Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Christmas Issues


Christmas can be a challenging time for a dad. There are the physical events, like tree wrestling and overhead decoration storage box lifting. Then there are the mental events, like light string outage troubleshooting and trying to keep all the lies straight about Santa Claus.

“I want a Wii for Christmas.”
“Sorry, son, Wiis are too expensive.”
“No problem, I’ll just put it on my list in my Santa letter.”
“What makes you think Santa would bring you an expensive Wii?”
“You said Santa’s elves can make anything, so why can’t they just make us a Wii?”
“Uh… Your mom and I already talked to Santa and told him no electronics. You get enough screen time as it is. Go play outside.”

Wii or no Wii, there are always financial challenges to Christmas as well, and it usually takes a few months in the austerity wing at the hospital to recover from the wallet-ectomy procedure that Dr. Retail performs on you every year.

I found this year that my two personal Christmas Eve challenges came as a direct result of Santa Claus. That jolly old elf and I need to have a chat. I know he is supposed to have a busy night, but he has caused me to stay up way too late on the night before Christmas.

A few years back, possibly after one or three too many Christmas Eve beers, I accidentally started a tradition. We were celebrating Christmas at my in-laws’ house, and the kids had all made “reindeer food” out of dried oats and glitter. (As if any animal, magical or otherwise, wants to eat glitter! What are kids thinking?) Anyway, after an elaborate and mentally taxing explanation of how Santa would be gaining entry to a house in a California beach town that doesn’t have a fireplace, it was decided that the obvious place to put the reindeer food would be all over the front walk. After the children were all snug in their beds (presumably with visions of toys or puppies dancing in their heads, since no one knows what the hell a sugar plum is), it was up to me to make sure the reindeer food was “eaten.” Out to the front walk I went with the broom and dust pan, and while sweeping up glittery oats, I unfortunately had a brilliant idea. I went and found a bucket, and with some water and dirt, fashioned muddy reindeer hoofprints on the front walk as evidence that Dancer and Prancer had gobbled up their treats.

It went over really well on Christmas morning, so guess what I do every Christmas Eve now? My wife won’t let me stop. Even when we’re at our own two-story house with a fireplace, and we’re leaving carrots for the sleigh team, it is still suggested through a wild series of parental lies and childish imaginations that it makes perfect sense that Santa would land on our roof, come down our chimney, eat his cookies and drink his milk, grab the carrots, head for the front door, throw the carrots out onto the front lawn, and whistle to the team to come down and have a treat, but to make sure to gobble them down quickly and get back up to the roof to meet him when he’s done with all the stocking stuffing. All I can say about that is be careful what traditions you start, or you might find yourself on your hands and knees out in the dark and cold with a handful of mud, smearing hoof tracks on your concrete while your wife is warm and cozy in bed.

My other challenge came after I had cleaned up and thawed out my hands well enough to hold my beer again. Son Number Two had spent more than a few hours creating a masterpiece poster-sized drawing that was a gift for Santa. It was a full-color depiction of Santa’s castle, complete with fortifications and gun turrets. I guess the North Pole is as rough a place as any. You never know when the elves will need to lay down suppressing fire to keep the invading hordes at bay. Anyway, it really was a great piece of six-year-old artwork, and it had spent the last few weeks rolled up and tied with a green pipe cleaner, leaning next to our fireplace with a note for Santa, explaining that it was for him to take back to the North Pole.

So here’s the dilemma: Santa has to take this picture back to the North Pole. Therefore, the picture has to disappear from our house. We cannot risk keeping it, but simply throwing it away wouldn’t work either, because through some unforeseen trash spilling incident, the picture could be discovered, and a six-year-old’s heart would be broken into a million pieces. So after I took a picture of it with my phone for posterity, I shredded it. On Christmas Eve, I was up in my office shredding a picture that my son spent hours creating for Santa. Talk about feeling like a Scrooge! Like punishment for bad behavior, or administering bad-tasting medicine, it was done out of love, but that rarely makes you feel any better about it.

It was most likely guilt from shredding the beautiful 4-foot-long poster that led me to the idea of having Santa leave him a thank-you note. Now, I imagine the real Santa probably writes notes on scrolls of parchment with an ink-dipped quill, and seals them with the Cringle family crest stamp in red wax, but since I didn’t have any of those things, I used Son Number Two’s very own construction paper and one of his Sharpies. I knew he wouldn’t recognize the materials, but he might recognize my all-capitals handwriting, so I had to disguise my penmanship. I spent the next half-hour trying to learn how to write in cursive again. I hadn’t even attempted a curvy letter that wasn’t part of my signature in 25 years. Even my signature doesn’t really have cursive letters anymore, except for a capital M. From there it has degraded to a short wavy line, a swirl meant to be a capital S, and a longer wavy line with a flourish on the end. It has actually gotten so bad over the years that I really don’t even know why I bother signing things anymore. I might just start using an X to save time.

