Let me start by saying that Al Gore is an idiot. I don't deny climate change and I can accept at least some of his postulated effects as probable. What he has wrong is the cause. For 30 years Gore has purportedly studied the causes of significant global warming. At the same time, researchers around the country have put forth numerous theories on the aging "baby boomer" generation and what effect this demographic group's advancing years will have on the world as we know it. How in the HELL did they miss the most glaringly obvious point?
Global warming is a direct result of the increasing numbers of hormonally volatile women radiating ridiculous amounts of heat while attempting to go about their daily routines. Carbon footprint, my sweet aunt petunia. I need to decrease my estrogen footprint.
I went for my yearly physical this week. This female equivalent of "turn your head and cough" is one of life's little annoyances which has, like the dreaded mammogram, proven too valuable in maintaining women's health for me to skip it. This does not mean I look forward to it. I've done my part by finding a nurse practitioner who can at least relate. For this aspect of my life, I avoid dealing with any testosterone-controlled physician who dismisses female complaints of hormone-laden symptoms as hormone-laden whining. If my dear husband, who loves me above all else, understands me better than anyone, and supports me unquestionably, is fairly clueless as to how to handle the emotional perimenopausal female lurking in my psyche, I sure can't expect a virtual stranger to get it.
There was a time when heading into the doctor's office having not had a period in three months would have had me sweating bullets and calling for the severed head of a certain urologist to be served up on a silver platter with faba beans and a nice chiante. I'm not sure when I lost that. It was humbling. Instead of fearing sleepless nights and burp cloths and Catholic School tuition until retirement age, I found myself considering hormone replacement and empty nests and comfortable shoes. After a series of questions, answers, and the typically awkwardly reassuring examination, I am comfortable in the knowledge that whatever hormonal flux I might be experiencing, it will indeed not result in a tax deduction for the year 2012 and beyond.
I have been told this is the next exciting phase in the wonderful journey of the sisterhood, and I can embrace the changes with awe and exhilaration. Every day I am becoming more of the woman I am meant to be--rich in wisdom and experience, filled with the warmth of thousands of suns, secure in the knowledge of who I am. Fully in tune with those wonderful women who went before, I am able to offer an untold wealth of treasures to those who will come after me.
Well, maybe not all that. Whatever the Creator's plan when creating the great female circle of life, I suspect there were hallucinogenic mushrooms involved a couple inopportune moments. I amy be rich in experience, but I am woefully short on stamina. The warmth of a thousand suns is just beginning--I have yet to find myself in the shower at 3am or suddenly looking for the closest polar bear plunge in which to participate, but I do occasionally feel as if I will burst into flame during my personal power surges. I a certainly becoming more of the person I was meant to be--and I could do with significantly LESS of that person in various regions of my physique--my hips, my ass, my upper arms. I fear, as part of this wonderful process, that I am forgetting all my treasured wisdom. The next generations aren't likely to be inspired by the woman who calls her children by the dog's name, can't find her car keys, and finishes one of every 12 things she starts in a day.
So here you go. I am woman, hear me roar. I'm ok, you're ok. My life on Venus is a bowl of cherries. I stand ready to take on the world, one hot flash at a time. If those who observe the process cannot learn from me, they can damn well be amused by me, because I plan to go through it laughing, singing, bitching and rejoicing, with a glass of wine in my hand!
Friday, February 24, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
Why winter weather sucks pond sludge
Winter in the Kentucky portion of the Ohio Valley lasts 12 to 15 weeks. It is rarely severe. We get little snow, and what does come tends to stay around two days then disappear under a pile of rain or the ridiculously rare patch of sun. So for those of you in the far reaches of Upper Michigan, Alaska, Montana, Colorado, go shovel your driveway. You will not be able to relate to this, and I don't have the energy to indulge your scoffing at my whining.
For those who are left, here is my opinion of winter in Kentucky. I don't think it would vastly change no matter where I lived, but my current location just ices the cupcake of my discontent.
