Nights of Blues

Someone said to me, close your eyes and think of your favorite childhood Christmas memory. Mine is blue lights.

On our street, almost everyone put up Christmas lights. The older folks displayed electric candles with orange bulbs and sometimes twinkle lights in a window or two. But the homes with kids were outlined in those thick outdoor bulbs. Excitement grew as each night, a new house was illuminated. As the big day grew closer, the nights became brighter and more colorful.

My father had strands and strands of multicolored, socketed bulbs that he kept in cardboard boxes in the storage space above the garage. Every year, he'd take it all down and inspect the cords and plugs and bulbs. He'd test the lines to see which bulbs needed replacement. Then he'd position the ladder and begin. It was quite an undertaking which took hours.

It was this one December that stands out to me above all others. The whole family was driving around one night, admiring the house lights on other streets. I thought about how ours could be different this year.

"Hey dad, can we do all blue?"

All blue. Everyone liked the idea. Yea, that would be cool! All blue! was the general response.

"All blue," replied my father, his voice flat and unemotional. But I was hopeful. At least it wasn't a flat-out no. Or worse, "We'll see." Which is a parent's cruel, implied no.

A few nights later, our house glowed a groovy, eye-catching, mellow, mysterious blue. The deepest ocean within a sea of bright life.

 I can still see it now, eyes closed. I'll never forget it.

Merry Christmas. May what you love deep down within be your light.

Things I Just Don't Get

Minivans
Or as I like to call them, mommyvans. Mommies who can't judge the size of their vehicle vans. Next mommyvan you see, I'll bet you'll notice a long scrap along the side of it, one of the rear view mirrors will be damaged, or the bumper will have some sort of dent. And inside, complete disaster. The plastic innards of a McDonald's Playland tube slide is like a sanitized surgical scalpel compared to the shit storm happening inside the cavity of a mommyvan. Style-less, over-sized chaos.


North Face Jackets.
They are everywhere. In line at ShopNBag the other day, four out of the six people within ten feet of me were sporting that dingy, looks-like-it's-been-over-washed, black, fleecy, no collar, zippered, expensive, ugly jacket. Including the cashier.  It was like being amidst mindless, trendy fashion cult members. Puzzling, and creepy.

The Oversaturation of Adele.
Hey, I sort of like that title. Sounds like a Barnes and Noble "staff pick". Anyway, yes, she is an extremely talented singer and songwriter but gee whiz, why can't the airwaves give it a rest? Please? For at least a few hours? No Adele? Please? I'm tired of switching stations already.

The Karfuckingdashians.
Who gives a flying fuck? Apparently, almost everyone except me. I don't know much about them other than there is a bunch of females who all sort of look the same, the father is the used-to-be famous Olympic runner Bruce Jenner, something involving a porno, and somehow they are all over the place. Something about sisters? Who the fuck knows. All I know is, it pisses me off that every time I turn around, there is a Karfuckingdashian in my face. (Can you tell, when I am overly irritated, I say fuck a lot?) And if you ask me, that guy that one of them married for 15 minutes looks like Shrek.

The Latest Catchphrases

It must be me. I tried it. I tried sounding current by throwing a few My Bads and Just Sayins around. To my ears, I sound retarded. When I hear My Bad, Epic Fail, Uber anything and Just Sayin, it's like nails on a chalkboard. Now there's an expression I like.

Holiday Letters

It's that time of year again. Time to open wide to take what I call my December dose of Syrup of Ipecac, otherwise known as the Holiday Letter. You know, those delightful year-end recaps cleverly crafted to boast shamelessly while still sounding sincerely grateful and humbled by life's good fortune. The ones I get, however, are not so subtle. They simply scream "our shit doesn't stink."  I read them and I wonder, do you hear yourself? Here's an excerpt ...

"Our Jennifer continues to work at (insert name of well-known wealth management company here) and is now Assistant Vice President and Marketing Coordinator for the United Emirates market. She has ambitious goals of competing in the blah blah blah triathlon with Team SaveALife. She continues to volunteer with various not-for-profit organizations such as blah blah blah and she is now President of the blah blah blah Alumni Association of (insert Ivy League University name here). Her fiance, David, also a graduate of (insert name of Ivy League University again), has entered his second year of law school at (yet another Ivy League university) and spends a majority of his free time as a volunteer firefighter, where he has recently been promoted to Lieutenant."