Anyway, after five practice letters that I also had to shred, I was able to produce a pretty good thank-you note from the big man. He was very appreciative of Number Two’s efforts, and promised to take the poster back home to show Mrs. Claus who would surely love it. I admired my handiwork, and decided that Son Number Two would most likely frame the note after he read it in awe 19 or 20 times. Here’s how it went the next morning:

Son Number Two finds the rolled-up, scroll-like construction paper note in his stocking.
He mumbles, “What’s this?” and throws it over his shoulder to get it out of the way of the loot.
I stop him and say, “That looks like a note from Santa, buddy. You might want to read it.”
He says, “OK,” and unfurls it, attempts to decipher my cursive for a few seconds, then gives it to his mother to read to him.
She reads aloud the magical, personalized note from the most famous and sought-after gift-giver in the entire world, to which he responds, “Cool,” and goes back to tearing open gifts.

Hmmm… Feeling a little underappreciated, here, fellas.
“Did you guys see the reindeer hoofprints on the walkway?”
“Yeah, that was cool.”

Santa and I really need to have a talk. Between his existence and my brilliant ideas, we’re creating a lot of work for me here, with very little payoff in return. I put most of the blame squarely on his shoulders, but he’s hard to pin down to reason with. I was able to stick it to him a little, though. I ate all his cookies and drank his milk. That’ll teach him!

See you soon,

-Smidge


Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen


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Wednesday, December 19, 2012

The 2012 Do-it-Yourself Christmas Letter


Once again, you have procrastinated in writing the dreaded Christmas letter, and once again, ol’ Smidgey Claus is stepping in to save your bacon. I have created yet another handy do-it-yourself template to help you create your 2012 Christmas letter in no time flat. As with previous years’ templates, just fill in your last name(s) in the blank and circle the appropriate choices, and you're in business. 


Christmas 2012

Greetings from the ________________ house. We had another (wonderful/pathetic) year around here!

Dad is really (enjoying/fed up with) retirement, and continues to (volunteer/gripe) at the local (food bank/AA meetings). The folks down there are (grateful for/sick of) him, and he gets endless satisfaction from (helping/annoying) them. A few people have even hinted that he should (join the board/start drinking again). We’ll see.

Mom divides her time between her (book club/favorite bar), the (ladies auxiliary/track), and her (charity/court-mandated) work with (the orphanage/highway clean-up). Her (infectious/incredibly toxic) attitude and general (zest/contempt) for life is a (blessing/curse) to us all. She never misses an opportunity to ask us about when she’ll be seeing some (grandchildren/beer money).

Sister and her (husband/boyfriend) were on TV this year! They were featured on an episode of (HGTV/Cops) for their (amazing/illegal) conversion of their (old barn/double-wide) into a (teakwood spa/meth lab). It was (exciting/depressing) to see them on television. They even filmed them in their (bathing suits/underwear), (lounging by/running through) the (hot tub/trailer park). They were both looking (tan and fit/pale and skinny)! Their project was (fun/ill-conceived), and besides the (exciting/unfortunate) TV appearance, it definitely increased the (value/toxicity levels) of their property and put their (neighborhood/trailer park) on the (map/DEA watch list).

For Little Brother, this year was one big (adventure/pain). He and his (girlfriend/chain gang) traveled up and down the highways (sightseeing/breaking rocks) in (their new RV/the blazing sun). They never had a (dull moment/moment’s rest) as they (explored/toiled) all across (this great land/the Arizona desert). I think he will (never/always) regret selling (his business/all that stolen property). He has been (having/doing) (a great/hard) time ever since.

