Category: Holidays

Random musings about holidays.

Post Number 30, Subtitled at Points in Spanish

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Happy, happy December 20th, fellow Sh*theads. Not only are we five days away from Christmas or one day away from the Mayan Apocalypse depending on your perspective (or preference; I don’t doubt that one or more of you reading this would be okay with the world ending tomorrow), but this post, if I am fortunate enough to complete it before the end of the world or Santa’s arrival (whichever comes first) will be the 30th blog post that I have completed since I created “Random Musings” back in 2009. Back then, I and most bloggers that I know (or, as some called us then and continue to call us now, “Proverbial Time Wasters”) lived on Google Blogger and no one lived any place else. No one that I was chummy with even knew about WordPress despite the fact that it has existed, per Wikipedia, since 2003 and is now the “most popular blogging system in use on the Internet.” News to me, folks. I just thought it was a trendy alternative.

I have since put away childish things and moved on. “Random Musings of a Pseudo-Madman Version 2.0” is, in my opinion, superior to “Random Musings” version one, but my original Blogger site will always occupy a spot in my heart, simply because entries one through 22 of this venture were all introduced via it.

Those entries? Some were better received (see Penn State Proud – A Pseudo-Madman’s Take) than others (see “I guess in a way, you always end up right back where you started…”). All have been imported to this site (hence, the links) and the original “Random Musings” has since gone the way of the Dodo Bird. But regardless of the response to an entry or the lack thereof, I never once wavered in my resolve to write what I want to write, when I want to write it and for as long as I choose to do this? I never will. I don’t force it, as can be evidenced by this blog’s time frame–three years–and its output–29, soon to be 30 entries. If you do the math, that averages out to approximately 10 entries a year which, by blogging standards, is little more than a drop in the bucket. Jesus, I’ve only been on WordPress for a few weeks and some people that I follow have already posted 30 entries in that time alone.

What can I say? For me, it’s not about quantity but quality, a fact of my life which transcends just blogging and writing. Roll snare drum. If you didn’t get that good. Newsflash to any newcomers to these compositions: I often take digs at myself and they are many times obvious. If I can sneak a veiled one in every so often… well, to quote those eminent sages of modern cinematic wisdom Bill S. Preston Esquire and Ted Logan, “Excellent!” I don’t have to always eviscerate myself, do I?

Um, that was a rhetorical question, guys. Please don’t answer it unless you can support your argument. Gracias. Sin digresiones mas. 

Quality over quantity. I’m not saying that the aforementioned, other bloggers that post every day are in any way, shape or form inferior to me. Quite the contrary: A few of them have a skill and a fortitude that I will never equal. To be honest with you? I’m slightly envious of them. I just don’t have the time or the patience to do this every day. But I have approached and will continue to approach every one of these little ditties that I do find the time to write as more than just a standard, run-of-the-mill, one or two paragraph blurb that can be pigeonholed by one classification and two tags. In truth? Writing is writing, whether you’re blogging or attempting to compose the next great American novel (the last one was “The Stand” by Stephen King; yes, I know that’s my own, personal opinion but I don’t think that I’m alone in my assessment). And I love WordPress but am having a b*tch of a time tagging my work. It defies classification and always has. Still, it would help me to know if there is some veteran, blogger secret that Google Blogger neglected to teach me about how to successfully tag and classify your blog so as to maximize its visibility. If there is and you know it, please message it to me, Tweet it to me or email me it. I’d rather not use a tag like “Valtrex” unless I really, really have to.

No. I approach them in the same way that I approach anything and everything else that I write, be that “anything and everything else” a novel, a short story, a poem or an email (yes, I said “email”; you don’t believe me? Let me know and I’ll send you a copy of “The Collected Couch Chronicles”): With an eye toward perfection. Whether I achieve that or not is your call, not mine. I also like to have a topic in mind when I start writing. It’s not just about… what did I call it a few entries ago? Opening up my proverbial man purse and spilling my problems out on the Intranet for all to see. No. It’s about writing something that I feel is relevant. To a time, a place, a mentality or a situation. And to me. Having a personal connection to what I am writing is crucial to what I view as my success or failure as a writer. Plus, I like to amuse if I can. If I have failed to do any of these things in the last three plus years then I am sorry. I can point you in the direction of any number of other blogs that have effectively achieved all of these goals if you’d like. Just say the word.

That said, this particular blog entry is a bit of an enigma compared to the others. Why? Because I really don’t have a topic in mind this time. Henceforth it’s title, “Post Number 30, Subtitled at Points in Spanish.” Vague, huh? In truth, my always perturbed mind is perplexed presently (try saying that five times fast) by many topics. Not just Christmas and the 2012 Phenomenon but the Newtown, Connecticut shooting that transpired a week ago, the impending Fiscal Cliff and the problem of when I am going to get my hair cut and my beard trimmed between now and Christmas. Concerning the former two, I’ve considered writing about both but have decided against doing so for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I don’t feel as though I can contribute anything relevant or original to the ongoing dialogue about them. As for the latter, I guess I am holding out hope that the world ends tomorrow and in the process erases the need to be properly groomed for the holidays. If it doesn’t? Well sh*t. I may just take a set of clippers to both my hair and my beard. Maybe my eyebrows, too. Instead of a younger version of Santa Claus I’ll look like a fatter version of Pinky from “The Wall” when my family comes to Christmas Eve dinner. Or a baby rat: Whichever you prefer.

Note to all: That dig was not veiled. I was calling myself portly. End note.

Incidentally, it is now post-12 AM on December 21st in the Far East and the reports coming in from that area of the world are pretty gul’darned saccharine. No fire and brimstone in Sydney, Australia or Tokyo, Japan as near as I can tell. The Earth’s gravitational field appears to be in tact and there’s no sign of Nibiru on either NASA’s long range or short range scanners. Sounds like our New Age interpretation of the termination of the 13th Baktun of the Mayan calendar was about as accurate as our prediction about Y2K. The only difference for me, personally? On New Years Eve, 1999 I was completely fuschnookered at a party and tonight, I will be at home with my two daughters watching “Caillou’s Holiday Movie” or the equivalent. Which is better and which is worse? I’m not really sure, but I know that the 30 Jello shots that I slammed in 1999 would kill me in 2012. Give me death or give me Caillou? No offense, but I’ll take the kid who’s four (’cause each day he grows some more!). End discussion.

Seriously, people? Whether you believe the Bible or not (I, for one, do) you have got to admit at this juncture that in all actuality, no one has any f*cking idea when the world is going to end. As my one friend so aptly put it in response to my Facebook status earlier, “I’ll just wait for the Pope to Tweet about it.”

Incidentally, that status was:

Screenshot_2012-12-20-14-46-05

What can I say? I’ve got grooming on my brain. If you could see me right now you’d understand why. I guess that’s the nice thing about writing something without a specific topic in mind: You can jump from one idea to the next at whim. ‘Course it’s also the bad thing about it because a lot of people won’t read something unless it’s focused. Incidentally, I should insert here a shout out to the two people other than me whose responses are visible in the above screenshot. I did not get their permission to use their names or their profile pics and I hope they will not sue me because of this. Anywhos, you know who you are. Booyakasha. Respect. Pero estoy divagando.

