Bratz Dolls are Freaks of Nature

I was at Target Saturday looking for the perfect cowboy doll--if any were to be found at all. Amid the surfer Kens and the non-conforming High School musical bois, I spied a cowboy!

In all of its 10" Bratz glory, I grabbed Jordan (what cowboy is named Jordan, unless it's a transgendered one) and looked at the size of his head.

"My God!" I yelled to my husband half of an aisle away. I pivoted my hand so that the doll faced him. "This doll has a huge fricken' head! I mean, look at his head! He's a freak! What if Barbie doesn't want to date a freak? He looks like he reads porn in the bathroom and makes motorboat noises between Barbie's breasts."

I didn't notice, but a woman was standing nearby, and she was cracking up. I showed the doll to her, too. "Really," I continued, since my husband was trying to ignore me, "Doesn't this doll look like he has a gland problem?"

Apparently some friends of mine saw me ranting about Jordan, the freak-headed boy in the aisle. When they saw me yesterday, they said they were laughing. I didn't realize I had an audience, save for my husband and the lady.

That would be something if that was the end of the situation. I saw dude doll had these huge feet. I mean, we're talking about the same probable gland issues as he has with his really big freak-head. I found out that his feet come off. I mean, they come off. That means dude has no feet. That is wrong. Jordan not only has gland issues that make his head big enough to be a carnival rodeo spank king, but now I find out he has prostetic feet.

I'm like, if you are a doll with a head big enough to sell GoodYear endorsements, and you are only 10" tall, you need a little height advantage if you even want a shot at Barbie. Right now he looks like he enjoys spanking Ken. Or Kelly. Jordan the rodeo cowboy needs some serious cred. Go for height, man. It worked for Tom Cruise wearing those big-butt platform shoes. After that-- who cares. You know what they say about a guy with really big feet.

I Saw Tom E. Dissing Santa Claus

The spirit of Santa is probably the most sacred of all childhood truths, welled up in thehearts and souls of the young-at-heart everywhere. In this age of cynicism and our quickly-aging youngsters, in order to keep this alive in our house, we have a simple rule which passes the lips and nothing more: "Those who believe (in Santa) receive (from Santa)." Period. End of story. It's really a simple tenet, leaping over questioning glances by those who claim to know better and those who, at age 29, still want stuff. If you do not believe in Santa, then no gifts from the jolly one-it's your choice. Knowing this, no one should be surprised upon, when asking my 15 year old if he believes in Santa,he says "Yes!"

As a family, we spend time together as much as possible, knowing well that time speeds by and that people eventually scatter out of the front door beckoning to the rings of girlfriends, boyfriends, and friends. One of our 'traditions' is to watch TV together. On a couch, we where all mesh comfortably, sprawled out in nuclear familial bliss on a couch we laugh together through the many ridiculous commercials for Christmas. Now, remembering the believing in Santa rule is more a "we ask, you tell" rule (meaning, we ask if you believe you say "yes," and that is it) my oldest son, in a moment of what I can only apply as hormonal insanity, made a slight slip recently.

This surprise event erupted during one particular advertisement for a bagged cookie mix where a young son caught his father sneaking Santa's cookies into his mouth from a decorated plate. The young son shrieked that Santa won't come if there are not cookies! He won'thewon'thewon't! Thismade my teenaged son particularly giddy.

"Hey kid!" my 15 year old son called to the TV thinking himself particularly clever that evening. "You've been robbed! That Santa is a fraud!"

In a sudden epiphany, his eyes caught mine, and he slowly and painfully turned to his youngest sister sitting there at his feet. The look of immediate abject fear on his face revealed that he'd made an inadvertent joke that could unravel a 6 year old like a tight rubber band became instantly apparent and, whiter than Nicole Kidman, he stammered, "I mean-! Santa will see it's a fraud if his cookies are gone!"

The 6 year old never looked around, instead entrenched in an ad for cookies. "I like cookies," she said dreamily.

My son sighed and collapsed internally, mentally whacking himself upside the head for saying something which, to older folks would might been funny, but could be particularly detrimental to someone who still believes in the Easter Bunny. A last-minute save...The boy lives another day.

