Funny, funny stuff.....or it would be, if it weren't so true!
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The Boy and a choice
I have to start this post with a shout out to MrG, the man I stood with before God and our families ten years ago and promised to love forever. I meant it then, and I mean it now. If you doubt me for a minute, please click here: For MrG....Every day, you choose to stay. Go ahead. I'll wait.
It amazes me that teenagers, driven by hormones and stupidity, are empowered to make decisions that change their lives forever. Case in point: I met a boy in March of 1985, my senior year in high school. Our attraction to each other was strong and immediate, and we were inseparable until I left for college in the fall.
First stupid mistake - I left for a LOCAL college in the fall. Never mind that I had already been accepted at Texas A&M (three suitable hours away) and would have made my old man proud had I gone to his Alma Mater. I opted, in all my glorious teenage wisdom, to attend North Texas, which was about 45 minutes from my parents, and about 39 minutes from The Boy's house.
We dated throughout my freshman year in high school - he came to town frequently and stayed with me in the dorm (I know, shame on us!), and I came home on the weekends he wasn't there with me. My grades were good and things were going just as I had planned. At the end of my freshman year, my GPA was 3.67. Life was grand and glorious for us, until he decided one day that it wasn't, and then he dumped me cold. Broke my heart into a million little tiny pieces. Here I was 45 long minutes from home, heartbroken and lonely. Boo-effen-hoo. I moved home over the summer and then returned to school and got my first apartment in the fall.
Second stupid mistake - 19 year old girls should NEVER live alone. Be smart. Get a roommate. Better yet, get two or three, and make sure they are good, responsible ones. Pay attention here, LittleG.
My sophomore year was a disaster. I worked a lot and partied a lot and rarely went to class. Much to my father's chagrin, I got a dog. By the end of sophomore year, my GPA had plummeted to a 1.47. You gotta drink a lot of beer and miss a lot of school to drop your GPA that far in just two semesters. Trust me.
Finally, my little sister graduated high school, and she went away to Texas A&M like a happy little Second Generation Aggie should. Thank heavens she let me go with her. I needed a change of pace and a fresh start, so I packed my suitcases and grabbed the dog, and took off to live with my sister.
It took me two years of working my butt off at the local junior college to get my GPA up high enough to get back into the school that by all accounts I should have been graduating from at that point in time.
Texas A&M was good for me. I learned a lot. I made some really nice life-long friends. I finally got my Aggie Ring, then my diploma, then my payment coupons for my student loans. I was ready to head out into the world on my own. Instead, I moved home with my parents and hooked up again pretty fast with The Boy, who by now had been married and divorced and had a young son of his own.
Third stupid mistake - girls, don't do it! The post-breakup relationship is already doomed. It didn't work the first time, and it's not going to work the second time. Especially when there is a child involved!!
The Boy and I hooked up a few times and enjoyed each other's company, which was working pretty well for me. At least it seemed that way, until one night it didn't. That night, I was in line at the movies with my BFF, when I spied a mighty fine pair of Wrangler jeans on a boy with a smokin' bod. It took my mind a few solid minutes to come to grips with the fact that the smokin' bod belonged to The Boy and was now draped around a skanky ho. It hit me at that moment that I was good enough to stay home with, but the skanky ho was the one who was good enough to take out. I never talked to him again after that night.
Broken heart, part 2. You try keeping it together in line for the Pelican Brief, when your first true love is in line 50 feet away from you with another girl.
Thank heavens for best friends and John Grisham movies. I made it through that evening, somehow, then the days and weeks that followed. I met MrG pretty quickly after the Movie Event That Scarred Me For Life, and the rest, they say, is history.
The Boy and I still live in the same city, about five miles apart. I saw him at the grocery store a couple years ago, toting a tow-headed child down the cereal aisle. If my own child had been behaving like a human, and if I had looked like I had made any effort to dress like a grown up that day, I might have approached him to say hello. But coward that I am, I ducked behind the rotisserie chicken stand and let him drag his kid out of the store without speaking to him.
I accidentally stumbled upon The Boy recently. I was on a high school friend's facebook page, and the page referenced another friend's myspace page. I clicked her myspace page and read several comments that others had written. As social networking tends to go, I was soon clicking into myspace pages of people I had not thought about in years. Some levels of clicking into it, I came across a comment that The Boy had left on the page of a friend of a friend of a friend. I was shocked to see his name so I clicked in to his page for a quick trip down memory lane.
He's still smokin' hot, and now he has the tattoo to prove it. He's married and has a second child, about the same age as LittleG. Must have been the tow-headed kid at the Kroger, but I couldn't say for sure. I was shocked to see that he still has the same job he had when we began dating in the 80s. Points for him for staying with something so long. I think the only way anyone keeps a lifetime job these days is that they've struck the perfect balance between loyalty, good attendance, a strong work ethic and pure dumb luck.
He's a total blue collar guy and lists his hobbies as Harley Davidsons and Heavy Metal. Under his Favorite Books section, he writes "who has time to read?" His prized possession? Not his wife or his kids. Instead, it's his Harley. This, by the way, is not a judgment of people who own Harleys. I'm sure they are lovely motorcycles. They just aren't my cup of tea.
It sends shivers down my spine to think that half a lifetime ago, The Boy was THE ONE for me. How little I knew about him then, and how little I knew about myself, or about the grownup I would become and the life I would have some day.
Really, can you see how things might have been for me? College educated snobby elitist career mom who drives a minivan and never fails to read something for pleasure, every day, married to a lifelong mechanic who loves his motorcycle more than his wife and never picks up a book? For heavens sake, he's a myspacer, and I'm a facebooker. That is Judge Judy just waiting to happen, friends.
I think back now over all the spilled tears and the hours I wasted pining away for The Boy when he was never meant for me. He was teenage folly, pure and simple.
And yet, as a teenager, I made decisions that inexorably changed the path my life would take. I get it that grownups make life altering decisions all the time. But a teenage kid? Holy Mother of Pearl!
I chose a lousy college, then almost trashed my academic career when things didn't go my way. How different would life have been for me if I'd followed the original plan and started at A&M like I should have? I know for certain that my relationship with my father would have been different. My student loan balance would have been lower, and I would have drowned a lot fewer brain cells.
I would not have wasted money on classes I didn't attend or paid rent for an apartment where I didn't really live. Don't get me wrong - my stuff was there, and I slept there more often than not, but it never felt like home for me.
I might not have engaged in really risky alcohol and stupidity fueled behaviors. I might have eaten right and gotten enough rest. I might have been smart enough not to got behind the wheel of a car when I had no business doing so. I probably still would have run around with bad boys - some habits are just hard to break.
All of this, in the name of a relationship that was never meant to be.
Perhaps, though, had I made different decisions, then my life after college would have gone in another direction. I might have missed MrG entirely. And missing MrG would mean missing LittleG. And that's just not acceptable.
I am thankful, overall, l when I look back at the choices that I made. I never hurt myself or others. I got some bumps and bruises and learned some really hard lessons. I paid off my student loans, found a job that fulfills me professionally and personally, and eventually met and fell in love with a really great guy. We have a beautiful daughter, a mortgage, and a minivan. Nary a Harley Davidson in sight.
Eventually, LittleG will be a teenager and then a young adult. And it scares me to death that she, too, will have the wherewithal to make life changing decisions, without having the wisdom to do so smartly. I hope someday that the universe intervenes in her life like it did in mine. Because sometimes it's the wishes that didn't come true that really matter.
It amazes me that teenagers, driven by hormones and stupidity, are empowered to make decisions that change their lives forever. Case in point: I met a boy in March of 1985, my senior year in high school. Our attraction to each other was strong and immediate, and we were inseparable until I left for college in the fall.
First stupid mistake - I left for a LOCAL college in the fall. Never mind that I had already been accepted at Texas A&M (three suitable hours away) and would have made my old man proud had I gone to his Alma Mater. I opted, in all my glorious teenage wisdom, to attend North Texas, which was about 45 minutes from my parents, and about 39 minutes from The Boy's house.
We dated throughout my freshman year in high school - he came to town frequently and stayed with me in the dorm (I know, shame on us!), and I came home on the weekends he wasn't there with me. My grades were good and things were going just as I had planned. At the end of my freshman year, my GPA was 3.67. Life was grand and glorious for us, until he decided one day that it wasn't, and then he dumped me cold. Broke my heart into a million little tiny pieces. Here I was 45 long minutes from home, heartbroken and lonely. Boo-effen-hoo. I moved home over the summer and then returned to school and got my first apartment in the fall.
Second stupid mistake - 19 year old girls should NEVER live alone. Be smart. Get a roommate. Better yet, get two or three, and make sure they are good, responsible ones. Pay attention here, LittleG.
My sophomore year was a disaster. I worked a lot and partied a lot and rarely went to class. Much to my father's chagrin, I got a dog. By the end of sophomore year, my GPA had plummeted to a 1.47. You gotta drink a lot of beer and miss a lot of school to drop your GPA that far in just two semesters. Trust me.
Finally, my little sister graduated high school, and she went away to Texas A&M like a happy little Second Generation Aggie should. Thank heavens she let me go with her. I needed a change of pace and a fresh start, so I packed my suitcases and grabbed the dog, and took off to live with my sister.
It took me two years of working my butt off at the local junior college to get my GPA up high enough to get back into the school that by all accounts I should have been graduating from at that point in time.
Texas A&M was good for me. I learned a lot. I made some really nice life-long friends. I finally got my Aggie Ring, then my diploma, then my payment coupons for my student loans. I was ready to head out into the world on my own. Instead, I moved home with my parents and hooked up again pretty fast with The Boy, who by now had been married and divorced and had a young son of his own.
Third stupid mistake - girls, don't do it! The post-breakup relationship is already doomed. It didn't work the first time, and it's not going to work the second time. Especially when there is a child involved!!
The Boy and I hooked up a few times and enjoyed each other's company, which was working pretty well for me. At least it seemed that way, until one night it didn't. That night, I was in line at the movies with my BFF, when I spied a mighty fine pair of Wrangler jeans on a boy with a smokin' bod. It took my mind a few solid minutes to come to grips with the fact that the smokin' bod belonged to The Boy and was now draped around a skanky ho. It hit me at that moment that I was good enough to stay home with, but the skanky ho was the one who was good enough to take out. I never talked to him again after that night.
Broken heart, part 2. You try keeping it together in line for the Pelican Brief, when your first true love is in line 50 feet away from you with another girl.
Thank heavens for best friends and John Grisham movies. I made it through that evening, somehow, then the days and weeks that followed. I met MrG pretty quickly after the Movie Event That Scarred Me For Life, and the rest, they say, is history.