Is the world going to end one day? Of course it is. Everything does. But why live your life in fear of it? Live each day like it’s your last and let the Rapture take care of itself. Stop building doomsday bunkers, training with semi-automatic weapons and stocking up on freeze dried lasagna. Save that kind of energy for more important things like your kids. Look at what happened last Friday. Would it kill you to spend another few hours playing with them and not stringing your compound bow? No. It wouldn’t. So do it, dammit. Dress like Eugene/Flynn Ryder from “Tangled” and play princess with your daughter. Trust me: You won’t regret it.

Me, personally? I’d like to believe that when the end does come… if it comes in my lifetime, I’ll have lived my existence with my wife, my daughters, my family and my friends to its fullest extent. That way when the Pope Tweets about the Rapture and I know, with 100% certainty that it’s coming, I can gather up my family and head for ground zero with no regrets because baby? I’ve seen enough movies and read enough books… hell, written enough books that ruminate on the “after” to know that I want no part of it. The survivalists can have their new world order. I’ll take my wispy place in the Ether next to the remaining 99% of the world’s Sh*theads that didn’t survive the scourge. And as the blinding, white light and hot fire engulfs me like it did David Estes in this past week’s episode of “Homeland,” I’ll be able to smile as I feel the heat singe my unruly beard, my wavy salt and pepper hair and my cheeks and say…

You guessed it: Oh thank God. 

So brings me to the conclusion of “Post Number 30, Subtitled at Points in Spanish,” otherwise known as “Publicar el Número 30 en los Puntos de Subtitulado en Español.” I’m only doing a little of this translation by memory, guys. Two years of college Spanish does not a bilingual blogger make. I may have forsaken Google Blogger in favor or WordPress but Google Translate is still one of my best friends, along with the people at Wikipedia. I hope you weren’t expecting something momentous from my 30th blog entry. I guess I just didn’t have it in me, today. Maybe I’ll save “momentous” for 50 so long as Saint Nick and the universe cooperate. I’ve always wanted to write something on my own, personal multiverse theory. Perhaps that will be the time. But not now. Now, I’ve got a million and one things to worry about, the least of which is how I’m going to get a haircut and trim my beard between now and next Monday night. I guess I’m going to have to. Why?

Because as I write these words, it is 8:35 AM in Sydney, Australia and 6:35 AM in Tokyo, Japan on December 21st, 2012. The Winter Solstice came and went at 6:00 AM in both locations and guess what? Both cities are still in existence. Mind you, the Mayans weren’t based in those locations but rather here in North and South America, where it won’t be 6:00 AM on December 21st until… well, 6:00 AM tomorrow morning, EST. So there is still a bit of wiggle room for the New Agers who believe that the axis of the planet is going to shift within the next 24 hours and fling all of us in to space. While there is still a degree of uncertainty surrounding whether the world is going to end in a few hours or not there is no uncertainty surrounding my 30th blog entry. It is done. To those of you that have followed my inane ramblings for the last three plus years? Thank you for seeing 30 with me. For those that have just discovered “Random Musings” in the last few weeks thank you for seeing eight with me. And for those of you who have stumbled upon these words for the first time?

Welcome. My name if Frank Marsh but I call myself the Madchronicler. I’m a Proverbial Time Waster and an amateur writer. Oh! And I am a Sh*thead. That’s not me taking a dig at myself which I do often. It’s the truth. And guess what? You’re one, too. The world is full of Sh*theads. To be one in my subjective universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole is not a curse but a blessing. It means we’re alike, you and I. And we are, to some extent. Stick around if you want to know more. 30 entries down, and who knows how many more to go?

“Excellent!”

The Marsh Family Christmas Newsletter (2012 Edition)

The Madchronicler2 Comments

It was not my intention to write this. This blog entry actually started as a rumination on the upcoming 2012 Phenomenon or, as I like to call it, the Mayan Apocalypse, but the Christmas music that has been playing incessantly in the background since I sat down at my desk this AM coupled with something my wife proposed to me last night has got my mind going in a completely different direction. A yuletide one. And that never happens, does it?

All together now: Sarcasm fully intended. 

If you are reading this then you are likely familiar with the practice of giving and getting Christmas cards every year. And if you are not familiar with that practice then to Nibiru with you, you cold-hearted Scrooge. What you may or may not be familiar with is the practice of sending a newsletter with your Christmas card or, in some cases, in place of it.

I don’t begrudge the newsletter senders this practice, especially the ones that I only correspond with once every Mayan Apocalypse via phone call, email, snail mail or Facebook. I’m happy to hear about what you’ve been up too and admittedly? I’m oft times embarrassed that you have done so much in the last year while I have done so little. But last night when I returned home from a long day at the office ruminating on valves, motors and various shaped and sized Apocalypses my wife handed me one of these newsletters.

I started reading it while I sipped on my Frappe and ate my crab cakes, potatoes and crescent rolls. The more I dug in to its content the wider my eyes opened. One monumental event after another unfolded on the professionally rendered page of stationary in front of me until I reached the end. There, directly beside a blessing and a signature was a picture of a lamb and a deer standing upon the snow-covered ground. They were looking up at the twinkling Christmas star. The only thing missing from the scene was the sound of a chorus of angels singing Handel’s “Messiah” in the background. It was so very, very perfect, and I knew what Nicole was going to ask me before she even spoke it between a mouthful of crab cake and corn:

“Why don’t you write one of these for us, honey?” The actual question was slightly less intelligible.

Me? I chuckled because I knew that the 2012 Marsh Family Christmas Newsletter would read like a set of directions on how to spend countless hours sitting upon a couch with a restless baby on your lap. It would read like an expert account of how to watch “Tangled” two dozen times and not shout at the end that “it’s not her real mother, honey,” thus traumatizing an innocent three and a half year old for the rest of her natural life. It would be a treatise on how to beat the new, Hoth level of “Angry Birds: Star Wars” or how to drop a 101 point word score on your “Words with Friends” opponent (hint: Position “JAZZY” on a triple letter and a triple word score and marvel at the results).

Sure, there were momentous events in our life over the past year. Natalie’s arrival in late May; me finishing my “Endworld” rewrite in January; me winning big at the Roulette table last month by playing Cara’s birthday, thus offsetting my wife’s heavy losses (love ‘ya, dear). But save for a few isolated incidences like those the year was pretty saccharine. Still, my sweetie asked me to so here you go. Without further adieu I give you the Marsh Family Christmas Newsletter (2012 Edition): 

12/12/12 (or, if the Mayan’s were dyslexic, 12/21/12 AKA the end of the world)

Family and Friends, 

Seasons Greetings and salutations from the Marsh Homestead in Broomall, Pennsylvania! I hope this newsletter finds you healthy, wealthy and wise! 2012 has been a banner year for the Marsh family and I’d like to share a bit of it with you if you will allow me to. You will? Great! 

