So my fingers have finally regained their feeling after untwisting and releasing countless toys from their plastic habitats on Christmas morning. Why, for the love of all that is wholesome, do manufacturers insist on binding their products to their packaging? Christmas morning comes, holiday wrapping strewn aside, and tiny hands scrabble to open their presents only to be thwarted by two dozen twist ties binding Princess Barbie at the neck, wrists, forehead, waist, hips, thighs, ankles, and areas prone to chafing.

By the time I freed her from her plastic casing, Mo was already four presents ahead of me, and Co was dancing a jig, holding a half unwrapped box of Ready, Set, Go! Toddler cars. Four cars in the box, each bound by no less than six twist ties. I got the first one freed, frantically handed it to her so as to work on the next ones, but given she has the attention span of a fruit fly, she had moved on to snacking on the crayons in Mo’s stocking.

Early in December, I had read an article in Parents or Parenting or some kind of parent-focused magazine, where the author proudly boasts that in addition to making roasted corn and butternut squash bisque with vegetable from her own garden, a Bosc pear and fennel stuffed turkey, and sweet fried plantains topped with a roasted beet relish, in between her Annie Liebowitz photographed family holiday photoshoot, and having her Christmas Letter edited by Anna Wintour, she dutifully released all of the toys from their bindings, ties, and handcuffs before lovingly placing said toys back into their respective packaging and wrapping them in the homemade pulp free holiday paper she whipped up on her back porch while waiting for her contractions to get strong enough so that she could labor in her inflatable pool and bring forth baby number five in her size 0 Juicy Couture Maternity Terry Dress sans doctor, doula, epidural, smelling salts or a king size sleeve of Reese Peanut Butter Cups — four months before Christmas Day.

I don’t subscribe to that magazine any more.

*sigh* I had planned to write about the Christmas holiday, the lack of egg nog (yes, I said lack) I imbibed, TV shows I’ve watched, the cold I caught that is hanging around like I owe it some money, things like that, instead of this present opening diatribe. So, dear readers, here’s hoping that you had a wonderful holiday and that you bring in the New Year doing whatever it is you enjoy, with whomever it is you enjoy doing that with. See you in the new year.

So we are deep in the throes of Operation Christmas Countdown. The tree is up and dressed, the Christmas cards we’ve received are hanging from the mantel, we’ve got Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole on repeat, cookies have been made and distributed. and the girls handmade Christmas dresses arrived yesterday (thank, Grandma Lorna!). Pictures of that to follow, rest assured.

Of course, no Christmas season would be complete without the last minute scramble for presents and assorted stocking fillers that have been forgotten despite the day-to-day trips to the malls and department stores. You’d think that I’d have gotten a handle on it all, especially since we’ve decided to keep Christmas more contained than years past. I really wanted to adopt a 4 gift rule – something you want, something you need, something to wear, and something to read — but that wasn’t as well received by the masses as I had hoped. In the end, we decided for the sake of practicality and for the sake of our wallets — hello, economic downturn — that we would buy a handful of things for the girls, that DH and I would exchange between ourselves, and everyone else can have a big helping of, “Happy Holidays from our house to yours”! I did offer my parents a kind of service exchange, where I reluctantly happily do something for them that they’ve been nagging asking me to do, such as organize their photos into photo albums or address their Christmas cards for next year. In exchange for whatever task they have for me, they’re going to watch Mo and Co for New Year’s Eve. Woo! Woo! Woo!

But, back to the last minute scramble. My mom often tells this Christmas story of how a young Hilary with one L had her Christmas list made and that the year’s most coveted toy, a Cabbage Patch Kid (I’m dating myself here), was not on the list. Dear Mom asked and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want one? Are you sure you really don’t want a Cabbage Patch Kid,” to which young Hilary steadfastly maintained, “No”, “No” and again, “No” before going back to butcher the hair of some unflinching Barbie or some such. Almost everyday, Mom would ask me in a twisted “Green Eggs and Ham” type exchange.

Do you want a Cabbage Patch Kid?
Do you want one named Sarah Syd?
Would you like one Christmas Eve?
Would you like one under the tree?
Would you like one here or there?
Would you like one anywhere?

