Funky Boy Band Christmas

Every year I forget about my all-time favorite Christmas song, and then one day it'll pop up on my Pandora Holiday station, and I remember all over again how much I love it.

I'm talking, of course, about the Timeless Classic "Funky, Funky Christmas" by New Kids on the Block, or NKOTB for thoseofusintheknow.

This year it's also a reminder that I will probably never have to deal with the level of psychotic, all-consuming, hysterical fandom that 14-year old girls inflict on their poor families the way I did back in 1989/1990. At least, I don't think most boys cry and scream and faint and elbow others out of their way for the sake of their celebrity crushes, do they? By the time my brother, Mr. Funny, was old enough to be into stuff I was well past my NKOTB coma and either ignored him or went off to college. So I don't remember. He could very well have wallpapered his room with Alanis Morisette posters for all I know. I was too busy being disaffected and full of myself.

At one point my NKOTB addiction grew so severe my parents forced me to choose just 5 pin-ups to keep in my room and everything else had to come down. Let me put this into perspective for you:

One of my friends took great pride in giving me my 100th NKOTB poster. If there was a square inch of wall space in my room, up went a photo or pin-up. I had posters ON MY CEILING. I had a pillow, pillowcase, dolls, books, pins, t-shirts, videos - both taped myself and bought - and all the crap paraphernalia that came with my fan club membership, which I think included a tour schedule so that I could fantasize about hanging out in Wherever, USA with Jordan Knight. (Imagined convo: Jordan: "Meredith, look, it's Mt. Rushmore!" Me: "OHMYGODJORDANILOVEYOU!!!!!!!" *scream*)


Somehow, instead of setting fire to my bedroom, which, in hindsight I would not blame them for doing, they calmly told me enough was enough and I had to choose 5 posters to keep up and the rest had to go. 


So, of course I had the NKOTB Christmas album, with the Timeless Classic "Funky, Funky Christmas." And if you don't think this singular masterpiece has withstood the test of time, you are wrong, my friend. Consider these lyrics, which were clearly strung together by angels on high (is that a thing? I don't know, I'm Jewish.) who touched Jordan and Donnie with godlike inspiration:


"Oh, Little Train, my little elf, another Christmas."
"Nah, man, it's boring, it's boring! Same thing every year."
"So let's have a funky Christmas!"


and:


"Yo, MC Santa didn't know my homeboy Donnie could play percussion, did you?"
"I didn't have a clue!"
"Yeah, get busy, Donnie!"

and my personal favorite, which I swear I could listen to over and over again and never lose joy from it:


"Should I stop? Nah, cool, here's more
Of this song, a funky Christmas melody
'Cause Jordan K feels OH SO CHRISTMASEY!
Throw your hands in the air!
Pause-
Kick the ballistic Santa Claus!" (They are HARD CORE, people!)


It's like Mozart was reincarnated into a late 80s boy band.

By the way, I typed all of those lyrics from memory. Believe it.


And in case you need reminding:

YouTube video by KangK

There is so much right about this video I don't even know where to start. (Did anyone notice that Jon wasn't in it? Yeah, didn't think so. Sorry, Jon.) From the Jackson 5 choreography, to Arsenio's jumping in with a rap, to Joey's swinging his butt at a screaming audience, to Donnie's humping the air LIKE THE BAD BOY HE IS, it's just WIN all the way through. If you don't have a funky Christmas after this, you are dead inside.


Naturally, when I was 14 I taped this, and Jordan's bare chest sent me into a 14-year old Nirvana-like higher plane of existence. I may have paused it at some point to lick the TV. 

I'm almost sad that I won't have a daughter to share this kind of beserker, kamikazi devotion with. I remember my friend's mom driving us to a NKOTB concert once and talking about her love of the Beatles back in the day, and that sound you just heard was John Lennon rolling in his grave. But then I remember POSTERS ON MY CEILING and my single-minded obsession with NKOTB (My mom: "Mer, please pass the salt." Me: "I wonder if Jordan Knight puts salt on his french fries. May I be excused to go write to the fan club and ask?") and think, maybe it's for the best.

