#and the second one I nearly (but didn’t!) add completely the wrong syrup to creating what I suppose would’ve been a monstrous chimera but | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

justjessame · 3 years

Text

Home Sweet Home Chapter 4

I could hear the lyrical sound of Aria’s giggles ringing from the kitchen as I came down the stairs barely twenty minutes after Harvey had taken her downstairs to get breakfast started. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon mingled with the sweeter fragrance of maple syrup warned me of a sticky welcome waiting for me in the form of French toast and a happier toddler.

Sure enough, she was in her booster seat with what I felt certain was her second piece of perfectly made, just messy enough breakfast bordering on dessert with a far jollier disposition than what she left me with upstairs.

“Mama, look,” she waved her fork, holding a piece of her toast and I bit my lip, hoping that she’d stabbed it tight enough to keep it in place until she got it to her mouth. Either my prayer, or her will to keep every piece for herself was strong, because it made it to its proper end and her grin was infectious.

Smiling, I moved closer and leaned over to rub my nose against hers, pleased to see it was still free of sugar and goop. “You’re gonna be so hyper and ready to play with Grandma,” I murmured, pulling back as Harvey’s body molded into mine to helpfully place my plate on the table beside Aria’s before he joined his two girls. “I’m sure Daddy wanted to make sure you two had so much fun, that’s why he picked French toast.” Our eyes met over our little girl’s head and his were twinkling with the mischievousness that told me I was correct. “I’m surprised you didn’t think to add powdered sugar for an extra kick,” shaking my head I took a sip from my juice before skipping the syrup and adding just a bit of butter to my slice.

“Considered it,” Harvey admitted, making me giggle. “Thought it might be pushing it just a bit.” His nose crinkled and that did it, the giggle grew and Aria, not quite sure what was so damn funny went with it and joined my laughter.

Breakfast with the three of us wasn’t all that rare, but after what Harvey had dealt with in Chicago, we lingered a bit longer. I lingered longer, needing the reassurance that we were still alright. That he was real and fine. That Aria’s daddy and my husband was - I didn’t really understand why it took this particular case to force me to face the reality of what Harvey actually did for a living, for a calling, but it was a harsh dose.

When we heard my mom’s voice calling out, Aria had forgotten that she was sad that Grandma was coming to visit. She forgot that Grandma coming meant less time alone with Daddy. She clapped and was nearly as excited about her visiting as she had been about the big ‘monee’.

The same could not be said of Harvey. “Here we go -” his eyes closed, as if he were mentally preparing for the worst, or praying for strength and I sighed.

“There you are,” Mom said, coming into the kitchen with a grin, her eyes focused on Aria. “There’s Grandma’s little peacock.” She held out her arms and Aria held up her own as Mom clucked her tongue. “I see SOMEONE thought starting out the day with copious amounts of sugar would be the best way to jump start tiny little minds. Guess you and I are starting OUR day with a bath, Aria.” Mom shook her head and smiled down at me once she got our little one settled in her arms. “Today’s a regular schedule, isn’t it Everlea?” I nodded, suddenly thinking that MAYBE Harvey was right. “That color really looks lovely on you, sweetheart.” I was about to remind her that Harvey was RIGHT THERE, but then she sniffed. “I suppose that YOU are going to be underfoot today?” She barely glanced at him, but a shift of her eyes included my husband in the conversation. “After that mess you all made of Chicago yesterday, I’d have thought YOUR people would be on hand to clean it up. Isn’t that what you brag about doing? Cleaning CRAP up?”

My eyes widened, how had I missed this? It wasn’t even that hard to see. Dear God. I glanced at Harvey and his eyes were on me in a clear message of ‘told you so’. “I get to paper push today, Evelyn.” He was being polite, and short. “As soon as I’m done, you can head on out and me and MY girl can have Daddy and mini me time.”

“Mimi Me time!” Aria picked up the thread and ran with it, forcing Mom’s eyebrows to try to meet in the middle. Shit.

“Chicago was a poo-show,” Mom was adamant that we NOT curse around Aria, and she was the poster woman for it. Little did she know, Aria might be a parrot about most things, but we’d managed to figure out the code for how to keep her from NOT repeating THOSE words. “Surely you’ll be up to your poo colored eyeballs in paper pushing to clean it up.”

I was watching them lob verbal hits back and forth, because Harvey had a comeback locked and ready for her. “Why, Evelyn, I didn’t know you paid attention to the color of my eyes. I’m flattered.” That damn dimple of his coming out even as he followed up with more on the likelihood of work taking all day. “As for the paperwork? How hard is it to write ‘big animals wrecked city, fix it, now’? I’m not a genius, but even I can type that over and over.”

It was like a tennis match of words, and I was in the middle of it, but my eyes managed to make a detour to the clock and I knew I had to go. Standing up, which forced a time out, I kissed Aria first. Telling her to be good for Grandma, let Daddy work - which got a smirk from Mom - and then I turned to Harvey. The look in his eyes made me want to shake my head, but seeing that he was right, my mom really did have a grudge against him, for some reason had me react in a completely different way.

Instead of a nice, staid, we’ve-been-married-for-long-enough-to-be-comfortable type of goodbye kiss - I stepped up to him and when our lips met the same passion flared up that had in the shower, or the bathtub, or our bed. If my mother wanted to freak out because Harvey had helped me create our daughter. The same little girl she was holding and who she couldn’t spoil enough, I’d like to add. Then this kiss would sear into her brain that the love and passion that went into making Aria still burned bright and wasn’t ending any time soon.

“Honestly,” Mom muttered, when we finally broke apart, but our eyes were still locked on one another. “Do you think that’s appropriate for Aria to see?”

“I’ll see you tonight,” I promised Harvey, ignoring my mother for a beat. “We’ll continue THIS -”

The rough skin of Harvey’s thumbpad brushed the skin under my eye. “I’m holding you to that.” He looked like I felt like parting today felt wrong and was harder than it ever had been. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” With a sigh, I pulled away to face Mom who had let Aria down. I guess her arms got tired. “Yes, Mom, it’s appropriate for Aria to see that her parents love one another. There is NOTHING wrong with a child seeing displays of affection. It’s not like we were having sex.”

Mom sniffed at me, as if our kiss - which was admittedly bordering on a makeout session in the kitchen - was far greater than a display of affection. “You’re going to be late, Ever.”

“It’s MY office, Mom.” I was moving toward the door anyway. “Thank you for coming over,” I kissed her on the cheek as I passed her. “Be nice to him? Please?”

“No promises, Everlea Grace.” Her tone wasn’t nearly as stern though, so I had hope that I’d come home to a house still standing and my family intact.

The best part about leaving my position as the attending physician in the emergency room and starting up my own practice wasn’t just that it was less stress or the shorter hours. It was the small group of people I’d brought together to create a clinic that felt warm and comforting, while also managing to give our patients the confidence in our expertise.

I was thankful that the day went as smoothly as I expected from a regular day, no surprises, no upheaval to my routine. As I hung up my stethoscope after my final patient was on her way out the door, having gotten her next appointment scheduled and I double checked that I’d sent her prescriptions through to her pharmacy, I was debating whether I should call home to see if I was walking into a disaster area or if Mom and Harvey had called a truce.

“Everlea?” I’d been grabbing my bag and keys from my office when my receptionist, Kendra, ducked her head through the door. Looking up, she took it as an opening to continue. “Harvey called while you were with Mrs. Callahan.” I waited, hoping it was something benign, and not a call telling me he was off to make another shitty bed. “He wanted me to ask you to pick up a bottle of wine, whatever your mom prefers?” She shrugged her shoulder and I nodded.

“Thanks, Kendra.” I pulled my bag across my chest. “I think Mark is still in Exam 3 with Mr. Randolph -”

She grinned at me. “Yeah, it’s his monthly, so it’ll take a while to get through the list.” Mr. Randolph did like to be thorough when he had his monthly visit. “Don’t worry, Everlea, we’ll lock up.”

“I know you will,” I assured her. “I just wanted to make sure I remembered.” Shaking my head, I thought how long the past twenty-four hours seemed.

“Hey,” my eyes met hers. “Harvey’s practically indestructible, Everlea, and he’s home, right?”

