I feel so lucky to be dating a man who actually asks ME to go Christmas shopping with HIM. And who is secure enough (and loves his niece enough) to spend a whole 20 minutes in the pink-and-girly plastic-toys-with-hair aisle at a large and busy store on a Friday Night while we agonize over which MyLittlePony is the right one to give a well-loved four-year-old. And then he bought her two.
Also, there are three cats snoozing on my bed right now. Mostly because I turned the heater on in my room, and cats like to be warm. The grey boys are all curled up together in a ball on one end, and Abbigale rests in majesty on her heated pet-pad with the flannel pillowcase on it (washable) at the other end. And there is a bit of half-hearted eyes-closed paw-licking going on, which is the very best kind, except when they take turns cleaning each other's faces.
AND I think I've nearly gotten my monthly expenses for the new year down to something that one might actually be able to pay with a part-time or lower-wage job. It gives me options. And hope. And if I DO get a job that actually pays me what I'm worth-- then I'll be able to pay off all those darn debts THAT MUCH FASTER!! Which is a very exciting possibility.
Why is it that Christmas has become a time of death-gripping our concentration on money, of all things?! I find that appalling. I also recently found my "just-in-case" box of little gifts I picked up here and there over the past three years because I thought somebody might like them. And that box is saving my bacon this Christmas. YAY for being so excited about giving that I randomly buy maybe someone would like this gifts, and then store them until a time when I have no money and lots of people who need to know I love them. YAY!!! (and if you don't get a little gifty from me this year, know I still love you anyway...)
And the best news of the season? When I move in with GB, I'll get to bring most of my kitchen gear with me. And he'll treat it with the same careful respect he treats HIS stuff. I can't wait to have access to my kitchen gear again!! YAY!
And finally? I'm in the midst of the second step of the three-step process one goes through to make their book ready for publication. THE SECOND STEP, PEOPLE. As soon as I've gotten a solid 50 pages-- the first 50 pages-- ready to go, I can start applying for agents again. AND EVEN EXPECT TO GET ONE. It's going to be so awesome to finally see this book in print.
Well, 2009 was the Year of Integration. I wonder what 2010 will bring. I hope it's the year I get solid in my career. That'd be nice. Or maybe it'll be the year of being Centered and Balanced. Or the year of fruitful beginnings? I like fruit. Especially apples and dried bananas.
Seasonal Sustenance. What's in YOUR stocking this year??
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Saturday, December 19
Tuesday, December 30
Crashing Into Life
Well, I feel loved. Best thing to feel at this particular time of year, and I feel it. As a good old friend of my family would say, "Shight-Howdy, it's enough to make your big toes wiggle!"
And then we'd all laugh, and she'd look at us and say, "Haven't y'all heard that expression before??" As if WE are the weirdos. This year, my immediate family (me and the 'rents) decided to do JUST STOCKINGS, and look at our traditions to figure out which ones are actually special so we can pay more attention when we do them. And it was really one of the best Christmases we've had-- even Papa thought so.
We made Welsh Pasties (HEAVEN IS WAITING IN MY FREEZER!!!), and Ottonian Sour Cream Cookies (They aren't waiting because I already ate them. All of them.), and eggs on toast. I ran into another one of those situations (I run into these a lot) where two different phrases mean the exact same thing, but I didn't know that, and worked really hard to remember the ONE phrase, so when somebody used the OTHER PHRASE, I had no fugging clue what they were talking about. And how silly is that-- because it was the phrase, "fried eggs."
I mean, I've seen it. I always figured I wouldn't like it because I didn't know what it was. Tells you a lot about my relationship to food, doesn't it. My mom didn't cook those, she made me over-hard eggs in a frying pan, and scrambled eggs. But we don't fry ANYTHING in my family, so I KNEW I'd never had "fried eggs." I was actually shocked that my mom would offer me one-- and on Christmas morning, too!! ... And then she gave me that look. That "you've been drinking out of the stupid jar again, haven't you" look. The one that says she thinks I'm intentionally tormenting her by playing dumb, and she is really not happy with me about it.
I guess the good news is she thinks I'm smart enough to know that "fried eggs" are the eggs you cook in a frying pan-- you know, like over-hard eggs, for example. The bad news is, I really didn't know. You have to understand. When I was little, we didn't eat like everybody else, and mom cooked just about everything from scratch. I thought everybody had vegetarian tomato pasta sauce with beans in it. So she knew what I liked, and I knew what she cooked, and if she asked if I wanted eggs, I knew they'd be scrambled. Or she'd let me cut off the whites and just eat those, since I didn't like the yolks. Even when they weren't the consistency of weird yellow-orange mucus.
So then we'd go to a restaurant, and mom would have to translate everything on the menu for me. What sort of eggs are "over easy" eggs? Do I like those? What is French Toast? You mean it's that weird dry bread you coat with egg and then put syrup on? Eww! (FYI, my food repertoire of "likes" has grossly expanded since the time of which I write. I like food now.)
When, as a child, I got tired of trying to figure out egg-cooking-styles and trying to explain to the waitress what I wanted, I finally memorized two easy kinds of egg-cooking-styles that I KNEW I LIKED, and I KNEW THEY COULD COOK. And always since then, if we eat breakfast out, I ask for one of those. Eggs over-hard, or hard-scrambled. Because I'd learned that this is the most easily-understood restaurant term for the kind of eggs my mom cooked for me at home. And that is literally the extent of my egg-preparation-term repertoire. Oh, plus hardboiled. I know those from Easter. Then mom tells me --right there on Christmas morning-- that she's making "boiled eggs" for her and papa.
WTF?! Does she mean HARD boiled?? Is there any OTHER kind of boiled egg? I mean-- parents always yell at their kids for eating cookie dough with UNCOOKED EGGS in it, so... Is this another trick like the "fried eggs" situation?? sigh... I guess I must have ROLLED in stupid-juice without even noticing last night, because apparently I reek of it. Just look at her scrunched up face when I ask for clarification on THAT one!!
See, fancy literature and books about dragons rarely describe cooked eggs in both visual and restaurantees terms enough to picture what is what-- so eggs are not among the information and vocabulary and phrases that I gleaned from said "literature." I may have told my dad as a pre-pubescent teen that "my cup runeth over" when he gave me too much milk once-- and known both the literal and the poetic meanings of the phrase used... but what has THAT got to do with the price of EGGS?!
Ahem-- so anyway, I felt loved this holiday season. And I was able to hi-jack my friend's car with the walnut-studded tires and the cold weather engine starter and the eco-diesel green gas juice and all, and drive IT through the frozen and bumpy wasteland of insane Christmas-Eve highway drivers to my parents' house so I COULD bake cookies and pasties and eggs with them. It was wonderful.
I also got phone calls from several friends to make sure I arrived there safely, or was doing okay with all the insane snow we received. Can you believe we had a WHITE CHRISTMAS on the west coast? When has THAT happened before?! Even weirder than fried eggs, I tell you! And I'm about to head over to check my mail. There may be Christmas Cards I don't know about. It's been almost two weeks since I could get close enough to the post office to park my car and go in.
And then on Sunday, my extended West Coast Family all mustered together and celebrated, and shared "extended family love" with the little kids. It was the start of another great Christmas tradition that we all want to remember for next year, too. Not quite as grand as the ones we used to have back east (50 people, lots of excellent insanity), but still... And that reminds me-- I've got cheese in my backpack, and it really ought to be put in the fridge here soon.
Merry Everything, and many happy returns of it all to you and yours.
Or, as my family probably will say after they read about the eggs,
"Here's egg in your face!" Which I know is a quote, but have NO idea where it came from. And I'm actually okay with that. Really.
