Feliz Retrograde Christmaka 2011: The Annual Wassergreen Family Holiday Newsletter

Yes, Gabe and I had another baby. Isn't it amazing?! Feliz Retrograde Christmaka. That's what we named him. It's an expression of our passion for social justice and our Christ-centered Jewish-Latin-astrological heritage.

Psych! Gawd. Morons. How could we have a goddamn baby? Gabe had a vasectomy and I'm almost 43 and have only one fallopian tube left. And even if we did, everyone knows we would name him Jezebel Lionheart Kombucha Aquaverde. Obviously.

So...I'll just say it: Christ-worshippers, you win. I don't know who your marketing guy is, but he's fucking awesome. We Jews can argue the eight-nights thing till we're blue in the face -- blue and white, as the case may be -- and no kid with an average allotment of intelligence and avarice will buy it. Gutter swill, mine said as they ravaged all 31 days of their advent calendar in one chocolate-smeared afternoon, those churchy types have it goin' on. See how their shit is everywhere? Christmas gets a full 12 aisles at Target, for example, while Hanukkah is squeezed into a corner near the lawnmowers. Kwanzaa has apparently fucked off back to the remaining dashiki-diapered Black Panthers' bedpan-sides from whence it came. Ain't no Kwanzaa happening at Target anymore, folks. Nope.

Luckily, I'm one of those Chosen People who loves Christmas. Love. It. Love the fir trees, mulled wine, drunk Santas, lecherous Santas, pedophiliac Santas, glistening hams, in-your-fat-face sales, elves, aggressive craft-making, SPCA puppies, tree lightings, creepy German carols, creepy reindeer sweaters, creepy nativity lawn displays and KOIT's creepy 31-day Christmas songfest. I love it all. In fact, I love everything but Christ himself (who, in the velvet paintings, at least, resembles every nebbishy cross-dressing cinematic murderer ever to steal one's hide and turn it into a housedress).

It is that love that propels me through this year's Wassergreen Family Holiday Newsletter. Knowing that our kids are cuter, smarter, better behaved, better eaters and more mature illustrators than yours comes from a deeply loving Christianish place for me. Truly, it does. So it is in that (Christ-infused) spirit that I pen my yearly missive, wondering if your family has also spent more than those idiots at Visa say is allowed.

Got blood?

L. is eight. She still has to be surgically separated from her dirty underwear on occasion, but the Christ-dampened child psychologist-slash-wipe-whisperer we consult cites several studies that show poor personal hygiene is linked to genius. That genius is readily apparent in many facets of her self-expression. Her gardening, for instance, has really taken off, and if the 325 planter's pots littering our deck are any indication, she has a fine future as a marijuana grower ahead of her (should she ever stop messing around with profit buzzkills like rosemary and heirloom carrots). Best of all, she no longer scratches Kim's face when Kim suggests she utilize her fluent Spanish to commune with our brown-skinned brothers and sisters. If anyone out there has stock in the Inspector Gadget franchise, you are in luck: our offspring watched a combined 12,256 hours of it in 2011! Ever since that article came out validating links between IG viewing and reduced likelihood of developing tedious, restaurant unfriendly food intolerances, we have allowed them full rein. Finally, L's taiko practice has also deepened perceptibly, as she has finally topped the lid of the drum and no longer finds it necessary to beat the instructor's knees in frustration.

If you won't let me touch yours, I'll make my own, TYVM

Z-man is four and three-quarters as this hallowed season blankets us in tinselly goodness. He whetted his appetite for masculine self-expression this year by exploring BMX, skateboarding, karate, hitting his sister hard and often, and masturbation. We think he's adorbs! His teachers constantly tell us how amenable, smart, talented and well-behaved he is, which means he is either amenable, smart, talented and well-behaved or the kind of sociopath who can pretty much write his ticket. Although Z's reading attempts flatlined a bit -- we attribute that to his mastery of other developmental milestones, like stealing chocolate, injuring himself doing stupid shit and sobbing brokenly for two hours when certain privileges are taken away -- his quirky genius manifests in all sorts of ways (few of them Christ-distilled, but we're working on that). His detailed automobile drawings, for example, are notable, as is his commitment to wearing sweats at all times. In fact, his zealous pursuit of that elusive, seamless, skin-friendly life experience we Wassergreens call Soft Pants has led him on all sorts of adventures! Kim shook her head in awe when she found him hanging from the stacked clothes dryer door, and admired his pioneering spirit yet again when she found him cutting all his jeans in half with a butcher knife. What a man!

Gabe: skinny and lovin' it

Those of you who track such things will be relieved to know that Gabe has finally recovered from the vasectomy (and, more importantly, stopped whining about that whole latex-suture-allergy-elephantiasis-of-the-testicles thing). Sadly, the decampment of Gabe's circus partner for Texas -- who goes to massage school in Texas? I mean, really? -- has left him scouting for fresh circus ass. The deep wellspring of Christ-erific trust between them allows Kim to give her sperminator free rein as he trolls the ranks for acrobatically inclined people to grab, and to grab him in return. In the meantime, Gabe has successfully channeled his midlife angst into surfing, talking about surfing, bragging about surfing, buying surboard car racks, shopping for surfboards and making friends with other people who surf and talk about surfing, some of whom look almost as good as Gabe in their sinfully tight wetsuits. Gabe claims to really like his (newish) job, which Kim interprets as evidence that many of his female coworkers are hot. Kim is confident that Gabe is far too focused on surfing and talking about surfing to actually do anything about his extramarital fantasies, though his devotion to the Wednesday morning in-office yoga class does give her pause.

If you squint, doesn't Kim look like Claire Forlani?

Kim has managed to achieve the impossible: another year of toil without a book deal! Thankfully, her commitment to Christ, running, growing out her hair, poodling, trips to Scottsdale with her girlfriends, cheese and the 2011 Beaujolais have pulled her through these tough times. After a fifth round of revisions on her book--whose title and subject she is trying to recover with the help of a Christ-dipped repressed-memory syndrome specialist--Kim initiated a new project with the full support of her literary agent's lackey, who is surprisingly smart, nice and enthusiastic for someone who has earned no bank from Kim's efforts and is not Christ-centered. Hopefully, the stars will align and that new project will pay off big-time, so that Kim can pay for the intense pulsed light treatments she so desperately needs. Kim spent much of 2011 working on cussword reduction (with a thumbs up from -- you guessed it! -- HisLordJesusKeeRist). On at least two occasions, she successfully morphed the word "jackass" into "jackal," to the relief of Her Lord and Personal Slaver. (Fuck! Meant "Savior." Pls. excuse.)

Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out

One piece of news not exactly sanctioned by Christ but clearly the work of somebody's God is the recent exodus of our cat Flower. Yes, our yearlong campaign to encourage Flower's relocation finally paid off. After locking the incorrigible pisher outside for the 235th day, he finally got the hint and found another family to torture. He returns for occasional visits, often with a collar, primed to urinate on anything important he can reach with his tiny penis. His brother Louis does not miss him, and the copious vomiting incited by Flower's abuse has all but disappeared.


Well. It really was a great year, wasn't it? I love Christmas. I love Hanukkah. I love cheese. And Christ...Christ, do I love cheese. Happy holidays,


Love, 
The Wassergreens