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Here we are, making construction paper and glitter ornaments. But I'm not posting this photo just so you can admire this lovely mother-daughter moment. Nor am I posting it to show off one of my favorite scars. See it, right there on my elbow? I got it during a catering job when I accidentally stuck my elbow into a flaming pan of green beans.

(Little-known factoid about me: I love scars and, given the opportunity, I will tell you the stories about every scar on my body and then demand to know the stories behind all of your scars. That's the real reason why I decided to become a chef; chefs love to compare their wounds. They are my people. Ugly, disfigured people.)

No, the real reason I'm posting this photo is so you can see my daughter. Yes, she's wearing a pastel blue sweater. It's not evident in the photo, but it's pastel blue with a great deal of silver sparklies blended into the yarn. But surely you can see the fluffy, fanciful poofy white chenille trim on the sweater, right? I mean, it's a bit hard to miss, especially after she drug one of the cuffs through glue and multicolored glitter. And just look at her mullet hair - it's well past her shoulders in the back.

Can someone tell me why damn near every person we encountered today thought she was really a he? And it wasn't just today. We had the same problem during our trip to the Galleria on Wednesday.

I implore you, how many toddler boys wear bright purple suede shoes? Aside from Prince, when he was a baby?

Questions regarading my daughter's gender orientation aside, it was a lovely day that left me all Christmasy, so we went on a little light-viewing adventure after dinner.

A few nights ago, I think it was during Thursday's breakdown, B. and Clara Jane went out for a bit. When they returned, B. told me of the most wonderous holiday light display he'd ever seen. Granted, it's not nearly as fabulous as that of MRS' neighbor elsewhere in the St. Louis area. But it sounded like it might be a close second.

According to B., there is a house in our neighborhood, completely decked out in holiday hoo-ha. The usual stuff - icicle lights, wreaths, a few animatronic woodland creatures. But at the top of the house, in multiple strands of lights, a huge sign that reads, "Merry KISSmas.

As in, the band.

As in, let's all go sit on Gene Simmons' lap and tell him what we want for KISSmas!

Wait. On second thought, sitting on Gene Simmons' lap will almost certainly give you a hell of a lot more than you bargained for this holiday season. But if you insist, you might want to take a toilet seat protector with you, just in case.

So, we bundled Clara "Strutter" Jane in her coat and a blanket (and a toilet seat protector) to shield her against the 30-degree weather and icy sleet that was coming down. We headed to the KISSmas wonderland, only to find the worst disappointment: no one was home and they hadn't bothered to turn the lights on! I'd even taken my camera for the occasion, just for you.

"Why would someone go to all that work and not turn the goddamn lights on?" I pouted. Pouted! I was not happy about this situation. I felt like I'd learned that Ace Frehly isn't real.

"I know!" B. replied, also outraged. "They were probably too drunk to remember to turn them on before they went out to get more drunk."

"That's even worse! Without their KISSmas lights, how will they know which house is theirs when they come staggering home?" I asked.

"Easy. Theirs is the house with the most piles of dried vomit in the yard."

To make me feel better, B. drove us past this house. Granted, those aren't Christmas decorations; it looks like that year-round. The owners are probably sick of me stopping my car in front of their house and taking photos, but it still made me feel better.

From there we went in search of eggnog milkshakes. To prevent ice cream from being slung all over the truck's interior, we were going to wait until we got home to give Clara Jane a bite. Which failed miserably. The child has had nibbles of shakes twice in her entire life and yet knew - she knew - and immediately started clamouring for ice cream. "She gets it from your family," B. said. Which is true. My dad has a serious ice cream problem, exasperated by the fact that he was a truck driver for a dairy for many years.

For God's sake, do you know how he met my mom? She worked in an office across the street from the dairy's loading dock. After scoping her out for awhile, he waited until she was walking to her car on a hot August day and ran up to her with a box of Eskimo Pies. Obviously, we have ice cream issues.

In the true spirit of holiday giving, B. continued, "You know,if your dad was an old dog that needed to be put down, before taking him to the vet I'd give him a quart of ice cream covered with half a jar of peanut butter."

Merry KISSmas to all!

(On a completely unrelated note, can I just say that for the past two days I have been cracking myself up repeatedly, simply by uttering the words, "311, I am ready to fight." Seriously. Like, bladder control issue-level laughter every single time I say it. And I've been saying it a lot. I'm pretty sure that line will never stop being funny.)