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Fuck, it’s DECEMBER. The last month of the year. How’d that happen, right?

Worse yet, it’s the Holidays. Fuck me with something hard and sandpapery. Yeah, so not a fan.

When I was a wee lad, the Magic was still there. Months in advance, I’d pour through the Sears Wishbook and make a 1970’s version of an Excel spreadsheet, noting everything I wanted for Christmas. Item name, page number, Stock #, price, color and size (if appropriate). Yeah, I was really thinking of Santa, trying to make it easier for him to fulfill my needs.

What can I say? I’m a giver.

Christmas Eve? Forget it. I couldn’t sleep if you’d slipped gingerbread roofies into my warm milk. Not that I was allowed to have warm milk before bed, mind you (or water, for that matter). I was a bed-wetter. But you catch my drift.

In my early years - both before and just after my parents’ divorce - Christmas morning was all about navigating a very tight path through the myriad of presents carpeting the living room floor. An obscene amount of pressies, really, but I didn’t think so at the time. My parents weren’t rich, but they were doing pretty well.

In my tweens and teens - both in New York, and then New Mexico - it was the opposite. We were poor. Food stamps poor. And when I started working at 16, and subsequently having to hand over the bulk of my paychecks to my parents just so the five of us could eat, I think that’s where I started getting jaded. It was probably well before that, but it was around 16 that I specifically remember HATING Christmas.

I hated having to wake up early on Christmas morning. I hated having to put on a cheerful face when all I wanted to do was sleep. I hated having to act like a 6-pack of tube socks was exactly what I wanted. Well, everyone else pretended. I was just a total dickhead of a teenager, who felt that my job was to make everyone around me as miserable as I was.

At 18, I was freshly on my own. In fact, everyone else in the family had moved back to New York and left me in New Mexico. It was my first Christmas alone. And I hated that, too, fucking despised it.

Magic returned a couple of years later. I was married and a new daddy. It was the first Christmas for the twins and I was happy. I was in the Air Force, in love, a proud papa of 6-month-old girls…everything was good. For a while.

Flashforward a few years, when the marriage started sailing to southern climes. Christmas itself was still good because it was all about the girls. The Little Mermaid was brand new on VHS (and yeah, I’ve seen it about 2,742 times), my daughters had adorable British accents (because we lived in England at the time), and my wife and I always wore a happy face for the holidays.

Another few years and a divorce later, and I was depressed - yes - but still OK when my girls were around for Christmas. They’d visit me in San Antonio, and then Dallas (when I got out of the Air Force)…Santa would leave notes for the girls on the computer. It was fun.

Little later. Severe depression. Drugs. Even a suicide attempt. This was right after the flashbacks started hitting me enough to where I couldn’t ignore them any longer. My protective barriers were crumbling. All of this led me to neglect my girls. Don’t get me wrong, I was trying to protect them. Keep them away from the Fucking Disaster Formerly Known As Their Father, you know? Ugh. I could get really specific about all the ways I fucked up in those years (and since), but it’s not really relevant to the point.

Oh, yes, there IS a point. Somewhere. The Magic has been gone for a long time, that’s the point.

Nowadays, the holidays are nothing more than a 2-month period that I’d rather skip past, thanks very much. Love the Halloween. But from November 1 through,  oh, let’s say the day after New Year’s, I’d just like to fast forward through it all a’la Tivo.

It’s a ton of forced socializing, being “on” the whole time, putting on a happy face when I’m not happy, and family dynamics that sometimes make The Simpsons look like The Brady Bunch. Trust me, my mother and father got divorced for a reason. It should be against the law for them to be under the same roof these days…yet they are, right around this time every year. At my sister’s house.

Awkward, thy name is FAMILY.

And there’s always the political discussions. Most everyone in my immediate family is staunchly conservative in every way. Me, on the other hand…I’ve been growing more and more liberal as the years go by. Relative to them, I mean. Shit, I voted for Barack a year ago, and that’s grounds for castration in my family. Verbally speaking, of course.

Just you wait until Barack gets his thumbs in the health care system.

The economy is only going to get worse with a Democrat in the White House.

Barack isn’t really a Christian, you know.

Yeah, yeah. There’s a lot of tongue-biting on my part. It’s truly not worth trying to have a political discussion with my family. It’s not as if there’s going to be any actual  mind-changing going on. It’s all about the bashing, not the exchange of ideas. I’m very good at the occasional nodding, raising of the eyebrow, and mmm-hmm’ing.

Of course I enjoy my nieces. And I get along fine with my family, really. I’m not saying it’s ALL this horrible experience 24/7. It’s not.

But I don’t enjoy being out of my element for days at a time…sleeping in a foreign bed, not being able to socially retreat whenever I want to, having to wagon-train all over town to various relatives’ houses for brunches and dinners and gatherings, being subject to frou-frou coffee flavors like Vanilla Candy Cane Guava Hazelnut Chai Nectarine, and worse - single ply toilet paper.

