by Jill Smokler
DON’T MAKE ME TURN THIS SIDECAR AROUND. Combine cognac, Grand Marnier, triple sec, and a twist of lemon and stir. Serve in a travel mug for use during holiday road trips. (Shotgun riders only.)
SILENT NIGHT. You must be kidding.
31
AN OPEN LETTER TO THE ELF ON THE FUCKING SHELF
by Jennifer Scharf
Dear Elf on the Fucking Shelf,
You’re a book, a doll, a keepsake box. You’re an iPhone app, a newsletter, and a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.
You’re everywhere.
You’re a fucking nightmare.
When I was pregnant I made a list of things that I was going to ban from my house upon my daughter’s arrival: Barney, Crocs, Tickle Me Elmo, all other battery-operated toys, and light-up sneakers, to name just a few.
If I had known about you, Elf on the Fucking Shelf, you would have been right up there at the top of the list.
But I was blissfully unaware of your felt trend sweeping the nation as I waddled around gorging my face on lemon bars. Being out of the loop gives you a certain sense of liberty. It is the same liberty that I felt when we recently moved into an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood. There was no way my daughter would hear about you while riding her princess bike in circles around a synagogue. In fact, we could skip all the holiday hoopla and she would never know. A fallen Catholic and a nonpracticing Muslim found utopia. It was perfect!
Well, it was perfect. Then last winter my mother showed up—with you! And before I could stop her, she gave you to my daughter, which ignited a ridiculous new family tradition. I think it was a secret ploy disguised in an act of kindness to torture me for being a stay-at-home mom. Staying home to raise a kid means having all the time in the world to waste on monkey-brain bullshit—or so my mother thinks. But that’s okay, I would play the game. I mean, how long could it really last? My daughter was five, and at two she was already questioning the jolly old man. I figured I’d have one more year of decking the halls and screwing around with you. Figuratively, of course.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m really not a Scrooge. I admit that I feel a tinge of warm and fuzzy when I look at you, Elf on the Fucking Shelf. You remind me of the Annalee knee-hugging pixie elves my mom collected and lined up on the mantel every year when I was a kid. But now, when I have to set my alarm to playact your creepy spying on us in the dark of night, in the middle of a freeze-your-ass-off New England winter, I don’t feel so nostalgic.
I’m also not feeling creative. My daughter recently expressed her disappointment in you. She doesn’t think you’re very “tricky.” You are a dud—which, indirectly, means I am a dud. Thanks for that. But then there was the time I had too much spiked eggnog and left you and Barbie in the sixty-nine position. I hope you had as much fun with that one as I did.
I am out of ideas and refuse to go on Pinterest for elf-posing tutorials. Actually, I refuse to go on Pinterest, period. I would bet a bag of reindeer food that there is a direct correlation between Pinterest account holders and Elf on the Shelf owners. If you’re the sort who virtually pins wallpaper patterns and dream kitchen sinks to a bulletin board in the sky, you are definitely posing your Elf to drink from a syrup container through a straw.
It was so much easier when I was a kid. Santa came down the chimney, filled your stocking, and went on his merry way. Throw in A Charlie Brown Christmas and call it a day. Now I have to worry about not taking the magic out of you, our “friendly scout” Elf. Now I have to leave sparkly reindeer food and cookies and milk out for the big man and his team. I have to hide gifts, disguise my handwriting on name tags, secretly wrap gifts, and prostitute myself to get my hands on McKenna, the American Girl Doll of the Year, which is, ironically, sold out. Like I don’t have enough shit to worry about. I’m trying to catch up on Arrested Development on Netflix. I mean, how much can one woman handle?
Thanksgiving passed, and I didn’t take you out, Elf in a Fucking Box. I am getting e-mails reminding me to activate “Diamond Snowflake.” But I am not caving in. I am tempted to tell my daughter we converted to Judaism and Santa doesn’t come to us anymore. She will probably need Elf therapy for this, but we can just bundle that with her college savings plan. I’m sure she would forget all about you if she were sipping virgin piña coladas on a tropical beach come next December. Now, that would be a merry fucking Christmas!