Fast forward to about four days before Christmas: guess who decides they want a Cabbage Patch Kid? Much applause to Dear Mom, though, who had the foresight to have stocked her closet with one or two of those hard-headed, perpetually dimpled dolls with yarn hair. So yes, I did get a Cabbage Patch for Christmas and her name was Joella. I think the next one I got was named O’Greta Hawkins. Seriously, I couldn’t make that up. Dear Mom averted a crisis and all was right with the world. When I heard that story as an adult, I laughed and thought, “That’ll never happen to me, not when I have kids.” When I heard that story as a first time parent, I thought, “That’ll never happen to me, not when Mo-dizz gets bigger.” When I heard that story as a mother of two, I thought, “That’ll never happen. They’ll get what they get and be happy about it!” Then the Fisher Price catalog arrived in the mail.

Curse you Fisher Price and your multitude of pastel colored toys for girls, your glossy pages filled with preschoolers playing effortlessly with toys that have taken a small time of MIT graduate students to assemble! Mo-dizz has been walking around with the catalog under her arm for the past three or four days in a Fisher Price delirium, telling anyone and anything that will listen, “And I want this and I want that and I’ll have that for Christmas and I want this and I want that and I’ll have that for Christmas and I want this and I want that and I’ll have that for Christmas and I want this. . . .”

She brings the catalog to the table at every meal. She brings it with her when she takes a nap or goes to bed. She tried to bring it with her to the bathroom, but I had to draw the line on that one — we have a hard enough time finagling good wiping without the distraction of the Loving Family Grand Victorian Dollhouse.

There have been no written amendments to the her Christmas list that hangs from the fridge, but she has been whispering and mumbling about this dollhouse consistently. Do I have it in the closet? Um, that would be a “no”. Like I really knew she was going to want that! Am I going to scramble between now and Thursday to whip this thing out of thin air? Um, that would be a “yes”. And why? Why do it, despite all of my better judgment, all of my posturings, and all of my soap box declarations of how I’m not going to be that mom?

Because there’s a hard-headed, perpetually dimpled doll with yarn hair in Mo and Co’s toy box, and her name is Joella.

It’s the holiday season and the wish lists abound. I helped Mo and Co get their respective thoughts on paper for the fat man, but I haven’t given any brain time to what I’m interested in. I can clearly remember being about seven or eight years old, laying on my bedroom floor with the Sears WishBook and the Toys R’ Us catalog spread out next to me, dog-earing the pages and making notes in a spiral bound Mead. I didn’t go as far as to cross-reference, color-code or provide an appendix to that list, but there was a list nonetheless.

Now that I’m a so-called grown-up, I am bombarded with the fact that the hooplah of Christmas is reserved for the Noggin and Nick Jr. set. Well, I just can’t accept that. I mean, I will, but, it’s not like I’m happy about it. So I guess that means, I should take my letter to Santa off of the fridge, right? And no dropping hints to my Grams about what size I take and which stores I frequent? Dang it! Can I at least leave a couple of clipped out pages from the Tiffany’s catalog on DH’s pillow? How about emailing “Someone thought you might like this” teaser’s to my parents’ email from the Banana Republic website? Yeah, didn’t think so.

In all honesty, there really isn’t anything that I REALLY want for Christmas, but there are a few things that I need to see happen.

1. I need for Shane Mercado to have his own TV show or something. He just looks like a lot of fun.

2. I really need for Orville Reddenbacher’s Simply Salted popcorn to not taste so freakin‘ good! I’m going through like 2 boxes a week.

3. I really, really needed for Lil Sass to have been wrong about those Fiber One Bars. Ohhhhh, my stomach. . .

4. I need to be more consistent about having my camera more accessible for all of the once-in-a-million photo ops and hilarious banter between Mo and Co. I need to work on this because Mo’s rendition of “Santa, Baby” while Co dances back-up can’t be done justice by mere words.

5. I need for the library branches nearest me to have the books I’m looking for on their shelves. Seriously, this is driving me insane. You’re a library! You’re supposed to have books! On your shelves! For people to check out! It isn’t even a case of other patrons taking out the books because the books aren’t even there to be taken out! Time to update the inventory, people.