As for me, I continue to work as a CPA, but I have (happily/begrudgingly) switched positions. The (local bank/Renoso cartel) (hired me away/bought my gambling debts) from the (big city firm/Gambini family). I certainly (don’t miss/regret) all the time I spent (commuting/at the track)! I don’t want to (brag/self-incriminate), but I have innovated the (home foreclosure/drug distribution) process, making it easier for (homeowners/dealers) to get low-interest loans that can help them stay in (their homes/business) during these tough economic times. While the big (banks/cartels) don’t traditionally like to negotiate with struggling (families/biker gangs), I managed to convince my organization of the value of helping our clients stay afloat until they get back on their feet. I like to say, “It doesn’t make much sense to just (foreclose/go all medieval) on everyone the first time they miss a payment. If we work with them, we have a much better chance of getting paid in the long run. Getting our clients a (loan modification/hundred pounds of product) with a 60 or 90-day float is sometimes all they need to turn it around. We can always (foreclose on them/waste everyone) down the road if they don’t live up to their obligations.” What can I say, I’m (an innovator/a hostage)!

We hope this letter finds you doing (as well as/much better than) we are. Here’s to a (productive/felony-free) and (fruitful/less depressing) New Year!

Merry Christmas!


You’re welcome! Now just sign, copy and send. You’re all set.
Get it to them quick, though, because Friday is the deadline. I guess this will be my last post ever, since the Mayans have said the world will be ending on Friday the 21st. It was nice knowing all of you.

See you on the other side,

-Smidge


Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen


The Just a Smidge Anthology (Volume I) has arrived!
Get your copy today for only $0.99!
Go get your copy of "The Tree of Death, and Other Hilarious Stories" for your mobile device’s free Kindle, Nook, or iBooks app. You’re going to love it! 

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Decoding the Christmas Letter


The season of the Christmas letter is upon us. You may have heard the term “humble brag” used to describe some folks’ Christmas letters. That’s where people who are kicking butt in life try to tell you how awesome they are as tactfully as possible. In my own personal Christmas letter, I never do the humble brag. I brag about my life very openly, and not at all humbly.

On the other hand, there are those folks that muster the effort to write a Christmas letter not because they want to brag, but because they want to whitewash the disappointing truth. There is no special term for these types of letters, so we will simply call them “The Smith’s Christmas Letter.” This is your handy guide to decoding them. It was my pleasure. Don’t mention it.


What they wrote:
Dear Friends and Family,

What they want you to think:
You are very special to us. So special, in fact, that we took the time to write this letter just for you.

Reality:
You are filler on an address list that includes people they don’t even actually know, just so they can tell the people they are trying to impress during the holidays that they sent their Christmas letter out to 250 people. The list you are on is so exclusive that this Christmas letter was sent to one person that died this year, and two people that died last year.


What they wrote:
We’ve had another fantastic year here at the Smith household!

What they want you to think:
Our lives are magical, and we are to be envied by you pathetic souls trudging through life with no hope. We are your hope. Look at our fabulous lives and bask in our glow. You will never measure up to our successes, of course, but you can glean some measure of happiness in your own dreary lives by simply being happy for us.

Reality:
We have no idea how we made it through this crappy year without just calling the whole thing quits. If it wasn’t for alcohol, prescription drugs, reality television, and cat videos on YouTube, we would just stay in bed all day.


What they wrote:
We moved to a new neighborhood at the beginning of the year. The new house is fantastic. The floor plan is super-efficient despite its amazing size, and we couldn’t be happier. I finally have a vegetable garden!

What they want you to think:
While you are stuck in your old house that you hate, we are so affluent that we upsized to a huge mansion. We are living the dream, and I am such a delicious combination of Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray that I am growing my own food!

Reality:
The bank foreclosed on us. We are renters again for the first time since college. The duplex we are shoehorned into came with a tomato vine in a planter box. It died.


What they wrote:
Ally is excelling in her junior year at Central High. She is such a beautiful young lady now, and continues to maintain a busy schedule. In addition to her vital position on the cheer squad, she belongs to numerous clubs at school, volunteers on the weekends, stays in constant contact with her friends, and still manages to keep her grade point average up there.

What they want you to think:
Our daughter is smarter, better, faster, stronger, prettier, and more popular than any of your children. If you have any hope whatsoever of being proud of your kids someday, you should pray they turn out like Ally.

Reality:
Ally stays away from home as much as possible due to the incredible pressure she receives from her mom, and the simple fact that she does not really like any of her family members. She spends 18 hours a day sending text messages to her two friends about absolutely nothing, and her weekend “volunteering” consisted of one isolated incident where she handed out flyers for an SPCA pet sterilization program. She spent the other 51 weekends of the year at the mall food court. She is barely maintaining a C+ average at school, and only made the cheer squad because they needed someone “stocky” for the bottom of the pyramid.