Sincerely,
Jennifer
32
THE PREGNANT HOLIDAY CHECKLIST
by Alessandra Macaluso
You’re pregnant during the holidays this year? What a beautiful time to be expecting! Or, not. Here are some tips to help you survive this, um, magical time . . .
1. Start shopping early. What hates crowds, eats and pees constantly, and falls asleep at 7:00 p.m.? You guessed it: a pregnant woman! None of these traits pair well with the chaos that is holiday shopping, so get a head start this year. The last thing you need to be doing is waddling around Best Buy at the last minute, accidentally peeing yourself while clawing your way through the crowds to snag this year’s hottest gift. Two words for the wise: online shopping.
2. Have an escape plan for events. Even for the biggest pregnant party animal, there are tons of reasons why you may need to cut out early: an inadequate bathroom situation, hot flashes, unsolicited advice overload, stomach instability, or fear that your bubbling desire to punch a relative will become uncontrollable. Whatever the reason, have an excuse ready so you can get the hell outta there if you need to.
3. Know your stomach’s limits. Everyone wants to feed the preggo, and you’ll have a smorgasbord of potluck dishes with family and friends insisting that you eat enough for two. This is pretty freaking amazing, so obviously you should partake . . . but don’t go too hog-wild. You don’t want to spend the better part of Christmas hovering over the bowl, cursing your bad decision to down three virgin eggnogs and two slices of tiramisu. Not like I’d know anything about that. Ahem.
4. Stay away from stress and negativity. Here’s a reality show idea: let’s fuck with a woman’s hormones, have her carry around extra weight, put her in a room with family for several days straight, and, get this: let’s take away the alcohol! (Snicker, snicker!) Oh, wait a minute—that sums up being pregnant during the holidays! If family drama makes its way into your shindig and you find yourself getting snippy, you’ll be given a free pass the moment you utter, “I’m sorry, it’s the hormones.” Use that free pass, girlfriend, and get yourself some peace and quiet!
5. Never offer to host anything. Are you Martha effing Stewart, and/or do you have a staff or kitchen attendants? No? Then repeat after me: I WILL NOT HOST ANY HOLIDAY GATHERINGS THIS YEAR. Because here’s what will happen if you do: you’ll expend all your energy preparing for said event. Your friends with kids will show up at five thirty and stay just long enough for their rug rats to ruin your holiday displays while smearing cheese dip onto your couch cushions. Your childless friends will show up at eight thirty looking to stay and party until after midnight, but will instead find you snoring, having face-planted into a bowl of spinach dip. Skip it all and bring the dip to someone else’s house.
You’re pregnant: Own it! It’s all about you this year: Little Mary wants to hug your belly, Cousin Jennifer’s boyfriend so kindly gave up his seat for you, and the craftiest of your great-aunts have knitted you beautiful blankets, booties, and darling little sweaters. SOAK THIS SHIT UP, girlfriend. Because once your bundle pops out, step aside, sister—it’s all about the baby. This year, however, is all YOU. Happy holidays, mama-to-be!
33
THE BEST KUGEL RECIPE EVER
by Jill Smokler
If you’re a non-Jew, there are some traditional Jewish foods you might want to stay away from. Gefilte fish and chopped liver, for instance—you can live a complete and fulfilled life without ever tasting these. The same cannot be said for matzo ball soup, potato latkes, an
d hot-out-of-the-oven challah. Some foods transcend religion, and if you aren’t familiar with any of those, it’s time. Go, now. I’ll wait.
Kugel kind of falls in the middle. Every Jewish person I’ve made my recipe for says it’s the best they’ve ever had, but non-Jews are rather perplexed by the sweet noodle pudding that’s not a dessert but rather a side dish. This is a Hanukkah staple in our house, and it really is delicious, whether you’re Jewish or not.
