It's Britney, Blog

Framing Britney Spears has been on a running loop at my house since it's debut last Friday night. Well done, New York Times. Chef's kiss. Was it long enough? No. Like I have mentioned to some of you: Michael Jordan got 10-episodes, Tiger got a 2-parter, we have had 9,000 seasons of Survivor and I can only assume I will be the next Bachelorette since everyone else has had a turn.  To tell this story in an hour was egregious. This is like if Breaking Bad had been on Tik Tok. 

So many thoughts, emotions, grievances and apologies arise when talking about this QUEEN. This will be a long one. I hope you bought Cheetos and Pepsi from a gas station you went in while wearing Sofie shorts and no shoes. We are in it now. 

There is no opening paragraph for this icon, so let's do bullet points instead. My Britney highlights, as it were:

• I have been with Brit since (almost) the very beginning. The New Mickey Mouse Club debuted when I was in middle school and I was OBSESSED. Sure the 1992 Olympic Basketball Dream Team was good, but they had nothing on this crop of talented new Mouseketeers.  I'm talking about Keri Russell (with the good hair), Christina Aguilera,   Tony Lucca (a celebrity crush I will die on the cross for) JC Chasez, Ryan "The Notebook" Gosling, obviously my girl, Britney and some other later boy bander who is, as of this documentary, dead to me. I loved Britney even then. She was (despite her later project,Crossroads) a pretty great comedic actress. She could sing, she could act and boy she could dance. And to a person who couldn't master the Roger Rabbit, that was something to see. (Quick side bar, there may/may not be a forthcoming blog post on my attempting to try out for this exact program around this exact time. )

• I lost track of Brit Brit for a while. And when Baby One More Time came out, I was gobsmacked to learn that this was the sweet little Mousketeer who always played the annoying, younger sister in skits. Here she was; all grown-up, showcasing those incredible dance moves and some Scorcese bubble gum bubble work. Only now, she was not only pulling off the acting, singing and dancing trifecta, she had added a whole new layer of skills that I could not even imagine to pull-off; pig tails, crop tops and abs. 

• Britney was a Southern girl and completely unashamed. And she was good South from Louisiana; not like more of that Florida mega mall trash. I didn't mind that she was always saying "Y'all" or talking about her "Mama 'n Daddy" through a mouth full of gum. She was homespun in the BEST way. I knew girls like Britney. Not rich or famous, but otherwise alike. 

• Even better are the family names; her Mom in interviews would always be referring to her as Britney Jean. And the fact that her sister, Jamie Lynn, is named for both their Mom and Dad is a southern work of art.  And that it took them until their 3rd kid to pull that is just fantastic. When I think of Louisiana, I think Gator Parks, trashy names, then Mardi Gras. In that order. 

• The amount of time I spent watching her on MTV is probably the exact amount of time it would have taken me to get a doctorate. She was ALWAYS on with Carson Daly and you absolutely NEVER knew what she was going to be doing. Or what she was going to be wearing. My God, the fa-shun!!!!  Leather pants, crop tops, corset tops, chokers, platform boots, ET freaking AL!!!! Not since Cher Horowitz had someone made school girl fashion seem so appealing. (I wore a navy poly blend skirt  with a sweater made of navy needles, razor blades and shards of glass every single day of the school year and even I was like "That school girl look is CUTE." ) Whether she was debuting a video or just mingling with the crowd, Brit on TRL was appointment viewing. 

• The absolute showmanship. WOW. First, she's a school girl. Then she is dancing with a boa constrictor on live TV.  That's not enough so she menag a trois-ed former Mouseketeer Christina and MADONNA. Sees that and raises us an entire CIRCUS. Oh, do you like red latex on the moon? We have that, too. Misplaced Titanic reference? Listen closely. Want to see what air travel would look like if it were run by Hugh Hefner? Here is a video. Ever seen a body stocking with a billion dollars worth of strategically placed crystals? It's here. In this Britney video.  Every. Single. Time. GOLD. 

• On a whim (or dare, who can know for sure) she marries a guy from her high school. Arguably the most famous person in the world, at that time, she marries some hick (I mean that in the nicest way possible) from her hometown. And has it annulled 72-hours later. THAT should have been the plot of The Hangover.

• Again, the fashion. Was it ever good? Maybe? For me, a girl who had recently had a break-up so hard she was able to really fit into low-rise jeans, I appreciated that look for a time. It wasn't street fashion, it was pop star fashion and it was amazing. 

• I went to Vegas for the first time on a surprise trip for my 30th. Right around the same time Womanizer came out. Every single place in Vegas had that on a loop and it was exactly the Vegas experience everyone should have. 

• If I could locate and hook-up our old TiVo, you would find Britney and Kevin:Chaotic. Now I have to watch it on YouTube like I live in a 3rd world country. 

• When Britney came out  shilling Zantrex-3 diet pills, I bought them in bulk. Did I lose weight while I was taking them? I can't remember. Did I have to get an EKG because of some irregular heartbeats while I was taking them? Most definitely.  **Remember, this is not a health and fitness blog.**

• I fought HARD and negotiated 3 Britney songs be played at each of our various wedding events. 

• When I got seriously committed to working-out again a few years ago, I had Work as the first and last song on my playlist. Not only is it an ANTHEM for cardio, it asks all the hard-hitting questions: Do you want a hot body? YES. Do you want a Maserati? YES. Look hot in a bikini? THAT' WHY I AM WORKING OUT!! Party in France? OK, BUT WHERE? (Maybe. Depends on what part and who will be there. See my blog about my visit to Paris. Not the biggest fan.) If you play that song to this day, it is the only way I can do a burpee. 

• In the speech I gave at my brother's rehearsal dinner, I mentioned Britney Spears in the opening line. It killed. 

• Her character on Will and Grace, that Alt-Right, Christian Conservative megalomaniac is one of my favorite in the history of television. And Brit killed it. Reese could never...

