November 29, 2008 @ 19:31

The boys are off for their holiday.  And I?  Home for four days.  Alone.  You may remember that last year was not my year to have them on Christmas day.  It is how I ended up chopping off all my hair.  Myself.  Empty house on Christmas and a bottle of wine and a pair of scissors.  Trouble.  The last couple of years the holidays have been hard.  Our grandparents all gone.  Our parental relationships all funky.  Days with the boys divided and spread too thin between home and the homes of the exes.  It’s just . . .  hard.  Not the worst Christmas ever.  When I was ten years old, that was the worst.  The year I sat and waited.  And waited.  And Daddy didn’t come.  He just . . .  didn’t come.  I can remember watching the sky change colors as the sun set.  How eventually I couldn’t see the road outside anymore.  And I knew he wasn’t just late, he wasn’t coming.  And he hadn’t even called.  I didn’t see him, or my baby sister, or any of that side of my family for nearly a decade after that.  But I don’t think about that day very often.  I have come to the other side of that pain.  I think now that I have as healthy a relationship as I could possibly have with a father who didn’t raise me.  I love him.  I know his flaws and I love him.  That’s the key, right?  To love someone, not in spite of their flaws, not in denial of them, but in full awareness of them.  I’m working on it in some other relationships.  For now I’m just going to keep a low profile.  My big plan was to have margaritas and a cheeseburger in my ocean blue dining room alone for Thanksgiving.  To toast myself for surviving a crapfest of a year.  To toast myself for staying as strong as I possibly could.  And not to beat myself up for the slips.  And remember that I draw the boundaries.  And that I am allowed to choose not to participate in those things that are bad for my kids or bad for me.  Whether anyone else agrees with me or not.  Whatever the reason.  I choose.  And if that doesn’t live up to the expectations of friends and family, they’ll need to learn how to love me in full awareness of my flaws.  Whether real or imagined.  But as many plans, it didn’t happen. I woke up sad Thanksgiving morning.  Lonely.  I didn’t realize it was being compounded by an oncoming bout of the flu.  Just that I was sad.  In light of which, drinking alone didn’t seem like such a jolly idea anymore.  So I did what I usually do when I’m sad.  I cooked.  Turkey, dressing, Meemaw’s recipe for cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, sour cream mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, pumpkin pie and a marscapone and black cherry pie.  No one called.  I served myself one lonely plate and immediately packed up the leftovers into the fridge.  Within an hour I was asleep on the sofa, fever blazing.  When I woke and realized I was sick, the morning’s melancholy made sense.  I had slept through my mother’s call from the casino, another call from an old friend.  The pumpkin pie remained untouched.   As well as the margaritas, the wine . . .  Still are today, as well. 

Friday passed the same.  With the exception of a handful of phone calls.  And one cold text message.  I stayed huddled on the sofa all day.  I was staring at the guide when the phone rang. 

Me:  Hello (cough cough cough, dead sexy, ya?)

R:  Dude, are you sick? 

Me:  Yes.  Hey, if I watch The Professional twice in a row after having watched Fight Club, will they take away my girl card? 

R:  Do you even have a girl card? 

Me:  Nice. 

Finally this morning I felt like myself again.  I think it was the second round of The Professional.  Ah, Jean Reno.  I tackled my redecorating project to recapture my inner girl.  Just in time for the new bookcase and bed to be delivered.  I spent the remainder of the day trying to get a bit of cleaning done and of course didn’t.  Consistency, that’s the key, eh? 

And tomorrow, work.  Our December fundraising campaign begins and the work hours will be crazy.  Ho ho ho . . . 