And then we'd all laugh, and she'd look at us and say, "Haven't y'all heard that expression before??" As if WE are the weirdos. This year, my immediate family (me and the 'rents) decided to do JUST STOCKINGS, and look at our traditions to figure out which ones are actually special so we can pay more attention when we do them. And it was really one of the best Christmases we've had-- even Papa thought so.
We made Welsh Pasties (HEAVEN IS WAITING IN MY FREEZER!!!), and Ottonian Sour Cream Cookies (They aren't waiting because I already ate them. All of them.), and eggs on toast. I ran into another one of those situations (I run into these a lot) where two different phrases mean the exact same thing, but I didn't know that, and worked really hard to remember the ONE phrase, so when somebody used the OTHER PHRASE, I had no fugging clue what they were talking about. And how silly is that-- because it was the phrase, "fried eggs."
I mean, I've seen it. I always figured I wouldn't like it because I didn't know what it was. Tells you a lot about my relationship to food, doesn't it. My mom didn't cook those, she made me over-hard eggs in a frying pan, and scrambled eggs. But we don't fry ANYTHING in my family, so I KNEW I'd never had "fried eggs." I was actually shocked that my mom would offer me one-- and on Christmas morning, too!! ... And then she gave me that look. That "you've been drinking out of the stupid jar again, haven't you" look. The one that says she thinks I'm intentionally tormenting her by playing dumb, and she is really not happy with me about it.
I guess the good news is she thinks I'm smart enough to know that "fried eggs" are the eggs you cook in a frying pan-- you know, like over-hard eggs, for example. The bad news is, I really didn't know. You have to understand. When I was little, we didn't eat like everybody else, and mom cooked just about everything from scratch. I thought everybody had vegetarian tomato pasta sauce with beans in it. So she knew what I liked, and I knew what she cooked, and if she asked if I wanted eggs, I knew they'd be scrambled. Or she'd let me cut off the whites and just eat those, since I didn't like the yolks. Even when they weren't the consistency of weird yellow-orange mucus.
So then we'd go to a restaurant, and mom would have to translate everything on the menu for me. What sort of eggs are "over easy" eggs? Do I like those? What is French Toast? You mean it's that weird dry bread you coat with egg and then put syrup on? Eww! (FYI, my food repertoire of "likes" has grossly expanded since the time of which I write. I like food now.)
When, as a child, I got tired of trying to figure out egg-cooking-styles and trying to explain to the waitress what I wanted, I finally memorized two easy kinds of egg-cooking-styles that I KNEW I LIKED, and I KNEW THEY COULD COOK. And always since then, if we eat breakfast out, I ask for one of those. Eggs over-hard, or hard-scrambled. Because I'd learned that this is the most easily-understood restaurant term for the kind of eggs my mom cooked for me at home. And that is literally the extent of my egg-preparation-term repertoire. Oh, plus hardboiled. I know those from Easter. Then mom tells me --right there on Christmas morning-- that she's making "boiled eggs" for her and papa.
WTF?! Does she mean HARD boiled?? Is there any OTHER kind of boiled egg? I mean-- parents always yell at their kids for eating cookie dough with UNCOOKED EGGS in it, so... Is this another trick like the "fried eggs" situation?? sigh... I guess I must have ROLLED in stupid-juice without even noticing last night, because apparently I reek of it. Just look at her scrunched up face when I ask for clarification on THAT one!!
See, fancy literature and books about dragons rarely describe cooked eggs in both visual and restaurantees terms enough to picture what is what-- so eggs are not among the information and vocabulary and phrases that I gleaned from said "literature." I may have told my dad as a pre-pubescent teen that "my cup runeth over" when he gave me too much milk once-- and known both the literal and the poetic meanings of the phrase used... but what has THAT got to do with the price of EGGS?!
Ahem-- so anyway, I felt loved this holiday season. And I was able to hi-jack my friend's car with the walnut-studded tires and the cold weather engine starter and the eco-diesel green gas juice and all, and drive IT through the frozen and bumpy wasteland of insane Christmas-Eve highway drivers to my parents' house so I COULD bake cookies and pasties and eggs with them. It was wonderful.
I also got phone calls from several friends to make sure I arrived there safely, or was doing okay with all the insane snow we received. Can you believe we had a WHITE CHRISTMAS on the west coast? When has THAT happened before?! Even weirder than fried eggs, I tell you! And I'm about to head over to check my mail. There may be Christmas Cards I don't know about. It's been almost two weeks since I could get close enough to the post office to park my car and go in.
And then on Sunday, my extended West Coast Family all mustered together and celebrated, and shared "extended family love" with the little kids. It was the start of another great Christmas tradition that we all want to remember for next year, too. Not quite as grand as the ones we used to have back east (50 people, lots of excellent insanity), but still... And that reminds me-- I've got cheese in my backpack, and it really ought to be put in the fridge here soon.
Merry Everything, and many happy returns of it all to you and yours.
Or, as my family probably will say after they read about the eggs,
"Here's egg in your face!" Which I know is a quote, but have NO idea where it came from. And I'm actually okay with that. Really.
Friday, September 12
In the Spirit of Christmas
I recently began to reminisce about Christmases past. I do that in the summer. Goes well with my habit of singing Christmas Carols in July. And that other habit I have of standing on one foot while doing the dishes. Anyway, here's what I wrote about what I remember:
Before I ever met him, he hated Christmas. Hated it for the same reason he hated his birthday-- they were too close together. They were fake. The attention wasn't really on him, and the gifts for the two were often combined into one bigger gift-- It made him bitter to be so short-changed. Isn't that strange?
It was a victory-- the buzz of war’s end and the fear-stench of D-day rolled into one-- the first time I brought a Christmas Tree into our house. Not our first year there, but our second. Such a little thing, a tree.
We negotiated back and forth, just a suggestion gently interposed here or there when he wasn't struggling with other aspects of our life together... Finally we agreed. A live tree, no more than three feet tall, no ornaments, one strand of lights-- white lights only. He'd help me carry it into the house no sooner than the 23rd of December, and it had to be planted in the back yard no later than December 29th. It had to be under $25... And I couldn't mention Christmas or trees at all for the month between now and then. Certainly not on his birthday!
But it was a TREE! Something to reflect the seasonal glory I feel every time the Earth cleans her slate to begin anew. Something to connect our home with the homes of other families throughout the community to which I so desperately wanted to belong. Something friendly and healthy and clean in our married world. Something that wasn't a secret.
I laugh now to remember how he broke out in hives wherever the needles of that feathery little aromatic desert cedar pricked him. How angry he was when he finally planted it in January, and entered the sliding glass door on our little almost-A-frame house, strangling the earth beneath his feet with every twist of those mud-glazed black boots. Arms covered in little red welts. Of course, it wasn't funny at the time-- it was my fault, this crawling pain he felt in waves across his skin. My fault that he was allergic to Christmas. To the only tree on the lot I could find that was more than a seedling and less than $25, two days before Christmas.
I guess life is full of little victories like this. I guess it's hard to admit that I was part of the problem, too, but I know now that I was. I didn't hold him accountable for his choices, didn't put up boundaries between his problems and mine. I just checked to be sure the shovel was no longer in his hands, and then went forward to apologize for the tree, and offer what comforts I could to the places where his skin was broken and angry. After all, they were only little scratches on the surface, nothing deeper than that. They could be soothed, and given time, they would mend. Right?
The F.R.G. meets once a month on post, and the women who attend speak of seemingly innocent things between items of business on the agenda. Officers to officers, enlisted to enlisted, sergeants' wives straddling the emptiness between. The Captain's wife leads the meeting, and reports back to the General's wife, who also sometimes attends. They say a wife has no rank... I understand how easy it is to lie with integrity.
"Oh, yes-- we're putting our decorations up a little closer to Christmas," I tell them. "You know, we usually get a live tree, and we want it to survive the move back outside..." I no longer remember what "truth" I told about the total dearth of Christmas spirit in our home the first winter of our married life... Probably the same thing I said about the fact that he hated roses, cats, the color pink, home improvement shows on TV, and the time I spent talking with old friends on the phone-- that there were more important things in life than what kind of flowers I got on my birthday.
