Christmas Mission 1: It's Not In the Cards

Now this is bad news.  It's December 20th and I just realized I've done nothing for Christmas.  My children will be traumatized, the neighbors shake their heads in consternation.  We are Christmas failures.  I hope that in just 5 days with the help of Martha Stewart I can work like crazy to deliver a D+ or maybe even C- Christmas.  I am disappointed to discover Martha Stewart chose the photos for her Christmas cards on November 30th, which means I'd better take some.

A lightning bolt of inspiration cracks in my head.  I remember that old cheaty cliche: Kids + Dogs + Props = Cute.  I scream at the kids to get some fancy clothes on.  Tristan chooses a bow tie and Santa hat.  Perfect.  Julian chooses Tristan's royal birthday robes.  He attempts to leave the house with his Oxford shirt pushed up to the elbows against the 45-degree weather.  He is yelled at to get a coat.  He sheepishly admits that not only has he lost his winter coat this year, he has also lost his two hoodies and has been wearing Tristan's for the last month. It's not even his Oxford shirt, which he lost at picture day.

Once at the top of the hill, Tristan decides that Christmas cards are dumb and also, the boy scout belt loop he's working on is dumb also.  He begins to pout and punch the dirt. He is then threatened with public push-ups in the dirt unless he makes a happy face.  A young and obviously childless couple overhears this threat and walks away horrified.  I am too flustered to care.




As I reviewed the shots later at home, I realized that the dingy Baltimore panorama wasn't too impressive.  The Domino Sugar sign is slick and sludgy instead of jolly and the cars in the parking lot below are disturbingly American.  The whole scene is disturbingly "South of Fort" as some (but definitely not me) would say.  It's perfectly lovely, but somehow not very "Atkins."

So I found this shot of Sean taking over Gingerbread Festivities.  Not very lovely, but very "Atkins."

A crafts project from Martha Stewart inspired me to bedazzle these photos into passable holiday cards:

I simply took the childrens' paintbrushes and painted Elmer's glue to a few areas and then sprinkled Martha Stewart's ultra-fine glitter onto it.  Then I purchased a Jesusy card at the 50% off table at AVAM's gift shop. Presto et voila. Christmas.

The reviews have been positive, but my favorite comes from our friend Greg: "Awesome pic in the card. Your boys do a fine job and Sean really brings it home."

It's nice to know that Sean is bringing home more than a partially-garnished paycheck, breath that reeks of Aftershock and a taxpayer-subsidized penicillin prescription.

Cost of 12 hipster Christmas cards: $15 x 50% off = $7.50
Cost of 12 prints at CVS up the street: $4.29

Cost of a D+ to C- Christmas card showing: $11.79

However, realizing that Julian has no winter clothing, that will be quite expensive.

The IRS Stole Christmas. Now Get Me Some Ham.

Giving ostentatious gifts at Christmas is fun...but as I've learned this week, it's only fun when it's not compulsory.

Amid the stacks of Christmas cards and catalogues, I received an unMerry Christmas notice from the IRS, stating that back-taxes from 2009 were due by December 22nd.

Although I'm not contesting the bill, it seems that in the spirit of general good will, the IRS should put a moratorium on due dates for the whole month of December.  It's just mean...and for me, it means that the greater part of my friends and relatives will now be enjoying an "Imagination Christmas."

Imagination Christmas: Scenario 1

"Now, family, pretend that you are holding a beautifully wrapped box. Inside that box is the gift you'd like most...now hold onto that feeling and get me some ham."

Imagination Christmas: Scenario 2

"A Mime-It-Out Christmas"

"Now, children, pretend as though you have that object you really desire in your hand.  What does it feel like? How does it move? Is it heavy? Now imagine the government taking that from you.  Use your body to express how you feel.  That sucks, doesn't it.  Now...go get me some ham."

Imagination Christmas: Scenario 3 - this really happened.

"Dear Mia, I didn't get it shipped in time but I want you to know...I got you an iPad 2 for Christmas. And I paid for a full year of 3G access.  I really love you."

"Really?! Oh my God! Thanks Jess, Wow. I really love it.  Really?"

"Haha. Not really. Merry Christmas, Loser."

To be honest, dashing my sister's dreams in so dramatic a fashion almost makes my impending poverty worth it.  Without the intervention of the IRS, it is likely that I would have gone the easy route and actually purchased her an iPad 1 and simply put it in an iPad 2 box (Cal kids don't know the difference.)  My pennilessness pushed me into being a better, meaner big sister.  What else can it do for me?

Now...Decorating and cookies is just not really my bag, but the other day Tristan looked at me with his wide eyes and said, "I want to decorate this house so that everyone in the street will say, 'Nobody does Christmas like the Atkins Family does Christmas.'" Now, I don't know where he got this from as everybody, in fact, does Christmas better than the Atkins Family.  But fuelled by his 7-year-old elitism and my own need to overcompensate, I'm going to spend the next 2 days making it the best, cheapest Christmas ever.

The mission, in five parts:

1. Decorate the front door and yard for maximum showing off of Christmas spirit.
2. Send out cards (to arrive BEFORE New Year's for the first time EVER) with charming kid photos.
3. Figure out how to give nice Christmasy gifts to family and friends with zero dollars. 
4. Make the paltry presents under the tree look rich and voluminous.
5. Make up some fake "family traditions" to tie it all together.

Getting Totally Scrooged

It doesn't feel much like Christmas this year.  Not just because once again we didn't get Christmas cards out, or bake enough fruitcakes, or nab a Lego Advent calendar in time, but because Baltimore just isn't cooperating.  Last night was 68 degrees and what started in June as my Hawaii-style "Dress Slippers" have by December turned into that familiar pair of "Ratty Flip-Flops." So when I received the invitation to Federal Hill Parlor Series' "Dickens Dinner," a 5-course meal-and-performance held at a local art gallery, I jumped on it.