If you're going to snow, damn it, SNOW! We're pretty much going to shut down whether we have 3 inches of snow or 13, so give me the 13 and let me do something with it. But no, we get glaze. We get ice, covered with snow, covered with ice. We get dangerous driveways and frozen overpasses. We're as likely to break a hip on the sidewalk as a leg on the ski hill. We get broken tree limbs. Then it rains. and rains. and rains. The aforementioned "shut down" concept is relevant because 3 inches of snow here effectively paralyzes the city. We don't often get big snowfalls, and when we do there is the potential for a reasonable amount of fun. I don't mind shoveling (this is a good thing, because I have reared progeny who only shovel other people's walks, preferably for money but they settle for service hours). The kids can spend hours sledding, making forts, playing with friends. Unfortunately, the adults are not amused. The mere threat of the white stuff sends folks to the grocery 2 days in advance to stock up for snowmageddon. The people who *might* know how to drive here know enough to stay home once the blanket of doom hits, because the idiots who have NEVER possessed the skills to drive in the snow find it vitally necessary to make it to the store to buy bread, milk and beer. Those of us who must go to work come hell or high water take our lives in our hands sharing the road with Bubba and Maw on a desperate run for Camel menthols.
This year has been unseasonably mild. I should not even complain. There has been rain. Rain worthy of monsoon status. Rain to inspire ark construction. Whole gaggles of geese have taken up residence in yards and fields previously known for their sandlot games. But we've seen multiple days of 50 and 60 degrees. In January. In February. And despite what that miserable Pennsylvania rodent says, 6 more weeks of winter, especially of the winter we've had so far, is far from a sentence. It is more of a gift. So I can't even rationalize my complaint, other than to say this: I don't want an occasional spring teaser, only to have it washed out of my sight by another bout of gray and rain. If I can't have winter--REAL WINTER--just skip it and move right on to the real, extended spring where my daffodils can bloom, my tress bud out, and my mood can be dragged out from under the pile of wet firewood in my yard.
I'm done. Bring on the next season.
For those who are left, here is my opinion of winter in Kentucky. I don't think it would vastly change no matter where I lived, but my current location just ices the cupcake of my discontent.
If you're going to snow, damn it, SNOW! We're pretty much going to shut down whether we have 3 inches of snow or 13, so give me the 13 and let me do something with it. But no, we get glaze. We get ice, covered with snow, covered with ice. We get dangerous driveways and frozen overpasses. We're as likely to break a hip on the sidewalk as a leg on the ski hill. We get broken tree limbs. Then it rains. and rains. and rains. The aforementioned "shut down" concept is relevant because 3 inches of snow here effectively paralyzes the city. We don't often get big snowfalls, and when we do there is the potential for a reasonable amount of fun. I don't mind shoveling (this is a good thing, because I have reared progeny who only shovel other people's walks, preferably for money but they settle for service hours). The kids can spend hours sledding, making forts, playing with friends. Unfortunately, the adults are not amused. The mere threat of the white stuff sends folks to the grocery 2 days in advance to stock up for snowmageddon. The people who *might* know how to drive here know enough to stay home once the blanket of doom hits, because the idiots who have NEVER possessed the skills to drive in the snow find it vitally necessary to make it to the store to buy bread, milk and beer. Those of us who must go to work come hell or high water take our lives in our hands sharing the road with Bubba and Maw on a desperate run for Camel menthols.
This year has been unseasonably mild. I should not even complain. There has been rain. Rain worthy of monsoon status. Rain to inspire ark construction. Whole gaggles of geese have taken up residence in yards and fields previously known for their sandlot games. But we've seen multiple days of 50 and 60 degrees. In January. In February. And despite what that miserable Pennsylvania rodent says, 6 more weeks of winter, especially of the winter we've had so far, is far from a sentence. It is more of a gift. So I can't even rationalize my complaint, other than to say this: I don't want an occasional spring teaser, only to have it washed out of my sight by another bout of gray and rain. If I can't have winter--REAL WINTER--just skip it and move right on to the real, extended spring where my daffodils can bloom, my tress bud out, and my mood can be dragged out from under the pile of wet firewood in my yard.
I'm done. Bring on the next season.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Sometime's it's a dog's life.