2012 began with a proverbial whimper, i.e. it began with Cara sleeping and Nicole and I eating ring bologna, pepperoni and cheese while watching a marathon of “Boardwalk Empire.” I still can’t believe they killed off Jimmy! Wait, you did know that, didn’t you? If you didn’t oops. My bad. Next time I’ll post a spoiler alert. 

Okay, SPOILER ALERT: I can’t f*cking believe they killed off Jimmy Darmody! And that truth that he dropped on Nucky about not being half a gangster right before Nucky planted a cap in his a**? I remember saying to Nicole at the time that it would make a great tagline for Season Three. Guess what? It did. Wow. Sometimes my capacity to predict mundane things that have absolutely no bearing on anyone’s life but mine and my wife’s amazes me.

In late January, I completed my rewrite of “Endworld – A Novel” and immediately questioned why the f*ck I had copyrighted it back in 1998 as “Endworld – A Novel” and not just “Endworld.” I know I was a bit of a pretentious little sh*t back then but really, anyone who picks it up can tell instantaneously that its a novel and not a cookbook. I edited it and shipped it off to an editor and a couple of Beta Readers. Only one of the latter read it through to the end and got back to me with his/her thoughts, and he/she pretty much told me that it was terrible. So, I took his/her observations and applied them to a re-rewrite which I then shipped off to him/her again. He/she read it, came back and told me in no uncertain terms that it was slightly less terrible than it had been previously. Needless to say, “Endworld – A Novel” has not yet been published. It is “Pending Further Feedback” and another inevitable rewrite. New Year’s Resolution FAIL.  

The next few months passed without incident but in early April, there were a few complications with Nicole’s pregnancy. Long story short, she went in to premature labor at 32 weeks and ended up on bed rest for the rest of her term. We were forced to step up our preparations for Natalie’s arrival because really? Nicole was pretty much in constant labor from early April on. I converted our office in to a nursery and our basement in to a combination office/playroom/Man Cave by mid-April, always wary that Natalie was going to show up before I was done. I even hung a ceiling fan without maiming myself. Okay, maybe I maimed myself a little, but it’s just a little scar and it’s on my shin. You can’t even see it unless I wear shorts. By the time May rolled around we were 100% ready for Natalie’s arrival. 

Guess what? She didn’t show up until May 30th and that was only because the doctors got tired of waiting for her. They induced Nicole and within four hours of when it started it was over. Welcome to the world Natalie Theresa Marsh! 7 LBs, 0 OZs and 19″ at birth and she’s been growing exponentially since. As of this past Monday she weighs almost 17 LBs and is 27″ long. Which is really just the scientific/mathematical way of saying that she’s a six month old beast compared to how big her older sister was at six months old. But she’s got a wonderful disposition and has been the perfect baby since we brought her home. Who cares about her new habit of waking up between 1:30 and 3:30 AM every night and howling until someone comes in to check on her? Not me and not Nicole. We get a chuckle out of  it despite the fact that neither of us has gotten a decent night’s sleep since Halloween. Ha, ha and HA. See? There has been some isolated talk of training Cara to get up when the baby cries and go check on her but as of yet, we have not committed to it. That’s a lot of responsibility for a three and a half year old though admittedly, Cara probably wouldn’t mind it. It would give her another excuse along with her myriad other ones to stay up past her bedtime. 

Natalie arrived at the end of May and a month later, Cara turned three. I simultaneously decided that it was time to introduce her to “Dora the Explorer” and have been paying the price for that decision since. The Marsh Homestead has been overrun by everything and anything Dora. Backpacks, plates, flatware, stickers, movies and dolls? All f*cking Dora and her good pal, Boots. The good news? It’s not “Spongebob” which my niece and nephew introduced Cara to a few weeks ago, much to my chagrin. We appear to have quelled Cara’s “Spongebob” curiosity for the moment but from what I’ve been told it’s like the Dark Side: Once you give in to it, it will forever dominate your destiny. I’m trying to buy myself a few months of continued innocence from my first born by re-introducing her to her old favorites like the Biscuit books, Dr. Seuss, “Caillou” and “Sesame Street.” So far so good, but she keeps asking me for a crabby patty. I tried to pass an actual crab cake off as one but to no avail. Cara’s a smart kid. She knows the difference. And she only eats chicken nuggets, Gerber ravioli and pizza so really, what was I thinking? 

I just realized that the last paragraph makes it sound like all that Cara does is read books, watch television and eat. Let me restate that: She does the stuff that most three and a half year old’s do, too–playgrounds and play dates, sleepovers and birthday parties–and she also takes ballet every Tuesday afternoon and gymnastics every Saturday morning. 

I‘ve not yet been to a ballet class but gymnastics is ‘kinda my “thing” with her. Needless to say, I’m a bit put off by her gymnastics class and have been since day one. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that she’s learning a little discipline and athleticism but it‘s so damn regimented: Like Soviet Russia for tumbling tykes. The teachers make her and her little friends march in formation from one station to the next every time someone rings a bell, and they constantly yell directions at the kids like drill sergeants. And the head of the joint? He looks like a scientific experiment, the result of some mad scientist splicing the genes of an ex-Hippie with those of Bela Karolyi. From his perfectly groomed beard and wild, Einstein-y hair down to the clipboard he never relinquishes, his flannel shirts and Birkenstocks he and I have had a hate-hate relationship from the beginning.

Despite it, the experience has been a good one for Cara and that’s all that matters. If there’s one thing I’ve learned this year it’s that my feelings don’t. I get a little nauseous each week from the overwhelming stench of feet mingled with piss mingled with unwashed hair that seems to pervade the place but I’ve learned to deal with it. I’ve even stopped showering before I go so as to fit in better. I don’t know if its working but I’m less grossed out and Bela Karolyi’s Cousin’s Former Roommate steers clear of me, now. Yep. #Winning. 

Cara also has a pet, now. A fish named “Lucy.” I won the original Lucy for her at the fair but within 12 hours of when we brought her home she keeled. Belly up, baby. Complete parenting FAIL. Rather than explain to Cara why Lucy was sleeping so much I decided to leave work early, go to Pet-Smart, buy a female Beta and sub said female Beta in for Lucy. Hence, Lucy 2.0 became a daily part of our lives. Sure, she’s pink and not orange and sure, she looks nothing like a Goldfish but that eventuality is easily explained to a three and a half year old. Cara: “Daddy, why is Lucy pink now?” Me: “Lucy knew pink was your favorite color, honey, so she changed for you.” Cara: “Wow. My fish is magical.” God bless her. May she retain her innocent belief system forever and never have to face the sad and sordid truths that we adults do on a daily basis.    

As for Nicole and I? We’re good. Still working the same jobs and same hours that we were working at this time last year. I’d call our respective existences mundane but I’d be lying. Nicole recently discovered “Song Pop” and I recently re-embraced blogging. I’m also trying to publish a short story but I can’t remember its name, presently. My mind has grown ‘kinda numb from all this 2012 recollecting. What a fascinating year! If it gets any more fascinating I may have to take up hard-core drinking to offset the fascinating-ness of it. But hey, ’tis the season, guys! Rejoice and be glad! All the more so with a tumbler of Single Malt Scotch in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Breathe in and breathe out. Smell that December air. Smells like feces, doesn’t it? Ahh. The sweet smell of parenthood. We. Are. BLESSED. 

