Which holiday scene jingles your bells?
*Pssst, speaking of getting your bells rung, there's a great giveaway at the end of this post!*
Classic or kitschy, the holidays are about family, friends, fun, food, and festivities. And other f-words only spoken while attempting to erect the Christmas tree.
The holidays are also about nostalgia. Sniff a fruit cake, listen to Boney M's Christmas Album, or sit down with the kids to watch A Christmas Story and, like Scrooge, you'll be transported back to Christmas past where it's more fun than Christmas present. In my mind anyway.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy making the holidays fun for my family — shopping for gifts, wrapping, cooking, hiding the elf in "creative and quirky" places every morning. But Christmas 1983...now that was magical.
I stuffed my face, shopped...for fun, slept, watched holiday movies through 'til the end without interruption, and unwrapped gifts (not wrapped or purchased by me). Such splendor. I had no idea....
We obviously can't go back, but we can at least visit. The Resto Festive store (online and brick & mortar) is brimming with holiday movie memorabilia and assorted kitsch that will remind you of the Christmases of your childhood. If that doesn't tickle your frankensenses, I don't know what will.
When my family and I visited the warehouse store, I was on the ugly Christmas sweaters like Flick's warm tongue on a cold flagpole. If you get that reference, you REALLY need to visit Retrofestive—Canada's Pop Culture Christmas Store.
I'm not the only one in love with this store by the way. YMC Sharon is a fan too. She listed some of her favourite retro festive finds HERE. In addition to some holly jolly (freaking hilarious) sweaters and t-shirts, there's a ton of other fun and quirky things to make your spirits bright (Hello...Leg Lamp) and deck your halls with some Christmas kitsch.
And just in time for the holidays, we're giving away (ONE) $100 store credit to spend at RetroFestive.ca! To enter, all you have to do is leave a comment below telling me what Retro Festive item you'd love to find under your tree this year (You can browse the store here). You have until December 1, 2014 to enter. You must be a YMC member and please be sure you've registered your email address in our commenting system so we can contact you if you win.
Yummy Rules and Regs: You must be a YummyMummyClub.ca member to win. Click to sign up! It's free and filled with perks. One comment per member. Entries accepted until December 1, 2014, 11:59 PM. Contest open to Canadian residents (excluding Quebec). Winners will be picked using www.random.org. See full contest rules.
THIS CONTEST IS NOW CLOSED.
Congratulations Pam Dillon, you are the prize winner. Happy holidays!!
I'm all for being polite and kind. I mean, I'm not a monster. But there are days when I want to be silly and, dare I say, inappropriate? What's wrong with that? There's a new sheriff in town and her name is Buzz Kill. I flat out refuse to invite her to any of my parties. Shoot, I have to invite her don't I? God forbid we should leave anyone out and hopelessly and irreparably offend them.
There are plenty of highly rigid rules of *PCness now. New ones are added daily and I'm struggling to keep up.
Remember the 1980s when we could tell "What's grosser than gross jokes" without fear of being crucified? Wait, can I say crucified or is the religious connotation offensive? I'm finding it tough to trust my instincts these days. In fact, rather than risk the wrath of the trolls (oops...sorry, the term "troll" might be offensive to avid fairytale readers. The new politically corrected label for troll by the way is "Dumbies"—Disgruntled Unkempt Marginalized Bridge Inhabiting Evil Skulkers, and so I just keep my mouth shut.
I have nothing against trolls. I'd be grumpy if I lived under a bridge too. Can you imagine being moist all the time, slogging around in a dank river bed 24/7? I get it. But I'm not a fan of the trolls - er, Dumbies - who lie in wait on the internet, lurking and watching for PC infractions so they can pounce. Use the wrong word, express an opinion that differs from the norm, tell a racy joke and you're in for a internet-beating. Dumbies will beat you down until you're a battered bloody hunk of meat, commando crawling away from your computer, clutching your wireless mouse in a shaky clenched fist.
I was going to list some of the off-the-charts offensive joke topics we loved as kids, but I'm no dummy (the troll kind or the stoopid kind). I would be unmercifully lambasted (sorry if I offended any vegans with that word), hung from a tree, and bashed about the head with a wooden stick like a pinata. Did I offend with this violent image? My apologies. So in the name of caution, I won't speak of them. If you grew up in the 80s you know which ones I mean anyway. Don't laugh! It's no longer to permitted. Think I'm kidding? A friend of my brother's wife's teacher's father's business associate's accountant was banished from his town for smiling at a fart joke. This shit's real folks. Uh oh, I cursed. I'll probably be blacklisted now. Oh dear, I said black...
