Santa Claus

My propensity for overreaction coupled with my somewhat alarming gullibility made for a pretty intense combination when I was growing up.

Given this, it was no surprise that at twelve-years-old I still fully believed in Santa Claus and all the magic that surrounded him, even though my friends had known better for years.

They would ridicule me for clinging to my childish belief and try to convince me that my faith in Santa was misplaced.

When I questioned my mother, she remained noncommittal and told me that if I believed Santa was real, that was all that mattered. In retrospect, this should have been my first clue. Instead, I believed her. That did not stop my friends from trying to dissuade me at every opportunity.

Eventually, I had enough of their blasphemy. Where there was smoke, there was usually fire. I knew that I had to find out once and for all if there was any truth to their accusations.


I confronted my mother.

I watched as she shifted her weight uncomfortably, not wanting to destroy my childhood fantasies, but unable to play along any longer.

She took a deep breath and, exhaling a sigh, she conceded.


"No, Jessie. Santa’s not real."

I stood there for a moment, digesting the bombshell that just went off in my face.

There was nothing I could do about it, really. It was just something I had to get used to the idea of.

I was inconsolable and lost in silent grief. I drifted through my daily routine, unable to focus on anything outside of my desperate sadness.

I even volunteered to take away my own recess. It seemed macabre to play with the other children. My teacher would not oblige, feeling it was in my best interest to get fresh air and spend social time with my friends. 

I did my best.

This went on for days until I discovered that there are only so many times you can wash a funeral shroud before it falls apart (note to readers - do not run the hat and veil through the washing machine). Back in my normal street clothes, I had no choice but to rejoin the living. 

It was easier said than done.

I dreaded the idea of Christmas. It would never be the same again. My mother had warned me several times that because my younger brother and sisters still believed in Santa, it was my job to keep up the charade.

As we decorated the house that December, I was dead inside.

My spirit was impossible to lift and the passing of time did nothing for me. On Christmas Eve I participated in the same rituals I always had, but with a very different attitude. I wrote my letter to Santa with my siblings but it just felt like a scam now.

I couldn't even put out cookies and milk without feeling as though my every move was dishonest. 

When I went to bed that night I was disillusioned with the world. When I woke up on Christmas morning however, something changed. There were butterflies in my stomach. I was excited. How could this be? I knew this was all a charade and yet... there was something in me that couldn't wait to get out of bed and see if there were presents under that tree.

I crept down the hallway on silent feet, careful not to wake anyone else. Edging toward the family room, the soft glow of the tree lights welcomed me. I held my breath as I entered the room.

It was perfect, exactly as it had been every year. It finally occurred to me that my priorities on Christmas had been wrong all along. It was about way, way more than Santa. I knew I would be okay.

Until it dawned on me a bit later...

Halloweening Through the Ages

I loved dressing up for Halloween as a child. I spent a great deal of time coming up with ideas for costumes that would really wow my friends and family.

In the beginning of my Halloween career, my parents helped me put together some pretty kickass ensembles. It was unusual for me not to receive at least a few compliments from the neighborhood.

As I got older and more independent, however, I no longer wanted my parent’s help. I was convinced I could come up with my own awesome Halloween costumes and as far as I was concerned, their assistance was no longer required.

At first, I decided to go for the ghoulish angle.

A bit older, I started "finding my individuality", which basically served as an excuse to be a giant weirdo. This really showed in my Halloween costumes.

Older still, and I just got lazy about the whole thing. 

Once I got to the point where I wanted to go around the neigborhood dressed as a “high school kid”, it was evident that I had passed appropriate trick-or-treating age.

It was time to hang up my plastic pumpkin head and start celebrating Halloween from the other side of the door. And you know what? It can be just as much fun... especially if you have a nun costume.

Have a great Halloween, everybody!

The Toothache

I have nice teeth. I’m not being up myself or anything, I’m just making an observation. About teeth. The fact that they happen to belong to me is irrelevant, so get off my back about it.

(These might be your teeth, but they aren't mine.)

