Tag Archives: Christmas

A couple of misfits…

The holidays are about family. They can be a time of forgiveness.  Of letting go of the past and coming together to share a meal and a laugh and company.

In every family there is a Bumble.  In 1964’s Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer christmas tv special  Bumble is the antagonist.  To “bumble” by definition is to proceed in a clumsy fashion, to botch or bungle, make a mess of things.

This weekend I thought a lot about how much I hope our Bumble can come around like Bumble the Abominable Snowman. At the end of Rudolph Bumble is smiling a toothless grin and places the star on the top of the Christmas tree in ChristmasTown.  He may not be beloved by the whole town but at least he has stopped wreaking havoc.

For years now our Bumble has referred to the island he calls home as the “Island for Misfit Toys.” It seemed appropriate to post this ornament this morning as he heads back out of town.

Family weekends can be messy for any family.  There was a moment this weekend when I wondered just how much more I had in me.  How much love, how much forgiveness.   In that moment  I looked down and Emily was just standing there.  She took my hand and smiled and said “Here.  I have this fortune, it’s yours.”

And in to my hand she placed a slip of paper.

“Love, like war, is easy to start and nearly impossible to end.”

If that’s true, it might be your saving grace.  Tighten up, Jer.  You got this.  Merry Christmas, Bumble.

They look alike when they first wake up.

The Best Things….

Growing up in my house the very best things didn’t always come from Santa Claus.  But they did come in small packages.

In fact, they came shrink wrapped in a small plastic bag.  As soon as I started to read I fell in love with Reader’s Digest.   “Laughter: The Best Medicine” was good for a smile.  “Word Power” was good for expanding the vocabulary.  “All in a Day’s Work” was sure to expose to me a new career idea.  I loved every page.

Reader’s Digest lovers know that the monthly magazine is just the tip of the iceberg.  Reader’s Digest will inundate you with special offers.  And in my house part of Christmastime was the big Reader’s Digest Book of Christmas.   This copy, published in 1973, was around long before me and my brother.  And I love that I am now able to share it with  my Emily.

We didn’t ever read it any other time of the year. But once a year it would come down from the book shelves.  And we’d read a little here and there.  It still holds up as a beautiful book to be enjoyed over the holidays.   Clement Clark Moore’s Twas the Night Before Christmas was a favorite in our house.  Last year my father sent Emily a package to be opened before Christmas, he told me it would make me cry and sure enough it did.  He had recorded himself reading this story and sure enough it got me.    And it tore me up all over again to read to Emily from the book we had read from so long ago.

This morning I set the book on the kitchen table to grab a few pictures and I stopped at one page.  Maybe it might not be the first thing that pops in to your mind when you see this picture, but I was giggling to myself as Roberta Flack was crooning away in my mind at Jacob Marley’s ghost.  But I do. I remember.  I remember “the first time, ever I saw” his face.  And I can’t wait to share it with Em.

I’ll let her have one more year of the Magic Of Christmas.  This year we will read Yes, Virginia There is a Santa Claus and Twas the Night Before Christmas.  Maybe even Mark Twain’s Letter from Santa Claus.  But next year I am bringing down the hammer.  We are gonna learn lessons of morality with The Gift of the Magi.  And then I am gonna scare the shit out of her with Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

Merry Christmas, Reader’s Digest.

The Man in the Red Suit

So I am veering from my original course just a bit.  Not every post this month was about an ornament, but it was about Christmas, at least tangentially.

And you can’t talk about Christmas without mentioning the man in the red suit.  And if you happen to live in Bardstown, Kentucky (Bourbon Capital of the World!) then Santa Claus looks an awful lot like this.


And if you don’t happen to live in Kentucky and he still looks familiar… it’s because Santa Claus also happens to look an awful lot like this guy.

Merry Christmas, Dad.  You taught me that it IS next to impossible to keep a secret where a good gift is concerned.  So I blame you completely for my being a last minute shopper. I can keep a secret for a few days.  But if I bought Christmas gifts in November there’d be no stopping my mouth.

You taught me to pick up the trash as we unwrap presents.  Even though as a kid I thought this was absurd, the trash patrol mid Christmas morning unwrapping, as a parent I do it.  I can’t help it.

You taught me that it is perfectly okay to trick your kid on Christmas morning.  I will never forget the Christmas morning that I thought I really didn’t get a bicycle.  Because you left it in the laundry room until we were all done opening presents.  I never had to ask whose idea it was to do that to me.  Your cackling gave you away.