The Boy and I still live in the same city, about five miles apart. I saw him at the grocery store a couple years ago, toting a tow-headed child down the cereal aisle. If my own child had been behaving like a human, and if I had looked like I had made any effort to dress like a grown up that day, I might have approached him to say hello. But coward that I am, I ducked behind the rotisserie chicken stand and let him drag his kid out of the store without speaking to him.
I accidentally stumbled upon The Boy recently. I was on a high school friend's facebook page, and the page referenced another friend's myspace page. I clicked her myspace page and read several comments that others had written. As social networking tends to go, I was soon clicking into myspace pages of people I had not thought about in years. Some levels of clicking into it, I came across a comment that The Boy had left on the page of a friend of a friend of a friend. I was shocked to see his name so I clicked in to his page for a quick trip down memory lane.
He's still smokin' hot, and now he has the tattoo to prove it. He's married and has a second child, about the same age as LittleG. Must have been the tow-headed kid at the Kroger, but I couldn't say for sure. I was shocked to see that he still has the same job he had when we began dating in the 80s. Points for him for staying with something so long. I think the only way anyone keeps a lifetime job these days is that they've struck the perfect balance between loyalty, good attendance, a strong work ethic and pure dumb luck.
He's a total blue collar guy and lists his hobbies as Harley Davidsons and Heavy Metal. Under his Favorite Books section, he writes "who has time to read?" His prized possession? Not his wife or his kids. Instead, it's his Harley. This, by the way, is not a judgment of people who own Harleys. I'm sure they are lovely motorcycles. They just aren't my cup of tea.
It sends shivers down my spine to think that half a lifetime ago, The Boy was THE ONE for me. How little I knew about him then, and how little I knew about myself, or about the grownup I would become and the life I would have some day.
Really, can you see how things might have been for me? College educated snobby elitist career mom who drives a minivan and never fails to read something for pleasure, every day, married to a lifelong mechanic who loves his motorcycle more than his wife and never picks up a book? For heavens sake, he's a myspacer, and I'm a facebooker. That is Judge Judy just waiting to happen, friends.
I think back now over all the spilled tears and the hours I wasted pining away for The Boy when he was never meant for me. He was teenage folly, pure and simple.
And yet, as a teenager, I made decisions that inexorably changed the path my life would take. I get it that grownups make life altering decisions all the time. But a teenage kid? Holy Mother of Pearl!
I chose a lousy college, then almost trashed my academic career when things didn't go my way. How different would life have been for me if I'd followed the original plan and started at A&M like I should have? I know for certain that my relationship with my father would have been different. My student loan balance would have been lower, and I would have drowned a lot fewer brain cells.
I would not have wasted money on classes I didn't attend or paid rent for an apartment where I didn't really live. Don't get me wrong - my stuff was there, and I slept there more often than not, but it never felt like home for me.
I might not have engaged in really risky alcohol and stupidity fueled behaviors. I might have eaten right and gotten enough rest. I might have been smart enough not to got behind the wheel of a car when I had no business doing so. I probably still would have run around with bad boys - some habits are just hard to break.
All of this, in the name of a relationship that was never meant to be.
Perhaps, though, had I made different decisions, then my life after college would have gone in another direction. I might have missed MrG entirely. And missing MrG would mean missing LittleG. And that's just not acceptable.
I am thankful, overall, l when I look back at the choices that I made. I never hurt myself or others. I got some bumps and bruises and learned some really hard lessons. I paid off my student loans, found a job that fulfills me professionally and personally, and eventually met and fell in love with a really great guy. We have a beautiful daughter, a mortgage, and a minivan. Nary a Harley Davidson in sight.
Eventually, LittleG will be a teenager and then a young adult. And it scares me to death that she, too, will have the wherewithal to make life changing decisions, without having the wisdom to do so smartly. I hope someday that the universe intervenes in her life like it did in mine. Because sometimes it's the wishes that didn't come true that really matter.
Friday, February 27, 2009
An open letter to the Pope
Dear Pope Benedict,
I'm writing today to ask you to reconsider the rules about eating fish on holy days and Fridays during Lent. I appreciate that giving up red meat on those days is supposed to be a sacrifice.
That is totally lost on my family.
When I told LittleG this morning that we would be having shrimp for dinner tonight, she ran through the house yelling "Strimp for dinner!! Yay, strimp!!!!"
What should be a sacrifice turns out to be a treat here at Casa Garcia. You think next year you could assign something like broccoli or asparagus?
Reverently,
Lady Steele
I'm writing today to ask you to reconsider the rules about eating fish on holy days and Fridays during Lent. I appreciate that giving up red meat on those days is supposed to be a sacrifice.
That is totally lost on my family.
When I told LittleG this morning that we would be having shrimp for dinner tonight, she ran through the house yelling "Strimp for dinner!! Yay, strimp!!!!"
What should be a sacrifice turns out to be a treat here at Casa Garcia. You think next year you could assign something like broccoli or asparagus?
Reverently,
Lady Steele
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Of course it's in the high 80s today
It's 86 degrees in my part of the state today. This morning's low was 5 degrees higher than our normal high temperature. And it's February.
But that's ok, campers. It's going to drop 30 degrees tonight, and the high tomorrow will happen shortly after midnight.
When LittleG was just a tiny baby, it snowed here on Valentine's Day. Real snow - inches of it blanketed our landscape and yard. I remember thinking it was a total freak of nature that we would have that much snow so late in the winter.
But no, I think 86 degrees on Thursday, with only 59 degrees on Friday is even freakier. We're a month out from springtime, and we're at almost 90 degrees.
Welcome to Texas, folks. I hope you packed your shorts and your heavy sweaters. You're gonna need 'em both.
But that's ok, campers. It's going to drop 30 degrees tonight, and the high tomorrow will happen shortly after midnight.
When LittleG was just a tiny baby, it snowed here on Valentine's Day. Real snow - inches of it blanketed our landscape and yard. I remember thinking it was a total freak of nature that we would have that much snow so late in the winter.
But no, I think 86 degrees on Thursday, with only 59 degrees on Friday is even freakier. We're a month out from springtime, and we're at almost 90 degrees.
Welcome to Texas, folks. I hope you packed your shorts and your heavy sweaters. You're gonna need 'em both.
Lady Steele's Random thoughts about Ash Wednesday
I went to Ash Wednesday services yesterday at lunchtime at a nearby white bread DFW suburban parish. It was the first time for me to visit this church, but it's convenient to the office, and one of my office BFFs who is a much better Catholic than I was along for the ride. And it was the first time in MANY years I've made it to an Ash Wednesday service.
Several things struck me about my day.
From the outside, this beautiful church looks like a mosque. It has huge golden domes around the spires of the church and looks much more middle eastern than anything in Coppell, TX has a right to look. Is it actually possible to be a lapsed Baptist Catholic Muslim? And if so, does that make me a Labatholim?
LOTS of working class folks made it to this mass. Coppell is near Las Colinas which has a pretty substantial population of office workers, and it's the nearest parish, so by default, that's where we ended up. And there were hundreds of us.
Coppell has LOTS of stay at home moms with little kids. And I think all of them were at the noon mass. At one point, I was so distracted by the noise from the children that I forgot where I was and why I was there. My friend who has an infant daughter said she didn't even hear the kids. Go figure.
I'm pretty sure the Monsignor was Dennis Miller and the Cantor was Barry Manilow. At least is certainly sounded like it over the din of all the little chillin. The church was so big that I couldn't see either one of them, but I'm pretty sure they both represented yesterday.
Regardless of how long it had been for me, the familiar words and intonation of the mass filled me with peace and settled my soul.
I was raised Baptist but am Catholic by choice. After kneeling for way too long, I have determined that parts of me will always be Baptist. Like my thighs and my glutes, who haven't seen that kind of sustained muscle activities for a long dang time. Write your own jokes here, Protestants.
It is absolutely amazing to me that as I listened to the Ash Wednesday mass, Catholics all over the Central time zone were hearing almost the exact same words (except homily) at the exact same time as I was hearing them. Remarkable! Say what you will about individual worship - I'm all about drinking the group koolaid.
If we are to fast with bright shiny faces that give no indication of our sacrifice, give alms without trumpeting our generosity, and pray in secret, then why is it that our foreheads are marked with ashes for all to see? Are we out there, or not? I'm confused.
All told, I'm glad I went yesterday. It was a good reminder to me of why we do what we do, and I am glad I was with my friend. And as always, I was grateful that my friend was with me.
Several things struck me about my day.
From the outside, this beautiful church looks like a mosque. It has huge golden domes around the spires of the church and looks much more middle eastern than anything in Coppell, TX has a right to look. Is it actually possible to be a lapsed Baptist Catholic Muslim? And if so, does that make me a Labatholim?
LOTS of working class folks made it to this mass. Coppell is near Las Colinas which has a pretty substantial population of office workers, and it's the nearest parish, so by default, that's where we ended up. And there were hundreds of us.
Coppell has LOTS of stay at home moms with little kids. And I think all of them were at the noon mass. At one point, I was so distracted by the noise from the children that I forgot where I was and why I was there. My friend who has an infant daughter said she didn't even hear the kids. Go figure.
I'm pretty sure the Monsignor was Dennis Miller and the Cantor was Barry Manilow. At least is certainly sounded like it over the din of all the little chillin. The church was so big that I couldn't see either one of them, but I'm pretty sure they both represented yesterday.
Regardless of how long it had been for me, the familiar words and intonation of the mass filled me with peace and settled my soul.
I was raised Baptist but am Catholic by choice. After kneeling for way too long, I have determined that parts of me will always be Baptist. Like my thighs and my glutes, who haven't seen that kind of sustained muscle activities for a long dang time. Write your own jokes here, Protestants.
It is absolutely amazing to me that as I listened to the Ash Wednesday mass, Catholics all over the Central time zone were hearing almost the exact same words (except homily) at the exact same time as I was hearing them. Remarkable! Say what you will about individual worship - I'm all about drinking the group koolaid.
If we are to fast with bright shiny faces that give no indication of our sacrifice, give alms without trumpeting our generosity, and pray in secret, then why is it that our foreheads are marked with ashes for all to see? Are we out there, or not? I'm confused.
All told, I'm glad I went yesterday. It was a good reminder to me of why we do what we do, and I am glad I was with my friend. And as always, I was grateful that my friend was with me.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
She's Back!
Forgive me readers, for I have sinned. It has been one month and nine days since my last blog posting.
Lent is upon us, and as it should be, it is for me a time of reflection. It is at this time each year that I usually find myself pointed back on the path of salvation, or at least in the general vacinity of it.
