You'd Better Not Pout...I'm Telling You Why

This isn't what I was going to post today.

I'd had a pretty sucky Monday (is there any other kind?) and I was so very tempted to whine -- or even wine. But before I could pout or pour, I peeked into the living room to check on my eight-year-old son, who had been quiet long enough for me to grow suspicious. Perhaps he was trying to see how many Legos would fit up his nose? (Six of the small blocks; do not ask me how I know this).

Fortunately, I found him nestled quietly on the couch with a giant book about Santa Claus, reading by the soft glow of the Christmas tree.

"Mom!" he said, "You know how we sometimes see a man who looks like Santa walking down the street?"

"Um, yes?" I said.

"Well, this book says it might actually be the real Santa! It says Santa sometimes does that, and he leaves his red suit at home, so no one will recognize him!" And then he buried himself in the book again.

It was such a sweet moment, that I couldn't resist snapping a photo with my phone. The best part is that he was so entranced he didn't even notice:

Thank you, Santa. You reminded me tonight of life's truly important things - like the wonder of a little boy who believes in Christmas magic with his whole heart. I hope he always does. I hope I always do, too.

Jenkinsgiving

A prior Jenkinsmas: It completely dispels the Kentucky stereotype.

Happy December! I've recovered from my food coma enough to sort-of write, which is about as good as it gets here on the Porch. I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving with family and friends. I certainly did, but my pants? Not so much.

That's what happens when you attend three different Thanksgiving dinners, three days in a row. Someone should have told me to shut my pie hole. For real. At least I now understand the appeal of jeggings, which let's face it, are nothing more than sweatpants camouflaged as jeans (and also? GENIUS!).

I enjoyed all the gatherings, but I especially love it when my side of the family gets together for holidays. You know those families who have only prim and proper conversation at the dinner table? We're not one of those. Thank goodness.

To be blunt, we ain't right, and that's never more clear than when the Jenkins kids are seated around a table somewhere, conversing about things that usually makes those who married into the family wonder how they were lured into our clan (answer: Chocodiles. We know how to get them. Be jealous).

We grew up in an older home, and my siblings and I must have been exposed to excessive amounts of lead paint. But it made us who we are, whatever the hell that is.

For your amusement, I present the following snippets from Jenkinsgiving:

Mom: Shall we toast to Sarah Palin and our North Korean friends?
Dad: I refudiate that!

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Little Brother: So H. said she wants a toy dog that poops for Christmas. It's supposed to teach children to be responsible with their pets. The toy poop looks like Tootsie Rolls.
Me: What? The dog poops Tootsie Rolls?
Little Brother: No, I said it looks like Tootsie Rolls. If the dog actually pooped Tootsie Rolls, we'd be teaching our children not only to clean up dog poop, but to eat it. And that could be awkward at the park.

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Dad: How do you work this remote? I want to watch the game.

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Someone who is NOT ME, explaining to my college-age niece how I, er, I mean, someone who is NOT ME, raised their college algebra grade: I made an 'F' on the test, and I didn't think my grade was fair, so I went to the professor's office, and yadayadayada. I left with a 'B'.

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Dad: Do I push this button? Which button do I push? The game is on. Anyone?

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Little Brother: So if you have on gloves, you can type on your iPhone with your nose. Hey, B! Remember when you nose typed at the Christmas parade?

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Dad: Why does he have three remotes? Hey! Is this the remote I use? Why is the screen blue?

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Niece: Yeah, I love my butt, too, so why I am not wearing booty cutters every day?

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Niece's boyfriend, who we'll probably never see again: Yes, I am currently working on a presentation for (a very popular mattress brand).We are trying to find a way to appeal to the 18-30-year-old market.
B: Lower the price?
Little Brother: I say you introduce the BowChikaBowWow mattress brand. The commercial has this guy with a bunch of chicks on his bed, and he's saying, "I don't get ANY sleep on this mattress {wink}."
Niece's boyfriend: [several pleading glances to niece with frantic hand gestures pointing to door]

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Dad: Is it the red button? Do you press the red button to get to the game?

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Mom: So you stuff a Cornish hen inside the turkey, and when dinner is served, you pull the hen out of the turkey and scream, "OH MY GOD. The turkey was pregnant!"

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Sister: Can someone walk on my back? {a few moments later} Ohh, yeah. That's more like it. Do that again.
Little Brother: There's a package on my porch. Huh. Usually the mailman knocks.
Sister: Uh, yeah. I think he heard my back moans and was afraid to interrupt.

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Dad: I'm gonna miss the #@!! game! How the *##$! do you work the $#@#! remote?

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Little Brother: I think they should bring Short Round back in the next Indiana Jones film.
Me: But he'd be too big and old to be called Short Round.
Little Brother: I know. So they should call him Fudge Round.


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Me: Yeah, that's nice, but I'm not buying an iPad until they add a phone app to it. Then I'll have the biggest freaking phone on the block!

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Little Brother: Where did Dad go? Did he leave already? I was going to turn on the game.

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Coming soon: Jenkinsmas! Stay tuned.