You are the biggest kid I know.  And I love that you spend December in a big red suit making Christmas for the children in Bardstown.


When I was a little kid…

Em pulled this ornament from the box and said “Ohhh, this is the one I made when I was a little kid…”  It slayed me.  It’s not difficult to reduce me to tears (as I have mentioned at least 800 times of late) but this was a different kind.

The nose tingling, eyes watering “I think I am doing this right” tears.  I have heard more than a few parents lament that if you”re “doing it right” they need you less and less.

Our "little girl" made this ornament just last year in pre-school.


In the past few months I have watched as my lap grows smaller and smaller and my “little girl” is literally pushed right out of “the nest.”  And it pains me.

I have come to terms with the fact that Love is infinite.  That I will find the Love that two children require.  But I can not deny that both Time and my lap are finite.  I struggle to envision how I will share them with two children.  Already I feel I do a less than adequate job sharing my Time with only one child between working and mothering.  How does one expect to blend another child in to the family without taking from the first?

And then I look at the face in the ornament.  She looks so different than the face I see today.

I see her flounce down the stairs in an “outfit” she has assembled.  Skinny jeans and a tshirt, her boots and a high ponytail.  I eavesdrop as she and her buddy discuss the best way to pass a baby to someone else without “flopping the head.”  I watch her practice being a Big Sister to her baby doll.  (A baby doll that has recently acquired a middle name.  A middle name that we have incidentally settled on for Baby D.)    Her teeny little self drags the empty trash can up the driveway without being reminded.  Stopping only to have me unlock the gate so she can put it away.  She empties the dishwasher while I make dinner, reminding me to check her back pack for a note from her teacher.  Last night after her shower her wet towel was hanging from the hook on the bathroom door.  Her dirty clothes in the laundry basket.

Maybe she isn’t my “little kid.”

Well, then. Merry Christmas to you, Baby Girl. In spite of this new baby and your big grown up self  you will always, always be my Baby Girl.

She hopped in to the front with me while we waited for MQD at the barber the other day. "Look at you in the front seat, Miss Thang!" She grabbed my glasses and began to pose. Apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

The JR

Everyone has had that job.  The job that they took that was only going to last a little while.  It was an “in-between jobs” job.

I hated buying more than one uniform shirt because I wasn’t going to be there very long.  Sometimes I wore a long grey skirt instead of black pants.  And a plain black long sleeve tshirt instead of a Jolly Roger shirt when I was tending bar.  Because rebelling is not my strong suit but dammit, I hated that uniform.

I had never had sidework like that before.  Two hotel sheet trays of tiny solo cups of horseradish.  Four of coleslaw.  Make sure you are prepped to make at least 100 Bloody Marys. On Sunday.  At lunch.

Sell all the soup you can, but don’t eat it.  Eat things you see being made.  Made to order. Fried eggs.  Not scrambled.  Don’t ask about what you saw in the walk in.  It is a strawberry.  Even though it looks like a grey furry mouse.  It is a strawberry and it is someone’s idea of a science experiment.

Never, ever run out of cigarettes.  The other waiters, career waiters that have been at this since you were in elementary school and will still be at it when you are long gone, they are not likely to strike up a conversation with you unless you catch them on a smoke break. Get someone in the kitchen stoned.  Just once.  So they know you are not stuck up.

Figure out how the hostess station works.  Because that is where the money is made.  Coffee and $1.99 breakfast and a two-top of surfers.  They are cute.  But it won’t pay the bills. Suck it up and hope you get the family with the screaming kids and that they didn’t see the big sign that explains you can eat a LOT for almost free.  Write down their order.  Because it doesn’t impress anyone that you don’t have to.  And later when a customer tells you that they ordered wheat toast and sunny side up eggs even though that is total bullshit and they may have said that in their minds because what they actually said was French Toast and scrambled, you will have it written down.

Be nice to the people that everyone knows.  They have been eating here for a decade.  The man that eats breakfast at the bar all of the time, he knows where the sour mix is when you run out.  Go ahead and snicker and say “I bet you do” when the creepy guy say he likes his eggs “Over Easy.” But do not serve him a Budweiser with a Jack back at 11:57 am on a Sunday.  Drop a tray of six dinners.  But do not lose a credit card slip.

Don’t look too closely at the Christmas ornaments that hang from every surface in the entire restaurant.  You will begin to wonder when was the last time they were dusted.  And these thoughts of cleanliness will linger.  And drive you crazy. Put your tray jack back exactly where you got it from.  And never set an empty pitcher of iced tea down.