Mix all that together with no wifi? Well, folks, all you need to do is add a few grains of sand in my crack and you have the Oxford English Dictionary definition of “hell.”

Add to that all the shit that has been 2009 and I’m stressed to the gills. I lost Lisa this year. Cancer. And then more cancer in my family…and more in friends and their families. Sickness, too, aside from the cancer. Anissa and her stroke.

Financial troubles (many of which have been caused by my not working for a while now - by choice, I might add). Relationship troubles with friends both new and old. Pyschotic assholes stalking dear friends of mine, sociopathic dickhead ex-spouses fucking with friends, too.

Hell, even people I don’t know who just lost a child in a tragic accident. And subsequent SHITHEADS that cast aspersions and say horrible things to a woman that just lost her fucking child. Clearly there’s no accounting for compassionless assholes. Happy fucking holidays, people.

For real… I can haz 2010 now pleaze? I’ve been done with this godforsaken year for a while now.

Thank God I started therapy again this year, or I’d be even more fucked. Hell, here’s how messed up in the head I’ve been lately. I’ve missed not only one, but TWO therapy sessions in the last month. I never do that shit.

Spent a couple days away from home over the weekend, right? Thought I’d enjoy a stress-free break. And I did have a great weekend. BUT…

Before I even got out of town, it started with my Garmin GPS sliding off the dashboard onto the floor and breaking.

Out of warranty, natch.

And then, having parked my car for two days, I discovered that some asshats had tried to break into it. Now the driver’s side lock is all stripped out and I have to unlock the car from the passenger’s side. And yes, this is the car that I JUST got out of the repair shop a week ago.

Because, y’know, my car is such an amazing Piece Of Shit that people are just dying to steal it. Not everyone can swim in the back of their car. No one got IN the car, at least. Not that there was anything to take…except for the busted-ass GPS.

This time of year always brings me a lot of anxiety. And I’ve noticed how short my fuse is lately, too, which isn’t making it any easier. I feel like snapping at close friends, let alone the fuckwad prunts that annoy the living shit out of me…which is much easier to do right now.

I’d just like to betchslap the dumb out of EVERYONE and EVERYTHING, really.

1. Stalkers. Seriously, WTF? Is your life so pathetic that you can’t do anything but harass people that want nothing to do with you? When I was a kid, I got bullied a lot. The problem with the Internet is that it allows people that can’t physically bully you to bully you electronically. Die, bitches, die. Though I now have a better understanding of restraining orders, so there’s that.
2. Mind Games. Played by 95% of the population, I have no patience for them, either. Fuck off. If you cannot flat out TELL ME what you want to tell me, without resorting to passive-aggressive tactics, I’m done. People are (for the most part) rather transparent, particularly those that feel confident they’re being clever. Try pretending you’re a grown-up. For once.
3. Mean People. Suck. Period.
4. Closed-Minded People. My friends are from all walks of life, and I dig that. Political spectrum, religious/spiritual spectrum…they’re all over the board, and I dig that. The people I want to be around are the kinds of people that can talk about any topic under the sun without screaming or yelling or namecalling. When you’re the OPPOSITE of that? Piss off.
5. Bad Drivers. They’re everywhere, I know. But it’s this time of year when southern Florida gets the Snowbirds. Snowbirds, if you don’t know, are the people that live here for half the year, and live up north the other half of the year. It’s warm in Florida (today’s high is 77) while they have penis-shrinking temperatures up north. Good for the local economy, bad for your sanity if you’re driving. Yesterday, some dipshit with an Ontario license plate  pulled out in front of me and I had to slam on my brakes. There was no one behind me for half a mile, so the dipshit could have waited 8 more seconds and then pulled out with no trouble. But no. It’s a shame my Scanners powers haven’t yet developed, cuz that fucker’s brains would have covered the entire interior of that Ford Taurus.
6. Garmin. WTF? My nice little sandbagged bracket (which worked just fine for over a year) slid off the side of the dash, onto the floor…the GPS hit NOTHING but the carpet and the screen BREAKS? Grrr. $80 I don’t have right now.
7. My Laptop. Beyond 3 years old now, it’s on its last legs, and has been for a while. Sometimes, Firefox acts all wonky and I have to reboot. Internal hard drive is maxed. RAM is maxed. Friends talk to me about doing a clean install with XP, but that scares the crap out of me because I don’t know where all my software discs are. Reinstalling all that crap? Not high on my list of fun things to do. 2010 is  most definitely the year for a new computer. Y’know, when I work and make some money and can make that happen. Right now, though? I wanna put a bullet right through the middle of this POS Dell laptop.
8. My Car. Yes, it drives fine. I’m not one of those people that really obsesses over vehicles. To me, it’s merely a tool to get from Point A to Point B, and I drive my cars into the ground before getting a new one. But it’s time for my car, too, I think. There is literally a fucking pool of water on the floorboard in the back seat. I have  no idea where it’s coming from but it’s moldy and nasty. And when I have money again, I don’t know that I want to spend a ton of money to fix what is clearly going to be replaced relatively soon. And with the new driver’s side keyhole party? I want to kick my car in the junk, too.
9. Christmas Shopping. Haven’t done one damn bit of it. Yet. Looks like an Amazon year, if you ask me. Do I need to mention again that I have no money?
10. ME. Last but not least, yeah. I am my own worst enemy. I haven’t worked consistently since Lisa died, and that’s been ALMOST A YEAR. I’ve been repeating major mistakes that I haven’t made in decades. I’m neglecting all sorts of relationships because of my blinders. I’ve been attempting to change bedrooms in my house for a year, but never really getting anything accomplished. I don’t know where the hell my days are going! I’m not doing SHIT. Well, that’s not true, exactly. I’m putting out one fire after another, only to have THREE MORE FIRES take their place as soon as I extinguish one. Yeah, I’m a mucking foron.

