The Most Wonderful Toy of the Year

 

It’s become a standard yuletide tradition: every year without fail, there’s one particular toy on practically every child’s Christmas wish list. It’s also a toy that starts out at one price, but once retailers figure out how priceless that toy is to your child, they shamelessly increase it as high as they can and beyond. Not only that, but the toy becomes about as hard to find as five minutes of peace during the holidays.

It all starts off innocently enough; your child tells you at least a month in advance exactly what he wants for Christmas. It’s all he ever talks about and it’s all you hear about. You even contemplate buying the darned thing and giving it to him early just to shut him up, but you don’t. However, by the time you finally do start shopping for “The Most Wonderful Toy of the Year,” you can’t find it anywhere.

Little did you know, other kid in the universe also wants that toy for Christmas. So now you—and eight million other crazed, harassed parents who started shopping too late—are in an extremely non-festive frenzy to find this elusive item that’s seemingly no longer available anywhere. Then when and if that ridiculous piece of crap does become available someplace, you’ll have to beat each and every one of those other parents to it; kicking, clawing, and fighting, all the way. Ho-ho-ho, Merry Christmas.

After spending every waking moment in pursuit of this thing, you miraculously find it online. You literally jump for joy, spilling your coffee all over the Christmas cards you finally got around to making out. But that’s okay because you’ve found The Most Wonderful Toy of the Year. It’s five times the original price but hey, they’ve guaranteed you it’ll be there before Christmas. You’re finally set; the maddening quest is over. Let peace and joy reign throughout the rest of the season.

Two days later in a store, you actually lay eyes on The Most Wonderful Toy of the Year—several of them in fact—for the incredible deal of only twice the original price. But no, you’ve already bought one and it’s on its way to your house. Life is good.

Later that day and receive an email from the company which sold you the toy. They regretfully—but cheerfully—inform you that The Most Wonderful Toy of the Year is currently on backorder, and won’t be shipped out till mid-January. They conclude their correspondence by wishing you and yours the absolute merriest of Christmases. How nice—and so much for their guarantee.

Frantically, you rush back to that store you saw The Most Wonderful Toy of the Year in, grateful you stumbled across it there as you can’t even begin to imagine the nightmare you’d have to go through otherwise. At lightning speed, you stampede back to that part of the store where you saw the toy, only now it’s nowhere to be seen. You sprint to the customer service desk where an employee informs you that just this very moment they sold the last one, as they point behind you to some lady exiting the building. You look over your shoulder to see a smugly satisfied, evil witch making her way out of the store with The Most Wonderful Toy of the Year.

You briefly consider barging after her, grabbing it from her grubby little mitts and making off with it—contemplating that if the judge was also a parent she might very well let you off on a temporary insanity plea. Yet you just stand there stewing over the fact that if you’d only been there five minutes earlier you could’ve been that smugly satisfied, evil witch walking out with The Most Wonderful Toy of the Year.

Later, you spend the entire night scouring the internet, hoping beyond all hope to find another one of these stupid toys somewhere else. Then, you see it! There it is! For the downright bargain price of only seven times what it was originally selling for. Yet you’re more than happy to pay it, as by this point you’d sell your own grandmother to a mad scientist to get that toy. So you pay the unearthly price, breathe a huge, satisfied sigh of relief, put your feet up, and watch the sunrise.

Full of Christmas cheer—even though you got no sleep whatsoever—you greet your child warmly when he comes down to breakfast that morning. You ask if he’s excited that Christmas is only a few days away, to which he says he is, but also divulges to you that he’s changed his mind entirely about what he wants for Christmas.

Taken from my book Christmas Madness, Mayhem, & Mall Santas: Humorous Insights into the Holiday Season.

http://www.authorbonniedaly.com/

 

 

 

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The Christmas Family Newsletter Brag Fest

 

Most of us have received them and they usually come to us from families we hardly know, who live far, far away. People whom we haven’t seen since Nixon was President. Even so, every year we become privy to all the intimate details of what purportedly happened in their highly exciting, award winning lives since their last Christmas brag fest. Of course, not all of the Christmas family newsletters we’ve received over the years resemble what I’m about to describe. Yet there’s been enough of them to wrap Christmas presents with until the year 2023.

These delightful documents are filled to overflowing with details I’m certain the well-meaning writers never meant to exaggerate, manipulate, or dare I say, even fabricate. Yet somewhere along the way, the writer who slaved away writing, and rewriting, the history of their family’s lives over the past twelve months decided maybe a little—or perhaps even a lot—of poetic license was perfectly acceptable. Then once the newsletter evolved over several drafts, it went from being what really took place, to an all-out Festive Family Fake Fest.

I doubt they don’t ever mean for it to get quite so out of hand. However, realizing their musings might be mundane at best, they wrap it all up nicely with expensive foil paper and an exquisite bow. They never once consider we’re on to what’s really inside their pompous package of self-praise.

For all those unsuspecting people who’ve never received one before, I believe that just as the word FRAGILE is written on a parcel containing breakable stuff, so should the words BRAG ALERT be boldly stamped on the outside of the envelope of most Christmas family newsletters.

Reading through one of these newsletters—which goes on for several pages—you become aware that not even every recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize combined could possibly accomplish, in their collective lifetimes, what these amazing families have done in the past year alone. Major achievement awards, badges of honor, photographs with world leaders, and thousands of well-deserved trophies must certainly cover the walls and mantels of their humble abodes.

Unbeknownst to whoever wrote it, instead of evoking envy, awe, and admiration, they end up producing smirks, sneers, and sometimes sympathy. Sympathy for the poor writer who spent so long putting together this fourteen-page pat on the back, because you know everyone else who reads it is going to be laughing just as hard as you are. One day the writer may go back over what they sent out, and if they happen to be in a far less stuck up state of mind than when they wrote it, they will inevitably die of embarrassment.

One thing I do admire about them—which the authors of these audacious annual autobiographies never planned for—is their creative usage of the English language. For example: “Martin was given the unanimous approval senior management to take his entrepreneurial skills to a whole new level, based on his dedication to the company.” Translation? The lazy bum got fired. Or better yet, this: “Garrett continues to excel in all his favorite upper-level high school courses, and displays great leadership qualities in his extracurricular activities.” Which translates into: the only course Garrett’s passing this semester is the Basket Weaving class given in the attic of the school, and he’s also the kingpin of a local gang.

I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a Daly Family Christmas Newsletter, but my creative writing skills would pale in comparison to the great works of art we’ve received throughout the years. So I think I’ll just stick to scribbling Merry Christmas inside the cards I buy in boxed sets from my local mega-mart, and leave it at that.

Taken from my book Christmas Madness, Mayhem, & Mall Santas: Humorous Insights into the Holiday Season.

http://www.authorbonniedaly.com/

Looking for a Great Gift for Both the Young and the Young at Heart this Christmas Season?

Check out Surviving Gretchen, the first book in my new series The Storms of Friendship.

Abby and Emma aren’t just best friends. They’re like two life forces sharing the same soul, certain the ties that bind them can weather any storm. Then Gretchen comes into their lives, blowing across the landscape of their friendship like a hurricane. Will Abby and Emma survive Gretchen?

Surviving Gretchen, the first book in Bonnie Daly’s The Storms of Friendship series, is a captivating tale about what happens when the bond between two thirteen-year-old girls is threatened by the dark, swirling depths of another girl’s jealousy. The story reveals the importance of true friendship, mutual trust, and never taking the people you love for granted.

http://www.survivinggretchen.com/

http://www.authorbonniedaly.com/

 

 

Mall Santas

One of the creepiest things a small child may ever encounter in the mall—besides a Mall Easter Bunny, or the creepy guy with one tooth working the counter of the ice cream shop—is a Mall Santa. I’ve seen countless innocent toddlers and babies terrified out of their tiny little minds at the mere sight of such a creature. What small child wants to be handed over to a disturbing looking stranger in a cheap red suit, scuffed up boots, a beard made out of cotton balls, and breath that reeks of salami, licorice, and whiskey?

I remember when my son Cameron, who was about six months old at the time, had his very first encounter with a Mall Santa. My husband and my parents also came along for the joyous occasion as they didn’t want to miss out on this rite of passage. After standing in line for about twenty minutes for Cameron’s big chance to see ‘Santa,’ the poor kid became a bit cranky. Crankiness turned into crying, and crying turned into a full-blown conniption fit. My dear, devoted husband and parents all suddenly remembered they had other places to be—and scattered quickly in different directions—which left me and my child alone to face the imposing imposter on our own. Deserters.

Well, I finally got him calmed down—and even happy again—right before our meet and greet with the big fat man in the red pants. At last, we were first in line. “HO-HO-HO! And who have we here?” was all it took. The smile I’d worked so hard to re-establish on Cameron’s face vanished in a millisecond upon hearing those words, and wails of unbridled terror ensued. I held my poor child tightly while he screamed and flailed, tears squirting from his eyes in all directions. At that moment I wanted to just forget the whole thing, get him out of there, and save him from the evil clutches of the way too jolly dude before us. Yet instead, I put my desperate desire of wanting my child’s ‘First Picture with Santa’ above all else, and proceeded to haphazardly hand him over to the man with whisky-tainted breath and a cotton ball beard.

For the next few minutes I, the ‘elves,’ and the imposter himself all tried to appease Cameron to no avail. Cameron reached out his little arms to me, his petrified eyes pleading with me to pick him up and save him, but all I did was stand there and watch. That moment still haunts me to this very day.

Finally, one of the elves got a shot of him while he was screaming, which—if you squint one eye and tilt your head slightly to the left—almost gives the impression of a smile. Then Santa handed him back to me. I felt like I’d sold Cameron out. I paid my $14.99—the price charged for torturing a small child for 2 minutes—and got him the heck away from there. Then out of nowhere, our deserters reappeared.

“How’d it go with Santa?” my husband asked enthusiastically. I narrowed my eyes, peering icily at the people who’d left us in the dust, then I revealed what happened and waited for their reactions. All three of our betrayers laughed their heads off. Jerks.

Anyway, I still have that ‘First Picture with Santa,’ and every time I look at it all I can think about is my decision—in that one split second—where I could’ve either saved my child from something he’d probably need years of therapy for, or hand him over to some drunk guy in a cheap red suit. I chose the latter.

The above is an excerpt from my book Christmas Madness, Mayhem, & Mall Santas: Humorous Insights into the Holiday Season

http://www.authorbonniedaly.com/

https://www.goodreads.com/BonnieDaly

The Procrastinator’s Countdown to Christmas

Think you’ve got all the time in the world to get your Christmas crap done?!? Think again…

 

First Weekend in November:  You smirk at all the Christmas lunatics who have: (a) already started their shopping, and (b) started putting up their Christmas decorations. Don’t these seasonal sickos have lives? Sit back and relax – you know you’ve got plenty of time.

Second Weekend in November:  Briefly you toy with the idea of getting started with your shopping—but why rush things—so you decide to stay home and watch TV, but every other channel has on a Christmas movie. Tossing your remote in disgust, you glance out the window and notice your neighbors are erecting what can only be described as a Christmas mini-golf course in their front yard. “Festive fools,” you mutter under your breath.

Third Weekend in November:  You have every intention to start shopping, but unexpected guests drop by who stay the whole weekend. In great, giddy detail they gush about not only being done with their shopping, but that their halls are decked as well. You consider decking them, but force a gracious smile instead.

Fourth Weekend in November:  Everyone in the house has come down with the flu.

First Weekend in December:  You finally start Christmas shopping on Saturday, and plan to spend Sunday decorating. However, you spend the entire weekend looking for that toy your child’s been begging for, only to realize it’s no longer available anywhere. You’ve got zero shopping done, and accomplish zilch in the decorating department. Slight panic begins to set in.

Second Weekend in December:  The biggest blizzard known to man or arctic beast blows into town. You decide it’s no big deal; you’ll just shop online for that elusive toy, and try to get in as much other shopping as possible while you’re at it. Yet as soon as you sit down at the computer the storm cuts the electricity. You move on to decorating, but it’s a bit difficult without any light to see what you’re doing.

Third Weekend in December:  On Saturday your child has a Christmas play, a Christmas pageant, and a Christmas party to attend. On Sunday you get to go visit your in-laws.

Fourth Weekend in December:  You have sixty-eight million things to do and only two days to do them in. You head to the mall to find everything pawed through, ripped open, and stampeded upon. You buy the least offensive stuff you can find, rush home, wrap it, and throw it under the tree. You notice the tree looks like someone put it up in the dark—oh wait, they did—but there’s no time to fix it now as you’re having a dinner party in three hours and haven’t even been to the store yet.

Later during the party, you confess to one of your guests that you haven’t found that toy your child wanted. She smugly looks down her seasonally satisfied nose at you and divulges that she bought it for her child back in early November, when it was available everywhere. You smile your best fake smile and make a mental note to never speak to her again.  Just then the lights on the tree blow out. You explain to everyone that it’s because they were last year’s lights, as you didn’t have time to buy new ones this year. Under her breath, you hear that same rotten woman mutter “Unfestive fool…”

The Moral of the Story: If you’re going to be a fool at Christmastime, it’s far better to be a festive one than the alternative.

 

http://www.authorbonniedaly.com/

https://www.goodreads.com/BonnieDaly

Christmas Shopping (a.k.a.The Nightmare Before Christmas)

 

Do you remember when you actually had to leave the house to do all your Christmas shopping, and you couldn’t just happily sit in front of your computer screen and do it from home? I remember those days well, and I’ve no clue how I ever accomplished anything back then other than Christmas shopping. There’s no way I’d have time to do all that now.

I recall never ending schlepping from store to store, squabbling over parking spaces, hauling heavy packages all over the mall, and standing in impossibly long lines—with blisters the size of golf balls—while someone coughed the latest germ all me just in time for Christmas. All this to find that special gift for someone who’d probably get it exchanged on December 26^th anyway.

Now it’s just a matter of a couple dozen clicks on the internet and I’m done. All the while I get to sit around in my ratty-looking pajamas—with even rattier-looking hair—sipping a nice hot cup of cocoa. Usually it works out quite well for me.

Although one particular online order would’ve been easier if I’d just thrown on my boots and hiked it up to the North Pole to get it directly from Santa’s workshop. It should’ve been simple enough; the site said the item was in stock and I already had an account with the store. All it would take was a few simple clicks and the purchase would be on its way—or so I thought.

I typed in my info and they told me my account didn’t exist. I knew it did, so I tried a couple more times. It still wouldn’t recognize it, so I gave up and signed up for a new one. They further informed me I couldn’t use that email address because there was already an account set up for it. Yeah, mine. With seemingly no other option, I set up a new email address and then, at last, I was able to proceed.

After I re-found the thing I was looking for I went to put it in my “shopping cart,” but their site froze, which happened over and over and over every time I tried. I considered going elsewhere online to buy it, but after all the darned time I spent setting up a new account—giving them more information than even my own doctor has on me—I was determined to see it through to the bitter end. Plus, I had a substantial store gift certificate from there to use on my purchase. A good long while went by, and then finally I was able to get the gift into my cart—although I think it would’ve been easier to try and cram a mid-sized sedan into a real shopping cart.

I then put in my credit card information, which surprisingly went smoothly. I was nearly done. All they needed from me now was my gift certificate code. This wasn’t one of those internet coupon codes, either—I had it in my hot little hands as I’d gotten from a prior purchase through their physical store. So, I plugged in all three thousand, eight hundred and sixty-five digits and an error came up proclaiming the number invalid. Since the number was longer than a football field I thought maybe I typed it in wrong. Nope. After a few more tries I realized the error was on their side, not mine.

Irritated to no end, I called customer service. After talking to a computerized operator and then being on hold for all of eternity—listening to Christmas music that sounded like it came out of a tin can, and getting “accidentally” hung up on twice—I was able to get through to a living, breathing person. A person who, of course, spoke very little English. After explaining my situation to her, she transferred me to someone else, who transferred me to someone else, who transferred me to someone else. Finally, I got through to a person who told me that the coupon was only valid in their physical store, even though the gift certificate itself said nothing of the sort. After I threw a rather un-festive fit over the phone, they decided to do me the greatest of favors and give me a different code to type in, which would take the same amount off that the gift certificate would have, had I been able to use it.

This should’ve been the end of the story; however, after spending an eternity on the phone with customer service, my order timed out and I had to sign in all over again. And this time—joy upon joys—the item I wanted was now “currently unavailable online.” I’d absolutely had it. I got dressed, got in my car, and went to the store with that rotten gift certificate in hand. After grabbing the item off the shelf and standing in line for longer than I’d been on hold, I finally got to the checkout where the cashier scanned the gift certificate. She gave me a cheesy look, paused, and then sneered as she said the following into the store’s speaker system: “Manager to the front, I have a woman here who just tried to get away with using a gift certificate she already used online.” While I wanted to crawl under a Christmas tree and die, several shoppers looked my way and shook their heads in disgust. Fuming, I waited for the manager.

When the manager finally came he was nice enough, but explained to me the scanner clearly indicated my gift certificate had already been used, that the scanner is always right, and I was probably just confused due to all the hustle and bustle of the holidays. At that point all I wanted to do was get out of there. So I quickly purchased the item—without the savings of the gift certificate—and left the store.

If it hadn’t been the season of good will—and a dozen or so people hadn’t been standing in line behind me to hear—I would’ve told him and that cashier exactly where they could’ve stuck the present, the idiotic scanner, and that gift certificate.

(excerpt from my book Christmas Madness, Mayhem, & Mall Santas, available at all major online bookstores)

http://www.authorbonniedaly.com/

https://www.goodreads.com/BonnieDaly

 

When Halloween and Christmas Collide

Nothing beats walking into your local mega-mart the first of October—on a day when it’s 87 degrees out—and being accosted by the results of Halloween and Christmas throwing up all over each other. Never mind Halloween’s almost a month away, but can’t they at least wait till children break in their back-to-school shoes before being forced into choosing their Christmas stockings?

This time of year, massively confused holiday sections display everything from fiber-optic reindeer, to choirs of motion activated angels, to moronically huge, inflatable snow globes parked directly in front of cheesy cardboard Halloween backdrops of haunted houses, dastardly pumpkins, and chainsaw wielding murderers on the lookout for their next unsuspecting victim.

Call me crazy, but seeing piles of Christmas stuff out this early, joining forces with a plethora of Halloween paraphernalia—when it still seriously feels like beach weather—is just wrong. It’s also bizarre to see folks shuffling by in their flip flops with eclectic combinations of candy corn, fake Christmas wreaths, and sunblock filling their shopping carts.

The stores also supply everyone’s eardrums with a wide variety of confusing holiday music. While children peruse the costume aisles, trying to decide what to go as for trick-or-treat, “Jingle Bells” rings out to one and all. When their mothers find themselves lured into the Christmas card aisle, “Monster Mash” is drilled into their brains. No wonder so many people just say “Happy Holidays” these days; no one’s quite sure what’s being celebrated when.

I’m not really one to talk, though. There was once a Halloween night several years ago that I still feel really bad about. First just let me say that Christmas decorating takes weeks at our house, and I was just trying to get a good head start—the day before Halloween. At the time I saw nothing wrong with it, but my son Cameron, who was five at the time, was far from impressed to see a three-foot tall Santa lurking in the living room next to a huge light-up ghost. Not to mention the animated nutcrackers looming over the jack-o-lanterns, while “Silent Night” played softly in the background. The poor kid’s still not fully over it and will probably need therapy till he’s twenty-three.

From that moment on Cameron put his foot down, and made me swear I’d never, ever again start decorating for Christmas until November. I reluctantly agreed. I do admit it was kind of weird to see Saint Nick and the Ghost of Trick-or-Treat Present making awkward small talk with each other. Maybe they could’ve found a way to bond if they’d only gone shopping together in their local mega-mart in the beginning of October.

“When Halloween and Christmas Collide” is an excerpt taken from my book, Christmas Madness, Mayhem, & Mall Santas: Humorous Insights into the Holiday Season, available through all major online bookstores.

http://www.authorbonniedaly.com/