I am a somewhat lapsed Baptist Catholic. Lapsed may not be the right adjective. Maybe apathetic? Disenfranchised? I'm not sure. Regardless, I find myself fairly unplugged from anything holy most of the time.
Regardless of how long it's been since I've stepped foot inside a house of worship, I usually stick to the traditions of Lent. I fast on holy days, don't eat meat on Fridays, and I always give something up to remind me of the sacrifices made for me.
This year, I'm trying something new. Instead of just giving something up, I am going to ADD something to my life. I am committing right now to blog every day during Lent. I'm not committing to a good blog, but I am committing to living consciously and paying attention for the next 40+ days (Sundays don't count). And that means having the presence of mind to get words inked, every day.
I actually started thinking about this when I clicked into the blog of a friend of a friend. She writes every day about something that she's happy about - her kid, a lovely sunset, the perfect cup of coffee.
I don't think I can aspire to 40 days of bluebirds and butterflies, but I know for sure I can churn out words every day between now and Easter.
My dear friend pointed out that blogging and posting are not necessarily the same thing. You may not get to see all 46 days worth of writing, but know that somewhere on the other side of cyberspace, my written words will be waiting.
So until tomorrow, peace be with you.
Lent is upon us, and as it should be, it is for me a time of reflection. It is at this time each year that I usually find myself pointed back on the path of salvation, or at least in the general vacinity of it.
I am a somewhat lapsed Baptist Catholic. Lapsed may not be the right adjective. Maybe apathetic? Disenfranchised? I'm not sure. Regardless, I find myself fairly unplugged from anything holy most of the time.
Regardless of how long it's been since I've stepped foot inside a house of worship, I usually stick to the traditions of Lent. I fast on holy days, don't eat meat on Fridays, and I always give something up to remind me of the sacrifices made for me.
This year, I'm trying something new. Instead of just giving something up, I am going to ADD something to my life. I am committing right now to blog every day during Lent. I'm not committing to a good blog, but I am committing to living consciously and paying attention for the next 40+ days (Sundays don't count). And that means having the presence of mind to get words inked, every day.
I actually started thinking about this when I clicked into the blog of a friend of a friend. She writes every day about something that she's happy about - her kid, a lovely sunset, the perfect cup of coffee.
I don't think I can aspire to 40 days of bluebirds and butterflies, but I know for sure I can churn out words every day between now and Easter.
My dear friend pointed out that blogging and posting are not necessarily the same thing. You may not get to see all 46 days worth of writing, but know that somewhere on the other side of cyberspace, my written words will be waiting.
So until tomorrow, peace be with you.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Chesley B. "Sully" Sullenberger III
Dear Sully,
I will be traveling on US Air January 31. Would you mind being in Dallas around 5ish to pick me up and take me safely to Las Vegas?
I can't help but think that the universe has something special planned for you and the 155 souls you were responsible for yesterday.
Wow!
I will be traveling on US Air January 31. Would you mind being in Dallas around 5ish to pick me up and take me safely to Las Vegas?
I can't help but think that the universe has something special planned for you and the 155 souls you were responsible for yesterday.
Wow!
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Horton Buys a Brew!
Oh Horton, sweet Horton, your town is now wet.
You can buy beer at the Kroger, I bet!
So take yourself in there, and get you a cart.
And begin at the wine aisle, a fine place to start!
As you pick up your chips and your hot sauce and beer.
No more driving to Dallas, you can buy ALL of it here!
Your queso, your bean dip, your snack mix galore.
A six pack, a twelve pack, hell, why not buy more?
A person’s a person, no matter how small.
And that person can like his beer short, or beer tall.
Your beer is your beer, no matter the size.
Buy it in Irving – that is your prize!
You can and you should, buy beer at this store
And when you run out, you come back and buy more!
Or go to the next store, the one down the street.
And buy some at that store – this is really QUITE neat.
We’ve waited a long time to buy beer in this town
While the non-drinkers were holding us drinking folk down!
But those days are over. That ship has now sailed.
The drinkers have triumphed while the nondrinkers wailed.
So, Horton, my friend, buy your wine and your beer.
In your hometown of Irving, this city right here!
And enjoy yourself, as is your right.
And know that we’ve won a really big fight.
~ Lady Steele, modern Superhero, with apologies to Dr. Seuss
You can buy beer at the Kroger, I bet!
So take yourself in there, and get you a cart.
And begin at the wine aisle, a fine place to start!
As you pick up your chips and your hot sauce and beer.
No more driving to Dallas, you can buy ALL of it here!
Your queso, your bean dip, your snack mix galore.
A six pack, a twelve pack, hell, why not buy more?
A person’s a person, no matter how small.
And that person can like his beer short, or beer tall.
Your beer is your beer, no matter the size.
Buy it in Irving – that is your prize!
You can and you should, buy beer at this store
And when you run out, you come back and buy more!
Or go to the next store, the one down the street.
And buy some at that store – this is really QUITE neat.
We’ve waited a long time to buy beer in this town
While the non-drinkers were holding us drinking folk down!
But those days are over. That ship has now sailed.
The drinkers have triumphed while the nondrinkers wailed.
So, Horton, my friend, buy your wine and your beer.
In your hometown of Irving, this city right here!
And enjoy yourself, as is your right.
And know that we’ve won a really big fight.
~ Lady Steele, modern Superhero, with apologies to Dr. Seuss
Friday, January 09, 2009
Sometimes you're the dog, sometimes you're the elephant.
A client of mine sent this to me today, and it's just too good not to post. What a nice story......get the tissues, girls!
We should all have friends this good.
We should all have friends this good.
The wisdom of the iPhone
Welcome to 2009, friends! I bet you all thought I used up all my words in December. Not so much. It's not that I can't find any words to write right now. My problem is finding the RIGHT words. Like any other overworked mom with too many chores and a full time job, I'm just not able to pick out WHICH thing to start with first. I have too many things in my head and on my mind. So rather than give you any of them, I've been sitting on all of them.
But that ship has sailed. When in doubt, go with the blog with a message. And so we begin the year of our Lord, 2009.....
I took a really nasty fall a few weeks ago. A real agony of defeat, ass over heels sort of sprawl across an icy parking lot. Thank heavens I thought quickly enough to use the right side of my face to break my fall against a nearby parked car. Miraculously, my ridiculously expensive jeans were unscathed, despite the fact that I chewed a hole in my knee the size of a softfall. I scraped my knee up badly, bruised my face, and torqued the crap out of my shoulder, but at the time, all that really seemed broken was my fragile ego.
Or so I thought. A week or so passed, and my shoulder was feeling progressively worse. It hurt so badly that it was keeping me awake at night. So I finally gave in and went to the see the doctor, begging for some relief from the unrelenting pain. You know, with all my free time and free money.
As I sat waiting to see the doctor, my mind was filled with SO. MUCH. STUFF...!
I am struggling with an old relationship, long long gone, but truly, finally over. *More about that later, I promise.
I am FREAKED OUT about my show coming up in less than a month. Sales aren't where they should be, my phone is ringing off the wall, my team isn't doing what I want and need them to do. And, my show is coming up. In case you missed it the first time, in LESS. THAN. A. MONTH.!
MrG and I have some big expenses to cover. And yet, our income is the same. Where the hell is our bailout?
I'm going to be on the road. That means time away, which means LOTS of prep work for me. It takes me about two weeks to get ready for everything that will still need to happen, even while I'm away.
The laundry is piling up, and that damn Christmas tree is still up. Yes, the Twelve Days of Christmas has passed, but my arm and shoulder have hurt too much to remove its remnants. Or fold the laundry, or cook a decent batch of flour tortillas for my poor family who is wasting away in front of me.
And, I'm sitting in this fricking office waiting for the doctor to quit flirting with the cute pharmaceutical rep in an effort to get more free samples for his goodie cabinet.
I can't wind down enough or focus to listen to my audiobook. And while I have the Pride & Prejudice ebook loaded on my iPhone, I can't even pay attention to that. I opt instead to play iPhone Bingo. Push the iPod button, hit the Shuffle key, and pray that what comes out soothes my soul.
This, for the uninitiated, is comparable to Bible Verse Bingo. You know the game. Your soul is hurting, or you're waiting on a sign from above so you know what life lesson chess move the universe is suggesting that you make. So you grab the closest bible, close your eyes, open it randomly to a page, and push your finger RIGHT on the verse that will solve your immediate problem. I have friends who swear by this. My faith isn't that strong, so I play iPhone Bingo instead.
I somehow manage to fish my phone out of my purse using my one good arm, and find the Shuffle button. I press it, and the song that comes out could not have been more perfect if I had custom ordered it myself. All it took was one song, Martina McBride's In My Daughter's Eyes....
In my daughter's eyes I am a hero,
I am strong and wise,
and I know no fear
But the truth is plain to see, she was sent to rescue me
I see who I want to be, in my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes everyone is equal
Darkness turns to light and the world is at peace
This miracle God gave to me gives me strength when I am weak
I find reason to believe, in my daughter's eyes
And when she wraps her hand around my finger
It puts a smile in my heart
Everything becomes a little clearer
I realize what life is all about
It's hangin' on when your heart has had enough
It's giving more when you feel like giving up
I've seen the light, it's in my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes I can see the future,
A reflection of who I am and what will be
Though she'll grow and someday leave, maybe raise a family
When I'm gone I hope you see
how happy she made me
For I'll be there, in my daughter's eyes
I would like to say that in the blink of an eye, my pain was gone, and that everything was right and good in the world. But that would be a lie. Truth is, my shoulder hurt until I got home a little later and swigged my special vicodin and muscle relaxer cocktail, followed by a merlot chaser.
But at that moment, my soul hurt a little less. It takes the edge off to know that in my child's eyes, I am strong and unafraid. Fake it till you make it, the pros say. And so I shall.
I shudder to think how differently my evening might have gone if the Almighty iPhone had chosen Jimmy Buffet's Why Don't We Get Drunk And Screw, Katy Perry's I Kissed A Girl, or The Talking Heads' Burning Down the House.
Never question the wisdom of the iPhone. Thank you, Steve Jobs, for the good you've done.
But that ship has sailed. When in doubt, go with the blog with a message. And so we begin the year of our Lord, 2009.....
I took a really nasty fall a few weeks ago. A real agony of defeat, ass over heels sort of sprawl across an icy parking lot. Thank heavens I thought quickly enough to use the right side of my face to break my fall against a nearby parked car. Miraculously, my ridiculously expensive jeans were unscathed, despite the fact that I chewed a hole in my knee the size of a softfall. I scraped my knee up badly, bruised my face, and torqued the crap out of my shoulder, but at the time, all that really seemed broken was my fragile ego.