And we hope you are, too. Hopefully your respective years have been as eventful as ours has. We look forward to seeing many of you over the upcoming holiday. For those of you that we will not be seeing don’t worry: It’s not you. Okay, well maybe it is a little bit but indirectly. It’s not that you smell or we’re suffering from anything communicable. It’s just that if given the choice between an extra few hours of sleep and getting together/being social, the Marshes will opt for the former. That said, have a wonderful holiday season, whatever your spirituality. Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Festivus, Merry Christmas and Happy Kwanzaa! And to all my Atheistic family and friends out there? Hi. Happy December. 

All our Love, 

The Marshes. 

Okay, so maybe our year wasn’t that uneventful. I mean really, it’s all in how you look at it. I just read back over what I wrote and I’m ‘kinda impressed at how much actually has happened to us in 2012. If the world ends in nine days (or, as some dyslexic Mayan’s predicted, tonight at 0:90 MP), at least I’ll be able to meet my maker, secure in the knowledge that I didn’t just spend the entire year farting in to a seat cushion. To the extent that I could I lived my life. I taught Cara how to write her name (with the help of her school, of course) and how to spell everything from it to daddy, mommy, pop-pop and mom-mom (we’re still working on Natalie). I finally managed to get her to a Phillies game and the Devon Horsey Show. So what if I also memorized the lyrics to “I’ve Got A Dream” and can recite whole “Dora the Explorer” books and episodes from memory? So what if the Marsh Christmas Newsletter isn’t overflowing with milestones and pictures of farm animals deep in prayer? I’ve got plenty of time for that in the future. After all, Christmas does come once a year. So long as Nibiru keeps its distance next Friday, it’ll return again in 2013.

In the meantime, I’m done but I don’t feel done. Incomplete. FAIL. I think I know what I need to do but not today. Today, I’ve got a date with a couple of younger women at my three and a half year old’s Christmas concert/cookie decorating spectacular. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll write the Completely False and Over-Exaggeration Laden Marsh Christmas Newsletter (2012 Edition). Tune in then to find out what its like to scale Everest with a six month old in tow.

Defining “Monster”

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

It’s the most wonderful time of the year my fellow denizens of the universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of  existence. But presently, the sublime joy that I should be feeling about the holiday season despite my pseudo-Grinchiness in years past has been supplanted not by questions about the existence of Santa Claus, Missus Claus, their nine flying reindeer (why do people always exclude Rudolph and just say “eight flying reindeer” anyway? I mean sh*t, they didn’t write a song about Dasher and Dancer; they wrote a song about Rudolph) and their cadre of indentured servants I mean elves but about something completely unrelated. Unrelated, and unexpected.

I can’t believe that I didn’t see this coming. I mean, I should have. After all, Cara is my daughter and if history has taught me anything about… well, me its taught me that I’m not always the most well-adjusted individual. Those of you that have known me since the wayward days of my youth are aware of this, as well (sacrificing Billy Joel to the highway gods, anyone?). And for the most part, Cara has shown signs that she is a carbon copy of my wife/her mother, Nicole, and not me, which is good. No blogs entitled “Random Musings of a Pseudo-Madwoman” in her future. Is it any wonder that I let my guard down? No. Not really. But I did, and guess what happened?

It all started a few weeks before Halloween. We were hanging around in our living room after dinner one Sunday night. I was feeding Natalie and Cara was watching “Tangled.” Nicole was on her computer looking at Halloween costumes and she asked Cara, “What do you want to be for Halloween, honey?”

Cara’s immediate response? “A monster.”

Me: “A monster, huh?” I turned to Nicole and mouthed pridefully, that’s my daughter. Nicole smiled sarcastically, rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Cara: “Yes.”

Nicole: “Why not a kitty cat, honey? Or a princess?”

Cara: “No, mommy. I want to be a monster. Can Natalie be a monster, too?”

Admittedly, the initial pride that I felt at not only Cara wanting to be a monster for Halloween but having her baby sister be one, too quickly faded and I began to question myself and my parenting skills. How does Cara even know about monsters, I thought. As far as I knew and as far as I know presently, the only exposure that my three year old has ever had to monsters is via Sesame Street. And Elmo, Grover, Cookie Monster and Telly aren’t exactly the invasive monsters that most of us associate with the term, i.e. Dracula, the Werewolf, Frankenstein, the Blob and the Crites to name a few.

FYI: If you don’t know what a Crite is you need to check out the movie “Critters.” It came out in the mid-1980’s and it is a masterful piece of Reagan Era, cinematic super cheese. Think a Tribble gone cannibal and you’ll develop an accurate representation of what the f*ck a Crite looks like. Add a spattering of foul language and a couple of shape shifting, alien bounty hunters (one of whom looks like Jon Bon Jovi) and you end up with one of my all time, favorite movies. See? I told you I wasn’t always the well-adjusted, picture of sanity that you are all familiar with.

Um… yeah. Right. End FYI.

Back to monsters and Cara’s understanding of them. I didn’t think much of it at the time save for my initial, subconscious inquiry. Neither Nicole nor I had any intention of introducing Cara to the darker side of the term “monster.” Hell, we didn’t even want to let her watch “Monsters Inc.” despite its significance to our relationship (for those of you that didn’t know, “Monsters Inc.” was the movie Nicole and I went to see on our first date back in 2001). We let it lie. Halloween came and went and Cara was the cutest little, pink monster that I’ve ever seen. Natalie was a close second and that is not a reflection on her but rather, on her disinterest in wearing her monster hat which, had she worn it, would have made her the cutest little, pink monster that I’ve ever seen and Cara a close second (like how I did that?). We gallivanted around the neighborhood and collected candy for the better part of an hour before we returned home. Cara took off her costume and went to bed, and there was no more talk of monsters. None.

Then.

Sadly, Cara’s fascination with monsters did not end with her Halloween costume. Rather, it went in to hibernation for a few weeks before re-rearing its ugly, horned and pimpled head this past Monday night. It started innocently enough. I picked her and her sister up from school as I normally do. We made our way out the door in to the dark and out to my waiting car.  As I was loading Natalie in to her car seat I peripherally saw Cara step up on to the grassy knoll beside which my car was parked. I instinctively turned and stated in my best Unkie Frank voice, “Cara Angelina, don’t wander where I can’t see you.” She turned back to me, smiled, and said “why, daddy?”

Me: “Because its dark up there, baby.”

Cara: “Oh. And there are monsters in the dark, daddy.” To this day I thank God that Natalie was firmly affixed in her car seat else I’m not sh*tting you: I may have dropped her in shock at what my three year old had just muttered (Dad of the Year, I know). Thankfully, I had her seated and was able to tighten the straps around Natalie’s shoulders and midsection before I turned back to Cara.

Me: “No, Cara. There are no monsters in the dark.”

Cara: “Are there monsters in the day, daddy?”

Me: Ah f*ck. I didn’t vocalize those words but I thought them along with the question, how the f*ckity f*ck f*ck do I answer THAT? 