Some pieces of the people you spend your energy on get stuck in your psyche... The way the trapezius muscle rested under sun-spotted skin with a certain luscious convex curve that's missing on other men, the elephant stench of the bathroom after he ate ice cream or cheese, that tightness around his nostrils that said he was hiding something again-- something that was, in his words, "easier to ask forgiveness than permission" for having done. The sweet smell of the cologne he wore before we were married.
I remember the first week we lived together in the house I found. It was November, maybe December. We'd been married for six months, engaged for three years before that, and now finally, we could be alone together in our own space. We'd bought our own home, weathered our wedding on the coast, his four months of Training in Kentucky, my car accident in St. Louis. Things were finally going to be better for both of us.
I remember looking around at the end of that first week, noting the week's worth of discarded socks, scattered like so many crumpled gold-toed snowballs around our new king-sized bed. His OD green bath towel from our wedding, still so wet from yesterday's 5am shower that it dripped as I gingerly carried it the last two feet from the carpeted floor to the hamper in the corner.
I remember the moment I finally understood that the slovenly disregard he'd shown every hotel room, every quaint B&B of our courtship-- it was how he treated all the objects in his life. That my carefully hoarded life treasures would get no better treatment from him. That one more of my "it'll be better when" dreams was not coming true as planned.
And that knowledge sits in my psyche, making me cold and withdrawn around men with similar strengths and propensities. Men with birthdays in December, and allergies to milk. Men who wear that particular cologne. Now that my life is under my direction, it is like skulking around a sanitarium after dark to return to these memories, these rules, these smells and most of all, these complex truths. I am haunted by the ghosts of Christmases past.
I am no longer willing to give up the celebrations of my life. I am uncomfortable knowing that I did give them up-- many times, and to many people. Uncomfortable knowing how easy it always was to find a reason to stay behind, helping someone else’s dreams come true. The good little Wife, supporting my husband's career, depending on him for security and friendship and even identity at times. Learning to celebrate the small things, learning what it takes to survive in a world where soldiers are treated like machines, with no control over their lives and no way to guess at their future. Learning not to plan too far ahead, as a buffer to disappointment. Living in a community where belonging and blending in is everything, and you-- the wife-- can never be a priority. You have no rank, remember?
Before I ever met him, he hated Christmas. Hated it for the same reason he hated his birthday-- they were too close together. They were fake. The attention wasn't really on him, and the gifts for the two were often combined into one bigger gift-- It made him bitter to be so short-changed. Isn't that strange?
It was a victory-- the buzz of war’s end and the fear-stench of D-day rolled into one-- the first time I brought a Christmas Tree into our house. Not our first year there, but our second. Such a little thing, a tree.
We negotiated back and forth, just a suggestion gently interposed here or there when he wasn't struggling with other aspects of our life together... Finally we agreed. A live tree, no more than three feet tall, no ornaments, one strand of lights-- white lights only. He'd help me carry it into the house no sooner than the 23rd of December, and it had to be planted in the back yard no later than December 29th. It had to be under $25... And I couldn't mention Christmas or trees at all for the month between now and then. Certainly not on his birthday!
But it was a TREE! Something to reflect the seasonal glory I feel every time the Earth cleans her slate to begin anew. Something to connect our home with the homes of other families throughout the community to which I so desperately wanted to belong. Something friendly and healthy and clean in our married world. Something that wasn't a secret.
I laugh now to remember how he broke out in hives wherever the needles of that feathery little aromatic desert cedar pricked him. How angry he was when he finally planted it in January, and entered the sliding glass door on our little almost-A-frame house, strangling the earth beneath his feet with every twist of those mud-glazed black boots. Arms covered in little red welts. Of course, it wasn't funny at the time-- it was my fault, this crawling pain he felt in waves across his skin. My fault that he was allergic to Christmas. To the only tree on the lot I could find that was more than a seedling and less than $25, two days before Christmas.
I guess life is full of little victories like this. I guess it's hard to admit that I was part of the problem, too, but I know now that I was. I didn't hold him accountable for his choices, didn't put up boundaries between his problems and mine. I just checked to be sure the shovel was no longer in his hands, and then went forward to apologize for the tree, and offer what comforts I could to the places where his skin was broken and angry. After all, they were only little scratches on the surface, nothing deeper than that. They could be soothed, and given time, they would mend. Right?
The F.R.G. meets once a month on post, and the women who attend speak of seemingly innocent things between items of business on the agenda. Officers to officers, enlisted to enlisted, sergeants' wives straddling the emptiness between. The Captain's wife leads the meeting, and reports back to the General's wife, who also sometimes attends. They say a wife has no rank... I understand how easy it is to lie with integrity.
"Oh, yes-- we're putting our decorations up a little closer to Christmas," I tell them. "You know, we usually get a live tree, and we want it to survive the move back outside..." I no longer remember what "truth" I told about the total dearth of Christmas spirit in our home the first winter of our married life... Probably the same thing I said about the fact that he hated roses, cats, the color pink, home improvement shows on TV, and the time I spent talking with old friends on the phone-- that there were more important things in life than what kind of flowers I got on my birthday.
Some pieces of the people you spend your energy on get stuck in your psyche... The way the trapezius muscle rested under sun-spotted skin with a certain luscious convex curve that's missing on other men, the elephant stench of the bathroom after he ate ice cream or cheese, that tightness around his nostrils that said he was hiding something again-- something that was, in his words, "easier to ask forgiveness than permission" for having done. The sweet smell of the cologne he wore before we were married.
I remember the first week we lived together in the house I found. It was November, maybe December. We'd been married for six months, engaged for three years before that, and now finally, we could be alone together in our own space. We'd bought our own home, weathered our wedding on the coast, his four months of Training in Kentucky, my car accident in St. Louis. Things were finally going to be better for both of us.
I remember looking around at the end of that first week, noting the week's worth of discarded socks, scattered like so many crumpled gold-toed snowballs around our new king-sized bed. His OD green bath towel from our wedding, still so wet from yesterday's 5am shower that it dripped as I gingerly carried it the last two feet from the carpeted floor to the hamper in the corner.
I remember the moment I finally understood that the slovenly disregard he'd shown every hotel room, every quaint B&B of our courtship-- it was how he treated all the objects in his life. That my carefully hoarded life treasures would get no better treatment from him. That one more of my "it'll be better when" dreams was not coming true as planned.
And that knowledge sits in my psyche, making me cold and withdrawn around men with similar strengths and propensities. Men with birthdays in December, and allergies to milk. Men who wear that particular cologne. Now that my life is under my direction, it is like skulking around a sanitarium after dark to return to these memories, these rules, these smells and most of all, these complex truths. I am haunted by the ghosts of Christmases past.
I am no longer willing to give up the celebrations of my life. I am uncomfortable knowing that I did give them up-- many times, and to many people. Uncomfortable knowing how easy it always was to find a reason to stay behind, helping someone else’s dreams come true. The good little Wife, supporting my husband's career, depending on him for security and friendship and even identity at times. Learning to celebrate the small things, learning what it takes to survive in a world where soldiers are treated like machines, with no control over their lives and no way to guess at their future. Learning not to plan too far ahead, as a buffer to disappointment. Living in a community where belonging and blending in is everything, and you-- the wife-- can never be a priority. You have no rank, remember?
Monday, August 20
Bose Bwahahaha
Just in case you were wondering, I promised myself a Bose Stereo if I got all A's in my classes this summer. A truly difficult task because I had that one professor again, for a class with little redeeming value, and lots of quizzes-- and because it was Summermester. As you know, this is when they cram a whole 4-month semester class into the 8 weeks of summer.