Pregnancy Cliche Bingo

This week I made an executive decision for myself to stop trying to finagle into maternity jeans and just wear yoga pants or sweat pants for the remaining three months of my pregnancy.

And no, I'm not looking for "helpful" suggestions or advice, thanks. Let's just pretend like you already told me what worked for you, and I tried it, and it did not work for me.

At some point the battle to remain even remotely stylish got lost in the shuffle. Actually, no, I know exactly where the battle was lost: last weekend at the New York Botanical Garden Holiday Train Show. What should have been a fun, festive family activity turned into a craptastic, disappointing waste of time. I'm sure the Train Show is fine for normal families, but my son, the Juban Princeling - who loves trains the way I love cheese, that is, he's never met one he didn't like and will take them in any and all forms they come in - was on Day 3 of what turned into a 4-day nuclear meltdown. Even taking two subways, including his new favorite, the "Orange Compress" (express) to get there did not help, especially when he reached out and accidentally shoved a train off the tracks and my husband and I went all psychotic modern parent on him: carefully looking around, self-consciously reprimanding him and wondering if people thought we were being too harsh or too gentle. 

Meanwhile, we shoved our way through the crowd of half-dazed parents holding piles of coats and restless, overexcited little kids, in a hot and humid conservatory. 


Maternity jeans are not designed to last forever, and mine were already so stretched out they kept falling down. At the same time, the "Secret Belly" band pulled on my belly - I'm carrying high this time around - and irritated the skin and caused what I'm sure is massive internal bruising.


So there, somewhere in the middle of the New York Botanical Gardens Annual Holiday Train Show, amongst throngs and throngs of parents and children, I lifted my shirt and yanked my jeans up while simultaneously stretching the band away from my poor, battered, six-month belly. 


I'm not generally one of those people who gets embarrassed easily - behold the photo I let my best friend Tia take of me in Miami a couple of weeks ago - and pregnancy demolishes whatever shame I have left. I'm sorry, world, but you are going to have to put up with my desire to be comfortable for three more months BY WHATEVER MEANS NECESSARY and then I promise never to gestate again, ever. 

No, you would not be the first to make a joke
about me and my love of Cuban c... roosters.
Not shown: the epic amounts of pain I'm in.

A few days later I sat in a run-down Quest Diagnostic office for an hour and a half, starving from fasting for my glucose tolerance test, with the radiator cranked up to "Hellfire," and The Today Show blasting at top volume into my ears against their will, feeling sorry for myself but wearing highly stylish maternity jeans. This time I opted for a pair with a low, supportive band that worked fine when I was standing up, but rolled down and squashed me and The Fetus whenever I sat down. Which was a lot. The Fetus and I had this conversation about it in my mind:

Fetus: Ow! What IS that?
Me: It's part of my jeans. Sorry.
Fetus: Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!
Me: I can't.
Fetus: Fuck you. *kick* 
Me: I know it's uncomfortable, but it's only for a little while longer. Please just hang in there.
Fetus: Fuck you, and fuck Kathy Lee Gifford. *punch kick jab* Also, I'm hungry. *kick kick punch elbow*
Me: *cry*


Screw fashion. Screw style. Screw the world. I am going to be comfortable for the next three months and everyone who looks at me will just have to deal with it. I dragged the Juban Princeling to Motherhood Maternity at rush hour on a Friday and bought myself some righteous black velor sweatpants, and ordered a pair of grey velor sweatpants.


I don't care if I don't have anything that goes with them.


I don't care if I look like a Real Housewife of Long Island in them.


I don't care if they are already covered in lint.


I don't care that they don't quite work with my winter boots.


What I care about is that they are comfortable and don't hurt my baby belly. Even if Barack and Michelle came over for dinner, I'd probably wear the velor sweatpants. Michelle's had two babies, she would totally understand and be all, "If anyone can rock velor sweatpants, it's you, Mer." And then we would fist bump in sisterhood and be BFFs.


