Because there's festive and then there's just mean

Well, we are slowly but surely sparkle-izing our home, getting ready for Christmas. I've said it before -- I do like to stroll into the merry season. But it does seem like every year the culture makes that harder and harder to do.

Now, just to be clear -- I'm not talking about people like my neighbor, whose yard was filled on Thanksgiving weekend with a menagerie of whimsical critters who twinkle the night away. This is festive, people! I can get behind this, even if my family's lights are a tad more subdued (and we got them put up a little bit later).

No, I'm talking about the cut-throat, competitive people who are in a race to see who can be "done" the soonest. And the culture (but really by culture I mean "advertisers") fosters this Grinchy attitude. Have you seen the dreadful Best Buy and Target commercials? In the Target commercial we see a mash-up of gleeful shoppers -- and not one of them says the word Christmas or holiday or celebrate. What's the one word they holler so joyfully? "Done!"

Warms your heart, doesn't it?

And here's a terrific Washington Post article about the Best Buy commercials, which are just plain mean -- to Santa, of all people!

Well -- I plan to stick to my slowpoke ways, and bring out a little more sparkle every day. We have our wreaths and our Advent calendar, and as of this weekend we have a (bare) tree. And eventually the little baby Jesus will celebrate another birthday -- right on time.

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Our Advent calendar today shows us Sister Wendy's Story of Christmas. Our family loves Sister Wendy, who has guided viewers through the great art museums of the world on several PBS series. She has written several books for children, in which she introduces them to beautiful art. This book uses masterpieces by the world's great artists to tell the story of the Nativity.

Thanks, Jack and Matthew!

You want "Real Housewives?" I'll give you real housewives . . . .

OK, so I have never watched a single episode of "The Real Housewives of Any City on the Planet" -- and if I have my way, I never will. But unfortunately, I have encountered commercials, clips, and excerpts from this heinous television show, and I feel like my eyeballs should be rinsed in Clorox. Here are just some of the words that come to mind when I consider this television experience: vulgar . . . OK. That's the main word that comes to mind.

But the thing that most irritates me about this show, now based in Washington, D.C., is that these bimbos are foisting themselves off as "Real," as "Housewives," and as actually "from D.C." While Mrs. Bush and Mrs. Obama can both credibly offer themselves as real housewives of D.C., there is nothing real about any of the women on this horrible show, and everything -- EVERYTHING -- they say is a lie, including the words "a," "an," and "the."

So I thought I would introduce you to the REAL real housewives of D.C. Are you ready? I hope your sensibilities will be able to handle the truth:

While the FAKE housewives of D.C. are using biometric locks to keep their daughters away from their precious designer clothes, these real housewives are making clothes for their daughters and for their friends. While the FAKE housewives of D.C. are insulting everyone in the city who doesn't look exactly like them, these real housewives are truly celebrating diversity by making it just one fact of their lives -- not THE fact of their lives.

While The FAKE housewives of D.C. are drinking enough champagne to ensure that they will be unable to speak a coherent sentence, these real housewives are raising their kids, going to church, volunteering at their schools, hospitals, churches, food pantries.

This real housewife homeschools five kids, and has written a hymnal of traditional Latin liturgical songs with her daughters. In her spare time. In Latin. And she throws a kick-ass party.

This real housewife hangs drywall, tiles bathrooms, lays carpet, installs flooring -- and leads three Girl Scout troops, all the while ensuring that her three daughters stay active and engaged -- and that they never miss their weekly trip to the library.

This real housewife works two free-lance jobs and volunteers at her four kids' schools, and she ensured that her grandmother's last days were filled with tranquility and comfort and love. She also knows how to throw a swell party; and not once -- ever -- has one of her guests thrown a drink at anyone.

This real housewife went back to work when money got tight, and then stayed at her job even when it was no longer "necessary," because she knew that the students she worked with needed her. She is also raising three fabulous urchins, and is the queen of the afternoon swirl -- from dance lessons to Boy Scouts to internship site; she rocks a Honda Pilot.

This real housewife is raising four beautiful children; she also militantly advocates for Newborn Screening, turning her own family's tragedy into a cause that has saved countless lives all over the country.

This real housewife is a popular and busy substitute teacher; when she's not subbing, she's volunteering at the school. She's also a Girl Scout leader, a community volunteer, and an active member of her church, plus she does all the bookkeeping for her husband's business. And she's crafty as all get-out, y'all.

This real housewife works full-time for the U.S. Army and still is able to attend her kids' concerts and sporting events, and participate in marathons, 5K and 10K runs, golf tournaments, and breast cancer fund-raising walks. And Perfect Days in Manhattan.

This real housewife has served in the U.S. Army herself, and now works full-time to raise a family while her husband continues to serve. Interestingly, while some FAKE housewives and their husbands crashed a White House state dinner, with no thought or consideration for the fact that their actions had endangered the President of the United States, this real housewife and her husband have spent their entire adult lives defending the President, the nation and the whole idea of freedom. This means that while the FAKE housewives have continually pissed and moaned in order to get even more publicity, this real housewife and her husband have quietly put their very lives on the line -- to make sure that the FAKE housewives have the freedom to live selfish, thoughtless, moronic lives of no meaning.