I sighed. “I know, I know.” Moving toward the door, Kendra moved with me, following behind so she could lock the entrance behind me so no one wandered in after hours. Letting Mr. Randolph out was nothing compared to telling someone we weren’t a walk-in clinic. “I can’t seem to shake it this time.”

“Well,” Kendra took her time before she spoke, obviously thinking about my predicament. “I guess, if you think about it, it was bound to happen eventually. I mean, the stress has to compound to the point that it gets too heavy at some point, right?”

Another sigh and I nodded. “I guess, but I really wish it hadn’t.”

Kendra was chuckling as I crossed over to outside. “No one wants that kind of stress, but you and Harvey will figure it out -”

“We always do,” I supplied, my smile returning, thinking about how that was Harvey’s line.

#Agent Harvey Russell/OFC #Rampage 2018 #alternative universe

1 note · View note

neraawritesxx · 6 years

Text

Roast

Written for MultiSaku Month - Day 2

pairing: sakura x ino prompt: a barista and someone who has an extremely ridiculous order genre: humor // romance word count: 2,663

summary: “Let me see if I got this right,” Kiba started slowly, breaking their shocked silence. He snatched the piece of paper from Sakura’s limp grasp so that he could confirm its contents. “Did you just get cursed out and then asked out in the same conversation?”

a/n: I am so excited that this event is finally happening! Special shout out to @superpeachyclean for giving me the greatest one-liner for this fic. love you sunny ~

Sakura was close to losing control.

She knew it, her coworker knew it, and the rosette was pretty sure the customers in the shop knew it as well.

Sakura wasn’t sure what put her in such a foul mood this morning. Maybe it was the sudden change in the weather. Summer in Konoha was a dry, sometimes humid season that held very few cloudy days, let alone long periods of rainfall.

It had come to a surprise to all inhabitants of the city when it rained earlier that week, and they had been shocked even further as it continued to fall for the next six days. The air was so brittle and cold it could snap, and if it didn’t, Sakura found herself thinking that she just might.

She preferred the sun and its warmth carried on a breeze over the cold, desolate rainfall. Weather like this never failed to make her particularly sour.

Or, maybe she had an attitude because Naruto kept her awake half the night.

He had called right before Sakura was about to go to bed, recounting, in a jumbled rant of excited squeals and shouts, how his first date went with his new girlfriend. Every time Sakura made an excuse to end the phone call, her childhood best friend rolled right into another aspect of his day out with Hinata, proceeding to describe the occurrence in vivid detail.

Naruto was too earnest and enthusiastic about his new relationship, and Sakura couldn’t find it in her heart to hang up on him. So, she listened, albeit somewhat listlessly, and offered her opinions here and there when prompted.

By the time the knuckleheaded blond let her off the hook, it was well past midnight, and her shift at the café was set to start in a few scant hours.

When her alarm went off, startling her back into the world of the living, Sakura felt robbed.

There was no way, no way, that it was time to get up.

Yet, the bold, neon numbers displayed on the clock’s surface did not lie. Languidly and heavy-limbed she pulled herself out of bed, eyes at half-mast as she lifelessly went through her morning routine.

Forty-five minutes and half of a pot of coffee later, Sakura was making her way to work, praying that her shift would pass by quickly so that she could return home and catch up on some much-needed shut-eye.

It didn’t.

The early morning rush at the café had been exhausting. Sakura had the inkling that she wasn’t the only one affected by the unusual climate; patrons seemed more snappish and rushed than usual.

Uncharacteristically, Sakura found herself returning those barbed sentiments to the guests and barking at her co-worker when he got in her way while she was making an order.

The stress spread through her mind like ink on paper and Sakura was quickly caught up in the whirlwind that was the ‘rush hour’ for the eatery.

There was a tenseness in her muscles that made her movements almost robotic. Sakura walked around the coffee shop like she was a clockwork soldier, growing more and more frustrated when she completed an order incorrectly or happened to forget what she was doing mid-action. Her tired mind was unable to keep up with the chaos of it all.

When there was a lull in the number of customers, Sakura disappeared into the back room for a fifteen-minute break that was used to try and calm her erratic and irate demeanor. Though Sakura could still feel her anger simmering below the surface, churning violently in the pit of her stomach, sitting down with her eyes closed for those few stolen moments happened to be – to some extent – relaxing.

After her break had run its course, Sakura slipped back out into the front of the store.

She raised her shoulders, bouncing them with a little wiggle and lolled her head in a circle. It was a decent effort to try and help her further unwind before trying to finish off the remaining hours of her shift.

Kiba was in the middle of making a cappuccino, the man who had ordered the drink assessing the brunette’s work from his vantage point by the pick-up station at the opposite end of the counter. There was no one else waiting in the queue, and the pinkette was silently delighted by the fact that she wouldn’t have to greet a new guest so soon.

When the man left the shop, drink in hand, Sakura and Kiba shared a few idle comments, the later still a bit apprehensive about dealing with an incensed Sakura. She could see that he was walking on eggshells around her, and guilt embedded itself deep in her chest. To make it up to him, she offered to clean up around the café while he went on his break.

Needing no further enticement, Kiba dashed off to the back room while Sakura occupied herself with sanitizing one of the blenders they used for frozen drinks.

The bell above the door gave a soft chime a few seconds later, signaling someone new had walked in.

Immediately irritated that she would have to interact with someone, Sakura released in deep, ragged breath before putting the half-cleaned appliance down. She spun on her heel, approaching the cash register with a tense smile.

Clasping both of her hands together, she placed them on onto the countertop before stating her typical greeting, “Welcome to Roast Coffee House. How may I help you?”

Standing on the other side of the counter was a woman close to her age, chatting animatedly on her cell phone. The newcomer’s long, sandy blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail and Sakura was nearly struck still by the vibrancy by the girl’s crystalline, sky-blue eyes that stared at a fixed point over Sakura’s left shoulder.

Any thoughts of admiration were soon tossed out the window, however, as Sakura came to realize that blonde wasn’t ending her phone call anytime soon.

She couldn’t tell if the woman didn’t hear her greeting, or just simply chose to ignore her. Either way, the foulness that had manifested in Sakura’s manner since early that morning was coming to the surface, and she grit her teeth, trying to keep herself in check.

As Sakura opened her mouth to address the woman for the second time, but the blonde raised the hand that wasn’t holding the cellular device, lifting her pointer finger towards the ceiling in a ‘just hold on a minute’ gesture.

Sakura was vaguely aware of her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline as her mind attempted to wrap itself around processing the new customer's dismissive action.

Stuck somewhere between shock and irritation, Sakura fought down the urge to pluck the phone from the other woman’s grasp and throw it across the room. Alternatively, so that she wouldn’t have to pay for damaged property, Sakura just stared, unblinking, at the girl before her.

After another two minutes of listening to one side of the phone conversation, the new patron finally ended her call, pulling the device away from her ear and leveling her azure gaze on Sakura.

“Hi,” The girl greeted, tone significantly less cheery than it had been while on the phone. “I need a venti pumpkin spice latte with five shots of espresso, six pumps of pumpkin syrup, and two pumps of maple-pecan syrup. The name for the order is Ino.”

Instinctively, Sakura’s fingers began to type away on the computer used to create labels for the coffee orders, but about halfway through the fair-haired woman’s reiteration of what she wanted in her beverage, Sakura paused.

There was a drawn-out bout of silence where Sakura remained unmoving, looking at the other woman like she had sprouted a second head.

There was another pause before the rosette broke off their impromptu staring contest to slowly shift her gaze to the left, then to the right, looking around for something.

The woman - Ino - appeared confused as to why Sakura had barely even twitched, let alone start making her preferred drink.

“What?” Ino queried, lips thinned and brows furrowed. “Is there something wrong? What are you looking around for?”

When Sakura finally responded, it was in a curiously hesitant tone. “I’m looking around for game show host that’s going to pop out and tell me that I’m being punk’d.”

Her answer seemed to baffle Ino even further, so Sakura clarified by adding, “That order...you’re kidding...right?”

The blonde arched one expectant brow. “Excuse you? What’s wrong with my order?”

Something snapped, and in the back of Sakura’s mind, that boorish brashness reared its ugly head again. Her anger returned, mounting at full force and this time she didn’t do anything to stop it.