• Two words: Denim Dress.

Whew. Stil with me? 

That isn't even all of it. 

But my life was changing; I was getting married and having kid and frankly, she became hard to watch. The Kevin years were rough for me. Kevin is the kind of person that I feel smells TERRIBLE. Like a mixture of body odor, off-brand cigarettes covered by the least popular selling AXE product, maybe a hint of menthol? And fried food from the pool hall where he was playing air hockey (because he doesn't know how to play pool) and throwing back Bud Heavy.   He was so disgusting to look at and it was clear, he had ulterior motives.

And then the babies came, literally, back to back. Those kids are born a year and two days apart. Math and Science are really hard for me, since I am a girl, but is that even possible? There is no way to know. 

My own Queen B arrived around the same time Brit really lost it. There she was driving with a baby on her lap... another time she tripped in her Candies wedges and her American Eagle cut-off shorts and almost dropped the other one. Culturally, we had to accept names like Sean Preston and Jayden James. I was at home with a new baby girl and watching this not a girl, not yet a woman (you get it) struggle with what we now know was postpartum. On top of salacious paparazzi, unbridled fame and an interfering support system. Trust when I say that if someone had come after me in any way a year or two postpartum, Id' have been looking for an umbrella and clippers, too. The life of a new mother is hard. I can only imagine how hard it was in her shoes. 

For me, it was too painful to watch. She really didn't have any new music in the works and I had transitioned to talk radio and a botched attempt at Rosetta Stone. When we lived in Phoenix, she was in residence in Vegas, which is like a 2-minute flight from Phoenix. A couple of girlfriends asked me to go and I turned it down. At the time, I was afraid I was going to be let down. Like I wasn't going to see the Britney I had known and loved for all those years. I didn't want to see Paul McCartney with Wings. I wanted to see Sir Paul McCartney. 

Other than putting her music on some workout playlists, I had abandoned her. At maybe the exact moment everyone else did. I quit reading the tabloids about her, I did not engage with her on any level except historically. Only last year did I start following her on Instagram. She came up in my "People You May Know" algorithm and I thought "Hey, I do know her." Clicked follow and began to watch...well, I don't know what I am watching. But I cannot and will not stop. 

Cut to, the documentary.

So many of you (three) have asked my opinions and thoughts on Framing Britney Spears. Is it good? Is it bad? Should I watch? 

Yes. Yes to all of those things. 

She was perfect and we ruined her. Watching all that old footage from the TRL days, I was reliving part of my youth. I had seen those interviews with Diane Sawyer and Rosie O'Donnell. I can NEVER unsee that purple top, unbrushed hair and smacking gum from the Matt Lauer interview. But at the time, I didn't realize just how AWFUL that line of questioning was. All of the emphasis on sex, her body, her virginity and just the bloodlust some people had to see her fail was appalling. As the mother of a daughter who is only a year older than Britney was when she got started, I would put my hands on someone if they spoke to my child in that way. 

While I am not known for dramatics, I got teary eyed. 

Whatever her life is now, it isn't hers. And it isn't great. If my Dad managed my money, OH MY WORD! I would be spending nothing! It would all be in savings or stocks or real estate holdings... wait, should my Dad be managing my money? 

The documentary triggered me. It took me back to a really fun time in my life. But also shone a light on how abhorrent those times were for women. It broke the glass on a lot of memories; like finding out your parents can't do math in their heads. 

I cleaned out my closet to clear my head to the anthem of Brit's greatest hits; each one more nostalgic than the next. I texted memories with friends who had also watched the documentary. I got more emotional and made JD re-watch it with me while I provided running commentary about where I was in my life at that same time or how that song/event effected my life while screaming "Put your phone down and pay attention to me and Britney!!!"  The man is a saint. 

And then, just like Brit, I took it too far. I saw B mouthing the words to Toxic and asked "Have you ever seen that video? " And then after explaining what a video was, I pulled it up on YouTube and began to show it to her.

A decision I IMMEDIATELY regretted. There was the crystal body stocking, the Hugh Hefner airline and the implied mile-high club scene in the lavatory. We barely got to that when I remembered how incredibly inappropriate all  her videos were.  As I fumbled to turn it off, I was shouting "Yeah, yeah, yeah, more of the same.The lyrics are all the same after that, so if you've seen a minute, thirty, you've seen it all." 

The Britney years are still there with me... just a little more faint than before. Signing the permission slip for B to be able to participate in the "Boys in one room, Girls in another" part of science this year, I began to reflexively hum I'm Not a Girl... And, sometimes, when I get the keypad right and get in my house on the first try, I instinctively sing "She's so lucky...she's a star"

I am proud of my love for Britney. She holds a place in my Musical Hall of Fame next to greats like Kim Carnes, Debbie Gibson, Patsy Cline, Janis Joplin, Dolly Parton, Aretha and Janet Miss Jackson (if you're nasty.)I will still sing her songs at the top of my lungs. I will still (in a few years) introduce my daughter to her entire library of work. I will continue to pray she gets back on stage- anywhere, a Cajun Fest in Louisiana- so that B and I can go and share that experience. I want her to be happy, healthy, doing what she loves and in charge of her own life. 

What I, emphatically, DO NOT EVER WANT TO SEE, in my life is a lower third tag in a documentary or news program that says:

Bee Sanderson

#freebritney activist

If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend watching. 

And then text me after. BECAUSE I REALLY WANNA TALK ABOUT BRITNEY!!!!!

Don't Stop Believing

You would think that 9-10 months into this pandemic, I would be better at handling uncertainties. Because we sure have been hit with some real doozies this year. But, as we wind up the year everyone hopes to forget Men In Black style, the Sanderson family has faced its biggest uncertainty to date...

Are we continuing with the Santa charade?

Because we do not know. 

And yes, Bee is 11 and that is a weird, limbo Santa age. When I discuss it with people, it is either met with "Wow, she still believes?" (slight groan or sympathetic shoulder pat)  or "Of course she still believes! She is only 11!"