Just in case you were wondering, I suffered. Not "my dad died of small pox and I had to take over the farm for my younger brothers, and we didn't have enough to eat because it was the depression" suffered, but ... it was Not Fun. And I didn't have many get-togethers with my friends this summer either, and I felt like a not-good-friend about it, but there is only so much time in a week, and mine was packed.
Just in case you were wondering-- I'll be buying my stereo just as soon as the financial aid check that I was supposed to live off of this summer arrives in September. My grin of mad satisfaction is so big, I look like the Cheshire Cat. I'm even wearing pants with purple stripes in them. =D bbbboooooosssssseeeee.... mmmmmm ...I'm also going to ask my dad to turn all my favorite old tapes into CDs so I can listen to them-- I haven't had a way to play them in about three years. Oh... well, except for in my car-- and I never thought of that. Whoops. Ok. Well. Ahem-- anyway, they'll be much more user-friendly on CD. Yeah.
(in case you were wondering-- the 3BT are the two A's, and the stereo. Also, I'm really looking forward to having more time with my friends again-- and to having that financial aid check finally!-- it feels just like Christmas. Speaking of which, I'm proud to brag that I have now purchased five christmas gifts, and I even know who most of them are for!)
Just in case you were wondering, I suffered. Not "my dad died of small pox and I had to take over the farm for my younger brothers, and we didn't have enough to eat because it was the depression" suffered, but ... it was Not Fun. And I didn't have many get-togethers with my friends this summer either, and I felt like a not-good-friend about it, but there is only so much time in a week, and mine was packed.
Just in case you were wondering-- I'll be buying my stereo just as soon as the financial aid check that I was supposed to live off of this summer arrives in September. My grin of mad satisfaction is so big, I look like the Cheshire Cat. I'm even wearing pants with purple stripes in them. =D bbbboooooosssssseeeee.... mmmmmm ...I'm also going to ask my dad to turn all my favorite old tapes into CDs so I can listen to them-- I haven't had a way to play them in about three years. Oh... well, except for in my car-- and I never thought of that. Whoops. Ok. Well. Ahem-- anyway, they'll be much more user-friendly on CD. Yeah.
(in case you were wondering-- the 3BT are the two A's, and the stereo. Also, I'm really looking forward to having more time with my friends again-- and to having that financial aid check finally!-- it feels just like Christmas. Speaking of which, I'm proud to brag that I have now purchased five christmas gifts, and I even know who most of them are for!)
Wednesday, March 21
Astral Insanity
So... I love this woman. I've never met her. She' d probably irritate me in real life. But OHMYGOD, we are astrally connected on another plane of existence. Really. Only she knits and I make wall tapestry quilts. And she has three cats, and I have one. So far.
CrazyAuntPurl
Go there. Read that. Then, let me tell you about the garlic growing IN A CLOSED GLASS CONTAINER in my kitchen, that I had just this morning decided to plant, because I am so proud of it. And the fuzzy cat bed I bought for Abbigale out of guilt, and that she still wants nothing to do with, even though she has clearly decided that it belongs to her, so I can't get rid of it. And the way I felt about MY first-Christmas-after-divorce fake tree and it's strange similarities to the way SHE felt about HERS ...Or was that too much information? =)
I'll bet she's the actress they found to play my role in the sitcom... Yup... That's got to be why she's so familiar... and so much funnier, too!
CrazyAuntPurl
Go there. Read that. Then, let me tell you about the garlic growing IN A CLOSED GLASS CONTAINER in my kitchen, that I had just this morning decided to plant, because I am so proud of it. And the fuzzy cat bed I bought for Abbigale out of guilt, and that she still wants nothing to do with, even though she has clearly decided that it belongs to her, so I can't get rid of it. And the way I felt about MY first-Christmas-after-divorce fake tree and it's strange similarities to the way SHE felt about HERS ...Or was that too much information? =)
I'll bet she's the actress they found to play my role in the sitcom... Yup... That's got to be why she's so familiar... and so much funnier, too!
Friday, December 22
The Darkest Time of the Darkest Night
There is always a big hullabaloo about starting fresh for the New Year-- as though somehow resetting our clocks and changing out our wall calendars is the same as resetting our daily routine and throwing out all our bad habits. That hypnotic count down from ten to zero, and the huge wave of noise and happy celebration are like the snap of a therapist's fingers to bring us back to reality, fully healed from what came before. Rubbish.
As my friend can tell you (Link to that Entry), what really matters is not eating anything that scratches backwards, and only doing what you WANT to do ALL YEAR on the day that sets the pace for it. Resolutions Shnezolutions!
I can remember sitting and thinking about my habits and my life each December, knowing that everyone was going to ask me what my resolutions were for the new year... and trying hella hard to come up with something good. I don't smoke, I don't drink, and I eat healthy 75% of the time. What else do people quit or start cold-turkey at New Years? (Seriously- if you've got a good one, I want to hear about it.)
This year, I was flipping through the January Oprah magazine (released in early December) as I stood in line with over $75 worth of groceries to get me through the last three days before I go visit my family for Christmas. I figured I needed all the comfort food I could get. Anyway, I had just started to worry about coming up with a good resolution to tell everyone about for New Years. (Notice I didn't say I was actually planning to DO it.) The cover says "Be the woman you want to be! Why it's so hard to change yourself-- a revolutionary guide to making it happen." Hey-Presto! I'll bet there are some GREAT resolution ideas in there! How naive.
There it was, on page 57. "Self-Transformation 101" Two simple steps.
Oprah changed my life.
Okay, well, so I actually snort with laughter at the absurdity of that overstated claim. And I'm not actually planning to change my life forever at the moment the ball touches down on December 31st. But those two simple ideas, and the two steps accompanying them did make me think about my life in a different way-- about all the things I've discovered that I WANT in my life, but haven't actually been able to include on a regular basis. This year, I'm not making grand resolutions. I'm making personal awarenesses, and accessing the resources to follow through on them. There is a whopping difference between the two approaches.
What follows is called a teaser.
The first question you've got to ask yourself is this: "Do I know why I want to make this change?" For the rest of this awesome two-step process, I suggest you get your own copy of Oprah's Magazine for January 2007. Check out page 57, and if you really want to think deep-- I just turned that page, and discovered two more steps to the process. Oops. I'm not sure I'll read them, though. Steps one and two have already got me going in a good direction. Not bad for two weeks to New Years!
If you're curious about my own plans, here are the steps I plan to take first:
-Get a recording of the song in Legally Blonde that gets my
"I am going to MAKE it, and make it GOOD!" going.
-Get a light-brightening alarm and set it for 5:15am.
-Set regular radio alarm for 6am.
-Set second regular radio alarm for 8pm. (no, this is not to help me wake up)
I'll let you know how it goes.
As my friend can tell you (Link to that Entry), what really matters is not eating anything that scratches backwards, and only doing what you WANT to do ALL YEAR on the day that sets the pace for it. Resolutions Shnezolutions!
I can remember sitting and thinking about my habits and my life each December, knowing that everyone was going to ask me what my resolutions were for the new year... and trying hella hard to come up with something good. I don't smoke, I don't drink, and I eat healthy 75% of the time. What else do people quit or start cold-turkey at New Years? (Seriously- if you've got a good one, I want to hear about it.)
This year, I was flipping through the January Oprah magazine (released in early December) as I stood in line with over $75 worth of groceries to get me through the last three days before I go visit my family for Christmas. I figured I needed all the comfort food I could get. Anyway, I had just started to worry about coming up with a good resolution to tell everyone about for New Years. (Notice I didn't say I was actually planning to DO it.) The cover says "Be the woman you want to be! Why it's so hard to change yourself-- a revolutionary guide to making it happen." Hey-Presto! I'll bet there are some GREAT resolution ideas in there! How naive.