Or so I thought. A week or so passed, and my shoulder was feeling progressively worse. It hurt so badly that it was keeping me awake at night. So I finally gave in and went to the see the doctor, begging for some relief from the unrelenting pain. You know, with all my free time and free money.
As I sat waiting to see the doctor, my mind was filled with SO. MUCH. STUFF...!
I am struggling with an old relationship, long long gone, but truly, finally over. *More about that later, I promise.
I am FREAKED OUT about my show coming up in less than a month. Sales aren't where they should be, my phone is ringing off the wall, my team isn't doing what I want and need them to do. And, my show is coming up. In case you missed it the first time, in LESS. THAN. A. MONTH.!
MrG and I have some big expenses to cover. And yet, our income is the same. Where the hell is our bailout?
I'm going to be on the road. That means time away, which means LOTS of prep work for me. It takes me about two weeks to get ready for everything that will still need to happen, even while I'm away.
The laundry is piling up, and that damn Christmas tree is still up. Yes, the Twelve Days of Christmas has passed, but my arm and shoulder have hurt too much to remove its remnants. Or fold the laundry, or cook a decent batch of flour tortillas for my poor family who is wasting away in front of me.
And, I'm sitting in this fricking office waiting for the doctor to quit flirting with the cute pharmaceutical rep in an effort to get more free samples for his goodie cabinet.
I can't wind down enough or focus to listen to my audiobook. And while I have the Pride & Prejudice ebook loaded on my iPhone, I can't even pay attention to that. I opt instead to play iPhone Bingo. Push the iPod button, hit the Shuffle key, and pray that what comes out soothes my soul.
This, for the uninitiated, is comparable to Bible Verse Bingo. You know the game. Your soul is hurting, or you're waiting on a sign from above so you know what life lesson chess move the universe is suggesting that you make. So you grab the closest bible, close your eyes, open it randomly to a page, and push your finger RIGHT on the verse that will solve your immediate problem. I have friends who swear by this. My faith isn't that strong, so I play iPhone Bingo instead.
I somehow manage to fish my phone out of my purse using my one good arm, and find the Shuffle button. I press it, and the song that comes out could not have been more perfect if I had custom ordered it myself. All it took was one song, Martina McBride's In My Daughter's Eyes....
In my daughter's eyes I am a hero,
I am strong and wise,
and I know no fear
But the truth is plain to see, she was sent to rescue me
I see who I want to be, in my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes everyone is equal
Darkness turns to light and the world is at peace
This miracle God gave to me gives me strength when I am weak
I find reason to believe, in my daughter's eyes
And when she wraps her hand around my finger
It puts a smile in my heart
Everything becomes a little clearer
I realize what life is all about
It's hangin' on when your heart has had enough
It's giving more when you feel like giving up
I've seen the light, it's in my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes I can see the future,
A reflection of who I am and what will be
Though she'll grow and someday leave, maybe raise a family
When I'm gone I hope you see
how happy she made me
For I'll be there, in my daughter's eyes
I would like to say that in the blink of an eye, my pain was gone, and that everything was right and good in the world. But that would be a lie. Truth is, my shoulder hurt until I got home a little later and swigged my special vicodin and muscle relaxer cocktail, followed by a merlot chaser.
But at that moment, my soul hurt a little less. It takes the edge off to know that in my child's eyes, I am strong and unafraid. Fake it till you make it, the pros say. And so I shall.
I shudder to think how differently my evening might have gone if the Almighty iPhone had chosen Jimmy Buffet's Why Don't We Get Drunk And Screw, Katy Perry's I Kissed A Girl, or The Talking Heads' Burning Down the House.
Never question the wisdom of the iPhone. Thank you, Steve Jobs, for the good you've done.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, the year 2008
It seems that our time together this 12 Days of Christmas is drawing to a close. I hope you have enjoyed my holiday blogs as much as I have enjoyed writing them.
For me, Christmas is about the memories you're making now for yourself, your family, and your friends. And it is about reliving the memories of your past. It's happy and it's sad, all rolled up into one evergreen scented bundle.
It's about spending time with those you love, and missing the ones who are gone from this year's celebration.
It's about Christmas pageants, and Christmas sweaters, and Christmas music, and Christmas candy.
It's about wish lists and special gifts.
It's about helping when you can and accepting help when you must.
It's about Christmas trees and decorations and cards and carols.
It's about holiday commercials and the never ending hymn of "mommy, I want _____."
For many of us, it is about remembering and celebrating the reason for Christmas.
For unto us today a child is born.
Whether you celebrate at home with your immediate family, or whether you do the marathon Christmas traveling celebration, I hope your Christmas brings you all you ever wished for.
Until next year, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
For me, Christmas is about the memories you're making now for yourself, your family, and your friends. And it is about reliving the memories of your past. It's happy and it's sad, all rolled up into one evergreen scented bundle.
It's about spending time with those you love, and missing the ones who are gone from this year's celebration.
It's about Christmas pageants, and Christmas sweaters, and Christmas music, and Christmas candy.
It's about wish lists and special gifts.
It's about helping when you can and accepting help when you must.
It's about Christmas trees and decorations and cards and carols.
It's about holiday commercials and the never ending hymn of "mommy, I want _____."
For many of us, it is about remembering and celebrating the reason for Christmas.
For unto us today a child is born.
Whether you celebrate at home with your immediate family, or whether you do the marathon Christmas traveling celebration, I hope your Christmas brings you all you ever wished for.
Until next year, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Monday, December 22, 2008
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas, the year 2008
When Christmas rolls around, one way I celebrate is by wearing Christmas sweaters. Reindeers and Santa and Christmas trees, oh my! Yeah, I'm that girl.
This all started when I was in college and getting dressed was so much easier. Back in the day, you woke up whenever, then took a shower, or didn't, and put on whatever was handy. Since half the kids on campus lived in dorms with teeny tiny closets, no one questioned if you wore the same college sweatshirt more than one day a week. I don't know what came over me in college, but I decided I would wear red and green every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I had a collection of sweats, because that's what good co-eds wore in the 80s, and I would toss on a red t-shirt with green sweats, or a green sweatshirt with red sweats. The point was that I wore a different combination of red and green every day.
And so it began.
Over the years, I have collected quite a grouping of sweater vests, embroidered sweatshirts, and dressy Christmas sweaters. I've also made cheesy sweatshirts with Christmas motifs with my mom, sister in law, sister, or BFF. Most of them are not stylish, and several of them are downright silly, like the one with the entire alphabet in shiny green and red letters. Well, most of the alphabet. There's no L on the shirt.
Get it? No-el?
The ones I made may be ugly or silly, but I love them because they are sentimental. They may not be artwork, but they are indelibly linked in my mind to the good times I spent making them. And for that, I love them.
My collection is large enough that I have enough Christmas garb to wear a different outfit to work every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas, without repeating. I took me a lot of time and a lot of money to collect that many pieces. And it takes a lot to maintain them. They are in a great big storage bag that takes up entirely too much space in my closet, but I keep them anyway because they make me happy. In the grand scheme of things, it seems like a silly waste to have a shirt or vest you only wear once a year, but it's my damn closet, so who cares?
Anyway, the hoo hahs at our office have decided that they want us in business casual clothes all the time. That means no jeans (even on Fridays!), and no sweatshirts. For the first time in years, I've actually repeated outfits this holiday season. Funny thing is that no one here seemed to notice.
It makes me a little sad to think of those well loved items sitting untouched in their storage bag, just wondering when they'll get out for a day. Oh well, maybe next year things will be more relaxed around here.
I didn't realize until this year how much psychic energy the whole Christmas outfit thing requires. Unload them all, choose a shirt, wear it once, launder or dry clean it, and put it back to sit for a whole year. No more, my friends, no more. It has been so much simpler to bring a few pieces into the rotation and deal with just that group. I have even ventured out and worn just a red sweater or a beautiful new red jacket a time or two - no jingle bells or Santas in sight, I fear.
Truly, Christmas is not about what you're wearing on the outside, it's about how you feel on the inside. I guess I have the hoo hahs to thank for that perspective.
I only have a few more days of Christmas outfits, and then it will be back to my regular winter clothing. It is always a little bittersweet to put away the Christmas garb, because like taking down the tree and putting away the Christmas ornaments, this act as much as any signals the end of the holiday season for me. On the upside, we'll get to start the whole thing over in just 11 more months!
This all started when I was in college and getting dressed was so much easier. Back in the day, you woke up whenever, then took a shower, or didn't, and put on whatever was handy. Since half the kids on campus lived in dorms with teeny tiny closets, no one questioned if you wore the same college sweatshirt more than one day a week. I don't know what came over me in college, but I decided I would wear red and green every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I had a collection of sweats, because that's what good co-eds wore in the 80s, and I would toss on a red t-shirt with green sweats, or a green sweatshirt with red sweats. The point was that I wore a different combination of red and green every day.
And so it began.
Over the years, I have collected quite a grouping of sweater vests, embroidered sweatshirts, and dressy Christmas sweaters. I've also made cheesy sweatshirts with Christmas motifs with my mom, sister in law, sister, or BFF. Most of them are not stylish, and several of them are downright silly, like the one with the entire alphabet in shiny green and red letters. Well, most of the alphabet. There's no L on the shirt.
Get it? No-el?
The ones I made may be ugly or silly, but I love them because they are sentimental. They may not be artwork, but they are indelibly linked in my mind to the good times I spent making them. And for that, I love them.
My collection is large enough that I have enough Christmas garb to wear a different outfit to work every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas, without repeating. I took me a lot of time and a lot of money to collect that many pieces. And it takes a lot to maintain them. They are in a great big storage bag that takes up entirely too much space in my closet, but I keep them anyway because they make me happy. In the grand scheme of things, it seems like a silly waste to have a shirt or vest you only wear once a year, but it's my damn closet, so who cares?
Anyway, the hoo hahs at our office have decided that they want us in business casual clothes all the time. That means no jeans (even on Fridays!), and no sweatshirts. For the first time in years, I've actually repeated outfits this holiday season. Funny thing is that no one here seemed to notice.
It makes me a little sad to think of those well loved items sitting untouched in their storage bag, just wondering when they'll get out for a day. Oh well, maybe next year things will be more relaxed around here.
I didn't realize until this year how much psychic energy the whole Christmas outfit thing requires. Unload them all, choose a shirt, wear it once, launder or dry clean it, and put it back to sit for a whole year. No more, my friends, no more. It has been so much simpler to bring a few pieces into the rotation and deal with just that group. I have even ventured out and worn just a red sweater or a beautiful new red jacket a time or two - no jingle bells or Santas in sight, I fear.