I didn’t. I closed the door, walked over, gathered her up and changed the topic from monsters to her day as I bucked her in to her own car seat, closed her door, climbed in to the driver’s seat, started the car and drove home. She went along innocently enough. The trade-off was that I had to listen to Cee Lo Green and the Muppets sing “All I Need Is Love” about five times between her daycare and our house which, in all honesty, is not that bad of a trade-off. BTW, if you haven’t heard that song yet check it out on Youtube. I promise that you won’t be disappointed. It’s an instant Christmas classic. I’d post a link here but I’d rather not distract from the topic of this blog entry anymore than I already have or will.

Later that night as I was putting her to bed, it came up again. As we were going through the nightly routine that Cara uses to push her bedtime back a minimum of 15 minutes–Cara reading me a story, us rocking, Cara getting in to bed, Cara asking for a drink, Cara needing to saying goodnight to Lucy her fish, et cetera, et cetera–she got emotional and asked me not to leave. When I asked her why her response was, to say the least, predictable per our earlier conversation. Nevertheless, I was still surprised by the suddenness of it:

“I don’t want to be alone in here with Lucy, my [stuffed] animals and the monsters.”

Me: Ah f*ck. F*ckity f*ck f*ck. Um… yeah. Right. That is, to say, I was utterly speechless for the second time in approximately three hours. After I’d composed myself, I explained to her that there were no monsters in her room and that if there were monsters her daddy would protect her from them. But that led to her asking “so there are monsters, daddy” and me back tracking and saying, “no, Cara, there are no monsters, but if there were monsters daddy would protect you from them.” And so on and so forth. 15 minutes became 30 pretty quickly and 30 became 45. I eventually got her to go to sleep but said situation repeated itself last night, leaving me not just with a big question mark in my mind about what’s going to happen tonight and tomorrow night, but a big dilemma: How do I explain monsters to a three and a half year old? 

I shouldn’t have to, guys. I keep telling myself that it is too soon. I know that the Monster Talk is as inevitable a talk as the Death Talk and the *CRINGE* Talk that I will Not Discuss Herein Because My Wife will be Giving that Talk. It has to happen eventually in some capacity, hopefully well before the Death Talk and that other Talk but I had hoped for a few more years of blissful innocence from my first born before I had to begin to teach her one of the most crucial truths that I will ever have to teach her as her father.

That truth? That monsters do exist, just not in the way that Hollywood portrays them. The real Draculas, Werewolves, Frankensteins, Blobs and yes, even Crites are the people that cause pain for either their own, sick satisfaction or because their ideology dictates it. Stalkers and molesters, militants and terrorists, rapists and murderers, even politicians. It is presumptive of me to think that Cara would or even could understand what a single one of these monsters is despite the fact that she has always been a quick study. And I’m sure as hell not going to sit her down in front of a television and show her “The Silence of the Lambs” or pictures of 9/11, now.

In reality? Monsters are still, for Cara, little more than the multicolored, felt inhabitants of that place that every kid can “tell [you] how to get” to. Perhaps there are one or two horned and pimpled orcs and/or goblins in her brain though I swear to you that they are not there because of me. Scout’s honor. Cross my heart and hope to… well, you know. Daddy constantly reinforcing for her that he will protect her against any monsters that happen to spontaneously appear on this side of the proverbial wormhole of her existence will hopefully be all the reinforcement that she needs for the next half a dozen years or so. But all the reinforcement in the universe cannot replace the realization that my daughter appears to have come to completely on her own:

Monsters are real. Regardless of how I or anyone else spins it, Cara now believes in them to some extent. And she’s not wrong. While certain types of monsters are fictional and are not real others like the ones I mentioned above are just as real as she is. That belief, for me, signals the beginning of her inevitable transition from a sheltered child in to something more. Not overnight, obviously. She is, after all, only three and a half and I’ve still got what I hope is a decade plus before I have to worry about sharpening my Claymore when her boyfriend comes to pick her up for a date.

Me: “So you want to take Cara to see the 3D, Smell-O-Vision re-release of ‘Monsters Inc.?'” Sharpen, sharpen. “Did you know that a Claymore can skewer three full grown men upon its blade? The Scots never tried it with teenagers.” Sharpen, sharpen.

Boyfriend: “Um… yeah. Right. You’re not exactly well-adjusted Mister Marsh, are you?”

No. I’m not. I once authored a blog called “Random Musings of a Pseudo-Madman.” Where do you think I got the “Madman” part from? I also used to refer to myself in the Third Person as Madchronicler and my all time favorite horror movie is an 80’s cheese fest called “Critters.” Every hear of it? Its about a race of extra-terrestrial, cannibalistic hairballs that attack the Earth but are driven back by Rick Springfield. Have Cara back by 10 or I’m going to reenact Act Two, Scene Five of that movie on you. What’s it about? I’ll give you a hint: It involves a staircase, a shotgun and the line, “they have weapons!”

But I digress. I can see that Cara is beginning to understand that there is more to her world than her home, her daycare, her friends’ houses, her Mom-Mom Minnie’s house or her Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop’s house. And she senses that its not all kitty cats and princesses. So as her father, what the hell do I do? How do I rein in her imagination before she starts seeing monsters or worse in every shadow?

Um… yeah. Right. Guess what? I have no farg’in idea. Perhaps I’m presuming too much. But I’d rather be completely wrong in making what I feel is a very responsible and well thought out deduction of my daughter’s psyche than deny the possibility and get caught with my britches down. What can I say? Part of being a new parent (and I am still a new parent; three years does not a Parental Sensei make) is being a tiddy-bit paranoid and I remain so with both of my daughters. I don’t like the thought of either of them being scared of anything so this whole idea of defining “monster” for Cara in a way that reassures her while alternately leaving a very, very important seed of thought in her psyche (equivalent to the Stranger Danger Seed) is incredibly important to me. I just don’t know how to proceed.

I think I’ll wait and see. The situation does not yet appear dire. I’ll wait and see what happens tonight and tomorrow night. If the topic doesn’t come up again then no worries, at least not for the moment. I’ll let it lie like I did back in late October/early November and wait for it to re-materialize. I just hope it doesn’t do so at 2:00 or 3:00 in the bleepin’ AM.

But what if it does? What if monsters are now as integral a part of Cara’s existence as waking up for 10 to 15 minutes at 1:30 in the bleep, bleep bleepidy bleep is a part of Natalie’s? Well, then. I guess I’ll just have to formulate a plan. And if that happens, I may need to solicit some advice from those of you that have gone through this. I may not yet be a Parental Sensei but I know enough to know that there are a few of you out there. You know who you are. If you’re reading this consider yourself tagged… and on call. I may need the parenting equivalent of your masterful Crane Style before long. In the meantime, its back to my visions of sugar-free sugarplums, Rudolph usurping Dasher as the head reindeer and a society of elves that have been freed from their servitude to Santa.

Um… yeah. Right. Guess what? I’m done. All together now: Oh thank God. 

 

The Curious Case of Our Elf on the Shelf, Jingle

The Madchronicler4 Comments

Good Morning, everyone. I’d like to introduce you to someone very near and dear to me. But more on that in a few paragraphs. First, some perspective.