I was reviewing my most recent ebay acquisition (I'd shopped Victoriously) when the same youngest cookie-loving daughter stealthily ninja-jumped behind me and gasped, "WOW! Mom that is really cool! What is that!"

My mouth gaped as the catlike child looked at the Hello Kitty Pineapple-shaped juice bar play set that I had "Shopped Victoriously" for and won in the last few seconds of the auction. There, in its pink and peppy glory, Hello Kitty awaited with a coconut bra to grant 6 year olds their wishes for blendered beverages-- and all for only $6 plus shipping.

It was supposed to be a surprise, but when you have Ninja children who drop upside-down from the ceiling from suspended wires while wearing black unitards and night vision goggles, you just can't predict this stuff.

Looking for a save on this one I said, "Well, what do you think? Isn't it great?! Doesn't it look like a great toy?"

"I guess," she shrugged. "We could play with it, I mean."

Trying to drum up some frenzied excitement, I countered, "But look! When you push the blender she does a hula dance." I hula'd in my seat for emphasis.

"Yeah. I could play with that," she ceded thoughtfully. Her speech sped up, eyes gleaming a bit. "We could play with that with the Little People Merry-Go-Round and they can have drinks!"

"Drinks! Yes! Drinks for everyone!" I celebrated.

Still working the moment with every twitch of motherly cleverness I possessed, I announced, "Now close your eyes and wish for Santa to bring this to you for Christmas! Say, 'Santa, for Christmas, I want a Hello Kitty Pineapple Juice Bar with a hula-action Kitty who dances when I push the blender and serves plastic beverages with the little fruit slices in them!'"

Obediently, my youngest nodded. She clenched her little warm fists tight and squeezed her eyes perfectly shut. She was working this wish with all of her might. I could see her there, amid torrents of shiny wrapping paper, crinkled, falling aside, and the dreamlike shivers of a small girl entirely ensconced in Hello Kitty wishes. I saw her, in that angelic moment, dancing and twirling in pink and glittering slow motion, new toy and the affectations of a graceful ballerinawith her beloved Christmas nutcracker. The six-year -old stood there before me, body squinched up, concentrating between missing grade school teeth, and then said with conviction, "Dear Santa, I wish for a... a... a... blacktoyhorseandacowboydoll!"

My mouth fell open, as wrapping paper moments and prancing-toed pixies changed into an Edward Munch Scream of me gripping my face and and a slackening jaw as the skin melted from my head into the background. I gaped at the computer screen. Then I looked at the beaming Ninja-girl, relieved for having been able to unleash that moment of childhood excitement, which brings shopping Victoriously down to a level of shopping Vaingloriously.

It was then in that exact segment in time that it hit me-- that sudden moment of enlightenment revealing itself to wary parents everywhere who purchased the Hello Kitty pineapple juice bar, only to find out that their child wanted the black toy horse andthe cowboy:

Santa is bad.

I went into the kitchen and licked the top of each of his cookies.

To Bubbala: My Near-Sighted Hannukah

Friends of mine always wonder why I'm mad at them. They tell me I never wave or say hello when they see me. They say that there must be something wrong, or that I'm in a bad mood.

What they don't realize is that I can't see without my glasses, and I only wear glasses usually while watching television and driving at night. Without them, which is becoming a rarer circumstance every day, as my breasts race towards my ankles, I can't see more than 5 feet in front of me.

I'm fairly functionally blind. Oh, sure, I can see blurs in front of me. Buildings, mountain ranges, other vehicles, but faces are too specific, all having features I can't make out, like eyes, noses and the head. Once I saw my husband's father walking down the street. I thought it was my husband. It was only after I yelled, "Yoohooo! Sweet cakes!" that the 50 year old fellow came into view from a hazy fog to less hazy features. I had to finally explain to him that while he is certainly adorable, I didn't mean to yell romantic wolf whistles in his direction.

I've seen women who were men, men who were women, and people who could have been both. And sometimes they were just really tall dogs.