There it was, on page 57. "Self-Transformation 101" Two simple steps.
Oprah changed my life.
Okay, well, so I actually snort with laughter at the absurdity of that overstated claim. And I'm not actually planning to change my life forever at the moment the ball touches down on December 31st. But those two simple ideas, and the two steps accompanying them did make me think about my life in a different way-- about all the things I've discovered that I WANT in my life, but haven't actually been able to include on a regular basis. This year, I'm not making grand resolutions. I'm making personal awarenesses, and accessing the resources to follow through on them. There is a whopping difference between the two approaches.
What follows is called a teaser.
The first question you've got to ask yourself is this: "Do I know why I want to make this change?" For the rest of this awesome two-step process, I suggest you get your own copy of Oprah's Magazine for January 2007. Check out page 57, and if you really want to think deep-- I just turned that page, and discovered two more steps to the process. Oops. I'm not sure I'll read them, though. Steps one and two have already got me going in a good direction. Not bad for two weeks to New Years!
If you're curious about my own plans, here are the steps I plan to take first:
-Get a recording of the song in Legally Blonde that gets my
"I am going to MAKE it, and make it GOOD!" going.
-Get a light-brightening alarm and set it for 5:15am.
-Set regular radio alarm for 6am.
-Set second regular radio alarm for 8pm. (no, this is not to help me wake up)
I'll let you know how it goes.
When Hope is Reborn
My Christmas Card has a following. I'm not kidding. I've been told by at least three people now that they plan to save THIS YEAR'S CARD as their all-time favorite. I'm actually quite pleased. Its one of the most personal cards I've ever put together, and I meant every word.
Just in case you didn't get a card from me this year, I'm including the message I sent below. I don't have any of the actual cards I made left, however, so you will just have to use your imagination. The basic format was a fun folded card with seasonal embossed decorations on front, surrounding a small dark red envelope. If you open the card, the message below greeted you, along with a stamp quoting the Beatles "I get by with a little help from my friends." If you open the little red envelope, you get a glittery picture of snowy bridges or snowy vistas of Asian origin-- in that was the personal message. My secret is that the smaller personal cards meant I didn't have to think of as much to say to each person, nor spend as much time writing.
Just in case you didn't get a card from me this year, I'm including the message I sent below. I don't have any of the actual cards I made left, however, so you will just have to use your imagination. The basic format was a fun folded card with seasonal embossed decorations on front, surrounding a small dark red envelope. If you open the card, the message below greeted you, along with a stamp quoting the Beatles "I get by with a little help from my friends." If you open the little red envelope, you get a glittery picture of snowy bridges or snowy vistas of Asian origin-- in that was the personal message. My secret is that the smaller personal cards meant I didn't have to think of as much to say to each person, nor spend as much time writing.
12.1.2006. For many of us, time is marked by events.
The birth of a child, the death of a pet, a graduation,
the start of a relationship, the end of a career...
I signed divorce papers last January, and since then,
a new period of my life has begun. It is full of challenges
and changes, but also of friends, family, and delightful
self-discoveries. My cat would like you to know that she,
also, has a central role in my life. She’s sitting in my lap
as I type this, knocking pens off my desk, and purring.
I have enjoyed setting up a home for my comfort,
and sharing it with the good friends I’ve made--
and I already had waiting-- in my new home town.
I had not believed a year ago that my life could be
so rich with friends. Thank you. You are they.
I am also learning to succeed as a graduate student.
It is not a graceful process, but I am learning much
about myself and about Library Science as I go forward.
Since that is the point of any education, I try to be content.
I am also discovering what I want my daily life to include.
Finally figuring out who I intend to be inside my skin.
I’m 28. Its about time. And I like me.
In the spirit of Joy, and the hope for Peace...
Happy Christmas to you and yours!
The birth of a child, the death of a pet, a graduation,
the start of a relationship, the end of a career...
I signed divorce papers last January, and since then,
a new period of my life has begun. It is full of challenges
and changes, but also of friends, family, and delightful
self-discoveries. My cat would like you to know that she,
also, has a central role in my life. She’s sitting in my lap
as I type this, knocking pens off my desk, and purring.
I have enjoyed setting up a home for my comfort,
and sharing it with the good friends I’ve made--
and I already had waiting-- in my new home town.
I had not believed a year ago that my life could be
so rich with friends. Thank you. You are they.
I am also learning to succeed as a graduate student.
It is not a graceful process, but I am learning much
about myself and about Library Science as I go forward.
Since that is the point of any education, I try to be content.
I am also discovering what I want my daily life to include.
Finally figuring out who I intend to be inside my skin.
I’m 28. Its about time. And I like me.
In the spirit of Joy, and the hope for Peace...
Happy Christmas to you and yours!
Even more exciting is the fact that I got these cards sent out BEFORE the 25th of December. I always start early-- and I have never before gotten the cards or newsletters actually SENT OUT until about New Year's. In fact, I have become so aware of my handicap with time that I usually make this a "seasonal" card. And I talk about both New Year's AND Christmas-- just in case.
Doing Christmas Cards is a bit like exercising: You are much more likely to actually DO IT, and enjoy the process, if you invite friends to come over and work on theirs at the same time. Stamping-Buddies. I highly recommend them.
The thing is-- we DO tend to mark time more by events than by dates. If you ask a middle-aged man to tell you where he worked after high school-- he will first tell you what year he graduated, because that was a big event in his life, and he has seperate memories of what came before, and what came after. Ask a writer how long she's been working on her latest book, and she'll remember the experience that sparked her to start it-- and then give you a time-frame based on that incident or event in her life.
The passing of time itself is actually very superficial. Hours, days, months, years-- just ask the Romans. We still use a calendar today that is loosely based on theirs... and they actually had to include a whole imaginary MONTH one year to get the calendar back on track with the actual movement of the earth and the changing seasons. No forced accounting of "leap years" for them!
In fact, as the earth moves farther from the sun, our hours are actually growing longer. Time is passing more slowly in a very physical sense. And those of you who remember how HOT it was on the west coast in September and October this year will agree that the traditional "summer months" aren't really all that descriptive of our world anymore. Our calendar of months has little to do with the passing of seasons these days. It is actually much more important that we count the challenges we've overcome, the seasons we've experienced, and the friends we've made, than specifying any number of candles on a cake. Those little flames tell us how many times we've passed completely around the Sun... but they don't tell us what we did or who we became during those rotations.
Surprised that I'm divorced? I am. Its not usually part of the plan when one marries. But as I said, time passes and people change. Its actually a bit like gaining membership into a very large secret society-- and as just about everyone you meet knows how painful it is to start over after a DIVORCE (oops, did I say that dirty word out loud??), they are usually very helpful and kind. I'm lucky that even my ex took this view of things. And I have mentioned him to you before-- he gets a football every year for Christmas.
Doing Christmas Cards is a bit like exercising: You are much more likely to actually DO IT, and enjoy the process, if you invite friends to come over and work on theirs at the same time. Stamping-Buddies. I highly recommend them.
The thing is-- we DO tend to mark time more by events than by dates. If you ask a middle-aged man to tell you where he worked after high school-- he will first tell you what year he graduated, because that was a big event in his life, and he has seperate memories of what came before, and what came after. Ask a writer how long she's been working on her latest book, and she'll remember the experience that sparked her to start it-- and then give you a time-frame based on that incident or event in her life.
The passing of time itself is actually very superficial. Hours, days, months, years-- just ask the Romans. We still use a calendar today that is loosely based on theirs... and they actually had to include a whole imaginary MONTH one year to get the calendar back on track with the actual movement of the earth and the changing seasons. No forced accounting of "leap years" for them!