My eyes snapped open at 3:02 AM, and it took a split second for my brain to register the noise which had invaded my dreams. I lay there in the darkness, trying to sort it all out, when I heard it again. Nothing sinister, just out of place. A dog barking. It was a short trip from "What idiot is letting their dog bark at 3am?" to "Why is my idiot dog outside barking at 3am?!"
Let me explain something about my dog. He doesn't do outside for long periods of time. He goes out, chases the occasional squirrel, performs an infrequent romp, and otherwise curls up under the grand piano in the hope no one sits down to play and interrupt his slothful repose. Who am I kidding? The minute we turn our backs he hits the couch/chair/bed and stakes his furry claim by depositing a half pound of fur.
And he was outside barking at 3am.
In the few seconds it took me to shake the cobwebs out, something amazing happened. Truly amazing. Maybe it was the rare solar flare which recently impacted the atmosphere. Perhaps it created a strange, gravitational happening. Maybe the earth slipped slightly off its axis. Maybe it's the leap-year affect. Whatever the reason, the miracle played out in quite a perfect fashion. Chad. woke. up. I did what any self-respecting wife would do. The dog barked again, and as the master and protector of the family registered the problem, removed the swell, life-saving CPAP mask, and roused himself from the nice, warm bed, I remained completely still. My eyes were open, but let's face it--without his glasses the one I love can't see his hand in front of his face. Through the brief time it took for him to find his robe, and his shoes, and head out of the room, I remained completely and breathlessly still. Mission accomplished, I could go back to sle...
Right. In my dreams (literally). Nope. I heard the doors open and close. I heard the dog being called. Front door, back door, front door, back door. I heard Rusty emit his very particular "I will save you all from the vicious beast I have chased up this tree" alert. I heard Chad come back up the stairs. I heard the dog bark one more time. Still outside. Clearly, this would be a two person rescue. So I dragged myself out of bed and accompanied the big guy back down the stairs. The dog, in the dark of the back yard, whined again. Chad can't hear the whine--as he gets older his hearing goes more and more, too much time spent with loud music and air tools under cars. Apparently, the dog whining and me reciting the weekend honey-do list are both the same frequency--silent. So there we were, me standing in the open window shining the flashlight on the canine crusader who had single-pawedly cornered and delivered us from a deadly ROUS, and the big guy, tromping through the woods in tennis shoes, bathrobe, and pajama pants with the intention of congratulating the furred superhero and returning him to the home for his reward. Rusty, being a humble hero, took off in the other direction, so there was a brief yet spirited dance through the muddy yard while Chad sang his song of encouragement to the dog to get the hell in the house and I added backup vocals and percussion by shaking the jar of dog treats in the hopes of appealing to Rusty's hungry side.
The dog eventually came in, cold, muddy, tired, and not a little put out that the fun was cut short just when things were getting good. Having rendered all furniture off limits by flipping up cushions and blocking chairs, Chad and I returned to bed where we drifted fitfully back into unsatisfying sleep until the alarm rudely went off playing, of all things, LMFAO. How apropos. Rusty refused any attempt to let him out this morning. Hey, it's his bladder.
Meanwhile, much has been learned from the night's adventures. Primarily, having found 3 lights on, both doors unlocked, and the dog abandoned, it is clearly unsafe to go to bed before the children. From now on, the little shits go to bed when I do. If it's still daylight, tough. I am old, I need my sleep, and the dog isn't up to that level of activity. Besides--critters in the woods need their sleep, too.
Let me explain something about my dog. He doesn't do outside for long periods of time. He goes out, chases the occasional squirrel, performs an infrequent romp, and otherwise curls up under the grand piano in the hope no one sits down to play and interrupt his slothful repose. Who am I kidding? The minute we turn our backs he hits the couch/chair/bed and stakes his furry claim by depositing a half pound of fur.
And he was outside barking at 3am.