Historically, I’ve been somewhat of a Grinch about Christmas. There are many reasons why and I won’t explicate them for you herein (I talk enough about myself as it is) but needless to say, that is not entirely true any more. While having a family has not necessarily caused my Christmas heart to grow three sizes on any day, it has made me a great deal less-Grinchy about the holiday season. I still think the season that begins for many on November 1st and doesn’t end until the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6th is overlong, overblown and is yet another attempt by ‘da man to exploit something sacred for profit like Valentines Day. Or the new “Transformers” franchise (curse you, Michael Bay!). But I’ve given in to it somewhat over the last decade plus. I’ve had to.

Consider: I have a Christmas Mix on Spotify entitled “My Kind of Christmas Mix” which features such holiday classics as “Christmas in Hollis” and “Swiss Colony Beef Log.”  I look forward to putting up our tree the weekend after Thanksgiving every year and to decorating the outside of our house… whenever we have the time to do so (NEWS FLASH: It’s not looking good for 2012). I look forward to taking my daughters to see Santa Claus at the mall though admittedly, said tradition has involved more crying and gnashing of teeth over the last few years than the sheer, sublime joy that meeting Santa and telling him what you want for Christmas should. What can I say? Cara thinks Santa is the sh*t when he’s not towering over her. I like having both my family and Nicole’s family over on Christmas Eve though admittedly, it always helps to have an inexhaustible supply of Egg Nog on hand for the event.

And finally? I love Christmas morning. Watching Cara’s eyes light up when she realizes that Santa ate the milk and cookies that she left out for him… watching her tear through her presents with reckless abandon… spending the next few hours playing with her… it’s all very “It’s a Wonderful Life,” guys. Everything down to the Yule Log burning on our television screen. And it warms my heart despite the chill outside and the snow that is quickly blanketing the world outside my office here in Royersford, Pennsylvania today.

But this blog entry isn’t about Christmas. At least not directly. As I said previously, I’d like to introduce you to someone very near and dear to me. This…

…is our Elf on the Shelf, Jingle. His given name was Jumble but sometime around the beginning of December last Christmas season Cara renamed him, so while all of our documentation states his name as Jumble, we know him and refer to him now as Jingle. For those of you that are blissfully unaware of what the f*ck an Elf on the Shelf is consider this definition, brought to you by your good friends at Wikipedia:

“Every day from Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve, each family’s scout elf watches over the children and then at night, once everyone goes to bed, the elf flies back to the North Pole to report back to Santa about what activities, good and bad, took place throughout the day. Before the family wakes up each morning, the scout elf flies back from the North Pole and hides. By hiding in a new spot each morning around the house, the scout elf and the family play an on-going game of hide and seek.” (Taken from Wikipedia, November 2012)

That’s pretty much the proverbial long and short of it though the “play[ing] an ongoing game of hide and seek” can quickly get out of hand. At least in Jingle’s case it can. When Nicole first posited the prospect of inviting an Elf on the Shelf in to our home last November I was initially against it. Understand that the prospect of a tiny, human-like creature with pointy ears, rosy cheeks and an unassuming smile traipsing around our home for 30 plus days did not appeal to me in the slightest. I was concerned, among other things, about how our heat bill would be affected by the little f*cker’s comings and goings and how traumatized our cats would be if they actually saw him skipping around in the dark after the rest of us had gone to bed. Jesus, the white one already hides all day and only comes out when she wants to rub her a** against you. A six inch tall elf running around might cause her to go in to cardiac arrest.

She didn’t really leave me or our feline children much of a choice, though. One minute our home was secure and the next, I arrived home from work to find him hanging out on the mirror in our dining room. He glanced over at me with his bulging, “innocent” eyes as I walked passed him and in to the kitchen to get a soda and something in those eyes seemed to bespeak not childlike glee but deep-seated malice. This so-called “elf?” He knew me. He could see in to my soul. And what did he see there?

Himself, guys. He saw himself. What followed over the next few days and weeks was an unprecedented alliance between then-Jumble, now-Jingle and me, his originally reluctant host.

It all started when I came home from work one Saturday afternoon, about a week after his initial arrival. Nicole had made ziti the night before and I helped myself to a heaping bowl of it. She and Cara were over at her mother’s house and would not be back until a bit later on, and Zygote Natalie was resting comfortably in Nicole’s belly. I sat down upon our couch in my customary seat, AKA the Marsh Indentation, directly next to the end table upon which rests, to this day,a light, a book or two that I’m reading and all of our remote controls. I turned on the television and tuned it to the Penn State/Nebraska game. I speared a generous amount of pasta, sauce and melted cheese with my fork and raised it to my mouth. I inserted it. I turned left to see what the thermostat was set to…

And there he was, perched high atop the floor lamp next to the thermostat. I choked on the bite of ziti that I was attempting to chew and spit it out. Jingle wasn’t just looking at me. He was glaring at me with understanding in his eyes and his smile was unwavering. As if by telekinesis, I understood immediately what he required of me and helplessly, I agreed to it because had I been in his place? You bet. I would have proposed the same thing. My appetite replaced by an unexpected sense of purpose, I laid down my bowl of ziti and nodded my head. I swear I saw his cheeky smile increase slightly and his little head twitch in a ghost of a nod.

Game on, that grin and nod seemed to say. I smiled and picked back up my bowl of ziti, ’cause I have never and will never pass up a bowl of Nicole’s ziti for more than a fleeting moment no matter how poor my appetite is. You could have Chucky himself walk across my living room toward me with a machete pointed in my direction and I’d still need to finish my f*cking pasta while he gutted me. Don’t judge me. Try it for yourself and tell me its not addictive.

But I digress. Back to Jingle: In the subsequent days and weeks I took it upon my self to be Jingle’s prime assistant in our home. We would brainstorm at night after Cara had gone to sleep and while Nicole was still working about where he was going to position himself the following day and how I would help him. Jingle, you see, has quite a flair for the dramatic and was unable in many cases to supply himself with the props he needed to fulfill his plans, and while I was never quite sure of where he was going to be the following morning (he rarely followed my idea to a “T”), in no particular order, here are a few of his greatest hits.

Jingle likes his snack food almost as much as Cara likes hers. He has shown a fondness in the past for everything from fruit to, in this picture, Goldfish. Sadly, Jingle isn’t very fond of cleaning up after himself, nor is he fond of using a plate or a bowl. Henceforth how we ended up with a shelf elf’s head in a brand new bag of Goldfish and a trail of the f*cking things on the counter and on the floor. I love him, but I really need to teach him how to be tidier.