Accompanied with a scowl, the next few words were out of Sakura’s mouth in a hiss.

“Do we look like a Starbucks to you? It’s the middle of the summer. We don’t carry pumpkin spice all year round. That’s something reserved specifically for the fall season. Nor do we have anything in stock called ‘maple pecan syrup.’ Never have, and hopefully, never will.”

The woman on the other side of the counter placed her hands on her hips and narrowed blue eyes pierced Sakura with a particularly dour look.

“Well, no Starbucks barista would be caught dead in that hideous blue apron, so yes, I’m well aware of what coffee shop I entered,” Ino said, brusquely. “As for my order, I am dead serious. Could you possibly also add two pumps of ‘shut the fuck up and make my coffee’ as well?”

Sakura took a tiny step back, recoiling as if she had been physically struck.

Ino smugly smirked in triumph, tossing her long ponytail over her right shoulder.

It didn’t take long for Sakura to collect her bearings, and when she did, she slammed both palms down on the countertop, leaning dangerously close to the woman on the other side.

“Now listen here you little shi-,” Her words were cut off as Kiba appeared in the doorway that leads to the back room, black eyes fluctuating between the two females.

“Uh, is everything okay out here?” He asked. “I thought I heard yelling.”

Ino didn’t acknowledge the other coffee shop employee, keeping her hardened gaze leveled at Sakura.

Emerald eyes flicked in Kiba’s direction for no more than a second before settling back on the purple-clad blonde in front of her.

“The queen here placed a ridiculous order and expects us to bend over backward for her,” Sakura grumbled, twisting the small computer screen that was bolted onto the countertop in the brunette’s direction. “I mean, just look at it! Who needs five shots of espresso in their latte?!”

“I like to be energized for the entire day,” Ino explained with a sniff.

Sakura rolled her eyes skyward. “One, maybe two shots of espresso should be able to do that. Five is a bit excessive and is also teetering on the edge of caffeine dependency, your highness.”

Though she didn’t look in his direction, Sakura could feel when Kiba came to stand beside her, peering over her shoulder at the order on the cash register’s screen. He neither tried to intervene in the conflict nor remained at her side much longer, swiftly disappearing from of her line of sight.

Unperturbed by Kiba’s unwillingness to interfere and reluctant to lose any ground in this argument, Sakura suddenly snapped, “Speaking of incorrect seasons, who wears a crop top in the rain?”

Ino glanced down at the bold, purple half-shirt wrapped around her torso before looking up, giving Sakura a slow perusal from head to toe.

“It’s called fashion. Not that you would know anything about it.”

“It’s called being ridiculous,” Sakura snipped in response. “At least I dress appropriately for the weather.”

“Oh yeah,” Ino griped. “Appropriately enough to accentuate that large forehead of yours.”

Before Sakura could bounce back with another accurately worded verbal jab, Kiba appeared at the counter once again, holding out a sealed to-go coffee cup in Ino’s direction.

“We don’t have pumpkin spice, but I substituted it with french vanilla,” He explained calmly. “I used the same amount of espresso, but I added additional vanilla and caramel syrups to make it sweeter. I take it you add so much of that other stuff to try and drown out the bitterness of the espresso.”

Ino reluctantly reigned in her sneer, accepting the proffered caffeinated beverage with little enthusiasm.

“Thanks,” The blonde murmured, raising the drink to her lips to take a tentative sip. Seemingly satisfied with how her order turned out, Ino hummed in contentment. “It’s excellent, thank you. At least someone around here knows how to do their job.”

Kiba must have seen the murderous intent flash in Sakura’s eyes because he placed a restraining hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly. Neither employee said another word, but Sakura moved to finish ringing up Ino’s order.

The faster they got her to pay, the faster the snarky girl would leave.

Sakura, so engrossed in making sure that she charged Ino for every damn penny her absurd order was worth, didn’t try to listen in on the indistinct conversation occurring between her coworker and infuriating blonde.

She did notice, however, when Kiba handed Ino a piece of paper and a pen upon her insistent request.

“Your order total comes to six dollars and fifty-eight cents,” Sakura mumbled, flashing a baleful tight-lipped smile in the other woman’s direction.

Ino made no move to pay, free hand jotting down something quick on the loose piece of paper.

When she was finished, Ino lifted her gaze in Sakura’s direction and said, “I, for one, think your attitude sucks, and you can bet your ass that I am never going to come back to this shop on one of your shifts.”

Sakura glared, civility forgotten. She bared her teeth as her hackles rose.

Her lips twisted then parted, ready to refute the other girl’s comment with a barked jab, but the words died on her tongue as Ino slid the folded piece of scrap paper across the counter in the pinkette’s direction.

“You’re cute when you're mad,” Ino hummed offhandedly. “Your nose scrunches up, and you look like a pissed off kitten.”

Kiba snickered, trying to hide his humor behind the back of his hand and Sakura blindly reached out and smacked his bicep, refusing to take her eyes off of Ino.

The blonde continued her tirade with a conceited curl of her lips, “When you decide to dislodge that stick from your ass, give me a call. You probably look a hell of a lot prettier when you smile, and I’d like to see it for myself.”

Without another word, Ino turned in a flurry of yellow hair and left the café, the bell signaling her departure.

Neither employee said a word, and for the second time that day, Sakura found herself completely aghast, her mind racing.

Cautiously, she reached out and swiped the piece of paper off the counter in front of her, flipping it open to view a phone number written in neat feminine handwriting.

“Let me see if I got this right,” Kiba started slowly, breaking their shocked silence. He snatched the piece of paper from Sakura’s limp grasp so that he could confirm its contents. “Did you just get cursed out and then asked out in the same conversation?”

His statement was more of a question and Sakura chose to ignore it.

“My head hurts,” Sakura whined, bringing her hands to her temples so that she could massage them with small, methodic circular strokes.

There was another bout of stillness; Sakura trying to ignore the hot flush that suddenly rose to her cheeks while Kiba grumbled under his breath about the unfairness of it all.

“Wait a minute!” Sakura suddenly exclaimed in a high-pitched tone, dropping her hands as her eyes darted to the register. “She never paid for her coffee!”

#MultiSakuMonth2018 #MultiSakuMonth #MultiSakuMonthD2 #InoSaku #SakuIno #Sakura Haruno #Ino Yamanaka #Sakura x Ino #Modern AU #Coffee shop au #Naruto #naruto shippuden #Fanfiction #my fanfiction #Sakura is not having a good day #and Ino isnt making it better #Kiba is just confused #nera writes

99 notes · View notes

jonjordanforrealz · 6 years

Text

The Chronicles of Elfdom

Last December, I documented my struggles with Hermie the Elf - you know, of the “on a shelf” variety, sure, but more accurately, in my head, eating my brain and in my soul, tormenting from here to eternity.

This is my story, shared only in hopes that it may help others.

Tread lightly... Vol 1: Narrowly avoided complete disaster after totally forgetting about the little bastard on Night 1, despite having read the special book/instruction manual/elf commandments at bedtime. Oldest boy Kramers through our bedroom door at 0500, announcing that he'd prefer to use our bathroom over his. As I pondered the logic behind this, thinking, "Boy, he's assertive," something felt amiss and within seconds, I realized my worst December nightmares (since exam time during the old teaching days) were already coming true. As Boy 1 finished his business, I sprung into action, anticipating his yearning to find our annual household guest at this ungodly hour, escorting his proactive little ass back to his bedroom. Always (read: sometimes) a step ahead, I waited in the hallway for the inevitable: an attempted rendezvous to join forces with little brother. After that was easily intercepted, it was time for a little psychological warfare. Warding off both emotional sabotage (Boy 1's, "Daddy, I love you") and an honesty play (Boy 2's, "We we were trying to find Hermie but he's tricky") some redirecting was in order. Authoritative Dad speaks! "It's 5:00 am. No one comes to this house unless everyone is sleeping." With that understanding in mind, aided by the musical distractions of the old Epcot Canadian band and, of course, Kidz Bop 27, I hunted down Public Enemy #1 in his top secret hideaway. Tucked away in a Target bag - dead giveaway, right? Duh. - I shoved him into my pocket and moved on to recover the donuts that he brought with him from the North Pole. Breaking kayfabe here, I'd actually purchased these GMO-laden diabetes bombs myself from Dunkin Donuts on the way home last night, on direct orders from the General, but yes, still totally forgot about this whole charade... Does anyone realize how fucking loud a paper bag is at 5:15 am? Donuts on a paper plate and little orphan Hermie's demanding ass still secured in my Florida State sleepy pants, I knew I had very little time to reach the intended destination and disappear into whatever remained of this night. Cat- or zombie-like in my movements (not quite sure which) down went the plate and into a bouquet of flowers leftover from Thanksgiving landed Osama - or whatever his name is. Somehow, now back behind my bedroom door, I'd survived. There would be no more sleeping for our hero this morning. The sweet taste of victory would be the lone reward. Looking ahead to Night 2, it is possible that we may bribe an acquaintance to drop the bomb on Boy 1, letting him know that this is all a bunch of honkybonk, and thus, instantly creating a valuable ally to continue the ruse for Boy 2. It is now clear that the oldest is the mastermind of what will surely be a constant barrage of this sort of subterfuge for the next 24 days. Vol 2:

There will be no threat of disaster tonight. Since yesterday's torment weighed on my mind all day, it would have been nearly impossible to forget my elfly duties this evening. So, there he sits, the little prick. He's made friends with another rather smug trio that has taken up residence in my home (rent-free, I might add.) Yes, nestled snugly between Alvin and Simon, while Theodore's fat ass looks on, in the morning, the kids will find Hermie, appearing to have read the timeless holiday classic, "Santa Comes to Florida" with his rodent buddies. If you haven't read this piece of literature, it's worth at least a passing glance. But I must warn you that it isn't all that accurate. For one, there is no mention of meth or bath salts, even as Santa flies right over Apopka. And two, there isn't a lot of love for Melbourne, which is pretty shameful since such visionaries as Jim Morrison, Darrell Hammond and that guy I went to high school with who ended up in that reality show boy band are among its native sons. Let's not get too sidetracked here. There is still work to be done. I was informed earlier that one of Boy 2's little friends announced that he received a letter from Santa himself this morning, officially putting him on "The Nice List," while, shame on me, all I did was make sure the kids saw the fuckin' elf and got to eat donuts for breakfast., sacrificing sleep, sanity and something else I forgot about because I'm tired and crazy. I guess lil' man used the power of deductive reasoning and, sans Santa letter, convinced himself he was on "The Naughty List," creating a bit of a challenge at bedtime. Dad here, who may or may not have occupied a spot on the unsavory version of the imaginary fat man's lists a time or two over the years, did his best to convince the young buck that he was not on any such document - that things were going just fine - but I'm not sure he bought it. Thanks to utter exhaustion, a self-inflicted derivative of last night's bullshit adventures, sleep came quickly for the littlest Jordan, allowing me time to think of what I might include in the now necessary piece of prose needed to support my earlier claims of his green light toward Christmas presents galore. Ideally, it'd be straightforward: [Hey, kid(s). If you're worried that you might be on the wrong side of Santa's ledger, maybe you weren't as good as you thought you were all year. You ever hear of the NSA? Ever see any of my text messages? Holy shit! Now that's a list you don't want to worry about being on. Anyway... Keep the faith. The truth is, we like you. And you'd probably have to try to stab one or both of us before we'd make sure you didn't get anything at all for Christmas. Love, Dad PS: On Saturday, I want you to sleep until 10 am. Remember: THE LIST!] But traditions are traditions and in this family, as in so many others, we lie like a muthafucka - especially around the holidays! And so, the propaganda continues. Hermie, it will appear, took a break from reading his Florida Santa book to his pals to write a letter to the Jordan kids, detailing how fantastic they've been and urging them to be good listeners and make good choices at least for a few more weeks. (Pretty suspicious - or "ironic," as Alanis Morrisette might deem it - that the stuffed elf, who I think wears makeup, uses the exact same discipline terminology as Mom and Dad do, ain't it? These kids get any smarter any time soon and they'll bust me for sure. And what then?!?) Depending on what time they wake up in the morning, I may have to stage a sacrifice when it comes to the chipmunk population in this home. If we can send positive messages via letters from imaginary people, we can also send negative messages by offing a fake friend or two. And since they haven't seen "Christmas Vacation" just yet, nor do they know for sure that I don't have a Cousin Eddie, they'll have no idea that he stopped eating chipmunks (yeah, yeah, chipmunks and squirrels are different things, I get it) when he found out they were high in cholesterol. Black and white photos should do. I'll use the old Hitchcock chocolate syrup trick. Tomorrow brings the added challenges of that batshit crazy Chick-Fil-A with all the lights, what the food there does to my insides and selecting the 2016 Jordan Family Christmas tree. There will be booze. Two down, 23 to go. Vol 3:

It's clear that my efforts here are drawing something of a crowd, which is much appreciated but not at all the intent. One trusted advisor has even suggested I attempt to profit financially from this record but the truth is simply this: It has to be done. For the betterment of all mankind, our successes and failures with this Johnny-come-lately holiday irritant must be documented. Tonight, I was reminded of a better day that has passed us by. As we decorated our tree, I took some inventory of the many ornaments we've accumulated over the years. Among them, holiday stalwarts like Frosty the Snowman, Santa Claus and The Grinch make their presence known. We also have the typical representation of some of our sports teams (all of whom suck out loud), life milestones ("2006 New Home" is a real joy, since that was two houses, two kids and one lawsuit ago) and the innocence of homemade trinkets featuring the younger versions of Boy 1 and Boy 2, long before they discovered the art of whining. There is also an ornament that is simply a beer glass (right on!) and the disembodied head of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which I find terrifying. It wasn't so long ago that my biggest holiday concern was making sure that as few of these characters were damaged during tree-trimming time as possible. (Why do they call it "tree-trimming" anyway? When I go to get my hair trimmed, I'm not looking for Akbar the barber to scatter random trinkets about my rapidly-depleting mane.) But as I longed for the days of yore tonight, there it was, right in my face, as if to say, "Not so fast, asshole! The glory days are over, mother fucker!" Hermie - this sonofoabitchofanelf - is also present as an ornament on our tree. Well, shit in my hat. Just as I discovered this mini version of our mini-monster, both boys began to melt down, merely an hour past their regular bedtime, and I was already on my way to a conniption fit myself, three days into the shit and already running out of placement ideas for Elfrey Dahmer. Coincidental timing, my ass! This guy's in my head. Or he's like the alien thing from Stranger Things. If my lights start flickering, I'm setting him on fire and we'll tell the kids he didn't stop, drop or roll because he wasn't a good listener. But at least I'm not in danger of forgetting at the moment. Tomorrow may prove difficult, what with multiple activities involving alcohol already scheduled - after the children's sporting events, as per societal acceptance. I figure if I can make it through a day like that and still move "it" from Point A to Point B, that's a big win for ol' Daddio. His mind powers working on both me and the young'ins tonight jives with my recognizing the cheery-cheeked, red-and-white clad fuzzy thing to be quite clearly a demon in cahoots with Beelzebub himself. So, I've now paired him up with a dragon statue that we have atop our curio cabinet. (Never thought you'd hear me use the term "curio cabinet," did you, old friends? That's right, I'm cultured. Or I've lost all street cred. Not quite sure which distinction to hang onto here.) What's the connection between Hermalerm and the dragon? Well, heroin of course. That's right, kids, the elf didn't just chase the dragon. He caught the damn thing. Which means as I drift off to sleep tonight, I'll be headed for a righteous dream of Hermie sinking through the floor to the sounds of Lou Reed's "Perfect Day," a la Trainspotting. You'll be alright, elf boy, but this one won't be easy. One bucket for urine, one for feces, and one for vomitus. Preparation is key. You're in a new kind of hell for now, fella. See you on the flip. Vol 4:

The voodoo appears to be working. In the last 24 hours, my better half and I have each been caught making mention of "having a talk with Hermie" about this instance of a slight misstep in behavior or that. It's worth pondering what sort of residual effect this may have on the boys (or any kids, really) long-term. Is life truly one observed event after another, with an eye in the sky passing judgment in turn? And let's not get all religious here. I'm seeing this through an Orwellian lens at the moment. If we do slip up, must we live in fear of being told on? I should get out more... Speaking of, having been out quite a bit yesterday, bailing on my "move the elf" responsibility was a distinct possibility but it did not come to pass. Late at night, headache looming, our favorite holiday hobo was relocated from the dragon's back to a high perch overlooking the entrance to Boy 1's room. It's a creepy spot for sure. Like, if you were to walk out of your bedroom and find a person situated the way Hermie is at the moment, laying on his belly, chin resting on his hands, smiling like a whackjob, cheeks as rosy as ever, you'd definitely call the cops. Or shoot him. Or both. The creative maneuvers are lacking for yours truly this year - although I guess mounting the dragon was pretty cool. That's ok, though. My goal is simply to survive this month with as few mid-sleep panic attacks as possible. Started off 1-for-1 but we have a clean slate since, so I'll call it a win so far. Perhaps tonight, we'll set the elf up with a lady or something - freak Carrie out a little, if nothing else. The boys have been warned - née, reminded - that no one is supposed to be up and moving about until at least 7 am in this house (great rule, hardly ever followed) and they seem pretty beat from a long weekend so there might be hope for a more restful slumber. If not, maybe it's time for the elf to get shelved for a day or two, go visit Santa (or Satan?) or something. That'll get these tired kids back on track. Tired kids are like drunk adults, by the way. But that's a story for a different setting. 21 days to go. Zeus help me. Vol 5:

There has been no shortage of remarkable moments in our adventures with the red devil of late. Boy 1, in an apparent attempt to extort his elf friend, left him a tangerine on Monday, after finding him purportedly reading through one of Mom's cupcake cookbooks. Perhaps he was being proactive, in the event that the elf delivers cupcakes as he did donuts on opening day of this annual charade. A simple, "Hey, man. I gave you a tangerine. Whatchyougot for me?" Or maybe he's overheard dear ol' Dad opine on the corruption of politics, in general. Either way, Boy 2 was not pleased. The littlest Jordan, you see, has developed an affinity for these tangerines and while he is almost always quite willing to share his snacks, such was not the case here, as he relocated Boy 1's offering back to its original box. This incensed the elder sibling and the back-and-forth game from tangerine box to offering table began. I should note that the boys are still suffering from Christmasitis - the plague that renders otherwise lovable little humans into demon beings, drunk on exhaustion, impulsive and exhibiting a bravado unbecoming of their age or social status. Now off to school, Mom stepped in with a solution, staging a scene where the elf appeared to have eaten the tangerine in question, abandoning his cookbook perch in favor of a seated position at a makeshift snack area and leaving scraps behind, along with a note that read, "Thanks for the tangerine! I'll only eat one!" (It is also likely that a smiley face was included but I cannot confirm with any certainty, having destroyed this document, and thus, in the name of accuracy and out of respect for journalism, it is omitted here.) This was, largely, an intelligent counter tactic by my female counterpart and while its intended result - assuaging the pending civil war betwixt brothers with a reasonable compromise - was achieved, ultimately, the strategy lacked the necessary foresight to continue the mind games without needling questions from the youngsters. Of utmost importance: "Wait... You moved him?" Crickets. "No, kid," I thought to myself - but dared not say aloud. "He moved himself, of course!" But, of course, this was not supposed to be a part of the pestilent pixie's skillset! For his meandering about is only supposed to take place at night, according to the owner's manual! Far be it from Mom to not have her next move planned, however, and as I stood stock still, considering a swift exit strategy (were the neighbors home? Could a friend pick me up? Where is my rocketpack?) as if beamed in by the projector of Orson Welles himself, the holiday classic "Home Alone" was suddenly on the living room television and Mom's invite for cuddle time was accepted by both young Jordans. Crisis averted, once more. In the time since, the attitudes of drunken demon children 1 and 2 have worsened. Boy 1 resisted piano practice and was not permitted to walk the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights in turn, then admittedly plotted revenge on yours truly, attempting to stave off bedtime as long as possible by prancing about the house, giggling and speaking in tongues. And Boy 2 ignored my orders to disarm, wielding his light saber freely about the living room as though I wasn't even there. With Mom on a run (and not 100% sure she was coming back) I engaged hand-to-hand, demilitarizing my target and receiving his "Mad Dog" glare for my troubles. In fairness, Boy 2 pulled it together enough to join me on the aforementioned Christmas walk, where he graciously educated me on the difference between frogs and what he calls "toadfrogs," (apparently this has everything to do with their tongues - who knew?) and I shared with him my disdain for projector lights. Nonetheless, the net result of Sunday/Monday called for a sabbatical for the nefarious imp creature, who has, as far as the boys know, "gone to visit Santa for a day or two," according to my - no, his! - note. Improvements are expected in short order but just in case, the vodka supply has been restocked. I now count 19 days, which looks far less daunting than 20. Still, my sleep pattern has been erratic. We'll call that 20% problem drinking, 60% guilt from blatantly lying to one's offspring and 20% New York Jets football. With apologies to my parents and, more importantly, to Mark Twain, I haven't told the truth, out of necessity, thanks to you-know-who, and now I can't remember anything.

Vol 6:

Tensions have subsided. The elf was brought back after the exhibition of acceptable behavior on the part of both boys on Tuesday night. 1 did a fine job at his school Christmas concert, while 2 gave a great effort at soccer practice. (It is also important to note that Dad scored a goal in an impromptu coaches/kids mixed scrimmage. That this feat was accomplished against 6- and 7-year-olds matters not.) More importantly, bedtime was without incident on the evening in question. Why that is ever an issue is still beyond me but never has a more relatable tale been told than that of "Go the Fuck to Sleep," by Samuel L. Jackson a few years back. (Well, maybe it isn't exactly the written work of Jules Winnfield himself but I'd like to think it is, as no one could possibly ever recite it better.) Boy 1 is a fan of the every-excuse-in-the-book technique (from pooping to asking questions to feigning injury to everyone taking turns laying with him, telling stories, needing water, etc.) while Boy 2 is more straightforward with his thoughts on sleep overall. Namely, he says he never sleeps. He just relaxes. While I know this isn't completely true, having witnessed him sleeping myself on thousands of occasions, there is something a little vampiresque about the littlest Jordan, who is almost always the first to arise in the morning, often long before the sun. Today, in fact, I awoke to a noise and thinking it was either intruders (that I would have to exterminate, obviously) or my youngest son dicking around (slightly more likely) I promptly began a seek-and-destroy (or G the F to S) mission. The latter scenario proved to be reality, as there he sat, hiding behind his bathroom door, sitting on the floor with the light on, cuddling with his blanket. I don't know either, people, but hey... We all have hobbies... The return of Hellboy Hermie, fresh from his visit with Santa, Satan or Sam Kinison - can't recall which and perhaps it was all - featured him choking out one of the boys' forgotten bath toys, a gator. In this house, that visual brings more joy than the hair of the dog cure-all on a Jordan Family Christmas morning. (Well, almost.) As we enjoy this new era of peace, recognizing that it may be a brief interlude, I'm appreciative of the pause its given me, for the war against the imaginary (?) black magic of this shitbag of a Christmas toy is rather taxing. 17 days. #tylenol Vol 7:

This tradition begets strange bedfellows. Hermie the Elf, who is destined to be renamed Beelzebub, I assure you, commandeered a ship belonging to Jake and the Neverland Pirates last night, along with John Cena and Sleepy (of Seven Dwarfs fame.) Oh, if this were only real, what an adventure they may have had overnight. Sleepy, groggy to the point of hallucination, no doubt, likely from a mixture of NyQuil, booze and some medicinal herb (since we can do that here now!) wouldn’t have been much help to his shipmates. The elf, in his Luciferian glory, perched atop the crow’s nest, would attempt to serve as captain, I would think, causing immediate conflict with Cena, the jorts-wearing, self-important hero, who nobody above the age of 12 really likes. (I’m told he was actually at a local bar I’ve been to a time or 200 a couple of weeks ago. Think I could take him?) They’d square off at some point to determine the alpha male and I’d have to give that decision to the only being on this ship with supernatural, other-worldly powers. “You can’t see me,” John? Well, that’s fine. Hermie doesn’t need to see you to breathe demon fire into your soul. And they'd land at their final destination knowing that the little red-faced asshole with the pointy hat was absolutely in charge. The destination was our TV stand, by the way, because I didn't feel like thinking anymore - or leaving the ship somewhere it might easily fall, ruining everything for everyone. (Or saving them?) The children seemed to approve of this newly established faction, upon this morning's discovery, and I suppose that’s what it’s all about. Unfortunately, it’s also proven to be all about my own sick mind, full of delusions and unfulfilled desires belonging to my inner child. Back in my day, all we had was the mystique of Santa Claus himself – and thanks to friends, Sean and Tina, that gig was up for me at around eight. (Eight! That’s Boy 1’s age now. Well, balls... Getting old indeed.) I believe the big reveal upset me for a few minutes but already conditioned toward materialism (thanks, America!) I reasoned that, hell, I’d still be getting presents, so I don’t think I really cared whether they came from Mom, Dad, Uncle Charlie (who I’m pretty sure once stole a trampoline before gifting it to me) or an old, fat stranger in a furry red suit who likes to have little children sit in his lap. I was skeptical – maybe my friends lied to me. After all, this was the same brother/sister combo that once had me convinced that the oil I spotted floating atop the drink they’d made for me was perfectly normal for “Swedish chocolate milk.” (Looking back, the accompanying smell of vinegar should have been a dead giveaway. Tasted like shit but I’m sure it built character. Appreciate that, S&T!) But alas, as I gave my dad a goodnight hug on Christmas Eve, 1987, there sat the Nintendo I’d be receiving the next morning, in his closet behind him. When I found it, unwrapped, as was Santa’s style, at the foot of the tree, the bullshit meter exploded but I wouldn’t let it get me down. Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out and Super Mario Brothers (and Duck Hunt, if only so we'd all learn about tagalongs at an early age) awaited! I was smart enough to know that I didn’t want to deal with upsetting my mom so I didn’t let on that I knew that Santa was Keyzer Soze (or Verbal Kint? Sometimes my metaphors don’t work.) I think I hid that from her for at least two years. Point is, I guess I fear these kids of mine finding out we’re all the masterminds behind some pretty serious fabrications. What sort of example does that set? But mostly, it’s about the growing-up-too-fast thing. I mean, fuck. I’m 37, somehow. Oh and the other point is, how did we allow this elf thing to get so popular? We had friggin' Santa already! And wasn’t one lie enough? I’m tired. 16 days.

Vol 8:

Turnabout is fair play. Boy 2 had something of a rough day yesterday, although not in the sense that his behavior was unacceptable. With the added pressure of a snitch like the elf-demon watching over you at all times, I'm sure being a 6-year-old isn't as easy as it could be at this time of year so, when the boy wonder seemed exceptionally emotional, I should have known to chalk it up to just that. After eight straight days of "being on 'Good Citizen'" at school, the littlest Jordan was proud to announce that he had recorded No. 9 in a row. How about that? My own little Cal Ripken-type thing. But after dinner, the tiny tough guy started showing his sensitive side (a trait shared by his father - but don't tell anyone.) Seeking either a goalkeeper for his soccer game, an opponent in marbles or a playmate of any sort, he solicited the services of all of Boy 1, myself and the lady of the house, though we all politely declined, citing a collective desire to relax and/or consume the programming of WWE Network before bedtime. (The latter, of course, forced upon Mrs. Jordan, although I think she enjoys it at least a little, though she would never, ever admit as much.) His emotions played out with faulty reasoning - "No one likes me!" - and harsh accusations - "I don't have a nice family!" and "Nobody is being my friend!" My explanation was simple; that declining an invitation to any particular activity does not automatically disqualify one from being another's friend, since free will is an important quality and, if I asked a friend of mine to eat dog poop with me, their lack of participation would not stand in the way of my assessment of their loyalty toward me. But Boy 2 was not having any of this and in a brief fit of rage, he roared at me, "You better watch your attitude, Mister, or I'm telling Hermie!" Oh, did I laugh! But he did not appreciate that either and retired to his room. Confession time came quickly. As I laid with him to coax him to sleep - the sleep that, remember, he swears he never gets in favor of only "relaxing" - he exclaimed, "I'm a bad boy!" and began crying immediately. At first, he would not tell me why he had come to this conclusion but after some leveling with him in the form of a promise not to get mad, he told me he had lied and that he had not, in fact, achieved a ninth straight day of school-bestowed "good citizenship." Instead, he was stuck on "Ready to Learn," which is quite fine in this house, although anything less will need to be addressed. I blamed the elf. For the boy was convinced that he needed to be stellar each and every day without fail, whereas on most days, outside of this window of watching from on high (and by on high, I mean somewhere high enough so as not to tempt the "illegal" touching) he, like his father, would be just fine in the realm of acceptable mediocrity. Never again will I utter the words, "I'm telling Hermie." At this point, 1) I hate the name. The kids named him, after that failure of an elf from the original Rudolph special, now a dentist, or so we're told. (Probably one of those creepy dentists, I'd say. You know, the kind that gasses his female patients and plays peekaboo and stuff?) 2) The kids know the (completely fabricated) score. I will not add to this charade more than I already have. And I will not go gentle into this good night. The company Christmas party awaits and I've got some tomfoolery in which to partake. Still tired. 15 days.

Vol 9 and 10:

They sell both volumes of Kill Bill together now, as I understand it, so I’m allowed to drop a double dose of Elfdom if I want to. (This will be of no additional length, mind you, but we’ll call it two volumes nonetheless.) The uptick in emotion from Friday still fresh in my mind, the idea this weekend was to restore the spirits of Boy 1 and Boy 2 (and mostly the latter) and the elf, for all his faults, appears to be adept at aiding that, so long as the pressure he brings is tempered. I’d like to think that the littlest Jordan is less concerned, having had some weekend time, about trying to be “Good Citizen” levels of perfect than he was during our last volume. Saturday morning, Elfenstein, which is one of many names I am considering for a possible rebranding, took a ringside seat next to Boy 1’s toy wrestling ring, watching what was staged as a battle royal between all of his favorite toy wrestlers. Adorning the garb of a particular favorite, Samoa Joe, along with the NXT championship belt, he sat, smiling his usual satanic smile, as if to say that he was some sort of champion himself. You are not, sir, by any stretch. Let me make that clear. But, they enjoy your company, again, despite your many shortcomings. The wrestling set-up reminded me, however, that I would enjoy squaring off against you, were you of an acceptable size to do so, and perhaps if I can find someone of a similar appearance in human form, elbows will drop (and he shall fall.) Of course, then, I’d likely be arrested and/or sued but hey, that’s the cost of doing business, I suppose. This scene, like so many others featuring you-know-who, turned out to be less than perfect, largely because I set him up too low to the ground to be completely ignored or out-of-reach, but this turned out to be a positive step for the children, who resisted the temptation to move him themselves and asked for assistance when he flopped over at one point. Boy 1 wanted the championship belt the evil elf had been wearing, you see, and I was happy to strip it from him, since he did not deserve such an accolade by any means. Boy 2, it should be noted, held back his elfly interactions on Saturday. Maybe he was trying to determine just how emotionally invested in this thing he really should be. Saturday evening brought forth the annual company Christmas party and since the lady and I do not often stay out past 11 pm, let alone 2 am, anymore, it is no wonder that the Hermie the Hack almost did not get moved that night. Of course, I had every intention, and though my return home (thanks, Uber!) involved a certain level of whiskey breath as I spoke directly with my mother-in-law about plans for said move, in the fleeting seconds following that conversation, I forgot completely, probably focused on the pillows calling my name just a few feet away. Ever-clutch, Gran chipped in and relocated the impetuous imp, placing his (fake) happy little ass in the middle of a wreath on the door to the laundry room. Last night, as I stared at him, I honestly thought to myself, “You know, elf, you look like a real asshole sitting there smiling at me with your hands folded. I’d like to spear you with one of the skewers I use to make kebobs from time to time. Or drop you into a vat of bleach. Or something... Keep looking at me like that! Go ahead!” He was just lucky that there was no whiskey for a second consecutive evening. Of course, there can be no whiskey on consecutive evenings for yours truly anymore. Such is the penance that comes with age. Well, that and a vile attitude toward all things festive, it seems. Or at least all things purportedly festive that are nothing more than some sort of fabric, a little plastic and stuffed with cotton (or is it demon fiber?) 13 days. Unlucky 13, the elf might say, but we’ll see how lucky he is when I practice punting him later on today...

