November 1 and All Is Okay-ish

It's November first and I have committed to writing a ridiculous number of words. Why, you didn't ask?

I have no idea. I think I miss writing.

Here's what I do know. Sort of.

It's transition time. It is mid-autumn. Halloween is over. Thanksgiving and Christmas are on the horizon. The days are getting shorter. The time is going to change. Mornings will be brighter, but night will fall so much earlier.

This is Davey's time. He loves the shortening days, the lengthening nights. He could easily live without the sun. If I could ever get him to get a DNA test, we'd probably learn he's got a bit of the Land of the Midnight Sun in those genes. Even when the sun is out, he's holed up in his cave with the shades closed and maybe, just maybe one lamp glowing. He's a vampire without the fangs and cool clothes. Can a DNA test pick up a vampire gene?

Meanwhile, I'm scurrying around, trying to convince myself this is all fine, I can handle the short days. I crave the serenity of the long evenings where I want to be in bed by 8pm and there are enough candles to keep a semblance of hygge if I embrace it. 

Is it okay to drink decaf loaded with milk and sugar at 6pm? Is it time for me to finally conquer that rommegrot recipe? If I'm going all in with the hygge, I'm indulging in the sweets, I tell you what.

Halloween has been stowed away for another year. Goodbye spiders crawling up the exterior wall, the giant web, the ghosts hanging from the front porch, and all those delightful vintage Beistle cutouts. You pumpkins, gourds and mums can stay. 

And yet it's too soon for Winter decor. I mean, I still have to tidy up the garden and put my tender plants under cover so I'm not ready for winter. And what is winter decor anyway?

Well, if you look at my Amazon cart (yes, I'm a big part of the supply chain and economic problems), it's some kind of mashup between Nordic and lazy. Pinecones, a Rookwood ceramic tree, a macrame thingy, and da-da-da- CANDLES. 

What was I saying? Oh, yes. Decor. Okay. Okay. It's not decor. It's slapdash, whatever my mood is, what I can afford with a few dear pieces thrown in. I keep telling myself that I should get rid of the thrift store finds, and antique store purchases that no longer speak to me. A lot of what I need to get rid of (read: donate) are a lot of those mismatched, no joy-giving Christmas decorations we've collected along the way.

I have a glass turkey. That'll hold me through December. The turkey has no choice.

Airing of Grievances 2018 - The holidays

Google tells me that Festivus is December 23, 2018 so I'm putting together my list so I can once again perform the Airing of Grievances. It's my annual schtick. Mostly annual.

To quote the great philosopher Frank Costanza, "I've got a lotta problems with you people!"

On with it. Today I'm griping about the holidays.

1. Inflatable lawn decorations.

They look fine when inflated.

Deflated they look like huge used condoms littering your lawn. If the aftermath of a giant orgy is the look you're going for, you are killing it.

If not? For the love of all things candy-striped and cutesie, please keep those things inflated. Yes, even during the day.

2. Holiday advertisements suggesting we buy our beloveds vehicles costing upwards of $40,000.

How is that the people who are, according to the commercials, capable of buying sometimes not just one but two shiny new luxury vehicles, always seem to live where it snows at Christmas?

They step out of their exquisitely decorated perfectly preserved Mid-Century homes nestled in some gorgeous, snowy woodland and yet their noses don't turn red and you can't see their breath.

Because I tend to complain of this every year, let me at least recognize the fact that the ads have done away with the giant red ribbons affixed to the new cars.

So there's that.

3. Bath and Body Works

My bank account is crying uncle. Why must you offer so many wonderful scents to cover up the smell of dog?

Our china cabinet looks like I'm becoming a Doomsday Prepper. Were we to survive something cataclysmic, at least we'd have plenty of light and something to cover up the smell of our own rapid decay.

And you think I haven't noticed that the deals have gotten less AMAZING the closer we get to Christmas? Think again. My cart remains empty. If those candles cost a penny more than $12.95, I can say no.

To be continued...

We drank a toast to now

December 29th 30th  31st is as good a time as any to make some New Years Resolutions and I'm going to try something new. I'm making resolutions I can keep.

1. I will begin and end several fitness regimes including walking when it's convenient and buying a grocery cart full of produce and unprocessed groceries on Sunday, eating healthy on Monday and Tuesday, and consuming mostly candy, pastries and fast food the remainder of the week.

2. I resolve to always find a way to make matters worse. Why deny my gift?

3. I will watch movies and forget the details 20 minutes after the closing credits thus driving The Electrician a little insane.

4. I will fret about money because my personal economy isn't growing so much.

5.  I will let my gas tank run down to fumes on I75 and wait until the last minute to stop for a pee because 2015 can't be all about a calm and balanced life.

6. I will continue my struggle with not using the Oxford comma and not having two spaces after a period because that was what I was taught all those years ago. One did not defy our typing teacher Mr. Neaman and live to tell about it.

7.  I resolve to Google everything except when I'm driving and then I will give Siri the task of Googling everything for me. And what Google can't answer, I'll turn to IMDB. Oh, I've learned. I've learned.

8. I will think about writing. Thinking is almost like doing, right?

9. I will watch the same episodes of British murder mysteries repeatedly to put myself to sleep because the squirrels in my brain won't quiet down without assistance so they must be drowned out.

10. I will procrastinate. Obviously.

Your turn. Resolutions?

Holidoze

Hanukkah came "early" this year. Too early for us to prepare.  Late nights and early mornings. Swim practice and meets. Sports conditioning. Academic finals for students and teachers. Coughs and colds and trips to the doctor to avoid the truancy fine. Make up homework. Long commutes in short daylight hours. No time means no latkes, no matzo ball soup, no geldt.

The Menorah, relegated to decorative status, held up two Christmas stockings. Accusing.

Chastened, we offered our oldest to the Holy Land and tracked her progress via social media. She sent the occasional text to stem the tide of maternal worry. I was a stone's throw from Gaza and survived. I was not amused by the stone's throw comment.

I developed an affinity for Grumpy Cat thanks to my bossfriend.

In the middle of the holiday ramp up, perfectly centered in the parties and decorating, the world went red and thus began the rage at the machine gun. We've become  a horrible caricature of ourselves. Social media has enabled us to put a megaphone to the microphone. Deafening.

I retreated a little, seeking refuge in inappropriate, but mostly private humor.

Short of gift ideas for the children, I made tasteless jokes about purchasing guns, ammo and whiskey to protect them from lurking danger. If adding more danger to dangerous situations is the answer, then I'm all for providing them with the means to protect themselves. Give them STDs or give them death! Don't tread on their need to text and drive! Bike helmets are a slippery slope, I tell you what.

Or to misquote one of my favorite movies Brighton Beach Memoirs "If Wayne LaPierre taught logic in school, this would be one fucked up and heavily-armed world."

Not that it isn't already.

Christmas was a simple affair. Small, practical gifts for Nathan and Sophie. Chloe's absence felt a foregone conclusion. One day our family would likely scatter, too. We ate. Fudge, chocolate kisses and stars, clementines, cinnamon rolls, Chinese takeout.

Turns out the best gift of all really can't be purchased at a Walmart, ordered on Amazon, wrapped in a big red ribbon in the driveway or exchanged for store credit. It can't be loaded with ammo, requires no batteries,  isn't made by slave labor in Asia and doesn't take up space in the basement when the novelty wears off.

Time.

A long break from the routine. Several days off from work. Days to spend doing whatever I want, some of what needs to be done. Scads of uninterrupted time with the family, enough to understand the true meaning of the holidays phrase "Proximity breeds hostility."

Enough to realize that each comes by their quirks and diagnoses honestly. Have I ever mentioned how my husband eats his meals in sequence, finishing one item on his plate before moving on to the next? All the broccoli must be eaten before he takes a bite of chicken.

I've made my contribution, as well. Too bad none of the children inherited my need for order, instead opting for anger management issues and anxiety.

Thankfully, we have something that brings us together. Something upon which we can agree. Dr. Who. A Christmas Story. Harmony, a sweet interlude between revoking driving privileges and explaining again why dishes must be unearthed from bedrooms and delivered to the kitchen.

And the only thing I required besides my reading glasses, a burrowing deep into the covers. Read, sleep, consider writing, consider cocktails. Reject both. Netflix, Acorn TV. Eat more chocolate. Promises to myself that after this long winter's nap, I'll take this store of energy and do something with it.

Before the tryptophan takes hold

So I hear that something unfortunate will happen to me if I don't say something about gratitude. And bob forbid I appear an ungrateful lout. So here we go - some of the things for which I am grateful. Please note: These are some of the things. Not all of them. It would take me forever to list them all and would likely horrify my children that I have once again mentioned stuff like that online.

1. Family and friends, continued good health and happiness. What is life, after all, without these?

2. My job. I'm pleased to have it and happy to like it.

2.1. I'm also grateful that I still have my job after telling the Master Chairman (aka the top guy) that I'd probably make a fuss over him like the one I made over a coworker's dog if he licked my face, too.

3. I'm thankful that Chloe is home so that I can hear her say things like "I'm pre-gaming our pizza dinner with a bagel." and "Vodka sounds fine to me."

4.  I'm grateful for MathMan's fitness so that he'll be around to appreciate my passive aggressive behavior for many years to come.

5. Art of all kinds and the artists who create it. Again I ask, what would life be without these things?

6.  The ceasefire between Israel and the Palestinians. For the obvious reasons, of course.  But also because Chloe is scheduled to take her heritage tour next month. She'll be gone for ten days and I don't think I can go that long without sleep. Also too, my calls and emails to Bibi continue to be ignored.

7. Faux Spanx aka Fanx. Especially after today's meal. Holy cats. I'm fifty percent pie right now.

8. The internet. It's brought so much into my life.

9. The restorative properties of laughter.

10. I'm thrilled and grateful to have my first published piece in an anthology of wonderful, funny writers. Special thanks to DC Stanfa who read my work at the urging of her sister Sherry and asked me to be a part of Fifty Shades of Funny. (An entire post is yet to come on that, but for now you can learn more on the website. You can also purchase the book on Amazon.)

Okay, let me say that one more time --- I'm published!!!!!!

And I'm fall down on the floor grateful. Don't even try to pick me up. Just bring pie. Fork optional.

And of course, I'm grateful to all of you who come here and read and encourage me to keep writing and living and loving and laughing. You've helped us out when we needed it most. You've been my rock, my touchstone, my classroom full of giggling peers as I perform the beloved duties of Class Clown.

Gratitude doesn't seem a big enough word.

With love and stuffing and a side of mashed potatoes,

Lisa

P.S.  Between now and midnight, Cyber Monday November 26 every Amazon book order of Fifty Shades of Funny softcover or Kindle order will be eligible for a free beach vacation ! It includes a week at the Cottages of Shipwreck in Hilton Head, a four star resort.. and 50,000 US Airways miles--typically good for 2 round-way tickets in the US. 

The instructions are as follows: Purchase a soft book or Kindle version between Thursday November 22 2012 and midnight Monday November 26 and email a copy of the receipt to dcstanfa@fuse.net. 

One random winner will be chosen. Here's a link to the cottages website. The vacation week is August 31-September 7 2013. http://www.spinnakerresorts.com/resorts/hilton-head-island/cottages

Purchase the book 

My Funny Valentine

MathMan and I are not Valentines Day people. Rebels against most pop culture, we're too busy lamenting the crumbling of our culture as evidenced by Toddlers and Tiaras and Dance Moms to concern ourselves with the hearts and flowers pushed from every angle during the lead up to that special day. We have no use for forced sentimentality. No candlelit dinners. No reenactments of gauzy images from the engagement planning Pinterest boards of single, young women who haven't been scoured clean of romantic notions by reality.

The most romantic Valentines Day we ever shared we didn't actually share. It was 1990. I sat in a Bennigan's on Michigan Avenue drinking beer and sharing mozzarella cheese sticks with a co-worker while Mathman drove three hours through a raging blizzard from the Northwest Side of Chicago to downtown. It may have actually been four hours. Or six. I can't remember because the number grows with every telling of the story. He plowed on through, creeping past abandoned cars and stranded drivers. 

That's love. Intrepid. Determined.Who knew the chains I clamped to his heart were better than snow tires? When he finally arrived in the sparkling fairyland of a snow smothered downtown Chicago, I threw my arms around him and hollered something like "Oh, Pa! You made it through the storm and you brought me some calico, too!" 

He clicked his tongue at the pair of snow-caked horses and turned the wagon toward Lincoln Avenue so we could get home before daylight.

This year, however, I'm going to surprise MathMan by making a big deal out of Valentine's Day. I don't want to give too much away, but I'm probably even going to shower.

Little does he know, he's doing his part, too. He's buying me this book.  In it there's an essay by Suzy who has this post about the book. This is one of my favorite posts by her because it gives you a sense of how she developed her sense of humor and great comedic timing.

And since I'm going to be so happy to get this book as my Valentine's Day gift, you can be assured that MathMan's gift is going to be one that leaves a smile on his face, too.

What's your favorite Valentines Day memory?

Wrapped up

 

The funniest holiday newsletter we ever received began with the following salutation:

Happy holidays from the disgruntled Smiths. (I changed the name to protect the disgruntled)  The newsletter cataloged the family's year of mishaps, misfires, and messes. It described battles with ill health and other unsavory features that are all too often a condition of being part of the human race. The writer of the letter was clear. In this race, the family was losing.

It was worse than the saddest country song you've ever heard without the weary acceptance of a blues song. It was an airing of grievances before any of us had even heard of Festivus and yet the writer gave the reader the gift of laughter.

I've always aspired to that ability. No matter what I write about, I want to be able to maintain my sense of humor.

While this year has given me plenty to fess about and I've had to dig deep to find the humor at times, it's also been a year that highlights what really matters. Love. Family. Friends. Health. Laughter. Books. Music. A good meal. A decent night's sleep. Shelter. Writing. Those are the things that make a life well lived. For me.

The coming year is full of opportunities for the good, the bad and the absolutely terrifying. But then, that's life, isn't it? We don't get guarantees. Not even if we're willing to pay the extra sixty-nine dollars for the extended warranty.

This is where I go all wobbly on you and tell you how much I appreciate you. How grateful I am that you come and read and share. How being part of this community is another vital part to my life well lived.

Now I have to go take a nap. Sophie woke us up at an obscenely early hour to unwrap her gifts from Dr. Who and I nearly wore myself out yesterday asking MathMan obnoxious questions about how he planned to stuff my stocking.

Wishing you all the joys of the season.

Love,

The Goldens

Bazaar

Each year we went to the Christmas Bazaar held in the high school gymnasium. Mom dressed us up for photos with Santa. When we got too old for Santa, we dressed ourselves in our holiday best. One year I wore a deep green velvet dress my mother made for me. It was the prettiest dress I'd ever had. It was long, to the tops of my shoes with white buttons and a high neckline.

Years later, I found the dress in the bottom of my mother's cedar chest. My brother, bless his teenage heart, had cut squares out of it to use for cleaning his guns.

The grade school kids sang Christmas songs. Frosty the Snow Man, Silent Night, Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, Up on the Housetop, one of our favorites.  A couple years in a row, David S. would put on the reindeer suit his mother sewed for him and entertain the crowd while we squirmed on the wooden bleachers and sang Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

In high school, I dated David S. for two years. I rarely teased him about his days as Rudolph, but if I could have gotten him to put that suit on just once....well......

The gym's wooden floor was protected by canvas tarps stretched across them and taped down. You had to be careful as you walked in your dress shoes. Many a kid caught their toe in a fold and went down, scattering candy canes and other collected loot when they tumbled.

There were tables set up in large squares and moms stood behind them. I can't quite remember what was on the tables. Crafts, I think. We kids walked around in clumps, chattering about the upcoming school break and wishes for snow. We shared our hopes about we hoped we'd find under the tree. We told on ourselves about snooping for gifts.

My favorite part was the Cake Walk. Folded metal chairs were set in a circle and you walked around it music played. When the parent who manned the record player lifted the arm and stopped the music, you looked at the number on the chair in front of you. If your number was called, you won a cake that somebody's mom had baked and brought wrapped in a box or in a Tupperware carrier. At the beginning of the night, I liked to look at the tables holding all the baked goods. My sweet tooth has always been one of my downfalls.

At the end of the evening, we'd gather near the lobby. Our mother would stuff us into our coats reminding us to make sure we hadn't lost a mitten or a dreaded knit cap. We'd go outside making smoke with our warm breath in the cold air. Stars flickered overhead in the winter sky. We'd climb into the car clutching our loot with our mittens and watch as Christmas lights made smudged kaleidoscope shapes on the fogged car windows as we made our way home.

Your turn.

The neighbors complain about the noises above

You know you've become a bilious cynic when you catch yourself grumbling about the ubiquitous displays of public gratitude this time of year. That's when you say to your execrable self, sugar, it is time to take your pulse, smooth your creases, and pull the stinger from your tail.

It's not the gratitude so much that rankles as it is the ubiquitous nature of this world we live in. It's the metaphoric blowing of floofloobers, the social media banging of tartinkers. It's the tooting of whoohoovers, the slangs of slooslonkers.

Cause and effect. Take a note. Did you catch that diagnosis? What's the frequency, Kenneth?

The doctor tells me that although my cholesterol is a little high and he would like for me to take the one pill to make my happiness big and another pill to make me small, I am in rude health and have plenty more years ahead of me as long as I don't step in front of any overloaded sleighs pulled by tiny dogs with antlers tied clumsily to their heads. He also counseled me to stay home on Black Friday. 

"No worries," I sneered, the white paper crinkling under me. "I plan to sleep in, have some roast beast for a late lunch, watch my heart grow two, maybe three sizes that day."

He chucked a brochure at me and said something about gratitude having its own healing properties.

You don't have to be a doctor to know that.

I love all y'all.

Thank you for being here. I'm grateful for you.

With Matches

Happy Fourth of July, People of the Internets. 

Now let's go twirl some sparklers and aim bottle rockets at each other.

 

Photo: Lisa Golden

I doubt that when our founding fathers chose to fight for freedom from tyranny, they did so in order to provide a nation where each industry, aided by its purchased politicians, could hold us stagnant for their benefit and profit alone while these United States miss so many more opportunities for greatness.

On this day, let us celebrate the many ways in which our freedom has allowed us to achieve greatness, but let us never lose sight of the fact that we have been, can be so much better than we are right now.

Interesting info here.

With Tummies Full of Chinese Food

Click to enlarge

Thank you for sharing 2010 with us.

All of our best to you!

Avec Gratitude

Dinner courtesy of some wonderful people.

Before we had dinner, I suggested to the family that we go around the table and state for the record what we are thankful for.  They glanced at each other over the rims of their root beer mugs and waited for my temporary insanity to pass.

You'd think we'd be more talkative around here, wouldn't you?  Well, we're not really that expressive when it comes to the positive stuff.  We're aces at pulling each other apart, at dissecting the foibles and tics and pointing and laughing when one of us stumbles.  I should be ashamed, but I'm not.

That's something to be thankful for.  We may not be soft and snuggly and Hallmark Channel fuzzy wuzzies, but I don't think there's a single person in this house who doesn't feel loved.  Right down to the last wretched cat. Hang on a second.  Let me see...

Okay, I just checked.  I asked each of them (the humans, not the cats) if they felt loved.  Here's how that went:

MathMan:  Yeah, who said I didn't?
Nate:  Yeah (with accompanying eyebrow raise)
Sophie:  I don't know.  Can I have a hug first?
Chloe:  Um....yes?

So there we are.  Love.  It is probably the greatest thing ever.  And we have it in spades.

And for that we truly are grateful.  Whether some of us are able to express it or not without a gun to our heads.

Here are some other things I'm thankful for:

RennRatt and her wonderful family who provided us with an authentic and delicious Thanksgiving dinner - Friends near and far - Family near and far - Laughter - Music - The moment right after I take off my bra - Good health - Shared memories - The gorgeous weather we're having - MathMan's job which pays the bills and gives him the chance to save the world - Books - Words - A hot shower - Remembering - Forgetting - Working out - Quiet - My trusty old laptop circa 2007 - The fact that Nate really loves going to school now - My digital camera that allows me to capture life as it happens - The silly cats - Movies that make me laugh or think or cry (as long as I'm alone) - The light and color at sundown when the trees are shadows against the palette of pinks, mauves, purples and blues - Hollyhocks on their tall stems - Art Deco Architecture - Still being able to recite Goodnight Moon - Chloe's happiness at school - The entire Art Nouveau movement - Edward Gorey - Anthony K. and his sock - My active imagination - Catching sight of a hawk on a wire or post alongside the road - When the car starts - The roof over our heads - Dry pavement - The cartoons and reruns I watched as a kid - Comfortable clothes - Major appliances that work - PBS - Agatha Christie and her memorable characters - High count cotton sheets - Lotion - Skype - My wooden back scratcher - The internet - Homemade fabric softener - Ibuprofin - Red wine - Billy Nye the Science Guy - British TV - Edward Hopper's art - Time - Sugar - How Sophie enjoys playing her clarinet - Dogwoods announcing the spring - When we get a little snow - Chocolate - Art created by my friends - A whole mess of other stuff - And you.  I'm grateful for you.

I hope you've had a good day wherever you are.  Tomorrow we'll get back to the pointing and the laughing.

Tell It

As I worked on my first manuscript, I studied World War II to a depth I never had before.  As I've read the personal stories of the people who fought and, in some cases, gave their lives, I've been struck by the very human responses to the sacrifices asked for and given.

One of the most poignant stories I've heard was actually told to me many years ago when I worked for AARP.  At that time, I was working with the volunteers in Minnesota and I became close with the lead volunteer and her husband Woody.  Woody was a World War II veteran.

One night over dinner I asked Woody about his service.  I don't remember anymore what prompted me to ask, but he started talking.  He talked about being on the ground in Europe for a very short time before being captured by the Germans, he told us about his time in the prisoner of war camp, the interactions with his Nazi captors, the relationships that formed among the prisoners.  He was eighteen years old.

Finally, Woody excused himself and left the table.  His wife, the woman he'd shared the last fifty plus years with, turned to me and said,"I've never heard those stories.  He never talked about it."  Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

I think it's important that veterans tell their stories.  When they do, they bring the reality home to us.  Most of us have no idea what it's like to serve.  Most of us have no clue what it's like to be in the middle of war.

I'm grateful for the information I'm able to research, the personal stories that put a face on what now amounts to national legend.  When we study history in school, we receive the facts - the dates, the timelines, the historians' perspectives.  We learn the collective opinions on what happened, why it happened and how it happened.

The personal stories tell us how war effected people.  They seem less filtered.  They're less of a compilation or aggregation of experiences and more anecdotal, better able to illustrate those moments of daily life, the events large and small, that woven together tell the real story because while nations wage war, it's people who fight it.

As our nation wages two wars right now, most of us are unaffected, going through our lives without thinking about the sacrifices being made on our behalf in those faraway places and here at home by both the troops and their families.

Today it's easy to remember.  Let's try to remember every other day, too.  http://iava.org/

I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours

I'll go first. Here's what it looks like around here at noon as we kind of slouch our way into the long weekend.  Oh, hell, who am I kidding?  With me out of work, a teacher for a spouse, and three scholars (heh), it's always a long weekend around here.

But before we start blowing shit up, it's kind of quiet.  We're resting up to eat that watermelon we got chillin' in the fridge, I guess.  I've lost track of what's going on around here.  On purpose.

I'm at my computer, unshowered, unexercised, but stoked up on coffee as I tap out a few words into the manuscript, listen to songs from The Smiths, set up new Pandora stations and research what the weather was in Lincolnshire, England on June 1, 1944.

MathMan sits at his computer wearing headphones. I can't tell you what's on his screen, but by the rapt look on his face, he's either listening to a Lisa Scottoline audio book or some Deutsche Grammophon recording.  I suppose he could be thinking about math, but one never knows with that man.

I only know how he looks because I had to make a trip to the kitchen for more beverage.  When I'm "writing" I only leave my little office to get something to drink or to go to the bathroom*.  I still don't know why I followed a trail of M&Ms through the house though.  Clearly someone does not grasp the value of the M&M.  I'm not talking the blue, red and dark brown ones either.  No.  The highly-prized yellow, green and orange ones had been lost to the effluvium of the carpet.  I shrieked and bent to gather up those defiled treats, but was roundly ignored.  And yes, I could rinse them, but they just aren't the same after that.  I've tried.

Beatings have been scheduled.

The Cupcake is sleeping off an overnight let's-not-sleepover on the sofa.  Well, at least I think that's her under the Hello Kitty pink throw.  It could be Artie Johnson, but didn't he die?

Nate is spooning yogurt into his mouth and holding forth on the American Revolution. In between bites of Yoplait's Thick and Creamy strawberry, he's noting that the revolution was rather like a civil war.  He's got a point.  Then he asked how that subject is taught in England.  My British friends?  A little help?

Chloe is in the bowels of the house with her head buried under her pillow, having returned home at 6a.m. from a birthday party.  Two good things about this.  1 - she didn't call me to come get her because she was too hungover and 2 - she's finally behaving like a 19 year old I can recognize.  There goes my Switched At Birth theory. I didn't even realize she was home.  I opened her door to see if there was any dirty laundry to add to the wash and she raised up her head and squinted up at me.

"Oh, sorry."

"It's okay."

"What time did you get home?  I thought you were spending the night there."

"Six.  And before you ask, I remembered what you said about not mixing my liquors."

So she's still smarter than me.  The tart.

The cats have fleas.  I don' have much else to say about that.  They do, but who's listening?

We actually have plans to go see the Rome Braves play minor league ball this evening.  I love, love, love minor league baseball. Yeah, it's money we could have spent on essentials like food and electricity, but at some point, you have say what the fuck and live a little.  If we have to spend the last half of July fighting over three packages of Ramen and that tube of Chapstick I stashed in my bedside stand, so be it.  We get to oooh and ahhhhh over fireworks, right?

I really do try to make every day some sort of little celebration, but it's not always easy to get the kids ginned up about a good slice of homemade wheat bread or a dust free computer monitor.  Oh, they're learning, but still.  In a summer where they've had to watch the parade of their friends posting Facebook statuses about trips to the beach, Six Flags and vacations galore, an eight dollar ticket for a ballgame and fireworks seems like a small price to pay for some fun and potential memories.  Heck, it's less expensive than a movie these days.

So that's it from here.  A laugh a minute.  Be thankful you don't get the soundtrack.  You'd have to turn your speakers way, way down.

Your turn.  How are you celebrating/spending the long weekend?  Lighting things on fire?  Flat on your back?  Dishing out the misery to go with the red, white and blue?

*lie, I also roam around bothering people and cats, as I look for inspiration and motivation in all the wrong places

And Breakfast in Bed, Too

January 22, 1999

Father's Day 2007 - The Reenactment

 So today we honor those guys who are fathers, daddies, dads, pops, daddios, papas et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  This parenthood thing is kind of a trip and after twenty years at it, I'm still not sure we're any good, but I think it's safe to say that MathMan is better at it than I am.  Well, at least he's more sane about it.  Lately I've been mumbling some rather unpleasant and unmotherly things about the children we've produced.  No, that's not entirely true - I've graduated from just mumbling about it to putting it into writing.  (Gasp! Another new writing project?  How about you finish one first!)  I even gave it a working title - Motherhood and Other Acts of Depravity.  Just little jottings here and there, you know.  Sadly, I fear it may end up being my seminal work.

Speaking of semen, I did ask MathMan recently if he thought it would be too harsh to tell the kids that they're only here because he used to like to stick his penis into my vagina and leave his DNA?  With the predictable eye roll, he ruled that yes, it would be too harsh.  He laughed though.

But this should be about him, not me.  So here it is.  Thank you to MathMan for being a great father.  You're no Alex Stone, but then I'm no Donna Reed.  Not the most demonstrative man on the planet, each of our kids still know they're loved because it's that evident when they banter and joke with you.  Especially when you think I can't hear it.  It's like music to my soul.  And I love how you respect their brains, their individuality and their beings.  It's quite something to see each of them reflect back to you your unquestioning belief that each of them will do great things and be good people.

And Happy Father's Day to my own dad who wouldn't dream of using a computer to read this, but who will one day (hopefully) be able to hold one of my books in his hand and say "So this is what you meant by writing."  That will be right before he sees his name in the dedication.  And then I'll tell him to put the book down unless he wishes to be embarrassed to death by what he might read there.  I should go now and call him and see what the weather's like and what kind of birds are visiting the feeder we gave him this time last year. And to thank him for not killing me when he had plenty of justifiable homicide opportunities.

Happy Father's Day to those of you who've left behind your own DNA and stuck around to watch it turn into something pretty amazing.  Well done, you.

Experimentation Is Good for the Soul

I'm taking a brief vacation from ze blog until after the long weekend.  There will be plenty of reading, some writing and some good old fashioned fun with friends, board games and alcohol.  I'm going to be experimenting with language, too.  I think I'll start every with sentence with the word Bitches and end every sentence with ya dig?

And when that gets old (10 minutes), I'll go back to responding to everything with "Jolly good."  That's been a huge hit.

So here's the real experiment:  I'm putting together a word list to use as I write.  If you're here, please leave a comment - your favorite word or words, what you like the sound of, how if feels when you say it, the meaning, the combination of letters, whatever.  Or tell us what you're doing for the long weekend.

The deal is I would love to hear from all of you.  Even those of you who never make a peep.  Please.  And thank you.

May you enjoy your long weekend and let us all remember those who served.

Until Tuesday,

Lisa

Why Is This Night...

A lifetime ago, this would have been a day when we were either helping with, hindering, heading up or bitching about (perhaps all of the above) preparations for the evening's Passover Seder. Since moving to Georgia, however, we've all but ignored the holiday.

Not so this year, but barely. Yesterday on our way to buy some groceries, MathMan asked if we should actually hold a sort of Seder today. I concurred, but that was before I knew that a trip to the grocery store would invite my fever to come back and knock me on my ass again.

So we have our brisket (I'll be using this recipe), makings for matzo ball soup, matzo crackers, parsley, horseradish and MathMan even made the Charoset, but we won't hold our Seder tonight after all. Ah well. It gives me more time to print off a Hagaddah since the only one I could find in our local library was one that was written from a Mystic slant. And (bonus), Chloe is coming home on Friday so she can join us when we sit down and retell the story of the Jews' release from slavery on Friday.

For those of you celebrating properly, may you enjoy a Pesach full of family, friends and tender brisket. May no one spill their wine when their not supposed to, may Elijah close the door behind him, and last but certainly not least, may you run over the six year old to find the Afikomen and collect a fiver from your cheap Uncle Morty.

L'chaim.

Another year already?

In 2008, I told you how it was going to be the Year of Clean Living. After 2007, which involved the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol, yo-yo weight gain, a distinct lack of exercise and all kinds of personal numbskullery, I thought that 2008 should herald a time in which I took better care of myself and those around me.

That last about 3 days, 6 hours and 14 minutes.

In 2009, I didn't resolve anything that I can remember, but that doesn't seem to have mattered. In a year that included a Chapter 13 bankruptcy, a foreclosure, moving the household, The Summer of Marital Strife, the ongoing joys and heartaches of raising three kids, the acquisition of yet another cat and recent unemployment, it's clear that any resolution for healthier living I'd have dared to make would have gone straight into the proverbial toilet anyway. For those of you who don't know, I am not now nor have I ever been one who doesn't eat when she's upset. If only!

Reading back on that last paragraph, I realize that we've been living the Real American Dream circa 2009. How quaint of us.

But I digress.

So there we were, ringing in 2010 with lots of chocolate bought half price at Target, sipping MathMan's signature KamaSutra Olive Juiced Martinis, and watching Rear Window. It seemed quite fitting somehow. We stayed up just past midnight, drank enough, but not too much, and I didn't eat so much chocolate that I ended up wishing for instant death. There were no fights, no large emotional upheavals and the only fireworks were those being set off by our neighbors behind us. It was just kind of calm, with the coolness of Grace Kelly in the background.

So where does that leave 2010? Well, I'm not laying out any big plans for radical change. No, instead I'm going with moderation in all things. Balance will be my motto. Or more accurately, as I mentioned this morning to MathMan "I'm going to eat salad so I can drink alcohol."

As long as the salad is made of chocolate ice cream and pie, I should be fine.

Happy 2010! Thank you for being a part of this.

Tis the Season...

This turns out to be the season of change. Or perhaps, more accurately, the season of going back to the start...

Our gifts have been of an incredibly practical nature. We put up a tree for the first time in probably ten years. (Thank you Target staffer who pointed out the display tree was 75% off. $7.50 for a tree? Why not?)

There are no more markers of having little kids in the house - it's more like when MathMan and I first started sharing a life. Although Sophia is ten going on twenty-five and still a child, of course, there is a distinct lack of things that need assembling. There were no stickers to stick on Barbie things, nothing that needed to be cut out of packaging using the Jaws of Life.

Christmas Eve started what, I hope, will become a new tradition. This year, we used the wonders of technology and the Spirits of Skype to converge on MathMan's oldest brother's house for carols played by the Golden Family Concert Band. There we were, us in our Georgia living room and MathMan's youngest brother and his family in their house in New Jersey, enjoying the sights and sounds of Christmas Eve, just like the old days. It was quite nice, actually.

We put out our own version of a holiday spread and will probably just eat leftovers all day and save the turkey roll (hey, there are only five of us) dinner for another time when the food is running low and we've got more month than money (The joys of a once a month paycheck for teachers. Ask any educator you know, they'll tell you that January seems to stretch on forever, especially when even the Ramen Noodles have run out.)

The point is, we've fussed more than usual with the busyness of the holidays, but the fussing has been in ways that have been more rewarding and less frustrating. I keep telling myself - write it down, this is what the holidays are about - being with the ones you love, being good to them and yourself, spreading the cheer where you can and having some fun that doesn't feel squeezed from the last little bit you have to give.

Okay, so now I've written it. The trick is to remember it, right? Right.

From all of us here at Golden Manor, may you and yours have a very happy holiday season. Thank you for sharing yourself and your thoughts here. I'm honored that you come here to read and be a part of this happy madness.

Love,

Lisa

Here's a little sampling of the music from Christmas Eve (with special guest, MathMan's sister)

Our Christmas scrapbook.

Let the Orgy Begin

About three hours ago I noted that it's Wednesday and I'm supposed to write a blogpost. I suppose that having been sick is a good excuse for not writing, but since I set a personal goal of writing one post each Wednesday, I'm really resistant to not following through. I mean, this goal doesn't have anything to do with food or exercise. I'm perfectly comfortable blowing those goals. Repeatedly. Daily.

So what to write about? Should I tell you how much fun it is to be in a house where four of the five people who live here have thrown up since Saturday night when MathMan started this whole thing? Should I tell you how our trip to Rising Sun had to be canceled and so I won't be indulging in the food orgy that is my mother's home-cooked food, my father's homemade ice cream, Big Boys and Skyline chili? Or how about the fact that my parents, wild gamblers that they are, had actually scored us three nights at a nice casino hotel and I had to call my mom and ask her to cancel the reservations because I was dying? The Big R was not happy. Sympathetic, but not happy. Dammit - this intestinal upset foiled her plans to force Christmas upon us. Right after telling me that I sounded awful and that she was sorry we were sick, she casually mentioned that she'd already put up her Christmas tree for the occasion.

Yes, I was appropriately sorry and chagrined. But I just knew when MathMan awoke in the middle of Saturday night to go toss his cookies, it would likely end up with me sitting on the can for long periods of time while I read the latest Philip Roth. In my mind, his book The Humbling, will be forever associated with stomach cramps.

I am saddened that we won't be spending the long weekend with family. We were all looking forward to this trip. You should see the hang dog expressions around here. (Note to Darling Sis or Chief of Police - that's the part you're allowed to share with the parentals.)

Since our plans have changed, we'll come up with Plan B. Instead of playing Would You Rather? as we drive north on I75, we're playing Wanna Hear Something Weird? in our living room. And sometimes the something weird doesn't involve gassiness or gurgling guts.

When we get done with that game, we'll start the annual explanations of why we won't be doing Christmas AND Hanukkah this year. I mean, sure, we'll give them each kid a gift card to the Dollar Tree and some gum for Christmas and they'll get eight days of gifts beginning with an orange and culminating with a pair of socks (each, not to share) but we won't be having the gift-giving orgy they anticipate. Oh ye of the mixed faith heritage and short memory.

Of course, MathMan and I are such evil teases, we've got the kids thinking that we're going to get up at the crack of 4am on Friday to go shopping at WalMart. They half believe this, I think. Desire for material goods can make you so gullible.

The rest of the week will include more classic films, a kosher ham dinner, apple pie instead of pumpkin, perhaps a trip to the cinema so we can each sit in different theaters watching the movie of our choice, card games, a few rounds of Family Rock Band, parents whining about a lack of alcohol, children whining about when will we decorate for the holidays (answer: when I have statements signed in blood that they will take down the decorations and store them properly), lots of reading and naps. Plenty of naps (mostly while watching classic films and reading.)

Okay, so here is where I should take an opportunity to tell you all the things for which I am grateful. Well, I'm skipping it. I'm just going to say "it's personal" and move on. I mean, really, is your day gonna be made if I tell you that I'm grateful for the fact that right before my internal workings went into reverse and overdrive, I ate two Entemann's chocolate donuts so now I'm really not craving chocolate? See - I thought not.

And do I really have to tell you that I'm grateful for family, friends, health, freedom, etc. for you to know it? If so, then I have failed because I should be showing it everyday, not just saying it on one day of the year.

So I guess this is the kick-off to the holiday season. Are you ready? You know me, I'm not. But the holidays and all the pleasure and pain they bring is coming and no amount of denial on my part is going to change that. It's like Thanksgiving is carbo-loading for the next day's marathon shopping. I mean, who doesn't get pumped about things like Doorbusters, and Super Slashers? Dang, the holidays just get more and more violent, don't they?

Don't get me wrong. I'm a fool for the holiday specials. I love It's A Wonderful Life and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I should get my hands on those depressing specials from the 70s. Remember The House Without A Christmas Tree? I could show that to my kids while pointing out that, although we don't have a Christmas tree (five cats!), at least they have a mother so they should just shut up already.

Seriously, though, I wonder about the pressure people put on themselves during this time of the year. It's just not healthy. I slack my way through the holidays and find them a bit of a pain I marvel at how some of you do it. The fact that people get through this time of year, not just alive, but smiling and joyful seems like a small miracle to me.

Speaking of holiday miracles, it's 4:15 p.m. on day five of a family-wide plague and I haven't used my loud shouty voice yet. Seriously, people, mark this day down on your calendar. In fact, I think it needs a name just like Black Friday.

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

P.S. I am already tired of repeating "Please don't do that - I don't want to spend the holidays in the Emergency Room. Help me.