Learn to wash your own bar glasses.  Quickly.  You will run out if you send them to the dish pit.  Get your own ice.  And then get two extra buckets.  Everyone is slammed, not just you.  But it will be over soon enough.

Do not stay for late night drinks.  Do not ever sing karaoke.  Don’t ask any questions about Alan Ross’ Traveling Karaoke Road Show.  Specifically how it is that it is traveling if it is here every single night.  Do not breath an ill word to Carol Ann.  Don’t bother making a request for a specific day off.  Schedules were made this summer for Christmas.  You are working someone’s shifts that quit.  It is assumed that you will quit before the next summer.

I walked out of every shift wondering if I was going to get fired.  With more money than I thought I had made.  This is what I learned there.

I worked Christmas  at the Jolly Roger.  And all I got was this lousy ornament.

The Flag

For the most part I embrace the woman in me that grew out of the Brownie I was as a little girl.  I make crafts with my kid and give them as gifts unabashedly.

Over the last few years I became a seasonal door decoration person.  A part of me blames motherhood.  Another part of me blames MQD and his desire to cover the window in our front door with something to prevent our neighbors from peeking in.   It doesn’t matter how it happened.

It started with a Christmas wreath.  And then I had this cute wreath with Easter Eggs on it.  I have a patriotic themed “Welcome” wreath for mid-summer and the 4th of July.  Autumnal leaves for the fall.

But I have a line I won’t cross.  Or at least I thought I did.

The American flag went up for Veteran’s Day.  And it stayed up.  It makes me happy.  And admittedly, aesthetically, it looks pretty cute with the pansies and the front porch and the holy-shit-all-we-need-is-a-white-picket-fence-I-have-never-been-so-happy vibe I have going.

I don’t remember what exactly prompted it.  But when MQD suggested we could get all kinds of flags, for the seasons and the holidays I let fly a string of obscenities that would have made a sailor blush.  Evidently homemade crafts as gifts are acceptable.  Door wreaths are acceptable.  Seasonal flags are not.

I was in Michael’s.  I had a basket full of stocking stuffers.

I was feeling full on Mom mode and chatting with an elderly woman behind me.  The line was long.

And then it happened.

At first I just took a picture.

And then I started needing permission.  I all but begged MQD to tell me to buy it.

He didn’t make it easy on me.  Neither did the woman working the register.

Quietly I asked her “Umm… that Snoopy flag, where are they in the store, I umm… didn’t see them anywhere.”

She pointed.  I ran past the twenty people behind me in line to look for it while she rang up my other items.  I started feeling a little like a contestant in that game show where the harried housewife runs through the grocery store aisles all wild-eyed and crazy.  I didn’t see one.  They had reindeer.  And Santa.  And snowmen.  No Peanuts.

I returned to her register and asked one of those questions I already knew the answer to.  “Is it a huge pain in the ass to ask you to get that down for me?” and I pointed twenty feet up in the air to the lone Peanuts flag.  Wordlessly she left her register.

And now I have a Snoopy flag.  But just this one.  So help me.

Snoop

Once I set my mind to something I am committed.  Whether it is my favorite article of clothing (overalls,) my favorite food (cheese) or my favorite man (Snoopy) there is no changing my mind.

I got my first pair of overalls sometime in preschool.  I can remember ordering bowls of grated cheese as my meal at Anita’s Mexican restaurant as a little kid.

And Snoopy and I have been in love for as long as I can recall.

I left my first Snoopy in the Smithsonian Museum cafeteria circa 1981 and my mom promptly replaced him.  The “new” Snoopy was de-stuffed and washed multiple times before he was satisfactory. There is a certain neck flop that I demand from my Snoopy.  She very kindly obliged.

By the time I went away to college there was no questioning whether or not Snoopy would be tagging along.  At that point Snoopy 2.0 was coming up on 15 years of age.  He’d had a near total removal of his neck over the years, sewing up one hole at a time.  Until his head sits right atop his body.  But the crucial parts are still in full effect.

I started sleeping on my side when I was 8 or 9.  A broken arm introduced me to the joy of side sleeping with a pillow.  What began as a propped up cast developed in to a life long love of side sleeping and spooning a spare pillow. And my Snoopy.  The right side of his face is softer than the left.  His right ear even softer than that.  Years and years of my thumb smoothing his hair down has made his ear in to a Snoopy shaped worry stone.