What they wrote:
Can you believe Billy is a freshman at Central High this year? It’s fun to have both kids at the same school again. He enjoys his classes, and is still finding his way in the big high school system.

What they want you to think:
Our precious young boy is growing up so fast. He is a wonderful student, and he’s bravely making his way in this big world.

Reality:
Billy hates school and always has. He views the education system as nothing more than a popularity contest that he is not interested in being a part of. He regularly cuts his afternoon classes so he can have more time to play Halo 4 with his online gamer “buddies,” none of whom he has actually met in person. He is fat and pale. There is a slight chance that he would lead a life of crime if he didn’t have his parents to sponge off of, but he would most likely just be a homeless beggar, because he doesn’t seem to have even an iota of ambition.


What they wrote:
Bob celebrated his 25-year anniversary at XYZ Corporation in September and continues to shine as a mid-level manager. He loves his job, but occasionally mentions the possibility of early retirement. We’ll see… Ha-ha. Bob spends most of his evenings relaxing in front of the television.

What they want you to think:
My husband is a wonderful provider and a top-notch employee. He is much more stable than your husband probably is, and he’s perfectly content with his role as the breadwinner, but would also enjoy the chance to get out of the “rat race” and spend more quality time with me and the kids.

Reality:
Bob cannot believe he is still alive after trudging off to that life-sucking corporate behemoth for 25 bleepin’ years now.  He would quit his insanely boring job tomorrow and become a ski lift operator, or a lifeguard, or any other damn thing besides a mid-level manager if the kids were already through college and the mortgage was paid off. Truth be told, he’s really not sure why his position even exists, and he does not think he can make it until he’s 65, but every time he mentions quitting, Jane tells him to shut his pie hole and keep the paychecks coming. Bob goes through one Costco-sized bottle of  Wild Turkey per week just trying to “take the edge off” and find a will to live.


What they wrote:
As for me, it’s the same old story. I keep myself busy with my homemaker duties and my close circle of friends. I can’t believe how fast the time goes these days! Another year is coming to a close, and we are so very thankful to have you in our lives. Merry Christmas!

What they want you to think:
I am living the dream. For me, life is a blissful walk in the park. I artfully take care of my family, with a style and grace that you could not begin to achieve. You should be very, very thankful that you know me.

Reality:
Jane’s life is so depressing, she doesn’t even want to talk about it. Xanax is the only thing that keeps her from going totally insane. She has even started grinding it up and sprinkling it into the sugar cookies to mellow out Bob and Ally. Billy didn’t need any. She feeds the family a never-ending assortment of take-out and frozen fish sticks, and rarely gets out of bed before 10:00 A.M. If it is a reality show on television, Jane watches it. She knows every detail about the lives of all the characters on 17 different TV shows, but not very much about her own family. You are not really in the Smith family's lives, and everyone involved can be thankful for that. The Smiths will have a merry Christmas, but only due to video games, sedative-laced holiday cookies, and 101-proof Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey.


There you are. Now you can sit down with your glass of eggnog next to your roaring yule log and really, truly get caught up on how the Smiths are actually doing.

If you are lucky enough to receive a copy of my Christmas letter, please remember, none of this Smith-type subtext applies. Every word of mine is true.

See you soon,

-Smidge


Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen


The Just a Smidge Anthology (Volume I) has arrived!
Get your copy today for only $0.99!
Go get your copy of "The Tree of Death, and Other Hilarious Stories" for your mobile device’s free Kindle, Nook, or iBooks app. You’re going to love it!

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Quitting, Part II


I am in a very strange predicament. I have a drinking problem, but not a traditional one. I am addicted to non-alcoholic beer.

You see, at the beginning of this year, I made a last-minute New Year’s resolution to quit drinking beer until my next book was finished. At the time, I thought I only had about another month to go, and I figured depriving myself of beer would be a good motivator. Well, the book took a little longer than expected. The Tree of Death, and Other Hilarious Stories came out just last month. (It’s an e-book at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Apple iBooks. You should check it out. It’s really funny, and only 99 cents!)

Anyway, I think part of the reason it took me ten months to finish the book was that my no-beer motivation really did nothing to motivate me. As it turned out, I didn’t miss “real” beer at all. I missed the malted barley and hops, but I didn’t miss the alcohol. A few months into the year I discovered non-alcoholic beer, and have been drinking it ever since. “Drinking” might be an understatement. Guzzling is probably a more accurate word. Guzzling really doesn’t do it justice, either. Let’s just say, I’m pretty sure that I am personally keeping the O’Doul’s brand in business.