In the few seconds it took me to shake the cobwebs out, something amazing happened. Truly amazing. Maybe it was the rare solar flare which recently impacted the atmosphere. Perhaps it created a strange, gravitational happening. Maybe the earth slipped slightly off its axis. Maybe it's the leap-year affect. Whatever the reason, the miracle played out in quite a perfect fashion. Chad. woke. up. I did what any self-respecting wife would do. The dog barked again, and as the master and protector of the family registered the problem, removed the swell, life-saving CPAP mask, and roused himself from the nice, warm bed, I remained completely still. My eyes were open, but let's face it--without his glasses the one I love can't see his hand in front of his face. Through the brief time it took for him to find his robe, and his shoes, and head out of the room, I remained completely and breathlessly still. Mission accomplished, I could go back to sle...
Right. In my dreams (literally). Nope. I heard the doors open and close. I heard the dog being called. Front door, back door, front door, back door. I heard Rusty emit his very particular "I will save you all from the vicious beast I have chased up this tree" alert. I heard Chad come back up the stairs. I heard the dog bark one more time. Still outside. Clearly, this would be a two person rescue. So I dragged myself out of bed and accompanied the big guy back down the stairs. The dog, in the dark of the back yard, whined again. Chad can't hear the whine--as he gets older his hearing goes more and more, too much time spent with loud music and air tools under cars. Apparently, the dog whining and me reciting the weekend honey-do list are both the same frequency--silent. So there we were, me standing in the open window shining the flashlight on the canine crusader who had single-pawedly cornered and delivered us from a deadly ROUS, and the big guy, tromping through the woods in tennis shoes, bathrobe, and pajama pants with the intention of congratulating the furred superhero and returning him to the home for his reward. Rusty, being a humble hero, took off in the other direction, so there was a brief yet spirited dance through the muddy yard while Chad sang his song of encouragement to the dog to get the hell in the house and I added backup vocals and percussion by shaking the jar of dog treats in the hopes of appealing to Rusty's hungry side.
The dog eventually came in, cold, muddy, tired, and not a little put out that the fun was cut short just when things were getting good. Having rendered all furniture off limits by flipping up cushions and blocking chairs, Chad and I returned to bed where we drifted fitfully back into unsatisfying sleep until the alarm rudely went off playing, of all things, LMFAO. How apropos. Rusty refused any attempt to let him out this morning. Hey, it's his bladder.
Meanwhile, much has been learned from the night's adventures. Primarily, having found 3 lights on, both doors unlocked, and the dog abandoned, it is clearly unsafe to go to bed before the children. From now on, the little shits go to bed when I do. If it's still daylight, tough. I am old, I need my sleep, and the dog isn't up to that level of activity. Besides--critters in the woods need their sleep, too.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Motherhood aint for sissies.
I cannot allow my hubby to go to bed knowing my kids are on the road in bad weather with ice and sleet coming down. Maybe that makes me a crazy woman, but until I know they are safe and sound, we are in this stretch of parenting together. So, I sit and type while he snores in the recliner. How can he sleep when he should be worried out of his mind?????
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Mine is telling me I should have put the stops on the ski trip knowing we could be getting bad weather. Originally the worst was hitting farther north, but of course reliability has never been a strong suit of forecasters. Not only are two of my favorite people in that van, but also three other young men about whom I will worry by proxy since their parents don't necessarily know they have anything to worry about. I'm an equal opportunity maternal worrier.
Few things create quite the feeling of helplessness as knowing all that can be done is wait for their return. I can't go rescue them, can't send the National Guard, can't watch them on the journey. I know prayer is a powerful thing, and I trust God will guide them home and keep them safe, but I can't help the feeling in the pit of my stomach. I could no more be snoring in the recliner than I could fly across the miles and retrieve that precious cargo. I'll be awake with a lump in the pit of y stomach until they walk in the door. I guess it's a mom thing.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Mine is telling me I should have put the stops on the ski trip knowing we could be getting bad weather. Originally the worst was hitting farther north, but of course reliability has never been a strong suit of forecasters. Not only are two of my favorite people in that van, but also three other young men about whom I will worry by proxy since their parents don't necessarily know they have anything to worry about. I'm an equal opportunity maternal worrier.