So, in keeping with our best parenting strategies, JD and I are choosing to just ignore this situation. Fully. Non-commital either way. Rolling the dice. Flying-by-the-seat-of-our-pants. Sparing or ruining childhood. We just don't know. 

What I do know is that I was around 12 before I even suspected anything was nefarious with Santa. And that, is too old. If you are riding a middle school bus, you should be learning swear words and salacious gossip. Not believing in Santa.  

The last year of believing, my sixth grade year (yes, sixth) was a pivotal year for me. 

We had moved to Louisville with 2-months to go in 5th grade. A whole country/city mouse ordeal, we were in the BIG city now and clearly, I had a lot to learn. And  the majority of my social learning was done on Bus 325. Just a real wealth of culture and trends. Like robots, every girl got on and off that bus wearing the latest and greatest of everything I would also need to be cool. It was like a Seventeen Magazine come to life. 

This year in particular, as I was starting middle school, I became keenly aware that I was as far from cool as one could possibly be. I mean, to learn that you could get jeans someplace other than a JC Penny catalog was Earth shattering. And that that place was called The Gap? And they also were doing a lot of work with a chunky knit that year? From there, it went into a real Limited, Express, County Seat spiral and it is a wonder I made it out alive. 

Clothes were one thing, but if I had learned anything from my bus research, there were two items I was going to immediately need to procure if I was going to even BEGIN to think about being cool:

1. A chocolate brown, G-3 leather jacket with map print inside. 

2. An LL Bean backpack complete with my monogram and highly reflective striping. 

And I knew just the guy to see about these things. 

Now, again, I am a month into my twelfth year of life and I would venture to guess a psychologist would assign me the maturity of a 9-year-old. To quote the poet laureate, Britney Spears, I was not a girl, not yet a woman. In the most sincere sense. That bus, where I was frantically researching what the cool, older girls were into, was also a vessel to get me home to play Barbies every day after school. Those same cool girls with their awesome purses (a purse, at school?!?!) and highlighted hair had no idea that I was saving my babysitting money to buy  a Mickey Mouse watch I had seen at The Disney Store. Caught dead center in the middle, I had no idea who I was or wanted to be. But, I knew I had to have the above mentioned items and I knew Santa would come through. 

Until I asked my Mom about going to see him. 

"Really? Santa?" She balked. 

Um, yes. Like at the Mall. I could have played it old school and written a letter, but with this gift needing a size and monogram, I figured it was better to discuss it with him in person. 

What I now recognize as an attempt by my parents to be like, "Katie, sweetie. Come on. The jig is up." was what I perceived at the time to be an act of child abuse. I was persistent, I was obnoxious and I was certain I would find myself at the mall soon. It was the holidays after all and much shopping would have to be done. 

Also, my brother was 7 at this time. I really could have just held out to ride those Santa coattails. 

It was a weekend night and after quickly throwing some Sbarro down my gullet in the food court, I was standing in line with my brother to see the big man, the mall Santa. When it was our turn, my brother went on and on about some video game and when Santa looked at me, I was fearing our time was running out, so I quickly told him the two things I needed most and shouted my monogram to not only Santa, but the girl working the Santa picture stand. Why hadn't I written it down? 

And then it was Christmas morning. And with the calm and self assuredness of a toddler about to go off the high dive, I ran downstairs. 

To nothing.

Now before you start crowdsourcing funds for my therapy, let us remember that I am in MIDDLE SCHOOL at this point. Four years away from being able to legally drive a motor vehicle in the Commonwealth of Kentucky. I would go to COLLEGE six-years later. I was closer to voting in local and national elections than I EVER should have been to believing in Santa Claus. 

But I had. I had put every ounce of trust I had built in 12-years of life into the logic that a middle-age man in a Juicy Couture red track suit with (probably) early onset diabetes and a FLEET of reindeer would bring me these gifts.  Willingly believed. Never second guessing the logistics or even just the sheer physics of it all. I believed in Santa and I believed he would bring me a monogrammed backpack and leather jacket. Full stop. 

Shattered, I skulked to my "present unwrapping spot" in our living room and tried to put on a brave face. You know, for the family. I was handed packages and began to unwrap the most bipolar assortment of gifts you can imagine. Seriously, it was like a Mad Lib shopping for me that year. Some earrings from Gantos and some Barbies to add to my collection. But then, just like a Hallmark movie that still has yet to be made about a girl that is too old, but still believes in Santa, my Mom handed me two more packages. If the suspense hasn't killed you yet, it was obviously the jacket and the backpack. With perfect monogram. 

And in that moment, I knew Santa wasn't real. (Finally)

Santa never wrapped his gifts to us. Wrapped gifts were only from Mom and Dad. Thereby, Santa had had nothing to do with my G-3 and my Royal Blue monogrammed backpack. It was all my parents. Actually, it was all my Mom. Because my Dad said "Why did she want a bomber jacket?" 

In years since then, I have asked my Mom about this specific Christmas. She freely admitted that she knew I still believed and she couldn't bring herself to tell me that in fact, Santa was fake. And she was worried about my brother finding out and ruing his Christmas magic, too. She told me she wanted me to get what I asked for so that I wouldn't be confused or upset about the whole Santa ordeal. In her most caring tone, she explained that she completely understood the need to have the cool items for the bus. 

But she told me, mostly, she wanted the credit for making me so happy. 

Which I get. Because let's be honest, that velour Wilfred Brimley is getting a lot of credit he doesn't deserve. 

So, thinking back to that year, I am conflicted. If there is magic still there, I don't want to crush that outright. And thank you, I know there is a letter I can get on Pinterest that will let her down easy if, in fact, she still believes. But this year has SUCKED on all levels. And I am not emotionally mature enough to handle Santa cancel culture at the Sanderson house. 