I didn’t set out to do it.  When we decorated our bedroom.  It was my first adult bedroom with all new furniture and bedding, chosen by myself and my husband. Thirty four years old.  I got MQD a wedding picture on canvas for above our bed.  We opted to keep things very clean and simple.  Black.  And White.  And Grey.  He’s not crazy about the throw pillow I picked out for the center of our bed.

But who am I kidding?  It’s Snoopy that sits center stage.  He’s coming up on 31 years of service, I think.  He can sit wherever he wants.

1976

Our nation’s bicentennial.  A gallon of gas was 59 cents.  Taxi Driver was a hit at the box office.  The Muppet Show was on television.  The Eagles released Hotel California.  You’d have had to wait in line to get a Stretch Armstrong that Christmas.  Nadia Comăneci scored the first perfect “10” in the Olympic games.

And I was born.

There is an unwritten law that states that when a child is born in to a family you must have a Christmas ornament to commemorate their arrival.  And this is mine.

I don’t know that you can buy an ornament like this anymore.  At one time you could get a whole box of balls that were decorated with shiny polyester feeling filaments.  This is one of those, shrink wrapped with an image of a baby and the year of my birth.

1976.

I bought my first album at Waxie Maxie’s in Springfield.  KC & The Sunshine Band.  I rode a Big Wheel with a hand brake.  And I did it without a helmet.

I wanted to marry Tom Selleck . And have the Solid Gold dancers as my bridesmaids.

I didn’t mind black and white tv shows because one of the tvs in our house was black and white anyway.  I Love Lucy was the funniest show and it was on every morning.  The Love Boat seemed very risque to me, with all those unmarried, beautiful people vacationing together.  I wasn’t sure if I liked Chrissy or Janet better.  Chrissy had better clothes, but Janet was smarter.

I will never forget the episode of “Real People” where Sarah Purcell interviewed the woman with Lobster Claw Syndrome.  For years one whole side of my basement smelled like Strawberry Shortcake.  I made mixed tapes with songs I taped off the radio.

When I was very little I was afraid of Libya,  an economic recession and my father’s unemployment.  I knew that groceries were cheaper at Shopper’s Food Warehouse, because they didn’t give you any bags.  I have waited more than an hour at a video store to get a new release on VHS.

Pantyhose came in a plastic egg and the underwear section of a magazine was embarrassing.  I wanted to smell like Prell shampoo and Love’s Baby Soft and wear my dad’s old fraternity baseball jerseys.

I thought Parkay was fancy.  Sodas were for grownups. Fruit roll ups were for special treats and fast food restaurants gave out tiny orange juice glasses that were going to be collector’s items.  Everybody’s thermos smelled weird and their milk was lukewarm, but no one ever got sick.  I never met a kid with an allergy.

Because I was born in 1976.

Simply Red

Cherries in the Snow.  Raven Red.  Cha Cha Cherry.  Really Red.  Love that Red. Fire and Ice.  Ravish Me Red.

I was not always faithful to a single shade.  But I was a Revlon red lipstick girl for a long, long time.

In high school it was a look  I dabbled with.  There was a Degenerate Art exhibit at the National Gallery in the early 90’s.  I had the tshirt.  It was black.  It said simply DEGENERATE ART.  And I had new black cowboy boots.  Red lipstick completed the look.  It goes without saying that I wish I still had that shirt.

Cowboy boots were eventually  traded for Chuck Taylor’s and overalls, the red lips came and went.

In college I was the girl that didn’t wear shoes very often. I still wore Osh Kosh overalls almost every day.  But low maintenance I was not.

I fell in love with two things early in my college career.  Getting a wee bit baked and acrylic nails.  The hours I spent watching syndicated Beverly Hills 90210 on the WB (the only channel one could get in the dorms without cable) and sculpting the perfect red fingernail out of acrylic were  immeasurable.

To any and all concerned about the effects marijuana can have on a young mind I assure you the acrylic I inhaled in my dorm room did more damage.  Red lips completed the look.  Perfect red nails.  Red lipstick.  Overalls that haven’t been washed in who knows how long.  I was ready to go.

The latter half of my college career had me on my way to or from dinner theatre more often than not.  My “casual attire” moved from overalls to Ben & Jerry’s tshirts, tie dyes and pajama pants.

But the red lips remained.  In large part because the cold cream required to remove the make up I had spackled on for the evening was too time consuming.  And if you have a good reason to sport a painted on mole all night I have always been one to encourage you to go for it.

Bonus points for pearls and a red pageboy wig.