I just want to retreat away somewhere, curl up into the fetal position, and hide. Unplug everything. Delete all my damn accounts and just…disappear. I don’t feel like I can take one more straw on my back, not even a teeny tiny Barbie straw.

Moments like this make me seriously question whether or not there’s enough Guinness on the planet.

Nevertheless, I look forward to seeing some friends this weekend. Cissa is driving through North Carolina as I type this, and I’m glad she’ll be local to me very soon.

I have episodes of Supernatural, Smallville, and Fringe to watch, too. So that’s something.

I’ve lost 40 pounds over the course of the last year. Recently had to go spend $90 just on new underwear and jeans because I’m down from a size 38 waist to a 30 now, something I haven’t been able to say since I was in my 20s. EARLY 20’s. So there’s that. Even if my incredible t-shirt collection is of the Large variety and I now wear a Medium.

And I’ve decided that I ultimately can’t wait to move to one of the following states: Alaska, California, Hawaii, Colorado, Maine, Michigan, Montana, Nevada, Oregon, New Mexico, Washington, Rhode Island, or Vermont. So there’s that.

I’ll take some stress-free happy moments, please. Or maybe I’ll just taken enough Ambien to put me out like Rip Van Winkle for a while. Either way.

a

Click the tiny Stormtrooper to go see all of the Invaded! studio photos on the Halloween blog!

I would be remiss if I didn't share our Halloween memories with you. And I do not care to be remiss. No, not at all.





The last one was a neighbor that had Muppet music blaring from his home. There was another neighbor, an attractive young mom, whose costume could best be described as SpongeBoob NoPants, but I was so appalled that I forgot to take a picture and then when I went back and banged on her door at 3am the cops said I had to go home. The nerve of some people.

And now for a few favorites from Halloweens past:






Here's hoping that you and yours had a good time and that your teeth don't rot out. Also, Merry Christmas. Apparently.

Dear trick or treaters,

Fuck you.

Thanks to only ten of you showing up at my doorstep last night, I have a bowl full of candy left that I have to eat because there are starving kids in Africa.

And from the ingestion of Hershey's, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Kit Kats, Almond Joys, and M&Ms, I will get diabetes. Then, because I'm an obstinate man who won't go the doctor, my diabetes will give me gangrene and both of my feet will have to be amputated. And then I'll get a wheelchair but because I don't take care of my toys, the brakes on my wheelchair won't be properly maintained. And one day when I'm trying to wheel myself down a hill, my brakes will fail and I'll fly down the hill comically, dodging traffic until I hit a curb and fly into a pond. And while I'm flailing around in the pond, I'll swallow some water that contains a parasite. And the parasite will make me sick so I have to go to the hospital. And at the hospital, they'll have some intern who is in training look at me instead of a real doctor. And the intern will accidentally switch my chart with someone in the next room who's having a sex change operation. And I'll wake up with breasts and a vagina, but because I didn't take the hormone treatments, a hairy chest, back, and a beard. And then the only job I can get as a footless vagina toting man is at the circus. And the circus will travel through the US and do a show in the middle of nowhere in Kansas. And I will go into a rest stop to use the bathroom but they will forget about me and drive off and leave me. And then I'll have to live the rest of my life in a rest stop in Kanas, footless, hairy, and with a vagina. And it's all your fault. So, fuck you, trick or treaters. Fuck you in your stupid asses.

Love,

Adam

(first part of story here)

(continuation)

This was the strangest week.  I was depressed lately, rarely leaving the house.  I spent a lot of time in my office, introducing my mother to new technology.  I showed her how to use Firefox on her laptop and how to quick dial on her new phone.  My mother is officially the only one I know in real life who has a Barbra Streisand song as her ringtone.

On Tuesday, I was invited to this party at a hotel in Midtown.  Yes, me — Neil Kramer, who never gets invited anywhere. A group of mommybloggers had started a group website and were having a launch party at the Hilton.  They were arriving from all over the country.  Toshiba sponsored the the party.  The event would be a way for bloggers to socialize, as well as for Toshiba to showcase some of their latest products.