Frankly, if COVID has been good for anything, it has offered a lot of opportunities to lie and/or massage the truth about that FREAKING elf and Santa probably having to quarantine. Especially in London with that super-mutation of the virus. Quarantines and antibodies aside, I am ok just ignoring the Santa Summit this year and, like with COVID, just hoping my life is back to normal by next Christmas. 

Could something be more on brand than for COVID Christmas to be the year she stopped believing? But if we keep just going on in this passive-aggressive way of ostriching around the Santa discussion, I am okay with that too. For now. 

That's not true. 

I also want the credit for the gifts we are buying, so we will have to talk about it at some point. 

But this year is not it. 

In all seriousness, I wish you all the merriest of Christmas'. Thank you for gifting me by reading this blog! 

I hope Santa brings you everything your heart desires! 

Christmas Hole-aday

This time of year, I am always speaking in slogans, jingles and popular catchphrases. 

But the truth is, I don't care who went to Jared. I don't care if your kiss began at Kay or the state fair.  Target wants me to "Expect More?" Its 2020, Target. I did. And if I hear one more person say "Y'all can't be doing that," I am going to be numbers 1-1,000 on the Naughty List. 

Right behind the Trump Administration. 

Frankly, the only slogan, jingle or catchphrase  I care about this holiday season (other than the obvious "Unto You a Child is Born" and "Hark the Herald Angels Sing", et al) is:

Free 2-day shipping for Prime Members. 

This blog lacks even the very basic ability to discuss the lines between consumerism and savior conception, so please know that I understand the true meaning of Christmas and hope you do too. But if we are being honest, there is still a required level of shopping that accompanies the most miraculous event in the history of the universe. 

And shopping for families needs to be easy. Especially this year. 

I have always had a very small family. My Dad is an only child and my Mom had one sister. I have one brother and only 3 first cousins. Throw in the odd great aunt or uncle and we barely ever had enough for a sports ball team. 

Somehow by default, election or as a punishment,  my Mother became "Christmas Gift Buyer At Large" at some point early in her adult life.  This came with absolutely no pomp or paycheck, but all the responsibilities of a creating a magical Christmas. 

Which sucks on a million levels, but mostly,  in the early 1980's, (the height of her reign) my entire family was living in Western Kentucky, all of us hours from a *major* city like Owensboro or Bowling Green. Which was where the malls and the Wal-Marts were located. If Target existed, it must have only been in New York City.  We had the odd "boutique" that was open from 1-1:30 every 5th Thursday and the ever popular Tractor Supply. 

What we lacked in metropolitan shopping, we made up for in mail-order catalogs. 

Because of her job as Supreme Gift Buyer, my Mom started hoarding the catalogs as soon as they arrived. No sooner could my brother and I smell all 9,000 pages of the JC Penny Christmas catalog or get a glimpse of the Service Merchandise holiday spectacular, they would be ripped from our hands and put on her desk with strict instructions to never look at, speak of or even considering moving any of these hallowed documents. It was like we were entrusted with the Declaration of Independence from November-December 25th each year. And failure to comply with her statutes was a punishment worse than grounding. She was on a buying mission for every member of our family: to and from. 

My paternal grandmother would always start right after your first bite of turkey..."Well, what do you think Sanny Claus ought to bring you this year?" My maternal grandmother was a little more leading... "Don't you think your baby dolls need a stroller? I think they do. If I see Santa, I will ask him to bring you a dolly stroller." And what I know now, as an adult, is that my Mother spent the better part of 6-8 weeks specializing in Scotland Yard style Christmas intelligence. She would listen-in on conversations, note-take on trends and pick-up all the dropped hints. 

Without a single Apple product. 

Or even a voice note. She wrote lists in her perfect teacher penmanship. Lists on lists on lists. She looked like Santa. (Or me, present day, trying to construct a Click-List that is digital, but still requires scratch paper.)

She would collect all of her surveillance and prepare a dossier for each member of the family. Some information was shared; grandmothers and my aunt, mostly, but the rest was classified for Santa. At the root of it all, my Mother curated, purchased, transported, wrapped and displayed Christmas for almost everyone in our family. She bought for us on their behalf, but she also bought for them. Perfect gifts; gifts you didn't even know you needed! Life changing gifts given by my Mom at Christmas. And again, not a big family. 

Each year, she would haul perfect gifts all over hell and half of Georgia for our family. To me and my brother from each grandparent, aunt, uncle, cousin, dog and partridge in a pear tree. And as they watched us open them in sheer glee, everyone would hand her a check for all her hard work.  Not as payment. Reimbursement. I am sure actual North Pole elves made more than she did on toy deals. I think the elves are unionized, so surely.

As I look back on this, which is really more often than I ever imagined it would be, I am fascinated by the undertaking. Not just the volume of gifts and the coordination, but the fact that she was working solely using catalogs and home phones. Seriously. Like doing algebra on an abacus. (I assume that joke works? Math is hard.)

She would have our incredibly long phone cord all over the house talking to varied Customer Service representatives; spouting off memorized credit card numbers and 50-digit alphanumeric order numbers. She was thorough and early. My Mother never waited to the last minute to buy a single gift. She had more financial transactions and invoices scribbled on paper than Bernie Madoff, although she kept better records,  and she turned her bedroom into what Bezos probably modeled his warehouses off of. 

It was awful, but it worked. 

Until it didn't. 

One year, let's call it 1986, Kringle crapped the bed. 

This many years out, I remember it like it was yesterday. I was home that morning because I went to PM kindergarten. (Half day kindergarten is what I attribute to my terrible ACT scores ...) Playing Barbies, the phone rang and my Mother answered. Some pleasantries were exchanged and then screeches that sounded like death more than "tales of the glory of Christmas' long, long ago." My Mother was shouting things I had never heard her shout and I was confused and concerned for her place on Santa's list.  She slammed down the phone, the HOUSE phone which is arguably the most satisfying slam of all time. I was in the kitchen with her when she turned, looked at me and stormed off into the hall. She stopped. Looked back at the phone, screamed out loud again. 