6. I need for Co’s “crapbook” to finish itself for me. Oh, the best of intentions, I truly do have them. The pages are there, the pictures are there. The motivation? Not there. I did make progress, though, and I hauled the box of scrappin‘ stuff out of the closet. I know where her book is. It’s all about the baby steps, people, all about the baby steps.

7. I need for Mo to just take a nap when it’s nap time, instead of the 90 minute running commentary that I get. Everyday, for the past 3 years, at the same time every day, we have a rest and everyday, for the past 3 years, at the same time every day, that little voice just keeps going and going and going. She ran through her entire song library of seasonal favorites, including “5 Little Pumpkins”, “Jingle Bells” and “This is the Way We Give Thanks” (though I think she made that last one up), before launching into “Do You Know Your Continents”, “How Many Months in a Year” and my personal favorite, “Do You Know Your Continents -Remix”, which is currently in the queue as I type this.

*sigh* I need a vacation. . .

ps. I really need not to watch Newsies for the umpteenth time, but it’s On Demand! It’s demanding to be watched! You know why (wink,wink, nudge, nudge).

So this is my first week off from school and I am dizzy from trying to figure out what to do with all of the time I had previously spent studying. Apparently the decision had already been made for me over the Thanksgiving holiday because when I went to put on my jeans Tuesday morning, they seem to have shrunk in the closet. WTF? Oh wait, I know. Must have been that Ben and Jerry’s/pumpkin pie with “Cool HWhip“ (you have to watch the whole thing!)/rum balls/chocolate chip cookies with walnuts/coffee with pumpkin pie spice creamer or maybe that extra helping on sauteed spinach I had. Plus, for some reason when the holiday season hits, I turn into Betty Crocker/Paula Deen and start baking and cooking like I’m in contention for Top Chef. Seriously. I’ve made rum balls, two different kinds of chocolate chip cookies, homemade meatballs and tomato sauce, roasted corn and garlic potato soup. No chef worth their salt wouldn’t taste their creations as they go, right?

I know, I know, it’s not like I don’t really know how that happened. Anyhoodle, the bottom line is this bottom ain’t fitting in the jeans. I swear, I’ve been singing this song for as long as I can remember, but more to the point, seems like the free time has now become gym time.

Truth be told, I like going to the gym. I like working out and feeling strong. I get kind of pumped when I’m doing the assisted chin ups/dips (yeah, emphasis on the assisted) and see my triceps bulge like a ‘roided up bodybuilder. I get my playlist in my iPod going and before I know it, it’s time to start the cooldown. Of course, by the time I leave the gym, I’m dying for something good to eat. I’ve started bringing an apple, extra water, maybe a Fiber One bar (eat at your own risk) to munch on and I do pretty well throughout the day. Then, dinner time hits and I am like the Tazmanian Devil at an All-You-Can-Scarf buffet. It’s like a hole opens in my stomach so that anything I put in my mouth goes straight from my throat through the stomach and into the wooden leg I seemingly have acquired. And me being short-waisted and only 5’3″, you’d think the leg would fill up quickly. *sigh*

I refuse to turn myself in to WW again — unless LibbY does it with me because misery loves company. Maybe I should since LibbY found an ad with me in it — if that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is. I’m resolving to get it together and get those jeans back on sans the muffin top. Mmmmm, muffins. . . .

So I am two thirds of the way done with my end of semester test taking. I’ve got a practical lab test on Monday, the first and after that, 141 is a wrap! Woo-woo! I feel like Gloria Gaynor, right now.

With all of this impending free time stretched out before me, I’m not really sure what I want to do first. It’s the same ol‘ story of girl works hard for the money – – -wait a minute – – I mean, woman works hard at all of the many hats she wears, woman get some free time to relax, woman must decide between sleeping, reading the pile o’ novels on the nightstand, finishing baby #2’s “crap-book”, doing Christmas cards, putting photos in an album, giving the house a good scrub, curling up with Kendall Jackson and a straw while watching the eighteen plus TV shows that have been saved to her TiVo, or just sitting quietly on the couch staring off into space and enjoying the mini fortress of solitude that she has created until it is time to pick up the children.