Well! Now that I have gotten that off my chest, here is my challenge to you: the next time you are tempted to watch this awful, awful television show, why not take that time instead to pick up the phone or sit down at your computer, and thank a REAL housewife of your own hometown for all the ways she makes your community safer, healthier, more vibrant, more educated, more humane.

You'll make someone's day -- and you won't even have to gargle with bleach when you're done!

The absolutely true story . . . .

. . . . of my love/hate relationship with
Bill Nye the Science Guy.

I know, I know -- you're thinking, "what's not to love about Bill Nye the Science Guy?" And I absolutely agree with you. He's smart, he's funny, he has a theme song with his name in it -- the man is dreamy, I admit it.

But even though I love him, I also shudder just a little bit when I hear the sweet strains of "B-B-B-Bill! Bill!"

To understand why, you also have to understand that although the urchins are, of course, fabulosity incarnate, there may have been times when they have perhaps tried my patience, where "tried my patience" equals "made my eyeballs explode out of my head." This sweet, sweet picture is in many ways so misleading as to be a total lie. You see three loving urchins, snuggled together cozily on Mommy's bed reading books, while I see a slap fight on the horizon. Also, the dog? Farting; believe it.

But the thing about the television back then was that we didn't watch much of it. After the tall boy (not quite so tall at two-and-a-half) shared his predictions with me about the O.J. Simpson case, Mommy decided she was watching too much television (loved that "Mad About You," didn't you?) and we got rid of our cable box. So whatever we could get over the air was the extent of our television exposure.

We did pick up a PBS station, however -- on the top floor of the house -- and I was not above a little "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?" and "Bill Nye the Science Guy" on those days when making our own play-doh and going on picnics in the park got a little stale. Raise your hand if you really believe that I have ever in my life made my own play-doh.

The problem with parking my kids on my bed to watch a little TV while I got something done (and you know that means "read a book") was that my bedroom tended to be a little, shall we say, disheveled. And with a little work it was possible that each of the urchins could find and succumb to his or her own personal temptation.

The oldest girl, like her father, has always had a sweet tooth, and candy of any sort is irresistible. On the "Bill Nye Day of Doom," Daddy had a bag of candy on his bedside table, because that's how we roll. It didn't take long for the oldest girl to start jonesing for that candy, and then she couldn't resist. She dove right in, and starting eating that candy just as fast as she could get it in her mouth.

The sunny girl was just a toddler, so the problem was that she toddled constantly. The child never stopped moving, never stopped picking up "pretties" to look at them, and never looked where she was going. She was two, so it was sort of her job. But again with the slovenly housekeeping, because the "pretty" that she found was an empty wine glass and she picked it up to carry around with her as she cruised my bedroom. She just didn't notice that in picking it up she also clunked it against the table and broke it. Shards of glass beneath her feet didn't impinge on her consciousness at all. And she didn't realize it, but in her hand she carried, like a blankie, a stabbing wine glass of death.

So where was the tall boy? He was right there with his sisters. I brag to you all that he was a very mature seven-year-old (tall for his age, it might surprise you to know), but the sad truth about the tall boy is that his personal demon has always been The Screen. It doesn't matter if it is a TV screen, a computer screen, a movie screen -- his eyes spin in circles and he is sucked away from this mundane world.

And what were they watching that day? You guessed it -- "Bill Nye the Science Guy." But watching is completely the wrong verb to use. I put down my book stopped working on an important task to investigate when the sound level coming from my bedroom rose to the point that even I noticed it. It wasn't squabbling or tussling -- it was just the volume on the television -- turned up as high as it could go. "B-B-B-Bill! Bill!" "BILL NYE THE SCIENCE GUY!" "Science rules!" And it was so loud the urchins couldn't hear me scream when I got to the door of my bedroom.

Here's what I saw: The oldest girl was sitting on my pillow at the top of the bed, popping candy in to her mouth one piece at a time, as fast as her hand could move. She was chewing very fast, like a rabbit, and her eyes were glued to the TV screen. The tall boy was sitting at the foot of the bed so he could be near his beloved, and he was singing along to the Bill Nye theme song at the top of his voice. His eyes, as usual when he watched television, were spinning.

And the sunny girl was cheerily toddling all around the room, with a broken wine glass in one hand and a piece of candy in the other. She had shards of glass stuck to the bottom of her feet, and not a single cut on her. A miracle, no shit.

So the upshot of all this was that the television noose tightened even more for the tall boy, and the oldest girl was banned from "all candy or candy-like treats" until she turns 35. The court of appeals eventually showed a little mercy on the candy front, but the television stayed off for years.

And I cleaned my bedroom, but not to excess.