This particular author/mom writes in the third person, which also baffles me. The section on her goes like this ...

"Mary is still an extraordinary minister at church and recently joined (name of club which infers she combines regular exercise WITH volunteer work) and plans to donate one of her kidneys to a random homeless person within the next year."

And it goes on and on and on. Okay, I made up the part about the organ gifting, but that wouldn't surprise me. 

... That's it for now, friends. What don't you get? I'd love to compare notes.

Truth Be Told ...

There is a lot for which to be thankful.

Like recently, I learned that the average person's total skin covering would weigh about 6 pounds if collected in one mass. This bit of trivia made me thankful for how easy it is to share information, to learn something new every day. It also reminds me of how much I love my own skin. I've got great skin. It's incredibly soft. Like a six pound stick of butter.

I'm thankful that Cutie Pie the hamster kicked the proverbial bucket, 'cause I was getting REAL tired of taking care of that thing.

I'd like to personally thank whoever invented the nail clipper. Hangnails drive me insane. The faster I can eliminate them, the better. I keep a clipper in my purse, one in my car, one in every coat pocket, and several in drawers around my house. Cause you never know with hangnails. They are sneaky SOBs. Nail-Clipper-Inventor, you rock!

I'm thoroughly grateful for The Academy. I'm not sure who they are or what they do, but it seems like they always get thanked. And that must mean something.

I'm thankful for sex toys. Enough said there. I know you all have images in your head right now. Those will suffice. If not, youjizz is a click away.

In that vein, thank you to my yoga instructor for his slammin' body. Damn, he looks good. And gives good yoga. When I am sitting in my forward bend and he lays that hard chest on my back and gently leans into me to deepen the stretch, while whispering in my ear "breathe" ... wow.
I have a feeling he's gay, though.

Burnt toast. I'm thankful for one of the very few mistakes that you can legitimately blame on someone else. Why on earth would a toaster have a setting that is way too high for the product which it is supposed to warm to a golden brown? Whoever engineered that feature fucked up. And we pay for it. Go figure.

Heat. Anything heated or hot. Heated car seats, heated floors, saunas, hot tubs, the oven, the sun, jalapenos, hot toddies, hot water bottles, skin on skin under flannel sheets and a down comforter, fire. Anything that makes me sweat. Bring it on. Thermostat on 73 in the winter and minimal A/C in the summer. I am forever grateful for whatever warms my bones. Cold? It's ho-hum at best. Unless it's a cold beer on a hot day.

My allergy to cats and dogs. It's a great excuse for when my kids plead with me to get one. And to use as an out when I'm invited to house parties that I know will be a drag. Oh, I'd love to come! But wait, do you have any pets? (Odds are on my side.)

I'm most thankful for my husband, who loves me despite all of the above.

Happy Turkey Day!

PMS or SMP (something more personal)

My nerves are frazzled. I want complete silence. No sound of running faucets, no clicking of forks against porcelain plates, no muffled voices two decibels too loud. No lights left on, no unattended blue stove top flames, no one walking in on me while I shower behind clear glass doors. No trails of bread crumbs or dried spaghetti strands stuck to stainless steel. Shut the door behind you. It was shut before you opened it. And stop shushing me. Trust me, no one will hear.

Who knows?

There is something that I can never seem to figure out, no matter how many different ways I think about it. And that is, why what certain people think about me is so important to me. It's not everyone. It's far from everyone. But when it is one of those chosen few, and I feel like I've fallen short ... it cuts like a knife.

