Wanted: Elf On Shelf

Being a good parent is hard these days. There are standards of Facebook and Pinterest type living that we all get to feel guilty about instead of just enjoying our kids, like back in the good old days. My mom didn't know what five hundred of her closest friends were doing with their kids for the three weeks leading up to Christmas and she didn't have time to care. She packed lunches, washed clothes and made crafts, all without the gut wrenching "benefit" of photographing every tedious step and posting it online. There are days I have to revert back to the 1980's, leg warmers and all, in order to actually enjoy my life and stop wondering if someone has Liked my pot roast pic. It's a a bit of a time waster and I will admit that there are days that it consumes more of my life than it really should.

Christmas has to be one of the worst times of year to be an insecure, unprepared, impatient parent. Social media has its stocking filled to bursting seams with craft ideas, cookie recipes, photo opportunities and that motherfucking Elf. You know, the ugly one with frighteningly long limbs who scampers around your house looking for trouble, and apparently keeps a close eye on your little shithead children as they flush your earrings down the toilet. Better stop sweetheart, Elf on the Shelf is watching. If that kid knew what was good for him, he would drowned Mr. Elf and bury him in the backyard. The concept is that Mr. Elf is checking in with Santa, all the while making rounds at your house and popping up in the most unusual spots. Courtesy of Mom and Dad. Most days I don't even get myself dressed, eat a full meal or take a crap. Time restraints, you know. That being said, I don't have an extra ten minutes at night to stage some sort of holiday photo op with a stuffed toy and a bag of cookies. My son asked about Elf the other evening, so thank you parents who are allowing your kids to brag at school about your stupid traveling Elf.

"Mom, why don't we have one of those little toys that watches you and moves to a different spot in the house every night?"

I should have said something holiday-ish or at least something sweet, but after prepping my house for twenty people, cleaning out the litter box and making dinner, I had nothing nice to say. Instead, I screamed like a toddler.

"Well, because it's a ridiculous idea and I'm a bad parent." Yep. I admitted to being a bad parent in front of my kid. He wasn't phased at all and continued his inquisition with his father, who in turn promised to rustle up an elf somewhere in the house and place it in secret spots.
"No, Dad, it has to be a real Elf on the Shelf. You have to buy it from the store and use the real one." 

During that exchange, we learned that Mr. Elf is just another way to create consumers at the tender age of seven. Any old elf won't do, we needed the one in the box with instructions and a creepy little face. The thought of my husband hiding an elf every night was almost enough incentive for me to buy one. With all the love I have in my heart for my husband, he wouldn't make it three days with that elf before he ripped it limb from limb and blamed the dog. If we did buy one, for my husband of course, it would end up staying in the box and being used as a White Elephant gift next year when some asshole kid at school ruins Christmas for my son by informing him that there is no Santa and therefore no need for an Elf checking in with him nightly.

After a few glasses of wine, I made my own 'elf on a partial wall' holiday scene with a half naked Barbie wearing a football jersey. I'm snagging that Bad Parent award for sure.

Flushing My Self Respect

There was always that nagging question in my head "Who goes to Walmart in an outfit worthy of being posted on a website dedicated to booty short wearing trannys with their balls hanging out?" The answer was revealed to me last night. I have become one of those people who will, cross your fingers, be immortalized on the Internet for years to come.

It began with guilt, as most disturbing choices in my life do. The last day of school and my kids had no teacher gifts. Now, keep in mind, I live on Pinterest Princess Circle and every mom, with the exception of yours truly,  has been working on their teacher gifts for months now. The handmade rug from a loom that their husband built from recycled lumber, an exotic flower in a pot that was created on their potter's wheel in the basement, and a full herb garden encased in a hand blown glass terrarium. I am constantly out of my league. It was also retirement day for their principal who should be named a saint for what she deals with on a daily basis. I received an urgent email from a PTA someone or another suggesting, at 9pm the evening before, that we should all shower her with gifts and appreciation. I had the appreciation thing handled but the gift thing was tricky. I don't buy extra gifts and discreetly keep them in my front closet labeled " GIFTS/GIFT BAGS/CURLY RIBBON". My gift bags are plastic bags from my pantry and curly ribbon is for Christmas. Only Santa deals with that shit. I am screwed. I text my crafty mom with the full intention of driving to her house, stealing an adorable craft she made, sticking in an old grocery bag and taking credit for the whole thing. She knows I'm a dick. When I got to her house, my life went from annoying to exhausting when I saw that she had figured out how to use her computer. She was on Pinterest scrolling through craft projects for teacher appreciation. Apparently, I am the only asshole who doesn't plan this shit out. I am sure you can imagine all the sickeningly adorable sayings, candy cards and shit filled baskets that were available for our amusement. It's now 11:35 pm. The clock is ticking and I am not making a fucking craft.

So I am making a craft and it needed color coded goodies, so my next stop was Walmart. I had gone to my moms with the intention of not getting in an accident (I'm not wearing underwear), not getting pulled over (I am wearing booty shorts) and taking a total of 12 steps outside (I am wearing slippers). I was headed into the thunder dome. I sat in the parking lot waiting for a group of teenagers to drive away and to see if I could run special ops on the employee pushing carts in.  I then proceeded to lie to myself by saying that I didn't look that bad and I didn't care what people thought. While I was walking through the parking lot, the wind whipped through my hair. The hair on my legs. It is currently long enough to braid and visible from space. While I am usually a fast walker, I amazed even myself with the sprint I made from one aisle to the next. Eventually I made it to the single checkout line that was wrapped around two freestanding displays full of s'more ingredients. Could I cover my legs in marshmallows? Are graham cracker pants a thing? I waited impatiently and rubbed my furry calves together like a grasshopper. I was disgusted with myself and my Pinterest inspired teacher gift wasn't making me feel any better.

It's anyone's guess as to whether or not there was a iPhone snapping shots behind my back, I only noticed the creep with a Lean Cuisine and a 2 liter of soda who was standing inside my "GET THE FUCK OUT" bubble. As he eyed my wallet, I had a strange feeling that wearing slippers to the store wasn't going to be the biggest problem I had that evening/morning. The moral of this story? I am still going to judge people who have their ass crack showing and white Lycra on anyone never ceases to amuse. However, I now know that I can never leave my house without proper attire: yoga pants, a tank and flip flops. Lesson learned.

                                                      Call in the troops...I made this shit.