November 24, 2008 @ 18:17

I decided that since the boys would be gone for the Thanksgiving weekend that we should get a jump on the holiday season.  I googled the local Christmas tree farms and found one that was open early.  There was only one.  All the other didn’t open until the weekend after Thanksgiving.  Slackers.  Motley Tree Farm was fantastic.  I highly recommend it.  Different trees to choose from and a store full of lights and ornaments and free hot chocolate.  Oh, and pig races.  Yeah, I don’t know either.  But they were painted all different colors and named after the reindeer and the little ones loved it.  They raced for pancakes.  No, really.  It was awesome.  There were several acres of trees in neat rows.  Puppy decided it was a maze and we spent well over an hour wandering through the rows to his narration.  The occasional gray gravel paths weren’t paths but great rivers that we had to cross.  The hills were mountains we had to climb and around every tree was another mystery.  There is nothing better than a child’s enthusiasm.  I should remember that at work when I’m feeling curmudgeoney.  When our noses and fingers and toes got too cold, we finally made our choice.  We picked a seven foot tree and strapped it down to the trunk of the Honda with only about a foot and some change overhanging each side of the car.  There were several other vehicles in the lot.  Giant SUVs and minivans and trucks.  All probably much better suited to the task.  But my old girl looked great with her backward and oversized ship’s figurehead.  Then we set out for the drive home.  Uneventful, I drive like a grandma when the boys are in the car anyway, so this was no different.  But I have to say, we got more smiles than scowls as we were continually passed.  As I turned into the old dowtown area just a few blocks from home the phone rang.  (yes, Holly Jolly Christmas ringtone, thank you very much) 

Me:  Hello?

Jenn:  Tell me I did not just see you driving through the middle of town with a giant tree strapped to the trunk of your car. 

Me, grinning to beat the band:  Why YES!  You did! 

We laughed at my Christmas zeal and about her adventures with a live tree last year. 

I drove us past the Christmas store because I thought I should and because it makes me happy just driving past.  I had a car full of Christmas cheer.  A tree on the trunk, a backseat full of my baby boys with hot chocolate mustaches.  I was so happy that I forgot to snap a picture like I did last year, but that’s okay.  It was a day I won’t forget. 

November 21, 2008 @ 21:05

Every afternoon I pick the boys up from school myself.  It is the best part of my day, every day.  I always have a snack for Puppy who is always hungry by three.  “What snack do you have?” is often his first words to me as he runs out the door to meet me.  But . . .  we have begun indulging in ice cream two or three times a week.  The boy takes after me.  He’s got good taste.  His favorite is Shake’s frozen custard.  It’s really fantastic, but pricey.  Ten bucks each time we go.  Not too terrible, but do that math.  I just cannot justify over one hundred dollars a month on ice cream.  But it’s his favorite.  And he’s become a skilled negotiator.  Bear is actually not so crazed for the ice cream trend.  Some days he skips it.  Some days he just orders a slushy or even a diet soda.  It’s Puppy and I that are the real culprits.  And it’s beginning to become tricky.  Today’s conversation . . . 

Puppy:  I want ice cream, Mommy. 

Me:  Okay, how about Dairy Queen? 

Puppy:  No, I want chocolate ice cream on an ice cream cone from Shake’s.  (we are so very specific) 

Me:  But we went to Shake’s on Monday.  How about Dairy Queen today? 

Puppy:  No, I want chocolate ice cream on an ice cream cone from Shake’s.  (specific and patient) 

We are already in sight of the Dairy Queen

Me:  Shake’s is very far away and we are right here at Dairy Queen already.  You can have a circle ice cream.  (that’s what we call a Dilly bar, which if you don’t know is a flat disk of ice cream on a stick dipped in chocolate, a circular version of a Klondike bar) 

Puppy:  No, Mommy, I want Shake’s.  He doesn’t raise his voice.  He sounds, actually, a lot like me.  He mimics my tone.  Calm and patient. 

Me:  I’m sorry, but if you want ice cream, this is the only option. 

Puppy:  heavy sigh  Okay. 

Me:  See, that’s better, and here we are already.  That’s very good isn’t it?  No waiting?  That makes us very happy. 

Puppy:  another heavy sigh  Mommy, I’m just very disappointed. 

I swear it, that is exactly what he said.  Deadpan delivery.  He was so serious.  Academy award winning performance.  I felt like I’d just been caught cheating on a test.  I couldn’t have conveyed the tone of disappointment better myself.  I could barely keep the laughter in.  And then he got over it very quickly. 