Truly, Christmas is not about what you're wearing on the outside, it's about how you feel on the inside. I guess I have the hoo hahs to thank for that perspective.
I only have a few more days of Christmas outfits, and then it will be back to my regular winter clothing. It is always a little bittersweet to put away the Christmas garb, because like taking down the tree and putting away the Christmas ornaments, this act as much as any signals the end of the holiday season for me. On the upside, we'll get to start the whole thing over in just 11 more months!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
On the Tenth Day of Christmas, the year 2008
The pure sheer joy of a gift laden Christmas tree is almost more than some children can bear. Regretfully, I am one of those children.
If there is a gift wrapped under the tree, I cannot resist the urge to pick it up and try to decipher the contents simply by sight, touch, and sound. Is it solid? Is it soft? Does the weight shift within the package? Does it rattle when you shake it?
Doesn't really matter if the gift is addressed to me. If it's got shiny colored paper on the outside, I am dying to know what's on the inside.
And Santa Claus gifts, which in my family were left unwrapped? FUHGETTABOUTIT! As a kid, I snooped in closets and corners, under the beds, in the trunks of cars. Any place dark and removed could hold holiday treasures, and I was all about seeking them out.
Sometimes I crept down the hall as my parents slept on Christmas morning so I could check out the gifts unnoticed before the big reveal. That happened one year when I was about 7 or 8, and unfortunately, my greed got the best of me. Santa Claus had brought my little sister a record player, and I decided it should be mine. Instead of just switching the tag from one of my gifts with the tag from her gift, effectively "trading" gifts with her, I attempted to write, in cursive as Santa had that year, a new tag with my name on it. You can guess the outcome of that one. My sister still got the record player, and I got in trouble.
It seems like the following year was the year that my parents decided to close the hallway door into the den and hang a big string of jingle bells from the door. That year, those damn bells fell and alerted the whole family that I was on the prowl yet again. And yes, I think I got in trouble.
When we outgrew Santa Claus, my parents had to get creative when they wrapped and placed our gifts under the tree. If there was a gift with my name on it, I had no qualms about trying to read through the paper, lifting up a corner of the paper and peeking, or worst of all, the total unwrap/rewrap, all before Christmas Day. I wasn't so anxious about knowing the contents of the other gifts, but if they were clearly labeled for me, I had an odd obsession about knowing what they were before Christmas morning. My parents eventually learned that if there were to be gifts under the tree for me, that they better be disguised somehow.
One year my father devised a brilliant plan for labeling the gifts in code. He and my mom wrapped the gifts and put codes on the gift tags, rather than our names. The codes were all numbers and seemed to having nothing in common. Some were short, some were long, some even, some odd, starting and ending with every digit equally. Based on this evil system, we had no idea which gifts belonged together, and which kid would eventually receive them. I thought Christmas morning would never arrive that month!! Finally, the morning came, and my dad explained the formula, which involved something ridiculous like dropping the first digit, adding the next ones together, dividing by two and then multiplying by three. Whatever sequence of math tricks we went through eventually pointed to one kid or another, and that one was the winner of the gift. All these years later, I remember the frustration of lining those gifts up, side by side, to compare the tags to try to decipher the code.
Then there was the year they tried not labeling the gifts. As each package came out from under the tree, a parent would examine the gift and send it on to the appropriate recipient. That worked pretty well until we got to a flat box containing a teal colored button down shirt. Someone handed me the gift, I opened it and fell in love with it on sight. Unfortunately, that gift should have been my brother's. This was the 80s people. Don't judge us. Sadly, my brother lost a shirt that year, and I wore it for years and loved it every time I put it on.
Regretfully, my dear family filled MrG in on my Christmas escapades very early in our relationship, and he began to torture me about the contents of gifts under our own little tree. As he wrapped his gifts for me, he was all about adding items to the package to throw me off. A handful of dried beans add an excellent rattle to an otherwise silent offering. Bars of soap or cans of green beans totally skew the weight of a gift. And he firmly believes that little gifts do not have to be wrapped in little packages. I have no doubt that he will pass this wisdom on to LittleG, and a whole generation of children to come will be affected by my inability to keep my paws off the presents.
Several groups at work this week had gift exchanges, and I must admit that every time I passed someone in the hall with a gift in her hands that I had the unbearable urge to distract her, grab the gift, and steal down the hall to try to figure out what was inside. My mother's firstborn is naughty indeed.
I might just be feeling nostalgic because this year there are no gifts under the tree for me. MrG and I are doing an "us" gift this year, and I'm a little sad that there won't be anything for me to unwrap Christmas morning. At least there better not be, because we are spending a chunk of cash on a new camera. For what it's worth, I'm also a little sad not to be buying and wrapping a gift for him this year. So, it's not ALL about me. Really.
Besides that, we have two Christmas celebrations this year, as we always do. First, at my inlaws house, far, far away. Then, we will celebrate with my family in my brother's brand new house. It's always fun to spend time with our families of origin, but best of all, there will be gifts. And some of them will have my name on them! Just don't leave your tree unattended, family.....
If there is a gift wrapped under the tree, I cannot resist the urge to pick it up and try to decipher the contents simply by sight, touch, and sound. Is it solid? Is it soft? Does the weight shift within the package? Does it rattle when you shake it?
Doesn't really matter if the gift is addressed to me. If it's got shiny colored paper on the outside, I am dying to know what's on the inside.
And Santa Claus gifts, which in my family were left unwrapped? FUHGETTABOUTIT! As a kid, I snooped in closets and corners, under the beds, in the trunks of cars. Any place dark and removed could hold holiday treasures, and I was all about seeking them out.
Sometimes I crept down the hall as my parents slept on Christmas morning so I could check out the gifts unnoticed before the big reveal. That happened one year when I was about 7 or 8, and unfortunately, my greed got the best of me. Santa Claus had brought my little sister a record player, and I decided it should be mine. Instead of just switching the tag from one of my gifts with the tag from her gift, effectively "trading" gifts with her, I attempted to write, in cursive as Santa had that year, a new tag with my name on it. You can guess the outcome of that one. My sister still got the record player, and I got in trouble.
It seems like the following year was the year that my parents decided to close the hallway door into the den and hang a big string of jingle bells from the door. That year, those damn bells fell and alerted the whole family that I was on the prowl yet again. And yes, I think I got in trouble.
When we outgrew Santa Claus, my parents had to get creative when they wrapped and placed our gifts under the tree. If there was a gift with my name on it, I had no qualms about trying to read through the paper, lifting up a corner of the paper and peeking, or worst of all, the total unwrap/rewrap, all before Christmas Day. I wasn't so anxious about knowing the contents of the other gifts, but if they were clearly labeled for me, I had an odd obsession about knowing what they were before Christmas morning. My parents eventually learned that if there were to be gifts under the tree for me, that they better be disguised somehow.
One year my father devised a brilliant plan for labeling the gifts in code. He and my mom wrapped the gifts and put codes on the gift tags, rather than our names. The codes were all numbers and seemed to having nothing in common. Some were short, some were long, some even, some odd, starting and ending with every digit equally. Based on this evil system, we had no idea which gifts belonged together, and which kid would eventually receive them. I thought Christmas morning would never arrive that month!! Finally, the morning came, and my dad explained the formula, which involved something ridiculous like dropping the first digit, adding the next ones together, dividing by two and then multiplying by three. Whatever sequence of math tricks we went through eventually pointed to one kid or another, and that one was the winner of the gift. All these years later, I remember the frustration of lining those gifts up, side by side, to compare the tags to try to decipher the code.
Then there was the year they tried not labeling the gifts. As each package came out from under the tree, a parent would examine the gift and send it on to the appropriate recipient. That worked pretty well until we got to a flat box containing a teal colored button down shirt. Someone handed me the gift, I opened it and fell in love with it on sight. Unfortunately, that gift should have been my brother's. This was the 80s people. Don't judge us. Sadly, my brother lost a shirt that year, and I wore it for years and loved it every time I put it on.
Regretfully, my dear family filled MrG in on my Christmas escapades very early in our relationship, and he began to torture me about the contents of gifts under our own little tree. As he wrapped his gifts for me, he was all about adding items to the package to throw me off. A handful of dried beans add an excellent rattle to an otherwise silent offering. Bars of soap or cans of green beans totally skew the weight of a gift. And he firmly believes that little gifts do not have to be wrapped in little packages. I have no doubt that he will pass this wisdom on to LittleG, and a whole generation of children to come will be affected by my inability to keep my paws off the presents.
Several groups at work this week had gift exchanges, and I must admit that every time I passed someone in the hall with a gift in her hands that I had the unbearable urge to distract her, grab the gift, and steal down the hall to try to figure out what was inside. My mother's firstborn is naughty indeed.
I might just be feeling nostalgic because this year there are no gifts under the tree for me. MrG and I are doing an "us" gift this year, and I'm a little sad that there won't be anything for me to unwrap Christmas morning. At least there better not be, because we are spending a chunk of cash on a new camera. For what it's worth, I'm also a little sad not to be buying and wrapping a gift for him this year. So, it's not ALL about me. Really.
Besides that, we have two Christmas celebrations this year, as we always do. First, at my inlaws house, far, far away. Then, we will celebrate with my family in my brother's brand new house. It's always fun to spend time with our families of origin, but best of all, there will be gifts. And some of them will have my name on them! Just don't leave your tree unattended, family.....
Saturday, December 20, 2008
On the Ninth Day of Christmas, the year 2008
People are so nice to each other this time of year. I love that. I would like to think that we are all good people who intend to do nice things year round. I think the reality of it is that we want to be generous with our time and money. Instead, real life intervenes, and we don't do our good works like we should, saving them, perhaps, for a better time. Then, in early December it hits us that we need to spend those good works, like our tax free healthcare accounts, by the end of the month or we'll lose them forever.
And so it begins. It's easy to drop a few bucks in the Salvation Army bucket at the Walmart. It's easier this year than ever since they are now taking credit cards. Or I guess it would be if people had room on their credit cards. LittleG and I do not walk past a Salvation Army bucket without throwing in at least some loose change. When she asks why those people are standing there collecting money, I tell her that folks who can help others should, and that we are blessed to have enough to share with people who need help right now. It's a valuable lesson, and one I hope she learns well.
My company held a food drive last week to benefit a local food bank. It got off to a really slow start, which is no surprise since most of us sell things to companies who rely on the health of the homebuilding industry to survive. Times are tough for our salespeople this year. Many are not getting the commission payments they count on to make ends meet. Some are single parents and are struggling to keep their own families fed. And yet, when the end of the food drive came, we had an entire conference room filled with canned goods and baby food. Did our folks have piles of money laying around to share with others? Absolutely not. But we gave what we could, and because of that, children will be fed, and their parents' souls nourished.
