I’ve been sucked into the holiday vacuum. This swirling mess of getting everything and nothing accomplished includes: drinking, visiting with friends, drinking, picking up wrapping paper, throwing handfuls of new stuff into kids’ closets, drinking, popping Tylenol for my tense neck, watching missed episodes of Top Chef, drinking, getting family safely off to the airport, feeding visitors, and drinking.
Oh blog, how I’ve missed you!!
I’ve been wanting to share with you my family history files of past Christmas cards. Christmas cards are a big deal in my house. They take a lot of planning. A little bit of tears. A little bit of bribing. I think about them ALL YEAR.
IT’S A LOT OF PRESSURE, PEOPLE.
Let’s just start at the beginning. When the idea of being humorous was just a wee little tadpole, before it turned into a large, warty, croaking bullfrog. Before we had children. Before I lost my boobies.
Some of the scans of the cards are extremely small…HELP! Don’t ask me how the hell to fix this, so I’ve searched my files and if I had the actual photos I’ve included some of those to clarify what was going on.
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Since everyone that lives outside of Utah thinks we’re all polygamists, anyway.
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We snuck into the backyard of the next door neighbor that was dead. This was one of four trailers and seven storage sheds that were so pleasant to look at over the fence.
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Who can resist dressing up like President and Laura Bush? And Dick Cheney? That was the year that the Vice-President shot his friend in the face while quail hunting.
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My old East High cheerleading uniform. My underwear and ass were hanging out the half-closed zipper in the back.
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No children were harmed in the making of this card. They did, however, sleep well that night. Thanks, whiskey!
We had a couple of years where I just couldn’t pull it together to do Christmas cards. In between High School Musical and our bad-ass angels, I faltered. I had lost a baby when I was 16 weeks pregnant, dealt with crazy-bad postpartum depression, and had a gall bladder that stopped working and had to be taken out. The next year, Sloan was born four weeks before Christmas and we were lucky to have a tree with lights on it and a mommy with clothing on her body.
This year I couldn’t resist revisiting our alter-egos. The Clampetts. I sort of have a thing for Billy Bob teeth and hillbillies, and now that Beatty is old enough to wear his own pair I just had to do it one more time. Unfortunately I couldn’t find a Billy Bob binkie for Sloan. Perhaps that was just fate, since my kid won’t take that giraffe binkie out of her mouth. (I know. You thought she gave it up. She didn’t.) This year I said something witty about us representing the 99%. Hell yeah, baby! Three cheers for America, Mountain Dew and cage fighting!!
What most people don’t see are the fifty jillion other shots from our Christmas card photo sessions. The shots where the chicken is trying to fly away and Sloan is screaming and I’m trying to get Beatty to look up toward the camera. Here are some of my favorites.
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You can take the boy out of Georgia, but you can’t take Georgia out of the boy.
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Sloan wouldn’t wear her hat, she was terrified of the chicken, most of the pictures were blurry, and it was freezing.
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Notice slight wardrobe changes? Yes, we actually had to do this twice. TWO DIFFERENT PHOTO SESSIONS. Kill me now.
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Now this kid has some talent.
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I actually tried holding the chicken once. It didn’t work out. The chicken talons freaked me out way too much and I dropped the damn thing.
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I’ve been offered modeling contracts, you know. I told them no thanks, I’m trying to focus on being a stay-at-home mom. I know they were devastated.
Since people have asked me, YES the chicken was real. And YES, I already know what we will be doing for our pictures next Christmas. Can you feel Brad rolling his eyes? Because he is.