According to my son, if you say that somebody is black, all the kids at school will call you a racist.
For the love of...oops, better not say it. The other day my son and I were listening to the radio when an Iggy Azalea song came on and I admitted to initially thinking she was black. (In case you're not familiar with Iggy, she's a wicked talented white girl who has a distinctly hip hop sound.) My son was horrified. He squealed, "MUM!!!! You CAN'T SAY THAT!!"
He explained if you include a person's colour in your description of them, you will be flogged mercilessly at 3pm at the school flagpole. So, if you happen to have two Davids in your class— one black and one white, perhaps - this visible difference must never be acknowledged in any way at any time. Here's an example to help make this rule more clear.
This is my exterior:
As of 2014 you may no longer describe me as a middle-aged white female. Offensive much? *wipes away tear*
Instead, when you describe me, please do so thusly: chronologically mid-range, melanin challenged, xx-chromosomed human life-form. And whatever you do, don't ask about the helmet. You have no idea why I might be wearing it. I could have gravity issues. It's better not to ask and to just make assumptions.
Hope that helps.
So are we too PC? Yup. Are we teaching our children to censor themselves to ridiculous levels? Yes. Is it possible to be kind, inclusive, compassionate, and funny while also being respectful and real? I think so. Like so many things in life, it's about balance and common sense. It's also about finding the line and walking it with confidence and conviction.
I apologize if *PCness sounds too much like penis. We know how offensive the word penis is. New rule alert—we're no longer allowed to use the word penis. Ever. We should also probably avoid the word "pianist" since it has a very penisy sound to it. On that vein (okay, just so we're clear, I KNOW there's a penis and vein joke to be made here but... trolls, so I can't make it out loud. However, I thought it quietly inside my brain and laughed discreetly to myself, so discreetly in fact that I did it straight-faced. Try laughing without smiling. It's tough, but alas necessary in the politically-tense environment we've created. Anyway, roosters are also no longer permitted as a topic of conversation in polite company. Rooster talk may lead to someone saying "cock" which falls under the same PC ban as penis. Again, I sincerely apologize for any discomfort I may have caused for using the word PCness.
We may be grown-ups with serious responsibilities, but life doesn't always have to be serious. IT SHOULDN'T BE.
There's so much sadness and worry around us—some days my twitter feed makes me want to hurl my laptop out the window. I suppose I could just shut it off. Whatever. I tend to air on side of the dramatic. The point is, sometimes a laugh with friends is all we need to clear our heads and remind us not to take life too seriously.
Despite feeling low one night, I met up with a group of teacher pals for drinks. My friend asked me to hold her glasses since they wouldn’t fit in her teeny purse. She looked over at one point to see me straining to read the menu while wearing them. I don’t wear glasses. She reminded me that she NEEDED them to be able to drive home adding, "For god's sake Thornbury, quit being an ass and put them back in your purse." So I did, but as soon as she went to the ladies room, I promptly brought them back out and we took photos of them posed around the bar. We may have made “spectacles” of ourselves, but we also laughed really hard and it felt good.
When the band started up we were the first group on the dance floor. Quite a sight—two pregnant mamas grinding, two ladies doing their shtick where one carries the other’s leg like a purse as the other hops on one leg likes it's completely normal, another tricked into dancing with some very drunk man while we mocked and made no effort to save her and of course, we took out and dusted off the classic 80s dance moves (robot, shopping cart, etc.) to the shock and awe of onlookers.
Back at our table, sweaty and heaving, we discussed the following:“Is there something wrong with us? And, when will we start to feel/act our age?” This conversation was frequently interrupted by rude text messages being sent from one phone to another e.g. “U might wanna do something about that spinach in ur teeth.” Or “Don’t look now but guy at bar is checking out your ass...and laughing!” I know for a fact that we are not the only group of 40-something women out there who act like this. Where are the rest of you idiots and what are you doing next weekend??
We have busy families, hectic jobs, personal struggles. From time to time it’s liberating to put real life on hold to relive the carefree days of youth. Even if we’re not “technically” youths, or youthful or young. Fine, we're in our cougar years. Grrrrr.
I don't see my girlfriends nearly enough. NOT EVEN CLOSE. Some of my friends, really good ones, I barely talk to. I don't like it, but such is life. For now anyway. We're busy. Busy, busy, fricken, busy.
However, it's comforting to know friends are there—an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on, an arm to carry my leg around like a purse. If I need them, or if they need me, busy don't mean shit. Sometimes friends are the best kind of therapy.
You might also relate to:
I'll Be A Better Friend In A Few Years by Jen Warman