Vol 11:

The easy way seems like the right move at the moment. From one stocking (with Spider-Man) to another (with Ultron) - specifically recognizing each boy's individual preference for good guys vs. bad guys, we've killed two days and two potentially grief-inducing moments. But hark! There are three more stockings! That could very well be three more days. Lady Jordan would love to see the imp intruder in her stocking, along with, say, vodka? Yeah, she likes vodka. And Superdog would dig it if he were to show up in hers next to, ah yes! Something she always begs me for - leftover pizza! Perfect! As for me, well, this isn't really about me but if I'm to tend to this shithead as much as I do, why not treat myself and set the stage for him to gift me some Johnny Walker Blue? Mmmmm. We're already down to 12 days and if I can pull this off, we're into the single digits with plenty of creativity left in the reserve tank. Note to self: Boy 1 is looking more and more suspicious by the day. He is wise indeed. Perhaps it is time to distract him with fear and confusion. Would he believe the Russians hacked his elementary school, forcing an uptick in homework? That seems to be a popular play these days and it just might work. Operation: Borscht shall commence in the am. And looky, looky! It's now midnight! 11 days, just like that! We can do this. Ohhhhh, yes. We shall overcome.

Vol 12:

Rats once spread the Bubonic Plague. Prince Prospero's hubris allowed the Red Death to infiltrate his castellated abbeys, according to E.A. Poe. And I say these little elves carry their own special pandemic - a yuletide malady that flips the universe onto its head and turns otherwise relatively well-behaved children into distracted, exhausted malcontents, spewing tidings of discomfort and misery on adults the world over. It makes no sense. At a time when conventional wisdom would dictate that they walk the straight and narrow like never before, the little ones have truly gone mad. Under the watchful eye of the hellion in the red hat, I always expect that Boy 1 and Boy 2 would adopt model citizenship - and for small spurts, they do. For instance, Boy 1's cleaning dog poop from the backyard last Sunday was completely out of character and Boy 2's strong run of eight consecutive "good citizen" statuses (already chronicled in a previous volume, as well as his subsequent fall from grace) was quite a feat! (Suddenly, I'm reminded that I did not ask for details on the dog doo cleaning duty - nor can I say for sure if they showered that night... Nonetheless, the past is the past.) But these exceptions have not become the rule. instead... It took 47 utterances of the elder Jordan child's name tonight just to get him to come to the table to do his homework, when normally, it would only take 3-5. And that was just the beginning of the battle. "Math with Mom" may sound like a fun game show of sorts but in reality, it's quite torturous. Eating dinner in short order once that was finally complete, a necessary rush on an evening when baseball practice beckons, drew moans and whines and pouts and eventually, claims of complete disinterest in our national pastime - a sin, certainly, but more importantly, a lie, as proven instantly upon arriving at the field, where free-spirited fun commenced. (I noticed there, too, that it is not just my own children who have figuratively tooted the Christmas cocaine of late. Everyone's offspring is mental at the moment, it appears. We're all in this together, people.) As for Boy 2, well, that run of eight straight school days by which he was judged all chivalrous and what not has been followed by quite the struggle. Warnings and consequences and nastygrams from the teacher are the new trend. (Note to Teacher: I feel ya, girl. I mean, I ain't never did kindergarten and shit but I did teach at muthafuckin' Hillsborough High School for a hot minute. And you trippin' if you think students clownin' in December is only for the jits. Teenage fools be whack AF.) But we have reached the magic number of 10 and with that, I see the light. Alas, I am stupid enough to crank this sonofabitch waaaaaaaaaay past 10 on the Holly-Jolly-Christmas-o-Meter tomorrow night, as we venture to what some might call the happiest place on Earth (whereas I call it, "Whythehellcan'twedrinkhereagainland") for Mickey's Very Merry Christmas Party. We'll see how very merry it is this time, kids. Just keep up the shenanigans and maybe I'll tell you the story of the crazy Christmas kid who got left with the elephants on the Jungle Cruise back in 1984. Look for him, Reggie, I think... Yeah, he's in there, somewhere. Keep looking... Ah, but that's tomorrow night... Tonight, I'll resist the urge to send the elf into the garbage can, no matter how easy to pull off the narrative of "Hey, kids. Yeah, sorry... He must have really wanted that last piece of chocolate," might be. Single digits are afoot!

Vol 13:

As if Christmas madness wasn't already enough to make even the most level-headed parents consider sending their normally well-adjusted children to some sort of juvenile rehab, we went and introduced the idea of this all-powerful elf and sent things into hyperdrive. And then you have idiots like myself, who facilitate the special kind of speedball that is Christmas and Disney World to launch the youngsters into a stratosphere of holiday intoxication that would appeal to Belushi- and Farley-types the world over. I've spent enough time at the House of Mouse in the last seven years or so to know that on any random Tuesday, you can do some serious people-watching but on a designated Friday night in December, at something they jam down your throat as a "Very Merry" Christmas party, young bucks and grandmas alike are off the rails right from the jump. It's marketing, I get it, but shouldn't it be up to me to decide how to describe the levels of joy and/or merriment I get from a party to which I'm invited (and certainly one I've paid for?) I'm not going to throw a pool party in a couple of months, invite a bunch of you people, and call it "Jon's Super Enjoyable and Relaxing Pool Party." I might assist in the temporary adjustments of your dopamine and serotonin levels as best I can but I'll leave it up to you to determine what sort of accolades you bestow upon my event. Anyway, free from the eyes of the elf (theoretically, anyway) the children were a bit wild on the journey to WDW but I've found that any car ride longer than 20 minutes or so has the potential to become the clearest manifestation of their best friends/worst enemies style of relationship at this phase of their lives. One minute, they're sharing books and the next, someone's finger is in someone else's eye. I tried my best to sing Christmas songs to myself (no, really, I do try to get into it here and there) but my soul-soothing would have to come in the form of a bunch of junk food at the park and a ride or two. The kids had free reign to try and off each other in the interim. As evenings go, one could really do far worse, honestly. As I've said a million times, it would be tremendous if adults could wander around the Magic Kingdom with a beer but I get it. It's a kids' park. And I suppose that isn't appropriate EVERYWHERE, after all. Plus, there are fleeting moments on these nights that we just aren't going to get anywhere else - like Boy 2 cuddling with his mom or Boy 1 beaming from the front row of a parade route or both of them, giggling with laughter (and maybe a little hint of fear) as we whirl around on some roller coaster or other. Those are sights and sounds I'm tattooing into my brain for sure. But by the time it's all over, we have reached full-fledged juvenile Christmas drunkenness, where, just like your overserved adult friend, conversations ramble on making very little sense, emotions are high and the expression of as much can go from "I love yous" to crying in an instant. There is slurring, overindulgence on late night snacks and then, ultimately, they just pass out. And while one big difference between your friend, Drunky the Bear, and your overtired, cranky Christmas kid is that you usually don't have to worry about the latter throwing up, another is that you can't just leave them where they fall out. So, in my case, you're forced to scoop and carry the now 70-ish pound, increasingly long 8-year-old for miles into boats and trams and finally to the car. While waiting for said tram, I surveyed my surrounding area and confirmed my suspicions that, yes, out of the 500 or so people I could see in my immediate vicinity, Boy 1 was definitely the biggest human sleeping in another human’s arms at that point. But again... Special moments, I suppose, if I'm being honest. (And honestly, between that and multiple shoulder hoistings throughout the evening, holy shit is my back messed up! Thanks again, lady who rear-ended me a few years back to kickstart that now-lifelong pleasantry.) As for the elf, the vile, heinous, intrusive being that he is, he's joined forces with an Angry Bird and Sven from Frozen, and has taken up residence in the boys' bathroom - which is definitely a little weird and creepy, now that I re-think my most recent placement strategy but hey, can't touch him again until tomorrow now. And besides, weird and creepy suits him just fine. ONE WEEK.