So deal with it, world.


And, as I told my brother Mr. Funny, for those of you playing Pregnancy Cliche Bingo at home, here's another square to mark.

An Open Letter To: Holiday Travel

Dear Holiday Travel:

It's "that time of year" again, when trillions of people around the world, even in countries that are not dominated by Judeo-Christian dogma, will take to the roads and skies (and rails, probably) to visit "loved ones" in other cities and towns.

And we all get cranky about it.

Because, let's face it, traveling at a time of year when every other human being is also traveling is a pain in the ass. It's the kind of thing that can kill the Holiday spirit and make those of us who otherwise are all about stuff like peace on earth or whatever into giant Crankypantses.

My family's journey to Miami last week was fine, in which "fine" = "nothing bad happened." Unless you count my 3-year old son's tantrum just as we were boarding the plane, which I do not. Look, he had a toy airplane, and the little girl his age nearby at the gate also had a toy airplane, and 3-year olds generally don't understand the concept of "Now boarding all passengers in Group 2," so much. They just want to play, and if you try to take that away from them it is possible they will scream bloody murder like you are hacking off one of their limbs, throw themselves on the floor in front of other passengers, and cry like the little babies they are.

Thankfully the tantrum ended before we got on the plane. 

For the record, my son is an excellent flier. He has never once had a tantrum in the air. Not to brag, Holiday Travel, but my kid is the one other parents wish they had when they fly.

But I digress.

Our flight back to New York was...I think the correct term is "a shit show."

Here are some things I can live without during future Holiday Travels, in no particular order of importance:

• TSA employees who don't let a pregnant woman with a 3-year old into the "family line" at security because we don't have a stroller, and then proceed to allow another stroller-less family into that very same "family line"
• TSA employees who steal little girls' shoes. The family ahead of us mysteriously "lost" their daughter's purple sneakers, which the TSA agents swore up and down must have been stolen by a fellow passenger. Later, I overheard the father tell another passenger that the little girl herself found her shoes - behind the TSA counter, while the agents insisted they were "lost." For shame, Holiday Travel.
• TSA employees who think it is OK to snark to my son that he is "too old" for a pacifier or blankie. I'm sorry, did I ask for your opinion on my son's creature comforts while traveling?
• The entire TSA in general.
• Fellow passengers who see a child and automatically pass judgement on me, my parenting, and my kid. Hey, my kid is an awesome flier, probably better than many adults, so just shut your face. And to the lady behind us in the security line who snarked, "Look at all these kids. They shouldn't be allowed to fly," - be thankful that you weren't on our flight because I myself would have kicked your seat the whole time, asshole.
• Incompetent flight attendants who are so slow with the beverage and snack cart that they are still serving "refreshments" during the descent.
• Miami International Airport

Here's the thing, Holiday Travel. The Holidays happen at the same time every year, and yet airline and airport employees act like they are completely taken by surprise. "What? Thanksgiving? When did this happen and why did no one warn me? IS THERE NO GOD???"


If that retail store I hate but can't stop shopping at - the big red discount one that rhymes with "Margaret" - can pull Halloween decorations off the shelves to make room for Christmas lights on October 20 (no joke), then surely your people can get their act together? It's not like air travel is new. It's not like Thanksgiving or Christmas are new. I made a calendar full of photos of my son, the Juban Princeling, for my husband to take to work. If I get you a copy, Holiday Travel, will you please use it to mark sometime before Thanksgiving when you need to start anticipating a giant tsunami of travelers, many of whom have small children (who necessarily need their pacis, and shoes)? Because there really is no reason for the extra-surly employees (who snark and steal) and the crazy long lines to check bags and go through security.


If it seems like I am being particularly harsh on you Holiday Travel, it's because I hate you. Get it together and maybe one day years from now I'll venture outside the five boroughs for some major holiday travel again.


Sincerely,
Meredith L.