It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas
The presents are all wrapped. I have returned the mounds of paper, ribbon, bows and tape to the closet upstairs. We can again see our dining room table which has served as the “wrapping room” for the past month. Tomorrow thirteen people (both friends and family alike) will descend on our house to celebrate the season. I can’t wait!
A few of the things I’m looking forward to:
x My grandmother’s laughter.
x My father’s wit and cynicism.
x Seeing my sister’s face when she opens the footlocker we bought her for her first summer camp and all the wrapped gifts inside the footlocker.
x My mother’s face when she reads the poem I wrote her inside her card. Oh, and of course everyone else’s face when she performs her newest dance routine with her dog.
x Carrie’s face when she sees that I actually bought a gift that she couldn’t guess.
x Christmas music playing all day long.
x The smell of turkey and gravy.
x Falling into bed exhausted and ten pounds heavier.
I hope that whoever you are and whatever you do tomorrow that your day be filled with joy and happiness.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Her Cup Runneth Over
My grandmother loves wine. There is not a family get together that I can remember where she did not get tipsy. For years her favorite was Ernest & Julio Gallo Chablis. The empty green jugs are all over her house, verigated ivy growing from the top. Then her taste buds changed and suddenly the Chablis wasn’t sweet enough?!
Four years ago at our Mother’s Day brunch the waiter asked what she would like to drink. She asked for a sweet wine. The waiter brought her what he felt was sufficiently sweet. She took a sip. Smacked her bright pink lips together a few times. Took another sip and declared it not sweet enough. He brought her another wine. No, still not sweet. It was some kind of sommelier version of Goldilocks. Only Goldilocks was more like Silverlocks and instead of beds we were fast running out of options on wine. At last he brought in a bottle of dessert wine. It was thick and sugary. The color of Caro Syrup. One taste however and she was hooked.
Last night we all met for dinner. Aunts, mother, friends, and grandmother. This was a Mexican restaurant without an array of dessert wine so we ordered her the White Zin (why is it not called Pink Zin?). Her first sip she said she thought they might have watered down the wine. My dear, gracious friend tasted it for her and declared it “good”. Bless her heart. I owe her a big one for that. Then grandmother started complaining because they had not poured her a full glass. The waiter had in fact poured the customary amount into her glass it was just that she couldn’t get over all that empty space between the wine and the rim of the glass. Not wanting to listen to her complain all night, Carrie very discreetly met the waiter at the bar as he was ordering her second glass. In no uncertain terms she let him know that no matter the cost he was to fill that glass to the brim. This is the second waiter we have had to coach in this manner. When her second glass arrived she squealed with delight. As in every aspect of her life, my grandmother’s glass is never half full.
My grandmother loves wine. There is not a family get together that I can remember where she did not get tipsy. For years her favorite was Ernest & Julio Gallo Chablis. The empty green jugs are all over her house, verigated ivy growing from the top. Then her taste buds changed and suddenly the Chablis wasn’t sweet enough?!
Four years ago at our Mother’s Day brunch the waiter asked what she would like to drink. She asked for a sweet wine. The waiter brought her what he felt was sufficiently sweet. She took a sip. Smacked her bright pink lips together a few times. Took another sip and declared it not sweet enough. He brought her another wine. No, still not sweet. It was some kind of sommelier version of Goldilocks. Only Goldilocks was more like Silverlocks and instead of beds we were fast running out of options on wine. At last he brought in a bottle of dessert wine. It was thick and sugary. The color of Caro Syrup. One taste however and she was hooked.