The radio and television stations are fabulous during the holidays. My favorite news team collects toys every year for needy children, and it just wouldn't be Christmas for me if the weather guys were not beamed into my TV a few nights a week, standing in a parking lot taking toys from generous viewers. A local radio station has such poignant stories this time of year that I can't even listen to them in the morning because I'll cry all the way to work. They must work year round to fill the station's coffers so they can exceed the Christmas wishes of the kids they help.
I don't know what it is that drives people at Christmas time to share. Is it just that we do it because we've always done it? It is the spirit of the season that moves us to give to others, sometimes to the detriment of our own wants and needs? Or do we give to bribe the universe to look away from our own good fortune by giving to those whose lives are not as blessed?
Whatever the reason, I'm glad that it happens. Whether it's change in a bucket or canned goods for a food bank, those of us who can help should. God bless us, every one!
And so it begins. It's easy to drop a few bucks in the Salvation Army bucket at the Walmart. It's easier this year than ever since they are now taking credit cards. Or I guess it would be if people had room on their credit cards. LittleG and I do not walk past a Salvation Army bucket without throwing in at least some loose change. When she asks why those people are standing there collecting money, I tell her that folks who can help others should, and that we are blessed to have enough to share with people who need help right now. It's a valuable lesson, and one I hope she learns well.
My company held a food drive last week to benefit a local food bank. It got off to a really slow start, which is no surprise since most of us sell things to companies who rely on the health of the homebuilding industry to survive. Times are tough for our salespeople this year. Many are not getting the commission payments they count on to make ends meet. Some are single parents and are struggling to keep their own families fed. And yet, when the end of the food drive came, we had an entire conference room filled with canned goods and baby food. Did our folks have piles of money laying around to share with others? Absolutely not. But we gave what we could, and because of that, children will be fed, and their parents' souls nourished.
The radio and television stations are fabulous during the holidays. My favorite news team collects toys every year for needy children, and it just wouldn't be Christmas for me if the weather guys were not beamed into my TV a few nights a week, standing in a parking lot taking toys from generous viewers. A local radio station has such poignant stories this time of year that I can't even listen to them in the morning because I'll cry all the way to work. They must work year round to fill the station's coffers so they can exceed the Christmas wishes of the kids they help.
I don't know what it is that drives people at Christmas time to share. Is it just that we do it because we've always done it? It is the spirit of the season that moves us to give to others, sometimes to the detriment of our own wants and needs? Or do we give to bribe the universe to look away from our own good fortune by giving to those whose lives are not as blessed?
Whatever the reason, I'm glad that it happens. Whether it's change in a bucket or canned goods for a food bank, those of us who can help should. God bless us, every one!
Friday, December 19, 2008
On the Eighth Day of Christmas, the year 2008
Please take a moment to remember the service men and women who are away from their families this holiday season. Whether you agree with the war in Iraq or not, I think it's worth recognizing that thousands of families are not together this season because our military has been asked to serve in a land far away.A Different Christmas Poem
The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.
The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.
'What are you doing?' I asked without fear,
'Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!'
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..
To the window that danced with a warm fire's light
Then he sighed and he said 'Its really all right,
I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night.'
'It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at ' Pearl on a day in December,'
Then he sighed, 'That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers.'
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ' Nam ',
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.
I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue... an American flag.
I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.
I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall.'
' So go back inside,' he said, 'harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right.'
'But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
'Give you money,' I asked, 'or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son.'
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
'Just tell us you love us, and never forget.
To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.
Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.'
Reprinted with permission of the original author, Michael Marks.
You can see more of his work here: www.michaelmarks.com
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
On the Seventh Day of Christmas, the year 2008
I am a big Christmas baker. Or maybe candy maker is more like it. Either way, I love the flavors of the holiday, and I love bringing oodles of goodies to my friends and family. So hate me. I bake. And I do it well.
My friends at work refer to me as the "Cake Lady" because I bake and decorate cakes. Once a year, though, I put on my Candy Lady hat and bring a spread to the office. And today was the day!! Luckily, the cube next to me at work is empty, so this is what it looked like today:
You can double click the images in this post to get a better view. MrG is promising me a better camera for Christmas this year!
My mom and my BFF and my sister-in-law have gotten together over the years to spend a day in the kitchen making Christmas goodies. I cherish that time together, now more than ever. I regret that I have been so overscheduled this year that my candy making time has been limited to spurts here and there over the past two weeks. I have made my treats this year, and I know the people I share them with will appreciate them. But I feel like I got hosed this year because I didn't have time to make them WITH the people I love, just FOR the people I love.
Mo's Peanut Butter Bon-bons (center) - My maternal grandmother's recipe, and my sentimental favorite. Basically, just peanut butter and rice krispies, held together with magic and dunked in chocolate.
Fudge - Irish cream and white chocolate cherry almond. The cherry is on the lower right, the Irish cream on the lower left.
Mint Oreo Truffles (upper right) - mint oreos, pulverized and mixed with cream cheese, then dunked in white chocolate and sprinkled with green sugar. Looks like I spent all day in the kitchen, but these are simple to make!
Rolo pretzels (middle right) - sweet, salty, crunchy, soft goodness, all piled up together. Partially melt a rolo candy on top of a mini pretzel, then smoosh a pecan half down on top of it all.
Oreo Truffles (lower left) - Oreo cookies mixed with cream cheese, covered in melted chocolate. A drizzle of white chocolate dresses this candy up. People think I'm a genius when I show up with these. MrG took them to his Christmas cookie exchange this year, and we won the People's Choice award! By "we" I mean I made them and he transported them, so I guess it's a group effort.
Peanut Brittle (upper left) - a go-to favorite that's a lot harder to make than it should be. Trust me when I say you do NOT want to try to get burnt peanut smell out of your house. So, kids, watch that candy thermometer carefully when trying this dish. When you get it right, it is crunchy and divine.
Caramel Popcorn - the real kind that you make on the stove, then bake in the oven, low and slow. MrG loves the stuff, and it's almost idiot proof. I figure I have to feed him something yummy for allowing me to spend my time and our money to feed everyone else!
Cinnamon Almonds (center) - almonds, tossed in a sauce with brown sugar and cinnamon, roasted till they are golden brown and delicious.
Fudge - orange cream on the lower right, chocolate raspberry right next to it in the lower center.
Bourbon Balls (lower left) - not my personal favorite, but the folks at work seemed to love them last year! And they are pretty. They balance out the other flavors and textures well, so they make the cut. And the lady who handles my travel for me at work loves them. It pays to keep the person making your travel arrangements happy.
Peppermint Bark (upper left) - Vanilla flavored candy, melted and swirled together with red and green peppermint chunks. By far, this was the crowd favorite last year, and the easiest candy in my holiday arsenal!
Peppermint patties (upper right) - a new addition this year - creamy peppermint fondant dipped in dark chocolate. Yummy!
I realize now that I committed a cardinal sin by placing two fudges next to one another, and two peppermints next to one another. Oh well. Perfection can wait until next year, I guess. Martha would be so proud. In all fairness, it's hard to arrange the candy appropriately when your coworkers are giddily rallying around you as you unpack the good stuff.....
Ginger Snaps - good from the grocery store, but they can't be beat when they are homemade. This was the crowd favorite this year. It's a simple Betty Crocker recipe from a book I've had since 1987. A real book, with paper pages, a ring binder and a hard back cover. Go figure.
Kahlua Praline - what is not to love about chocolate, heavy cream, kahlua, and pecans?
There's a whole art to the balance of the candies - you want different shapes, different textures, different base flavors. A candy buffet with just round candies or just chocolate flavors is BORING. So I do what I can to throw in a wide range of flavors. Get some chewy stuff and some crunchy stuff and some melt-in-your-mouth creamy stuff. Be sure you have round things and square things and oddly sized things. In retrospect, I probably really needed something tangy and fruit flavored like lemon bars or apricot balls to achieve true balance. But really - who wants to eat that stuff?
Those of you who know me won't find it odd that I had a spreadsheet this year to be sure I had all my bases covered. And those of you who don't know me have a lot to learn.
And yes, I really do get all Martha Stewart with the matching plates and napkins. (Well, as Martha Stewart as one can be when serving baked goods on throwaway plates). Even the email I sent to the office had a snowman background. And a poem, but that's for another time and place.
Making Christmas candy makes me happy, and feeding the homemade goodies to someone other than my immediate family (whose health and welfare I am responsible for!) makes me even happier.
Whatever your Christmas candy preference, I hope you or someone who loves you treats you this holiday season!
My friends at work refer to me as the "Cake Lady" because I bake and decorate cakes. Once a year, though, I put on my Candy Lady hat and bring a spread to the office. And today was the day!! Luckily, the cube next to me at work is empty, so this is what it looked like today:
You can double click the images in this post to get a better view. MrG is promising me a better camera for Christmas this year!
My mom and my BFF and my sister-in-law have gotten together over the years to spend a day in the kitchen making Christmas goodies. I cherish that time together, now more than ever. I regret that I have been so overscheduled this year that my candy making time has been limited to spurts here and there over the past two weeks. I have made my treats this year, and I know the people I share them with will appreciate them. But I feel like I got hosed this year because I didn't have time to make them WITH the people I love, just FOR the people I love.
Mo's Peanut Butter Bon-bons (center) - My maternal grandmother's recipe, and my sentimental favorite. Basically, just peanut butter and rice krispies, held together with magic and dunked in chocolate.Fudge - Irish cream and white chocolate cherry almond. The cherry is on the lower right, the Irish cream on the lower left.
Mint Oreo Truffles (upper right) - mint oreos, pulverized and mixed with cream cheese, then dunked in white chocolate and sprinkled with green sugar. Looks like I spent all day in the kitchen, but these are simple to make!
Rolo pretzels (middle right) - sweet, salty, crunchy, soft goodness, all piled up together. Partially melt a rolo candy on top of a mini pretzel, then smoosh a pecan half down on top of it all.
Oreo Truffles (lower left) - Oreo cookies mixed with cream cheese, covered in melted chocolate. A drizzle of white chocolate dresses this candy up. People think I'm a genius when I show up with these. MrG took them to his Christmas cookie exchange this year, and we won the People's Choice award! By "we" I mean I made them and he transported them, so I guess it's a group effort.
Peanut Brittle (upper left) - a go-to favorite that's a lot harder to make than it should be. Trust me when I say you do NOT want to try to get burnt peanut smell out of your house. So, kids, watch that candy thermometer carefully when trying this dish. When you get it right, it is crunchy and divine.