Puppy:  I’ll have a milkshake, please! 

November 19, 2008 @ 22:30

For Claudette’s baby boy, due any minute now.  Strawberry amaretto cake. I love that girl and cannot wait to meet Devin.  Tiny aside, isn’t my new dining room table cloth adorable, too? 

November 18, 2008 @ 21:28

One of Bear’s responsibilities around the house is the laundry flip.  He takes the clothes from the washer and puts them in the dryer.  And he gets the clothes out of the dryer and brings them out for me to fold.  It took ages to get him in the habit of using a dryer sheet with each load.  Maybe in a year or two I’ll teach him how to sort colors.  But after tonight?  I’m thinking it just may not work.  I asked him to put two dryer sheets in with a particular load.  It included a fuzzy blanket that gets really bad static cling, I thought two dryer sheets might help.  About an hour later, he brings me the basket and I’m sitting folding while watching Biggest Loser.  So if you watched it, you know I was already irritated, right?  (Amy, that was a stupid move, and Bob?  You should be ashamed for that team speech.)  As I fold I pull out the first dryer sheet.  Then the second.  Good, he remembered.  Then a third.  Fourth.  Fifth.  I look at him and say Five?  Really?  I continue to fold.  Six.  Seven.  What did the boy do?  Let me tell you.  He put FIFTEEN dryer sheets in with the load.  FIFTEEN!  Are you kidding me?  Oh, and no, it didn’t help the static cling problem either.  Sometimes, the boy is so thirteen that it hurts. 

November 17, 2008 @ 06:35

Great plans for the weekend.  Finish bringing the house back from the opera clutter.  Start bringing in the holiday cheer.  Instead I attended our year end office party on Friday night, nursed a hangover on Saturday, and watched 27 Dresses for the umpteenth time on Sunday.  I did manage to also bake a cake for Taylor, half ubercake and half vanilla topped with chocolate gymnasts.  It was about a foot and a half tall, pretty impressive for a sheet cake.  I love the way kids think.  The older we get it seems the more speed bumps we slow down for.  Not kids.  They aren’t one half as encumbered as we are.  Sometimes that’s good for us, but sometimes I think enough is enough.  I’m going to uninstall a few of mine.  I’ve already started actually.  I cornered the adorable man on Saturday and got the answer that all the single girls in the office have been looking for.  You might remember him from these very old posts if you’ve been around here that long.  I was going to just link, but here they are in their entirety for you. 

Oh, my god, I’m still miked.  Dec. 6, 2006
Yesterday I watched The Matchmaker on television as I got ready to go to work for the evening. I love that movie, if you haven’t seen it, treat yourself to it. But there is a scene towards the end where the jerk of the film gets caught talking trash about the boss, because he has forgotten that he still has the mike on his tie. *sigh* My reality tonight imitated this moment. Some background . . . There is an adorable man where I work. Completely adorable. Several of the women in the office talk about it, regularly. Tonight, during a pause between live spots, my office buddy and I were talking about the Christmas party I am having next weekend, making the final guest list. I am inviting everyone in the office that I have gotten to know and she was helping me make sure I didn’t leave anyone out or hurt any feelings. I’ve only been there for four months and I love these people. We haven’t said anything bad, there is nothing bad to say about anyone there so it’s not the list of who gets an invitation or not that’s the problem. The problem is this . . . 

Buddy: What about “name of adorbale man”?

Me: Well that’s the whole point of throwing this party isn’t it?

Buddy: Oh, my god, I’m still miked.

Oh, crap . . . And the only thing she can say to make me feel better?

Buddy: Well, the only people who would be listening is engineering.

Me: The whole engineering department?

Buddy: Yeah.

Crap . . . 

Oh, and lovely, just two days later . . . 

