Hey, I'm not above bribing my children. I used to be able to pay off Dexter with a simple Snickers bar, and Mia is still of an age that Fruit Snacks are Kiddie Caviar. Santa works from early October staight through New Years, when the threat is still a close memory.
Mia is generally such a good natured, happy girl, I don't have to drag the Santa threat out much. She got straight A's on her report card, and a certificate that I'm going to frame, and gets 100% on nearly everything she does. She gets a homework packet on Monday that she has until Friday to do, and she generally has it done, with illustrations, before Tuesday night bedtime.
Martin refers to her as an apple-polisher; I just hope I don't have (insert name of girl at high school who was rumored to cry over A-'s) on my hands. I think it's great that she's so smart, but I don't want her to suffer over it, either. I mean, I thought I was a social misfit in school, but I didn't stand out in the group for excessive ragging. Although, I did get chocolate pudding thown at my brand new coat walking home from the bus stop in third grade and cried most of the day.
I don't remember how old I was when I found out that when you're a kid, school is your job. You just get longer holidays than most grown-ups. Middle school and high school can be miserable, soul-sucking experiences. I do remember my dad sitting me down and lecturing me. He told me, "You know how I go to work every day? If it's raining, or snowing, or I don't feel good? I still go." I said yeah, Daddy, I knew. "Well, you know your Momma works hard too, right? Those are our jobs, and to take care of you. Right now, your job is school and working hard at it." I don't remember what occassioned the lecture, but I know I cried after, because I knew I wasn't doing my job right.
I'd like to thank all the twisted minds that decided a Christmas Chimpmunk Special, with antimated chimpmunks and real live people, that is a musical, is a good idea. Just the previews make me want to go hang out with Marilyn Manson and drink absithe. I can't wait until I have to endure the entire movie.
I'm so disappointed in Tiger Woods. I always had such admiration for him as a wonderful athlete and a gracious man. Dude is married (we'll see for how much lonter) to a fucking Swedish Supermodel. They are both beautiful people, in a physical sense. And his hook-ups? Skanky, one and all. Dude is batshit, some sort of raging sex addict or something. When, honestly, is a Swedish supermodel, not enough? For anyone? It's like an ABBA song gone wrong.
The only radio station in Indy that I can tolerate, The Track, has gone Christmas, fairly early during November. They were the Station That Played Everything, like Doug, in Detroit. From the looks of The Track's webpage, it could be assumed that they are now playing Christmas music all damn year. I've heard or read somewhere that some radio stations have done this, because people allegedly love Christmas music. I am not one of those people; it does not make me jolly, or want to sing along, or wrap presents; it instead, again, makes me want to hang out with Marilyn Manson and drink abshithe. Lots of asinthe. Lots and lots.
In-laws are coming for Christmas. I'm thinking of dinner ideas. I'm leaning toward something very porky and full of rosemary and black peppercorn. I will have to rethink that, or risk killing my MIL, and she's a lovely person, I adore her. Put it this way; I can be a truly cold-hearted person. I love both of my in-laws, very much, but they are getting older and one of them is going in the ground first and we will be left with the survivor because neither could live alone and I know who my vote is in for.