Jingle may be an Elf on the Shelf but he’s also got needs. While Jingle’s gender has always been somewhat open to debate (Nicole swears he’s a she and I swear he’s a he), he/she obviously has a thing for blondes. In this particular case, I caught him red-handed sharing a private moment with one of Cara’s Barbies. Notice also the pharmacy-costumed Santa behind him. Apparently he’s also got a thing for voyeurism. I warned him against starting a relationship, however brief with someone that’s been around the block as much as Barbie has but he didn’t listen to me. After a night of debauchery I found him, the following day, here:

I don’t know why he went with just Nyquil over the Nyquil and Valtrex cocktail that I told him was in the medicine cabinet in the Master Bathroom but Jingle has never been one for admitting to his weaknesses. He swears that Barbie was clean and that he really cared for her, even after she left him for either the penguin that danced to the “Cuban Shuffle” or Rock and Roll Elmo (I never discovered which). That said, I understand him catching a cold. After all, he’s only wearing a red felt uniform and a flimsy, red felt hat and he flies to and from the North Pole every night. Dear Santa: The Elf on a Shelf has become a pretty profitable brand. Its spurred books and a holiday special. With all that money coming in, can’t you afford to outfit your elf scouts in a parka, gloves, boots and a knit hat? Remember, big guy: A happy shelf elf is a hard working shelf elf. Sincerely, Me. PS: Don’t tell Nicole about the Valtrex refill I requested in my letter to you. The less she knows the better off we’ll all be.

What I have listed above is not nearly the extent of what I could list. Some ideas were less entertaining than others (hanging from the light in the dining room? Really, Jingle?) but the ones I have noted above are a few of his best. But the coup de grace? Jingle’s masterpiece? Simple, really. It was the night of December 23rd last year when I walked outside to have a cigarette and walked back inside not five minutes later. I beheld this: 

I couldn’t believe it! The little f*cker had actually TP’d our Christmas tree! The thing I, Nicole and Cara (not to mention Zygote Natalie by association) had worked so hard to set up and decorate just a few, short weeks before. The core of our Marsh family, Christmas tradition. I won’t lie to you guys: I felt betrayed. I felt like Jingle had just been stringing me along with his seemingly innocent gestures and comradeship all in preparation for his final gag. I cleaned up the mess as best I could, but not before Nicole came home from work, saw it, screamed and about hung Jingle by his booties over the Harvest Spice candle I had burning in the dining room. But she didn’t. She simply muttered something about him “never coming back… ever” and retired to our room with a sigh of disgust. She left me to deal with him, because really? It had been my alliance with him, not hers that had brought about the destruction of our Christmas tree.

“You need to leave, and you can’t come back next year, Jingle,” I told him, “I’m sorry. Don’t look at me like that, with your chubby, ruddy cheeks and your big, puppy dog eyes. What, you think folding your hands in front of you and crossing your ankles will make you look more innocent? I caught you in the act, Jingle, and this? I’m sorry, my friend, but this… this is goodbye.“

He did not answer me as I finished cleaning up his mess, unplugged the tree, turned out the light and went to bed. He remained where he was, unmoved as far as I could tell until the next morning when I came downstairs and found him gone. Nary a trace of him remained save for a single piece of toilet paper that stirred slightly beneath the tree in the heat blowing from our vents and a lone, pretzel flavored Goldfish next to it. Memories of the times we had spent together flooded back and I felt a stray tear run down my cheek. I sighed.

Goodbye, Jingle, I thought again, and went about my Christmas Eve business.

I had a lot to distract me from Jingle’s departure that day, the following day and in the days, weeks and months ahead. Zygote Natalie became Newborn Natalie and is now Infant Natalie. Cara graduated from the Terrible Twos and entered the  Even More Terrible Threes. Nicole and I celebrated our seven year anniversary and our eleventh year together. Inevitably, sometime in mid-November the topic came up in discussion: My mother was considering  inviting an Elf on the Shelf in to her home for the holidays. Did I think it was a good idea?

I shrugged. “Sure mom,” I said dejectedly, “it’ll be… a lot of fun.” I didn’t tell her that I had forcibly exiled mine from my home. Nor did I let on how much I missed him. I pleaded with my wife to let me invite Jingle back but was unable to sway her sensitivities. I went to sleep Thanksgiving night knowing that the possibility of ever seeing Jingle again was tied unavoidably and in opposition to the possibility of ever kissing her again. It was a sad and sleepless night. But when I woke up the next morning:

You can imagine my surprise. There was Jingle, eating Cara’s leftover Halloween candy! He had defied not only my wishes but the Elf on the Shelf Cardinal Rule: Thou shalt not return to the home of one who has ordered you to never return. How would he fulfill his mission and report back to Santa? He did not answer me but somehow, I trusted that he would. I knew that he would find a way. And I knew that Nicole would be okay with his return (which she was). Because he’s a part of our family, now. Granted, he’s a seasonal employee whom we cut loose after we ask him to bust his a** for a month plus but hey: Anyone that can handle flying thousands of miles every night in bone-chilling cold wearing little more than the equivalent of a toilet paper suit can put up with a little inconsistent employment, can’t they?

As I sat there at my dining room table looking at him I smiled. I suddenly understood for maybe the first time since I was a little child, flush with the sheer and sublime joy of meeting Santa at the local mall and telling him what I wanted him to bring me that the Christmas season, however long or overwrought it has grown, remains a time of endless possibilities. Magic can happen, even for the Grinchiest of us if we merely wish it. This Christmas season, I got a special surprise very early on. My friend, Jingle, returned to wreak havoc with me again and God d*mnit, we’re going to make it our mission to top everything that we did last year. Hallelujah!

He mentioned something that morning about a car, our garage and texting. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see how that pans out.

What Thanksgiving Means to Me by Way of an iPad, Scotch, Hashtags, Curiosity and the Eminent Zombie-afication of the Earth

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Well here’s a first. I’m typing this on an iPad. ‘Whoda ‘thunk it? In all honesty, I didn’t buy this for me. Despite my seemingly ageless aversion to anything and everything Apple, I will concede at this juncture that while Apple may never gain a monopoly over the technological world, the iPad will, by the time Cara enters school, have replaced ‘ye ‘ole copybook. So rearing her on it at an early age is, in my opinion, crucial to preparing her for school. I still want her to learn how to handwrite and not merely type, because for all I know, the Zombie Apocalypse will happen sometime between now and September of 2014, erase all traces of anything technological from the face of the world and force her to do so. But if it doesn’t? Well, at least she’ll be technologically savvy. It could be worse. I could be allowing her to watch Spongebob Squarepants.

Maybe that’s the big secret that NASA is keeping from us: The Curiosity Rover found an ancient, petrified, zombie-afied finger in the dust that it was analyzing and the Jet Prepulsion Lab is trying to figure out how to break the news to us.

I can envision it now: “Guess what, Earth? We have determined that there was life on Mars once upon a time, but a Zombie outbreak coupled with the rapid deterioration of the planet’s atmosphere caused all life on the planet to disappear. Oh, and by the way, the same factors that contributed to the death of that planet are contributing to the death of ours, just more rapidly. Hope you enjoyed dinner and had pie. Have a Happy F*cking Thanksgiving, Sh*theads.”

I wonder how Curiosity could encapsulate that statement in to 140 characters and Tweet it? It’d probably have to paraphrase. Something like “@MarsCuriosity dear certified, bona fide Sh*theads: Mars went Biter and Earth’s going to too. Eat pie. Happy F*cking Thanksgiving. #Turkeycoma.” 140/140. Sweet. Can a machine swear? That’s a serious question, guys. I may need an answer to it if I ever publish ENDWORLD and start writing the sequel.