Is it cute when you are just a complete flake?  Dec. 8, 2006
It is a half hour past the end of my shift. I have already been kindly scolded that I must go home. But the printer has decided it hates me. I am on my knees in front of it, with the bottom paper tray pulled out and have, literally, just pushed both my hands into my hair and said out loud “why do you hate me?!?!”, when someone steps into my peripheral vision. I look up and it is the adorable man that so many girls in the office talk about. I stand up and try to regain my dignity. He asks if we have “that thing tonight”. I think he means a work thing and say I don’t know. We do have something, but not sure what the full schedule is. No, he says, your Christmas party. Oh! No, that’s next Friday night, I say. Should I bring anything? he asks.So, is abject humiliation attractive? Wouldn’t that be nice?  

My crush faded a very long time ago and I’m now glad to count him as a friend.  But when I, myself, got cornered by not one but three women at the office party asking what was up, I decided that the inquiring minds were going to get an answer.  I love to play matchmaker, but only for the willing.  End result, here’s the answer.  Yes, he’s straight, yes he’s single, no he’s not looking.  There.  And aren’t we all relieved to know the answer, even if sadly disappointed?  And perhaps the most relieved will be the man himself.  He can stop fearing being cornered at my dinner parties.  When I pointed out to him what a shame that was, as the entire list of unattached women in our office seem to have him at the top of their hot list and that he’d probably have his pick, he replied that as I’d sworn off men as well that I could not really call him on that.  Fair enough, fair enough.  See what I mean?  Second best conversation all week, no speedbumps.  First best?  Well I got to see Janet on Saturday, as well.  Nobody can top Janet for no speedbumps conversation. 

November 14, 2008 @ 22:15

I seem to have jumped right past Thanksgiving.  You see the boys are going to have Thanksgiving with their Daddy’s this year so it’s less of a big deal for me.  I’m not going to skip it, but I’ve got the iTunes playlist of Christmas Favorites going in my office every day already.  I’ve put up the tree for the office that Janet gave me.  And on Sunday backstage at the opera, during the waiting times between quick changes that I was helping with, I began making the menus for the annual Christmas party and for our new Christmas Eve plans.  This year, for the first year in several, my siblings and cousins and our children are going to get together for Christmas Eve.  This was always our tradition on my father’s side of the family.  My entire life.  It was always a blur of people I barely knew, people I loved, odd food and inside jokes that I never really understood.  You see I was the odd girl out on that side of the family.  Not that I wasn’t loved, I just wasn’t around.  I was the baby girl who only came to visit once during the summer and on Christmas Eve.  The rest of the family always had this amazing familiarty that I didn’t have.  And they were so different from everything in my everyday life.  My mother’s side of my family was a bit repressed.  Nanny and Papaw danced and kept liquor in the house.  My Meemaw and Bawbaw (my mother’s parents) were where I learned lessons about fiscal responsibility (even if I falter frequently), propriety in all kinds of situations and serious life lessons.  I learned how to roll pennies that Bawbaw saved in a jar for the grandchildren.  I sat across the little kitchen table from them and ate cottage cheese and pineapple.  I don’t mean to make it sound boring or cold.  I now have that set of china that we ate the cottage cheese in.  It is chipped and cracked and some of it is discolored and I cherish it.  It was serene.  In my mind it has become idyllic.  I didn’t tell Meemaw when Bawbaw, a diabetic, snuck something sweet from the kitchen.  And I didn’t tell Bawbaw that Meemaw always knew.  He never left the house that he didn’t kiss her.  Even if he was just going out to feed the cats.  I can remember exactly how each room in the house smelled.  Each a bit like cedar, but each with it’s difference.  There were giant picture windows in the living room with hummingbird feeders hanging outside of them.  And tall trees with misteltoe growing in them.  I remember very vividly one Christmas, my uncle took a shotgun and shot down branches of it for us.  As I’m sitting here thinking, I cannot remember any other moment ever besides that one, that something there was loud.  It was always quiet there.  I have discovered recently that I am very like my Meemaw, so is my mother, but don’t tell her.  I do a lot of things around the house, especially during the holidays, because she did them that way.  I hang my Christmas cards up because she did.  I cook several dishes that she did.  And frequently wish that I had paid more attention.  There are some things that I fear I will never be able to recreate.  Each year, fewer and fewer members of my family want the oyster dressing.  I make it anyway.  It wouldn’t be Christmas day without it. 

