Merry, Merry Christmas.

Was your Christmas a good one? If you found yourself in the company of people who love you even some of the time; if you were able to enjoy yourself at a family gathering your obnoxious cousin/uncle/whoever also attended; if you shared one moment with another person in which you were able to make them feel more at ease...that's a good Christmas.

We had a good Christmas. We helped make the dreams of kitten ownership come true for loved ones, laughed often and much over funny movies and cheap wrapping paper, and indulged in everything that felt comforting and/or abundant. And even though I zonked out YET AGAIN during Christmas morning gift-opening (And I went to bed before 1 am! I swear!), I was able to laugh sincerely when Eug remarked "Our home movies of Christmas morning aren't going to show favorably on you some day, hon."

I think it was the smallest moments this Christmas that really made it for me. When an older family cousin told us that he'd chosen to wear jeans to the Christmas Eve family gathering because Eug and I always do, I was reminded of all the years when I was depressed and frustrated that I didn't have anything dressier in my closet. Just when I'd truly accepted that 'Hey, this is me. Jeans and a tee-shirt. Take me or leave me.', I realized that those years served a purpose outside myself, even if it was only to make someone else more comfortable in the most mundane of ways.

I enjoyed fantastic conversation with another family member who, as it turns out, is just as enamored of Bravo reality TV as I am. (She also vehemently agreed that if Jen on "Top Chef: All Stars" had kept her yap shut, she'd still be in the running, poor thing. That comment Colicchio made about how Jen's diatribe had nothing to do with their decision to boot her was utter buuulllllshit.) I got to play multiple rounds of five or six different board games and laugh through every one. I delighted in Xanthe's 'Lotso Huggin' Bear' probably a wee bit more than even she did. I was lovingly attacked by a dog who practically melts like butter on hot cast iron when she sees me, and I cuddled her for hours on end. And I was so happy for the family member who proudly showed me pictures of their leg lamp from "A Christmas Story" aglow in their front window, even though I have wanted one of those suckers for years. In short, it was beautiful.

I truly hope that each of you gave and received love this Christmas, and that some of it came to you in unlikely ways. May the remaining days of 2010 be ones to remember fondly for all of you.

Enjoy, Folks.

This is, quite literally, the funniest thing Eug and I have ever experienced. Neither of us has ever laughed this hard in our lives. As he rightly observed, "Why would anyone ever want to hear any other version of this?" Indeed, my man. Indeed.

I LIKE IT, I LOVE IT, I WANT SOME MORE OF IT.

Quickly, now...we don't have but a few moments before the Ambien kicks in and it's lights-out for Michelle's grey matter. All I need this year is for someone to buy both of these for me. Like, right away.

And no, I won't settle for one. Two boxes so plain they just beg you to open them without knowing what's inside. I'm sure Eug will insist on choosing which box goes in our bedroom.

C'mon, be a dear and snap one up for me? Because if I don't even get one as gift, I'll be forced to buy them both with the sticky coins at the bottom of my purse and heaven only knows what else. Isn't there anyone out there who really should send a spontaneous bit o' honey my way? Something that tells me how much you luuuuurv me? Hmmm? Bueller? Bueller?

Aaaw, COME ON, peeps! Think of all the times I have been there for you, man! And so what if many of those same times were also times that I sat on your lap and farted? And you're exaggerating...they DID NOT smell that bad.

I'll be working on Mighty Michelle's Gift List of Super-Awesomeness this week, but those of you out there who owe me money might...just might...want to send a little applause my way. I'm just sayin'.

Giving 'Emo' A Whole New Meaning

I know y'all are positively dying for a growing-out-my-bangs update, right? After a particularly harried day of taking the children to school and running errands whilst trying not to die on roads of sheer ice, I got a good look at myself in the mirror. Yikes!

The only way I can describe it is to employ Emo Philips. Whereas my hair used to look a lot like this:

...these days, it looks more like this:

If you just subtract a couple of inches from the front length and add a ponytail on the back of his head in the latter picture, you've pretty much got the idea.

Yep, it's bad.

And unless I wanna go all '80s and do something like this...

...then they just hang there. Too long to curl, too short to clip artfully to the side. I could learn how to do spit curls...

...but I'm pretty sure that's a look that would only garner a pudgy, middle-aged housewife uproars of public hilarity. And I would much rather be schlumpy and forgettable than material for the would-be Nelson Muntzes of the world.

Whoops. Apparently, that ship has sailed.

Critter Halfway House

Snow is falling like gangbusters here in southern Michigan, and it's supposed to be colder than the proverbial witch's teat this coming week. It's that gorgeous, fluffy snow that coats everything it touches and begs to be rolled into a snowman - even though you're guaranteed to come inside soaking wet after outdoor play. (I have the puddles on my floors right now to prove it!) I am comfortably stationed at my computer, listening to Toby Keith's latest and enjoying the view from the adjacent windows. Bliss.

Last night we had a bonafide G-U-D time with our co-family - a spontaneous dinner with our best crew. We fed the kidlets an amalgam of pot stickers, macaroni and cheese (or "Kraft Dinner", as they call it in Canada), Co-co Wheats, yogurt and plentiful chocolate milk. All of this made me smile, remembering the most recent episode of "Top Chef: All Stars" in which the fancy-pants chefs attempted to please the palates of 150 children with their fare and discovered right quick how hard it is to feed the young'uns. (Clearly, the Toby Keith is affecting my speech right now.)

The grown-ups ordered Thai food and played rounds of Scattergories and Taboo that could only be described as "raucous". I had a wee bit too much Irish cream to drink and found myself unable to read the game directions aloud without slurring, which prompted hilarity all around. Then my co-husband TRICKED HIS WAY BACK INTO MY HOUSE by pretending to bring in the newspaper from my driveway, when his real intent was to drop money in my house for the cost of dinner. The cheek! I tried to chase him back out of the house, but I was in my bare feet...and let's face it, he's in a lot better shape than I am. I did manage to catch him briefly and stuff the money down the back of his shirt, whereupon I hightailed it back to the house screaming all the way, because he was TOTALLY catching up to me. I managed to get the storm door almost shut, but he crumpled the bill into a wad and tossed it with perfect aim through the small opening of the door, over my head and under the kitchen table. And then he was off like a shot. The stinker.

Today I found out that family members have acquired two little feline boys, intended as a Christmas present for their kids! How awesome is that? Even better is the fact that said kittens will be hanging out Chez Nous until the big day. Five cats in my house! Lord have mercy. Christmas is shaping up to be fu-uh-uuhn around here. I've always said that watching kitten hijinks is better than TV, so I anticipate major amusement in my future. Said family member was insanely grateful, but fostering fuzzy little kittens is hardly a sacrifice in my book. Nevertheless, I was encouraged to hang this over their heads for some time to come, which I thought was quite gracious on their part. Thankfully, my kids are used to temporary pet-keeping, and they'll be delighted to have the new company but not heartbroken when they depart.

This week brings Bunco Night for mama, Christmas caroling with friends, children's birthday parties and frenzied last-minute gift coordination and wrapping. Will I survive? So far, so good. I hope all your weekly activities are filled with joyous chaos in these few days before the celebration of the best gift the world ever received. God bless you, friends.

Lowest Common Denominator

Utterly fantastic column in the WSJ today. Given the fact that I had a very successful discussion with my newly-nine year-old son last night about basic economic principles and concepts, it saddens me that so many grown-ass people (Who Vote! And Are Probably Too Un-Educated To Do So Responsibly!) understand so little about money and economics in the most general sense. Is it fun reading? Hell, no. I've never in my life thought, "You know, I really need to brush up on the meaning of Keynesian economics, because it sounds like a hella good time!" It's more like, "Oh, crap...what does that mean, again? OK, let me research for a while and give the grey matter a workout in the process." (By the by, my brain is really the only portion of my addled being that I am willing to exercise on a regular basis.)

So while my nine year-old is MORE than old enough to enjoy a discussion about business and the economy that he initiated (as well as the difference between "profit" and "prophet"), guess what the top educational priority at his mostly-decent public elementary school was this week? The performance put on by just the third-graders for a 'holiday' concert. (I know you can see me rolling my eyes, here.) OK, fine. HOLIDAY concert. I have no problem with that; I get it. What I do not get, however, is why there was just one song in the repertoire that could be considered a holiday classic: "Frosty The Snowman". Do I expect them to sing "Silent Night" and "O Little Town Of Bethlehem" in public school? No. No, I do not. But would it be so wrong to learn songs like "Up On The Rooftops", "Winter Wonderland" or "Let It Snow"? I could add songs like "Holly Jolly Christmas" or "Here Comes Santa Claus", but God forbid we mention the C-word, or even imply it. People: These are part of our cultural history in this country. Even if your only reason for learning these popular references is to be able to answer a Trivial Pursuit question intelligently, that is sufficient.

