A Day In The Life Of Our Elf On The Shelf

Until a couple weeks ago I had no damn clue what an Elf on a Shelf even was.

Once I found out I figured, holy-leverage-over-the-kids’-awful-behavior-patterns-recently, it’s time for me to partake!

So, I ran out, bought the little shelf-bastard, and made it known “kids…Santa’s watching!!”

Then I kinda gave it no thought. Until a day ago when I noticed the little bastard wasn’t there anymore.

Instead, there was a note that read, “I can’t take it anymore…I…I just can’t!! Merry Christmas sickos!”

Scratching my head and trying to put the puzzle pieces together I noticed the dog chewing a tiny little book.

I immediately ran over and yelled, “DROP!!!”

Picking-up the drool-drenched book I immediately began to flip through it and quickly realized it was the Elf on the Shelf’s one day diary of his time in our house. In fact, he didn’t even make it a full day.

Here’s how it read:

Day 1. 5:13 a.m.

Dear Santa…did I really just see what I thought I saw. The dad just came downstairs, buck-naked, made a cup of coffee, got on the computer to announce he was going to go for a run then walked by me expelling some of the most horrific air ever!

Where are the happy children?

Day 1. 6:42 a.m.

“Drop, drop…DROP me damn it!!! He said ‘DROP!!’ Do what your master says and drop me!!!” That’s what I would have yelled at the dog if we were allowed to talk.

I’M NOT A PUPPET you stupid dog…..I’m an extension of Santa damn it!!!

Day 1 8:00 a.m.

OK, the boy’s gone to school and it’s just me and the daughter.

Day 1 8:11 a.m.

Elf on the Shelf does not get touched or dressed up for a tea party with Barbie!!!! Didn’t these rat-bastards read the book about me?!!! OK…sorry..I should not have spoken that way. I’m sorry Santa.

Day 1 10:42 a.m.

Awwww…the daughter has made me her “BFF.” She’s such a sweetie. Love little girls at this age.

Day 1 10:58 a.m.

I’m going to throw-up. Apparently the daughter picks random toy “best friends” to join her when going “boom boom” on the toilet.

How can something so tiny and innocent create smells so horrific?!!!?

Day 1 12:02 p.m.

Second kid’s gone to school. The two adults are working in their separate at-home offices. Dog is asleep. I’m so….so very exhausted.

This job seemed so much more glorious on the commercials and in the brochures.

Day 1 1:46 p.m.

Hey, very cool. Right on! The husband seems to be giving me a tour of the house! I shouldn’t have complained so quickly!

Day 1 1:48 p.m.

Hey, here’s the bedroom. Nice…they have a small, but pretty cool bedroom! I like it.

Day 1 1:49 p.m.

Wait!!! Wait!!! No!!!

The husband just told the wife, “hey, let’s see what Santa thinks of an afternoon quicky!”

Why are they doing this with me on the pillow next to them? Why…WHY!!!?

Day 1 1:53 p.m.

OK, that was sad. Really? Four minutes? Santa, I know what this guy wants for Christmas.

Day 1 2:01 p.m.

Do I look like a post-sex teddy bear to snuggle with? Oh you bad-breathed, bearded sicko…I want my mommy.

Day 1 2:21 p.m.

He finally woke up to shower and left me here on the bed and guess what? Yeah…the cat’s cleaning me like I’m some damn kitten.

FUCK YOU SANTA…FUCK YOU!!!

Day 1 2:34 p.m.

I feel so dirty. All I want to do it strip naked and cry in a warm shower.

Day 1 3:11 p.m.

I think I passed out for a while. But now, I’m back on my shelf.

That was some horrific dream I just had.

Day 1 3:13 p.m.

Where in the hell is my left leg and why can’t I see out of my right eye? It wasn’t a dream was it!!! Oh my dear lord the dog is chewing on my detached leg. I think I’m going to be sick…

Day 1 4:20 p.m.

Hey, quick question.

What is a bowl and why would the husband be asking the wife if she thinks “the elf on the shelf could possibly work as a make-shift bowl?”

Day 1 4:21 p.m.

Just Googled “bowl” on the elf iPhone. I’m fucking outta here!!!!

____________________________________________

And that’s it. That was all he wrote.

We’ll miss that little bastard. He was fun while we had him.

And hey, if you make it to the pole, tell the bearded fat man I want an iPhone.

Come on…I’ve been good this year…hook a brother up!!

Rock on Mr. Elf On The Shelf. We’ll always have your leg to remember you by.



I Got Blocked!

Writer’s block from hell has set in.

