Prattle Inc.

May I Be Frank, Frank?

Seriously, and I am being so serious with this question, do brides outside of my little world actually wear lingerie? 

Hell, me and most of my inner circle girlfriends don't even own pajamas. Au naturale, baby.

I Am Obsessed - or Possessed -OR WHATEVER

• "I have to book two nights in Rome for our stay around arrival and departure days. Why the fucking fuck is traveleurope.com* STILL down?"
• "Where the hell is the battery charger for the camera?"
• "Will dark brown silk suffice as a Little Black Dress?"
• "Who's in charge of socket converters?"
• "Why aren't all of your clothes ready for the cleaners?"
• "You'd better get on the phone with her right now, missie! I do not recall loaning out EVERY PIECE of our luggage!"
• "NO, NO, NO, Jefferson! The seer-sucker pants and the brown striped shirt do NOT count as "cocktail attire."

                  10 Days until we leave for the Italy Wedding.

*Hint: for a family of four a bed and breakfast and/or a serviced apartment is often cheaper (and nicer) than the available hotel accommodations.

The Fucking Fish Weighs More Than Four Pounds

My step sister, the hair stylist, has a brand new baby! Aww!

You didn't know that she was having a baby? Well neither did we! Or, for certain, she.

For years my brother in law and she had intimated that they were pretty much d-o-n-e done with the baby-brewing since they already had a 19 year old severely autistic son and 15 year old daughter and were quite happy with that kid to parent ratio. So when she told me two weeks ago that "Your new niece has been born," I was more than a little taken aback. More than a little, like a lot, as in "WHAT THE FUCK are you talking about?" We're fairly close, we talk weekly, she cut Bratface's hair just three weeks ago - how could she NOT have mentioned, and how could we NOT have noticed her pregnancy for all of these months?

Well, she wasn't pregnant. She had taken a teen-aged client with an unwanted pregnancy under her wing and she and her husband even agreed to adopt the baby if the teen parents decided to give her up, but didn't tell any of us because she wasn't 100% sure it was going to work out that way. Then the baby came early, and now my sister is a new mother and we are all happy and surprised and everyone and their dog (doesn't this make you crazy?) has been scouring the planet, but mostly Target, for bassinets, and glass bottles and onesies and sleepers in preemie size.

The sweetest little pea in the entire pod was born at just 34 weeks gestation and is perfectly perfect and healthy in every way except that she is SO INCREDIBLY TINY but she is a whopping (in Preemie World) 4.7 pounds now and is at home with her family right this second!

I get to babysit once a week while my sis works.

Damn straight there will be photos.

Panic at the Disco, If My Kitchen Table Can Be Called the Disco

I like to say I work better under pressure but that's really just an excuse for Procrastination being my middle name.

Thirty days from now I will be on a plane with a jumbo sized bag of "popcorn" a.k.a.nicotine gum for the eight hour ride to Italy. (I think it's 8 hours. Somebody help me out, math and conversions are not my thing. We leave Kennedy in NY at 7p.m. and arrive in Rome at 10 a.m. Did I do the time change right?) Sure, I could try to quit smoking before the trip, but I hear Italy is very smoker-friendly. Why torture myself my family in a country where smoking seems to be embraced? Anyhoo, it has suddenly dawned on me that there are VERY IMPORTANT things that must be accomplished prior to the trip.

Like my teeth. Sure, I haven't been to the dentist since 2004, which I didn't realize until the receptionist tsk-ed me when she pulled my chart, but all of a sudden it seems imperative that I have the two wisdom teeth pulled that came in when I was pregnant with Tee, ahem, 19 years ago.  Because who goes to Italy with two whole extra teeth in their mouth? So declasse'.

Also, I notified the school that the kids would be absent for the trip. Thinking that thirty days prior would be plenty of time, I hadn't exactly sweated this detail. Turns out that the principal has to personally approve the trip and that I will have to explain why it is so important that my children are not sitting mindless and numb during Standard of Learning reviews, instead jet-setting to a foreign country and completely wasting their public education. Item: Compose letter to principal  without an ounce of sarcasm included that pleads for excused absences for this potentially once in a lifetime opportunity. Note to self: Do not point out that Italy has no legal drinking age and that Tee anticipates a big majority of his cultural education to include such phrases as "Youthful, leggy, deeply colored." or "Heavily beaded. Pale, cool climate." 

The across the street neighbor is keeping Sadie while we are away. He's a Dog Park kind of guy. We are not Dog Park kind of people - love the dogs, despise the owners. Also the dog catcher routinely patrols the Dog Park and fines those who do not have the city enforced dog tag. Item: go down to City Hall and pay the fracking $5 for the little tin tag shaped like the state of Virginia already.

Bratface has needed an eye exam since December. I felt no guilt whatsoever and blamed the procrastination on thrift and frugality (she still had three pairs of contacts left in the box!) until last week when she took them out for the night - then dropped and stepped on her only pair of glasses. Seriously, the poor child needs a cane and seeing eye dog to navigate from bathroom to bedroom. Item: optical appointment asap.

You sure got some pretty teeth, boy. Tee heard about my impending dental exam and begged me to schedule a cleaning for him. WTF? Whose kid is this anyway? Item: self-employed, non-insured, self-pay VANITY cleaning scheduled for the same day as my appointment. You'll be proud that I offered no retort whatsoever to the receptionist who noted the irony of the mother who neglects her own dental hygiene until a problem, or a trip, occurs and the son who would gladly show up weekly if permitted.

P.S. This is not procrastination. After a total of 11 new test-patches, I'm just tired.

Dare I Say I Had Fun?

Whew! One wedding down, three to go.

Little sister is hitched!

She made it with only a slight crimp in the program. The tiny problem that was realized exactly 2.5 hours before the wedding was that all of the hydrangeas in her bouquet and all of the hydrangeas, which were the ONLY flower used, for the seven bridesmaids' bouquets had died overnight.

Scene: Seven bridesmaids on cell phones, three soliciting husbands to Save the Day, and four calling every florist, grocery store with a floral shop, and maybe even one of them tried a cemetery in town attempting to round up enough hydrangeas in the exact shade of blue that would be needed to remake eight bouquets.

Simultaneous Scene: Bride bawling and inconsolable in the bathroom.

In the end, it all worked out and the whole thing turned out perfectly.

*Note: Hydrangeas are so delicate that they must clipped underwater. Remember that from now on.

**Also, I'll be back to the posting soon. At this time my every waking moment is being spent stuffing my face with the leftover 5 gallons of the most delectable spinach-artichoke dip on the continent and paring down the 14 bottles of wine that I was left to dispose of. I'm drinking as fast as I can. (Don't judge. Is it my fault that this house doesn't have enough cabinet space?)

I'm 9 Years Old All Over Again

If you lived in the DC metro area during the 70's and 80's you're going to appreciate this. Otherwise, it's still so catchy that you'll have to sing the theme to the "Love Boat" ten times* to get it out of your head.

* That's the cure for getting rid of that song that just won't go away. Sure, you end up with "the Love Boat" theme stuck in your head then, but it works.

Mission: Make A Decision Already

This has gone on far too long.

I MUST make a decision RIGHT NOW. The fam will be here in four days, flying in from all points North and South to behold the spectacle of little sister Keebo's wedding. For four months the areas currently paint-patched by purple (Flexible Grey? Very flexible. Don't get me started...) has been sampled by no less than seven different colors.

I need help and I need it badly.

Fact: This is an interior room, our mock living room to be exact. There are no windows whatsoever. On the brightest, sunniest day a lamp must burn at full force in this room.

Fact: I'm over the current yellow paint. It doesn't match the acquired artwork I wish to hang and it is hard on the eyes when reading at night.

Fact: I am a big reader.

Fact: The fucking fish is STILL a bone of contention. Can I tell you that I painted the front door? The one that a person, such as my husband, walks in and out of forty times a day. Can I tell you that it only took him five days to notice that it was no longer blue, but burnt orange? Now the fucking fish? SEVENTEEN MINUTES. That's how long it took him to notice that I had stealthily removed it from it's out-of-the-way spot last week while he was out in the yard and hid it in a closet.

I implore you, my artistic friends, please,
please give me some advice on a color for this room that will flow with the rest of the wall colors.

I'm this close to calling it a day and just going with basic and boring antique white.

For Now

When the black walnut and oak trees are bare I see the man I've never met walk to the bathroom in his boxers about thirty times a night. He, or his wife(?), hang pants to dry on hangers on their screened in back porch. The teenager at the house beside the old man's performs choreographed dances over and over again in her bedroom. This house's screened porch is filling up quite nicely and I'm sure they call it a storage room. Six houses behind and vertical I can tell when a couple of my friends are up or if they have gone to bed for the night.

The white blooms of the "popcorn trees" all around town have already begun to wither. The flowers are beginning to green and leaf out and now it's called the "pee-pee tree" because those gorgeous bursts of spring turn out to have the absolute worst fragrance - ammonia, and it is strong. Once the Bradford pear trees start going to leaf the bigger trees are right on their tails.

Soon my "friends" will be invisible again until fall.

Oh, Hi

Windows open. Temps in the 60's and 70's for over a week.

Spring, come to Mama!

I don't know the name of these flowers. Do you?

Learning Curve

Scene: Mother (Me) is sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket with laptop on lap like every other non-65 degree day. 18 year old Tee enters house holding numerous ATM slips.

Tee: "Mom, I think something's wrong with my (three month old) bank account."

Mom: "Oh?"

Tee: "Look at these balances. I don't know what's going on. Yesterday my account balance said $134.20, but the day before it only said $100.15. Then today I get this one: $168.25. I don't get it. Are you putting money into my account for me?"

Mom:  "Dream, pal. Let's pull up your account online and see what's going on."

Scene: Mom and Tee peering at computer screen.

Mom: "Tee! Remember in Math how a little minus sign in front of a number means a negative?"

Tee: "Yeah."

Mom: on the verge of losing her shit "And you know that if you put in $129 and spend $127 the same day, you only have $2 left?"

Tee: "Yeah."

Mom: "Then what are all of these debits for $2.05?"

Tee: "Gatorade for lacrosse practice."

Mom: "Hon, remember our talk about the $300 overdraft protection? How the bank will honor the draft but will charge you $32 for each transaction all the way up to the $300 limit? And how you were going to never EVER rely on that money?"

Tee: " ------"

Mom: "You do realize that all of these Gatorades cost you $34.05 EACH?"

Tee: "But Mom, if the debit card doesn't get declined how am I supposed to know I am out of money?"

Mom: Falls forward bonking head on computer. Dies. The End.

Branching Out

My personal handbag of choice has been my mini-Jansport backpack for oh, I don't know, 17 years now. It started out as my way of rebelling against diaper bags. Diaper bags that were way too large and only came in styles that were garish and cutsey - duckies, rainbows, baby blue or pale pink.  A minimalist, even when my children were babies, my little backpack was just the right size to hold a diaper, extra set of clothes, a snack or two and serve as my purse at the same time, because really, what parent needs to haul around a farking suitcase in addition to a baby? Such the perfect bag! Fully machine washable and stylish. My little backpack has served me well over the years and I still carry it today.

Sometimes, though, even a mini-backpack is too big or inappropriate for the occasion. A number of years ago I discovered Maruca Designs. A big fan of all things textile, I fell in love with the fabric first. Then I received my little bag. It was a style that they no longer make, an in-between size version of the City Girl (pg.7) and the New Yorker (pg.17). The heavens opened up, angels sang and petals fell from the sky. I LOVED my simple, chic-yet-earthy, worn diagonally over-the-shoulder, bag that was just the right size for wallet, checkbook, tampons and cigarettes. (Shut up.) It was perfect with jeans or my little black dress.  I machine washed it a thousand times and traded back and forth between, or carried it simultaneously with the mini-backpack (the bag is small enough to fit inside the mini-backpack and still have lots of room) for years. Sadly, about a month ago the strap finally broke, but good and can't be fixed.

Look what I found on ebay, cheap, cheap - woot! It will be in my hot little hands on Tuesday.

And maybe I'm growing up (finally) or just feel the need for the first time in my life NOT to look like a hostel-staying college student with my old nylon (normal sized) backpack as my carry-on luggage because look what else caught my eye for the Italy trip:

Hands off, I say. The auction is still going on and I fully plan on winning. Please don't bid. I would hate to have to hunt you down and stab you in the eye. But know that I WILL IF I HAVE TO.

Badass

A commercial for Schweppes products involving the slowest of slow mo. And water balloons.

A Fly In My Soup

My father is a baby boomer. His childhood in the 50's and early 60's was just like what we all picture in our minds. He was the child of blue-collar factory workers who had lived through the Great Depression. He had a paper route, collected stamps, and gathered soda bottles for the deposit money. My dad tells stories of saving box-tops for prizes, listening to radio shows and jotting off essays and letters to every contest that was announced. 

And bygod, if you were sold a defective or inferior product! Back in the day brand loyalty and production of  quality services and goods was the norm. There was no throwing out a defective or damaged item, or just accepting the fact that the product that you had spent hard-earned money on would last for only a short time, like we do now. Times were different, money was harder to come by and consumers had high expectations of manufacturers/producers. If something was amiss you returned the product or wrote a letter of complaint. No matter if nothing came of it, in my father's family and many others during the 1950's and 60's, it was considered your civic duty to notify the company/store/manufacturer of the transgression.

The day I was 8 years old and opened a can of chicken noodle soup to find not one, but two flies floating on top of the congealed fat that rises to the top was my first induction into the familial belief system as described above. Dad laid out a pen and paper on the table and carefully tore off the label to inspect for a company address. I was encouraged to compose a letter politely and respectfully describing the problem as I saw it. He advised that I should use the letter as a means of informing the company of the insects in my soup, rather than as a reason to rant or complain. He also made me look up and learn the proper name for the common housefly to incorporate in the letter. (Musca domestica. I still remember.) I mailed it off immediately.

A few weeks later I received an apology letter from the Campbell Soup company accompanied by a case of chicken noodle soup and enough "Free" coupons for another.

The lesson I learned from this might have sparked my inner geek as well as my interest in writing, because after that I became the Queen of letter writing. I saved cereal box tops and sent away for free toys. On behalf of my dark-haired friend Nicole who was never able to find a doll that looked like her when we played together, I wrote my suggestion to Mattel Corporation for Barbie dolls to be produced with jet-black hair and hazel eyes. (Yes, at the age of 9 I personally started the Barbie Realism Revolution. Now you know.) At Dad's urging I wrote to a local tv station about their program scheduling and the reply letter contained free tickets for our entire family to the Ringling Brothers & Barnum and Bailey Circus.

A few weeks ago I hastily dashed off an email to a publishing house suggesting that they republish an out of print book that I consider timeless. The (oh so poorly written) email was redirected to the actual editor of the very well known author. Gulp! She personally replied and we've had a few small exchanges. As of today there are two newly released books being sent to my daughter free of charge and I have direct contact with an editor of a major publishing house in the event that I ever consider querying any of my own writing. {Edited: The exchanges were quite friendly. We talked about our mutual love of the book. She said that some of this author's books are being brought out of the closet soon and she'd already wanted to recommend this one for reprint. She was grateful for the timing of my unsolicited email.}

Quick - I need teen novel ideas to pitch while the lines of communication are still open!

Finally

SUCCESS!

It's the piercing. Backstory here and here and here.

Hello Blank Page

Staring at this page for days now, I can't seem to find my jo or my mo regarding what I should place in this space. Shall I report on my tv viewing of the past two weeks? Probably not. Two episodes of Wildfire with Bratface doesn't really call for a play-by-play or running commentary. How about what I had for lunch? No? You don't care? Right, me neither.

Maybe a wedding report... .   

The Italy Wedding. I'm getting more excited, but more apprehensive as well. Our trip has been extended to 11 days. Eleven days with 32 people. Very shiny, happy people. People who are do-ers and joiners. People whose idea of a good time is to do every single thing together. "Let's ALL go out for a picnic. Let's ALL make dinner together. Let's ALL take a walk after dinner. Let's ALL go check out this gallery, then we'll play games all night and no, there is no opt-out." This type of togetherness is not for everyone. Like introverts. It really takes a toll on me. I have discovered that I have a three day threshold for family visits and that all of the over-stimulation requires seven days of peace, quiet and recuperation. In doing the math I expect a full recovery from Eleven Days of Togetherness, even if it is in Italy, by late July or early August.

I helped out at little sister's bridal shower, just like a good bridesmaid should. We had a sisterly tiff. So that was fun. The other two weddings (remember? Four of them from 5/12 - 6/6) are far less painful but that in no way absolves them. My "i hate weddings" mantra is only growing stronger by the day.

This Podunk Town

I know that y'all think I'm stalling. Or that I'm just plain full of shit.

You must understand, in some ways the itty bitty city that I live is quite cosmopolitan. We have theatre and music and artists galore. We have six SuperTargets (mind you), 12 sushi houses, countless art galleries, museums, survived a major war battle and Main Street closes yearly for the Gay Pride Festival.  We have a University, a 10 Year Plan and bus and train service, dammit.

I have a neighbor/friend who is a Pulitzer Prize winner. Two guys I went to high school with, one in my class, the other was a year ahead, are Olympic gold medalists. Another pal is a Grammy award winning musician. In kind of a way our little town has got it going on. We, the people of Itty Bitty City, can ACCOMPLISH THINGS.

So why the fuck can't I seem to get my nose pierced? Let's see - nose piercing? versus a Pulitzer Prize? Hmmmm....which one would a resident of Itty Bitty City be more likely to be able to obtain?

Yesterday, the NAI piercer was back at work. She kindly called me as soon as she got in and told me that the shop in D.C. where she was going to pick up my preferred nose screw { I didn't know that it was called that... I don't think I like it} was out of stock. She said they had to order it. Order it? Does she know who she is talking to?

I co-own a business, forcripessakes. That is so key-word for "I forgot about you, dear client, who I really want to retain now that I've remembered -----"

*Now just erase this whole conversation from your mind. Forget I told you about it. I was not aware that getting a nose piercing around here would take as long as my PhD. would if I aspired to mastering quantum physics. (Ha!)

One day I'll just pop up with a lovely, tasteful, nose piercing and that will be that. Hopefully next** Monday.

**How many times can one say "next" and still be grammatically correct?

-----------------------------------

If I disappear completely for a year or twenty, don't worry, I'm fine. Jefferson has just discovered Permaculture and he's meticulously plotting our escape from this current life.

In the meantime, we're talking about using the back roof, which is sun favored and flat, for cultivating/starting seeds in pallets with screen and cover. As of last year the trees in our tiny back yard block too much sun for any vegetable seed to start. They didn't come up and I had to use transplants. Small, flat, portable greenhouses - that's what I'm thinking. 

Don't "Go Joe!"

For almost a solid year he wore that pair of faux fur lined, navy blue, rubber snow boots everyday. That first winter they served their intended purpose and protected his little feet from the frosty elements. Come Spring, we reasoned at his protest against any other form of sneaker, shoe or boot, they kept his feet dry. He called them his fire boots or his army boots. He played in them, napped in them and wore them to preschool and story time at the library.

By Summer the fur was a matted dingy gray, the metal grommets that held the laces to gather and tighten at the calf had fallen off and the waterproof fabric on the upper part was torn in many places. They smelled so rank that no amount of overnight machine washing, only after he was sleeping could we pry them off his feet, would remove the stench. He still wore them everyday with shorts and no shirt when it was 95 degrees outside with 80% humidity. At the age of 3 and 4 a child grows so quickly that no pair of shoes lasts very long and by the time I had to secretly dispose of the "fire boots", blaming the trashman for taking them when I had left them outside to dry, they were two sizes too small. Sadly, we have no evidence of that famous part of my son's childhood other than the retold story and a photo or two.

Jobie's childhood passions consisted of legos, "army men" (G.I. Joes), matchbox cars and anything firefighter related. With legos he was never really interested in the sci-fi sets, his favorite things to build were real life action vehicles - police cars, ambulances and fire trucks. Tee was pretty into legos too, and ofttimes the brothers could come close to bloodshed over a single minuscule lego emergency light. In fact, to this very second I have one of the little round legos on my dresser mixed in with my  jewelery. I used to keep a stash of two or three for when the bickering got too intense, these puppies were pure gold around here then. Now the toy blue "siren light" is nothing but dusty sentiment that makes me smile every time I rifle through my earrings and it appears.

Needless to say, there is a very large plastic container in our attic that is filled to the brim with legos. I don't know, maybe I'm saving them for my grandchildren. Or maybe I just can't let go because those little plastic bricks cost a damn fortune and I personally invested the equivalent of three year's salary on their purchase over the span of two boys' childhood. Whatever the reason, I plan on keeping them forever.

G.I. Joes were also a very big deal to Jobie. Many a Christmas Eve night I was still out hunting down that specific Joe that would bring the squeal of excitement that only that special want, the heart's desire gift, his version of the Red Rider BB Gun, could elicit on Christmas morning.Tee was never as enthusiastic as Jobie about G.I. Joes, but often they'd hole up in their room acting out elaborate scenarios, playing together for hours. Jobie would haul the Joes outside for "jungle missions" and a few ended up decapitated by the lawn mower, or were found half buried in dirt piles. Eventually, the collection became quite extensive and it took a 14 gallon plastic storage container to hold them and their 8 frillion weapons and accessories. (Which by the way, I have always thought was part of the appeal since I was adamantly opposed to toy weapons. Inch long G.I. Joe guns and knives were as good as it got for them.)

Although legos and fire boots were outgrown sooner, the Joes had a much longer lifespan. Jobie has been too old to play with toys for quite awhile, but even through the 9th or 10th grade he would occasionally pull them out of the closet and just look them over or line them up. Only about a year ago did I finally clean, organize and sort the dolls (if I may be so bold - the boys always hated it when I called them that) to store away. 

Today Jobie came over and said that he needed to go up into the attic. He brought the box of Joes down. I caught him at the door. He's been unemployed for weeks now and thusly has no cash. He'd negotiated a sale for the entire box. I emotively begged him, then ordered him not to sell them. He belligerently replied "They're mine," and stomped out of the door.

After the past 6 years with the bipolar, the resulting substance abuse, bad choices and all of the other shit, sometimes my mind goes back to before all of that - to my little boy.   

He's wrong about that box being "his". My memories were in there, too. 

Deserves an A+ In My Book

(via opey.com)

A true story...

RECEIVED FROM AN ENGLISH PROFESSOR: This assignment was actually turned in by two of my English students:

Rebecca --last name deleted-- and Gary --last name deleted-- English 44A
SMU'S Creative Writing, Prof Miller

In-class Assignment for Wednesday. Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story. The process is simple.  Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right.  One of you will then write the first paragraph of a short story.  The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story.  The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back and forth.  Remember to reread what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent.  The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached.

  ----------------------------------------------------------------

At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.

Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. "A.S. Harris to Geostation 17," he said into his transgalactic communicator.  "Polar orbit established.  No sign of resistance so far..." But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship's cargo bay.

The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit. He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him.  Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4.  "Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel," Laurie read in her newspaper one morning.  The news simultaneously excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth --  when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspapers to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her.  "Why must one lose one's innocence to become a woman?" she pondered wistfully.

Little did she know, but she has less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu'udrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles.  The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace Disarmament Treaty through Congress had left Earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race.  Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anu'udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet.  With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan.  The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded.  The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion which vaporized Laurie and 85 million other Americans. The President slammed his fist on the conference table. "We can't allow this!  I'm going to veto that treaty!  Let's blow'em out of the sky!"

This is absurd.  I refuse to continue this mockery of literature.  My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic, semi-literate adolescent.

Yeah?  Well, you're a self-centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium.

Asshole.

Bitch.

   True story.

In Lieu Of

No piercing yet. The NAI piercer comes here only once a week from D.C. (the real one, not code) and called in sick today. Bah! So once again I proclaim that next Monday I will show you the teeny sparkle of a speck that I so anticipate.

Your consolation prize is a recipe.

Maintain your excitement.

Really though. This one is a gem. With a side of steamed asparagus (drizzled with lemon and butter) and  warm bread our dinner was on the table in less than 30 minutes and it was fabulous, even teen approved.

It is based on a recipe from Gourmet magazine. Yeah. But lest I remind you that just because it's printed in Gourmet magazine doesn't always mean (like I think it should mean) that you will have guaranteed  success and wildly flavorful results? You should have been here for the macaroni and cheese with 3 types of saute'd mushrooms, soured milk and expensive cheeses recipe that I made from Gourmet last week. Two hours, four pans and I had to use the food processor later and do you know what came of it? Mac-a-fuckin-roni and cheese. With mushrooms. So NOT exciting. And most certainly not worth the FOREVER it took to make.

Aren't you glad I'm here for you to weed out the crappy, time-wasting recipes?

Here's the good one you've been waiting for:

Mahi-Mahi With Shiitakes and Red Miso
(adapted from this recipe via Gourmet)

4     (6 oz./1 inch thick) pieces mahi-mahi
1/2  T. olive oil
2     T. canola oil
1/4   lb.(-ish)   sliced shiitake mushrooms
2      (1/2 oz.) single serve packaged dehydrated red miso soup
1     scallion, thinly sliced

• Preheat oven to 450 degrees.
• In a small shallow baking pan place fillets then drizzle 1/2 T. olive oil and sprinkle with 1/2 t. salt and 1/4 t. pepper.
• Toss mushrooms with remaining oil and 1/4 t. salt and pepper.
• Pour over and around fish.
• Roast fish and mushrooms, stirring mushrooms once or twice, until fish is just cooked through and mushrooms are somewhat crisp, about 13 minutes.
• Prepare miso soup as directed on package. (So easy - boiling water + pouch)
  
• Divide soup, mushrooms and fish into shallow plate or bowl. Top with scallion.

Maybe chicken would work, too?

Do it. You won't regret it.

I'm Laughing With You Not At You

Bratface accidentally shaved off half of her eyebrow...while shaving her armpits.

Sometimes it's hard to be the Mom and keep a straight face.

Mom Went to The Piercer and All She Got Was This Lousy Stud

I did it, y'all! I got my nose pierced. Left side.

However,  a great tattoo artist does not a great piercer make.

Immediately I could tell that something was wrong. It was located on the flat part of my nose more than I'd wanted. Also, the "screw" part of the stud was hanging out of my nostril. The piercing guy said you're supposed to be able to turn the stud around and the corkscrew will lay flat against the interior nostril.

Mine dug into my interior nostril when turned.

As soon as I got in the car I inspected it even closer and pretty much hated it.

I drove to a different tattoo parlor for a second opinion. The piercer there, a woman this time, agreed that I was right to be unhappy. The stud was inserted on an angle, not straight through, which caused the tail of it to either show or to poke me in the nose.  She also agreed that it should have been placed a bit farther back on the crease of the nose, not on the flatter part.

The New and Improved piercer removed it and I'm to let it heal for a week.

So next Monday I'll have a nose piercing.

Let this be a lesson:

• Make sure that the piercer marks the spot and lets you check it - FIRST. I thought that's what we were doing but the pain convinced me otherwise before I'd even had a chance to speak.

• Make sure that a cork or rubber device is used. This ensures a straight path through the nostril. (He did not use one - just free-formed the needle with his hands like he was sewing.)

• Make sure that you are happy with the size of the stud - on the actual nose the teeny tiny is still too large for some. Like me. (The NAI Piercer is buying me a special 1.5 gauge in D.C., where everyone and everything is cooler than we have here, rather than the 2.0 that is stock and what I first got.)

Sigh.

How anticlimactic.

Bacon and Bling

My mother-in-law lightly coats raw bacon slices with flour to make crispier, tastier strips.

Although we eat little meat, there is simply no way to make old-fashioned fresh green beans like grandma does without bacon. {Edited to add that I CAN make a mean pot of green beans using almond oil and sliced almonds in the same manner as described when we're feeling totally vegetarian but there's really no substitute for Grandma's beans, now is there?} I cook 3 or 4 pieces in the bottom of the stock-pot that I will be using for the beans. Then remove cooked bacon, add raw beans directly to leftover bacon grease, cover and shake, shake, shake every little while to coat all beans and keep from sticking. Keep heat on low but don't remove the top! After about 5-7 minutes the beans will have "steamed" and will be a bright green. Now add water and cook as usual to get the best old-fashioned green beans you've ever tasted. Sprinkle the crisp bacon crumbles on top, if you wish.

Thanksgiving Side Dish night is Bratface's favorite dinner. Tee calls it Turkey Dinner Without the Turkey night; he says it would be his favorite if turkey were involved in more than just the title.

I decided that you just couldn't live another minute of your life without knowing these facts.

Also, I'm going to get my nose pierced tomorrow. I want one of those teeny sparkles of a speck of diamond. I think it'll be cute.

But which side? Is there a correct one? Please confer and report back.

    

Cripes, Whatever Happened To Living In Sin?

Have I mentioned my disdain for weddings?

Not only is my baby sister Keebo getting married in April and I am one of SEVEN bridesmaids {shudder}, Jefferson's sister is getting married in May in Italy (hello, that means that we will have to go to Italy) and four days after our return we will travel to Jersey, the bride's home state, to witness the marriage of two of our dearest friends and Jefferson's most famous partner in crime.

Did I mention that two of the betrothed are our sisters? The other being one of our closest friends? That means what? 

Weddings in April, May, June.
Ready set go,
March!

The festivities (and bullshit) shall now begin. The phone calls and emails from sisters, bridesmaids and mothers so excited about the plans, themed bridal showers (Around The World Bride - What the hell? Please. Explain.) out of state and over-night bachelor and bachelorette parties, travel accommodations this state, that state, another continent, menu planning, invitation choosing assistance, registries to check, cars to rent, money to gather falling from the trees (that's going to happen, right?) and dress fittings are really starting to interfere with my ruminations on figuring out WHAT I SHOULD WEAR IN ITALY.

I've never even been there but I'm pretty sure my usual daily attire (big silver hoops and red silk scarf over my ever-present brown/black/tan/green and jeans counts as dressing up in my world) just ain't gonna cut it. We're staying in a castle turned villa for 32. With a chef. For seven days. Cool, right? Now WHAT DO I WEAR?

Every weekend from the beginning of March we are booked with wedding crap for someone. The phone calls and emails are taking over our lives. Have these people never heard of cc'ing?

And I knew it. I just knew something was up when I suggested to Jefferson that we eat out tonight and he not only said yes, he seemed happy about it. <------- Sign. Note it. He always balks. We could be down to a packet of dressing from a salad bar and salt in the cupboards, have a 'copter on the helipad waiting to take us to an all-expense paid dinner and still he would balk. "It's Monday for godsakes!"  I don't get it either. He likes going out on weekends but for some reason it is absolutely taboo during the week.

Tonight, safely after I'd been handed my margarita in the Mexican restaurant, we started talking about all of the weddings and some of the drama-issues for each. We got onto the Major Problem of the Italy wedding. Seems that Relative Mr. X, who just got one of those "who'd have ever thunk it after 15 perfect years" divorces less than a year ago announced his upcoming nuptials to Mrs.Will Be Divorced On the Wednesday Before The Wedding, over Christmas. Unfortunately, this wedding would be right on or around the exact day that most of the extended family on Jefferson's mother's side would be leaving the country for Italy and J's sister's wedding. It would be difficult to attend both. Needless to say, conflicting family weddings is a bride's mother's worst nightmare.

I asked if he'd talked to his mom in the last couple of days. Jefferson said that the issue had been resolved. Woot!

"My mother sold us down river and used OUR departure as reason to talk them into changing the date to a week or so earlier. She explained to Aunt X (Mr. X's mother) that we would be devastated if we couldn't be a part of his wedding."

Gah.

Eight weeks, four weddings, three states, two countries and DAMMIT I ALREADY WORE MY BLACK SKIRT AND MY TWO GOOD DRESSES TO THE ENGAGEMENT PARTIES.

Still On Topic

No, I'm not fully committed and I don't have to decide until next week, but I must admit that in light of my last post referencing "hope" on the ballot I got completely overtaken with chillbumps when I saw this video and read the full text.

Check it out.

(via youtube)

(speech text via red stapler)

It was a creed written into the founding documents that declared the destiny of a nation.

Yes we can.

It was whispered by slaves and abolitionists as they blazed a trail toward freedom.

Yes we can.

It was sung by immigrants as they struck out from distant shores and pioneers who pushed westward against an unforgiving wilderness.

Yes we can.

It was the call of workers who organized; women who reached for the ballots; a President who chose the moon as our new frontier; and a King who took us to the mountaintop and pointed the way to the Promised Land.

Yes we can to justice and equality.

Yes we can to opportunity and prosperity.

Yes we can heal this nation.

Yes we can repair this world.

Yes we can.

We know the battle ahead will be long,
but always remember that no matter what obstacles stand in our way, nothing can stand in the way of the power of millions of voices calling for change.

We have been told we cannot do this by a chorus of cynics...they will only grow louder and more dissonant. We've been asked to pause for a reality check. We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope.

But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.

Now the hopes of the little girl who goes to a crumbling school in Dillon are the same as the dreams of the boy who learns on the streets of LA; we will remember that there is something happening in America; that we are not as divided as our politics suggests; that we are one people; we are one nation; and together, we will begin the next great chapter in the American story with three words that will ring from coast to coast; from sea to shining sea --

Yes. We. Can.

Even If It's Only A Primary

As Americans we have become so acclimated to the privileges that we call Rights and Freedoms that we forget to appreciate them. Think of all the things we take for granted on a daily basis - free and public education for our children, personal choice without fear of opposition, violence or persecution for our religion, thoughts or speech. We choose everything, everyday -our schools, our spouses, our professions, our homes and location, our church, our reading material, our travel - our lives. All of us. No gender, race or ethnic barriers exist. How many humans world-wide can count on this every day of their lives?

We also get to choose our governmental leaders - and this is power that should not be ignored. Though the system is imperfect and the players merely flawed mortals, the ability of the people to choose the individuals who will be in charge of policies that affect their lives is a gift that shouldn't be looked upon with ambivalence. Democracy calls for voice.

Cast your ballot in any direction as is your privilege. Just don't opt-out.

There will never be a perfect candidate but as long as there is a ballot "Hope" will be on it somewhere. 

Yes, Virginia, There Is A Recession

As I sit at the table gathering forms for the home equity loan officer, Contractor A tells me that he will surely pay the bill he was supposed to pay last week tomorrow - as long as Contractor B pays him the bill that was due 14 days ago.

He describes the phone call that he received earlier in the day from Contractor C whose business is at a standstill - he can no longer order heat pumps until at least eight subcontractors (including Contractor A) pay him the bills they owe. Contractor A says that we are both lucky. Neither of our businesses are in that position. (Yet? Yikes.)

Contractor A assures me that the home equity loan is easier to obtain than the business line of credit that he is attempting to get. He says he should know, he had to file for the home equity back in October.

The biggest builder in the metro area, a mega millionaire, who owes a measly $300 says he just can't pay, either. "Soon," I've been assured for three months now.

The hardwood floor contractor/friend that I talked with today (no bills involved) hasn't had a day's work since Christmas.   

Auntie tells me that her single daughter's hours have been cut back at the restaurant to two days a week. Social Services has given her seven days to find another job or they will stop paying for her son's daycare during her working hours because a person must work 35 hours a week to receive childcare assistance. After paying the full cost of daycare for two days a week, her take home pay would be  exactly $22. DSS advised her that quitting the job and being on the dole would be more lucrative. {Ed. note: Aaaargh! This mindset infuriates me.}

Jobie says he'll take her two days - he got laid off the week after Christmas.

Tee's job at the big-name retail store is "So damn boring lately." Everything in every store is on Super Duper Sale, but there are no customers. All of the employees' hours have been drastically cut. Tee said he's glad that he only has to work for gas and spending money; he's not the head of household like his manager who is having daily panic attacks while trying to keep up on the rent and put food on his children's table on half pay.

The classified ads in our local paper have flip-flopped. Used to be the Help Wanted ads took up three or four pages and the Legal Notices/Foreclosures only half a column.

It's not just rhetoric, hard times are here.

Yeah. No, really.

I did. I totaled a police car.

It's a good story actually.

So I'm heading West, pulling out of the post office. Da' Po Po swings around the corner, now heading North...fast, right? (But do you think anybody cared? Nooooooo.)

My Bobo (in her gappy little baby-toothed way Bratface had christened the Volvo years ago) had to creep around a parked van on the roadside. A PARKED VAN! (Do you think anybody cared?)

Attempting to make a left turn, only noticing him from the "thunk" when my right (passenger side) front hit his right front wheel area, I immediately hopped out of my car. He immediately hopped out of his car. The deputy and I spoke at the same time.

Me: "FUCK, shit. Fuckin' SHIT! ...Mo-THER FUCK-er!" -.-.-. Dammit."

Deputy (who I just notice is someone I knew in high school. FUCK): "Are you ok? Is anyone hurt?"

Hello there first impression in 20 years.
Hanging head.
No. Thank you.

Let me tell you, if you ever need quick response time from a fire truck, an ambulance, the Chief of Police and/or three (if I'm lying, I'm dying) back-up squadcars, just go right out and smash into a police vehicle. 911 will not put you on hold.

It was so efficient - info exchanged, the report was made, my ticket was written, shook the Chief's hand, and the wrecked po-mobile was up on a tow truck within no time. The whole process took less than 20 minutes.

Still a little shaken, once I was free to leave (no handcuffs, whew!) I drove on around the block to my original destination to meet with a friend and client. I apologized profusely for being late. He offered me a chair and said "Accidents wouldn't be accidents if they could be foreseen." Odd. All I had said was so, so sorry to be late. I hadn't told him about that yet.

Mr. Miller, a mutual acquaintance of both of ours, had called ahead to tell him that I was going to be late.  (???)(To this day.)

I asked if I could have a minute to call Jefferson before we talked. Working out the story in my head (PARKED VAN! whizzing by!), as I wasn't sure how he was going to react when I broke the news that I'd had an accident
with a police car
and it was my fault.
Bonus: the ticket to prove it.
I called Jefferson's cell. But when he answered he was calm, kind, even drippy sweet - all "He-yyyy, hon."

Ms. Mouse, another acquaintance, had seen the commotion and called him directly.

So had Mrs.BugEye and MetroMan.

My Dad beeped in to check on me. (This happened right outside of the post office that he worked at for 20-something years. He's not at that branch now, but someone recognized me.)

Within 15 more minutes I think there must have been a town crier with a hand bell on every corner shouting out the news. My phone just kept ringing and ringing.

Forfucksakes.

Oh yeah, the icing on this cake? The Bobo had only a broken headlight, but the police car was struck just perfectly on the wheel so that it caused the front axle to break. Total loss.

Huh...

Man, I love this town.

It's so full of interesting people and our friends are no exception.

A while back, for a solid year every Saturday night's highlight was Poolball. In a warehouse a giant contraption of plywood, pulleys and levers was erected and disassembled each week. A new track with variances and a different lay-out was built each Saturday. Think of the game "Mousetrap" on a human scale.
 
The entire process was well thought out by the Friends of Poolball Committee and a strategy of heats, a scoring system and rules of the game were devised. A party atmosphere, there was loud music, in fact a different soundtrack was created for each week, a quarter bar (Pabt's Blue Ribbon really isn't worth more than that, is it?) and patrons dressed in a thrift-shop version of Kentucky Derby inspired attire. Always kid-friendly, the children ran around freely. This was their party, too. Twenty Minutes of Disco, aka Intermission was a sweaty, heart-pumping highlight each week.

Poolballs, yep, the balls from a pool table, were released from the top of the structure complete with loud cheers and encouragement from the audience rooting on their chosen favorite. Prior to each heat, dollar bets were placed on which ball, the 8, the 6, etc., would be the first the reach the end. No age limit was placed on betting and the kids loved getting in on the act. In fact, the reigning champion for quite a few months was an 8 year old, although he rarely saw the championship round at 1 a.m. and got notice of his victory the next morning.

Poolball is nothing but a memory now and things have been pretty quiet around town for a while.

But look what appeared on my front door this morning.

I have no idea what this will entail.

What should I wear?

Am I supposed to bring a gift?

Dear Agent

The first snow of the year is always surreal, lovely and exciting. 

The u.s. mail carrier recognized our last name;
has worked with my father for 17 of his 30 years.
She was kind and made jokes.

He is a good boy,
upstanding young man.

Black ice is difficult, no, impossible to foresee.

Our rates are already through the roof.*

Please be kind.

* Our rates are high because our family only gets into accidents with gov-a-ment vehicles. In 2005, I totaled a police car. Yes. Thank you.

Principles Schminciples

I have issues with television. I don't like it and I don't want my kids to like it. Luckily, Jefferson concurs.

• Until the year 2001 we did not have cable television or an antenna. For the preceding 8 years our television served only as the device that facilitated the vcr. During that time we owned just a handful of taped movies and outside of very special occasions did not rent. (Could that I am an irresponsible renter and the late fees always kick my ass have had anything to do with it? Am I glad of that shortcoming now? Who says slacking doesn't have its redeeming qualities?)


• Pre cablevision installation to the present, we have had that single television set in our home. It is a 17 year old 19 inch. We do not feel the need to upgrade to a larger, better or flatter tv. It only gets those horizontal lines sometimes, and all you have to do is slap the top of it real quick and sharp. Fixed.

• We immediately ditched the remote control once the cable was installed. It's amazing how much less watching a person will do when they do not have the ability to scan 70 channels in .04 seconds for other alternatives. My father STILL can not get over this blatant rejection of clearly, the most useful invention of the 20th century, and it only took 5 years of repeating that we do not WANT a universal remote, thankyoudad, for Christmas, or a new tv, not even for another room, no - just one, that's all we need, for Dad to stop offering.

• No television/portable dvd devices, especially in the car. PLEASE do not get me started on that practice...Whatever happened to car games, conversation, sightseeing and family sing-alongs to the radio? A lack of imagination is the only result in being constantly entertained by outside forces.  Oops! Oh that's right, I'm not going there.

• Added bonus to relying on a 17 year old television that has NO holes in the back of it save for the electric cord? Your kids won't become video game obsessed, either. Why? The tv is not technologically advanced enough to have the right, or any, inputs for all of that. We have to run everything (the dvd player, the Xbox, not a 360 - only an Xbox will work) through the vcr. The vcr that no longer plays videotapes - just eats them, is a portal only. (And if you do know a way that a newer gaming device can be hooked up through a vcr to convey to the tv DO NOT tell my kids. Living this lie is fine by me. If you give them everything, when will they leave?)

• The tv is centrally located. This was actually a strategic move from the Watching What the Kids Are Watching department. It also provides Jefferson and I the Too loud - Too late excuse to keep the older ones in check.

So after saying all that...

No, wait, first I should qualify because I have a confession to make. Our house is purely of the functional variety - living room, big eat-in kitchen, bedroom and bath on the first floor, two bedrooms and a bath on the second. There is no rec room or family room for the kids and their friends and girlfriends to hang out when they (all the friggin' time. God, pleeease go somewhere with your giggling and fun, says the crochety hag confined to the kitchen) want to watch a movie or just gel a little. Jobie is 20 and Tee is 18.

By now you've guessed that we got the boys a flat screen tv (not huge, though) and dvd player for their room for Christmas?

I know it sounds like my rock-hard principles are crumbling, that Mama's gone soft.

But they're not getting cable up there.

And I mean it.

It's Curtains (or broken blinds?) for the Redneck Backyard

Picture the scene from "The Wizard of Oz" in which Dorothy is about to leave Munchkin Land to venture down the yellow brick road. 

Dorothy says "Goodbye" and the munchkins enthusiastically reply "Goodbye" in their little munchkin voices over and over again.

Feel the glee and anticipation that Dorothy is consumed with.  Oh! the possibilities, the excitement, the wonder of what the future will hold...


Goodbye!


Goodbye!!


Goodbye!     Goodbye!!     Goodbye!!!

We signed the lease on the warehouse yesterday.

Hold me.

The tears - they just won't stop.

Whirlwind Christmas '07

Boy have we had a Christmas.

Christmas Day started out with present opening at home, then a pilgrimage across town to the melee that awaited at Dad's house. By 1 p.m. we had already had two full Christmas celebrations but we were not finished yet! Next we had a dinner date with a dear older lady who has no children or family to spend the holiday with. As we weren't told what she was serving for dinner, turkey? standing rib roast? ham?, I pondered what to put in the salad I was planning to throw together as we rushed back to our house to drop off gifts on the ride home from Dad's.

We arrived at our next destination to find our dear friend all a dither and fully flanked by children as she had invited not only our family, but other guests as well. There were two Alaskan Eskimos and two families of African Congo refugees - along with their 13 children, all under the age of 10. The children were running around barefoot (they can't seem to get used to wearing shoes we were told) dancing, playing, chattering in Swahili and voraciously guzzling Juicy Juice like you have never seen before. The African adults were shy and  reserved, keeping to themselves in the far corner of the living room while the children did as children do - were in and out of the kitchen, up and down the stairs, spilling Juicy Juice everywhere and asking for dessert.

The dear lady was completely overwhelmed. The tables hadn't been set, in fact, were not even pulled out and we didn't see or smell any semblance of food in the house, other than a bowl of fruit. All of a sudden, the "melee" of my Dad's Christmas seemed dull in comparison. Our poor host was frazzled and near tears, so we immediately pitched in to pull this altogether. We followed directions on where to find the good silver, cleaned it and readied it for use, Bratface got onto corn-on-the-cob duty and the guys carried in chairs from the shed and searched under beds for tableleafs. We spread tablecloths, set out plates and the salad, poured drinks and finally dinner was ready to be served.

Our dear lady friend pulled out of the oven pans of semi-warm Kentucky Fried Chicken and biscuits and we all dug in. Dinner conversation was much more lively, the Africans telling us about themselves, the war between the Tutsi and Hutu that brought them to America and the Eskimos advising between fact and  fiction regarding their culture. (They do not live in igloos. "Those are the Canadian Eskimos," we were told.)

The children's table was reminiscent of a pirate's feast with no eating utensils used, loud laughter and an outbreak of traditional African song complete with table banging and knee slapping in unison. They wolfed down the food in anticipation of dessert. We rolled out the pumpkin pie, cookies and cheesecake but the children had only one thing on their minds - tangerines and oranges from the fruit bowl. They scrambled to grab as many as they could hold, some of the older kids filling their pockets to obtain a couple extra. No interest in the pies and cookies whatsoever, they explained in broken English that they were too sweet for their palette.

After careful mathematical equations of how many people would fit into 2 cars, we made numerous trips back and forth to deliver the African families (no driving skills, yet - they have been here less than a year) back to their homes. Although the company was nice, our family had to head out as well, as we were expected for yet another Christmas celebration at Jefferson's parents' home in North Carolina that evening to meet up with aunts, uncles and cousins from London and Los Angeles.

We arrived at 8:30 pm to another round of gift exchanges, a full dinner (this time with ham and turkey and all of the trimmings) and wine and company before the roaring fires. We've been out on the canoe, gone to an art gallery, had a family picnic on the beach and eaten more seafood than is environmentally sound. Nights have been filled with rousing games of Trivial Pursuit, more wine and conversation on the deck overlooking the water and planning for the upcoming wedding of Jefferson's sister. (We will all be together again in May for it - in Italy.)

At this precise moment in time (Edit: written at 10 pm 12/28/07) I am typing via satellite internet (which comes and goes) sitting outside, trying not to notice very strange sounds that we don't get much of in the itty bitty city where we live. Here in rural North Carolina on the Sound,  we have heard tales of the both the bear and PANTHER that have materialized in the in-laws' back yard over the past few weeks.

But I'm on the dock, trying not to think about that.
Bears and panthers won't cross water. ...Right?

This may well have been the busiest, yet most enjoyable Christmas we have had in a long time. Somehow, we have managed to celebrate with over 50 people (really, we counted!) that we know, love and care about.

Now that's what Christmas is about.

From my family to your's, we hope that your Christmas was just as nice and that the New Year brings you peace, prosperity and multitudes of love. 

Sadie says "Ham. Turkey. Water. Heaven."

Favorites

The best gifts are brought out year after year for display. They are looked upon with awe and wonder, are gingerly handled due to their now fragile state and always bring out grins and giggles. Each one elicits a story, a memory and genuine emotion.

I don't care if we don't have a show-piece holiday tree that is full of fancy baubles and expensive decorations. It just couldn't be Christmas without construction paper, glue and glitter. Our tree is dripping with such creations, here are but a few.

We call them priceless family heirlooms.

This toilet paper roll angel topped our tree for many years.

Rudolph after a few belts of egg-nog.

A 10 year old pretzel fossilized by Elmer's glue.

The essential macaroni masterpiece.

"I Made It Myself, So Don't Say Anything Mean"

I just know you will find a use for these.

The Time Has Come, The Time is Now

Last week I felt so READY.

I made six wreaths, baked four pies and made hors deaurves for a party we attended.  The kids and I did some shopping. Gift basket items were purchased for our employees. For the family of two teens who basically raise themselves and their younger brother, we bought pajamas and robes, clothing and gift cards. And for the single mother and her toddler son who just moved out of the homeless shelter into their own apartment the kids and I purchased and delivered a Christmas tree and all of the trimmings. For the little girl on our street who is positively the most gracious child one will ever meet, we have done a Secret Santa-type 12 days of Christmas advent, leaving a small gift for her to find on her doorstep each morning.

It has been such fun!  I love that my children pour out their hearts this time of year, are very willing participants in gathering, wrapping and delivering these gifts for others. They come to me separately and together and say "I just thought of a great idea for So and So", and "I can help deliver Saturday afternoon at 4" (this is life with older kids, parents are penciled into their busy schedules). Each of them has whole-heartedly participated in the true spirit of Christmas. I'm so proud.

Today it dawned on me that they also deserve a present or two under the Christmas tree in exactly 7 days.

Presents? Erhm...

Tree? Oh yeah...

Infected

Infused with the holiday spirit, I am!

Wreath Making 101

Helpful hint: Christmas tree lots will give, I said GIVE you all of the evergreen cuttings you can carry. Then they will let you come back and TAKE MORE once the mania truly takes hold.

Helpful hint 2: Look around. In your yard, your neighbor's yards, all over the place, but be VERY CAREFUL when staking out the magnolia tree right across the street from your home. One white blossom in your possession can mean penitentiary time - stealing from a National Park, even if it doesn't look like a park, more like an open field with a few scattered trees on it, is a real-life Federal Offense, ahem, said the Park Ranger.

Retreat to yard-scavenging.  

Almost anything can be used to make live decorations. With a minimal amount of time, egg-nog (or pomegranate martini) and floral wire pricked fingers you, too can be a master craftsman.

   

Bored with wreaths (already? can we say ADD?), or maybe you just don't have anymore wreath forms?

Progress to swags!

*

Or something like this.

It started out a swag-type creation, but pruning and pomegranate martinis are a dangerous mix, so now it is an ornamental ball-type wreath thing.

The kids call it Cousin It.

I call it festive.

Stop me before somebody gets hurt.

How To Make New Friends Via The Interwebs, or Why I've Never Won the Miss Congeniality Award

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