1 package egg noodles, cooked and drained
1 pint Greek yogurt or sour cream
1 stick melted butter
½ pound cottage cheese
6 eggs
1 cup sugar
½ cup brown sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 cup dried cranberries
Graham cracker crumbs
Mix all ingredients together, except for the graham cracker crumbs, and place in greased 9-by-13-inch pan.
Sprinkle graham cracker crumbs on.
Cook for about an hour (or until it’s bubbly and crispy on top) at 350 degrees.
Serve hot, room temperature, or cold.
And now you’re an honorary Jew! Mazel tov!
34
THE SANTA TRADITION
by Hannah Mayer
The idea of a strange bearded man breaking into my home in the middle of the night once a year was quite unnerving to me as a child. The fact that he telepathically knew every detail of my daily behavior, both good and bad, made it that much creepier.
My memories of Christmas Eve include sleeping with the covers pulled so tightly over my face that I could barely breathe, praying he didn’t decide to sneak into my room and harvest my kidneys on a whim.
Our yearly in-the-flesh encounters were brief yet horrific. Every Christmas my parents took my sisters and me down to the VFW hall, which usually got the third-string Santas. They were the ones with the fake beards who smelled like bourbon and hoarding.
As my family neared the front of the line, the screams of those who came before me became louder and more desperate. I considered offering my sisters up as sacrificial lambs and telling my mom I had to poop—that always made her hustle. Ultimately what kept me there was the promise of toys, which is pretty compelling when you’re a kid.
Suddenly the crowd parted and there he was, fishing wax out of his ear and sitting on a metal folding chair. I had a change of heart and my little fingers busily searched for whatever would provide a good grip. These efforts were futile; I was pried loose and placed on his lap as my parents smiled and slowly backed away. It was the ultimate act of betrayal: them ignoring my outstretched arms and frantic screams for help while I was one-on-one with this furry velveteen beast.
“Tell Santa what you want for Christmas,” they encouraged from afar.
Oh, you want to know what I want? I want to get the fuck out of here, that’s what. But what came the following year made that experience look like a day at the park.
My dad worked overnights at a grocery store, which meant his days were free to do things like be volunteered by my mom to dress up as Santa for my preschool class. I imagine that he probably met this appointment with the same enthusiasm as if he were standing in line to be hit in the face with a bag of dicks.
Of course him showing up to my classroom was news to me, and probably equally terrifying for both of us as most kids were “sort of” potty trained.
Seeing him all suited up in the doorway, I didn’t know the details but I guessed it had something to do with body snatching. Santa was my new father, and he would be coming home with us.
Life as I knew it was over.
“Were you the one wiping your boogers on the side of the couch?” he would say, winking at me as he scribbled something down in his notepad.
My mom fished me out from under the activity table and explained what was going on, but the images fueling the night-terror train had already left the station.
I grew up wondering why any parent would deliberately place their precious child in such a terrifying situation. At Christmastime I bustled by droves of little kids lined up in the mall experiencing communal heart attacks at the faintest sound of jingle bells. Why would otherwise loving, responsible parents put their terrified children on the lap of a bearded devil?
Five years ago, I became a parent for the first time and it didn’t take long for me to figure it out. Summer days are long; winter days are longer. My kids and I were on day three of a horrific snowstorm and tensions ran high. Anything that could be argued over was argued over; even the fish couldn’t take it anymore and committed suicide by jumping out of his bowl. I hit rock bottom when two of them were coming to blows over a moldy piece of firewood.
I was pushed to my limit and moments away from trudging through the show to hop a plane to Botswana. Then . . . the unthinkable. Out of nowhere I went caregiver rogue. . . diverting from anything I learned in baby safety class or in Parents magazine or on Twitter. Raw instinct kicked in.
“GIRLS!” I hissed. “Stop it! Santa is watching, and if you keep fighting he is going to bring you nothing! NOTHING! Do you understand me?”
