Our Sunday Best

"You know the message you're sending out to the world with these sweatpants? 

You're telling the world, 'I give up. I can't compete in normal society. 

I'm miserable, so I might as well be comfortable.'"

                                                                                                             - Jerry Seinfeld

Last Sunday I busted my butt to get my family to the children's Christmas program. Busting my butt includes, but is not limited to, the following: finding the girls' Christmas dresses, finding coordinating tights, hair accessories, and shoes, finding dress clothes that fit the toddler/man-child; finding something that fits me, having the children memorize their lines and songs, buying and wrapping gifts for Sunday school teachers and Program Directors, and making sure my husband is appropriately dressed.

All of these tasks were accomplished without incident until it came time to dress my husband -  who declared he was wearing jeans. An argument ensued. I was handicapped by lack of time and patience so I conceded the fight and off we went - the children and I in our Sunday best, and Justin in his finest pair of Wranglers. 

The program went well. Cute kids, screaming kids, booger-picking kids, bored-looking kids, memorized lines, flubbed lines, paparazzi parents ....Then came time for the adult choir to sing a song that they had learned with the children. 


The adults made their way to the choir loft when I spotted my dad, a 30+ year member of the choir. The infamous words of Clark Griswald then ran through my head:  "Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol? " He was wearing sweatpants. A T-shirt and sweatpants.

I'm pretty sure Jesus didn't mind my Dad's sweats, but I'm quite certain my mother did. As Dad made his way into the choir loft, I could literally feel my mother's rage from across the church. 

What in the world was going on? Was he sleep-walking? Was he sick? Did he know where he was? Had he become senile since I saw him earlier this morning? Had God appeared to him and told him to wear sweatpants to the children's Christmas program? Was he making a political statement?

Well no to all of the above, but apparently Dad had came from his bowling league (where I guess he wears sweat pants?) directly to the church. And he must have had some nachos, because I'm pretty sure I could see some cheese dried on his thigh. 

I don't think Dad cared one bit about his sweats - he sang with gusto. I think he was pretty pumped up about the birth of the Christ child, or maybe his bowling team won? Or perhaps he was just happy that he had had some nacho cheese? 

He later explained that he thought the choir would wearing choir robes, and he'd be able to slip in and out of the program without showcasing his bowling wardrobe.

As we left the church, Justin's grin was so big that I knew that he was not smiling about the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, but for the redemption that had been brought to him by my father and his nacho-cheese stained sweatpants. His Wranglers had never looked better. 

The Elf Went For a Drink

The Elf on the Shelf is one of those genius ideas that makes me want to slap myself for not thinking of it first. 


Not familiar with the Elf on the Shelf? Here's the idea - The elf is purchased with a book that explains to children that the elf will watch them throughout the day and then, at night, fly back to the North Pole to report to Santa their behavior. Then they are to find the elf sitting in a new place each morning. 


This idea assumes just one thing in order to work - that kids are idiots. There are so many holes in that story that I sometimes look at my kids as they marvel at the elf each morning and think "Really??? No - Really??? You're really buying this?"


Well, this morning our Elf on the Shelf quit. 


The girls found this note on the table:

With the weather taking a turn for the cold and rainy, my kids have tipped the naughty meter to a whole other level. They've been cooped up - the girls have been running through the house flinging green snot around while the baby has a found a new favorite past-time - digging through the garbage can. The poor elf just couldn't take it - he hauled his elf ass outta here.

He left me a little note too:

How Charming...

Flashback to 2006......

Me: I really want to buy this house Justin. Its so big - it has 6 bedrooms! Think of all the kids we could fill it with! 

Justin: I don't know...it doesn't have a garage...

Me: Oh who cares about that! Its an old house - its so charming. I want it!!!!

Oh I got it all right. What I got was a mini-van at 7:40am with frozen sliding doors and kids who were going to be late to school. How charming.


What in the hell was I supposed to do?


This was the exclamation point on our morning which included oversleeping, running out of Lucky Charms, and a feather extension getting yanked out by my frantic hair brushing.

Well, cursing and tugging on the doors (all while holding my 30lb toddler man-child) didn't work. 


I put down the man-child and pulled on the front passenger door with all of my Jillian Michael's built strength! Success! 


The girls climbed over the seat and I climbed over with Jack under my arm and got him buckled in his seat. 


After I started the car, it starting beeping like a tractor trailer. Apparently when I had tugged on the sliding doors, I had tugged just enough to unleash them but not enough to open them. The beeping was louder than my kids.


I couldn't push the doors fully open or get them closed - so beep beep beep went the min-van all through the town. AND as an added bonus, because the doors weren't fully closed, the interior lights faded in and out. I felt like I was driving my own personal parade float. The beeping, the lights....I'm quite sure I was on the verge of an epileptic seizure.


We got to school, and yet the doors still wouldn't open so the kids piled out the front door.


As we went beep beep beep all the way home, one door suddenly slid open as I was doing 60 down the highway. Cameron screamed, I screamed, the baby screamed....


We finally got home and I called Justin to tell him about the morning. I really needed some comforting and encouragement.

I got this:

JUSTIN: And THIS is where having that garage would come in handy....Too bad we can't park the car in one of those bedrooms....We're sure as hell not going to fill them with more children...


ME: Well....Well..... Beep-You!

My Big Fat Armenian Family

I'm uncertain as to whether the people of Armenia celebrate Thanksgiving. However, my big fat Armenian family threw down quite a Thanksgiving celebration this past weekend in a pole barn in the backwoods of Southern Indiana. 


We celebrate not by roasting a Turkey, but by eating an Armenian dish called Klayhma, which is raw beef mixed with cracked wheat. We also celebrate with a lot of liquor.


Grandmother, although 86 years old, was no exception. She too enjoyed her liquor. At one point in the afternoon, she sat outside and loudly sang old gospel songs stopping intermittently to tell anyone who passed by that the "drunks could all sit right here." God, I love her. 

Our Armenian Thanksgiving wasn't limited to family - we'll take anybody. My Uncle Harry, who hosted the event, invited several of his buddies (I lovingly refer to them as strays). We were happy to have them, and by mid-afternoon the pole barn was rocking with Prince and the camoflauge-clad strays were dancing under a black light. 


Speaking of the black-light, it managed to humilate my husband.....


JUSTIN: Abbie, you know those UV lights that they use to show all the nasty stuff in hotel rooms?


ME: Yeah - so?


JUSTIN: Follow me.


Justin proceeds to walk into the barn and takes a seat on the coach.

JUSTIN: Do you even wash my clothes?!?!?!?!?


ME: I'd say the more important question is what the hell do you do in your clothes??


When the day came to an end, I had consumed at least a pound of cream cheese (Thanks Aunt Lucinda!) and two bottles of wine. I was thankful. My cup and the fat over my pants truely runneth over.


And!!! Cameron learned a new song: