Breaking The Ice Makes It All Worth It

This is what it is like to have young children at home: Go tie your shoelaces together, take a mouthful of chili peppers and hot wasabi, and then go try to get something done.

I’m surprised that my wife and I get anything done at all because every activity that you embark on — writing or housework or an important phone call with a client — is done in a “war zone” atmosphere. You know the scenes in the movies where a doctor is trying to treat a patient on the battlefield and there are bombs falling all around him and he’s desperately trying to operate while trying not to think of what is going on? Well, that’s what it’s like to be in a house with small children. In every task,there is an element of a bomb going off somewhere in the house that you have to try to tune out if you are to get anything done.

My wife is a great multi-tasker. She can cook dinner, feed a child, talk on the phone, and correct papers, all at the same time. She has a brain that can subdivide any task. I sometimes stand in awe of her, my jaw agape and an odd, vacant expression on my face. (To be honest, this is my usual state of being.)

Multi-tasking does take its toll, however. Lots of things may get done but often they are done hurriedly. But if you have munchkins at home, there is no other option, because there is so much that needs to be done and only a few waking hours to get them done.

This is why all the parents you know look so tired.

Multi-tasking with little folks takes on an important role because, in everyday activities, there is always an element of danger. I can’t believe that any kid ever lives to see his teenage years because there are multiple opportunities every day for it all to be over.

It’s not enough to carry the groceries to the car at the supermarket; You have to maintain a safe zone around your munchkins because there are so many chances for mortal peril.

A sample conversation with Princess Supergirl when she was three years old went like this:

“Hold my hand while we’re in the parking lot, sweetheart.”

“So I won’t be squished by a car?”

“Yes, so you won’t be squished by a car.”

“Because then you would be sad?”

“Yes, because then I would be very sad.”

But safety is only one concern. If it’s your only one, you’re going to raise a paranoid child. There are lessons to teach, needs (physical and spiritual) to attend to, questions — both silly (“If there are rainbows when it rains, are there ‘snowbows’ after it snows?”) and serious (“What’s a divorce? Bobby says his parents are getting one”) — and many nights of sickness and fear where you end up singing a child to sleep at two in the morning after a nightmare or a late-night tossing of the cookies.

And, at first, it’s just work, with seemingly no payoff because the child is a bottomless well of need. But slowly, ever so surely (I think this is by design), there are little moments along the way that hint that it all might be worth it.

I remember the first unprompted hug that Princess Supergirl ever gave me. I had just changed the 500th diaper that day and, when I stood her up to get her pants back on, she gave me a spontaneous hug that I remember clearly years later. That hug said what she couldn’t verbalize at that time. “Thanks for taking care of me Dad. That poop was gross and you and I are both glad it’s gone. Thanks for all you do. I know I can’t say it right now, but I’m lucky and graced to have people in my life who care for me so well.”

That hug got me through a couple more months.

And then there are days like I experienced last week.

After a Saturday morning in the house, the chaos was hitting the exact pitch where I knew it was time to go outside and get some exercise. We have a fantastic 40 or so acres of nature preserve behind our house and, on this day, it was just the right temperature for an hour outside. My wife, Special Sauce Caldwell, took our three-year-old, Princess Genius, down one path and I took Princess Supergirl (age six today — happy birthday, kiddo) down another that leads to a beautiful little brook that is pretty enough to be featured in a calendar.

Sometimes I get so busy with life that I forget that this beautiful place is just a short walk from my home. And, as Princess Supergirl and I head for the brook, we see that it has just started to ice over and it has become even more breathtaking. And as we stand there and stare at this breathtaking spot, I’m glad I have someone to share it with.

But it gets better.

Princess Supergirl took a big stick from the riverbank and my gentle little girl let out a shriek and started to bash away at the ice like a cave woman. In the first second, I was horrified: Our tranquil moment has come to an abrupt halt. But then I decided to grab a stick and join in and, for 45 minutes, we bashed away with childish glee. I laughed like I hadn’t in many months and felt like I was five-years-old again.

And, as we clambered back down the trail to meet up with the others, I silently thanked the Lord for the opportunity to have children.

To have an “ice-breaking” buddy is going into my book as one of the best parts of being a parent.

Snow, Cold Temperatures and Collective Amnesia

We who live in the northern climes of our planet practice a sort of collective, selective amnesia when it comes to snow and cold temperatures. Every year, probably since the dawn of man, we have looked out at the barren ground all around us and said, “I wish there was some pretty snow to cover all this barren ground. And some sub-zero temperatures to freeze the lake would be nice too.”

Then, roughly 48 hours after snow and freezing temperatures arrive, we silently curse the weather and plan our eventual move to Del Vista Boca, Fla.

It is this way every year, and I’m the only one I know who doesn’t fall for the Currier and Ives propaganda that is perpetuated every winter season on tins of caramel popcorn and decorative plates for the mantle. I don’t buy those happy scenes of Colonial Americans smiling brightly as they ride in their sleighs through festively decorated town squares, the patriotism swelling in their hearts and thoughts of hearth and home warming their insides.

Most likely the Colonials in those winter scenes are saying to themselves, “Boy, all this snow doth suck. I surely hope I don’t catch smallpox this winter tide. Perhaps if some goodly inventor could come up with some sort of centralized radiant heating system I could take a bath before the good month of May!”

We may romanticize those Colonial winter scenes, but I guarantee you that those folks would give their left kidney to trade places with you and your electric blanket.

When folks I know say wistfully, “Boy, I wish it would snow,” I usually mention casually that I don’t miss it and I get that look that says, “You monster, how could you?”

I’m sorry, but as much as I love a beautiful winter woods scene out my window, I don’t love scraping off my car windows or slipping on my walkway and ending up on my back with a lovely cup of coffee all over me.

Snow is great right up until New Year’s Day. During the holiday season, snow is “festive”. After the holidays, snow is just a pain in the neck. Or, more specifically, a pain in my back as I shovel out my car and try to get open frozen doors on my state-of-the-art-minivan. (How the designers of this fine vehicle missed the fact that their product’s doors freeze up in cold weather like a Junior Higher at his first dance is beyond me.)

But perhaps I’m being too hard on cold temperatures. There seem to be folks out there who are both mentally balanced and snow enthusiasts. People — good people — like to ski and snowboard and ice fish and snowmobile. All of these folks can’t be crazy.

And there was a time when I enjoyed the snow and sledding down my neighbor Mr. Robert’s hill. (Thank you Mr. Roberts, you had the best hill in the entire neighborhood, and you didn’t mind a thousand kids in your yard each Saturday afternoon.)

So I guess it would be a healthy exercise to list all of the pluses and minuses of snow, and take stock of my feelings about winter in this way.

On the plus side, snow does make everything prettier. A barren, empty lot spruces up nicely with a coat of white primer, and those abandoned automobiles become delightful art deco shapes that fire up the imagination. Snow has a way of rendering even the ugliest landscape in a mystical light.

On the minus side, I seem to go off the road much more in the snow than I do in the blazing sunshine of August. I have been caught in too many snow squalls in the last few years. Two years ago, I was caught in one of those crazy ones that come off Lake Winnipesaukee and I slid off the road into a pile of frozen snow and promptly punctured my radiator. That little episode set me back a cool $800.

On the plus side, I do more thinking in the winter. There is just more time to contemplate this rich pallet we call life; more time to drink in the sweet nectar of time and age and ruminate on the funny and fickle nature of the universe.

On the minus side, I do more thinking in the winter. There is a reason that there is a higher rate of alcoholism in northern climates.

On the plus side, I get to go sledding with my daughters, Princess Supergirl and Princess Genius. They are at a great age right now and they look pretty fantastic in their snow gear. And the look on their faces when they wake up and see snow coming down outside, or a white winter wonderland outside their windows, is worth the price of slipping on the sidewalk and having to jumpstart a car that you forgot to start when it was minus 10 degrees outside. Having kids and playing in the snow is one of the best parts of being a parent. I mean, what other time in my life as an adult can I make a snow fort and not be looked at funny?

So, upon further reflection, there are some pretty great things about snow. Thanks for working through all this with me.

But have you heard about how many people have heart attacks every year while shoveling snow? Where are the public service announcements about this?

Snow after all, can be a mixed bag.

Good-bye GOP Candidates, We'll Miss All The Attention

Every four years the pageant of a presidential primary in our fair state and the subsequent wooing of New Hampshire voters is a bit like the high school basketball player who is dating the coach’s daughter. She will never really know if the attention is genuine or merely a ploy for more playing time.

I grew up in a “certain state north of here” and I never once saw a presidential candidate in all my years growing up. They were these mysterious and distant characters on the evening news. (Remember those days?) The area I grew up in was as scenic as New England has to offer, the fantastic Atlantic Ocean on one side and mountains on the other. And in between were enough diners and leafy downtowns to serve as the background for a thousand candidate commercials and direct mailing campaigns. But not a candidate did I see.

Then, when I was a teenager, I had the good fortune to attend one of this state’s fine boarding schools in the tiny western New Hampshire town of Dublin (which then and now has a population that would comfortably fit in a school bus) and every four years the town’s population would triple with media and campaign staff and candidates tripping over themselves to shake old Herman’s hand down at the hardware store. I’m not sure why there was a need to set up a campaign office downtown, but there it was, taking up an old storefront (for the time being).

After college, I decided to relocate back here (well, a certain gainfully employed and beautiful young lady had something to do with it) and I’m still in shock when I come across a candidate on the streets of my hometown of Tilton. This week they were as thick as seagulls on an open bag of potato chips.

I went to get some coffee the other morning at the Tilt’n (love that spelling) Diner and there was candidate A milling with the local morning crew and about a thousand cameramen and reporters. You can tell the reporters because they are the ones standing up in the booth between two patrons who are attempting to eat, holding an outstretched tape recorder. (They are also the ones who look like they got up at three a.m. to do their hair.)

Later that week, I walked a block from my house to the picturesque Northfield Freight House to see Candidate B give his stump speech and answer a few well-chosen questions from strategically planted GOP operatives in the audience.

I was not expecting the crush of reporters and well-quaffed (and scarfed) and frankly, blindingly good-looking people (how do you get your teeth that white? Is it healthy?) posing as New Hampshire voters that awaited me inside.

The Northfield Freight House, with its old-timey wooden paneling and pot-bellied stove heating the interior (as if all the hot air inside the building was not enough) is a fantastic backdrop for a meeting such as this, and was certainly a dream come true to the p.r. folks who work for Candidate B. He should have worn a red-checked flannel hunting shirt and coonskin hat. I couldn’t help but notice the anchors for several well-known news shows in the back row. It turns out they take their desk with them wherever they go.

When Candidate B did arrive he actually gave a pretty mild-mannered stump speech that lasted only a few minutes and immediately started asking questions. But after he called on his first voter, who spoke with an unmistakable New Jersey accent, Candidate B said to the audience, “How many of you fine folks are actually New Hampshire voters?”

About one third of the room raised their hands and the press corps in attendance and en mass in the back shared a laugh with Candidate B.

“For the purposes of time constraints, let me take only questions from New Hampshire voters,” Candidate B wisely said, and I saw a few faces fall. Apparently, many folks were visiting from out of state just to get a good look at candidates A through E (and a few N through Z candidates as well).

What followed was actually a spirited and honest back-and-forth between Candidate B and the audience that left me marveling at what an amazing country I live in. Where else can citizens grill their prospective leaders in the manner in which Candidate B took some tough questions?

For the record, he did well on the domestic questions, explaining his answers in a “college professor style” complete with visual aids made up of his wallet and a pocket-sized U.S. Constitution he carries on his person, but flubbed, flip-flopped and hedged a bit on international policy questions. I hope the president of Iran has better things to do than watch YouTube clips of this town meeting, although candidate B pronounced his name very well.

And the other night, as my wife, Special Sauce, was leaving work for the evening, she happened upon a meeting with Candidate A and watched closely as his entourage plowed their way into the event and spoke harshly to a group of students who were apparently talking too loudly. I guess it’s okay to pander to a prospective voter and their off-the-wall views about where our current president was born, but watch out if you don’t have anything to offer said candidate because you are not of voting age. How you treat everyone counts in my book.

And then, tonight, after a victor is declared and the delegates awarded, Candidates A through Z will depart the state (many a few hours after the polls close) and make their way (with the international press corps) to another state to flirt with their small towns and diner patrons.

They’ll be back in four years, right?

Pajama Jeans And Other Great Re-gifting Ideas

Really, all you need to know about the direction that Western Civilization is heading is summed up neatly in two words: “pajama jeans.”

This “as-seen-on-TV.” item that can be found on late-night television and on the shelves of fine department stores everywhere needs no explanation or one minute commercial because the name of the item says it all; “pajama jeans.” Asking what pajama jeans are is like asking yourself “I wonder what that movie Snakes On A Plane is about.”

But somewhere there was a copy editor intern with some marketing company who was tasked with the unenviable job of coming up with the script for a one minute commercial about Pajama Jeans that would run ad nausum on the FX channel during the holiday season. I can see that young man or woman now, sitting at their desk with a pair of pajama jeans in front of them saying “how am I going to get a minute commercial out of these things.”

He or she (we’ll call him or her “Terry”) would probably start with the obvious. Perhaps a statement like “Pajama Jeans, the jeans you can wear to bed and the pajamas you can wear to work!”

Once this salient detail has been covered there would still be about fifty seconds of commercial space left to fill and no more information about the product to offer. Terry, by now in a cold sweat over the prospect of losing his or her job, would most likely try to milk twenty or so seconds out of the convenience angle. That line (said by that great voice over actor who does all sorts of great items like the “Snuggie” and my personal favorite late-night commercial item, “Mr. Steamy”) would go something like “have you ever thought to yourself ‘man, I wish I could just go to bed right here and now, this very second, but I have these darn jeans on and I’m going to have to take them off before I crawl under the covers’? Well fear no more my friend; your agonizing evenings are over! With Pajama Jeans you will never have to take off your pants again!”

Yes, with Pajama Jeans you will never have to take off your pants again.

Then young intern Terry will have to figure out thirty more seconds of commercial, and perhaps he or she turns to the coveted “celebrity endorsement” to fill space. Perhaps Terry has as rolodex filled with potential celebrity endorsers and chooses David Hasselhoff of Knight Rider and Baywatch fame to craft a request e-mail to. Terry works feverishly through the late night hours to craft words that will convince Hasselhoff to endorse Pajama Jeans.

And perhaps towards the two o’clock hour young Terry finishes the e-mail and fires it off to David Hasselhoff’s agent and then goes out to get a late night burrito to celebrate his or her accomplishment. Surely Hasselhoff could not say no to lending his name to such a fine product as Pajama Jeans. They practically sell themselves! They’re pajamas and jeans at the same time!

But then, as Terry munches into that first bite of mouth watering, late night burrito a horrifying thought enters his or her head; Pajama Jeans are a female item that only come in women’s sizes! That whole e-mail to Hasselhoff’s agent was wasted time because what Terry really needs is an endorsement from a female celebrity!

But who to call at this late hour? What young lady of fame and fortune will rise to the call and speak up for this finest of all garments, this futuristic marvel of comfort and ease?

Rest easy young intern Terry; I have just the celebrity female endorsement you are seeking close at hand. My wonderful and beautiful wife, Special Sauce Caldwell, would like to voice her approval, nay, her delight, in her newly acquired for Christmas comfort item, the Pajama Jeans.

I knew the instant I laid eyes on this item on the shelf near the cash register at my local box store that this was the item that would make Special Sauce’s Christmas complete. So I chose the appropriate size and purchased the item forthwith.

She was in fact delighted with this present, as evidenced by the fact that she immediately changed into the pants and has worn them all day. She is now resting comfortably in our bed, curled up with a good book (also a gift from your’s truly) and secure in the knowledge that, should the occasion require it, she could jump out of bed tomorrow morning and immediately be ready to seize the day, clad in her handy dandy Pajama Jeans.

So young intern Terry, Special Sauce Caldwell, wife of world famous and beloved columnist Tincan Caldwell, is awaiting your phone call. She will gladly endorse your fine product and fill in the remaining thirty seconds or so of your television commercial.

And should you ever develop a Pajama Suit that I could wear to a banquet and to bed that night I will gladly lend my worthy name to such a product.

After all, it practically sells itself.

Princess Supergirl And The Virgin Mary

Well, it’s official. I’m the proud father of an aspiring actress. My own beloved five year old (almost six, as she will tell anyone within earshot), Princess Supergirl, has secured the role of Mary in this year’s Sunday school “modern day retelling of the Christmas story” Christmas play, No Room At The Holy Day Inn.

And I couldn’t be prouder.

Quite frankly, she is a natural. And she is at her comic best when she has to produce “going into labor” like sounds when the hotel trainee manager tells Mary and Joseph that there is no room in at The Holy Day Inn, but there is a janitor’s closet that the holy couple can use for delivery. Her convincing moans had the rehearsal audiences in stitches and have been great dinner party tricks. (“Sweetheart, make those “going into labor” sounds for the nice party guests here. Oh, did that punch just come out your nose sir? So sorry about that.”)

Seeing her up there on that stage, holding her own with actors twice her age and belting out memorized lines with the gusto of a young Meryl Streep (and the looks of a young Charlize Theron) brings out the proud dad in me that I didn’t even know existed.

When the play parts were announced a month or so ago she voiced to me in no uncertain terms that nothing less than the role of Mary would do. As this was her first play, I offered that perhaps a part of an angel in the choir or a sheep or a cow in the stable would be a good first time role. This would ease her transition into the world of the theatre and save her mother Special Sauce and I sleepless nights worrying about memorized lines and all those early morning rehearsals. But an angel or a sheep would just not do. She wanted to dive into the deep end of the pool.

This came as no surprise to us, because Princess Supergirl is a marvel of a little girl, who has more bravery per square inch than Tom Cruise in that new Mission Impossible movie. She learned to swim by herself, (she really wanted to go down a water slide at the lake) and she has never met a stranger she wouldn’t talk to if we allowed her. She really was born to entertain the troops on an overseas tour someday.

So it came as a great surprise the other morning when she confessed to us in the car before play rehearsal that she was feeling afraid of forgetting her lines. She looked over at me with tears in her eyes as we sat there in the parking lot outside of our church and said “Mom, Dad, I don’t want to be Mary any more. What if I forget my lines and everybody laughs at me?”

Wait a minute? Princess Supergirl, the little lady who bungee jumped out of a high tree last summer and hit Kindergarten directing traffic in the parking lot and telling the other kids where they needed to go on the first day of class, is afraid of something?

Couldn’t be. But here we were. And I knew it was delicate territory.

Sometimes I forget that she is only five years old. She seems ready to join the Marine Corps on some days, and on other days she wants to snuggle on the couch and has the same fears and concerns as any kid her age. Five years old is five years old.

And as we sit there in the car, her crying and her mother and I thinking about how to handle the situation, (we are, in fine Caldwell tradition, already running few minutes late) I think about the real Mary, the one who was given a most awesome task, and I wonder what sort of fears she had in the days and months after the angel’s announcement.

Did she have a mom and dad to tell all of her fears and concerns to? After all, according to most biblical scholars she was probably only ten or so years older than my daughter is now. She was still someone’s daughter, some father’s Princess Supergirl. What did that guy go through? Did he believe Mary? Did he like Joseph? Did he remember his newly pregnant daughter as a little girl that he used to give airplane and piggyback rides to? (Or the ancient Middle Eastern equivalent of the airplane ride.) Did her parents worry when she (heavily pregnant) and Joseph set off on their trip to Bethlehem to be counted in the census? Did they stand and wave as the couple and their donkey crested the ridge outside of Nazareth and faded from view?

When a few minutes have passed and her mom and I have given a few hugs and gently insisted that she took the role and it’s too late to back out now, Princess Supergirl recovers a bit and heads in to play rehearsal. She then proceeds to tear it up over the next two hours of practice.

No Room In The Holy Day Inn is going to be a fine production, and while it might not be ready for Broadway just yet, there is a little girl in the Mary role who might just get there someday.

And when and if she does, I hope to be there (backstage if she’ll let me), to give hugs and remember the days when I gave her piggyback and airplane rides.

No Pink Christmas Trees Here Please

Tis’ the season for Christmas trees - big, beautiful, real Christmas trees. Woe be to those who traffic in fake plastic trees. May their imitation trees and pine tree scented spray and candles melt away into the night in the fake fire of a DVD fireplace on their television.

And double woe be to those who perpetuate the pink or white fake plastic Christmas tree. May they move to Del Vista Boca, Florida (the home and place of origin of the fake plastic Christmas tree) never to return to these shores again.

My beautiful wife, Special Sauce Caldwell, and I had exactly two disagreements in the first year of our marriage (in the year of our Lord, 2001). They were whether or not you should leave the shower curtain pulled open after a shower, (she was right, those black mildew lines appear pretty quickly when the curtain is left in a folded state after a shower) and whether we should get a real tree or use the fake plastic one that had been handed down to us from her family and came in a gym bag the size of a dog sled (harnessed dog team and all).

I’m not sure who won the argument that first year, but we reached an armistice agreement whereby we would alternate yearly between fake plastic tree and real, glorious, divine, fragrant, real Christmas tree.

Her argument runs thusly: A real tree is pretty much a cleaning nightmare. There are needles everywhere for months afterwards, you have to somehow properly dispose of the tree afterwards (and not like my dad who simply threw our old tree in the back woods of our house on a pile of thirty years worth of Christmas trees) and you have to remember to water the tree. When she comments on the mess of a real tree I often think of responding with “we should see if we can get some fake kids as well, you should see the puddle of cereal milk in the playroom!”

And in the last few years she has added an environmental component to her argument, which goes “why should we support the cutting down of precious trees when they help to gobble up all that carbon dioxide in the atmosphere.” This is a powerful argument indeed. Trees are being cut down all over the world as we speak; to clear land for cattle grazing so that we can have our double cheeseburgers, to further suburban sprawl etc. Why should we add millions and millions of pine and fur trees to this total just for one month’s enjoyment each year?

I would be swayed by this appeal to Mother Nature if the alternative were not a plastic Christmas trees. I’m fairly sure that the production of millions and millions of tons of plastic from limited fossil fuels that support unstable and tyrannical governments in a particular part of the world does not count as a progressive argument against real Christmas trees. If there were a corn starch, alternative plastic tree out there then maybe, just maybe I would be moved by this appeal to the environment. But the last time I checked my local box store; all the fake trees were run-of-the-mill polypropylene types.

My argument for a real tree goes like this: A real tree is better! (I’m not known far and wide for my stunning logic.)

But, there is no getting by how great it is to go to a Christmas tree farm or a local tree lot and pick out that year’s tree. (Or in my family’s case, that bi-annual year’s tree.) We usually head straight to the twenty dollar rack and see what sort of sad sack tree we can take home and transform into a glorious family Christmas tree. I like to find the one that is sitting in the corner of the lot on its side and pull it to a standing position and imagine it in my cozy living room. It’s sort of my contribution to the world, the adopting of the homely pine tree. It’s a variation on the Orphan Annie theme.

And that’s another knock against the fake tree, it’s the same one every year! There is no variation, no surprise, no resurrection, and no personality. It’s all too antiseptic and perfect, like a freakish clone sitting where a tree with character should be.

This year we were scheduled to get a real tree, and as she always does, my wife made one last bi-yearly appeal to think about getting the fake tree out of the barn. I said “sweetheart, we have to honor the armistice that we signed all those years ago. If we start fudging on this one point then everything else goes “kabloowy”.

But man oh man did this year’s tree leave a mess in the old minivan. We will be finding needles till August. Also, when I went to screw in the tree into the tree stand I was treated to the wonderful site of a nest of spiders that came with the tree. It was the Temple of Doom under there. For the record, I don’t dig spiders. All this, plus it took forever to get the pitch off of my hands afterwards.

So maybe a plastic tree is not such a bad idea…

Ahh! What’s happening to me!

A Republican Primary Christmas Special

(The scene opens with a crackling fire place and a man in an easy chair talking to the camera. He is wearing an old fashioned housecoat and appears to be drinking a comically large mug of cocao.)

“Hello citizens of New Hampshire (and any Iowa folks who happen to be tuned in), former Massachusetts Governor and current presidential candidate Mitt Romney here. I know many of you were expecting to see Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer in this TV time slot, but I convinced (to the tune of $30 Million) this fine network you are watching to sell me this coveted piece of prime time real estate to bring you an hour of my thoughts on Christmas. You may be disappointed not to see your favorite characters, like Rudolph, Santa, Cornelius and that Bumble that bounces (by the way, does that Island of misfit toys seem like the rest of the field of Republican candidates this year? Know what I mean? Har har), but I think you will find my holiday trip down memory lane both heart warming and stimulating.”

(Taking a big sip of his cocao) “Ahh, I remember the many Christmases of my childhood. I grew up in a hard working middle class family like so many of you. Mine just happened to live in the Michigan gubernatorial mansion. I remember the many holiday seasons where we were not sure if we were going to be able to afford that year’s Jamaican Christmas vacation. There was no doubt about it, family and faith (Mormonism, for the record, but don’t let that fool you, we celebrate Christmas just like everyone else, by spending entirely too much money) got us through some very lean times there in Lansing. One year funds were so tight that we had to send my youngest brother to a state school instead of Brown University. He still hasn’t ever fully recovered! Yes, Christmas means a great deal to me when I think back all those years ago. And it still means a lot to me today, so much so that I want to treat the great state of New Hampshire to a whole new set of roads! That’s right; I’m going to fund the repair and future upkeep of every mile of road in the great Granite State just because the Christmas spirit has overcome me! All that I ask is that you maybe, consider, just maybe, throwing a vote or two my way this coming January. Oh, and speaking of roads, if you should happen to see, say, Rick Perry or Newt Gingrich out there on the highways and byways of your state, perhaps you could, you know, drive a little slower in front of their motorcade and cause them to miss an event or two. And just between you and me, a few stolen opposition yard signs never hurt anyone.”

(At this moment the signal goes to static and then the smiling face of Newt Gingrich appears sitting “news anchor man” style behind a desk.)

“Hi there folks, the old “Newtster” here. I used some old congressional contacts I had to take over the airwaves of this network for just a few minutes to tell you some of my thoughts on this blessed yuletide season.” Yes, family is important to me too. Very important. I don’t know what I would do without my family. (He stomps on the floor and pounds his fist on the desk each time he says the word ‘family’) Yes, family is what it’s all about. Yes, Christmas means one word to me; family. It means so much I’ll say it three more times! Family family family!” (Continues to stomp and pound his fist, becoming a little more unhinged each time)

(Just then the signal again changes abruptly, revealing the figure of Texas Governor Rick Perry dressed in an orange camouflaged hunting outfit with a rifle slung over his shoulder. There is the head of an impressive ten point buck mounted on the wall behind him)

“Howdy folks, Governor Rick Perry at your service here. All this talk of Christmas reminds me of all the times we went huntin’ for a Christmas tree back in my Texas A&M fraternity days. We would go riding around all day, every day, during exam week looking for the perfect tree to chop down to bring back to the frat house and decorate with beer cans. This one time we spied the perfect one on the lawn of the University President (did I just say “president?”) and we got Bobby-Jim and Johnny-Joe to knock on the president’s front door and distract him with fraternity sensitive questions while Billy-Bob and I snuck around back and made a try for that tree. We didn’t have time to chop that sucker down, so I got out a stick of dynamite and “bammo” we had that thing down in no time. Oh, man, good times.

(The signal changes again showing the confused face of Gov. Romney)

“What’s happening here? How much time do we have left? Five seconds! Vote Romney!”

(As the credits roll the screen splits in two, the credits rolling on one side and a group of figures crowed in the other)

(Michele Bachman speaking) “Hello Granite Staters!” Michele Bachman, Rick Santorum, Ron Paul and John Huntsman here. We pooled together our campaign funds and were able to purchase this twenty second block of time during the credits. Won’t you consider one of us this primary season? We promise to all keep saying “merry Christmas” and not that demonic phrase “happy holidays”. In fact, what would Christmas be without a brief conversation with your cashier?"

(Scene fades out to a car commercial)