And then kicked a hole in the wall. 

A full, reindeer size kick into 1/2" drywall. 

And in case I didn't mention it before, we rented this house. 

While the drywall dust was clearing, she was crying. 

Obviously.

The physical pain alone had to be insurmountable, but I know the emotional toll was just as bad. 

I was young and my brother was even younger, so we were no help. We both just sort of sat, staring into the hole. I remember vividly thinking "Wow. That is one tough lady."  

That and, 

Will my Dad kill her?

Will she get a cast on her kicking foot?

Will we be on the news? 

Will we be on the naughty list?

Will we have to live with a neighbor?

Will that neighbor have ice-cream or other Christmas snacks?

Would my Mom kick another hole in the wall if I asked for a snack now? 

(To this day,  most of my worry morphs into food-based worry.)

I didn't go to PM kindergarten that day. Instead, I spent most of the day worried what my Dad and Santa (in that exact order) were going to think of this elf size hole my Mother had kicked in the wall of our rental house. What felt like twelve days of Christmas later, my Dad came home and was getting his first look at my Mom's Christmas remodel. 

Thankfully, I wasn't privy to the events and discussions that followed. In the coming days, I just remember the hole being a reminder that my Mom was a BAD Mother. If nothing else, it served as a cautionary tale for me and my brother; yes, Santa sees you when you are sleeping, he knows when you're awake, bad or good... blah blah goodness sake. 

But my Mom went Christmas Crazy and kicked a hole in the wall.  

Kringle ain't got nothing on Sue. 

It became a joke in the family even that year and since. Turns out, the whole debacle was over a coat she had ordered to give my Uncle. The company called to say it was on backorder and it was the tinsel that broke the camel's back. When I was older and could fully understand, she told me more horror stories about trying to shop for and make an entire family's Sugarplum dreams come true with only mail-order catalogs and a home phone. So many stories, it sounded more like Halloween than Christmas. 

Frankly, I'd say we all got off easy with her "only" kicking a hole in the wall. 

As a result, my Mom isn't too keen on Christmas. And I have always been cognizant of not making that my life or passing that on to my kiddo. So far, so good. Except for 5 or 6-years-ago when someone in my husband's family asked what to get Bee for Christmas. I gave some ideas and they said "Great. Why don't you pick it up and I will pay you for it.."

"No. I'm not going to do that..." 

I said as I stared at the stucco wall of our rented house in Phoenix wondering if that day was the day I would one up or usurp my Mother as the actual nightmare before Christmas. 

Since the hole in the wall, she's not had another physical altercation at Christmas. I am sure there were plenty of emotional breakdowns. Probably when we moved to Wyoming. Even with the Internet, Wyoming is still like trying to get presents on the Moon. If there is a Christmas Hall of Fame, I nominate my Mom. She made it super magical and a little bit scary for us always. 

I do refuse to ever let her forget that day. It marked me so much I wrote a blog about it. But what is she going to do, get mad at me and kick a hole in the wall? 

Y'all can't be doing that. 

The F Word

My Mother is an English teacher. She holds a Master's Degree in English and taught English/Language for almost 30-years. 

Growing-up with a Mother like that was like living in the English part of the ACT. 

And, as you can tell by the way I am always starting sentences with "And," very little of her enthusiasm or acumen for the English language rubbed off on me. She would KILL ME if she saw this blog. Me, using commas like I am getting paid for each one. Surely Al Gore should ground me from all Internet privileges. 

Based on all the years of her grammatical tyranny, if you ever want to see REAL fear in my face, ask me something like "Katie, who was there with you?" 

Oh no. 

It is the "Me and Her" vs. "She/her and I" dilemma that I will never understand. Let me name everyone first and then I'll say "and I was also there."  Just last year at Thanksgiving,  I said "Me and Wade are going to have white wine." Without taking a breath, she asked "Who is having white wine, Katie?" And before I wet my pants, I said "Wade would like white wine. I would also like white wine. We both would like white wine."  (Please do not try to teach me this concept. This is the English version of fractions. I do not have the mental bandwidth for a concept this abstract.)

Those were just the small infractions. Using phrases like "...and stuff" or "well, you know" were grounds for long grammatical refresher courses and scoldings. But if there was one major, the BIG DADDY, the mother of all my Mother's improper English hatred, it was....

The F word.

Not that one.

The other one. 

Fart. 

Harvard could have asked us to participate in a groundbreaking study for the sake of mankind but had it been called "Harvard Medical Information on Farts," my Mom would have taken a hard pass. 

We did not speak of farts or tell fart jokes. Had we just spontaneously combusted from gaseous pressure, she would have praised us. 

No. To her, farts are the root of all evil. Last year I told my Mother I had run into a friend of mine from elementary school who told me he was getting divorced. 

My Mother said, "It doesn't surprise me. He grew-up in a home where he was allowed to say the f-word."  

Which I am sure  is exactly what the judge listed as the cause of divorce: Excessive fart talk. 

But her instance on steering clear of that word stuck with me. 

Growing-up with a Mother who hated fart talk and a younger brother who loved it, I was in a real juxtaposition. I lived in a constant state of church giggles. So when Bee arrived, I swore that we would not be a family that said "fart." I mean, I didn't want her to wind up divorced, after all.  But being around kids in so many different capacities, I have recently been SHOCKED at how many books, movies, shows, songs and apps are all directly related to farts. 

Has my Mother been right all along? (I desperately need that answer to be an emphatic "No!")

In her defense, is there no other material we can cover? Have we reached the apex of topics for children's books? It is my life's dream to pen a children's book and every time I think I have the perfect idea, it currently exists. I'm looking at you, Potter. 

Are we so overpopulated on material that the last bastion is farts? I mean, even as I type it out, it kind of makes sense for 2020, but are we this low brow? 

