December 27th, 2009
11:33 am --Ever since finally seeing The Secretary, Dave sometimes calls me Ms. Baggott through the baby monitor while I'm working.
11:02-- My two year old son is off to the grocery store -- with his man purse and his ... man bracelet? Let's be honest. He picked out the velvet leiderhaussen and the hand-me-down cow-print coat for the party. He's got style.4:01 pm --First rule of potluck. There is no potluck. (Of course, there's a potluck. And our hosts grew up in, I want to say, Minnesota therefore it will be hearty.)
Dec. 26th -- A day of rest for the Log. Only one entry.
9:45pm -- I say to the two year old, "Your sitter Perri comes back tomorrow! And you can show her your presents!" He says, "An' Santa will tome. An' he will dive me more pwesents an' he will put dem under the twee. An' I will open dem an' it will be merry Twismas!" "Oh, no. Um, sorry. Christmas is over. That part is done." "He not toming back tomorrow?" "No." "How bout to-later?" "He'll come back a really long time from now when you're three years old." "Santa is cweepy an' nice." "I agree."
3:53pm --On the way to the potluck, I will reiterate the rules of potluck. "Potluck isn't luck. It's all skill. Case the table while they're putting out utensils. Hover like choppers. Go in early. Round two, look for tipsy adults and slip in between the weak links. Final rule of potluck? Do not, on the car... ride home, say you're hungry."
3:17pm -- In preparationg for Robert Downing Jr in Sherlock Holmes, we read some Sherlock Holmes. (And RDJ is right. Watson really gazes very lovingly at Holmes. Very, very lovingly. Plus, I had to explain that in days of yore, ejaculating was another acceptable term for exclaiming. Words.)
3:12pm -- No holiday boardgames. (Those of you have experienced the let's-get-pumped head-butts of Pictionary -- Doug Cassler -- and/or the tackling in joy -- Chris Canning Esposito (still feel bad about knocking your tooth out during racquetball in '89) and/or the pen-throwing glass-frame-breaking Scrabble ...-- ahem, Mr. Scott -- will understand why. It's almost as bad as our family history.
3:06pm --The homemade Christmas tree cake has a dent. To quote Spongebob, "It'll buff out."
3:03pm -- Driving Green Machine slowly, carefully in my yellow galloshes with 2 year old at the controls -- feeling the burn -- and then feel the whiz of a football as it careens past my head. Near catastrophe averted -- meaning one of the boys got really lucky.
12:47pm -- We can find the sneaker that whacked the 12 year old in the forehead by tracing -- CSI-style -- the tread marks on his skin. (9 year old threw shoe out of anger at the hot wheels race track. I'm blaming NASCAR.) I consoled with the old adage, "A Christmas black-eye is the specialist!"
11:22 am -- Momentary commercialism angst -- what if all the stores really are close out there -- just like France on Sundays and most Mondays and during the lunch hour and in the evenings?
11:05 am -- The 2 year old is addicted to "lollicanes." I feel we're in for the DTs, man. It's gonna be ugly.