When I first received the invitation, I didn’t want to attend the party.  Would I be accepted by the others?  I had made enemies in the mommyblogging community lately because of some comments I had made on Twitter, accusing them of ruining blogging with all their giveaways and monetization.

My mother convinced me that I should go to the party.  She was worried that I was turning into a hermit and shut-in.  There was another reason I wanted to attend.  I was curious to meet Eleanor.  Eleanor, one of the writers for this new blog, was a single mother from Arkansas.  We had flirted a bit on IM.  She had never been to New York before and was bringing along her daughter, Sarah, for the event.

Despite the rain and the first game of the World Series, the party was a huge success.  I spent most of my time chatting with Eleanor and drinking “dirty martinis.”  I related to Eleanor.  Unlike some of the other mothers, who were unnaturally upbeat, there was a darkness to Eleanor. It felt as if she had “experienced life,” good and bad, and I found her sexy.

Eleanor brought Sarah to the party for an hour, just so she could meet everyone.  I had read so much about Sarah’s on Eleanor’s blog, it was as if I knew her.  She was five years old, with raven hair — the most adorable young girl you’d ever seen.  Sarah and I had a discussion about “My Little Pony,” which apparently was her favorite toy.  Luckily, “My Little Pony” was the giveaway in the latest Happy Meal, and I had just read about it while standing in line at McDonald’s, so I was able to fake my knowledge.  It worked, because I clearly won over this sweet girl!

After Eleanor put Sarah to bed, Eleanor and I continued our conversation in the hotel bar.  She talked about her last relationship.  I talked about Sophia.  When it was time for the bar to close, she invited me upstairs to her hotel room.

“You mean… stay here?” I asked, surprised.

“Will your mother mind?” she asked, laughing.

“Mind?!  She’ll be grateful!  But what about Sarah?”

“I have a two room suite.”  she said. “And she’s fast asleep.”

As anyone who has read my blog, you know I don’t hold back from telling you about my life.  I am an open book.  I would love to report back, in complete detail, about what happened in that New York City hotel room during the next few hours, with the lights of Fifth Avenue sparkling below, but I can hardly remember what occurred, and if I could, it would hardly make logical sense.  I remember her long, thin body, her hard nipples, and her long hair falling on my chest.  I can hear the bed ramming loudly against the wall.  But were those moans of pleasure or pain?

In the morning, I opened my eyes and groaned.  The light was burning my retinas.  I had the worst hangover in my entire life.  The mattress was half off the bed.  I was in bed naked and alone.  There were deep scratches and bruises all over my chest, stomach, and thighs, as if I were attacked by a jaguar.

What happened last night?  And were was Eleanor?  I turned towards the window and saw that I was not alone.  But it wasn’t Eleanor.  It was Sarah, sitting comfortably in the arm chair, her feet crossed, innocently playing with her My Little Pony.  I quickly covered my bruised body with the sheet.

“Uh, hello there, Sarah.  Where’s your mother?”

Sarah rose up, but didn’t speak.  She handed me a letter, written on the hotel stationery.  It was from Eleanor.

Dear Neil,

For the last six years, I have been a mommyblogger, and have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.  I have given seminars at BlogHer, had lunch with both Amalah and Bossy, and I am ALWAYS included in those books which compile blog posts on motherhood.

Lately, I have been disappointed with the direction of the momosphere.  New mothers want to move up the ranks without doing the hard work.  That is why I have decided to quit being a mommyblogger, and re-brand my blog as a fashion blog.  My brief stay in New York has opened my eyes to the world of fashion.  I am bored with Arkansas.  Women are so glamorous in the big city, and I want to be part of this world.  Last night, as we made love, my mind drifted to my career goals.  Wouldn’t it be cool to have a fashion blog in Paris?  I could name it “Arkansas Gal Goes to Paris” and it could be about my exploits in the French fashion world.  I definitely could monetize that!

As you can imagine, my daughter will not be an asset to my online business as I re-brand.  As a mommyblogger, she was essential, of course.  I will always appreciate everything she did for me during my early years of blogging.  Most of my readership came from stories about her, starting when I live blogged her birth.  My blog would not have been a success without my weekly photos of Sarah, especially the ones where I dressed her up in funny clothes during Halloween, but I think now is the time for BOTH of us to search for new opportunities.

As Sarah’s mother, I want the best for her.  And that is why I thought about YOU.  Who do I know who could use a child to enhance his reputation with the online community?  You!  Now with a child, you can be a parent blogger like the rest of us.  You can be ONE OF US!

I was shocked and intrigued by the content of this letter. And perhaps Eleanor was right.  Having a daughter would change my online life.   I heard Eleanor’s voice ringing in my head.

“You can be ONE OF US!  ONE OF US!  ONE OF US!  ONE OF US!”

I glanced over at Sarah and she smiled at me, but when I stared into her eyes, I had to avert from her gaze.  I saw something inside her dark eyes that I found troubling, but what?!