Few things create quite the feeling of helplessness as knowing all that can be done is wait for their return. I can't go rescue them, can't send the National Guard, can't watch them on the journey. I know prayer is a powerful thing, and I trust God will guide them home and keep them safe, but I can't help the feeling in the pit of my stomach. I could no more be snoring in the recliner than I could fly across the miles and retrieve that precious cargo. I'll be awake with a lump in the pit of y stomach until they walk in the door. I guess it's a mom thing.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Holiday Musings
Bullet points, in no particular order.
* Juggling is a team sport
* kidney stones are unpredictable at best. One should not encourage one's spouse to attempt mobilization two weeks before Christmas unless one has a very good backup plan for juggling
holiday tasks.
* I lack very good back-up plans
* Cinnamon rolls are not negotiable. Kroger makes them. Note to self for 2012
* Teenagers must be awakened for Christmas morning, or it becomes Christmas afternoon.
* Christmas afternoon is just as good
* Uninspiring music at Christmas mass only affects your spirit if you let it. Don't let it.
* There is no excuse for uninspiring music at Christmas mass.
* Feed your faith wherever you find sustenance. The walls don't matter. It's all in the book.
* There is no such thing as an original translation. It's all conjecture. Who cares.
* Family, no matter how far, no matter what day, makes any day a repeat of Christmas.
* It is a blessing to have everyone gathered under one roof, even during the most frazzled of
times.
* I don't see my neighbors enough. Why is that? They are right here every day. I think I need
to work on that in 2012.
* I am profoundly blessed with good kids, even when they do stupid things.
* My Lord, kids can do stupid things.
* Somewhere along the line, I realized that instant gratification was not only unlikely, but
also unrewarding. I'm not sure when I learned that. I need to get that message across.
* Gift bags are easier, but wrapping paper and tape and bows are more fun.
* One does not require a big meal on Christmas Day
* Some traditional gatherings do not require family at all, but rather friends who are closer
than most family. These traditions must be nurtured. Lasagna and wine are a good start :)
* The Christmas Story is not available on Netflix or Hulu. That's just wrong.
* Babies are beautiful. Babies with challenges are more beautiful. Mothers waiting to deliver
babies are beautiful. God takes care of them all.
* The cookie consumption by an individual child is sometimes mindblowing in its proportion.
Baking cannot occur fast enough. Pack boxes and trays early.
* Thankfully, there is great satisfaction in holiday baking, even the second time around.
* I don't think I could adjust to Christmas at the beach. Well, maybe for one year.
* I am not a good Christmas card sender. I send Epiphany cards. It works for me.
* Every year I vow to do things differently, be organized and less stressed, find the true
meaning of Christmas. You know what? I never lost the true meaning of Christmas, and I am what I am at Christmas, and that is good enough.
Now, about those New Years resolutions.....
* Juggling is a team sport
* kidney stones are unpredictable at best. One should not encourage one's spouse to attempt mobilization two weeks before Christmas unless one has a very good backup plan for juggling
holiday tasks.
* I lack very good back-up plans
* Cinnamon rolls are not negotiable. Kroger makes them. Note to self for 2012
* Teenagers must be awakened for Christmas morning, or it becomes Christmas afternoon.
* Christmas afternoon is just as good
* Uninspiring music at Christmas mass only affects your spirit if you let it. Don't let it.
* There is no excuse for uninspiring music at Christmas mass.
* Feed your faith wherever you find sustenance. The walls don't matter. It's all in the book.
* There is no such thing as an original translation. It's all conjecture. Who cares.
* Family, no matter how far, no matter what day, makes any day a repeat of Christmas.
* It is a blessing to have everyone gathered under one roof, even during the most frazzled of
times.
* I don't see my neighbors enough. Why is that? They are right here every day. I think I need
to work on that in 2012.
* I am profoundly blessed with good kids, even when they do stupid things.
* My Lord, kids can do stupid things.
* Somewhere along the line, I realized that instant gratification was not only unlikely, but
also unrewarding. I'm not sure when I learned that. I need to get that message across.
* Gift bags are easier, but wrapping paper and tape and bows are more fun.
* One does not require a big meal on Christmas Day
* Some traditional gatherings do not require family at all, but rather friends who are closer
than most family. These traditions must be nurtured. Lasagna and wine are a good start :)
* The Christmas Story is not available on Netflix or Hulu. That's just wrong.
