Garage Sales, Plot Lines & Tantrums

Every spring our Neighborhood Leader (whoever the hell that is) looks at the weather forecast, picks out a weekend when the temperature won't rise above 40 degrees, the winds will howl and precipitation will most surely fall, and schedules a Neighborhood Garbage Sale. I have participated in this sale exactly one time -- approximately seven years ago -- and am still recovering. I will never forget the annoyance I felt at the people showing up approximately eight hours before the published start time, shouting "Would it be okay if we just poked around in there and had a look around?" from their car windows and angrily driving away when my answer was "FUCK NO!" The worst, though, was when the sale officially started and I had to helplessly stand in my garage while hoards of people stumbled toward me like zombies, hell bent on messing up my perfectly folded piles of clothes in search of a great deal on a pair of khaki shorts sized for a 6-9 month old. And the answer is no, I will not knock $0.50 off those shorts within the first ten minutes of my sale.

So this year is no different. I am not going to spend three days freezing my ass off while sitting in my garage in order to participate in the Neighborhood Garbage Sale, watching rusted out vans and rented U-Hauls park awkwardly in my cul de sac. Besides, it seems like the shoppers spend more time eyeing all of the things in my possession that don't have a price sticker on them than actually sifting through the crap that I actually am trying to get rid of.

Over the last few weeks, I have been doing my a-little-more-frequently-than-quarterly purge of closets, drawers, storage bins, cabinets and anything else that contains things that we own. After a trip or two to the recycling center, strategic use of the space in my garbage can and more than a few passes through the Goodwill drop off lane, I can sleep at night. So even if I was going through a moment of insanity and actually wanted to participate in this year's Garbage Sale, I wouldn't have anything to sell anyway. Or, would I?

Recently, while having some new wiring installed in our house, I discovered a few bins of some toys that the kids refuse to part with, but aren't played with very often: marble runs, a train set, and a giant fucking plastic ship that is home to some really hideous plastic super heroes. Would it be weird of me to open my garage door, place three bins of toys and one plastic ship in my driveway and then close up shop as soon as the shit sold?

And then I remembered something: I can't sell the plastic ship because Doug and Zoe have a history with it. They have spent hours playing together, coming up with story lines involving its assorted cast of characters, the names of which I wasn't familiar with until I read this don't-read-if-you-have-anything-in-your-mouth-cuz-it-will-shoot-out-your-nose story, written by Doug, aka Married to The Mean Mom.

Zoe, Angry Goddess of Death

The great thing about playing with Zoe is that she is easy going and doesn't try to boss me around. Okay, she does have opinions, but that's just because she likes things to be done a certain way. And while, yes, the way in which she likes things to be done can best be described as Zoe's Way or Fuck you, she's really quite reasonable about it -- she merely demands that everything unfold according to a detailed script she's written in her head, otherwise feet will be stomped, teeth will be gnashed, hands will be placed on hips and eyes will be glared. Also, there will be shouting. Nothing too extreme, really, but you can expect your ears to bleed a bit. Again, she's not bossy so much as she's just a fan of, say, Mussolini. Or Sauron.

Like most kids her age she can also be quite imaginative. Imaginative in the sense that any adult playing with her will not have the slightest freaking clue what in the holy hell is going on. I have a bit of an advantage here in that, as Jody will attest, I am not an adult. So when Giraffey and Baby Mazagordon are having tea and their brains start shooting out of their butts because they ate too much throwup lasterday, I can see the logic in that and appreciate the narrative structure she is building.

The problem is, Zoe and I don't always agree on character development or crucial plot points. For example, why would Giraffey run over Baby Mazagordon repeatedly with a dump truck and then feed what's left of her to the sharks? It seemed out of character to me, given Giraffey's history of placid grass eating and song singing. Ever since that incident I've had a difficult time playing the giraffe because I don't understand her motivation. I realize that Zoe's trying to make Giraffey more three-dimensional by giving her contradictory personality traits, but I guess serial-killing herbivore just doesn't work for me.

This was a minor incident, however, when compared to the Super Mission Guys debacle, which is alternatively referred to as "That Time of Which We Do Not Speak."

Zoe and I have had creative differences before but nothing that couldn't be resolved with a little screaming and throwing of things, followed by Jody reminding me that I was supposed to be the more mature one here. But this time was different. This wasn't a simple case of using the wrong inflection or going all Charlton Heston on my role. This was me going so far off script that Zoe began to seriously consider replacing me with the understudy -- mom. The same mom who doesn't understand how King Bruno the dinosaur can give birth to porcupines and forgets that Pepperina the polar bear speaks with a Jamaican accent, mon.

Perhaps it happened because we'd invested so much time and energy into developing the complex characters and rich mythology that make up the Super Mission Guys. They are an elite fighting force led by a gorilla named Hoo Hoo Jungle. Hoo Hoo is unique among his kind in that he has a retractable grappling hook and a backpack -- just the sort of things one needs to repeatedly save the world -- or small, helpless dogs, depending on the mission -- from certain destruction. Hoo Hoo's second in command is the taciturn yet loquacious HAMMER DUDE! His name must always be spoken just as I have typed it -- with all caps and an exclamation point. As it turns out, HAMMER DUDE! was aptly named by his parents because he now wields a gigantic hammer. I suspect that his choice of weaponry and his insistence on shouting his name is because he is compensating for something, but I've never been able to work this into the script.

There are many other members of The Super Mission Guys but its exact makeup varies from day to day depending on who has been called away on international espionage assignments and who is lost in a closet or under a couch somewhere.

I play the part of HAMMER DUDE! Zoe plays the part of everyone else. What follows is a transcript of the final episode of the Super Mission Guys, exactly as performed.

Super Mission Guys

Episode #278

EXT. SUPER MISSION SHIP - DAY

THE SUPER MISSION GUYS HAVE GATHERED ABOARD THE DECK OF THE SUPER MISSION SHIP, AWAITING ORDERS FROM THEIR MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR, THE RICH AND POWERFUL BOX DAY.

HOO HOO JUNGLE

Shut up, everyone! Box Day will be calling soon! Does everyone have their new shoes on?

EVERYONE

Yes sir!

Splashy the Dolphin leaps out of the water and accidentally knocks Hoo Hoo Jungle into the ocean. Hoo Hoo drowns.

HAMMER DUDE!

Oh no! Hoo Hoo is dead!

EVERYONE

Oh no! Aaaaagh! Crap! etc.

HAMMER DUDE!

This is a job for HAMMER D--

SPRAY MAN

No! No, it isn't! Don't say that!

HAMMER DUDE!

But I want to be the one to save--

SPRAY MAN

Stop it! Stop talking! Spray Man fixes dead people, not HAMMER DUDE!

Spray man sprays his spraying device into Hoo Hoo Jungle's face. Hoo Hoo stirs. He is alive!

HOO HOO JUNGLE

(coughing) Splashy! Stop killing me! Bad dolphin!

EVERYONE

Bad Splashy! No! Stop it! etc.

SPLASHY

(whimpers)

Amidst the commotion, a mustachioed man appears on the Mission TV Screen. This is BOX DAY.

BOX DAY

Attention, people! Stop being like this! You have to pay attention when you get the missions!

HAMMER DUDE!

Yes! Quiet down every--

BOX DAY

Stop talking, I said! Guy with the hammer - what is your name?

HAMMER DUDE!

Uh, Hammer Dude?

BOX DAY

No it isn't! It's HAMMER DUDE!!!!! You are the worst Super Mission Guy ever!

HAMMER DUDE!

But sir, I--

Box Day covers his ears.

BOX DAY

Lah lah lah lah lah! I'm not listening! Lah lah lah lah lah! I can't hear you!

HAMMER DUDE!

...I...

BOX DAY

Here is your mission: Stop the spaceship that is attacking the world! But watch out for its bombs that will kill you for a week and the eggs it shoots that will make you all messy!

HAMMER DUDE! looks off across the Pacific toward the last rays of a setting sun, a melancholia settling over him like--

BOX DAY

HAMMER DUDE! You are wearing the wrong shoes!

HAMMER DUDE!

I...wha?

HOO HOO JUNGLE

I told him, sir! He is a horrible Mission Guy!

BOX DAY

Oh, and one more thing: After your mission you get to go to the ice cream shop.

EVERYONE

Yes! Yay! Awesome! etc.

BOX DAY

Except for HAMMER DUDE! because he is doing it wrong! Good luck, everyone. Make sure you be alive.

HAMMER DUDE! marches to the front of the group and strikes his giant hammer on the deck of the ship.

HAMMER DUDE!

Stop telling me what to say, Zoe!

HOO HOO JUNGLE

Zoe? Who's Zoe? My name is Hoo Hoo Jungle!

GREEK CHORUS

Oh look, the spaceship has shot its bombs at HAMMER DUDE!

HAMMER DUDE!

No, wait! Um...HAMMER DUDE! hammers the bombs back at the--

GREEK CHORUS

No he doesn't! They explode in his mouth! He can't talk ever again!

HAMMER DUDE!

No, they missed me! Now I will talk even more!

HOO HOO JUNGLE

HAMMER DUDE! has turned evil! Everyone kill him!

The entire Super Mission Guys team attacks HAMMER DUDE! and some Star Wars characters join in. As does a wooden train, some Lincoln Logs, a Simon Says and an empty juice box.

And then a mysterious giant hand appears and throws HAMMER DUDE! across the ocean.

HOO HOO JUNGLE

HAMMER DUDE! is dead forever! He can never come back and he can't talk anymore!

HAMMER DUDE! comes running back across the ocean.

HAMMER DUDE!

Hi guys, I'm back! I feel fine! And Box Day put me in charge of the Super Mission Guys!

There is a horrible screaming sound so terrible that it rips a hole in the fabric of reality. Through the hole steps ZOE, an angry, vengeful goddess. She kills everyone.

THE END

For the next few days Zoe and I played Uno. Uno has a very clearly defined set of rules. There is no room for debate or interpretation. I made sure to follow every one of them, especially the last one which is written in crayon on the rule sheet. It states: "Always let Zoe win."

Establishing My Identity

One of the most common complaints about becoming a mom is that it's easy to lose your identity. Suddenly everyone knows you only as Julie's Mom or Kyle's Mom, and every question and conversation that used to involve nothing more than you, you and a little more about you is all about them. For example:

How are you? --> How are the kids?

You look great! --> You look great, for someone that's had 3 kids.

Nice to see you! --> Nice to see the kids.

Let's go to happy hour! --> Let's meet at the park.

Do you have a Red Bull? --> Do you have a juice box?

I just bought a BMW M5. --> I just bought a minivan.

Do you have a mint? --> Do you a couple rolls of Smarties?

Dammit! It's last call! --> I only have the sitter until 10:00.

I love your shoes! --> I love your daughter's shoes.

Even my own kids find it hard to believe that I had a life before them and that at one point, I was a much thinner/occasionally fun person and found pleasure in more than just stain removal, driving a minivan to piano lessons and cooking semi-edible food. It's surprising to them that I had conversations in my own home that involved using obscenities without muttering, complained about my size 4's being too roomy and could go an entire month without ever having to say "don't squeeze the juice box."

But since I'm not one to dwell on the past (besides, I've tried and it's not as much fun as it sounds), I've decided to focus more on my current mom-self and make sure that they start noticing my finer qualities, not the side of me that is best described as "ape shit insane control freak perfectionist sarcasm queen." So, throughout the last weekend (which by the way, involved spending another bazillion hours at two different tennis tournaments with a couple dozen tennis players/ friends from our club), I tried really hard to always be prepared, patient, encouraging, anti-embarrassing and supportive, and hoped that the short people that share my last name learned something about me.

Crisis #1: One of the coaches was really hungry, but didn't have time to go buy something to eat.

Solution: I had an extra sandwich in my cooler, which I gladly handed over.

Lesson Learned: Mom is generous and always happy to feed others.

Crisis #2: Another player's mom asked if I could give her daughter a ride to the 8am matches on Monday morning. I, of course, said sure. After arriving in their driveway, on time, and seeing that no one was coming out of the house, doorbells were rang and phone calls were placed, resulting in player and player's mom being woken up and slightly embarrassed.

Solution: They were going to have to drive themselves, and my focus instantly switched to getting my own kids to the match on time as I pictured the chaos taking place in the house that I just left.

Lesson Learned: Mom never lets people oversleep and is a great, if sometimes irritated, back-up alarm clock.

Crisis #3: Over the course of the weekend, various players had: skinned knees, a headache, an unexpected period, too much sun exposure, a dying iPhone, a worn grip, and a parking meter that was about to expire.

Solution: I had band-aids, Advil, a tampon, sunscreen, a phone charger, an extra grip and spare quarters.

Lesson Learned: Mom is always hyper-prepared, embarrassingly organized and is always willing to share.

Crisis #4: During one of Charlie's doubles matches, another mom insisted on sitting right next to me. This normally wouldn't be a problem, except for the fact that she had the world's worst case of B.O. and I was sitting downwind from her. I couldn't think straight, I seriously almost gagged and my vision was temporarily blurred.

Solution: I made up some lame excuse like "I should go check and see what Zoe is up to" and left the bleachers. Charlie asked me later why I left the match and when I told him the reason he couldn't stop laughing.

Lesson Learned: Mom will lie in order to avoid disgusting situations, oxygen deprivation, or death.

Crisis #5: After arriving home on Saturday night, my kid was bummed because he had worn his favorite tennis shirt all day and needed to be back at the courts at 8:00 Sunday morning. There would be no time for laundry to be done, so he wouldn't have his favorite tennis shirt.

Solution: When kid woke up on Sunday morning, he discovered that not only had I already worked out and showered, but his clean tennis shirt had magically appeared outside his bedroom door.

Lesson Learned: Mom doesn't sleep.

Crisis #6: After a couple months of saying "don't forget your water bottle," sure enough, one of my kid's forgot his water bottle at home.

Solution: I calmly said "That's okay, we'll figure something out" and I asked another mom if she had an extra water.

Lesson Learned: Mom doesn't always spaz out over minor things after all and will, in fact, ask other people for something once in a while.

Crisis #7: After a great weekend of tennis that included A) Charlie winning a Level 5 (aka really hard tournament) consolation singles championship, B) Zach's USTA 14U team winning the sectional championship and earning a trip to the Team Tennis Nationals in Arizona, and C) Our club's 18U team also earning a trip to Nationals, a bunch of the players wanted to go out to dinner to celebrate. I was covered in sweat residue and dirt and had kind of forgotten what my house looked like, and I wanted to go home. But the boys really wanted to go out with their friends.

Solution: The place they wanted to go had beer and onion rings, so I said 'kay.

Lesson Learned: Mom is willing to make sacrifices for her kids' enjoyment, especially if there is beer involved.

Crisis #8: It was a long weekend that involved getting up early, sitting on hot courts, eating out of a cooler and getting to bed late. And even though she wasn't playing tennis, Zoe attended all of it and managed to stay pleasant -- until Tuesday morning. And Charlie loved spending time with his friends and was in a great mood -- until Tuesday morning. And Zach is, well, a teenager. So when Zoe snapped at Zach, he snapped back, forcing her into tears and sending Charlie stomping off in a "what did I do?" rant.

Solution: I said "Everyone stop talking and take a ten-minute break from each other, because you're all crabby." Zach said no, I don't think that's it. I think the only one that's crabby is you.

Lesson Learned: Zach now knows that he should never, ever, under any circumstances, accuse me of being crabby. And I'm pretty sure that from now on, he won't be forgetting his water bottle, since it's now firmly implanted in his left nostril.

It Just Doesn't Matter

I could use this post as a way to complain about the fact that the oldest kid almost missed the bus Wednesday morning because he was busy reading the paper.

Or maybe I should be complaining that the 11-year-old started his day out by informing me that he needed a three-ring report cover for a project that is due...tomorrow.

I could also be annoyed by the fact that the friend Zoe was supposed to play with this afternoon while I was busy drinking beer at the Twins game now has a certain digestive disturbance that may require medical treatment, but I'm sure that a five-year-old doesn't get diarrhea on purpose. And fortunately I was able to find another responsible person to hang out with my daughter while I sit in the sun and imbibe.

There was also that issue with the dress that I am having altered, and the fact that I went to pick it up (in rush hour traffic) after being assured that it was completed, only to find out that they forgot to put in a zipper. Not a dart or a hem, but an entire fucking zipper.

I should be pissed because when I thought I was being super prepared by making spaghetti sauce and putting it in a crock pot so that it would be hot when I got home from Charlie's violin lesson, I was actually being an idiot because when I got home I realized that the shit in the pot doesn't get hot unless you turn the god damn pot on.

Honestly, though, none of these things matter anymore because the project is completed, the child care is covered, the kid didn't miss the bus, the sauce turned out just fine, the dress will be done in two days, and despite the fact that I didn't have a chance to talk to Doug even one time during the day, the first words out of his mouth when he walked in the door from the office were: "Are you ready to go to the bar?"

Stuffed Doggy Style

After a lot of work and more than a few deep papercuts, I am proud to say that I am no longer the owner of Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots, The Wobbler, four sets of stacking blocks, a Spiderman board game, and dozens of other random toys that my kids have outgrown, or I am sick of looking at, or both. What I do still have possession of, though, is too many stuffed animals to count.

The actual number is probably an underestimate, due to the fact that they are (ready for this?), shockingly enough, organized. Zoe has a gigantic plastic box under her bed that is full of Beanie Babies, and there is a wooden bin for the bigger animals, which are sorted into categories like aquatic creatures, African Sahara, farm friends/ eventually-headed-to-the-butcher-shop, Disney characters, and domestic pets.

I know that I will have to get rid of these creatures at some point, but the truth is that since they are usually put away and she only gets a few out at a time, I kind of like them. They encourage her to be creative (like when she was trying to potty train the pig), serve as a great stand-in when she is playing doctor and I am sick of being poked and stabbed with her plastic syringe, and since none of them are the crappily constructed styrofoam-filled carnival animals, they're all kind of cute.

Occasionally, things get out of hand and it seems like I can't take three steps without tripping over a giraffe or dolphin. This is when I question whether my organizational system is failing, or if maybe the animals are reproducing.

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

Excitement Is Not Contagious

Yesterday, I spent most of the day emptying, rearranging, and then reorganizing the playroom. Even though I now have to make another trip to Goodwill, the results are worth it. When I go to bed, knowing that there is a clean, organized, functional playroom two floors beneath me is the equivalent of taking a double dose of Ambien.

When Charlie got home from school, I was kind of excited to show him the results, because not only was everything hyper-organized, but the furniture had been rearranged so that there was now a ton of room to play Wii without hitting anyone in the face.

As he walked into the playroom with his eyes closed, he had a smile on his face and was obviously excited. When he opened them, the smile disappeared and he said: "Oh. Man, I was hoping that maybe we had a new ping pong table or something. This is what you're showing me?"

Yes, it is. But that's not all! In addition to this clean playroom, you get a smack on the head!

* * * * * * * * * * * *

While reorganizing the playroom, my analness got out of hand and I'm getting rid of every single crayon in our house that doesn't have a sharp point, resulting in a shoe box full of colored wax. Since throwing them away didn't seem very "green," I tried to find a way to recycle them. I heard somewhere that if you have a small mountain of broken, worn-down, sad looking crayons, you can:

1. Peel the papers off all of the crayons.
2. Break the crayons into small chunks.
3. Put 5-10 chunks in each space of a muffin tin.
4. Put the muffin tin in a 250 degree oven until the crayons melt.
5. Let the crayons cool overnight.
6. Remove them the next day and enjoy!

If you have even more time to kill and plenty of Band-Aids, you can let the kids use a cheese grater or vegetable peeler to make crayon shavings to put into the muffin tin, which will end up melted into a giant hunk. Or, if you have serious issues, you can use sucker molds in the shape of your child's favorite character and, using a fine brush, you can "paint" facial details onto the chunk of wax that will eventually end up rubbed down to the shape of a chicken nugget.

Since spending time in the kitchen making something that isn't even edible (or drinkable) is pretty much my idea of hell, I will not be making homemade crayons. I will, however, find time to head to the post office to ship the box o' wax to this crayon recycler:

Coloring Fun With Crazy Crayons...a National Crayon Recycle Program

Just Take The Damn Thing!

I have spent the last few days attacking every closet, drawer and storage room in our house. My OCD/anal/manic personality traits are in overdrive and, judging by the fact that the kids are afraid to put down their most prized possessions, I'm pretty sure my family is scared. It's safe to say that I will never end up being featured on "Hoarders" or "Clean House," and unless they make a reality show about control freaks that need to keep things lined up at 90-degree angles, I'll be able to continue to live my life in well organized, labeled privacy, surrounded by color-coded bins.

As a result of all this cleaning and purging, and because I refuse to hold onto the unwanted crap while I wait for the perfect weekend to waste several hours of my time hosting a garage sale, I have made a couple trips to Goodwill. Since I don't want to drop off random, unorganized items, I have grouped the donations into categories: Tuesday was housewares, Wednesday was clothing and books, and yesterday was toys.

Included in the toy drop-off was a Sit & Spin and a small ride on car that can also be pushed. Yes, I was excited to get these two space hogs out of our playroom, but I also knew that some other little kid was going to be happy when these toys arrived in his house.

I pulled into the Goodwill drop-off area, and as soon I opened the back of my van I heard the Donation Dictator say: "Nope. We can't take those big junky plastic items. No large kid toys are accepted because they're just too dangerous."

"It's a non-junky Sit & Spin and a car. There aren't any knives or rabid animals included." Was this guy for real? He just accepted the horrible throw pillows and dusty floral arrangement from the lady in front of me, so why would he turn down perfectly clean, fun, never-thrown-up-on toys?

"I see that, miss. But those things are just too darn dangerous. What if a kid falls off and hits his head? We can't be exposing kids to those kinds of risks." He was serious, and was looking at me like I was the most irresponsible parent in the world for not only owning such a hazard, but for trying to pawn it off at Goodwill.

I was ticked. First of all, now what was I supposed to do with this shit? It was already out of my organized house, so there was no way in hell it was coming back in. Second, aren't kids putting themselves at risk of falling and hitting their heads when they're walking? And excuse me, Mr. Contradiction, but Charlie's old Hulk Hands are in the box that you just accepted for donation. You'll take the toy that yells out "HULK SMASH!" when it punches another kid in the face, but you won't take a ride on car?

Rather than pick a fight with someone that probably lives in a house lined with foam and makes his children wear protective headwear whenever they leave the safety of the foam house, I shut the car door and went to Target.

While I was leaving the store, I noticed a woman walking through the parking lot with a two-year-old kid. Remembering that the Sit & Spin and car were still in the back of my van, I was tempted to ask her if she wanted a couple danger-free, super fun toys for her little girl. That's when it occurred to me that my bat shit crazy motivation to get rid of the crap was clouding my judgment, so I quickly got in the car and left.

Now there's a Sit & Spin and a plastic car in my garage. Any takers?

Coming Clean

Hello. My name is Jody, and I am a little bit anal. This may come as a bit of a shock to those of you who thought you knew me, but it's true. Dirty dishes never sit in my sink, my junk drawer contains a labeled divider, and laundry baskets are rarely more than half-full. Sometimes when I look at my hand, it seems to be frozen in a position as if holding a can of Pledge, my finger ready to push the trigger at the first sight of dust. I have been known to Dust Buster crumbs off of Zoe's lap, I despise white spots on the bathroom mirror, and I bought myself a wall-mountable Shop Vac for Mother's Day so that I can keep dirt and crumbs out of my minivan. And yes, you might find a Swiffer cloth in the glove box.

Unfortunately for my family, my anal tendencies aren't just limited to cleaning and organizing closets. There are specific "zones" for everything in the pantry, I always know exactly what's in my freezer, and there is a designated spot for the ketchup in the refrigerator. Disturbing? Maybe, but I also never end up with four open bottles of ranch salad dressing or find a dish of mystery mold lurking in the back.

Staying organized amidst the addition of holiday food requires some skill. Suddenly there's large hunks of meat, obscene amounts of butter, and big bottles of booze that need to be chilled. In addition, I always like to have a spare loaf of bread in the freezer because, well, that's what anal people do. Since I don't want to own or organize a second freezer, space is at a premium.

What I really hate is when one of the kids leaves one ice cream sandwich or one waffle in a box that originally contained a dozen because then not only do I not know to buy more waffles, but the empty box is taking up space that would easily accommodate a loaf of bread, or even a bottle of vodka. Everyone that lives here has been told that if there are fewer than 10 crackers, less than a bowl of cereal, or two bites of ice cream left in the container, please suck it up, eat the last few bites and throw the packaging away!

After having this conversation no fewer than 127 times, you can imagine how happy I was when I was trying to get bread to fit into the already-full freezer, and found this container of chocolate chip ice cream taking up prime space right in the front:

That's when I decided to hell with the spare loaf of bread. This anal girl is obviously going to need to keep more vodka in the freezer if I'm going to survive the holidays. If someone wants a peanut butter sandwich on Christmas Day and finds that we're out of bread, then they'll just have to use crackers. After all, I'm sure there's a full box in the pantry, cracker section, subsection saltines.