But Christmas Eve.  That was for Nanny and Papaw’s.  There were pies and cookies and cheese dip and fudge and funny little things that I never figured out.  My Nanny was not like a greeting card grandmother.  She kept Snickers and frozen pizzas in the freezer by the case.  Not that she wasn’t a good cook, she just wasn’t . . .  grandmotherly.  She was wonderful.  And she did occasionally do some quirky little thing that was so amazingly granmotherly that it was almost alien.  Like the fruit and nuts and candy.  Each grandchild got this bag of fruit and nuts and candy.  Every year.  It was so traditional.  So different from the way that they were.  It always charmed me.  It always was the moment that I felt the most at home there.  Nanny would put that package in my hand and I would immediately feel the shape of the orange and I would feel less estranged from these dancing, baseball playing, guitar wielding, loud, rambunctious people.  At some point during the evening, one of the grown ups would sneak out of the house and sneak past the windows with sleigh bells.  We would run around like crazy little people circling the house.  We never got a glimpse when I was little.  But by the time we got all the way around the house to the back porch, something had been left for us.  I remember one year, when the youngest of us, the twins, were just tiny, the surprise was two bright yellow peddle cars for them.  I can still see their grinning little faces.  That was about the time we started getting more than just sleigh bells.  I was old enough to recognize the family friend behind the beard, but the little ones didn’t know he wasn’t the real thing.  Santa made housecalls for us.  By the time I was grown up, family feuds had begun to brew.  Traditions had begun to be forgotten.  One of the very last family Christmas Eves that we all shared together was just after my Papaw had passed.  My Nanny was still here.  Bear was little.  When that year’s Santa arrived, each of the little ones sat in his lap and told them what they wanted.  This particular Santa was kind enough to catch each parent and tell them what had been requested.  He caught us just as we were leaving for the night.  Long past the hour that any store would be open.  And Bear?  He had thrown us a curve ball.  He had gone last.  And he had pondered his ask.  Crafted it finely.  Sneaky little cuss.  Apparently he was looking for proof.  He asked for one simple thing.  That when Santa came by our house that he leave some bells from his sleigh behind.  Simple enough?  But not at nearly midnight on Christmas Eve.  We set out for home.  I knew for a fact I had no bells.  I didn’t know what we could do.  We stopped at the only place open on that day at that hour.  A gas station.  Bear was asleep in the back seat by that point.  And as my boyfriend climbed back in he grinned at me.  There had been golf ball sized jingle bells hanging on the door of that gas station.  He’d told the clerk our story and sweet talked her out of them.  I wish you could have seen the look on Bear’s face the next morning when they were sitting there on the empty plate that had been left out with Santa’s cookies before we had gone to Nanny’s.  We still have those bells.  I hang them up each year.  They have become a symbol for me of working for the magic.  And that’s what we’re going to try and achieve again this year.  The brothers and sisters and cousins and all of our babies are coming to my house on Christmas Eve.  I’m going to make oyster dressing.  I’m looking for a Santa.  And hopefully, we’re going to recapture some of that magic that has been missing in the years since Meemaw and Bawbaw and Nanny and Papaw have left us.  Wish us luck.  I hope you find your Christmas magic, too. 