The past two weeks I’ve been all out of sorts. I’ve walked into walls, fed the kids rocks, and spent hours chasing the dog around the backyard screaming “come here piggy piggy.”

I guess it’s not technically writer’s block because I’ve been writing.

I write a lot for work. I wrote (and drew) a little something something for JC Little and her blog that should be posted soon! Stay tuned!

But as far as here. Well….it’s been sporadic at best.

So, I’m going to just free write about a few blog ideas I’ve been toying with, post it and move on hoping it solves my problem.

At first I was going to write something about politics because…well because you better have voted today! Except you people…please don’t vote today.

I was going to continue the post I’d done a week or so ago about my kids running campaign ads against each other and write about them at polling stations telling voters as they walked by that the other candidate pees on Dora’s map and at night tells their most inner secrets to a stuffed SpongeBob doll.

But then I was all, “that’s stupid. You can’t recycle old posts like that.”

Then I thought about writing a post about how my wife just got prescription glasses.

She’s had headaches for a longtime and recently it dawned on her that, “holy shit. I think on account of me not see’n too good (she’s from the south) I reckon I might need me some spectacles.”

Originally I thought she said “testicles” and promptly ripped my clothes off, tackled her, and was seconds away from “the sex” when the pepper spray hit me.

So, she got her eyeballs checked, a prescription written, and yesterday, picked-up her new eyewear.

Then, as I was sitting at my computer working she walked by sporting her new glasses. BUT!!! Not JUST her new eyeglasses, but also her tight-fitting spandex running gear.

*Side Note: I have a huge….HUGE glasses fetish. I have no clue where it stems from. Maybe I had a super sexy elementary school teacher that sent me down this road, but regardless… glasses do it for me.

*Side Note’s over…back to the stupid.

My foot started thumping like a happy puppy’s tail, my eyes bulged from their sockets and immediately my wife reached over, tapped my nose hard and said, “NO!!!! DOWN BOY!!!! NO!!”

But then I was all, “you can’t write about that…it’s just too revealing and women sporting glasses will avoid the ever-living hell out of you!”

Finally I contemplated the fact that our stupid damn new dog, who I’ve affectionately named “That Furry Fuck I Didn’t Want Yet My Kids And Wife Talked Me Into But That Now The Wife’s Even Overwhelmed By Even Though It’s Always Left To Me To Take Care Of Him Dog,” has an obsession with peeing on our damn kitchen carpet.

He’s awesome everywhere else throughout the house. But for some reason, that red carpet is his pee-bitch.

But then I was all, “who cares? Everyone’s dog pees in the house at some point and who wants to read about your damn pets?”

So…that’s how my brain’s operated over the past two weeks. Yet, I’ve blogged and yet, I blog today.

So, with that, I make my final plee to the blogging lords and ask them to free the brain!!!!

Guess we’ll see what their verdict is over the coming days! Hang in there reader kids, I promise it’ll all come back!!



Yeah…We Got A Dog

The day started like any other day. We woke up late and a tad hung-over from the previous night’s party with friends.

We ate breakfast and broke-up 13.6 fights between the kids.

I wrote a love note to the wife.

Then we decided to go to my wife’s second home, Ikea, to look at lofts for the boy’s room since he needs desk space.

After a couple hours of crying and listening to the boy say, “Oh, I want that bed, and that desk, and can I get a chair that wheels around, and I could put my trophies on my desk and move them when it’s time to do homework, and please daddy, please mommy?!”

But unfortunately we left without the purchase.

Then I made the mistake of a lifetime. Feeling bad that we got the kid all hyped-up and let him down, I whipped into the pet store right next to Ikea so we could let him pet hamsters and look at fish.

Twenty minutes later I find myself in a small “petting room” waiting for a dude that works there to bring us a puppy to play with.

Twenty more minutes later my wife, son, and daughter are literally clasping their hands together as if in group prayer and begging me to let them take the doggie home forever.

I gave it a good fight, I really did. But I lost and I lost hard.

When we first moved to Chicago three years ago we got a damn cat. Jasper.

Almost two years ago we got each of the kids a fish. Then one died. So we got another.

Then a few months ago the boy “had to have” a hamster. When I wasn’t looking the wife bought the little bastard a hamster.

Now...a Cavalier King Charles dog named Marty.

But, I’m going to look at the positive side of this. I’m going to focus on the many things young Marty and I have in common.