One Hannukah I was standing in line at ShopKo, and I eyed a handsome young couple with gold-wrapped goodness in a small mesh bag sitting on the conveyor belt. I smiled at them knowingly. "Shalom!" I greeted them. They smiled at me in return, slightly confused but with the warmth of the holidays in their blessed hearts. I initiated a discussion with them about what a nice young couple they were, buying Gelt for the season. Oh how those sweet those foil-wrapped delights melt on the tongue, with just enough flavor, but without being overly rich. "Enjoy them!" I finished, patting the young lady on her now clammy hand.

And "Mazel tof!" I waved as they sped away nervously, blushing. Ahh! The cold winter weather must have reddened those youthful cheeks!

My husband looked at me and he shook his head. "What?!" I said, looking at my bubbala.

"Why did you assume they were Jewish?"

"Don't be meshugennah. Those were gold coins for the holiday."

"Those were condoms," he deadpanned.

Oy. I see how it is. The rest of my life, with reddened cheeks and foil-wrapped innocence for sale on the conveyor belt at Shop-Ko, so long as I don't wear my glasses. But on the bright side, I started wearing my contact lenses again.

And this year I'm looking for the yarmulke.

My day in 60 mile per hour winds

Naturally, it's interesting when something as powerful and sudden sweeps through town like a major windstorm. Not simply because the gusts are enough to knock Jessica Simpson's alleged botox lips into a loud flubbaflubba motorboat sound, but because peoples' stuff falls down and lands places it's not supposed to.

I remembered in tornado season as a youth in Wisconsin, we'd seen many an item fly by our window in a violent storm. Like a black and white homage to the Wizard of Oz, I recall very clearly sitting with my sister and seeing an inflatable pool literally whiz just a few feet past the front window in the dusk, followed by Mr. Jeffries in his bathrobe hopelessly groping for the oversized flopping vinyl frisbee. It was hard for the guy, but we laughed until our sides ached. Someone's motorcycle rolled past, too, that night. No, you just don't see that kind of random action taking place unless there's a major weather event occurring.

So, when the wind hits as hard as it did today, I was looking to see whose garbage can blew down the street on its back and whose trampoline planted itself in Mrs. Murray's credenza.

I thought to myself, Boy, I wish something exciting would happen like when we were kids! Like someone's fence panel falling down. Or a tree blowing down the street. That would be cool! I was looking for some excitement in the form of nature tossing people's things around like a Caesar salad, and me just knowing that no matter what, I might find myself once again entertained by the nature of folks in these situations, like Mr. Jeffries in his slippers.

Hours of wind, and the neighbor's portable basketball hoop had suddenly fallen where one of our vehicles had been parked on our driveway. That could have poked an eye out, kid! That's the neat stuff right there! I watched the neighbors panic and scurry as they worried about meeting my eye and apologizing for what could have been the colossal smooshfest of our SUV had the thing been parked there at that precise moment in time. Rhetorical guilt works, especially when they bring me cookies.

Tree branches fell, and milk crates tumbled across yards. Everywhere, icicle lights were only half-functioning (not unlike they usually were, come to think about it), and the other half were blown into gaping gutters. The weather was warm for December, and the leaves blew and swirled in wild patterns down the sidewalks. Mailboxes had blown open. Inflatable yard art for the holidays were deflating at a fast pace, rendering a once-chubby Winnie the Pooh into a nylon lawn-cake. I threw open the curtains in a room facing the backyard when I saw someone's fence had, in fact, blown down. Wouldn't you know it-- It was mine.

"Aw nuts!" I yelled, and called my husband at work. As I sat on the curb with my chin in my hand and the dog locked in the house, my husband drove up and met me on the sidewalk. I waved dejectedly at onlookers who were glad it wasn't their fence as they chattered excitedly. Working quickly, we were able to reattach the fence panel before the next gusts of wind came bursting through. I told my husband about what had happened, and how I had secretly wished something eventful would take place during the storm. "I thought it would be funny if someone's fence blew over," I reasoned. With nails dangling from his lips and pausing from smacking the cedar panel back in place he mumbled, "Next time be more specific about who's fence you mean."