In summary, red lipstick and I go way back.

Red lipstick.  You can open a fashion magazine from nearly any decade and see at least one of the models wearing it.  It is timeless.  Classic.  But it’s only half of the equation.

Red lips without a pout?  You might as well be half dressed.  Ever since I was a little girl my mother has remarked upon my cupid’s bow lips.  (And my heart shaped butt, but that is a post for another day.  One perhaps not so rich with images.)  The first piece of art in her now vast art collection was a Tarkay.  She remarked then that the red pouty lips on all of the women in his paintings remind her of me.

I’d like to think I’ve not lost my pout.  Every girl ought to keep that skill in her back pocket.  But somewhere in the last decade the red lipstick started fading.  Traded in for chapstick with sunblock.  This weekend the red lipstick made a mini comeback.  Just for the day. But a gal can not wear a red feather headband with chapstick.  It was a no-brainer.

Every year when I hang this Patience Brewster ornament I will let it serve as a reminder.  Red lipstick is a bright idea.  Merry Christmas, Red Lipstick.  You have never let me down.  

Soup

At first glance you wouldn’t guess that the ornament that says “God made the beautiful skies with stars like twinkling eyes” would rank high among my all time favorite ornaments.   I don’t exactly go very far out of my way to keep the Christ in Christmas.  But this ornament has something special inside.

A little Kelly, circa 1979, plastic dress up shoes, Raggedy Ann pajama top, Dorothy Hamill haircut.  Behind that pantry door was the first and maybe second of what would be many marks indicating the heights of everyone in our family.

On the back it says “Love, The Speedys, Xmas 1979.”

The Speedys lived next door to us when we first moved in to the house I grew up in in 1979.  They had two teenage boys and a huge dog.  Sue Speedy liked to garden and she did so in a manner that made her appear as though she had just stepped out of an LL Bean catalogue.  I remember her seeming so put together.  Decked out in the best of early 80s fashion, whale turtlenecks and duck boots.  There were snap dragons planted in the island between our yard and theirs and I can remember sticking my finger in and out of the snapdragon’s mouths while my mom chatted with Sue.

This ornament is interesting to me for a couple of reasons.  The first, of course,  being that it has a picture of me.  And if you read here, you know I am wildly fascinated by old pictures of myself.  Heh.  But this year it took on an even greater degree of interest.  Christmas, 1979.  My mom was pregnant with my brother.  Not very, as he was born prematurely six months later. But she was pregnant.

I remember the snapdragons that spring.  I remember Sue Speedy’s duck boots.  I remember my brother being very small.  (Or at least I think I do. The line between photographs jogging your memory and real memories made up of smells and “brain movies” is fuzzy to me.)  But I have no memory of my mother being pregnant.  None.  I remember the way her perfume smelled, the way she looked in this amazing water-colored silk dress.  Her closet.  But I don’t recall her being with child. Strange the things the mind omits.

I wonder how Emily will recall this pregnancy.  If she will remember the nights I climbed in her bed.  Because pregnancy induced insomnia had me pacing the house and her steady breathing and warm little body relaxes me.  Last night as I slid in beside her she rolled over, brushed her hand across my face and said “Sleep, Mommy.  You need to sleep before the baby gets here.”

Earlier in the evening I was overwhelmed.  A sudden rush of “holy-shit-we-are-going-to-have-a-baby” consumed me and I sat down on the couch with a huge exhale, called MQD and said “I can’t make dinner.   My hip hurts, I am tired, I just can’t.”  Kindly, he said to just tell him what I’d like for him to pick up and he’d get it on his way home.  Ever the pregnant woman I was not satisfied with this answer and complained that the pressure of having to make up my mind was making me feel like I was going to cry.

Em sat beside me on the couch.  She put her arm around me and kissed me on the cheek.  “Just let it out, Mom.”  I smiled at her wordlessly.  She held my hand.  “We can get Mexican food?   Yanno, Mexican soup.”

She’d effectively broken the spell of my bad mood. “Sweetheart, I don’t think we have ever had any Mexican soup.  Do you mean Chinese food?”

“Yeah, Mexican soup is Chinese food.”

Of course it is.

And so I wonder if she will remember when we sat on the couch, side by side, because she no longer fits on my lap.  And she offered me Mexican Chinese soup and held my hand.  “We’re a perfect little family.” And my eyes teared up, worried that somehow I was destroying our perfect family of three with the new addition.  She continued, “and it will be even more perfect when the baby comes.”