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity.  I brought Sarah back to Queens, and my mother was ecstatic.  She had always wanted to be a “grandmother.”  My mother introduced Sarah to the neighbors in the apartment building, bragging about how smart she was, and how she was going to attend Harvard Medical School and make something of herself, unlike her son.

“Success always skips a generation,” she told Muriel, my next door neighbor.

Despite my fears, nothing bad came to pass.  In fact, Sarah had only brought me good luck.  The news of my new “daughter” spread throughout the blogosphere.  Within a day, my readership had tripled, and PR companies were inviting me to free trips to Disney World.

My nights were filled with new and fun parental activities.  I was either baking Tollhouse cookies, playing Candyland, or enjoying the latest show on the Disney channel.  I was happy.

But something changed when I was alone with Sarah.  Twice a week, my mother went to play mah jongg at a neighbor’s apartment.  The minute my mother closed the door behind her, Sarah became more obstinate.

“I don’t want to put away my f**king toys!” she would say to me.

I tried to remain calm, knowing that changing families can be hard on a young child.

“Now, Sarah, in this house, when we finish playing with our toys, like My Little Pony, we put them into our nice toy box.”

“Eat sh*t, you motherf**ker!”

“Now, Sarah. I know the type of language they have on TV nowadays.  I sometimes watch Entourage, too, but it is inappropriate to speak this way to someone older than you.”

“I bet you have a tiny d*ck,” she replied.

I found this entire exchange troubling.  When my mother returned from mah jongg, I told my mother about Sarah’s misbehavior, but when we walked into her bedroom (which used to be MY bedroom), the young girl was sleeping soundly, looking like an angel.

“You must be imagining all of that,” said my mother.  “Sarah is the most perfect child I have ever seen.  Are you jealous because she is getting so much attention from me?”

My mother assured me that I would always be her son, even if she doted on Sarah and treated her like the daughter she always wanted instead of a boy.

“By the way.  Please clean out your closet to make room for all the new clothes that I want to buy Sarah at TJ Maxx,” said my mother.

I went to sleep on the uncomfortable living room couch, the plastic cover sticking to my body.  I felt confused.  Maybe Sarah was just tired from all the excitement.  That would explain her temper tantrums.  She needed time to adjust to her new environment.

The next morning, I woke up.  The head of Sarah’s My Little Pony, cracked off the rest of the body, was sitting on my pillow, in a pool of ketchup.  I could hear Sarah laughing in my her bedroom — in MY old bedroom.  It was not the gentle laugh of an adorable child, but the crazed guffaw of Satan’s offspring.

+++

“You need to bond with her,” said my mother as she made French Toast for breakfast the next morning.  “Then she’ll be your friend.”

“You make the best French Toast in all the world, ma’am,” said Sarah to my mother.  Sarah was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands folded like the teacher’s pet.

“Thank you, sweetie.  You are so nice and polite.  And please… call me Grandmama.”

“OK, Grandmama.  I love you, Grandmama!  One day I will go to Harvard Medical School and make you proud of me!  I will never waste my life on Twitter like Neilochka does!”

My mother suggested that I decorate the house for Halloween with Sarah.

While my mother attended her mah jongg game, I bought a large pumpkin.

“How about we make a Jack O’Lantern together!” I announced cheerfully.

“Yayyyyyy!” Sarah yelled, with youthful enthusiasm.

We went into the kitchen to start the project.  I cut off the top of the pumpkin, and threw out the guck inside.  I gave Sarah a Sharpie so she could draw a “spooky face” on the exterior of the pumpkin.

“This is fun!” she said.

I was glad that we were finally bonding.

I found the sharpest kitchen knife, one that my mother recently bought at Bed, Bath, and Beyond with a 20% off coupon, in the utensil drawer, and used it to start carving out the face.  As I worked on our creation, I entertained Sarah by teaching her the words of “The Monster Mash.”

It was at this point that Sarah’s demeanor changed for the worse.

“You cannot sing for sh*t,” she said.

“That is not very nice thing for you to say, Sarah.  It is not polite to criticize someone’s singing.  If you don’t have anything nice to say…”

“Loser!  Dummy!  Fart-face!  Moron!  P*ssy!”

I could tell that words alone were not enough to discipline her.  I was forced to say the most hated statement that any parent could ever speak.

“Sarah, stop that, or I will spank you!”

“You don’t have the guts to spank me, you weenie! I piss on you.”

Sarah started to pee all over the kitchen floor, laughing like a hyena.

“This is unacceptable!” I said.  I kneeled down with a roll of paper towels to wipe the pee.  Being a parent to a child was more work than I ever realized!

As I scrubbed the floor, I decided to have a serious conversation with Sarah about her behavior, but when I turned to my side, she was not there.  I immediately noticed that the knife that I was using to carve the pumpkin was also gone.  Whaaaa…?

I angled my body backwards and there was Sarah, behind me, holding the knife over her head, the florescent light reflecting the  sharpness of the metal blade.

Sarah’s face was blood red as she uttered her mantra –

“I must kill you for your mocking comments about mommybloggers.  I must kill you.  I must kill you because I was brought to this earth to do evil and EVIL I must do!”

