Thursday, December 9, 2010

screw the two front teeth...

Christmas is looming and this year I’m just not in the mood. The whole dang year I wasn’t in the mood.

I know I’m going to sound like The Grinch, but really, the smell of burning plastic is not one of my favorites.  Especially as most of the purchasing that’s been going down is for really bloody boring, obligatory stuff that has been bought under extreme pressure. Did I hear organic-luxury-exfoliating soap on a rope? It would’ve be much more fun if the Kardashian family had lent me their credit cards because then I could buy things that people would actually get excited about …  a Ferrari for Mr. Professor Pants (I’ll look after it till he’s 18), a surf-holiday for Best Kisser (because unlike me he can actually surf), and a flame thrower for Oli (just for the hell of it). Come to think of it, Oli would probably quite like to own a tattoo parlour aswell. Heaven knows, the Kardashians don’t need any more shit. Truly.  

What really concerns me the most this year is what’s on my kid’s wish list to Santa.  Weapons.  This is not a very Christmassy theme I think.  I’ve already had to eat huge helpings of humble pie for saying (pre-kids, of course) that my kids would never eat sweets. Pwaaahhahahah. As if.  I’ve had to double that humble pie helping for saying “my kids will never own toy guns”.  Clearly, they must have the same relationship to weaponry as I have to carbs.  The minute you deny yourself, you just want it more. Out of principal. 

The no gun law stood unbroken for all of about 24 hours. I had to relent. The little buggers were fashioning dangerous looking guns (think rifles with bayonets – where did they even see those????) out of pieces of wood. Pointy kindling and such. Not very sanitary, especially if, say, it pokes in your brothers eye. Or breaks his skin and actually draws blood.

So, I tried the overkill approach and bought them an entire arsenal.  It worked. They very quickly tired of playing with their guns, except when friends who aren’t allowed guns came to play.  Then they played with them a lot. More than once I've had to literally wrestle the weapon away from a visiting kid because they became like Gollum  - huddled in a dark corner and calling the gun "my precioussssssss" and what have you. Frightening stuff, really.

Anyway, since Rainman’s recent fascination with James Bond (again with the inappropriateness… ) their romance with weapons – namely handguns are the fetish – has been rekindled.  I try to tell myself that someone has to be defenders of the law.  And has to work for MI5. And has to join the army (somewhere, just not here). Not all gun owners are gangsters. And not all gangsters have guns; they have other things with sharp ends. And I’ve decided that a fascination with knives would be much more dangerous. So, I’ll take my chances with a toy gun thanks.

P.s. An aside. Don’t try drinking lots of Espresso to help you through Christmas shopping.  I’ve tried. I can never go back to that mall now.

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