Caramel Popcorn - the real kind that you make on the stove, then bake in the oven, low and slow. MrG loves the stuff, and it's almost idiot proof. I figure I have to feed him something yummy for allowing me to spend my time and our money to feed everyone else!
Cinnamon Almonds (center) - almonds, tossed in a sauce with brown sugar and cinnamon, roasted till they are golden brown and delicious.Fudge - orange cream on the lower right, chocolate raspberry right next to it in the lower center.
Bourbon Balls (lower left) - not my personal favorite, but the folks at work seemed to love them last year! And they are pretty. They balance out the other flavors and textures well, so they make the cut. And the lady who handles my travel for me at work loves them. It pays to keep the person making your travel arrangements happy.
Peppermint Bark (upper left) - Vanilla flavored candy, melted and swirled together with red and green peppermint chunks. By far, this was the crowd favorite last year, and the easiest candy in my holiday arsenal!
Peppermint patties (upper right) - a new addition this year - creamy peppermint fondant dipped in dark chocolate. Yummy!
I realize now that I committed a cardinal sin by placing two fudges next to one another, and two peppermints next to one another. Oh well. Perfection can wait until next year, I guess. Martha would be so proud. In all fairness, it's hard to arrange the candy appropriately when your coworkers are giddily rallying around you as you unpack the good stuff.....
Ginger Snaps - good from the grocery store, but they can't be beat when they are homemade. This was the crowd favorite this year. It's a simple Betty Crocker recipe from a book I've had since 1987. A real book, with paper pages, a ring binder and a hard back cover. Go figure.Kahlua Praline - what is not to love about chocolate, heavy cream, kahlua, and pecans?
There's a whole art to the balance of the candies - you want different shapes, different textures, different base flavors. A candy buffet with just round candies or just chocolate flavors is BORING. So I do what I can to throw in a wide range of flavors. Get some chewy stuff and some crunchy stuff and some melt-in-your-mouth creamy stuff. Be sure you have round things and square things and oddly sized things. In retrospect, I probably really needed something tangy and fruit flavored like lemon bars or apricot balls to achieve true balance. But really - who wants to eat that stuff?
Those of you who know me won't find it odd that I had a spreadsheet this year to be sure I had all my bases covered. And those of you who don't know me have a lot to learn.
And yes, I really do get all Martha Stewart with the matching plates and napkins. (Well, as Martha Stewart as one can be when serving baked goods on throwaway plates). Even the email I sent to the office had a snowman background. And a poem, but that's for another time and place.
Making Christmas candy makes me happy, and feeding the homemade goodies to someone other than my immediate family (whose health and welfare I am responsible for!) makes me even happier.
Whatever your Christmas candy preference, I hope you or someone who loves you treats you this holiday season!
On the Sixth Day of Christmas, the year 2008
I love Christmas carols. To me, they are just like old friends you only get to see once a year.
Usually about two weeks before Thanksgiving, I get Carol of the Bells stuck in my head and I whistle it incessantly, without even knowing that I'm doing it. I whistle well, by the way. Anyway, MrG usually chastises me and makes me whistle on the inside until after the first of December.
At that point, it's not unusual at all to find Christmas CDs playing in the crimson steed. For a treat this year, I am loading a seasonal playlist on to my iPhone and I plan to play it in the elevator to torture those idiots in my building who ride up one floor rather than taking the stairs. Oh yeah, and to fill those around with me with the songs of the season.
Here's what's on my playlist:
Just like long visits from old friends, I'm often glad when it's time for the carols to return to where ever they belong when it's not Christmas time. Pack it up and go, folks. We'll see you this time next year.
Pah rum pum pum pum!
Usually about two weeks before Thanksgiving, I get Carol of the Bells stuck in my head and I whistle it incessantly, without even knowing that I'm doing it. I whistle well, by the way. Anyway, MrG usually chastises me and makes me whistle on the inside until after the first of December.
At that point, it's not unusual at all to find Christmas CDs playing in the crimson steed. For a treat this year, I am loading a seasonal playlist on to my iPhone and I plan to play it in the elevator to torture those idiots in my building who ride up one floor rather than taking the stairs. Oh yeah, and to fill those around with me with the songs of the season.
Here's what's on my playlist:
- Carol of the Bells
- We Wish You A Merry Christmas
- The Holly and the Ivy
- It Came Upon a Midnight Clear
- Silent Night
- O Come O Come Emmanuel
- Angels We Have Heard on High
- O Come All Ye Faithful
- Joy To the World
- I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day
- O Little Town of Bethlehem
- Jingle Bells
- Frosty The Snowman
- Jingle Bell Rock
- Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer
- Santa Claus is Coming To Town
Just like long visits from old friends, I'm often glad when it's time for the carols to return to where ever they belong when it's not Christmas time. Pack it up and go, folks. We'll see you this time next year.
Pah rum pum pum pum!
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
On the Fifth Day of Christmas, the year 2008
In case you're feeling like this blog is all about butterflies and bluebirds, don't. I know you are coming to expect warm fuzzy glowing stories that make you feel good to be alive. But sometimes life sucks.
And even Christmas memories can't all be happy ones. In fact, Christmas can be about as bittersweet as it gets. Case in point, Christmas, 2005.
That Christmas season was just horrid. Our sweet Daisy dog had been diagnosed with cancer over Thanksgiving that year. She had been with us for nearly ten years at that point, and she was MrG's first real dog. He had dogs a few times growing up, but they were always outside pets. Not our Daisy - she slept inside, with us, and had been our constant companion. We adopted her together and raised her, our first experiment as "parents."
Our vet sent us home after Thanksgiving with her and told us to take her home and love her. So the joy I would have felt the week after Thanksgiving was totally obliterated by the horrible news of our sweet dog. And the days that followed were truly brutal. We lost her four days before Christmas.
To add insult to injury, my dad was really sick, too. Also with cancer. We knew it was bad, and we knew it wasn't going to get any better. My dad LOVED Christmas, and it was awful to watch him feeling so bad, devoid of the joy the holiday usually brought to him. You have no way of knowing, of course, that this is your last Christmas together, but I think we all suspected it. And it sucked.
We did our best that year. My family celebrated with its usual traditions and gifts. We visited the in-laws. Somehow I managed to get our tree put up, and Santa brought gifts for LittleG. I look back now and wonder how we got through it at all.
I think sometimes you have to feel really bad in order to appreciate how good the good times are. 2005 was bad. Really bad. But you know what? 2006 was better. And 2007 was better yet. I'm chalking 2005 up as a learning experience, and I pray that I learned what I needed to that year.
And even Christmas memories can't all be happy ones. In fact, Christmas can be about as bittersweet as it gets. Case in point, Christmas, 2005.
That Christmas season was just horrid. Our sweet Daisy dog had been diagnosed with cancer over Thanksgiving that year. She had been with us for nearly ten years at that point, and she was MrG's first real dog. He had dogs a few times growing up, but they were always outside pets. Not our Daisy - she slept inside, with us, and had been our constant companion. We adopted her together and raised her, our first experiment as "parents."
Our vet sent us home after Thanksgiving with her and told us to take her home and love her. So the joy I would have felt the week after Thanksgiving was totally obliterated by the horrible news of our sweet dog. And the days that followed were truly brutal. We lost her four days before Christmas.
To add insult to injury, my dad was really sick, too. Also with cancer. We knew it was bad, and we knew it wasn't going to get any better. My dad LOVED Christmas, and it was awful to watch him feeling so bad, devoid of the joy the holiday usually brought to him. You have no way of knowing, of course, that this is your last Christmas together, but I think we all suspected it. And it sucked.
We did our best that year. My family celebrated with its usual traditions and gifts. We visited the in-laws. Somehow I managed to get our tree put up, and Santa brought gifts for LittleG. I look back now and wonder how we got through it at all.
I think sometimes you have to feel really bad in order to appreciate how good the good times are. 2005 was bad. Really bad. But you know what? 2006 was better. And 2007 was better yet. I'm chalking 2005 up as a learning experience, and I pray that I learned what I needed to that year.
Monday, December 15, 2008
On the Fourth Day of Christmas, the year 2008
I mentioned before that I have very happy memories of Christmas as a child, and I hope you enjoy hearing about them as much as I enjoyed living them.
Christmas decorations at my childhood home were very serious business. My folks kept them stored in old army trunks from my dad's service days, and I can remember the excitement as they drug them down out of the attic. We would open them up and be greeted with the musty sweet smell of old memories and treasures near forgotten.
We had a beautiful nativity scene - porcelain figurines complete with a manger scene, baby Jesus, and the animals. For a lot of years, my mom set up a Christmas "willage" as we called it, with snowcapped houses and frosty windows. We had Christmas candles in the bathrooms, hand towels with Christmas motifs, and even Christmas toilet paper on the 25th of December. We had peppermint advent calendars, and each day we got to take a single peppermint candy cane off our calendars.
One of my first years in college, my dad bought me packages of gift certificates from McDonalds. With every pack you bought, they gave you a little stuffed reindeer. My dad loaded me up that year and stubbornly demanded his free reindeer toys. My mom found a sleigh with Santa in it, and attached each reindeer to the sleigh with black string. Those reindeer pulled Santa across the mantle of the fireplace in their home for years and years and years. I still get a chuckle when I think of my dad throwing down with the Mickey D's manager over eight tiny reindeer.
We had a mobile with angels suspended on elastic type string, and every year my brother and sister and I would do crazy things with them. Sometimes we hung them from their heavenly ceiling, heads down, like bats. One time, we made little tiny nooses and hung them. Well, by "we" I mean my little brother. My mother was rarely amused by our angel antics. Whoever got stuck sitting under the angels in the bay window at the breakfast table fought the damn things for an entire month. We loved them and hated them, all at the same time.
We had songs of the season, piped in all day on Christmas. And that one day a year, my mom drove us all crazy by answering the phone, "Merry Christmas" instead of "hello." I didn't get it then, but I totally get it now.
Christmas gifts at our house were insane. Santa left unwrapped gifts on Christmas morning, and my folks always made sure we had wrapped gifts under the tree, too. My dad went nuts every year buying gifts, and I didn't realize then how much we had, and how much my folks sacrificed to fill their den with mountains of beautifully wrapped gifts and treasures.
There were three of us kids, and one of us in particular had a very hard time maintaining her composure once the gifts were under the tree. That one of us shall remain unnamed at this point. Suffice it to say that my mother's firstborn was a very naughty girl. Her ridiculous ongoing lack of control when it comes to Christmas gifts warrants its very own Day of Christmas blog, I'm afraid. More on this one later.