* Babies are beautiful. Babies with challenges are more beautiful. Mothers waiting to deliver
babies are beautiful. God takes care of them all.
* The cookie consumption by an individual child is sometimes mindblowing in its proportion.
Baking cannot occur fast enough. Pack boxes and trays early.
* Thankfully, there is great satisfaction in holiday baking, even the second time around.
* I don't think I could adjust to Christmas at the beach. Well, maybe for one year.
* I am not a good Christmas card sender. I send Epiphany cards. It works for me.
* Every year I vow to do things differently, be organized and less stressed, find the true
meaning of Christmas. You know what? I never lost the true meaning of Christmas, and I am what I am at Christmas, and that is good enough.
Now, about those New Years resolutions.....
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Nurse, heal thyself.
I've worked in a pediatric office for 4 years. I have been exposed to and colonized with a fantastically wide variety of crud. Those cute little people who walk in the front door? A veritable parade ensemble tossing out a plethora of parasitic pathogenic organisms as if they were candy from a float. My hands are perpetually peeling. This is because I wash them 200 times a day. That Geiko lizard looks like SILK next to the skin on my knuckles.
I'm a nurse. We know a few things about infection control. We do our darndest to avoid bringing work home from the office. But it seems, when one of our lot does succumb to the virus du jour, we do it in a big way! No one I work with gets the sniffles. We get a full-blown (no pun intended) sinus Chernobyl-like meltdown resulting in copious amounts of completely disgusting stuff. In nurse fashion, the truly dedicated come to work anyway. We do not get a nagging cough. We get bilateral multi lobe pneumonia. We cough so hard our ears pop. We cough so hard our backs go out. We cough up ridiculous amounts of the afore-mentioned disgusting stuff. And we go to work. I've considered the possible truth that as nurses we may diagnose ourselves with illnesses slightly more severe than the reality--after all, if a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, a lot of knowledge is a hypochondriac's playground. We are very willing to sympathize with and support the martyrdom of the co-worker who risks personal physical collapse to support the team. We respect that go-to-work attitude (of course, we prefer that same colleague remain a safe distance away, lest any of us come into the path of his/her flying germs).
Why is it that the very profession which should know all about rest, recovery, rest, fluids, rest, and rest, is one of the most likely to drag our virulent selves in to the office when we should clearly be staying home making hot toddies and watching bad daytime TV? Why do we preach to our patients about the necessity of taking care of one's health, then totally ignore that advice for ourselves? I asked myself that today as I completely disinfected my work area so as not to expose my co-workers to whatever I'm incubating in my physiological petri dish.
After all, I do NOT want to infect my teammates with the illness I've been carrying around for 5 days. If any one of them catches this crud, I will feel tremendously guilty. I will have to sit and listen to them cough and hack and blow and moan and generally be miserable, because Lord knows if they are sick they will come to work. Just like I did.
I'm a nurse. We know a few things about infection control. We do our darndest to avoid bringing work home from the office. But it seems, when one of our lot does succumb to the virus du jour, we do it in a big way! No one I work with gets the sniffles. We get a full-blown (no pun intended) sinus Chernobyl-like meltdown resulting in copious amounts of completely disgusting stuff. In nurse fashion, the truly dedicated come to work anyway. We do not get a nagging cough. We get bilateral multi lobe pneumonia. We cough so hard our ears pop. We cough so hard our backs go out. We cough up ridiculous amounts of the afore-mentioned disgusting stuff. And we go to work. I've considered the possible truth that as nurses we may diagnose ourselves with illnesses slightly more severe than the reality--after all, if a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, a lot of knowledge is a hypochondriac's playground. We are very willing to sympathize with and support the martyrdom of the co-worker who risks personal physical collapse to support the team. We respect that go-to-work attitude (of course, we prefer that same colleague remain a safe distance away, lest any of us come into the path of his/her flying germs).
Why is it that the very profession which should know all about rest, recovery, rest, fluids, rest, and rest, is one of the most likely to drag our virulent selves in to the office when we should clearly be staying home making hot toddies and watching bad daytime TV? Why do we preach to our patients about the necessity of taking care of one's health, then totally ignore that advice for ourselves? I asked myself that today as I completely disinfected my work area so as not to expose my co-workers to whatever I'm incubating in my physiological petri dish.
