Scary Mommy's Guide to Surviving the Holidays (10 page)

29

SIX REASONS TO LOVE HANUKKAH

by Lily Read

1.
 Latkes. There is only one number one reason to love Hanukkah, and that reason is latkes. The delicious fried potato pancakes of happiness make their appearance only once a year, so load them up with applesauce or sour cream and eat up.

2.
 Playing Dreidel. Gambling isn't
always
encouraged at family get-togethers, so don't miss out on the chance to leave dinner richer than you came in.

3.
 Eight Nights of Presents. So much less pressure than Christmas; if you strike out one night, no big deal. (Thanks for the socks, Mom.) There's always tomorrow!

4.
 Hanukkah Gelt. Chocolate-filled “coins” that can be gambled while playing dreidel and used as bribery to help your kids clean the wax off the menorah. Who doesn't like chocolate money?

5.
 “The Hanukkah Song” by Adam Sandler. Obviously.

6.
 The Story of Hanukkah. One day's worth of oil lasting for
eight is a
way
more believable miracle than a fat man with a beard and some magical reindeer somehow being able to distribute presents to kids all across the globe in one night. Right?

30

SEASONAL COCKTAILS FOR MOMS

by Sharon Green

THE TERRIBLE TWO SHOT.
 Two shots of raspberry vodka—actually, vanilla—nooo! I
really
wanted the raspberry—no, wait, ORANGE! Garnish with pieces of gingerbread cookies that your kid won't eat because they're “broken.”

NURSING MOM'S APPLE PIE MOCKTAIL.
 Mother's Milk tea, a splash of apple juice, a dash of nutmeg, a twist of lime, served in an upturned breast pump cone, because, let's face it, those things are just begging to be repurposed as martini glasses.

MULLING IT OVER CIDER.
 Wondering if you should have another child? Pour yourself a steamy, hot glass of delicious spiked mulled cider. If you can finish it while it's still hot without inter
ruptions, you
may
be ready to handle another baby.

SNOW DAZE.
 Hot chocolate, Kahlua, Amaretto. Drink both before
and
after the kids ask you to go sledding. For the thirty-seventh fucking time.

PEPPERMINT PATTY CAKE.
 To get you in the spirit to be playmate-in-chief this holiday season: peppermint schnapps, crème de cacao, and splash of seltzer. Each time your kid says, “I'm bored,” take a sip.

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

Y
ou'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!