Were you born in a barn?

Merry Christmas Friends & Family! As of today, you can count the shopping days 'til Christmas with the digits on your hands. No toes required. That sure shocked me. Shocked me into doing some power online shopping over the weekend. So much shopping that my credit card company halted any further purchases. Ring, ring. They called and asked about several transactions. It seems I had an unusually large volume of purchases on a single day and they were concerned about fraudulent activity. Glad to know they had my back. So if you get a box from a retailer and you have no idea where it came from and I forget to tell you to look for it, Merry Christmas from our family!

Earlier this week, I came home and it looked like someone dumped the coat closet out on the floor. And the hat/mitten box. And the shoe closet too. Dwyane had scolded the kids, "Were you born in a barn? Pick up your hats, coats, gloves, and boots." Little Miss Fancy Pants replied, "What is wrong with being born in a barn? Jesus was born in a barn." Dad was silenced.

The little guy has really, really, really started watching football. Seriously. Yelling at the TV. Cheering for good plays. And asking why the coach or quarterback would call such a stupid play. He's into it and understands what is going on. And that of course means his football is with him at all times so he can do an instant re-play of the play in our living room. And that long day of football excitement led to a pass out on Sunday night. With his ball. And his fingers on the threads.

And more excitement for the little Boo. He lost his first tooth.

And the answer to his question came in cursive writing from the Good 'Ol TF herself. She has wings that help her get around to collect teeth all night. Thank goodness the question wasn't, "What do you do with all the teeth that you collect?" That might have required some Googling. And big sister definitely has peaked curiousity about the TF. "Her hand writing looks like Mom's." Mom and Dad were silenced. But she is eight years-old. And there is the bus ride to school for subjects like this.

Today at the cube farm, we had a Ladies Luncheon for our work group. And in the spirit, I found a 1990's holiday sweatshirt and decided this attire was the icing on the proverbial luncheon cake.

When I walked into the room, I guess they didn't realize my glaring holiday sweatshirt was a joke. I waited for silence and explained.

My co-worker and I have been casually competing for the last two weeks. Trying to out-do one anothers' closets of rarely-worn Holiday attire. Oh it has been enlightening. She thought she had me yesterday. But I found another one of those tree sweaters. And then today...I let her have it with the craft-fair poinsetta material sewn onto a black sweatshirt, complete with gold glitter glue for trim. It was a doozy of all bad, bad, bad holiday attire.

And at the luncheon, low and behold, my Secret Santa gift had a ribbon that PERFECTLY matched the gaudy ribbon hot-glued onto the sweatshirt. I laughingly mentioned that we should tease my hair and put the ribbon on my head like Pebbles. So one of the ladies whipped a bobby pin out her purse and the ribbon went into my hair. (Note: All moms with dancing daughters have bobby pins in the purse. Even after they think they have cleared their purse of bobby pins. One more lurks...)

That bow excitement my friends brought out all the Crackberry cameras. Flashes were popping and I am now well-photographed in the most embarrassing holiday outfit EVER! So if it ends up on Facebook, you now know the story and forgive my fashion faux paux(s). It was in bad taste and good humor.

May your barns be clean, football players well-rested, wings swift, sweaters glorious, and most important, may your blessed shopping be finished. And here's a cheer to those souls who actually consider shopping before Dec 15th. Merry Christmas!