Last night we all met for dinner. Aunts, mother, friends, and grandmother. This was a Mexican restaurant without an array of dessert wine so we ordered her the White Zin (why is it not called Pink Zin?). Her first sip she said she thought they might have watered down the wine. My dear, gracious friend tasted it for her and declared it “good”. Bless her heart. I owe her a big one for that. Then grandmother started complaining because they had not poured her a full glass. The waiter had in fact poured the customary amount into her glass it was just that she couldn’t get over all that empty space between the wine and the rim of the glass. Not wanting to listen to her complain all night, Carrie very discreetly met the waiter at the bar as he was ordering her second glass. In no uncertain terms she let him know that no matter the cost he was to fill that glass to the brim. This is the second waiter we have had to coach in this manner. When her second glass arrived she squealed with delight. As in every aspect of her life, my grandmother’s glass is never half full.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Candy Analysis
How do you eat your candy? If it is a lemon drop do you suck on it until it is the tiniest of disks and finally dissolves? Do you bite into it immediately and crunch the sugary sweet pieces?
Gum is particularly hard for me. I chew a piece for a few minutes then get the uncontrollable urge to swallow it and get another. Carrie will chew a piece of gum after lunch and walk through our door at 5:00 with the same piece of gum. How she does it I will never understand. What makes my little issue worse is that every time I swallow a piece of gum I get anxious remembering how they told us in grade school that it takes something along the lines of 100 years to digest. I imagine one corner of my stomach filled with half chewed gum waiting to disintegrate.
A friend and I were talking about candy canes this morning. Tis the season. I asked if she remembered sucking the end of the candy cane until it came to the sharpest of points. A point to be tested on ones arm or the arms and eyeballs of others. We talked about how your lips turned that sugary sticky pink. The wrapper that you so carefully left on the bottom half of the candy cane got all squishy and sticky. While you were finely tuning your point you would fiddle with the hook. This seems to be a universal practice among children as a few minutes later she and her co-worker had the same conversation.
Because of this conversation I think I will buy some candy canes to adorn the Christmas dinner table. I will be watching my eleven year old sister closely to see if she too carries on this childhood tradition. If she doesn’t I may have to eat one myself for old times sake.
How do you eat your candy? If it is a lemon drop do you suck on it until it is the tiniest of disks and finally dissolves? Do you bite into it immediately and crunch the sugary sweet pieces?
Gum is particularly hard for me. I chew a piece for a few minutes then get the uncontrollable urge to swallow it and get another. Carrie will chew a piece of gum after lunch and walk through our door at 5:00 with the same piece of gum. How she does it I will never understand. What makes my little issue worse is that every time I swallow a piece of gum I get anxious remembering how they told us in grade school that it takes something along the lines of 100 years to digest. I imagine one corner of my stomach filled with half chewed gum waiting to disintegrate.
A friend and I were talking about candy canes this morning. Tis the season. I asked if she remembered sucking the end of the candy cane until it came to the sharpest of points. A point to be tested on ones arm or the arms and eyeballs of others. We talked about how your lips turned that sugary sticky pink. The wrapper that you so carefully left on the bottom half of the candy cane got all squishy and sticky. While you were finely tuning your point you would fiddle with the hook. This seems to be a universal practice among children as a few minutes later she and her co-worker had the same conversation.
Because of this conversation I think I will buy some candy canes to adorn the Christmas dinner table. I will be watching my eleven year old sister closely to see if she too carries on this childhood tradition. If she doesn’t I may have to eat one myself for old times sake.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Polly Want a Prozac
After my parents separated, my father began seeing a woman named Polly. While I was in New Jersey with my mother they moved into a two bedroom two story townhome. Polly wanted our first impression to be a good one so she decorated a room for me with rainbows and wind socks. Hmm….. Prior to my arrival for my first visit, Polly became very insecure. She was the poster child for why alcohol and insecurity don’t mix. Add in a few pills and you have yourself a serious mind fuck. So one night Polly’s drunk, pissed, insecure and ultimately out of her mind. She decides to pick a fight with my father. He won’t take the bait so she switches gears to the old “you don’t love me so I’ll kill myself” routine and puts her hand through a glass door. That got his attention. She was bleeding all over. My father immediately rushes her to the hospital where they wait for hours to have her hand stitched up.
In the meantime, the neighbors have heard screaming and items being thrown against walls all night. They decide to take a peak and see blood and broken glass all over. Concerned citizens that they are the call the police who also come to inspect the scene. The police are still on the scene when my father returns with a passed out on pain meds Polly who he is carrying from the car when the cops pounce on him. No one can wake her to find out if my father did this. Eventually they believe him and leave.
Skip to my first visit. Dad thought it would be a nice bonding experience for the three of us to drive to San Marcos and stay at Aquarina Springs. On the way he stopped and picked up a six pack of Michelob Light. Polly, having not learned her lesson, proceeded to drink four of the six. By the time we hit San Marcos she was good and ready for a fight. We checked into the hotel and went up to the room. My father told me to go in the bathroom, lock the door and not come out until he told me to. I spent the next hour and a half making all of the little coffee packets. Cleaning the sink with the tiny bar of soap. Counting the tiles on the floor. Laying on the floor ear to cold tile, one eye squinting under the door to see the fight.
At last he had enough and released me from my captivity in the bathroom. We were going to see the tic-tac-toe chickens and swimming pigs and no one was going to spoil the fun. Or so we thought. A walk down the corridor, an elevator ride to the first floor and out the door of the hotel we went. Senior citizens were playing checkers and chess at the tables in front of the hotel. We walked by them smiling. Enjoying the fact that we were at last getting to spend time together after a long separation. That is when we heard it;
“Beee-ullll”
“Jack-a-lynnnn”
“Beee-ullll”
“Jack-a-lynnnn”
Looking up what did we see? Polly on the roof screaming down at me. Other guests began to notice and now the crowd was all abuzz with “there’s a lady on the roof and she says she’s going to jump”. My father sprinted back to the hotel and to the roof. He and a bell hop were able to wrestle her away from the edge and get her safely back in the room. She was told to call her brother to pick her up, pack her things, get out of our room and wait in the lobby for her ride.
Crisis averted my father and I spent a few hours playing. There is an old timey sepia tone photo in my library taken that day. Dad is dressed as an outlaw and me a western bar maiden. Odd I know but I have a feeling I chose the costumes and he simply went along. Upon returning to the hotel we spied Polly sulking in a chair in the lobby. Something was different. Oh yeah, she had beat her face to black and blue with the phone in their room and had been telling anyone who walked by that my father was the culprit. Her brother did pick her up that day. I thought for sure she I would never see her again but alas the next time we met I was crawling through a window of her parent’s beach house because she wouldn’t wake up to answer the door. That however is another story for another day.
After my parents separated, my father began seeing a woman named Polly. While I was in New Jersey with my mother they moved into a two bedroom two story townhome. Polly wanted our first impression to be a good one so she decorated a room for me with rainbows and wind socks. Hmm….. Prior to my arrival for my first visit, Polly became very insecure. She was the poster child for why alcohol and insecurity don’t mix. Add in a few pills and you have yourself a serious mind fuck. So one night Polly’s drunk, pissed, insecure and ultimately out of her mind. She decides to pick a fight with my father. He won’t take the bait so she switches gears to the old “you don’t love me so I’ll kill myself” routine and puts her hand through a glass door. That got his attention. She was bleeding all over. My father immediately rushes her to the hospital where they wait for hours to have her hand stitched up.
In the meantime, the neighbors have heard screaming and items being thrown against walls all night. They decide to take a peak and see blood and broken glass all over. Concerned citizens that they are the call the police who also come to inspect the scene. The police are still on the scene when my father returns with a passed out on pain meds Polly who he is carrying from the car when the cops pounce on him. No one can wake her to find out if my father did this. Eventually they believe him and leave.
Skip to my first visit. Dad thought it would be a nice bonding experience for the three of us to drive to San Marcos and stay at Aquarina Springs. On the way he stopped and picked up a six pack of Michelob Light. Polly, having not learned her lesson, proceeded to drink four of the six. By the time we hit San Marcos she was good and ready for a fight. We checked into the hotel and went up to the room. My father told me to go in the bathroom, lock the door and not come out until he told me to. I spent the next hour and a half making all of the little coffee packets. Cleaning the sink with the tiny bar of soap. Counting the tiles on the floor. Laying on the floor ear to cold tile, one eye squinting under the door to see the fight.
At last he had enough and released me from my captivity in the bathroom. We were going to see the tic-tac-toe chickens and swimming pigs and no one was going to spoil the fun. Or so we thought. A walk down the corridor, an elevator ride to the first floor and out the door of the hotel we went. Senior citizens were playing checkers and chess at the tables in front of the hotel. We walked by them smiling. Enjoying the fact that we were at last getting to spend time together after a long separation. That is when we heard it;
“Beee-ullll”
“Jack-a-lynnnn”
“Beee-ullll”
“Jack-a-lynnnn”
Looking up what did we see? Polly on the roof screaming down at me. Other guests began to notice and now the crowd was all abuzz with “there’s a lady on the roof and she says she’s going to jump”. My father sprinted back to the hotel and to the roof. He and a bell hop were able to wrestle her away from the edge and get her safely back in the room. She was told to call her brother to pick her up, pack her things, get out of our room and wait in the lobby for her ride.
Crisis averted my father and I spent a few hours playing. There is an old timey sepia tone photo in my library taken that day. Dad is dressed as an outlaw and me a western bar maiden. Odd I know but I have a feeling I chose the costumes and he simply went along. Upon returning to the hotel we spied Polly sulking in a chair in the lobby. Something was different. Oh yeah, she had beat her face to black and blue with the phone in their room and had been telling anyone who walked by that my father was the culprit. Her brother did pick her up that day. I thought for sure she I would never see her again but alas the next time we met I was crawling through a window of her parent’s beach house because she wouldn’t wake up to answer the door. That however is another story for another day.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Heather I
When I was young we had a Great Dane named Heather. This dog had the patience of a saint. There are photos of me as an infant crawling on her, pulling her ears, and generally sprawled all over her. She never growled. Never nipped at me. She took each transgression in stride, staring up at my mother as if to say; “Really, did you have to bring her home?”. Heather had 18 puppies in one litter. My father built an enclosed pin with a trough to feed them after they were weaned. At this time I also had three ducks. The ducks and puppies and I would play in back yard for hours. Always under the watchful eye of Heather.
All of this changed when we moved from a house to an apartment. The ducks couldn’t make the move. The puppies were all sold. The apartment was a two bedroom with a patio covered in oyster shells. Heather was miserable but I couldn’t see it. However my parents could and one day that sat me down to tell me Heather was going to live on a farm. This news went over like a lead balloon. I didn’t want her to live somewhere else. She was my dog. A farm? Sounded fishy.
They let the news soak in for a week before telling me it was time. I insisted on going with them to get a look at this “farm”. I don’t know why I was convinced they were lying to me and were sending her to Heaven or the pound. We loaded up in my parent’s Torino with Heather taking up most of the backseat which was fine because in those days I liked to ride standing on the hump in middle, hanging my head over the seat to stare out the windshield. The windshield I would be flying through had they made a sudden stop. I don’t remember how I acted in the car but knowing myself like I do I’ll bet I laid on the guilt four feet thick.
We did in fact go to a farm that day. The owners had a son who was mentally challenged. He immediately fell in love with Heather. I immediately felt guilty for wanting to snatch my dog away from him and take her home. We stayed for a couple of hours while Heather got comfortable. Then we left. I cannot imagine the confusion this caused for my dog. I still cannot imagine what my parents were thinking giving away a living creature after having her for five years. I wish I could contact the owners of the farm today and see how she did as she lived out the remainder of her days.
When I was young we had a Great Dane named Heather. This dog had the patience of a saint. There are photos of me as an infant crawling on her, pulling her ears, and generally sprawled all over her. She never growled. Never nipped at me. She took each transgression in stride, staring up at my mother as if to say; “Really, did you have to bring her home?”. Heather had 18 puppies in one litter. My father built an enclosed pin with a trough to feed them after they were weaned. At this time I also had three ducks. The ducks and puppies and I would play in back yard for hours. Always under the watchful eye of Heather.
All of this changed when we moved from a house to an apartment. The ducks couldn’t make the move. The puppies were all sold. The apartment was a two bedroom with a patio covered in oyster shells. Heather was miserable but I couldn’t see it. However my parents could and one day that sat me down to tell me Heather was going to live on a farm. This news went over like a lead balloon. I didn’t want her to live somewhere else. She was my dog. A farm? Sounded fishy.
They let the news soak in for a week before telling me it was time. I insisted on going with them to get a look at this “farm”. I don’t know why I was convinced they were lying to me and were sending her to Heaven or the pound. We loaded up in my parent’s Torino with Heather taking up most of the backseat which was fine because in those days I liked to ride standing on the hump in middle, hanging my head over the seat to stare out the windshield. The windshield I would be flying through had they made a sudden stop. I don’t remember how I acted in the car but knowing myself like I do I’ll bet I laid on the guilt four feet thick.
We did in fact go to a farm that day. The owners had a son who was mentally challenged. He immediately fell in love with Heather. I immediately felt guilty for wanting to snatch my dog away from him and take her home. We stayed for a couple of hours while Heather got comfortable. Then we left. I cannot imagine the confusion this caused for my dog. I still cannot imagine what my parents were thinking giving away a living creature after having her for five years. I wish I could contact the owners of the farm today and see how she did as she lived out the remainder of her days.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
A Little Bit of Laughter in an Otherwise Boring Day
I left work early yesterday to take the cat to the vet. In my absence, my co-worker decided to have a little fun. She knows how scary I find the Duggar family. Twenty-one children? Come on! This is much different from my facination in the FLDS. While I find it interesting (if not a bit disturbing) that a cult can in effect live and thrive practicing polygamy in this country, the Duggar’s make my uterus cringe every time I see them.
So imagine my surprise when I walked into the office this morning and there after my last name on the plate outside my door was a Post-It Note with Duggar written on it and a photo of the whole clan beneath. I giggled and left it there and proceeded to my desk. On my chair? Another Duggar photo. Peeking out of the plant on my file cabinet, taped to my phone mouthpiece, under my mouse, under my keyboard, in my top drawer, in the chocolate covered espresso bean box I keep in another drawer, and in the Christmas card box. I have so far found 10 miniature Duggar clan photos in my office and have been promised by same co-worker there are many more to be found. That equals 10 laughs in an otherwise boring day. I am on a Duggar hunt until I find the rest. Then I think I will plaster her monitor with them after she leaves.
I left work early yesterday to take the cat to the vet. In my absence, my co-worker decided to have a little fun. She knows how scary I find the Duggar family. Twenty-one children? Come on! This is much different from my facination in the FLDS. While I find it interesting (if not a bit disturbing) that a cult can in effect live and thrive practicing polygamy in this country, the Duggar’s make my uterus cringe every time I see them.
So imagine my surprise when I walked into the office this morning and there after my last name on the plate outside my door was a Post-It Note with Duggar written on it and a photo of the whole clan beneath. I giggled and left it there and proceeded to my desk. On my chair? Another Duggar photo. Peeking out of the plant on my file cabinet, taped to my phone mouthpiece, under my mouse, under my keyboard, in my top drawer, in the chocolate covered espresso bean box I keep in another drawer, and in the Christmas card box. I have so far found 10 miniature Duggar clan photos in my office and have been promised by same co-worker there are many more to be found. That equals 10 laughs in an otherwise boring day. I am on a Duggar hunt until I find the rest. Then I think I will plaster her monitor with them after she leaves.
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