This Daughter of Lucifer was about to stab this kitchen knife into me, when the front door opened.  It was my mother, having just finished her game of Mah Jonng at Mildred’s.

“No!” screamed my mother.  “And not with that brand new knife!”

I had heard stories of how human beings can develop super-strength when their adrenaline is pumping.  I read about a father who lifted up a Chevy truck with his bare hands in order to rescue his son trapped underneath.  The parental bond is that strong, and so it was with my mother.  When she saw that I was in danger, she leaped into the sky and knocked the knife out of Sarah’s hand.  Sarah went flying across the linoleum floor.

“F*ck you, Grandmama,” said the angry girl.

“That’s it, young lady.  You’re punished.”

My mother dragged Sarah into the bathroom, where she proceeded to wash her mouth out with a bar of Ivory Soap.  I remember my mother once did this to me because of my “potty mouth,” and it was an experience I would never forget.  However,  Sarah was unrepentant.  She continued to curse at both of us, and her head did a 360 degree turn, which was a clear sign that she was up to no good.

“This child is inhabited by the evil power of Lucifer,” said my mother.  “We need to find an exorcist!”

“Where are we going to find an exorcist in Queens?” I asked.

We both agree that we needed to find a religious figure, a person of education and faith, one equipped to fight this monstrous Beelzebub that was inside this young girl.

The next day, on Halloween, we dragged Sarah over to Beth Israel and requested a meeting with Rabbi Gold.  It seemed natural to first seek counsel from “one of your own.”  Rabbi Gold was new to the temple, a handsome young rabbi, still single, fresh from the rabbinical seminary.  After we told him about our problem, he was honest with us, and said that he had never dealt with the spawn of the devil before.

“Maybe we should call up Father O’Herily at Saint Francis.  He’s probably more experienced.  When Jews get possessed by Satan, they usually don’t come to their rabbi.  They usually go into therapy.”

“Hey there Jew-boy,” teased Sarah.  “You wearing that yarmulke to cover that bald spot?!”

“Sarah, that is so rude!” yelled my mother.

The red-faced rabbi rifled through the Talmud looking for instructions on how to do a exorcism.

“I don’t know if this will work,” said the rabbi when he found the appropriate passage, “But we can try this fifteen century pray written to combat evil.”

Rabbi Gold started reciting the powerful Hebrew text, but Sarah just laughed.

“Going up?” she asked, as if she was an elevator operator, and she lifted the rabbi into the air with her powers, pinning him to the ceiling of the temple.

“Bring him down right now,” scolded my mother.

“Sorry, Grandmama, but maybe Neilochka can keep him company.”

Sarah extended her hand and I zoomed up against the ceiling, landing next to the Rabbi.

With the rabbi and I helpless, this left my mother alone with Sarah, female vs. female.

“What is wrong with you?” asked my mother.  “Why are you so evil?  Who’s ever going to want to date you when you get older?  You’re a total bitch!”

Sarah lifted up the top of her shirt.

“Girls Gone Wild!”

“Ugh,” we all said in unison, disgusted and uncomfortable.

Sarah then told us about how her mother, Eleanor, worked in a funeral parlor after graduate school, and how on one lonely, rainy night, Eleanor made love to a handsome, but decapitated man who was lying dead on a slab, but still with a hard-on, and how, because of this terrible and unnatural lust, she became pregnant and gave birth to a child from Hell.  Sarah then revealed the secret details of that recent elite Mommyblogging summit in Scottsdale, Arizona, where top mommybloggers gathered to come up with a plan to kill me, as punishment for some unflattering comments I made on Twitter.  It was Eleanor who suggested using her evil daughter to take care of things.

“And that is why I am who I am!  I was BORN EVIL!”

I was shocked by this story, at the horror of it all, and how easily demons can take hold of even the most innocent of creatures and turn them into cruel and inhumane monsters.

“And now to take care of ALL OF YOU.” the devil girl cried, her eyes glowing with hatred.

Sarah raised her thin hands again and the synagogue shook.  The stained glassed windows cracked, and the floor started to break apart, as if Hell itself was gobbling us up into the fire.  Blood spilled from the walls, and we could hear screams of agony from those imprisoned in the underworld.

“Good-bye, Mom.  Good-bye Rabbi Gold.  Goodbye World.”  I said, sobbing.

And then there was a faint sound.  A voice of goodness.  Of joy.  A voice that cut through the violence.  It was my mother’s cellphone.  It was Mildred calling, wondering if they were still playing mah jongg on Halloween.  But it was not Mildred that we heard.  It was my mother’s new ringtone, Barbra Streisand singing “Papa, Can You Hear Me?” from the movie Yentl.

Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you see me?
Papa can you find me in the night?
Papa are you near me?
Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you help me not be frightened?

As Barbra sang, Sarah released her raised hands and crumbled to the floor in tears, vulnerable and child-like for the very first time.

