Christmas time is here. And gone. So quickly. It’s amazing how we spend weeks planning, shopping, baking, wrapping, preparing and then . . . . in a flurry of non-recyclable paper it’s all over. What’s left are a few extra holiday pounds and pieces of children’s toys that inexplicably end up in impossible places while they weep in search of them.

“How did Barbie’s shoes end up in the refrigerator’s compressor?”

This year Kaitlyn did her traditional vomiting a few days early, so we weren’t quarantined for Christmas for a change. That was nice. We went out to actually enjoy ourselves rather than search frantically for grape flavored Pediasure at the local mini-mart because every other worthwhile store was closed to celebrate the holiday. It’s also nice to be able to enjoy Christmas cookies without hearing retching in 5.1 digital lifelike surround sound. “So real . . . it is!”

We broke one of our major rules and gave Kaitlyn an electronic toy. We tend to avoid toys that play with themselves. “No kids required! Hasbro’s new Electronic Crap is fully self-playing. Now your kids can do what’s really important, like get a job so they can afford the multi-million dollar accessories that go with this toy in order to make it do half of the things claimed on the commercial!” This year she got a “Leap Pad.” It’s an electronic piece of plastic that can read, or something. In truth, it’s a very helpful tool in helping her read and do math. Prior to the leap pad, I doubt she would sit on the couch for an hour engrossed in the human skeletal system or long division.

Still . . . I can’t help but think it’s just a more expensive version of those books that came with tapes. Remember those? They’d make cool noises when you were supposed to turn the page. I always imagined they were for lazy parents who can’t take the time to read with their children. Or, maybe they’re for kids who have annoying parents and don’t want them around anymore . . . hard to say .

Of course, this was Gertrude’s first Christmas, an occasion on which we place extreme importance . . . and about which she could care less. We got her presents, Santa gave her a stocking full of candy (that mom has claimed . . . chocolate is payment for childbirth, allegedly), but Gertrude was more interested in gumming my collar bone.

Still, it was a nice Christmas. Everyone was pleased with their gifts, the family was healthy and nothing exploded. All in all, a good day.

However, leading up to the day was more exciting. My stalwart vehicle, known in my household as “Whitey” (wife’s car is named “Squerpy” . . . go figure) died a violent death. Sadly, no purple monkeys were involved.

However, I had just invested three hundred dollars in the brakes. Stupid machinery. The mechanic cried. I told him he did all he could do, but after eleven years it was this car’s time. We then buried the car in the flowerbed.

Eleven years. That’s a long time to own a car. Do other people do that anymore? I suppose not. But the thing worked, why get something newer that was just going to break anyway. When a car is eleven years old, it’s easier to justify maintenance. With new cars, replacing the brakes is like discovering wrinkles on wrinkle-free pants. It just can’t be! “I’ve only had the car for a year? How can something be wrong with it” Well . . . you [I]use[/I] it . . .

I had to buy a car. I have only done this once, and poorly at that. I decided I wanted to go for gently used, as I didn’t want to invest in a car that I only had a week to pick out. So, I settled on a car and test-drove about a hundred of the model. Chris stayed home with the kids while a friend and I (both of us about as qualified to buy a car as Bill Gates is qualified to perform neurosurgery) trolled the lots. It was cold. Damn cold. Too cold.

We found a place with good prices and spent three hours on the lot, driving a poor sales guy nuts with questions. He, in turn, drove us nuts with his apparent knowledge of the car. Or I should say lack thereof . . .

“So, Kevin . . . what sort of maintenance does this model require?”

”It has plastic wood grain! Look Gary! Wood grain!”

So, we gave him a sugar cube and he wandered over in the corner and sucked on it for a while. We gave each of my options a once over and left, with poor car guy in frenzy over the money we didn’t spend.

We went back the next day and found a car we didn’t see the day before. I fell in love with it and it was only $300 more than the car with the broken CD player.

And now I own it. It’s the most expensive portable CD Player I’ve ever purchased, but it has cool features like power windows, power locks and a little button on my key ring that makes the car honk until I turn it off. That way, when I get attacked in the parking lot at night, onlookers will know where to find me so they can watch my assailant hurt me. I love technology.

We’re all happy, though. I have reliable transportation and a car that will serve the family well. Plus, in the past week Gertrude’s little cheeks have gotten nice and chubby.

She’s a cute kid. Though, she might be cuter with plastic wood grain. Wonder if they have kits for that . . .