Vol 14:

Creativity has ceased. There are no more ideas. The focus has shifted, solely, to survival. Christmas intoxication has run amok and both children are perpetually drunk in turn. I have not yet found the proper means to detox them, although I believe, once that bag of chocolate-covered pretzels was stolen and consumed, only time was to be my ally. Boy 2 turned emotional once more last night, expressing his desire to "go home." Since he was sitting in his bed as he proclaimed this, a deeper inquiry revealed that he wanted to go back to our old house, which we left roughly 18 months ago, because he missed his friends. Total bullhonk, of course, since he couldn't identify a single "friend" by name, other than the old neighbor's dog, aptly named Jordan, which weakens his argument even further. Boy 1 arose at 6 am today, reportedly uttering some nonsense about starting a band. (I cannot confirm this directly, as I was in the midst of a dream starring myself, Wolf Blitzer and Jennifer Lawrence, all scouring the planet for "the lost relics." But the reporting of my wife person is to be trusted, more often than not.) His level of Yuletide inebriation has manifested itself in a phenomenon known as "Low Eyes Syndrome" and whether you choose to admit it or not, you've all been there. Just look through photos in which you've been tagged by others - specifically anything after midnight, at weddings or taken by your most obnoxious friends. On the positive side, we've reached the 5-day mark and are just two days shy of relocating this clan to the other coast, where the grandparent folks can assist in keeping us all alive. The inherent danger of said grandparent folks inadvertently contributing to Christmas chaos matters not, for there is strength in numbers and reinforcements at this point are sorely needed. The elf is spooning with a San Francisco 49ers Christmas ornament today and I think I will say no more to that end. "Take a look around here, Ellen. We're at the threshold of hell!" - Clark W. Griswold, Jr.

Vol 15:

The day is nigh. The elf has been bagged in preparation for the cross-state trek. Part of me wanted that to happen legit abduction-style - little potato sack thrown over his head, a swat of a tiny baseball bat to the dome... A garrote, probably, would have been overkill but I wouldn't have ruled it out. Anyway, he's MIA - and of course, that means we'll have to lie to the children once more as to why he's disappeared. "I don't know, kids. I walked around the corner and he just wasn't there anymore!" Then, tomorrow morning when he shows up at La Casa de Jordan 1.0, I'll be ogling Boy 1 to see if there is any further hint of suspicion in his eye. Surely, Boy 2 will wake up some time between 3 and 5 am tomorrow as the excitement percolates. (I will not.) There will be no attempts to peer deeply into his eyes, mostly out of fear that they've turned black by now, undoubtedly the evildoing of you-know-who. The good news is that I believe all is reparable, once he is gone for good - or at least until next year. In my experience, Christmasitis usually takes a couple of weeks to fade away and then some semblance of normalcy returns. This year, I'm hoping that comes with a newfound affinity for sleeping in. I was never very good at that as a young kid and didn't master it until college, really - an achievement aided at that time by, well, let's just call them PEDs. But I know it is possible for even an 8-year-old to sleep until 9, 10 or 11, even, because I saw my pal Jeremy do it with my own eyes. Sleeping over at his house was great the night before amidst our usual hijinks but I could only describe the following mornings as, uh, educational, as in I seized the opportunity to read every single book on his bookshelf and watch every movie he owned, killing time until he finally woke up. (What the hell were my parents doing anyway, that they couldn't pick me up early, as I often asked? Actually... Don't answer that.) So, again, the hope is that Boy 1 takes after Uncle Berm and learns to hibernate (at least a little.) There is no hope for the other one to that end. He continues to remind us that he never sleeps and only relaxes. "Sometimes," he says, "I don't mean to but I accidentally go to sleep automatically." Clearly, he isn't to be trusted with this intentionally perplexing narrative of his but I believe he has convinced himself that it is all true. That, in and of itself, surely leads to the unique circadian rhythm he's adopted. He sure is cute, though. I imagine that'll keep earning him a pass, no matter how many times he fires a soccer ball directly into my nether regions. Perhaps only one or two more entries into these chronicles shall be necessary from this point forward. I should say that I'm pleased with the response so far, as it seems most of the free world can relate in one way or another, but the goal from the beginning was simply to document the daily deeds of our ignominious, inanimate, annual invader and their impact on our everyday lives. Plus, if I should meet my demise during his stay, surely this will aid law enforcement officials. As far as that goes, one only needs to buy one vowel to solve this puzzle, and that is the "E" to kick off "E.L.F." You see, although we are still in the pre-Christmas phase of my intensive study, I have learned enough to commit to the conclusion that it is indeed an acronym, standing for Evil Little Fucker, as some of you may have already ascertained. It is but one piece but a vital one indeed. I've got you now, you hellion. It is only a matter of time. Deportation is but three days away!

Vol 16:

He is everywhere and he takes on many forms. The shape-shifting shithead has obviously meandered about my home for weeks but also invaded my tree, in the form of a Christmas ornament, and now, as I've taken up temporary residence at my parents' house, he is present as a children's nightlight in the bathroom, staring, peering, judging as people partake in their most private and personal moments. He truly is a sick sonofabitch. He is also in my brain at this point, as evidenced by the masterful mindfuck he pulled on me on Thursday evening. I am a man of many talents but perhaps my most important task as the husband, father and clearly established second-in-command of our family is to handle all packing duties for out-of-town adventures. At Christmastime, this can get tricky, what with an overabundance of presents to account for, in addition to our regular haul. But, always up to the challenge, I gathered up all of the important items and successfully played the game of Tetris that is fitting all of them into the dadmobile, née Honda Pilot. All of them, you see, except for my own suitcase, left perfectly packed and wide open on my bedroom floor, only to be revealed at the most impactful moment from a psychological perspective, as we crossed the Brevard County line, all according to "Its" diabolical plan. I have no clothes. I have no toiletries. As a broken man at this point, I also have no soul. And now I seek redemption. A Christmas angel has aided my efforts to thwart this hostile takeover and my suitcase has been successfully recovered, here, two days later, so brushing my teeth and replacing the loin cloth I've adopted in the interim is but hours away. But the damage has been done. The little fucker has clearly won a round. His reign of terror ends for the season after tomorrow but does that give me time to recover my soul before he is banished once more? Clearly, his excommunication is more important than my return to human form so if sacrifice is required, I must remain committed to the cause. In the event of Christmas catastrophe, I offer warmest regards and eternal gratitude to all that have followed these chronicles. As I forge forward, know that I am acting not on my own behalf but for all that is good in this world. The final showdown is nearly upon us and with any luck - and the guidance of Lord Zeus, Ra the sun god, sweet baby Jesus, John Cougar, John Deere and John 3:16 - when it's all said and done, I aim to look the elf straight in the eye and tell him what a cheap, lying, no good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?

Vol 17:

It is all over. Since I am writing this, it needs not be clarified that the side of righteousness prevailed in the end but this was not always a foregone conclusion. The red devil was a formidable foe and I can say with near-certainty that we will do battle at least once more, as Boy 1 and Boy 2 will probably still be buying what he's selling. It cannot go undocumented that Hermie took one last pound of flesh as he exited, to the tune of me waking up in a panic at 5 am to remove him from sight and complete this festive ruse. Just as he had on Day 1 this year, he ruined my slumber and that cheeky little smile stretched ever so slightly. It did feel good, under the cover of darkness, to jam the little prick into my suitcase pocket and zip it up. I hope it's hot in your own personal hell, you heathen. And now, we pick up the pieces. I am in need of repair, inside and out. Tired, tattered, full of torment... But mostly tired. Is there no vacation from Christmas vacation? It's become clear to me that, despite my ultimate victory, this experience will haunt me for years to come. And in ensuing years, likely, it will be worse. So, when is a win actually a loss? Perhaps it is now. Perhaps it is more than just a pound of flesh the evil elf has taken with him. There is, it turns out, slight discomfort in my liver area, you see. That's either from the traditional holiday excess or, if you believe the ancient Navajo legend, that's where the soul is located and clearly, mine is gone. Back to our happy little lives? Sure - I can play that game. It is a beautiful existence. But he has broken me indeed. "And Darkness and Decay and The Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."

#christmas #elfonashelf #hell on earth #edgar allan poe #holidays #family #parenting #shootmeintheface

0 notes