“Daddy!  Where are you?  Who are you?” she asked, as tears ran down her face.

Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you see me?
Papa can you find me in the night?
Papa are you near me?
Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you help me not be frightened?

The Rabbi and I slowly drifted down to safety and the shaking of the building ceased.  The blood on the walls disappeared.

“So, this is it,” said the rabbi.  “She never knew her father, and this longing has created the anger within!  And only Barbra Streisand’s voice and the lyrics to this song have healed her!”

“Oh, poor baby,” said my mother, her maternal instinct returning, as she went to hug Sarah.

“I’m a freak!” said Sarah.  “A freak because of my father!”

“No, you’re not,” said my mother.  “You’re just different.  And different can be interesting.  Look at Neil.  He’s a weirdo, and people still like him.”

“That’s true,” replied Sarah.

Just then, a ghost appeared.  It was a handsome man, his head decapitated and hanging to the side, still with a raging hard-on.

“Who’s your daddy?” he asked, a smile forming on the decapitated head.

“Papa?!” yelled Sarah.

“Yes, I am your father.  And even though I was dead when I impregnated your mother, I have always been proud of you.  I always will watch over you, even with my decapitated head. There’s no reason for you to be the spawn of Satan anymore.  It’s been done already anyway.  Be original!”

“Thank you, Papa.  I love you.”

“I love you, too.  Whenever you hear Barbra singing, think of me!”

And with those wise words, the ghost of Sarah’s decapitated father with the hard-on faded into the air.

Sarah was a new girl.  A girl of innocence and joy,

“Can we go get some ice cream now?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.  “We will ALL go for ice cream!”

And off we went to Baskin Robbins to celebrate the rebirth of Sarah, now non-Satanic.  The rabbi thought it would be good idea to contact her mother and tell her the good news.  He sent an email to his cousin in Paris, who was doing a junior year abroad.  The rabbi’s cousin was able to track down Eleanor, who was floundering as a fashion blogger.  Eleanor returned to the states to reconnect with her daughter.

Rabbi Gold went with Sarah to pick up Eleanor at the Air France terminal at JFK. The minute the Rabbi and Eleanor locked eyes, there was an immediate chemistry between the two, and they were married the next day, standing under the chuppah at the rabbi’s temple.  My mother and I also attended and were happy to dance at the wedding.  Sarah moved in with Eleanor and the Rabbi, and they became a happy family unit.  Sarah accepted the Rabbi as her step-father, knowing that the ghost of her decapitated biological father was always with her in spirit. Eleanor became a successful blogger, writing about Jewish crafts.

As for us, it was sad to lose Sarah, even if my mother and I were happy that she found a good home.  My mother looked at the bright side.

“You are such a neurotic mess.  Let’s first try to get you straightened out before we take in another Devil child.”

I would be lying if I didn’t admit enjoying my short-lived experience as a parent.  But, more importantly, I gained a new respect for YOU — my online friends who are parents.  You do deserve all the freebies and trips to Disney World.  Because — holy crap, being a parent is HELL.

Happy Halloween.

From the writer of such horrific Halloween tales as Giving Head (2008), The Werewolf (2007), and The Joy of 666 (2006)

Short and sweet. Sorry about Monday’s (lack of) show. I thought it was Sunday…days of partying and hanging with amazingly cool people, plus lack of naps caused me to lose a day.

Tonight, my guest is Catherine from the blog “When We Were Liars.” Catherine and I met for ConFab in Kentucky and she rocks it. We’ll be talking about lots of things, especially Halloween. Oooh, spooky!

Join us tonight for fun call-in talk, play around in the chatroom. Every one of you is welcome to call in and talk with us. The phone number is 724-444-7444, Call ID 23738.

I highly recommend that you go to my SecondHand Radio info page, register at Talkshoe.com and download the Talkshoe client (though not required, I think it’s a superior chatroom experience).

You’ll be there, right? And if you have trouble getting into the show for some reason, feel free to call in (using the phone number below) and you can listen on the phone that way. I can leave you on mute, if you prefer.

Showtime: 10PM EST, 9PM CST, 8PM Mountain, 7PM Pacific

Show Link:

http://www.talkshoe.com/tc/23738

Call-in Number: (724) 444-7444, Call ID 23738

2HRadio Info (including complete list of upcoming guests)

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Those of you who sent in vacation photos helped us out with our decorations immensely. As I said yesterday, we converted my game room into a war room and covered three walls with "Recent Sightings", which were all 122 vacation photos submitted that had aliens photoshopped in. You can view the whole set here, but here are some of my favorites, and I've also embedded a slideshow of all of them, too. Thank you to each of you who submitted a photo!

P.S. I'm considering going to Las Vegas on December 11-13th for the huge blogger birthday bash. Any of you planning on it? When are you flying in? Inquiring Avitable braincells want to know.

(cross-posted to the Halloween blog)

I wish I was able to write a full recap of the party the day after it happened, but that would require preparation, motivation, and finished photos, none of which I currently possess.

