.

So...

I'm heading downstairs to make sure all the lights are off before I go to bed. And, as I make the steps down, I notice something watching me from the couch. 

It was Chucky. 

A naked Chucky.

Watching me.

From the couch. 

I shit you not.

As I move rather quickly past it, I swear I feel Chucky's eyes try to enter my soul but, I tell you now, I would not let them! 

I run into the kitchen and try to calm myself down. After a few seconds, I realize I can only do this by shoving handfuls of Cool Ranch Doritos down my throat. Now I know I said that I only bought those chips as a treat for Maya but fucking Chucky is on my couch and trying to steal my soul. Something's gotta give.

So I grab another handful of Doritos. And then yet another with my right hand -- since these are all the chips I'm going to have for the night. In fact, I should just leave the bag open so they get so stale I won't want to eat them anymore. But who the fuck am I kidding? I'll eat those GD chips whether they are stale or not. So I better just grab one more handful so that I definitely have my fill and never want to eat another Dorito again.

And then I'll walk past Chucky. Again. To safety. 

But first I need some Diet Dr. Pepper or else Larry will know I've been closet-eating Doritos. And he doesn't understand ANYTHING, let alone the necessity of cramming salty snacks into your face when a baby doll is about to attack. 

So I chug the soda. 

Of course I now want to puke from the chips, the soda and the adrenaline. I imagine this is NOT how the hot chick from horror movies feels before she is slashed.

Comforted that I am not hot enough to be killed by the baby Charles Manson, I walk confidently in the direction of the stairs keeping my eye on that pinche piece of plastic.

It fucking winked at me.

I know you don't believe me but it happened. And there are two possible explanations. One, it is El Diablo. Two, my latent telekinetic powers have finally revealed themselves and forced one of the doll's eyelids shut. 

Whatever. I scream. 

I run up the stairs fearing my impending murder AND the scarier prospect that I have now woken up my children. Neither happens. In fact, Larry is still snoring in bed, impervious to the possibility that Chucky could be making me his bitch right about now.

So I wake his dumb ass up.

"Hey!" I shake him. "Go downstairs and move the baby doll off the couch."

"Whhhhhaaaaaaaatttttttt????????" He's showing less life than the doll.

"Go. Down. The. Stairs. And. Move. The. Baby. Doll. Off. The. Couch. But-take-a-picture-of-it-first-because-I-think-I-need-write-about-this."

"What are you talking about?" I finally have his attention. 

"You heard me. Do it."

I hand him my phone and he shuffles out of the room. When he comes back up and turns the corner, I scare the holy holiday shit out of him. Tough guy.

"What happened when you moved it?"

"I didn't move it."

"WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?"

"You are CRAZY. Fine! I'll move it!"

 He goes back downstairs. When he gets back, he shows me this lame ass photo. 

So we can now cross two talents off of Larry's list....protector and photographer. That baby was a lot scarier in person. Trust.
 
But wait. What is that in his lap?

An ax? Seriously, Chucky?

I rest my case.


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I had a really rough time last year. Combine that with laziness and you have a defunct blog.

I hope Chucky has inspired me to write again. Sadistic dolls can often do that. Inspire you BEFORE they kill you.

Sweet dreams!

ps. This post was brought to you by Diet Dr. Pepper and the 1980s. Thank you.

pps. I mean the caffeine of the sugary drink. Not the actual company. Of course, you knew that. But the caffeine won't let me shut up.