Over the weekend I wrote a lengthy political blog that was neither incendiary nor overly sarcastic. It wasn’t written out of anger or anything like that. I just had this thing on my mind, and I said to myself, “I wonder if I could blog about this without upsetting anyone, needlessly or otherwise.” So I did it, and when I got finished I thought, “That was perhaps the most inconsequential 1,500 words you’ve ever written, Madhousewife–which, for you, is quite an accomplishment.” But I enjoyed myself. That’s what counts.
Also this weekend, I attended a meeting of The World’s Most Awesome Book Club at Janeanne‘s house. (Warning: do not click on that link if you are hungry! There are pictures of food there!) So we read Geraldine Brooks’ March–or we talked about reading it, having already done the actual reading thereof before attending…hence the book club meeting–and we ate apple-bacon-cheddar scones and this smoked trout…frittata? Is that an egg thing? It was quiche-y, but not quiche. Whatever. I should just let Janeanne correct me in the comments instead of me going on and on and never getting to the maple-pecan popcorn for dessert. Have you caught the vision, gentle readers? Do you understand why this is The World’s Most Awesome Book Club? It is the superior sociality, of course. (What were you thinking?)
Saturday night was the church Christmas party. I’ve come to a realization over the last couple years, and it’s this: I really don’t care for the church Christmas party, no offense to it. The first 30 minutes we spend waiting in line to see Santa, but only Princess Zurg and Mister Bubby will go near him. The next 30 minutes we spend waiting for dinner to be served, and I try to keep Elvis and Girlfriend from eating the butter packets. I had a splitting headache that evening, so I may have been a little more on edge than usual. Someone on the activities committee thought it would be a fun idea to play a CD of novelty Christmas songs, but it did not make for such a fun reality. We’re talking about hundreds of people–lots and lots and lots of kids–jam-packed into a gymnasium that’s already filled with dozens of tables and all those chairs, and people are talking and laughing and kids are screaming because they want to eat, and in the background you’ve got “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” followed by “Nuttin’ for Christmas” followed by some damn song by the Chipmunks–are you catching the vision, gentle readers? Do you understand why I don’t like the church Christmas party? When the Chipmunks were followed by some dogs barking “Jingle Bells,” I was this close to getting up on the table and chucking baked potatoes at my fellow yuletide revelers. Fortunately, a more rational friend of ours simply got up and changed the CD.
After dinner came the entertainment portion of the evening. Ordinarily I am not against post-dinner entertainment, but I had this headache thing, and then Girlfriend’s diaper just…disintegrated, apparently. I’d changed her right before we left the house, but I think she must have been saving up every drop of liquid she’d consumed all day and decided to release it all at once because…there it all was. Naturally, I did not have any spare clothes for her, being that SHE’S FOUR and has spent the last couple years lulling us into a false sense of security regarding the necessity of fully-stocked diaper bags on outings under six hours. So I wrapped her father’s sweater around her and hoped that the entertainment portion of the evening went quickly.
Which of course it didn’t. For one thing, they started off with an audience sing-along of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Would you like to know which Christmas song I hate more than all other Christmas songs on earth? Hint: it starts and ends with a partridge in a pear tree. When that was at long last over, Sugar Daddy and his singing friends sang a parody of “We Three Kings of Orient Are” in which they portrayed the three members of our bishopric. That was actually funny, because making fun of the bishop and his counselors is just inherently funny. I don’t know why that particular strain of humor should be so consistently reliable, but it is. Moreover, it didn’t involve any lords a-leaping or maids a-milking, so it was automatically on the side of awesome.
Next was an eleven-minute musical rendition of “‘Twas the Night before Christmas,” which was bearable only because Princess Zurg was playing Papa, and when it came time for her to throw up the sash, she got out this ribbon/sash thing and made like she was vomiting it. The joke may have been a little high-concept for most folks, but we appreciated it. That was all in the first couple minutes, though, and there were nine more to go. After that, there were two more numbers, one of which was good and the other of which was “Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer.” At this point I should remind you that I was still hanging out with a urine-soaked four-year-old, and I should also mention that I’d lost Elvis in the crowd and couldn’t find him anywhere.
But then someone sang “Silent Night” and it was finally all over. We spent the next fifteen or twenty minutes looking for Elvis, who I think eventually found us, and then we could go home. Another Christmas party done and gone. The cookies were not as good this year, but the rolls were delicious.
Speaking of delicious, on Friday night SD and I went out with another couple to a Moroccan restaurant, and that was divine. Also, there was belly dancing. She was a very nice belly dancer, so we tipped her. I believe this marked the first time I’d ever put money in an article of clothing on a woman’s body that wasn’t my own, but probably it won’t be the last. So really, this weekend was chock full of awesome, barking Jingle Bell dogs and sopping wet pre-schoolers notwithstanding.
Speaking of sopping wet, today is the day that Girlfriend is scheduled to start using the potty. She is in wearing her Thomas the Tank Engine underwear and drinking lots of apple juice. There should be pee seeping into the carpet and/or the sofa any minute now. I’ll keep you updated on that because I know you’re interested. It’s the whole reason you read this blog, the bodily fluid anecdotes. Don’t worry. I won’t disappoint you.