After all, I do NOT want to infect my teammates with the illness I've been carrying around for 5 days. If any one of them catches this crud, I will feel tremendously guilty. I will have to sit and listen to them cough and hack and blow and moan and generally be miserable, because Lord knows if they are sick they will come to work. Just like I did.
Monday, November 21, 2011
It's the most wonderful time of the year
I started hearing that song on November 1, from the delightful local station which thought the listening public needed some motivation to get into the retail, I means Christmas, spirit. 2 months? Really? I'm already over it. Let's examine a few concepts of that little musical ditty.
1. Kids jingle-belling and everyone telling you be of good cheer.
I am down to only 2 children in my house in the residential sense. The older two, when they do stop in, do not make a great deal of noise. Becca usually manages to stay home for 26 seconds before finding a social engagement of some sort to which she must Escape, literally and figuratively. And Erik, well, he has been taught not to talk with his mouth full, and he doesn't stop eating from the moment he walks in the door until his departure. General Mills puts on extra shifts just to manufacture enough Honey Nut Cheerios for his extended trips home. Now the youngest two, delightful as they may be, create enough noise to drown out a small political rally--like the Democratic National Convention. Do we really want to suggest adding bells to that??? Are my ears not ringing enough??? With all that festive noise, the first person who tells me to be of good cheer runs the risk of a short left hook to the jaw. I revel in contemplating the solitude of a silent night. That's about as likely as Josh Groan caroling at my door.
2. Parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and caroling out in the snow.
Hosting a party requires time, of which I have little; planning, at which I am completely unskilled; and a clean house. Please. My house has not been clean since the Reagan administration. When I deck the halls I create enough airborn dust to give the effect of new-fallen snow. Very festive. Not that it matters. By mid-September it is already clear that I will not have a free evening until the vernal equinox. I spend much of my holiday time scheduling my shifts driving the kids' taxi to and from events of both social and educational nature. On the off chance that I might scare up an evening for revelry, there will likely be a Martha Stewartesque friend who has gone where I fear to tread and graciously invited me to her soiree--who am I to deprive her of the holiday hostess experience?
Toasting marshmallows requires glowing embers in the fire. A fire requires wood. Wood requires someone, and it is NOT me, to drag logs from the backyard woodpile up the steps and to the wood crib. I dont like marshmallows that much. One could argue that smores cannot be made without toasted marshmallows, but they have always seemed like a waste of a perfectly good bar of chocolate to me. Forget that.
Caroling out in the snow has some merit. Unless of course, it snows. Or is cold. Cold throats don't sing--they croak. Cold carolers just shiver and develop hypothermia. Truly effective caroling requires a flask of a heat-producing adult beverage, taken regularly and with gusto. Then there is the practical side of dealing with snow. I live just south of the Ohio River, where it snows every year and every year the locals are STUNNED that snow is sticking to the ground, often in multiple inches. People would not dream of braving the elements to clear a sidewalk, preferring to let the spring thaw take care of that detail. Carolers risk compound femoral fractures and severe concussions slip-sliding down the sidewalk. Flask-carrying carolers are even more at risk. Of course, those same non-shovelers WILL hop into their 1978 VW Rabbits to make their way to the grcery at 3 MPH to secure enough bread, goetta and beer to make it to Independence Day. Go figure.
3. Mistletoeing, and hearts glowing when loved ones are near.
Mistletoe? Two words: infection control. Good Lord, people, have you not heard of Influenza? Rhinovirus? Noravirus? Mononucleosis? You go right on mistletoeing, my friends. It is job security for me. But I will bypass the poison plant, take my vitamins, and keep my flask to myself, thankyouverymuch.
That takes us to those loved ones. We all love family gatherings at the holidays. No, really--we do. At no other time of year is familial dysfunction more fun!!! Who's going where, and with whom, and for how long? Who will come? Who will stay? Who wont come if someone else comes? Who wont go home at all? How can we be in 3 different places at the same time? Whose turn is it this year? How long before the kids melt down? How long before the adults melt down? So many traditions to uphold! It boggles the mind. Where is that flask I had at the caroling party?