They froze and looked at each other like they had just walked into the bathroom to find a large Bengal tiger painting his toenails. Quiet play was enjoyed the rest of the afternoon.
I had struck gold; everything became clear. From that moment on the Santa threat has been the most powerful weapon in my parenting arsenal.
I am a woman possessed. Everything is “Santa is watching this” and “Santa is watching that.” And I never wait until December; the threats usually begin around Groundhog Day. The culmination of the charade is taking the kids to see him in person, lest there has been any doubt as to his existence.
“Is this healthy?” my husband questions from time to time. It’s not something I’m proud of. I know it’s a cheap shot, probably with some sort of lasting psychological damage. I guess the adult equivalent would be my priest informing me we are going to see God after church to explain a few things about last weekend. Or the president calling to tell me that North Korea just pointed its nukes at my house because I ran a red light.
I feel bad, but not bad enough to test drive another strategy. Parenting is hard. Right now my choices are Santa or sedation. And sedation isn’t going to get the dishes done.
35
LOOKING A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH
by Tammy Scott
I have a confession to make. I’m not proud of it, but it’s time to come clean. As a child, I was a brat when it came to Hanukkah presents. In my defense, I was young and driven wild by the mystery of brightly colored packages.
To fully understand my bratty behavior, I feel the need to explain the nature of Hanukkah from the perspective of an eight-year-old child. I know Hanukkah seems glamorous, with the eight days of presents, the delicious fried foods you are religiously obligated to eat, and the parentally sanctioned opportunity to play with fire. But the way the presents are doled out is torturous.
My Christian friends would get to stay up until midnight on Christmas Eve to open a present. On Christmas morning, they woke up and ran for the bounty Santa left beneath their trees. They unwrapped everything at once—the utilitarian gifts lost in the glitz of the coveted toys, games, and books. Then they had a week’s vacation from school to stay home and play with all their new loot.
The experience was completely different for me as a Jewish child. More often than not, Hanukkah fell when school was still in session. I’d sit in school all day trying to focus on my work, but my mind would drift to selecting the perfect present from the pile of gifts with my name on them. Choosing wisely was crucial. If I made an error and selected the package with socks, I’d have to wait twenty-four more hours to get the item I had been hoping for. When the school day finally ended, I raced home to do my homework while waiting for darkness to come. The moment the su
n dipped below the horizon, I began pacing past the window, waiting for my dad to come home from work. To keep me at bay for a little while, my mom let me put the candles in the menorah and choose that night’s gift. After careful analysis of the shapes of the wrapped boxes and a comparison of the items on my wish list, I made my selection. What seemed like hours later, my dad came home. We said our prayers, lit our candles, and unveiled the gift du jour. Sadly, I had little time to play with my new treasure before I needed to get ready for bed because it was a “school night.”
When I was eight years old, my big Hanukkah wish was for the eight-track cartridge of the sound track from the movie Grease. This was the gift I wanted to open on the first night, thus ensuring seven extra days of enjoying the music. By chance that year, my brother stumbled upon the pile of wrapped gifts in the back of a closet. He wasn’t looking for them, but a find such as this could not go unexplored.
I had a brilliant idea! When my parents were busy doing whatever it is that keeps parents busy, my brother and I snuck into the closet with a notepad and a roll of Scotch tape. Very gently, I unwrapped the corner of each of my packages. Obviously, the contents of the clothing boxes were unidentifiable, but most of the other boxes were. I took precise notes, retaped the corner of each box and snuck out of the closet. Later that night, I reviewed my list then sequenced the gifts in order of priority for opening. The Grease eight-track cartridge was number one.
The first night of Hanukkah arrived. Before I went to the pile to select that night’s gift, I consulted my list. I chose the box that I was certain contained the Grease sound track and ripped the wrapping paper off with glee. To my great surprise and horror, I was wrong! It wasn’t the sound track. It was underwear. Underwear! On the first night of Hanukkah!