Christmastime is Near!

Cole asked me this week, “When we putting up our Christmas lights?”

Looks like we'll be shooting for next November. 

I have a certain queasiness. I don't think (but won't confirm) it's been caused by the influx of sugar to my system. It's three days before the big day, and I feeling like some sort of Christmas flunky. Yesterday I was telling my family about a Secret Santa work story. When they asked about my Secret Santa, and I quickly informed them that I had decided not to participate this year, I was met with scorn. “What are you? Some sort of Scrooge?”

Am I? I don't think so...

Besides the lack of lights surrounding our house, most of our decorations are still sitting at the bottom of the basement stairs. But the tree is up. It didn't get hoisted the Friday after Thanksgiving as is our normal tradition. As the days in December ticked away, I toyed with the idea of a tree-less year. Then my son decided to decorate a little tree for his room, and the guilt of attempting the Norman Rockwell Christmas for the kiddos overpowered me. I dragged the tree upstairs, with images in my mind of the family hanging ornaments together, singing a harmonic Joy to the World. Maybe we'd even string a little popcorn. But as is usual, the tradition never goes quite so lovely.

I shouted, and shouted, for assistance. I got one helper. (Hubby had to toss out a testy, "Help your mom!" ) But within a few minutes, however, my helper was disengaged. As was typical of the annual event, I found myself decorating alone–throwing the ornaments on the tree just to finish the project. 

Beyond the tree, I have little other decorations around the house. (Obviously, a travesty since we never have a guest...except the Schwann's man.)  I'm not done shopping. I haven't baked. My house is super dirty. And most tragically, I haven't done a Christmas card yet–this is most awful, because I'm sure everyone has been checking their mail for pics of my kids and my dog. 

But guess what? Despite my anxiety, I decided that being a Christmas flunky isn't such a bad thing. (Look at Clark Griswold.) In the scheme of things, what matters most? This year, in particular, I will step into this holiday season with an enormous amount of gratitude.

Doug and I ran across our camera the other day. We haven't been using it, since it's a bit handier to take pics on my phone. Anyway, we found a treasure trove of photos–including some from last Christmas. Forget decorations. Forget baking. I think the most important thing we can do this holiday is laugh and find some hugs.

Eating Licorice

While an abundance of issues are worthy of a blog post (the power of giving, the fiscal cliff, watching Lincoln and Twilight in the same week), today I stumbled on to a topic that hasn't received nearly enough commentary: chewing licorice.

When we are kids, we can eat candy without thinking too much about decorum. We gobble it down, and chunks of bright, hardened sugar circle our lips, then residue tends to journey towards our ears. A few lucky pieces will make it into our hair until Mom finds it in a brush and must scissor it out. But it's all kind of funny. Heck, it's cute! With a bit of a finger wag, and a repressed smile, we are told, "Chew with your mouth closed."

Then we grow a little older. If you're a girl, and you turn into a teenager, eating candy can be seen as something sensual. Eating licorice is not only acceptable, but it might even be encouraged by some twisted, or not so twisted male. One temptress might twirl the licorice, play with it in her mouth, or use it as a straw for soda before deciding to actually nibble at it. Ahh, isn't that...sweet? Whether you think it's sweet, sexy, or unremarkable, it's probably not gross.

Then, you turn forty.

Today I spent the day at a Creighton basketball game with a fifth-grade girl I mentor for the Teammates Program. As we began to snack on our concessions, a small horror overtook me as I began to chew on my licorice. As the candy began its descent into my throat, I remembered how I've been known to choke on the red stuff. And since I wasn't around the familiar territory of family, I slowed my mastication way down so that the candy was practically water before I swallowed. Obviously, the joy of candy has lost its luster. So, under the pretense of benevolence, I gave out most of the damn Twizzlers. Truthfully, I just didn't want puke on anyone.

While the Blue Jays were beating Akron, I had an epiphany. Older ladies (defined as over forty) shouldn't eat candy in public. It's not becoming. Okay, okay. Maybe that's a little harsh. I don't want to discriminate. Older men (also defined as over forty) should follow the same rule. I've witnessed my husband inhale Milk Duds a time or two. And for any of you that think I'm particularly intolerant, think about the health repercussions. Not making a fool of oneself eating candy, in public, might reduce the overall sugar consumption and perhaps prevent type II diabetes.

So, next time I'm at the movie, I will consider my plan. Then I'll most likely remember, with glee, the darkness in the theater. And tell my husband to go ahead with the large pack of Milk Duds and medium popcorn to share. We geezers will choke our snacks down together. Not so sure I'll be delaying the diabetes.

BFF's

 About a month ago, I found myself in a bit of a slump. I couldn’t seem to find my smile, no matter how hard I tried. Empirically, I realized the ridiculousness of my forlorn state of mind. Accomplished kids. Loving husband. Healthy parents. Good job. Great home in the community I adore. Happy with my weight. Only kidding. I'm never happy with my weight. But my muffin top wasn't the root cause of my melancholy. I felt sad. Empty. But I couldn't quite articulate the reason why.

I adored Doug’s attempts to mitigate the gloom during this patch. Anyone remember the scene on Animal House when Bluto used clownery tactics to uplift Flounder after the demolition of his brother’s pristine car? Well, my hubby can crack a metaphoric beer over his head pretty well too. Yup. He’s really good at getting me to chuckle. But like Flounder, I wasn't laughing very long.

As I sorted out my feelings with my dear husband, it dawned on me. I hadn’t connected with any of my closest friends lately. Actually I hadn't seen them for...months. One had moved to St. Louis last year, and while we keep in touch almost daily via Words with Friends, it’s just not quite the same as seeing her in person. Another works a few blocks from me, so obviously getting together for lunch is quite a challenge. And my other closest friend lives about three minutes from my house, so obviously that's another unworkable situation.

Ugh. Pitiful? Methinks.

I reduced my Facebook check-ins. Not only did it waste too much time, but I found it to be a bit depressing. All these people, with all these friends, doing all these cool things that didn't involve work. And I noticed people getting up to 100 “Likes”! (If I post anything, I’m usually happy with one "Like." My mom or cousins are typical shoe-ins.)  But Facebook wasn't the answer. Social media can do many things. But it wasn't going to make me happier.

Despite my great love for my family, and the time I cherish with them—which I do abundantly—I decided I was lonely for my best friends. So after a few attempts, I was able to sanction a lunch appointment with one of my longest-running pals, Lyn. We could’ve and should’ve just taken the afternoon off, because we had too much to discuss between issues that can't be disclosed on this blog...to protect the innocent. Then on a whim, I kidnapped my friend, Amy, to see the ever-poignant Twilight finale, which I'd like to review here. (Actually no need...it's just like the other four movies, capiche?) We topped that glorious day off at that most celebrated of shopping centers…Target. A blissful day indeed.

Me and Amy...the baseball fans that we are.

It didn’t really matter what I did with my friends. I was merely happy to be connecting with them once again. Nothing soothes the soul like another girlfriend. Somehow I had convinced myself that none of us really have time for each other anymore. But there should always be time for those who matter to you. When we are young, friendships take precedence over almost everything. As we age, obligations fill that space. While those obligations (kids, hubby,etc.) make life utterly worthwhile, we can’t forget to tend to our friendships. Who else will listen to those stories about our kids and our husbands?

Lyn and me. Scowl implies she'd rather have been biking.

They Grow So Fast

Thanksgiving is over. Of course, I attempted to keep a peaceful, thankful state of mind through the day, but was really busy on Thursday between feedings, since we hosted a houseful of family members. I know the good Lord wants me to say THANK YOU for letting me serve fifteen pounds of mashed potatoes. But I forget. I know I owe a bit of thanks. My hubby was a trouper who peeled and cut taters like nobody's business. Actually, everyone brought enough food to feed the western region of Iowa. No wonder my middle keeps thickening to the point now where sweatpants have became my new best friend...But seriously, back to the topic at hand. Now that everyone is gone, I am filled with gratitude!  And I'm truly ready to get on with the holiday season!

As I'm considering ways to make Christmas special for my kids who are no longer deceivable, they keep reminding me of the fickle nature of our parent-child relationships. One day they need you–they idolize you! The next day? You're yesterday's green bean casserole. (Sorry, couldn't resist the analogy.) You're never completely prepared for the day when you realize your kids are...embarrassed of you. Well, take today, for example.

Cows, not trees, spotting our landscape.

A knock to our front door brought a man selling trees to our barren landscape. (This has been his second trip to our residence. ) Our terrier doesn't take kindly to visitors, and prefers to leave a good piss marking on any set of tires who dare to cross. As I spoke to the nice tree man, I saw Percy making his stream on the man's truck. I agonized, for a split second, on my moral decision: to speak, or not to speak. Then I remembered, last time our tree guy brought his father and young son, so I knew I couldn't just let Percy keep urinating on his tires. So, I not only interrupted the man's spiel, but I screamed over him. "PERCY! PERCY! STOP! NO! STOP!" My children crept away into the kitchen to hide their heads in shame. And laughed at their embarrassing mother's cries. It's funny that it didn't occur to me to be embarrassed until they gave me that look. That, "Oh Mom, if you could only see how stupid you just appeared" look.

A few hours later, Cole and I were at the grocery store. I was directing him around, telling him to pick me up that, pick me up this. Finally, he stomped over and spouted, "Would you QUIT calling me that?"

I was taken aback. "Calling you what?"

"Coley. It's embarrassing. I'm not a little kid."

Sigh. I didn't even hear myself calling him that. Now, I can laugh at the dog-pissing incident. But changing Coley to Cole? That hit me in a melancholy kind of way. I haven't had the conversation with my daughter yet, but I'm hoping she's not going to be offended by me still calling her, "Al." I think she'll be okay with it...especially if I keep playing her the Paul Simon song. I doubt she'll roll her eyes.

To Be or Not to Be

The other day I was asked to present a talk on writing. My instinct was to decline based on the fact that I have no National Book Award or Pulitzer in my possession. But then I reconsidered. Why not share my approach to scribbling a story, with all the writing lessons devouring my brain? Maybe I'll stir up a few potential authors in the audience. So with no real teaching credentials and one measly honorable mention from a short story contest, I presented. And it was quite fun. 

I regurgitated all of those appropriate writing maxims…"raise the stakes" to keep an audience enthralled...“kill your darlings” so as not to lose sight of a theme..."show–don't tell" to create memorable prose..."write, and rewrite"...and so on. As I hopped from topic to topic, I felt that certain giddiness–like the happiness a child feels on Christmas morning. I could’ve held the audience hostage all night. It was awfully dangerous for anyone to toss out a question or opinion, because I would've been glad to engage in dialogue (over dialogue!) all night. But I sensed a few were suppressing yawns. So I wrapped it up.

As I drove home, I began to wonder why I never considered a career in writing at a younger age. I love writing. And I love the art of writing, which is also referred by many as "reading." When I was young, I would read and then I would write all sorts of stories. Often I'd piece together a screenplay for the town kids to perform. (My plays would have plots eerily similar to Grease, and were never actually performed. It seemed football games took precedence...much to my overlooked dismay.) But I know my penchant for writing and literature led me to an English major, so wouldn't it seem likely for my career to follow that of a writer as opposed to a banker? The only assumption I could make was that my mother didn’t recommend the idea. So I asked my mom why she supposed I hadn’t followed that particular path. Her response?

“You were pretty obsessed with camping as a child as well. Until, of course, you went on a camping trip.”

I think there were some financial/metaphorical implications in her statement. Hmmm. I do like the paycheck my current career provides. But I'm not quite ready to pack up the tent on my writing endeavors just yet. I've got some campfire songs to sing. 

My First Writing Award

Bonus:  Here's a book review for Lean on Pete by Willie Vlautlin if you're looking for a good read.

The Curse of the Perfectionist

Case #1

The other day as I took took Cole to school, I posed this question, "Remember when you were little, and how you would never draw on a piece of paper that was slightly wrinkled?"

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then he smiled politely and said under his breath, "I still don't really like to draw on paper that's wrinkled."

I was actually testing the kid, with the hopes that he'd grown out of this particular tendency. He also won't draw on the back of a paper as long as anything is written on it. Consequently, my little artist isn't very eco-sensitive when comes to killing trees.

Case #2:

The girl–whom I assumed could calmly read a novel or watch a movie while a tornado hit–had an emotional breakdown the other night. She was feeling pressure over what college to pick and what major to choose. Well, she is a sophomore you know.

Holy chow. What am I doing to my kids? While they have perfectly messy rooms and have no propensity to bring their dirty cups to the kitchen, they obviously have some issues when it comes to achievement, or drawing a tidy picture.

I read an article in the Wall Street Journal last week titled "Inside the Minds of the Perfectionists." These types tend to be a little compulsive over anything they particularly care about. If they care about a lot of things, this can be grueling. (The other night I was desperately trying to not obsess over a can on the end table. I really wanted my husband to put it away himself. But when I saw it sitting there the next morning, I couldn't take it any longer. I decided to let the lesson in responsibility go and took care of the empty can myself.)The perfectionist's trait tends to be passed down through genes and expectations. The problem with these types? There is a high likelihood for unhappiness. The last thing in the world I want for my kids is unhappiness.

A few years ago, I went through one of those management assessment tests. I was told that my perfectionist tendencies border-lined on neurotic. Basically, this means that I never quite feel like I'm good enough at anything. I'll just keep working, working, working–sometimes into a frenzy. (My husband will verify this.) The problem is that I will never quite be satisfied because I'm probably trying to attain some unrealistic result. (Yes, I can't help but think major writing award even though I'm not even PUBLISHED...)  I suspect my condition resulted from being an only child, and was exacerbated by my perfectionist parents as well–whom, like myself, only wanted the best for me.

But now that I am acutely aware that I'm rubbing off on my kids, I would like to change the behavior. I need to inform Alex that it's okay for her not to have her life planned out. And perhaps Cole should start drawing on some sullied paper–merely as therapy. It might be good for him.

Perfect...

Perfect...

And as for me? I'm going to stop trying to do everything and pay closer attention to my kids...to ensure they know I love them no matter what...mistakes, imperfections and all.

A Costume Break

Last Saturday night Doug and I were ripped from our normal routine of veg’ing in front of the tube, arguing over what movie to watch before SNL hit the airwaves. We didn't have to discuss whether a particular comedy was too bawdy for our children to watch because...we had an actual social engagement–my annual bank party. Alex was so excited for her parents to be gone. "Don't come home before midnight, ok?" Um, well, that was a bit of a tall order, but we gave it the old college try. Well, maybe not quite a college try. Midnight is pretty late for us.

The company event was fun, albeit short since we arrived in our typical late fashion from an all-day soccer tournament. At least we got to experience the perfunctory matters where I received my award for fifteen years of service. Woo hoo. (Yep, I'm that old.) Oh, and did I mention it was a costume party? 

Now, our family loves the ghoulish holiday anyway. We've actually been planning a Halloween party for YEARS! Decorations and party favors have been firmly planted away since, like, 2009. Doug and I just keep purchasing quaint party favors for this event we never host. So, attending the costume party, with people who sincerely endorse the spirit of Halloween was, well, a treat in its own accord. Marilyn Monroe, Abba, Lucille Ball with Rickie, Barbie with GI Joe. You never too old to pretend. Speaking of, the theme was "dress your age." You could choose to dress up like someone or a trend that reflected your age. I dressed as Buzz Aldrin, since I came about circa 1969. I wanted Doug to dress as Andy Warhol, but he just wouldn't do it since he had no idea who the guy was...really! Instead he attempted the hippie gig. With Doug's buzzed haircut, he looked more like a Vietnam veteran making a very sad attempt to pass for a flower child.

Luckily we didn't have to cut our night short despite the bank party closing dismally early. A few of us trekked to "The Lounge" where creativity abounded. I asked Doug who he thought would win best costume. He favored the sexy leprechaun, the sexy nun, Little Red Riding hood. You get the picture. But I liked the more unique ensembles. Nacho Libre, Beetlejuice. I even enjoyed a few particularly well-done Grim Reapers.

We hadn't been to the bar in ages. And it was fun to socialize with people other than our kids. For once. But the Lounge, you see, has a gigantic theater-sized TV screen. And despite the fact that we didn't have to watch TV on Saturday night, guess what Doug and I found ourselves doing? Watching that big old screen.

Pathetic? Maybe.

But just listen. They were playing VIDEOS! And we're Gen Xers. We don't ever get to see videos on MTV anymore. And we want our MTV.  Apparently. I was so inspired that last night I decided to rent Rock of Ages–the musical set the year we graduated (1987). And it was like watching a two hour video. Even the kids enjoyed the little blast from the past. (Admittedly, I was wishing for Mary J Blige to sing a little more...)

 Masquerades. Nostalgia. What's going on with us? Maybe we need a vacation. Or, maybe the calendar just needs to flip to November 7 so we can all get on with our lives and have something beyond politics to talk about.