Would you like to know what the 3rd graders in our school sang, instead? "It's My Life" by Bon Jovi and "I Gotta Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas, among other pieces of utterly inappropriate crap. I shit you not. My tax dollars paid for my children to learn the lyrics to age-inappropriate songs (and I am hardly a prude on this count), when they had a wonderful opportunity to learn gorgeous, traditional songs that would've amplified their knowledge of their country's culture, instead. Is there anything charming about 3rd graders belting out an anthem to self-centeredness like "It's My Life"? NO. It's the musical equivalent of a Bratz doll.

Apparently, our school's approach is an individual one and not a district one. Nicole informed me that her elementary school (same district) does a Christmas sing-along for all grades and their families. And yes, they actually call it a "Christmas sing-along". I shan't mention the name of the school, lest the ACLU finds themselves with some free time on their hands this week and is looking for an opportunity to further ruin the country. I told Nicole that if ever there was a ringing endorsement for parochial school, this would be it.

Thankfully, I knew this in advance and was able to inform the appropriate people that Henry would not be attending the evening event. I have no desire to complain about the musical selection, because we have precious little time remaining before Henry is out of public school for good. But it did make me realize that I need to print lyric sheets for my own family and get them singing the classics, because that's the only way the job will get done. I took the kids to dinner last night, and as I zipped up their coats in the vestibule of the restaurant, a life-size mechanical Santa sang "Up On The Rooftops"...and I sang along. Xanthe asked me, "Mama, how do you know this song?" I had to stop and think about it before I told her that I'd learned it as a little girl and sung it ever since. She deserves the same opportunity.

I have sixth-graders in my catechism classes, the majority of whom attend public schools nearby that are very highly rated. But the stuff they tell me during our discussions about what goes on inside their schools would age any reasonable adult a good fifteen years just to hear it. I always listen quietly and encourage them to talk about it openly, and so I'm guessing that I hear things they would never tell their parents. It's incredibly depressing.

On a related note, Xanthe sat down last night to make a paper poinsettia. When she incorrectly pronounced it "Poin-set-ah", I corrected her. (Hello? Poin-set-ee-ah.) She got visibly grumpy over the correction, and insisted I was wrong. So I pulled out the big guns: I called her Auntie D. When I informed Auntie D of the situation, she howled in indignation and fury over the phone line. (It's one of her Top 10 language pet peeves, right up there with people who say they "feel badly" about something.) I told Xanthe that Auntie D would sooner cut off her own arm than to NOT side with her, but in this case, Auntie D is backing me up all the way. Xanthe proceeded to say that her teachers say "poin-set-ah", which makes it right. My beloved sister overheard her and nearly had a heart attack. We gently informed her that even teachers can be dead wrong about a lot of things, and that we loved her too much to let her follow the herd into MoronLand. Nicole arrived shortly in the midst of all this and insisted that it was better to "fit in" and say it incorrectly. (Don't worry - I tickled her mercilessly shortly thereafter as punishment.) We were all howling with laughter at this point and my sister hollered "THAT'S IT...I'm going to English Gardens tomorrow. POIN-SET-EE-AHS for everyone!" and wished us a good night before hanging up.

My better half gets home from Brazil tonight, and none too soon, as I am wiped out. I think this is the first night all week that we can stay home and actually relax. Last night we had to return one of Henry's birthday gifts to Wal-Mart. He'd gotten the Nerf Stampede gun that he was dying to have, which comes complete with a shield to protect you from your opponent's foam darts attached to the gun. Except that when we opened the box...no shield! The poor kid had to wait until yesterday to get a replacement, which necessitated all of us tromping into a Wal-Mart and dealing with their (let me use my air quotes, here) 'Customer Service' desk. I had my receipt in hand, and patiently waited my turn in line. I know that this Nerf gun is one of the hot items for this Christmas season, so I didn't want to assume I would be able to complete an exchange. When I handed the employee my receipt, I noted that it was purchased on my husband's credit card, and asked if that meant that the refund could just go directly back on his card without him being physically present. Thankfully, I also mentioned that he was in Brazil at the moment. The employee assured me that it would be refunded to his card, and I said that was fine and dandy.

The employee then attempted to scan the bar code at the bottom of the otherwise readable receipt and was unable to get the scanner to identify the bar code. She informed me that she was therefore unable to process my return. Umm, no. I gently but firmly informed her that it was not MY problem that Wal-Mart uses cheap ink and satin paper for their receipts in what I firmly believe is an intentional move to obfuscate receipts and make it more difficult for customers to conduct legitimate returns. (In fact, I believe a LOT of stores do this, and it pisses me off to no end. If a receipt spends even one afternoon rubbing around in your wallet, it's probably going to be substantially messed up. You can't tell me that's not done on purpose.) With a steely grin affixed to my face, I said "I've got the receipt and I've got the defective product. I've held up my end of the bargain, and now you're going to hold up yours." I asked her to call whatever head honcho she needed to make a proper return happen - on his or my credit card. And lo and behold, even after telling me there was no way she could complete the return without my husband's credit card in hand, after several minutes she came back and processed the return to my card. I whispered to Henry "See? This is why we avoid Wal-Mart." Thankfully, a replacement gun was acquired the same evening, and I unabashedly tore open the box with my car key to make sure the dang blast shield was in the stupid box this time. The bad news is that the stupid thing takes SIX "D" batteries to operate, and will require me to purchase safety goggles for the whole family, so fast do those foam darts fly from that enormous gun. C'est la vie - the kid is thrilled.

So tonight we will lay low and await the return of our familial anchor with joy and anticipation. Heck, I think I'll even let the kids stay up late to make sure they see him.

Awake, But Just Barely.

You know what I love? People who've achieved personal and professional success and acclaim on a grand scale and still manage to be excellent human beings. Such is the case with my favorite artist in the whole world, Donald Roller Wilson. Or simply "Roller", as he is known to those of us in the know. Ahem.

Roller sends delightful e-mails to his minions occasionally throughout the year, and once in a while I'll respond. And he always sends a reply. How cool is that? As an added bonus, his replies are always hilarious and frequently ribald. It's a simple truth: housewives love a sporadic, naughty e-mail.

Speaking of naughty, amid the chaos of the kids' birthday party at Pump It Up this morning, I decided to smear a thick frosting moustache on my upper lip and chase random children around, threatening to kiss them. When I told Eug that no one was willing to kiss me with my frosting moustache, a handsome male party guest who shall remain nameless hollered "I WILL!" Hee! I'm choosing to believe that it was my considerable charms that prompted the reply, rather than the tasty, tasty frosting on my face, and I will entertain no arguments to the contrary. A girl's gotta have a reason to smile, now and then.

Under the file heading of "Immature and Ill-Advised", I have to admit that I pulled an all-nighter last night. Yes, you heard right. I went to my children's uber-crazy birthday extravaganza after having been awake for twenty-four hours straight. (Which might explain my decision to paint my face with frosting and run amok, now that I think about it.) I passed exhausted about five hours ago and am currently riding the waves of giddy. If I wanna stay awake for "Dexter", I think I'd better chug some coffee right away. The good news is that the Christmas tree is fully bedecked and looking fucking fabulous after my marathon decorating session.

On my mind recently is a touchstone topic for me: short hair on women. Ladies, ladies. It's awful. Especially the tendency of older women to wear a coiffure that I like to call "Artichoke Head", for the simple fact that it looks like an artichoke turned upside down, squatting on their cranium. If you're going to argue by rattling off a list of women who look lovely in their concentration camp 'dos, I'm going to counter with the statement that said women are blessed with such extreme good looks that they still look fantastic in spite of their little locks. Not that Rapunzel tresses are any better, mind you. But when I see a woman with very short hair, I imagine that they are either seriously ill or some terrible chemical-induced tragedy befell their mane, necessitating an extreme chop. I'll even go one step further and say that unless you weigh 100 pounds or less, you'd better be sporting a length somewhere between your chin and your shoulders. Any shorter and you probably look like the Sta-Puft Marshmallow Man, darling. If you're built like Audrey Hepburn and your cheekbones could cut steel, then go ahead and get your pixie cut...because you are, in fact, built like a pixie. See how that works?

Holy crap, it's going to be Monday tomorrow and I need to be sufficiently functional to drive Eug to the airport for his week-long trip to Brazil. Coffee. Must have coffee now.