We are. 

While trying to buy a book for a friend's kiddo, I started getting some shady suggestions. I had been looking for children's books on anxiety and was casually routed to books about farts. And when I actively searched for "children's books about farts" I was met with pages of results. 

Since I had to suffer through, I give you these future Caldecott winners. The next generation Newberry books. You can find all of these on Amazon. Or at Barnes and Noble probably next to To Kill a Mockingbird.

And if I take a break for a while, it is because I am desperately trying to pen the next flatulent tome for children. 

Without my Mother knowing, of course. 

Just in time for the holidays... a farting reindeer. 

Not to be confused with the one with the light-up nose.  

What is the medical plan at the North Pole

 like that these animals are not better cared for?

Should we contact PETA?

This book is #1 on Amazon in Children's Cartoon Humor books. 

If you value a society of morals and decency, do not click to search that category. 

And to get you prepped for Fritz and his nasty smelling holiday cheer,

 is Taylor the Tooting Turkey. 

Serisouly, doesn't Thanksgiving promote enough conversations about overindulgence and indigestion/passing gas by design?

 I don't know about you, but the idea of Taylor tooting just before he hits the oven makes me lose my entire appetite for turkey. 

Is it nervous tooting? Surely it is?  Isn't that a whole secondary discussion on fear of death and bowel evacuation? 

Sorry, my Thanksgiving is not that existential. 

This book is a #1 on Amazon in Fiction Satire. 

You know, like how kids are always bugging you to read them a satirical book. 

My beloved Grandfather's name was Walter so I IMMEDIATELY took umbrage with this gem. 

Someone actually gifted Bee this book as a toddler. Of course, I read it to her because that is just good manners. Spoiler alert, the dog's gas prevents a B&E in the family home. Yes. Dog farts thwarted burglars.  You want my child  to believe that if someone breaks in my home while I am there, they will be stymied by a dog fart? I have had beagles for the last 20-years. 

If that were a possibility, we would know it. 

Also, COMPLETE missed opportunity on my part to write this book. Beagle farts can take the paint of the wall. Or worse. But how many of you would refer to me as your friend, the New York Times bestselling author of a book about dog farts and the war on crime?

Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day...

sit down. 

There is a new adjective laden book in town and it is of course, about farts. 

Poor Alexander just wanted cool shoes and a trip to Australia. 

This Bart looks like a real ass hat.

Oh, but his name RHYMES with Fart. 

That is where Alexander missed his mark. He should have had a name that rhymed with Day. Jay. Jay and the Terrible, Horrible No Good, Very Bad Day. 

Dear Pulitzer Committee...

I guess since Fritz the Farting Reindeer was spoken for, Freddie was the next obvious choice for a character having a gassy winter. 

What is happening here? Did he fart so intensely he blew his own head off? 

Haven't snowmen suffered enough? 

Did Frosty melt so Freddie could fart? 

This book is listed for Children and Adults as a funny read about Snowmen toots and farts. 

Like how we are always talking about how there aren't enough books for 

Kids AND Adults about Snowman farts. 

This book is #1 in Limericks in Humorous Verse. 

For those of you who didn't major in Limericks and Humorous Verse in undergrad. 

Oh, good! A compilation. Finally. 

Taking the alphabet and setting it to farting animals. 

Just top-of-my-head, I can only think of like 1 animal that starts with F. 

And it is Frog, which I am certain is an amphibian and therefore not an animal? 

Has Fox News fact checked this book? 

You know what else F is for? Firetruck, fun, French fries, freedom and f&ck you to the 

authors of this book for making us talk to kids about farting animals THIS much. 

Please note the clever nom de plum the author's used. Mr. and Mrs. Smelt/Delt It. 

Of the Hyannis Smelt/Delt It's, no doubt. 

This book is #1 in Comic and Graphic Novels. 

Aren't comic books enough of a problem? 

Another clever pen name... Stinky McToots. 

Irish? Scottish?

Have children's fart books gone international? 

Oh, good. Because I sure wouldn't want all those kids in other countries who 

are eating our test scores for lunch to miss out on the fart joke fun. 

America!

Sub Genres. 

SUB GENRES. 

The "demand" for Children's Literature re:breaking wind is so requested we had 

to break it down to sub genres? 

I am sorry, but even porn sites are not this genre specific. 

This book is a #1 Best Seller with no accreditation. 

Just "The #1 Bestseller." 

And remember, you read that on "The #1 Best Blog." 

Ok, this is a series of sub genre. 

This J.B O'Neil is covering all the bases. 

Probably from a billion dollar home in Los Angeles. 

Like how I write this blog from my bed. 

And again, not to belabor the point, but dog farts are a REAL issue in society. 

It is kind of what they are known for. 

You want to write a real book on dog farts? Write about the atrocities dogs have suffered for millennia being accused by humans of farts they did not, in fact, expel. OMG. 

Someone please get Reese or Oprah to put a sticker on that and sell it at Target.

Just in time for Christmas. 

A farting angel. 

A cherubic intermediate between God and man. 

I wonder if he knows the one from the Bible. 

You know, the one that told us "Unto you, a child is born?" 

J.B O'Neil... 

Are you kidding me? 

Well, if you can't get enough, this is a serialized character called Milo Snotrocket. 

Farts and Snotrockets. 

In a meeting at a (probably) fancy publishing house, a literary agent read samples of 

Mr. O'Neill's work and was so moved, he/she said "We want them all! The dog, the ninja, and this Milo character. Pay him whatever he wants and get to writing!"

Somewhere, probably a square state, there is a kid reading this book that could be 

the President someday. Or NASA employee. 

And he/she will probably develop space travel via the efficiency of mucus or fart gas. 

This one is interactive. 

Because my guess is, kids who like to talk about farts are SUPER creative. 

And artfully expressive. 

50 people have paid $6.99 AMERICAN for this to be delivered to their homes. 

To date.

That is almost $350. 