Christmas goodies were such a treat for us. For years, my mom has made "Texas Trash" which all of you outside of the Lone Star State refer to as Chex mix. We hillbillies have our own special name for it. During my youth, I burned countless hours by sifting through the bowls of salty goodness to get to my favorite parts of the concoction. Generally that was the chinese noodles and the rice chex.
My mother's family celebrated every year with a family gathering, and there was no shortage of Christmas goodness when she, her sisters, and their sister-in-law got together with my grandmother and great grandmother. It is amazing that someone didn't have the forethought to bring a round of insulin for the house. We really needed it to offset the peanut butter bon bons, apricot balls, divinity, and fudge that filled the candy dishes.
One very poignant memory for me is that of my Nana's house at Christmas. Nana was my great grandmother, and she lived for more than a century. I cannot see Christmas candy peppermint taffy without getting nostalgic for the old girl. And for years after her death, I got sniffly every time I bought a box of chocolate covered cherries. Some things just remind you of the people you have loved and lost, and for me, it's peppermint taffy and chocolate covered cherries. The same can be said for my Mo's peanut butter bon bons. And for some reason, Grandmother Erma's scrambled eggs. Go figure.
My father had his Christmas favorites, too, and my mom went above and beyond to make sure he enjoyed his special treasures. He had a stuffed animal from Australia that he wanted perched "just so" inside a huge wreath that hung in the den. Called the silly thing Super Mouse. He had a funny choo choo train ornament that plugged into the Christmas lights and chugged along. There was a mailbox that someone had made for him. My mom never decorated a tree without hanging the ornaments so they were visible to my dad from his big recliner. I haven't seen the train this year, but when we were at Mom's house last weekend, she pointed out the mailbox on her tree, still facing where his chair sat for so many years. We will never know what happy memories these treasures stirred up for my dad, but I know that those things made him happy, and that he held on to them and relived them year after year.
Anyway, Christmas for me was a magical time, filled with nice music and nice decorations and great food and presents. The threat of Santa Claus coming for a late night visit was enough to keep me in line for months. Ok, weeks. And the promise of Santa coming was enough to keep me wide awake on more than one Christmas Eve night. I never saw the big guy personally, but I believe to this day that his spirit is out there and alive and well.
That spirit lives now and moves me to shuffle furniture and to carve out a few hours to set up our tree and to trim it. To stand in the front yard in the cold, battling with stubborn lights that won't work and tangles of wire. To spend countless hours making Christmas candy and wrapping gifts and reading The Night Before Christmas.
That spirit moves me now, just as it moved my parents a lifetime ago. I am creating happy memories for my child, and hopefully for her children someday.
Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas!
Christmas decorations at my childhood home were very serious business. My folks kept them stored in old army trunks from my dad's service days, and I can remember the excitement as they drug them down out of the attic. We would open them up and be greeted with the musty sweet smell of old memories and treasures near forgotten.
We had a beautiful nativity scene - porcelain figurines complete with a manger scene, baby Jesus, and the animals. For a lot of years, my mom set up a Christmas "willage" as we called it, with snowcapped houses and frosty windows. We had Christmas candles in the bathrooms, hand towels with Christmas motifs, and even Christmas toilet paper on the 25th of December. We had peppermint advent calendars, and each day we got to take a single peppermint candy cane off our calendars.
One of my first years in college, my dad bought me packages of gift certificates from McDonalds. With every pack you bought, they gave you a little stuffed reindeer. My dad loaded me up that year and stubbornly demanded his free reindeer toys. My mom found a sleigh with Santa in it, and attached each reindeer to the sleigh with black string. Those reindeer pulled Santa across the mantle of the fireplace in their home for years and years and years. I still get a chuckle when I think of my dad throwing down with the Mickey D's manager over eight tiny reindeer.
We had a mobile with angels suspended on elastic type string, and every year my brother and sister and I would do crazy things with them. Sometimes we hung them from their heavenly ceiling, heads down, like bats. One time, we made little tiny nooses and hung them. Well, by "we" I mean my little brother. My mother was rarely amused by our angel antics. Whoever got stuck sitting under the angels in the bay window at the breakfast table fought the damn things for an entire month. We loved them and hated them, all at the same time.
We had songs of the season, piped in all day on Christmas. And that one day a year, my mom drove us all crazy by answering the phone, "Merry Christmas" instead of "hello." I didn't get it then, but I totally get it now.
Christmas gifts at our house were insane. Santa left unwrapped gifts on Christmas morning, and my folks always made sure we had wrapped gifts under the tree, too. My dad went nuts every year buying gifts, and I didn't realize then how much we had, and how much my folks sacrificed to fill their den with mountains of beautifully wrapped gifts and treasures.
There were three of us kids, and one of us in particular had a very hard time maintaining her composure once the gifts were under the tree. That one of us shall remain unnamed at this point. Suffice it to say that my mother's firstborn was a very naughty girl. Her ridiculous ongoing lack of control when it comes to Christmas gifts warrants its very own Day of Christmas blog, I'm afraid. More on this one later.
Christmas goodies were such a treat for us. For years, my mom has made "Texas Trash" which all of you outside of the Lone Star State refer to as Chex mix. We hillbillies have our own special name for it. During my youth, I burned countless hours by sifting through the bowls of salty goodness to get to my favorite parts of the concoction. Generally that was the chinese noodles and the rice chex.
My mother's family celebrated every year with a family gathering, and there was no shortage of Christmas goodness when she, her sisters, and their sister-in-law got together with my grandmother and great grandmother. It is amazing that someone didn't have the forethought to bring a round of insulin for the house. We really needed it to offset the peanut butter bon bons, apricot balls, divinity, and fudge that filled the candy dishes.
One very poignant memory for me is that of my Nana's house at Christmas. Nana was my great grandmother, and she lived for more than a century. I cannot see Christmas candy peppermint taffy without getting nostalgic for the old girl. And for years after her death, I got sniffly every time I bought a box of chocolate covered cherries. Some things just remind you of the people you have loved and lost, and for me, it's peppermint taffy and chocolate covered cherries. The same can be said for my Mo's peanut butter bon bons. And for some reason, Grandmother Erma's scrambled eggs. Go figure.
My father had his Christmas favorites, too, and my mom went above and beyond to make sure he enjoyed his special treasures. He had a stuffed animal from Australia that he wanted perched "just so" inside a huge wreath that hung in the den. Called the silly thing Super Mouse. He had a funny choo choo train ornament that plugged into the Christmas lights and chugged along. There was a mailbox that someone had made for him. My mom never decorated a tree without hanging the ornaments so they were visible to my dad from his big recliner. I haven't seen the train this year, but when we were at Mom's house last weekend, she pointed out the mailbox on her tree, still facing where his chair sat for so many years. We will never know what happy memories these treasures stirred up for my dad, but I know that those things made him happy, and that he held on to them and relived them year after year.
Anyway, Christmas for me was a magical time, filled with nice music and nice decorations and great food and presents. The threat of Santa Claus coming for a late night visit was enough to keep me in line for months. Ok, weeks. And the promise of Santa coming was enough to keep me wide awake on more than one Christmas Eve night. I never saw the big guy personally, but I believe to this day that his spirit is out there and alive and well.
That spirit lives now and moves me to shuffle furniture and to carve out a few hours to set up our tree and to trim it. To stand in the front yard in the cold, battling with stubborn lights that won't work and tangles of wire. To spend countless hours making Christmas candy and wrapping gifts and reading The Night Before Christmas.
That spirit moves me now, just as it moved my parents a lifetime ago. I am creating happy memories for my child, and hopefully for her children someday.
Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas!
Sunday, December 14, 2008
On the Third Day of Christmas, the year 2008
When I was growing up, my folks went nuts at Christmas. My dad had his favorite ornaments and decorations, and they had to be set so he could see them from his big chair. My mom pulled out all the stops during the holidays. We had the Christmas hand towels in the bathroom. And the nativity scene in the den. And angels on high in the kitchen. And the tree, oh, the tree!
Those memories are happy ones for me, and I would like to think I can bring the same sort of traditions to our family so that one day thirty five years from now LittleG will have the same kinds of memories.
Regretfully, we have much less space in our crowded little starter home for spreading out big nativity scenes, Christmas Villages, and towering Christmas trees. We do the best that we can by carving out a few square feet for our tree, and this year, MrG and I decorated the front of the house with sparkly icicle lights, five little yard size Christmas trees, and net lights in our front shrubs. Oh, and I spend the next three weeks with various and sundry Christmas candy and cookie ingredients spread out across the kitchen. Don't judge me, people.
I have started a Christmas tradition for me and LittleG that centers on the tree trimming. We play Christmas videos, make hot chocolate, and pop the cheesy Christmas themed Pillsbury sugar cookies into the oven to bake while we decorate the tree. Once the tree is up, I let her watch Christmas videos whenever she wants to (within reason, of course), and we read The Night Before Christmas.
This year, I bribed her during a trip to Steinmart by telling her if she would just behave a few more minutes that she could pick out any ornament in the store, and that would be the very first one we put on our tree. Worked like a charm, and thank heavens my beautiful, brilliant child chose a little clear acrylic angel instead of a big gaudy awful shiny thing she could have chosen.
So here is our little tree, decorated with love, for all of us to enjoy this holiday season.
Oh, Tannenbaum!
Those memories are happy ones for me, and I would like to think I can bring the same sort of traditions to our family so that one day thirty five years from now LittleG will have the same kinds of memories.
Regretfully, we have much less space in our crowded little starter home for spreading out big nativity scenes, Christmas Villages, and towering Christmas trees. We do the best that we can by carving out a few square feet for our tree, and this year, MrG and I decorated the front of the house with sparkly icicle lights, five little yard size Christmas trees, and net lights in our front shrubs. Oh, and I spend the next three weeks with various and sundry Christmas candy and cookie ingredients spread out across the kitchen. Don't judge me, people.
I have started a Christmas tradition for me and LittleG that centers on the tree trimming. We play Christmas videos, make hot chocolate, and pop the cheesy Christmas themed Pillsbury sugar cookies into the oven to bake while we decorate the tree. Once the tree is up, I let her watch Christmas videos whenever she wants to (within reason, of course), and we read The Night Before Christmas.
This year, I bribed her during a trip to Steinmart by telling her if she would just behave a few more minutes that she could pick out any ornament in the store, and that would be the very first one we put on our tree. Worked like a charm, and thank heavens my beautiful, brilliant child chose a little clear acrylic angel instead of a big gaudy awful shiny thing she could have chosen.
So here is our little tree, decorated with love, for all of us to enjoy this holiday season.
Oh, Tannenbaum!
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