*Sigh* I think I’ll end up at the Y with some Netflix discs and call it good. I’ll probably need to do some preventative maintenance on the bod in preparation for all of the egg nog I plan to consume in the coming weeks — yum! Can I just tell you — and this is totally unrelated to how I plan to spend my time between the end of this semester and the beginning of next semester — about how my seasonal obsession with egg nog showed me what an outstanding man I have in DH?

So rewind about 8 years. I’m doing my own single lady thing, working, living in an apartment, yadda, bladda, blah. DH and I are dating, which means we alternate visiting one another on the week-ends. The timing of this is important to note because, as we all know, egg nog (or nog as it is affectionately called) miraculously appears in coolers and milk cases shortly before Thanksgiving and then, without so much as a “Peace out, homie” disappears by the first week-end of January. This particular week-end, must have been end of December, early January, DH came to visit me. We went out to dinner, did a movie, and were driving back to my apartment (where I was going to make up the couch for him to sleep on while I slept ALONE in my bed in my bedroom with the door locked *wink,wink*) and this overwhelming need for nog overcame me. I mean, I needed nog. BAD. If I had been Jazmine Sullivan, the lyrics would have mentioned nog, seriously.

DH, being the chivalrous and indulgent soul that he is drove me to several of the major grocery chains in the area, searched the refrigerator cases for nog, asked the store managers for nog, and came up empty handed. We tried every store that we could find that would have the slightest chance of having nog. As the hour grew later and later, my nog-session grew larger and larger, but the chances of getting it started to grow slim. We were about to call it a night, when we spied the glowing sign of High’s Convenience store up the road ahead. Now, I’m from the northeast originally. I’m familiar with things like Cumberland Farms, 7-11, Quik Stop, Wawa, CVS. I had NEVER heard of High’s and it looked like it had never heard of the 21st century. But, High’s had the nog!! I was so excited. We got home, and I don’t think I even took off my jacket before I just broke the seal and swigged a mouthful out of the container.

I turned to DH, who was staring at me like the looney toon I had become, and said, “I don’t think I can drink any more egg nog.” Talk about if looks could kill — I would have been dead where I stood. I’m sure there were a few, “Are you kidding me?” and other choice exchanges about how that one swallow pushed me over the edge. I was off the nog. . .until the next season.

So, I am no closer on pinpointing how to spend the next school-free weeks, but I do know that there will be some nog involved.

So we went to see Quantum of Solace for our date night on Friday. I have to admit, I wasn’t really feeling Daniel Craig as James Bond when Casino Royale came out (I’m a purist — hello Sean Connery), but he was getting the job done with style and some serious ‘tude. I won’t divulge the plot of Q of S, but suffice it to say, if you are going to see it, make sure you’re familiar with Casino Royale before you go. If not, you might not get some of the repeated references to unseen characters and their actions.

I look forward to the opening credits of a James Bond movie as much as I look forward to the movie itself and how the Bond Girls have evolved into more than mammiferous glamazons with snicker inducing names — you get mad cool points if you tell me the name of the Bond Girl to whom Sean Connery replied, “I must be dreaming,” when she told him her name! But I digress; I’m about theme music, the opening credits, the ubiquitous James Bond Theme. My faves include

. . .and their respective movies aren’t that bad either.

So new theme song, “Another Way to Die,” may have to make it to the list. DH and I were grooving in our seats, mentioning how we were really liking the beat and such. Imagine our surprise when the credits rolled up attributing the finger popping stylings to Jack White and Alicia Keys! Really? Jack White of the White Stripes and Alicia Keys? Well, I’m no Quincy Jones, but that was an unlikely pair if I ever saw one. Still, the song is hot.

1. Watching Mo and Co playing together without them knowing I’m watching
2. Coming home to a clean house
3. My batter dispenser from Williams Sonoma
4. Naptime — for me and for them!
5. Date night with DH
6. Getting stuff in the mail
7. Old pictures of family, friends and fun times
8. “Morganisms” — i.e. school of wire, Breck-la-hem, Ma-Rock Obama, Chich-en Vagina*
9. June 18th, August 23rd, September 8th, and September 29th
10. Wikipedia

*That would be spool of wire, Bethlehem, Barack Obama and Chicken Parmigan!