 

I was also very happy to discover that several of my friends were also shelling out the $40 for the evening (which turned out to be the deal of the season, and frankly would barely have covered our wine bill).  

Although I was determined to show up early and properly dressed-and-coiffed, I was beset by travails.  First, Bow had used my dress as a bed and was chewing rawhide bones on it and left a white rawhide-and-slobber stain on the front.  It looked horribly Lewinskyish and so there went 10 minutes of frantic scrubbing and hairdrying.

Et Tu, Monica?

   So finally, after getting the dress cleaned up and kicking the dog for good measure, I had to find a pair of flats for the walk and while shimmying from under the sofa I managed to step on the dress, fall on my face and tear it from the inside, so I threw on a coat hoping nobody would notice the lining was now falling out. Viva Glamour!

As soon as I arrived I headed straight for the wassail and asiago-dip station.  This Asiago dip has become known in the neighborhood as "Federal Hill Crack." (Which, by the way, how bougie is that in a city that is plagued with real crack?! You can just imagine at book clubs all over Warren Street, women in their Anne Klein twinsets nudging each other "Oh, I just can't help myself, I simply must have a second Triscuit of that delicious Federal Hill Crack!")

As I lifted my own Triscuit to my mouth, I simultaneously dumped a whole glass of wassail and the overflowing cracker all over myself, which left a huge white smear over the freshly-cleaned front and my freshly-cleaned first-time-out Prada purse completely soaked with red, red wine.

Right after the professional cleaning

2 hours later

 In Which I Try to Plaster My Humiliation With Socializing:

"So what field are you in?"

"Artistry."

"Really? What is that?"

"It's umm...artistry." (Raised eyebrow, beginning of a sneer)

"Oh, I've never heard of that.  Is that a new field? Like an interdisciplinary field?"
"No, we've pretty much been studying it since from the beginning..." (Sneer in full effect)

"Huh...well, what does it encompass?  Like studio art? Music?"

"No.  Like the history...of art." (Unabashed "You disgust me" face)

"Oh...Art History. I thought you said Artistry." (Mental Awkward Turtle)

"No." (Rolling eyes and walking away.)

THIS MARKS THE LAST TIME I TRY TO TALK TO STRANGERS.

The Performers

Luckily, we all took our seats then, I at one table and the Hopkins professor very, very far away, and it was a delightful evening, like a Christmas Eve with the family you wished you had, where you get the present you want the most, your grandmother bakes your favorite stuffing and your father loves you enough.

Recipe For Bulimia: This is your Dessert-Course View.

I am doing a Van Susteren, and can't help but notice Tara managed to keep her black dress clean.

A Perfect Christmas Tradition for a Perfect December!

 FINAL RUN-DOWN

Cost: $40

Collateral Damage: $100 Purse Cleaning, $10 Dry Cleaning, $20 Lining Repair

Blocks From Home: 9

The Chug-Off That Will Live in Infamy

December 7th is a day of commemoration, of introspection and of contemplation.  Depending on the source either 2,402 (Wikipedia) or 2,973 (SOMF) Americans were killed in the Japanese attacks on Pearl Harbor.  Either way, it is a tragedy that so many men were lost, so many virile, physically fit, tanned young men.  I think of them sunning themselves in the Hawaiian sunshine on the polished decks of the USS Arizona in their tight-fitting striped sailor tees and those snug-hipped little navy pants, passing mai-tais and tousling each others hair playfully.  I think of them a lot, in fact.

But rather than gain a measure of revenge by being passive-aggressive to the waiters at Matsuri Sushi, I decided to follow the brighter angels of my conscience and head over to Mad River for trivia with international legends Team Sit On My Facebook.  O, if only I had known I would be watching the carnage of a young tousle-headed American man I would have crossed the street and elbowed my way into the order book of waiter "K-Pop" (Asian Love God) while snidely mocking the perfect highlights in his delightfully face-framing bob.

During a toss-up challenge, Team SOMF had the misfortune to tie with a band of less-attractive and less-intelligent rivals - although frankly we would hardly consider them rivals -  which necessitated a dreaded chug-off tiebreaker.  As evidence of our team's class and sophistication, we all cringed at the prospect of drinking warm Coors Light for the amusement of the frat boy contingent downstairs.  As evidence of Greg's gentility, he stepped up like poet-soldier Wilfred Owen and marched into the trenches with a fistful of resolution and a fair amount of swish.

A Real American hero!

Amid a roar not heard since my Sigma Chi Skank days, Greg put in a valiant but unenthusiastic performance and was slaughtered by a girl.  Team Cunning Linguists nodded their head in shame.  The Mayo Cannons just looked away, embarrassed to be Americans.  And that Team of Toolbags who wear douchey striped Polos and cheat all the time continued to be douche toolbags.

After the competition he trudged back down the polished decks.

"I just don't like beer that tastes of urine, okay? And I didn't think you girls wanted the shots anyway," Greg didn't really quite say.

"Of course we didn't want the shots," TK replied. "We just wanted to win."

"I'm going to vomit," Greg said to our giggling amusement.

"No. Really. I'm really going to throw up," he said as the laughter stopped. "That was disgusting."

All's well that ended well (for TK and I) because the girl in the chug-off was so touched that Greg had "obviously let her win" that she ended up buying him a shot which we all shared. 

Greg summed up his heroic experiment thusly: "I'm never doing that again, guys.  No, really. I mean it."

And as we pointed out, no matter how many chug-offs we lose, TK is still a winner because of that fancy silver medal flung in the corner with our wet coats. And we're all still winners because of our proximity to that fancy medal.

A real Real American Hero!