If you had your photo taken in the studio, those should be done and up within the week. I'll post them here and on the Halloween blog.

If you have photos of your own, there is a Flickr group all set up – just upload your pics and add them to the group!

Before I write anything, I wanted to thank some people. First and foremost, thank you to James, aka Clown. He invested just as much time and energy into this party as I did. He spent hours on the computer working with the photos and creating the two videos that were at the party (I'll go into more detail with regards to those in a later post). James and I alone couldn't have done everything, though. If it hadn't been for the hours of effort by some amazing friends, none of this would have happened on time or even at all. Thank you so much to Jess, Todd, Baby James, and Hilly for putting in so much effort over the last few months. More thanks go out to Marc, Eric, Dave and Carolina for helping out over the last couple of weeks too! And thanks to Dave (and James and Jess) for designing the T-shirts to help raise money. Am I forgetting anyone? God, I hope not. Thank you so much for all of the work you put in for no other reason other than just being good friends. I'm blessed.

I plan on posting some photos of the props and a little of the behind-the-scenes in how we made them for the two or three of you that actually care about that. And I'll also show you what we did with the vacation photos you submitted. Not tonight, though. Tonight I just wanted to post a little by-the-numbers:

Number of tickets sold: 100
Number of attendees: 88
Number of crashers: 5
Amount of time I got to use my taser that I bought just for party crashers: 0

Guests who arrived drunk: 2
Guests who arrived high: 5
Guests who arrived naked: 0
Guests who looked naked: 1

Time the party started: 8:00
Time the first guest arrived: 7:55
Time the first guest flashed her boobs: 9:15
Time the food ran out: 11:00
Time everyone got the munchies: 1:00
Guests who passed out: 0
Guests who vomited that we know about: 0
Time the last guest left: 3:00

Real Canadians in attendance: 4
Fake Canadians in attendance: 3
Real 80s musicians in attendance: 0
Fake 80s musicians in attendance: 3
Han Solos in attendance: 2

Age of oldest attendee: 60ish
Age of youngest attendee: 15
Apparent drinking age in the country of Avitopia: 15
Number of years in prison I could have gotten: 4

Costumes related to the Invaded! theme: 15
Costumes that went the obvious "illegal alien" route: 12
Costumes that went with a Star Wars theme: 4
Costumes that went with a Star Trek theme: 3
Number of guests who dressed up like me: 1

Total hours it took to design, build and create the party: 480
Total hours it will take to break it all down: 5
Number of days before we start planning for next year: 60

Oh, and I guess that I will share a little bit about the vacation photos. We decided to turn one entire room into a war room, and the walls were going to be plastered with "alien sightings". So all of your submitted vacation photos had aliens Photoshopped in, and as soon as I can, I'll post them so you can download them. Here's one to show you what I mean, though!

Original photo:

Invaded! photo:

Thanks again to everyone who attended – you were the reason it was such a huge success!

Today's the day.

Over 100 people will be storming the house at 8 PM to party until I kick their asses out (last year that was at 5 AM). If you didn't get a ticket, gnash your teeth and wail, but never fear. There's always next year.

In six days, the following bloggers will be coming to my house for a quiet evening of checkers:

1. Miss Britt
2. Hilly
3. Dave2
4. Hellohahanarf
5. Sassy
6. I'm Wendy
7. Certifiable Princess
8. Kim
9. Libragirl
10. Bellaventa
11. Ren
12. Mommy Melee
13. NYCWD
14. Poppy Cedes
15. Angie (A Whole Lot of Nothing)
16. Hockey Man Dad
17. Finn
18. Karl
19. Floating Princess
20. Marty Mankins
21. Deb on the Rocks
22. Karen Sugarpants
23. Coal Miner's Granddaughter
24. Blondefabulous
25. LeSombre
26. Cheeky Sweetie
27. Turnbaby
28. Bubblewench
29. Little Miss Sunshine State
30. Faiqa
31. Sheila, Charm School Reject
32. Employee 3699
33. That Bitchy Chick

This list, of course, doesn't include the 60 or so local friends, spouses, dignitaries, and members of the royal family who are attending. It is shaping up to be a fun time, although hopefully someone will bring some box wine and Cheez Whiz because I'm only supplying Ritz Crackers and PBR to drink.

If you're attending and I didn't include your name, it's a complete accident and it's due to the fact that I'm writing this after midnight on a Sunday after working on decorations all day with Clown, Liquid, Dave, Hilly, and two other friends. All that's running through my brain are lists of things that need to be done, made, hung, painted, bought, and adhered. We're making real progress, and my hope of being done by Friday afternoon so I can visit with some of you who are in town on Friday night has increased from a 1% chance to a 25% chance!

P.S. I have been asked by a service technician, a pizza delivery guy, and a taxi driver if they can come to the party this year.

P.P.S. I said no.

P.P.P.S. But in a nice way, not in a "You don't even fucking know my last name, weirdo" way.

P.P.P.P.S. My hand may be permanently stained from using fake blood to create blood splatters: