A Fixer-Upper Life

I get NO kick-back for this...

... but this site has the coolest book-themed jewelry I've ever seen.

It's not often you find stuff like this!

 

Love it.

Fair warnin'... This is a Bah Humbug presentation.

The next person to sing a C'mas carol, put up decorations of any kind, expose me to holiday-related paraphernalia, or even mention the inevitability of the holiday will be summarily slapped across the face. I'm sick of it already, and it's not even in full-swing yet. Close, but not quite.

You may call me Ebenezer. In fact, I embrace my inner Scrooge. I reserve my right to abhor the holiday season and all its trappings. I hear it already: no fun, wet blanket, blah, blah, blah. Heard it all before, so much it has no meaning for me. Much like the holiday.

The only snag in my stocking is I have three kids, and they know how their mother feels about the holidays. To appease them I keep up all the usual traditions I practiced before I wanted to scratch out the eyes of Charles Dickens, the father of many Yuletide customs we observe today. Charles Dickens, otherwise one of my favorite writers.

Damn him and his debts.

It's not that we don't observe at all here. We do the tree, some decorations (less every year), cookies, the in laws' on C'mas Eve, home C'mas Day. A big breakfast and dinner on the Day, bringing out the china and silver, making the table look like a C'mas factory threw up on it. I do all that, and being together as a family is a lot of fun. I just think we shouldn't need a holiday for many families to do that.

I hate going into stores from this time of year through mid-Januaryish - when the last of the sale items are FINALLY GONE. Carols are playing, fake trees slap me in the face, ornaments and representations of gifts and reindeer leap through the air. All the commercial crap that's apparently the reason for the holiday is so overwhelming it's hard not to trip over it. I find that repulsive.

The Chicago radio station known for playing non-stop holiday music is holding off 'til 11/15 this year, I heard. Normally they start the day after Halloween, playing the same 30 or so songs over and over and over, 'til I want to smash the radio and throw it out the window.

Why is my radio even tuned to that station? The aforementioned KIDS. Once they've realized the carols are playing - that day of doom - it's their first request upon getting in the car. Sometimes I can make excuses, "I have a headache" or whatever. But other times I give in, to make them happy. It's my nod toward being sensitive to their wants.

Even if I'd rather perforate my own eardrums with the star atop the tree. It's the price you pay, being a mother. Well, one of the many.

What would make C'mas okay to me? Glad you asked. It would start with beginning the holiday - any mention, anything related to - no earlier than December 1. Stores shouldn't be allowed to put out anything related to Yule or Tide before that. And no, no, NO holiday music on the radio, or anywhere, 'til December 15. At the soonest. December 24 preferable.

Holiday decorations? Homeowners may put them up on any mild day from the day after Thanksgiving forward, but only illuminate them from December 1 through the week of New Year's.

Gifts? For one's children it's approved. And a gift (joint, if there are siblings) to one's parents, if one speaks to/can stand the sight of them (I say so, because I can't). This thanks them for all they do throughout the year, and shows appreciation, while hopefully also providing them with something they can use.

Nothing for anyone else, save a spouse, if you've agreed to it. I'll even allow a best friend. But NO ONE ELSE.

Otherwise, compulsory volunteerism at a soup kitchen, shelter for abused or poverty-stricken mothers and children, a children's hospital, etc., instead of shopping. Go see what it's like being someone who has nothing, then tell me you need gifts.

Donate gifts that matter to those without. If you've been given much, give much away. If you've been one of those hit hard by the recession, you can at least give some time. Give something of  yourself. Anything. Anything that really matters to someone else. It will warm your heart, I guarantee it.

On C'mas Eve, a nice dinner together with family is a great observation of the holiday. Children may open gifts while the adults talk about anything but politics and religion, play games that don't promote wanting to stab each other, etc.

Spiced eggnog optional.

What roasts my chestnuts is the insistence of those who declare themselves "religious" that gifts of a material nature must be exchanged. They totally misconstrue the purpose of the holiday. Christ wasn't born on December 25. This we know. According to the story, the star/comet they reference appeared in the spring, not the winter. December 25 was chosen because it's near what was already a pagan holiday - Return of the Sun Feast. The church overtook it, knowing people were already used to celebrating around that time. So, December 25 it became, never mind the facts of the story.

And the gifts brought to the Christ child? Sure, they were expensive, but as the story goes the baby was a king. No one gave him impressive gifts from Marshall Field's. (Okay, MACY'S.) I doubt he got an appliance he didn't want or need, or yet another shirt. The gifts, I'd like to inform Christians, were suited to the occasion. No one said, "Let ye go outeth and buyeth, buyeth, buyeth! Thou shalt not payeth off thy debt 'til April - at the earliest. Eth." If you follow the story, it was about kings buying gifts for another king. Not Mary and Joseph hitting Kohl's on Black Friday.

"Give" is different than "buy." Give doesn't have to mean a material object. In fact, giving your time and effort means so much more than giving a thing. Giving something you've made yourself is cool, though. That shows thought and caring. Even if you knit someone a sweater that doesn't quite fit, that's a generosity of spirit that trumps anything you can buy.

But giving to those who have nothing, now that's truly nobility. That's what the holiday is for. That's what is meant. At the time the Christ story is set, no one had money. No one - had they even had shopping malls - would have been able to buy anything save the essentials needed for their families. Being together would have been enough, bringing in others, if they could afford to feed them. No one who observed this holiday when it first started could have anticipated all the plastic crap we put in our yards, the canned music, the garish decorations, the disgusting materialism of it all. It wouldn't even have occurred to them.

But giving humbly, to those in need, now that's observing the spirit of C'mas. That's the gift suited to the receiver, reflecting the kind-heartedness of the giver. And this warms the heart more than any amount of material objects exchanged between people who have enough. Often more than enough.

So, without apology to those who revel in the holidays, the way in which this country celebrates has no meaning for me. It's ostentatious, and shameful, to be greedy when people are in need. And they'll always be in need. If you must observe the holiday in what's become the traditional American way, could you at least spare the time and few dollars to donate to a worthy cause? You don't have to work in a soup kitchen or food pantry, if you really don't want to or can't, for whatever reason. But dropping off a box of food someplace that's collecting would be so appreciated by someone who'd otherwise go without.

That would be a real celebration of the season, bringing the blessing right back to you. For that you don't have to worry about a color or size. Or even a gift receipt. And what it returns is the glowing feeling you've done something right and good.

That's what it's all about.

Custom themes...

Are just NOT worth it. Every time I try making an adjustment I lose something. I lost post titles posts, dates, my entire sidebar.

MY SANITY.

So, let that be a lesson. Go with a template. At least HERE. Custom blogs WORK FINE AT WORDPRESS AND THEY'RE FREE.

Just not the same.

Halloween's over, and it was nothing like it used to be. It just isn't the same.

Friday we carved pumpkins, but the only person truly excited was my youngest loin-spring. He got his own pumpkin this year, because he's finally old enough to be trusted with our sacred carving tool - a battery-operated "saw" that can barely cut paper. If you wanted to harm yourself with it you'd have long ago forgotten why by the time you managed to scratch your skin. Then what would be the point?

He looked up pumpkin templates on the web, then wound up just doing his own thing. But it was HIS! And of that he was proud, as well he should be.

 

In the old days, when the kids could only look on, Paul and I had our undeclared pumpkin carving battles - each vying for the kids' favor. I'd take one, he'd take the other, and I'd kick his butt. They call that "tradition."

But this year, my older two couldn't have cared less, and Paul made the mistake of saying, "Whoever doesn't come carve pumpkins has to do the dishes." So they came to the table, never actually touched anything, and somehow got away with it. At least for the duration of the carving. Then we realized the gaffe and sent the older two to the sink, with a great deal of grumbling.

One thing, it made them come watch at least.

 

Adding to the downward turn of the holiday, I never saw my daughter's costume. Instead of going as Hannah Montana (to make fun of her, not from adulation) she went as a "nerd," borrowing one of Paul's shirts and sticking a calculator in her pocket. She was gone to her galpals' by the time I got home from work, and Paul didn't take a photo because she didn't technically even "dress up."

And the boys? They went out together, no parental supervision needed (SIGH), before I got home. Later I took my younger son, but completely missed middle child in costume. He went as Napoleon Dynamite, with wig and glasses.

Nobody got it.

 

Youngest Child's Pumpkin

My younger son was some amalgam of zombie/gross creature. He of the pulsating brain. But the second time around, with me, he switched to his brother's costume. Then he hit some of the first houses he did the first time. The houses giving out the best candy.

That's my boy!

Thus ends Halloween 2009. Our outdoor decorations are blown over, some of the tombstones broken. The candy's all over the kitchen. Costumes discarded, my daughter still at her friend's house after sleeping overnight there. The pumpkins are already beginning to sag.

Sounds a lot like me, actually, in advancing middle age.

 

I AM THE REAPER!

That was weird.

Anyway, let me close with this portrait of our two pumpkins, slowly rotting on the porch. They'll be rotting in a landfill soon:

 

Happy Halloween, and to all a good SCREEEEEEEEEEECH!

Photo of the Day

 

Boo! Part Two.

I'll get you, my pretty...

I have to work Halloween, can you believe that? Talk about a bummer.

Therefore, I'm dressing up, per request. I have a witch costume I've owned for years, so witch it is. My daughter, sweetheart as she is, begged me not to do anything to embarrass her. She may as well have begged the opposite.

I'm going with all visible skin green, with black nail polish. Maybe black lips, too. Oh, and my broomstick.

It's called a life lesson. Or passive-aggression.

I'll get a photo and share with you. Then you can tell me if it would embarrass a 15-year old with friends who know I work at the library.

Tee hee!

IRRITATED. Oh, and in the dumps.

It's not that I consider myself a great writer, but I know my way around a keyboard. I think. Maybe I suck more than I can see, being unable to objectively view what I write, but today's slap in the face by a former 'zine for which I wrote is majorly discouraging.I'm not naming names, but I think I know the reasons for the slap. If I thought they were justified I'd say so, but I honestly don't.

I've gotten my share of compliments from other sources. Still, I'm no longer planning to publish anything. I've lost all desire for that; the spirit has gone out of me. And this final slap knocks me down just that much further. Knowing this was more than likely a matter of someone trying to impress a major critic makes it not much better. From now on, I write because I enjoy it. I give away work to places like newsletters, and I write here and in my several journals, but that's it.

Snobbery. That's behind what this person did to me. Snobbery and being star-struck by someone who told her to give me the boot. Won't say his name, either, but opinion about him is varied. Problem is, I used to enjoy his reviews. But how can I now? I even have a couple of his books, and looked forward to reading those. Talk about souring them for me. Maybe they'd make good toilet paper.

I'm a literary snob when it comes to reading. That's the rub. I understand the high standards, but frankly I've read some articles from this 'zine that had so many errors, too little editing. You have to be a pet of hers to write for her periodical. Pure and simple. This is made obvious reading some of the other columns. The ones that are so "great."

Frustrating. And depressing. Quite the bash to one's ego, but also a life lesson. I know I have loads of room for improvement. I also know I'm stretched so thinly I'm a mess. I could maybe write decently if I didn't over commit. Still, I do.

I have too many interests, and want to follow them all. I have to sit down and decide what my priorities are. When I go on retreat I'll do that, top priority. No one can do 50 things equally well. What's enough for one person, even if she is manic, and what will I choose as my few concentrations?

Librarianship is huge to me, plus I'm getting my degree in December, so it had better be! And I enjoy writing, regardless of how much I suck. Even if I have no audience I'll keep at it, one day putting it all into book form for my kids to have.

It's the passion that counts, when it comes down to it. I admire people who do what they love, even if they don't excel. I like them for it, actually. So I'll never publish. So what? I'm not going to stop writing because one b*tch treated me like crap. I'm going to take the high road - aside from a few punches I just threw - and look at it from a Zen perspective. The Universe doesn't make mistakes. What comes to me is what's meant to come to me. I can't force anything, and I shouldn't want to.

Be content with how I am... That's tough, but it's some of the best advice a person can give. Be happy about doing what you enjoy, both things you excel at and things you don't. And try not to get too worked up about stuff.

So easily said. Wish it was easily done...

Photo of the Day

 
Radiant in Orange

This lily harkens back to the bouquet Paul gave me for our 20th anniversary on October 7.

Twenty? Really?

God, I'm old. I remember celebrating Paul's parents' 25th. We were still in college, but it seemed like they'd been married forever. But in five more years we'll have been married forever. At 20, it just feels like we've been.

Ye gods.

Anyone short a teenager?

She's 15. Really intelligent, but not too big on neatness. Lots of academic ambition, but no true interest beyond herself. In other words, a normal teenager.

She wants to be a psychologist, but she's told me twice how she doesn't like people. When I reminded her of her career choice, and how it kind of rests on caring about people, she replied, "Oh, I only mean people I KNOW." Oh. That makes a difference. Just see everyone for one session, then declare them cured. Before you start hating them.

Yesterday, you may have noticed, I was all estrogen-y regarding how quickly one's loinsprings grow up. How sad it is as, one by one, they fall by the wayside when it comes to doing things as a family. Case in point: the Halloween decorating. Oh! thinks I, I'm losing my babies! All Madonna-like (the religious one, not the singing whore), I glowed with loving kindness. Had I been the weepy sort I'd have shed a tear.

Then came today.

Driving to and from my middle son's orchestra concert, my daughter and younger son were ripping each other's heads off the entire way - 45 minutes that felt like 45 days. Oh, God, it was horrible. It was so bad I used the ultimate of all mother tricks. I martyred myself. I let my gentle, sweet middle child (he of the concert - are you following this?) sit up front, and I sat in back with my daughter and youngest child. Not between them, mind. I'm not sure my ass would fit there, or if it did I'd need the "jaws of life" to get it out. But with them. Thinking...? Well, clearly NOT thinking.

While I could chat up my youngest, who's always sweet to me, my daughter's eyes turned red, she grew fangs, and lunged at him.

Dear Daughter: YOU'RE TOUCHING ME!   

Youngest Child: Sorry, I don't have a lot of room.

Dear Daughter: THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU HAVE TO PUT YOUR BUTT ON MY LEG!

If I hadn't already had my husband fixed, I'd have gladly ripped out my own uterus. All warm/fuzzy feeling was absolutely, positively GONE. Along with all my hopes, dreams, and aspirations. And will to live.

Girl child was a Tasmanian Devil all evening. It didn't get any better. On the way home from the concert we stopped at the grocery store, both for celebratory ice cream, and because my daughter needed a couple things. One of them was for her facial breakouts. This is key. Remember this.

So we got home, had the ice cream, and things were quiet. For a really short time. Then the Tasmanian Devil discovered SHE COULDN'T FIND HER FACE CREAM! WHERE DID YOU PUT IT? WHERE? And, of course, we totally hid it from her. Because we like her with zits, so she can complain how ugly she looks and go off on that for six hours. Because we are awful, awful people who love to see our children suffer. When they look happy WE PUNISH THEM.

She charged all over the house, drilling me, WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE BAGS? I told her I put them where I always put them. Then, a few minutes later: IT ISN'T THERE!

The last I saw of her she was making one last pass through the house, tearing up the place. She was in her p.j.s, which was a good sign. I knew if I didn't breathe for another 20 minutes I just might be clear. She may go to bed and spare our lives.

Massive exhale. To bed she went.

The moral of the story is, never talk about how sweet and cute your kids used to be, and how you miss that. Nor should you go on to declare that now they're different, but in a cool way. If you do, one of them will turn into a demon, suck your blood, and spit it back out like a fountain. DON'T TELL ME I'M SWEET OR COOL, MATERNAL UNIT! WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT IT? YOU'RE OLD!!

Pretty simple stuff, really. You want them so badly. Do the happy dance while you're pregnant. Bring them home and take 1,000 photos the first year, then about 500 every year after that. Until they hit puberty and hide in their rooms all day. And when they do that? YOU RUN.

If you haven't had kids, hey! Don't let me discourage you. There are a couple days in every phase of their lives that are bearable. When they're newborns they can't cry as loudly as they will very soon. Before they're mobile, it's only the screaming that makes you want to put your head in a vice and crush it. Then toddlers, and all that sweet NO, NO, NOOOOOOOOOO!! as they stick the dog's tail in an outlet. Elementary school... Now that's not a bad gig. Pity it only lasts six years. Those are the prime times, when they bring home noodles glued to plates, their little pictures stuck in the center. Things you'll cherish, until all the noodles fall off and it just looks like an ugly paper plate spray painted gold.

Middle school... Downhill slide, but still an occasional good day.

High school... Kiss it goodbye, and wait 'til they hit 25.

Next time I talk about my kids in anything other than a neutral voice, preferably just in passing, just say FACE CREAM. That'll shut me up.

Do they make a cream for mental scars? Hmm.

Note to Self: Stop by Walgreen's tomorrow.

Boo!

 

Part One in My Grim Series

Every year we add to our Halloween decorations. This year it was tombstones. Walgreen's had them three for $ 10, and I thought that one heck of a bargain. So I went. Twice.

Our youngest is very, very into Halloween. It's his favorite holiday to decorate for, he told me. And you should see his costume. Talk about grotesque! Once upon a time he went as a cocker spaniel. Now he's a zombie with a pulsing brain and bloody knife. Explain when that happened.

This year it was just him and me outside, shivering and making the front yard all ghoulish. Children one and two - at 14 and 15 - couldn't be bothered to help. They used to love it, back in the good old days. The four of us would always be outside spreading webs, putting up tombstones, etc. But no more. Now it's so uncool to dare be seen doing such things, like a little kid.

If my youngest had his way, we'd have double the decorations we do. He asked me last year, "If someone gave you a million dollars to decorate for Halloween, would you?" I told him frankly, I'd rather just have the money. And I'd give him some of it for decorations. The child is obsessed, I tell you.

I wasn't so much in the mood to go outside and decorate this year, but then I got to thinking maybe this would be the last time my son would be so into it. So it was our time together, hanging out and hanging cobwebs.I'd planned to go to a meditation session that evening, then changed my mind. I spent extra time outside with my kid, instead. Meditation will still be here in six or seven years. My kid better not be.

Next year, who knows? Maybe it'll be uncool to be seen helping his mom decorate. Then it'll be just me. Or it'll be nobody, and we'll have as boring a house as most people in our neighborhood. May as well enjoy things while I can.

When your children go from cute, young kids to teenagers things change, and quickly.You learn not to take everything personally, to not nag when they say they don't want to help decorate, when they're "too old" to trick or treat. Then they become the older kids handing out candy, the big kids I couldn't imagine mine being, back when they were little. It's weird. You see the parents coming around with their little ones, and remember - kind of - what that was like. So many cute costumes, a princess, a cheerleader, Barney, a dinosaur from Toy Story, the cocker spaniel... Now, two out of three find it stupid, and my youngest is a zombie.

Where did it all go.