Incidentally, did you know I wrote a book? If you didn’t then you really must be new to Random Musings. The only thing I’ve blogged about more since I started writing these little ditties in 2008 is… Well, okay. Nothing. I’d say “myself” but it’s ‘kinda the same thing, isn’t it?

It’s still Thanksgiving. At least it will be for the next 39 minutes. Within five minutes of when I left my mom’s sans Nicole (she’s going Black Friday shopping with my sister, AKA she’s taking her life in to her own hands and I know where her living will is) both girls were in #turkeycomas and have been since (Natalie woke up just long enough to spit up on me, drink her bottle, smile, sh*t, spit up on me again and pass out). I’m firmly ensconsed in my own, yearly tradition of wearing sweatpants, drinking Macallan Single Malt and watching “Punkin Chunkin.” Somewhere between tumbler one and tumbler two I decided to start writing a blog entry on our new iPad.

My initial impression is the same as my initial impression of my first Android phone was: Typing on a virtual keyboard is incredibly awkward when compared to typing on an actual, physical one. ‘Course, that could also be the scotch. But I’m managing despite my unfamiliarity with it to muddle through. I can’t speak to the quality of what I’m writing… That’s up to you the reader… But I can say with the utmost certainty that… Well, I’m still composing. I don’t know for how much longer. That’ll all depend on when the Tryptophan starts to mingle with the Macallan and turns me in to a zombie. Hashtag turkey coma, #eveyrhtingtastesbetterwithsinglemaltscotch.

A quick, parenthetical aside: Does the brain trust at Discovery order Kari Byron to wear something skimpy for every show that she films? Everyone else at “Punkin Chunkin” is wearing a parka, a hat and gloves. Kari (God love her) is wearing a knit hat, a pea green skiing jacket and a pair of tight, tight jeans. Tight. Really tight. Knee-high brown leather boots, too. #Iheartredheads, especially intelligent and muscular ones. End aside.

I have relocated to my bedroom and am still writing despite the fact that it is now 12:04 AM, Thanksgiving Day Plus One, AKA Black Friday. I just talked to Nicole. She and my sister apparently decided to risk their lives a few hours early this year. They’ve already hit Walmart and Target and are now preparing to go to sleep until 4:30 AM when they will awaken from their own, respective #turkeycomas and rejoin the masses in pursuit of that once in a lifetime, Black Friday deal, again.

I never really “got” Black Friday. Perhaps that is because I worked it for every one of the 13 years I was enslaved by I MEAN AN EMPLOYEE OF CVSStress Pharmacy. I don’t have any funny retail stories about it. Not even from when I was working in good ‘ole Norristown, Pennsylvania. Generally, CVSStress opened around 6:00 AM on Friday and not 8:00 PM on Thanksgiving. Generally, the best deal offered was on the latest, generic knockoff. One year it was a DVD player for $50.00 back when DVD players were… Well, we’re worth more than they are today which, amazingly enough, is approximately $50.00 on the eve of the eminent Zombie Apocalypse and simultaneous deterioration of the Earth’s atmosphere (f*ck the Mayans. Here come the radioactive Walkers).

Since I left in 2005 and sought gainful employment elsewhere, I’ve stayed as far away from any retail-based proprietorship as I can on the “busiest shopping day of the year.” FYI, guys: That’s a misnomer. Take it from someone who… Well, worked 13 Black Fridays in a row. The last few days leading up to Christmas, specifically Christmas Eve are easily twice as, if not three times as busy as today. So for those of you out shopping pre-dawn that are reading this pseudo-drunken rambling on your iPhone, your Android or your Windows Phone while sitting in your cars, engulfed in a toxic haze of recycled heat, coffee and a #turkeycoma induced Methane deposit, or those of you that are waiting in line, shivering in the cold behind a couple of dozen other, crazy-eyed shoppers that want the free Super Mario Game for the Nintendo WiiU that Old Navy is offering to the first 100 customers starting at 4:00 AM… Breeeaaattthhheee… Do me a favor? Tell the doe-eyed cashier that rings you out to conserve his or her energy. After all, Black Friday is just one day. There are still 31 more shopping days left after it until Christmas. He or she will either thank you for your perspective or quit retail, never to return.

Either way trust me: It’s a #winwin. #BlackFriday, #youdorealizethatsomesinglemaltscotchwouldmakethecoldgoaway.

12:44 AM now. The grand finale of “Punkin Chunkin” is almost upon me. That’s good, ’cause I’m pretty tired, and my gut is telling me that the girls are both going to awaken from their respective #turkeycomas around the same time that Nicole and my sister are drinking their coffee and driving to… Wherever the hell their first shopping destination is this year. Scratch that: They already hit two so their third shopping destination. If they are reading this right now which, knowing my wife, she is I’d like to take this opportunity to tell them both that I love them and will be praying for their safety while Cara watches Dora in the dark on one side of me and Natalie drinks an early bottle on the other. And if that doesn’t happen? Good luck. I’ll be asleep and dreaming a dream of Kari Byron. Not to self: Relocate sheet and pillow to the couch in the Man Cave before Nicole gets home later due to one too many Kari Byron references. #FML.

I think I’m going to try to synchronize these last few paragraphs with the end of the show. I’d narrate what’s going on for you but really, guys? You probably watched it. I mean, it’s not just my tradition but everyone’s… Isn’t it? Hashtag silence, #thesoundofcricketschirping. In truth? I’ve missed most of it. The last time I really paid attention was earlier around the same time I wrote (still on the iPad, by the way) and revealed my inner longing for Kari Byron. Guys (only the males, and any females that are in to that kind of thing) I’m serious: Google her. I promise that you won’t be disappointed. See what I mean?

So what was the point of this blog entry? I honesty don’t know. The original title was “An iPad Test” but it has since morphed in to something more. Sadly, I can not say what that something is save for another semi-drunken rumination on a holiday by your buddy, the Madchronicler. I’ve covered everything from the Zombie Apocalypse to Black Friday. And did I somehow manage to show a correlation between the two?

I guess there are similarities. Consider that exhausted shoppers, just emerging from their #turkeycomas ‘kinda resemble zombies, and it is pretty cold out, tonight. Cold could equal climate change which could be a fore bearer of a forthcoming, catastrophic depletion of the Earth’s atmosphere. And then there is the fact that I’m writing this on an iPad which I did not purchase on Black Friday (I purchased it about a week ago), but I’ve always maintained that me, giving in to the Cult of Apple would be one of the signs of the apocalypse. Why not a zombie one? I guess in the end it all comes down to one, indisputable fact. And that fact?

Those of us with access to Macallan Single Malt should not be allowed anywhere near an iPad while drinking it. We should be content to simply allow our own respective, post-Thanksgiving dinner #turkeycomas to engulf us before our minds start racing. But then again, without imagination, The iPad, Macallan Single Malt, Curiosity, hash tags and the eminent, Zombie Apocalypse wouldn’t exist.

F*cking tradeoffs. 1:18 AM, guys. Sweet dreams.