People have paid almost $350 to color farts. A colorless gas. 

Are trolls not scary enough? 

Not the Justin Timberlake/Anna Kendrick ones, but definitely this one. 

He is just living under a bridge waiting to ask you three riddles to gain passage 

and fart on or around you? 

Is this something kids are interested in hearing about? 

No, I am asking. Because if so, clearly I am exploring the topics on which to write a children's book ALL wrong.  Is the formula more "take something scary but make it gassy?" 

Wow. Well, this is who and where we are now. So crack your knuckles and polish your nails for some serious "Pull My Finger" action with the kids in your life. 

I will be scrubbing this post from the Internet after you read it... I cannot risk having my Mother come into contact with this blog only to find that I have used the word or reference to fart with reckless abandon. No telling what kind of grounding that comes with for me and my blog. 

My blog and me? 

For my blog and then also, for me. 

Snake Your Own Death

Since COVID, (because of COVID, thanks to COVID, freaking COVID) I haven't been home alone much. Like at all. And while once-a-month I have gotten on my soapbox about needing alone time for my own mental health self-care (eating wings and reading Vanity Fair) this week I got a compelling reminder why I should not be left at home. Pandemic or not. 

It was Tuesday. Monday's more obnoxious sister. I found myself with the whole evening to do whatever I chose. While I had been DREAMING of this time, it was suddenly too much and I got overwhelmed. So much so, in fact, I took to my bed to finish up some BRAVO shows and try to pep talk myself into productivity. Finally I mustered the energy to fold some towels, do a workout, floss and throw out the 9,000th Amy McGrath mailer of the week. 

The most narcissistic, prima donna beagle in the world needed to make her nightly trip outside to get all the compliments and head scratches from our neighborhood walkers, so I took her out. I sat down on my front step to make small talk, scroll my phone and serve as lady-in-waiting to this monster of my own creation. I hadn't been as productive or creative as I wanted, but it had been a calm, boring night. 

Famous. 

Last. 

Words. 

It was around 7:45 when I heard JD's car hit the driveway. There are no less than 250 alarms that go off to let me know someone/thing is imminent and from which door they will arrive. Which is infuriating, but then I heard Bee say "What is that? Are you tricking me?" and in a tone I don't think I have EVER heard him use, I heard JD say, "Bee! Get inside! Hurry, hurry!!"

They both rushed in and SLAMMED the door. Like the kind of slam I would have been grounded for growing up. JD did that thing from movies where he turned and put his back to the door after he locked it. This is REAL. Was it human traffickers? Some deranged serial killer? Teenagers? Bee was into her newfound dramatics and almost hyperventilating and JD was suspiciously looking out the windows at whatever ghoul was chasing them. I turned back to Bee just in time to make out the word she uttered....

"Snake!"

Oh, hell no. 

Now all the Sandersons are standing in the entry way of our (now unsafe) home screaming at different levels. Everything started happening so fast and I can't be totally sure, but I think I blacked out for a second. This was a not a "secure your mask before helping others" situation. This was all hands on deck to burn this house down. A snake??!?!? You want me to live in a house with a snake on/around/close by/God forbid in?

Cooler heads prevailed and we (JD) decided not to burn the house down. But I could tell this wasn't a little tiny snake that looked like a fat worm. With Bee out of earshot and almost out of hysterics, JD said, "Katie. It is a HUGE snake." 

No, I hear you. But when it comes to snakes, all bets are off. There are big snakes and little snakes. No in between. But he kept stressing to me that it was "HUGE." Then he asked, "You need to go see it." No, Trump, I don't want to see a huge snake. Are you kidding? As it was, I has already been showered, deep conditioned, face masked and had my lotion socks on before this unexpected snaketastrophe. Now you want me to leave the safety of this bed (which I am treating like an island no snake can get on) and GO SEE THE THING I DONT WANT TO SEE?!?!?!  Wow. Hey, JD, want to see some cool naked pics of your 1st grade teacher? No? Why not? 

So, he took a picture. Actually, he took about 153 pictures of the snake and brought it in to show me. 

He walked across the room already holding the phone out. So, from approximately 4' (not even Faucci's precious 6'), I can tell you that was no snake. 

That was the EARLIEST form of dinosaur that had not evolved into arms and feet yet. 

It was the Sandworm from Beetlejuice. 

It was the Anaconda from Anaconda. 

HARDEST of the HARD PASSES.

Knowing based on our almost 17-years together and our marriage vows that I would be literally ZERO help in this situation, JD went outside to get a plan to re-home said snake. 

Outside... to the VERY outside where I had just been sitting with the dog. 

The very outside where I had been sitting for the better part of an hour. 

The steps outside where I was scrolling my phone and playing Jeopardy. 

The outside where my idiot neighbors were shouting things like "Loving this weather!" and not "Katie! There is a Biblically large snake right next to you!" 

Had it been watching me? Waiting to attack? Was it coiled under the planter box judging me for almost letting one mum die while the other is thriving? 

I had JUST been out there. 

It got dark and then cold. The rain picked back up. Now Bee was showered and wailing in my bed (also unknowingly treating it like a fortress; you can't deny these genes) about how she will 'never get to sleep because all she will ever be able to think about is what if the snake had eaten Ouis?' 

Geez. Dramatic much? What if it slithered past MY car? I am the one it almost killed. But I can't tell her that. I have to be strong. For her.  She kept on with her hypothetical theories where I went to the most trusted place I know to go in case of an emergency:

 Amazon. 

And you would be surprised what you will find when you search "Snake ridder." I found a sufficient product with good reviews and had it paid for just in time to catch Bee say "...but if we did get another puppy." No, what? The dog is alive, I am alive, you are alive and I am guessing your father is alive, but I can't get out of this bed to find out. So I text. 

I can hear him outside and I see flashlights moving around like the Coast Guard looking for a Kennedy. He is on the phone and then I hear silence... did the snake get him? Am I the widow of a man who was eaten by a  snake? Cause I don't know if that is a good color on me..Nope. There he goes back on the phone. Whew. 