In fact, as the earth moves farther from the sun, our hours are actually growing longer. Time is passing more slowly in a very physical sense. And those of you who remember how HOT it was on the west coast in September and October this year will agree that the traditional "summer months" aren't really all that descriptive of our world anymore. Our calendar of months has little to do with the passing of seasons these days. It is actually much more important that we count the challenges we've overcome, the seasons we've experienced, and the friends we've made, than specifying any number of candles on a cake. Those little flames tell us how many times we've passed completely around the Sun... but they don't tell us what we did or who we became during those rotations.
Surprised that I'm divorced? I am. Its not usually part of the plan when one marries. But as I said, time passes and people change. Its actually a bit like gaining membership into a very large secret society-- and as just about everyone you meet knows how painful it is to start over after a DIVORCE (oops, did I say that dirty word out loud??), they are usually very helpful and kind. I'm lucky that even my ex took this view of things. And I have mentioned him to you before-- he gets a football every year for Christmas.
Monday, December 18
Merry, Merry!
This is my aunt's favorite phrase. We don't know why she says it, but we know what she means. Merry, Merry! It's the idea that we create our own happiness-- and she is wishing for lots of it in our lives.
What with the concern and confusion surrounding the gifts my parents gave my cousins (see "Say What?"), and figuring out transportation for those without cars... I was a bit stressed when the big West-Coast family Christmas finally happened this weekend.
The best part was actually the gift my cousin gave her sister. It was even better that I got to help give it. My cousin lives in a 300 sf apartment, and doesn't have a vehicle. The box was huge, difficult to grasp, and rather heavy. To top it all off, the contents were delicate. One full-size piano keyboard with weighted keys, and a music stand on top. My cousin is an all-or-nothing kind of person. She'd also run out of wrapping paper after wrapping up only one end of the box, and her sister was coming to visit. In the midst of my planning for the big extended family Christmas, I called my cousin to see if she wanted to ride with me to the big event. She did. She also needed a favor. Could I keep the piano until it was time? I could.
I had been to Costco recently, and along with three tiny indoor-outdoor snowmen who jiggle like jell-o and sing "Jingle Bells" to passers by in silly high-pitched voices, I'd bought a Costco-sized roll of Christmas wrapping paper. When I got the piano box home, I finished wrapping it with my bottomless roll of paper, put a grand gold ribbon around it, and topped the whole thing off with a little sticker saying the gift was from me to a family member who couldn't make it to Christmas this year.
A week later, when I came to pick them up and drive out to the beach for our big celebration, I had my story ready. "I had this great idea to put all the gifts for Teresa and her family in one box, and just leave it at your parents'-- sorry." My cousin laughed. Her sister nodded and got busy packing her winter break bags around the huge box in my car. I found out later she'd actually thought I was totally insane, and had worried that I might actually try and ship the box to Teresa. It would have cost nearly as much as the piano hidden inside.
When my cousin finally lugged the box over to her sister, after all the other gifts had been given and enjoyed, the rest of the family were all grinning like the Cheshire Cat. We all knew what the gift really was... The only person who didn't know had to ask us about five times if the box was really for her... and then she ripped through all that wrapping paper I'd used in about two seconds. She was so happy to see that shiny new keyboard, she started hyperventilating. What a lot of happiness that one gift created for so many people. Merry, Merry!
...I just hope Teresa isn't disappointed-- all I got her this year was a football.
What with the concern and confusion surrounding the gifts my parents gave my cousins (see "Say What?"), and figuring out transportation for those without cars... I was a bit stressed when the big West-Coast family Christmas finally happened this weekend.
The best part was actually the gift my cousin gave her sister. It was even better that I got to help give it. My cousin lives in a 300 sf apartment, and doesn't have a vehicle. The box was huge, difficult to grasp, and rather heavy. To top it all off, the contents were delicate. One full-size piano keyboard with weighted keys, and a music stand on top. My cousin is an all-or-nothing kind of person. She'd also run out of wrapping paper after wrapping up only one end of the box, and her sister was coming to visit. In the midst of my planning for the big extended family Christmas, I called my cousin to see if she wanted to ride with me to the big event. She did. She also needed a favor. Could I keep the piano until it was time? I could.
I had been to Costco recently, and along with three tiny indoor-outdoor snowmen who jiggle like jell-o and sing "Jingle Bells" to passers by in silly high-pitched voices, I'd bought a Costco-sized roll of Christmas wrapping paper. When I got the piano box home, I finished wrapping it with my bottomless roll of paper, put a grand gold ribbon around it, and topped the whole thing off with a little sticker saying the gift was from me to a family member who couldn't make it to Christmas this year.
A week later, when I came to pick them up and drive out to the beach for our big celebration, I had my story ready. "I had this great idea to put all the gifts for Teresa and her family in one box, and just leave it at your parents'-- sorry." My cousin laughed. Her sister nodded and got busy packing her winter break bags around the huge box in my car. I found out later she'd actually thought I was totally insane, and had worried that I might actually try and ship the box to Teresa. It would have cost nearly as much as the piano hidden inside.
When my cousin finally lugged the box over to her sister, after all the other gifts had been given and enjoyed, the rest of the family were all grinning like the Cheshire Cat. We all knew what the gift really was... The only person who didn't know had to ask us about five times if the box was really for her... and then she ripped through all that wrapping paper I'd used in about two seconds. She was so happy to see that shiny new keyboard, she started hyperventilating. What a lot of happiness that one gift created for so many people. Merry, Merry!
...I just hope Teresa isn't disappointed-- all I got her this year was a football.
It's a football
I'm happy to say I survived the first round of Christmas this year. If you don't celebrate, that's okay with me. I hope its okay with you that I do. I once lived with someone who hated Christmas, and it was just depressing. This year, I'm doing it RIGHT! Tree with lights and ornaments, gifts for everyone I can think of, extra ornaments and strands of lights hung randomly around the house, red-with-snowflakes door mat... Like I said-- I'm CELEBRATING!
Two of my favorite Christmas Traditions actually come from the family of my housemate who hated Christmas. The first was their habit of rattling their gifts before opening them-- and then pronouncing with absolute certainty that "It's a football!" We're not just talking about conical rubbery gifts here-- we're talking about skinny rectangles and tiny jewelry boxes and big squishy baby gifts. You'd know perfectly well that the hard rectangle in somebody's hand was EXACTLY the size and shape of a DVD case... and you'd watch them lift it to their ear, shake it, and then look proudly around the room at everyone-- "It's a football!" My other favorite tradition has a rather hazy start some ten years ago. Someone's brother was working at a grocery outlet, and found a can -- an extra large and rather heavy can-- with the label peeled off. He wrapped it and gifted it to his uncle. "It's a football!"
The next year, that uncle gifted it back. A few years after that, someone ran over the still unopened can with a heavy vehicle to change its shape so that the recipient wouldn't KNOW they were getting that same can for Christmas until he opened it. The year I attended this zany family Christmas, and heard the history of the can (contents still unknown, by the way)... It was wrapped up INSIDE a larger gift of tightly packed crumpled newspapers, and with a random toilet seat tucked around the newspapers to make the whole package a really odd shape. The brother was quite pleased with himself. The uncle already had plans for next Christmas. I'm sorry to say I missed it. But I'm sure that somewhere, somehow, someone in that family is happily shaking a package with a crushed, dented, and unlabeled over-sized can inside-- "It's a football!"
Two of my favorite Christmas Traditions actually come from the family of my housemate who hated Christmas. The first was their habit of rattling their gifts before opening them-- and then pronouncing with absolute certainty that "It's a football!" We're not just talking about conical rubbery gifts here-- we're talking about skinny rectangles and tiny jewelry boxes and big squishy baby gifts. You'd know perfectly well that the hard rectangle in somebody's hand was EXACTLY the size and shape of a DVD case... and you'd watch them lift it to their ear, shake it, and then look proudly around the room at everyone-- "It's a football!" My other favorite tradition has a rather hazy start some ten years ago. Someone's brother was working at a grocery outlet, and found a can -- an extra large and rather heavy can-- with the label peeled off. He wrapped it and gifted it to his uncle. "It's a football!"