• If he’s not bathed regularly he stinks and leaves his musky scent all over the furniture. I do too…
• Currently the cat’s scared out of his mind, so one could say he scares pussy away. I do too…
• He was bred and we have his thorough pedigree chart. I guess in a way I was too…
• This furry bastard loves to have his belly rubbed nonstop. The dog does too…
• I’m going out on a limb and saying I’m pretty sure the dog doesn’t like to wear pants. We all know my feelings on those devil leg covers.
• And, I’m not going to lie, if you throw a ball near me I’m definitely going to go for it and bring it right back to you.

Now, if only I could figure out how to make my ass wag like a dog’s tail and have my wife whistle at me and talk to me like I’m 8 months old.



I Sleep Naked

Grab your puke buckets kids cause it's true.

I sleep naked.

Call it being sexually hopeful mixed with trying to be comfortable and add a dash of hating to wear clothes and walla! You’ve got a 35-year-old douche with back-hair his wife won’t shave for him who occasionally gets sweaty-ass syndrome when he’s nervous sleeping like a neurotic bear.

I remember in college when my roommate used to go home for the weekend I double and triple checked the door to make sure it was locked, slid out of my boxers, climbed into bed, and dozed off into slumber land with a huge stupid grin on my face.

When the wifey moved in with me I spent a few months being hesitant about revealing my love for sleeping naked.

“What if she thinks I’m gonna try and molest her in the middle of the night and gets all Lorena Bobbit on me?” I thought.

Shortly after, I dropped trou and never looked back.

Then we had kids.

When they were babies all was good. They had no idea at 2:16 a.m. as they screamed and cried while I changed their diaper and the wife dropped a boob in their mouth that daddy’s ding-a-ling was swinging free.

As wee toddlers they’d come in the bedroom but were too small to actually make the long-distance journey to the peak of the bed which gave me ample time to do a pillow tuck and cover.

Then…they got older.

This past weekend I woke-up and followed-through with my religious morning routine which encompasses time alone kidless and wifeless as they lay slumber above my head. A couple hours later as the wife came to life she said, “you really need to start wearing underwear when you sleep.”

I was all, “over my dead body woman!”

“Well, your daughter came into our bedroom last night and you were laying buck-naked on top of the sheets, on your back, with your entire package presented for the world and your daughter to see. And she saw… She saw it all.”

And that’s when it hit home. Sure there’s the occasional turn the corner while daddy’s getting out of the shower and see a split second of his pecker before the towel blocks the horror. There’s the walking in while daddy’s just finishing pulling up the undies and seeing a milla-second shot of his ass before boxer-briefs do their job.

But nothing. NOTHING. Is like the scaring of a young girl sleepily walking into her parents’ bedroom at 2 in the morning and finding her father counting sheep with his “sheers” laying flaccid for the world to see.

Well…I guess the only other worse scenario is if she caught her daddy actually using those “sheers” on mommy.

So chalk-up another long-loved comfort gone out the window. I now sleep clad in cotton and am none-to-happy about it.



Alcohol Filled Grenades

Remember those days when you used to be able to pour a beer or glass of wine or both, and leave them sitting on the counter or coffee table and they would be there when you got back?

Since the infestation of children in our lives, alcoholic beverages have been like grenades throughout the house.

You place them down and walking away is like pulling the pin. You have just seconds before it’s knocked over, shattered, kicked, or used because, “my horsey wanted some water.”

And literally making matters worse…my damn cat is obsessed with knocking over full glasses of liquid.

I have a mental list of areas throughout the house that are not only out of the reach of the kids, but tight enough that my fat-ass cat has no chance in cat-hell to get anywhere near it.

Those spots are almost as precious as those along the wooden steps in our house that don’t creak in the early morning when the children are on the brink of cock-blocking a solid hour of silence, coffee, and the newspaper.

The trouble is always remembering if I’d finished that beer or placed it in one of my sacred kid-free places.

If it’s a particular late night with friends I’ll spend a good half-hour on a scavenger hunt searching for half-full beers or overflowing glasses of wine. Somewhere in the middle I’d ultimately get completely turned around checking and re-checking spots.

Eventually, our guests will find me in the fetal position, sucking my thumb, crying and carving messages into the wall with my jagged thumbnail.

But I guess everything in the house suffers the same possible destruction.

When I was dating the wifey in high school I was notorious for breaking lamps, vases and chairs in her mom’s house. Clumsy, no self control and stupidity were the main culprits.

So who am I to judge the nippers for being who they are and just flat out flailing around the house in the midst of a giggle-filled tickle rages and taking down beers, wine and lamps in their wake?

Maybe I should just attach flashing beacons to my beers. That way I’d always know where I left them.

Either that or I’d spend way too much time having seizures.