Mmm… Sacrilegious.

Mimi Smartypants! Please dismantle your new email fortress and call off your salivating anti-SPAM dogs that keep chasing my poor emails across Smartypants Grounds and ultimately back to imprisonment in the mail delivery subsystem system.

Or at least stop writing funny things so I don’t have to try and email you about how funny you are only to get it bounced back. Is very frustrating. The only bright side of being reduced to catcalling you through the internet is that for this one shining moment, I get to make Technorati my bitch. Instead of the other way around. But doing so makes me feel like I should be wearing some kind of protective latex covering and perhaps worrying about strange itching for the next few days.


Here’s one more thing I don’t like about the holidays: A few years ago, someone gave us a Nativity Scene to display at Christmas. Apparently, you set up the little shepherds and the wise men and the barn animals and the crib and Mary and Joseph and holy shit, some guy I guess was just walking through and happened upon the birth of Christ.

(I just stick him by the cows and hope I am not making God angry with my general lack of understanding about the basics of Christianity. He’s the Manger Manager perhaps? Alternate Wise Guy? Mary’s Dad: The Lesser Talked About Grandfather of Christ? I’m stumped.)

Anyway. The baby Jesus. My husband informs me that even though you bust out The Nativity for the whole Christmas season, the little carved Baby Jesus does not get to join the rest of the cast until Christmas Morning. Because that is the whole point of Christmas, Anne. The birth of Christ. Not there two weeks ahead of time. Just there on Christmas Morning. Surprising and delighting the children with his sudden appearance! Whee!

But the thing is? Every year I have to stuff the wee baby Jesus into a dark dresser drawer starting around December 1oth. Our tiny Lord, looking up at me with arms outstretched and pleading as I shut the drawer and leave him resting on a Post It notepad for the duration. Also? If I shut the drawer too fast, I hear him take a tumble and rattle to the back with the dust bunnies. Is terrible! Am always turning half an ear for some muffled divine crying.

At least when he’s in the garage wrapped in paper towels for the rest of the year, he has his family with him. And possibly some spiders to snack on.

What’s even worse is that I will spend an hour’s time today wondering if I am going to hell for mocking and abusing the Tiny Wooden Lord. Last year, I was able to let go of this fear by convincing myself that the Nativity might actually be a form of idol worship. Which I think may be a worse sin in the Big Bible Offense Playbook. If you give me a day to talk myself into it, I could probably have a full blown anxiety attack on this subject.

I don’t do well during the holidays is why.

ETA:  Adventures of Baby J are being compiled on this category link:  Baby J.