I go to the dentist very regularly, just to make sure things continue to go well in bicuspid-land. This is partly because I’m thorough and more because I worry excessively about things for no apparent reason – I’m convinced that eventually, my teeth will betray me. (Which probably makes me paranoid too.)

I’m lucky enough to have an awesome dentist who not only puts up with my bizarre and neurotic questions, but actually has the decency to pretend they are neither.


She will say something like this:

and then I will respond with this:

 ...or this:

 ...or this:

(No - my dentist is not Lucille Ball. That would be fucking amazing though.)

Now look - my teeth aren’t perfect by any stretch; I have a few fillings from when I was a teenager and I have a slight overbite. Overall though, they are pretty straight and without any real issue, and I’d really like to keep it that way. If you couple this knowledge with the fact that I can be just a bit neurotic every now and again (who, me?!), you can imagine what happened when I noticed some sensitivity in one of my upper premolars one day.

Perhaps the sensible thing would have been to go to the dentist at this point, considering I had a habit of camping out in her office anyway. But when push came to shove, something might actually have been wrong here, and I was too scared to find out. So I did what seemed completely rational at the time.

Ignoring it didn’t actually fix it, but it gave me enough time to research teeth and come up with several of my own reasons as to why it was normal to suddenly have sensitivity in a tooth.

More quickly than I would have hoped, the pain got worse. When it got to the point that breathing in through my mouth caused the nerve behind my eye to ferociously twinge, I decided it was time to make the call. Unfortunately for me, my effort to delay the inevitable had been too successful and I had to wait a whole week before I could get in to see the dentist.

In the meantime, I took copious amounts of Ibuprofen plus codeine and waited for my appointment. This proved to be a mistake.

It turns out that codeine not only leaves me feeling tired and a bit “out-of-body”; it also makes me incredibly sensitive and over-emotional about EVERYTHING. I was dismayed about the prospect of going to the dentist and convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the dentist would take my tooth away from me. 

I spent a lot of time crying to my poor husband who probably did not want to hear any of this, and certainly did not want to hear it as frequently as I wanted to tell him.


When the week finally drew to a close and my visit with my dentist arrived, I had finally resigned myself to a toothless existence somewhere in the backyard of society, comforted only by the sounds of Rascal Flatts and the company of a flea-infested stray dog.

But it turned out she didn't have to take my tooth at all. For all my worrying, I had neglected to think of the one thing that could save my tooth - the root canal! And as it happened, that's all that was required to restore my mouth to normal. The actual root canal itself is a whole other story, which we'll get to at some point.


But for now, we'll leave it here. And the moral of this story? Do not let Jess anywhere near Codeine. That shit is crizazy.

Party Etiquette

Just recently I went to a party and while I was there, I noticed that people don’t always know what to do with themselves during social gatherings. Seemingly, the simplest of occasions can be difficult to navigate.

Even when you think you’ve successfully arrived at the party and made small talk with the host (“Your home is lovely - those are exceptionally plaid curtains!”) you have to actually interact with the other partygoers.

When my conversation with a group of unfamiliars reached a predictable lag, I found myself desperate to come up with a topical anecdote to regale them with. Each second of silence was caked in my social failure. Looking down at the little pile of potato chips on my paper plate, I chose to go with the first thing that came to my head.

“These… are chips.”

I decided then, before the party had even finished, to share any ideas for improvement with you guys so that you never say or do something equally stupid.

Chances are, you’ve screwed it all up way before actually talking to anyone, so let’s start from arrival.

1. Arrive when requested. Make sure that you grace other people with your presence at the right time.

2. Know your audience. Make sure you act and dress appropriately for the event you are attending.

3. Bring something for your host. Make sure it is an appropriate offering.

4. Engage in conversation with other guests. Make sure you stick to topics of common interest. Do not be too personal with people you don't know.

(okay, we're heading into weird territory. Let's get it back on track and fix this.)



(...or not.)



5. Finally, leave the party gracefully. If you are keen to get away, make sure you have a good parting line up your sleeve.

***

Use these tips, and you will likely avoid being a tool at the next shindig you attend. Now go and party with confidence... or something.