I admit--I really do love the holidays. But let's be realistic about expectations. Expecting them to be the most wonderful time of the year is like expecting a Hippopotamus for Christmas. There's an annoying song about that, too. Let the wild rumpus start!!!!
1. Kids jingle-belling and everyone telling you be of good cheer.
I am down to only 2 children in my house in the residential sense. The older two, when they do stop in, do not make a great deal of noise. Becca usually manages to stay home for 26 seconds before finding a social engagement of some sort to which she must Escape, literally and figuratively. And Erik, well, he has been taught not to talk with his mouth full, and he doesn't stop eating from the moment he walks in the door until his departure. General Mills puts on extra shifts just to manufacture enough Honey Nut Cheerios for his extended trips home. Now the youngest two, delightful as they may be, create enough noise to drown out a small political rally--like the Democratic National Convention. Do we really want to suggest adding bells to that??? Are my ears not ringing enough??? With all that festive noise, the first person who tells me to be of good cheer runs the risk of a short left hook to the jaw. I revel in contemplating the solitude of a silent night. That's about as likely as Josh Groan caroling at my door.
2. Parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and caroling out in the snow.
Hosting a party requires time, of which I have little; planning, at which I am completely unskilled; and a clean house. Please. My house has not been clean since the Reagan administration. When I deck the halls I create enough airborn dust to give the effect of new-fallen snow. Very festive. Not that it matters. By mid-September it is already clear that I will not have a free evening until the vernal equinox. I spend much of my holiday time scheduling my shifts driving the kids' taxi to and from events of both social and educational nature. On the off chance that I might scare up an evening for revelry, there will likely be a Martha Stewartesque friend who has gone where I fear to tread and graciously invited me to her soiree--who am I to deprive her of the holiday hostess experience?
Toasting marshmallows requires glowing embers in the fire. A fire requires wood. Wood requires someone, and it is NOT me, to drag logs from the backyard woodpile up the steps and to the wood crib. I dont like marshmallows that much. One could argue that smores cannot be made without toasted marshmallows, but they have always seemed like a waste of a perfectly good bar of chocolate to me. Forget that.
Caroling out in the snow has some merit. Unless of course, it snows. Or is cold. Cold throats don't sing--they croak. Cold carolers just shiver and develop hypothermia. Truly effective caroling requires a flask of a heat-producing adult beverage, taken regularly and with gusto. Then there is the practical side of dealing with snow. I live just south of the Ohio River, where it snows every year and every year the locals are STUNNED that snow is sticking to the ground, often in multiple inches. People would not dream of braving the elements to clear a sidewalk, preferring to let the spring thaw take care of that detail. Carolers risk compound femoral fractures and severe concussions slip-sliding down the sidewalk. Flask-carrying carolers are even more at risk. Of course, those same non-shovelers WILL hop into their 1978 VW Rabbits to make their way to the grcery at 3 MPH to secure enough bread, goetta and beer to make it to Independence Day. Go figure.
3. Mistletoeing, and hearts glowing when loved ones are near.
Mistletoe? Two words: infection control. Good Lord, people, have you not heard of Influenza? Rhinovirus? Noravirus? Mononucleosis? You go right on mistletoeing, my friends. It is job security for me. But I will bypass the poison plant, take my vitamins, and keep my flask to myself, thankyouverymuch.
That takes us to those loved ones. We all love family gatherings at the holidays. No, really--we do. At no other time of year is familial dysfunction more fun!!! Who's going where, and with whom, and for how long? Who will come? Who will stay? Who wont come if someone else comes? Who wont go home at all? How can we be in 3 different places at the same time? Whose turn is it this year? How long before the kids melt down? How long before the adults melt down? So many traditions to uphold! It boggles the mind. Where is that flask I had at the caroling party?
I admit--I really do love the holidays. But let's be realistic about expectations. Expecting them to be the most wonderful time of the year is like expecting a Hippopotamus for Christmas. There's an annoying song about that, too. Let the wild rumpus start!!!!
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