The Cheese

I don't know about other nationalities, but I know for a fact that Italians love smuggling cheese. Maybe it is ingrained in their string of DNA. Maybe it stems from being descendants of a country occupied hundreds of times over, an unrecognized hidden fear of being displaced and needing rations. The thrill of fooling customs, maybe? All I know is, every one of them pack large amounts of cheese in suitcases and carry-ons as they travel from the homeland. Then The Cheese takes on a personality all its own, and becomes their gift to you, the lucky American, who can BUY IMPORTED ITALIAN AND EVERY OTHER KIND OF CHEESE WE COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE from our local Whole Foods or Specialty Cheese Shop which happens to be not too far from our homes. Cause, remember, this is America. But I digress.


So The Cheese arrives, along with my father-in-law. Ominous in presence, with what appears to be a slimy coating. (The Cheese, not my father-in-law.) I'm curious as to why the sealed plastic has been broken and there is a chunk missing. Some questions, you just don't bother asking. That I've also learned.

Just to get some perspective on this, in comparison, my Smartphone placed along side of The Cheese would appear to be very small.


Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. We are getting ready to drive to my parent's house for a visit. I invite my father-in-law to accompany us. He happily agrees, and true to form, seconds before we are ready to walk out the door he announces he must bring a gift. He must bring The Cheese. He asks me to chop the chunk in half, and wrap it up for him to bring to my parents. UGH!!!!!!!!

My mom, being very sweet, fawned over the presentation of The Cheese. She thought she should put it out on the table during dinner, as a sign of respect for The Cheese. (Funny, my mom has not a drop of Italian blood in her. But Poland was an occupied country many times over, too ... hmmmm) She asked me to cut The Cheese for the table, which I did, warning her not to eat The Cheese. It was for display purposes only. Why, she asked? I informed her this was The Cheese that sat inside luggage for 10 hours during the transatlantic flight, sat on my kitchen table overnight after being released from the luggage, then was eventually refrigerated by my father-in-law. I think she had the common sense to trash The Cheese, the entire chunk of it, after we left.

The Cheese stands alone? Not in my house.

Day Eight into the most recent chapter of my life ... titled "Crazy Italian father-in-law living in my home for an undisclosed period of time."

It's 6:17 am. Morning preparation of myself and kid's lunches complete, I take a much needed moment to pour a second cup of java. In he shuffles, paper in hand. Always with a piece of mail for me to decipher.  Today, it's his missing rebate check. Of course, it is not missing at all. It is in the pile of mail that has accumulated over the last 6 months he has been away living in Calabria with his girlfriend. But try to explain that to him. He is shoving a tax receipt from the township under my nose and asking "You call-a she? Da town-SHEEP? I no have-a rebot. No rebot check-a."

"No, Pop. You are looking for your REBATE check from the State Department of Revenue. You have that. I saw it."

And this conversation goes on and on. "Wha? I no understand." I try explaining in Italian. Finally he gets it. Fifteen minutes have passed. I need my coffee laced with Maker's Mark now. We're all out.

Later ... rounding up the troops to pile into the car. To school and work we go and as usual we are running late. He needs a ride to his brother's house, which he has let me know 10 seconds before I am about to exit my abode. Ok, let's go then. All in the car, start it, here we go.

"WAIT."

Him: "I need-a my glasses."
Me: "For what?"
Him: "I no see-a good. One min-ette."

Ten minutes later, the front door opens once again and he emerges. He seems to have trouble closing the door behind him. I electronically open the passenger side window and hear loud mumblings of Italian expletives. He is bending down doing something with his shoe.

Me: "Pop, what's the matter?"
Him: "My-a string. My-a string. Oh goddamn. (more Italian expletives)"

Now he begins to remove his shoe. "What the FUCK?" my head is screaming internally.
His shoe is off and he is bent over tugging at something. I am now forced to exit the vehicle to investigate. The light morning drizzle has become a steady downpour.

Turns out, his freaking SHOELACE was trapped underneath the door. I don't have the key to unlock the door. I must go around to the side of the house, punch the code to the garage door, enter the house through the garage, open the front door, and unleash his shoelace.

My father-in-law has hands the size of Kentucky. His fingers are as thick as overcooked hotdogs. And arthritic. So naturally, my next five minutes were spent rethreading the lace back onto the shoe.

Bling. The sound of the low fuel indicator as it lit up on the dashboard.

Oh goddamn is right.