November 13, 2008 @ 20:30

I was late to the cell phone thing.  I used to commute an hour and change both ways every day and loved being unreachable.  I loved the solitude.  But, four years ago, with Puppy in the back seat and Bear at home with a sitter, a snow storm hit that turned that hour and change into an eight hour nightmare.  I got a damn phone.  I have since upgraded it a couple of times.  The phone I have now, well, I think I actually got attached to it.  It’s more than just the basic.  It’s got internet and it’s a camera and it’s an mp3 player.  I’ve developed some love for it.  And yesterday, I lost it.  I got to work and realized it wasn’t in my purse.  I dumped everything out looking for it.  This is a big deal.  The contents of my purse include make up, girlie stuff, one toy helicopter, one worry stone, iPod, camera (yeah, I know that the phone does both of those things, too), wallet, two savings books, copies of Puppy’s entire medical records (no . . .  really), whatever book I’m pretending to read at the moment and about a year’s worth of reciepts.  Oh, and a sewing kit, breath mints, gum, emergency snacks for Puppy, eight pens with the ability to disappear when needed, one small notebook, and my pledge confirmation letter from the local NPR station that I really really need to return with a check.  And one giant set of keys.  But no phone.  I dug through my desk.  I have a bad habit of laying it in front of my monitor as I work and then forgetting to take it home with me.  Not this time.  I convinced myself that I had left it on the bedside table and went about my day.  But as I pulled into my carport and stepped out of the car, there it was.  Laying on the concrete.  Just close enough to the edge of the carport to have been rained on.  All day long.  Grrrr.  24 hours later, it has powered up for a few seconds, my contacts list was still intact.  But it only lasted for a few minutes.  I am shocked at how lost I’m feeling without it.  And at how hard it has been to not immediately go shopping for an iPhone or something . . .  

November 12, 2008 @ 06:47

See?  That didn’t take long, did it?  So, I’ve been telling myself for years that I was going to build a nativity scene for my front porch.  It’s the justification I use for never throwing out a leftover scrap of fabric from costuming.  Hey!  That two inch strip of brocade might be very useful for one of the wisemen!  Shut up!  My mother built one a few years ago.  It was lovely.  Unfortunately, it came to a very sad end.  It had to be retired because a neighbor’s dog kept running off with the baby Jesus.  Yes, please do, a great big snort laugh right now is exactly the proper response . . .  I’ll wait for you . . .  Mom would come home from work and baby Jesus would be gone again.  She would search the yard and up and down the block until she found him, abandoned in a ditch, or even in the middle of the street sometimes, and return him to his little manger.  Eventually, she just couldn’t do it anymore.  It was just too depressing to add papier mache patching the baby Jesus’s head to the your list of holiday chores.  Just not nearly as festive as decking the hall, is it?  Although I can say both of those tasks are equally aided by the liberal application of egg nog.  Now my mother’s yard is populated with those giant blow up light up things.  The grandchildren love them.  And the neighbor’s dog apparently isn’t big enough to abduct a twelve foot snow globe.  Slacker.  But I do miss the holy family.  So I’m going to make one for us.  I’ll be on the look out for strays in the neighborhood now.  But I think I may have to bolt the Christ child’s little butt to the manger.  Just to be safe.  I’ll keep you posted. 

November 05, 2008 @ 20:57

But who’s counting? Stephie is a life saver.  Beyond words.  She is so on the Christmas list forever and ever now. I called her when I was two weeks out from costuming deadline and she came.  And she helped me conquer.  We watched way too much Halloween programming while sewing ourselves into bloody fingers and blurred vision.  I knew I was pretty far gone the night I woke from a nightmare of Holly Hobbie the serial killer on my front porch.  Don’t remember her?  Picture a really big woman in a bonnet.  Kinda like the grim reaper in calico.  Yeah, got the picture?  The panic feeling was as bad as my zombie nightmares believe it or not.  As cute as our goodwives’ little bonnets turned out to be, it ain’t funny when it comes out of your subconscious with a garotte.  Well . . .  actually . . .  maybe that is a little bit funny . . . 

We worked so hard that on Monday, I wound up being sick, calling to work, and spending most of that day and Tuesday on the couch.  But I did discover that there are not only one, but two holiday music channels on my digital cable subscription.  I spent all of Tuesday in a cold medication induced haze flipping between the Stewart/Colbert marathon and classic Christmas music and was so glad that I early voted and was not standing in a line.  Surreal and very enjoyable.  In that haze I decided that I’m going to start Christmas early and am, even as you read this, compiling my lists of which cookies to make and what candy to make and who gets what and how many and OOH!  is that Burl Ives?  That is so gonna be my ringtone by the end of the day . . .