Being addicted to non-alcoholic beer is like being a crack addict in Hogsbottom, Kansas. Sometimes, it’s hard to find your fix. When you drink regular beer, it’s really easy to find. When you want beer that has had the alcohol removed, it’s like a snipe hunt in some neighborhoods. Most major supermarket chains will carry at least one brand, but it is not available at every convenience store like regular beer is. A good rule of thumb I have developed is this: The more heavily weighted the particular store’s beer cooler is toward malt liquor in 40-ounce containers, the less likely they are to carry non-alcoholic beer.

There has been a major learning curve on what to expect at the cash register if you do happen to find it in the far, upper-right-hand corner of the beer cooler. When you blow the dust off the six-pack and bring it up to the cashier, you are in for a treat. My latest encounter with the slack-jawed twenty-something stop-and-rob clerk with the giant holes in his earlobes went like this:

Clerk (in slower-than-standard speech pattern) - “What’s with the O’Doul’s, man? Don’t you like real beer?”
Me (in regular cadence speech pattern) - “I do. I just don’t drink it much anymore.”
“Oh. [long pause] I quit, too. I haven’t had a beer in three days. I used to drink Steel Reserve forties, but it’s better if I’m off the sauce.”
“Are you sure?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Good luck with that.”

Most stores don’t know how to sell it, either. Some charge sales tax while others consider it to be food, and don’t charge sales tax. Most still ask to see my ID. I asked, “Why?” the first few times, and one girl told me it was because it still has a little alcohol in it. It has less than 0.5% alcohol by volume. I didn’t bother to point out to her that the expired apple juice on aisle four probably has a higher alcohol content by now. I just showed her my ID, and she was happy.

Restaurants are not without their challenges, either. Going out to eat in California seems to be pretty safe, non-alcoholic beer-wise. Most places have it, and occasionally it turns out to be something exotic, like Buckler, the brand made by Heineken. Then it’s a party! I have found other states can be more of a crap-shoot, though. I was in Ohio earlier this year, and had this conversation with my waitress at the steak house:

“What would you like to drink?”
“Do you have any non-alcoholic beer?”
“Non-alcoholic beer? You mean like beer that doesn’t have any alcohol? I’ve never even heard of that. Do they have that?”
“Yes, they do. Let me take a look at your beer list… Yes, you do, down here at the bottom. O’Doul’s. I’ll have one of those, please.”
“Yeah, you see here where it says ‘N/A’ next to it. That means we don’t have it.”
“No… that means it’s non-alcoholic.”
“Oh.”

It took a while for her to bring it, because she said the bartender had to hunt a little to find it. I got the distinct impression I was the very first person in the history of Ohio to ever order a non-alcoholic beer.

It reminded me of the time I ordered a Coke with my lunch in a small town cafĂ© in Mississippi. Prior to my asking for a Coke, the only beverage choices I was given were sweet tea or regular tea. The waitress looked at me like I was speaking Latin when I announced that I did not care for tea, sweet or otherwise. She begrudgingly brought me an unopened can of Coke, a glass with ice, and a separate glass with no ice, because, as she put it, “I didn’t have any idea how you would want to drink it.”

Anyway, possibly because I have since quit drinking Coke as well as regular beer, I am putting the non-alcoholic beer away at a furious pace. I have actually found myself wishing they made O’Doul’s in forties, because I go through the 12-ounce bottles too quickly. I think part of the problem is that due to the lack of alcohol, there is no clearly defined stopping point until I am almost too full to breathe correctly, and only then do I realize I have drank ten of them. I then spend the next twelve hours peeing every fifteen minutes. Besides being up half the night visiting the bathroom, it's killing my budget and my waistline. It’s the same price as regular beer, which just seems wrong, and even at only 65 calories a pop, they add up.

So, I find myself in the unique predicament of needing to fight an addiction to non-alcoholic beer. Do you think there is a Non-Alcoholics Anonymous? Obviously, I don't really need it to be anonymous. Non-Alcoholics Non-Anonymous? If I can’t find my local NANA chapter, I think I’ll need to start my own, because I really need to get off the sauce. Maybe I should start drinking real beer again to help wean myself off the fake stuff.

See you soon,

-Smidge


Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen


The Just a Smidge Anthology (Volume I) has arrived!
Get your copy today for only $0.99!
Go get your copy of "The Tree of Death, and Other Hilarious Stories" for your mobile device’s free Kindle, Nook, or iBooks app. You’re going to love it!