The next year, that uncle gifted it back. A few years after that, someone ran over the still unopened can with a heavy vehicle to change its shape so that the recipient wouldn't KNOW they were getting that same can for Christmas until he opened it. The year I attended this zany family Christmas, and heard the history of the can (contents still unknown, by the way)... It was wrapped up INSIDE a larger gift of tightly packed crumpled newspapers, and with a random toilet seat tucked around the newspapers to make the whole package a really odd shape. The brother was quite pleased with himself. The uncle already had plans for next Christmas. I'm sorry to say I missed it. But I'm sure that somewhere, somehow, someone in that family is happily shaking a package with a crushed, dented, and unlabeled over-sized can inside-- "It's a football!"
Saturday, December 16
Say What?
I believe that for each person on earth, there exists another person perfectly created to push every one of their buttons. I believe this because it makes me feel better about the fact that the pusher of my buttons is my mother. And I love her dearly. I'm not just saying that because people she knows may read this... I'm saying that because she is highly lovable in a contagious kindergarten-teacher kind of way. Nobody can help loving my mom. Which makes it that much more frustrating when she pushes my buttons. How could you be mad at someone that sweet... that gentle... that truthful... that... perfectly created to push every one of my buttons. Sigh.
When I was younger, mom and I had a joke about her driving. We called it "adventures with mom." It was a nice way to say that sometimes, the things that topped her mental "this is really important" list didn't top mine. Imagine sitting in the front passenger seat, no driver's license, maybe 14 years old. Cold morning, a bit of frost, winding back-country road, apple orchard on the right. Look to your left-- there is Mom. She is driving you down the winding road. Its a good used car-- reliable-- though the alignment is a bit off. Regularly running into curbs when parallel-parking will do that to an alignment. You glance ahead at the road, and then look back at mom. She is very focused. Her left hand is stretched out to feel whether or not air is coming-- and how warm-- out of the far left driver's air vent. Her right hand is on the climate control knobs in the middle of the dashboard. She is hunched down and to the right, squinting at the labels on those same controls as she fiddles with them. There is no way she can see the road from that position. We are driving at about 35 miles per hour down that winding road. There is a car coming. Adventures with Mom. (insert shark music here)
This nice, sweet, loving, lovable, intelligent woman has been responsible for many a spike in my adrenaline as an adult, too. She can even take me back to those childhood moments of sheer panic and helpless anger over the telephone-- and regularly does. Its not intentional. She just has different priorities than most of the people I know. I've learned to laugh at a lot of these interactions we have... though my laughter rarely has anything to do with our topics of conversation. In fact, if you heard me laughing, you would think I was heartless and deranged. Unless you'd been with me in that car on that winding road way back when... Then you'd realize my laughter is the only alternative to screaming. And its a dumbfounded kind of laugh.
My good friend, my costar in the sitcom of our lives, recently insisted that one of these conversations with my mother would make a good blog. She's seen my mother in action-- she knows all about Adventures with Mom. When I call to say-- what the heck??!-- and tell her about the latest conversation... and try to make sense of it... she stops me. She reminds me of how futile it is to compare my mom's list of what's important with mine. "IT's your MOM!"
Oh, yeah. Right.
I don't know how it happened, but this year, I've been the one to arrange our West-Coast Family Christmas Event. It includes between five and fifteen people, of which only two live in the same town, and only four keep a calendar, and may possibly know what day it was yesterday. Some live out of state. Some are in school. Some have transportation, some have none. Just like the little piggies, who go screeching back home to be tickled. (Boy, I hope you know about "this little piggy" or you are really going to think I'm whacked!) My uncle believes that NO ONE is EVER too old to be tickled. I can still remember the Christmas he made my cousin (married, two kids, very proper) pee her pants because he tickled her right after a long car ride. Her kids were thrilled. There is nothing like family to keep you humble.
Anyway- there are seven of us getting together this year. Possibly eight. And once my cousin decided she wanted to give my parents Christmas Gifts, since she'd be there with them and loves them and all... my mom felt she really needed to give my cousin a gift, too. And if she gave that cousin a gift, she had to give my cousin's sister a gift, since she is also coming to Christmas. I got a list of things that each of my cousins would like to get, decided what I would give them, and passed the list on to my mom. This is where the story starts. (Yes- all the hella long way down here.)
Mom and I are each getting my cousin a book from a series that is on her wish-list. Mom might be able to get a discount at a store in her town-- I know the whole series is carried at a store in my town. I call mom a few days after giving her the information that my cousin has the first few books in the Sandman graphic novel series. We want books between #5 and #10. It doesn't matter which ones. "So- did you find the Sandman series at your bookstore?"
She did, but they only had the latest one, and it cost $20, so she only got one.
I feel that this makes sense, as getting two of the same book is not the same as getting two books from the same series. "What number is it, so I can get her a different one?"
Hmmm... It takes a minute to find the bag the book should be in. It takes a minute to get the book out of the bag. She explains these delays as she experiences them. She looks at the book she bought. Yup-- it cost $19.95.
"What number is the book you bought?"
Well, she had trouble finding it, and then the lady at the bookstore helped her, and the lady could only find this one, but that lady really thinks its the most recent book in the Sandman Series. And mom proceeds to tell me the title of the book, and some of the authors.
I have never heard of the Sandman graphic novels before learning of my cousin's wish list. All I know are the name of the series, and that we can get her any books between #5 and #10. I don't care what the title of this book is.
"Is there a number on it anywhere? I need to know what number it is in the series."
Mom is looking the book over, and finds some more description of the book on the back cover. She reads it to me. The whole back cover. In the process, she comes to the conclusion that the person who wrote the INTRO to the book she bought was the AUTHOR to the series, so the book she bought might not be a part of the series. She explains all this to me, after reading me the back cover, and then flipping through the book once or twice. She decides she will probably have to take this book back to the bookstore and get a refund for it. She's not sure what to do or if it is really part of the series or not, but she's worried.
"Why don't I go to my bookstore, and get two books from the series-- one from me, and one from you?"
She guesses this will work-- and she'll definitely reimburse me for it.
Then she brings up her biggest worry-- the thing currently at the top of her list of important concerns. My other cousin-- the one who is giving HER a gift-- she doesn't have enough information about that cousin's guitar to get her new strings for it. (The wish-list said "anything to do with stringed instruments.") She doesn't know what kind of strings my cousin is used to, or wants to buy for her guitar. She doesn't even know if its a base guitar or what kind it is, and she would also need to know how LONG the strings should be, and.... So... She is thinking about getting my cousin a gift certificate to a music store instead. But a gift certificate is so impersonal! ... and... my cousin doesn't have a car, and lives in a different town from my mom, so she really REALLY doesn't know what STORE to get a gift certificate FROM... and ...
We've been on the phone for nearly half an hour. I'm getting a bit frustrated, and I really need to pee. I could have had this whole conversation with someone else in about five minutes. I am getting frustrated (did I say that already?), and that means I need to get off the phone soon-- because she is trying to steer this conversation, but neither of her hands are on the wheel, and its making me crazy.
"Would you like to hear what I would do if I were in your situation?"
Well... okay. Yes, she would, she thinks...
"I would go onto google maps, and-"
She doesn't know what goggle nappies are. I swear. That is what she said. And if I'd laughed out loud, she would have been really hurt, and felt stupid. Which she is not. She just prefers to do her exploring in a library. It took another five minutes to get www.googlemaps.com spelled correctly over the phone. Then I explained that I would search for music stores in my cousin's town, and find one on the map that is within walking distance of her apartment. My mom has been to her apartment a few times, so I thought that was a reasonable suggestion. Mom's not so sure, but she'll give it a try.
