I had a thought pop into my head the other day: I am fully prepared to be happy this Christmas season. Anyone following this blog for the past year has known the kind of year I’ve had. Except I don’t even know the kind of year I’ve had. It went something like this though:
Mom dies randomly, horribly, arrangements, funeral, wife becomes pregnant, wife has random bleeds every week, doctor visits every week, so many that sometimes I miss Dr. Hall she became my best friend, bedrest, a million chores, a million inches of snow, I hit the outer official limits of my sanity, go to therapy, get on the good drugs.
Ice melts, spring happens, I begin to feel a little better, and then whoa summer outside, a million degrees outside. We have a baby, holy crap we have a living breathing crying infant to take of all the time. All the time. All the time.
Take care of baby. Feed baby. Rock baby in chair. Feed baby. Change diaper. Change diaper again. Feed baby. He’s crying for some reason I have no idea why. Rock baby more. Sleep at some point. I don’t remember anything else about this time period of life.
At some point two months of life pass in which we do not really leave the house ever. The first time we leave the house with the baby is to get frozen yogurt. Getting frozen yogurt was one of the most terrifying, surreal, white-knuckling experiences of my life.
And now the kid is four months old, fully interactive, smiling, laughing, and feels like a real human being instead of a foreign object. And me too. I’m beginning to feel like a real human being again instead of a foreign object as well.
When I started this blog six years ago, it was really just a way for me to consume, enjoy, and review the things I loved while sharing it with others. Lately I’ve been reviewing life a lot more, and I hope people don’t mind. Which gets me to my next thought.
This past weekend, the wife and I were watching a movie together. It’s only the second movie we’ve gotten around to watching in four months. Gloriously, the baby cooperated and went to sleep on his own in the crib. So the wife and I were on the couch, BABY FREE, and actually drinking a beer together, which I don’t think had happened in over a year. It was also past 10 PM, and we were BOTH AWAKE.
We were watching a documentary on Netflix, I Am Divine, about the drag performer from the John Waters films (as well as in her own right.) It’s great, by the way, watch it. So there’s a part where they’re reminiscing about the classic film scene where Divine gets raped by a giant lobster. And I realized right then that this is what my life is missing.
The weirdness, I mean. I’m missing the weirdness in my life. My life has become too suburban, straight, and has too much baby muzak playing in the background on the kid’s Baby Einstein Sea Soother that plays beep bop boop bop versions of Beethoven over and over and over.
I need more giant lobsters.
I need a Christmas butter sculpture.
And I have one.
The wife: Wait, what? Did you say you have a butter sculpture?
The wife: Where did you find a fucking butter sculpture?
Me: In the fucking butter aisle!
(We also CURSE after 10PM when the baby is asleep and we are drinking. IT IS AWESOME.)
And now in my dedication to weirdness, I am going to eat this butter sculpture whole, right here on the blog.
Just kidding. I haven’t lost my mind. Or my gag reflex.
But let’s just enjoy for a moment the fact that this exists. A Christmas tree butter sculpture exists. For $3.99 at your local Giant. In the fucking butter aisle. I put it in my cart immediately, having no idea what its purpose is or what its purpose will be in my life.
I mean, what do you even do with a butter sculpture? Put it as the triglyceride-packed centerpiece of your holiday dinner table? All I know is I plan on keeping it as a diamond in my refrigerator. Every time I open the refrigerator, I smile and feel oozing, buttery warmth.
Seriously, when I put that butter sculpture in my shopping cart, I felt pure, unbridled excitement. And then I felt panic. Because I didn’t want it to melt. This thing was perfection. What if I was taking too long in the store and by the time I got it home it was all smudgey and sad? It felt like the countdown was ON. The good drugs take the edge off my neuroticism, but they don’t cure it completely.
Fortunately I made it home, glorious Christmas tree butter sculpture fully intact. And now it’s the Hope Diamond of my refrigerator, right behind the cream cheese. I may never, ever take it out.