He is outside for ages. Bee has calmed herself enough to sleep and I am treating Realtor.com like its Ebay and just blindly bidding on anything.  JD comes inside to give me a brief update. It seems he has been using our rake to try to "strongly encourage" the snake to leave the front porch and go to the back of our property, where there is a large lake. (Using a lot of the same language that I was finding on Realtor.com "Beautiful lake... spacious grounds..")That didn't work. He is holding the rake like the farmer in the painting "American Gothic" and I can see he has broken a sweat. Realizing that thoughtful communication and a rake Uber ride aren't going to cut it, he goes back out. 

Again, he is gone for ages (I assume. I have no concept of time in COVID). Again, more texting. Turns out, based on the consensus of messages he sent to his varied text groups, this snake might be poisonous and should definitely not be left to its own devices. Some trusted friend suggested calling Animal Control. 

Which he did.

And they came.

Faster than a pizza they showed up. Yes, swiftness from a government agency. 

A lone wolf, let's call him... Bruce? Sure. Bruce. Bruce was exactly what you would expect of an employee of a government agency contracted company that specializes in ridding your home of vermin. In the Commonwealth of Kentucky. 

Bruce was no sooner out of his rig when he said, "Where's that boy at?"

(Do we know it's a boy? I am not comfortable just assigning genders...)

JD explained that in an attempt to relocate 'him,' the snake had slithered elsewhere. He motioned to the general direction that is still 500-miles closer than with which I am comfortable. 

"Dag. I wanted to catch him. I love catchin' snakes."

If you do not believe in your soul that everyone has a passion in life to pursue, ladies and gentlemen, meet BRUCE. 

Now Bruce has flashlights and JD has flashlights and it looks like the Sandersons are on Molly and having a rave. I seriously debated turning on EDM and tossing some water bottles out the front door and calling it a night. Also, why are we actively trying to find him? I thought the "Ridders" in your signage would have made that clear. But Bruce was a hunter. Of that, I was sure. Mostly because I heard him say "I've been huntin' snakes all my life. Never been scared." 

Coming to the sad realization that his big game catch had eluded him, Bruce put Step 2 into action; secure the perimeter. "I bet your wife and your little girl child sure don't want this snake comin' back." 

I didn't have to see his face to know that JD was praying for 2 things:

1.Not snakes ever again. Full stop.

2.The courage and faith to take Bruce seriously in that and all moments going forward. 

Usually when a vendor starts with their spiel  I see JD's finance mind go into action just waiting for the minute he can jump in and say "Yeah, yeah. But what does it cost?"  

Not this time. Instead he said, "Will you take a check, Bruce?" 

JD came into our bedroom where I am now completely sidetracked by the fact that we still have a checkbook and checks? I hear the unmistakeable rip of the check while JD relays the whole plan. Bruce has to check inside for a couple of markers, but then he can spray this magic spray that repels snakes, mice, rats (are we in NYC?!?), and some other gross things. Maybe pizza rats? Remember that guy? Anyway, Bruce can do that, Bruce can take a check and then we can schedule Bruce to come back every 6-months. JD seemed pretty confident in Bruce and this plan, but just to be sure and because he always says it to me, I asked "Is this the best investment?" 

Cool as the other side of the pillow, JD looked at me and said "If I thought letting Bruce move in and live with us like one of those plural families on the shows you watch would mean we never saw another snake, I'd help him pack." 

Check written. 

Bruce finished up, took the physical check we wrote him, and rode off into the sunset like the prince that he was. Had it been a white horse, it could have been more apropos. I do mean this sincerely when I say "God bless Bruce." And the Bruce's of the world. I have seen some of what the next generation holds and it is NOT Bruces. 

We all slept and survived the night. JD explained to Bee the next morning all the excitement she had missed when I offered her a melatonin and some similarly shaped gummy bears. She seemed a little more at ease and definitely less dramatic and scared than the night before. JD was happy with the results from Bruce and really proud of himself for saving me and our "girl child" so quickly from harm's way. I had told him later how just minutes earlier I had been relaxing on the front steps not knowing that the black, scaly hands of death were just inches away from squeezing the very life out of me in front of our neighbors and the dog and on the doorbell camera. He assured me that it was all done and that we would be hard pressed to see another snake any time soon. Bruce promised.

Ok. 

But we were all still skeptical. I saw Bee headed to the car looking like she was in a game of hopscotch. And I saw JD on the camera JUMP the steps onto the driveway and still look back over his shoulder. We are all afraid to let the dog out. 

That black monster loomed large. And once again, I found myself alone. I would have to face the potential of a snake attempt on my life (again?) alone. 

I know what Bruce promised. But Bruce didn't know that just before his arrival, that snake had been watching me. Just waiting. And sure, HE was gone, but what if he had just been a decoy? What if that snake had a friend or wife or husband or crime syndicate that it was working with and overnight or while Bruce was focused elsewhere, they had all worked to get into my car? 

I set off the security alarm as a warning shot. Nothing. I got in slamming the door and taking a deep breath. I started the car and put it into gear and pulled out of our driveway. 

And then I felt it. 

The snake.

Crawling up my left leg; tickling and erratic. I KNEW IT!!! DAMN YOU, BRUCE!!! THE CAR! YOU SHOULD HAVE CHECKED THE CAR! WHY ME? DEAR GOD, WHY ME?!?!?!?!? 

Nope. Not a snake. 

You have no idea what real, visceral fear is until you mistake a snake for a McDonald's straw wrapper. 

But still. Can't be too vigilant. 

People's Exhibit A. 

The time stamps are different because these are screen shots. 

That is the kind of hard-hitting evidence you can expect from this blog. 

People's Exhibit B. 

I only swore once. 

In the whole debacle, once. 

Does the Nobel committee call me or....?