My bladder is killing me, and I'm getting that helpless angry chaos-is-here feeling... so I suggest that its about time for me to get off the phone as I've got some errands to run, and-
"Oh, by the way-- I'm not sure if I've mentioned it already, but I think I may have broken a rib."
Say WHAT?
In my mind, this sort of information would probably have made it higher on the worry-list than my cousin's gift certificate. But that's me. I think a broken rib is an important health issue, and should receive serious attention. Mom is simply embarrassed about it. She is thinking about going to the doctor, maybe. I want her to get tested for osteoporosis, and she decides she needs to get going now, but don't worry about it, its just a broken rib. I hang up the phone, and start laughing. Its either that or scream.
When I was younger, mom and I had a joke about her driving. We called it "adventures with mom." It was a nice way to say that sometimes, the things that topped her mental "this is really important" list didn't top mine. Imagine sitting in the front passenger seat, no driver's license, maybe 14 years old. Cold morning, a bit of frost, winding back-country road, apple orchard on the right. Look to your left-- there is Mom. She is driving you down the winding road. Its a good used car-- reliable-- though the alignment is a bit off. Regularly running into curbs when parallel-parking will do that to an alignment. You glance ahead at the road, and then look back at mom. She is very focused. Her left hand is stretched out to feel whether or not air is coming-- and how warm-- out of the far left driver's air vent. Her right hand is on the climate control knobs in the middle of the dashboard. She is hunched down and to the right, squinting at the labels on those same controls as she fiddles with them. There is no way she can see the road from that position. We are driving at about 35 miles per hour down that winding road. There is a car coming. Adventures with Mom. (insert shark music here)
This nice, sweet, loving, lovable, intelligent woman has been responsible for many a spike in my adrenaline as an adult, too. She can even take me back to those childhood moments of sheer panic and helpless anger over the telephone-- and regularly does. Its not intentional. She just has different priorities than most of the people I know. I've learned to laugh at a lot of these interactions we have... though my laughter rarely has anything to do with our topics of conversation. In fact, if you heard me laughing, you would think I was heartless and deranged. Unless you'd been with me in that car on that winding road way back when... Then you'd realize my laughter is the only alternative to screaming. And its a dumbfounded kind of laugh.
My good friend, my costar in the sitcom of our lives, recently insisted that one of these conversations with my mother would make a good blog. She's seen my mother in action-- she knows all about Adventures with Mom. When I call to say-- what the heck??!-- and tell her about the latest conversation... and try to make sense of it... she stops me. She reminds me of how futile it is to compare my mom's list of what's important with mine. "IT's your MOM!"
Oh, yeah. Right.
I don't know how it happened, but this year, I've been the one to arrange our West-Coast Family Christmas Event. It includes between five and fifteen people, of which only two live in the same town, and only four keep a calendar, and may possibly know what day it was yesterday. Some live out of state. Some are in school. Some have transportation, some have none. Just like the little piggies, who go screeching back home to be tickled. (Boy, I hope you know about "this little piggy" or you are really going to think I'm whacked!) My uncle believes that NO ONE is EVER too old to be tickled. I can still remember the Christmas he made my cousin (married, two kids, very proper) pee her pants because he tickled her right after a long car ride. Her kids were thrilled. There is nothing like family to keep you humble.
Anyway- there are seven of us getting together this year. Possibly eight. And once my cousin decided she wanted to give my parents Christmas Gifts, since she'd be there with them and loves them and all... my mom felt she really needed to give my cousin a gift, too. And if she gave that cousin a gift, she had to give my cousin's sister a gift, since she is also coming to Christmas. I got a list of things that each of my cousins would like to get, decided what I would give them, and passed the list on to my mom. This is where the story starts. (Yes- all the hella long way down here.)
Mom and I are each getting my cousin a book from a series that is on her wish-list. Mom might be able to get a discount at a store in her town-- I know the whole series is carried at a store in my town. I call mom a few days after giving her the information that my cousin has the first few books in the Sandman graphic novel series. We want books between #5 and #10. It doesn't matter which ones. "So- did you find the Sandman series at your bookstore?"
She did, but they only had the latest one, and it cost $20, so she only got one.
I feel that this makes sense, as getting two of the same book is not the same as getting two books from the same series. "What number is it, so I can get her a different one?"
Hmmm... It takes a minute to find the bag the book should be in. It takes a minute to get the book out of the bag. She explains these delays as she experiences them. She looks at the book she bought. Yup-- it cost $19.95.
"What number is the book you bought?"
Well, she had trouble finding it, and then the lady at the bookstore helped her, and the lady could only find this one, but that lady really thinks its the most recent book in the Sandman Series. And mom proceeds to tell me the title of the book, and some of the authors.
I have never heard of the Sandman graphic novels before learning of my cousin's wish list. All I know are the name of the series, and that we can get her any books between #5 and #10. I don't care what the title of this book is.
"Is there a number on it anywhere? I need to know what number it is in the series."
Mom is looking the book over, and finds some more description of the book on the back cover. She reads it to me. The whole back cover. In the process, she comes to the conclusion that the person who wrote the INTRO to the book she bought was the AUTHOR to the series, so the book she bought might not be a part of the series. She explains all this to me, after reading me the back cover, and then flipping through the book once or twice. She decides she will probably have to take this book back to the bookstore and get a refund for it. She's not sure what to do or if it is really part of the series or not, but she's worried.
"Why don't I go to my bookstore, and get two books from the series-- one from me, and one from you?"
She guesses this will work-- and she'll definitely reimburse me for it.
Then she brings up her biggest worry-- the thing currently at the top of her list of important concerns. My other cousin-- the one who is giving HER a gift-- she doesn't have enough information about that cousin's guitar to get her new strings for it. (The wish-list said "anything to do with stringed instruments.") She doesn't know what kind of strings my cousin is used to, or wants to buy for her guitar. She doesn't even know if its a base guitar or what kind it is, and she would also need to know how LONG the strings should be, and.... So... She is thinking about getting my cousin a gift certificate to a music store instead. But a gift certificate is so impersonal! ... and... my cousin doesn't have a car, and lives in a different town from my mom, so she really REALLY doesn't know what STORE to get a gift certificate FROM... and ...
We've been on the phone for nearly half an hour. I'm getting a bit frustrated, and I really need to pee. I could have had this whole conversation with someone else in about five minutes. I am getting frustrated (did I say that already?), and that means I need to get off the phone soon-- because she is trying to steer this conversation, but neither of her hands are on the wheel, and its making me crazy.
"Would you like to hear what I would do if I were in your situation?"
Well... okay. Yes, she would, she thinks...
"I would go onto google maps, and-"
She doesn't know what goggle nappies are. I swear. That is what she said. And if I'd laughed out loud, she would have been really hurt, and felt stupid. Which she is not. She just prefers to do her exploring in a library. It took another five minutes to get www.googlemaps.com spelled correctly over the phone. Then I explained that I would search for music stores in my cousin's town, and find one on the map that is within walking distance of her apartment. My mom has been to her apartment a few times, so I thought that was a reasonable suggestion. Mom's not so sure, but she'll give it a try.
My bladder is killing me, and I'm getting that helpless angry chaos-is-here feeling... so I suggest that its about time for me to get off the phone as I've got some errands to run, and-
"Oh, by the way-- I'm not sure if I've mentioned it already, but I think I may have broken a rib."
Say WHAT?
In my mind, this sort of information would probably have made it higher on the worry-list than my cousin's gift certificate. But that's me. I think a broken rib is an important health issue, and should receive serious attention. Mom is simply embarrassed about it. She is thinking about going to the doctor, maybe. I want her to get tested for osteoporosis, and she decides she needs to get going now, but don't worry about it, its just a broken rib. I hang up the phone, and start laughing. Its either that or scream.
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