Shoes

A while back, I was late dropping off a little boy for afternoon kindergarten. Because we were tardy, I had to walk him into the school office to sign him in. I waited behind a lady who was signing in her little girl.

When it was my turn to sign the roster, I noticed that the woman before me had written, “Fight over shoes,” in the Reason column.

I found that very amusing, probably because I have a girl and I can imagine fighting with her over shoes. (Though I am more likely to let her venture into public in crazy outfits because, really, why fight it?). With my boys, a more likely reason for tardiness would be “Couldn’t find shoes.” Even now, my almost 15-year olds constantly lose their shoes. I do not understand this. The only time I lost shoes was when I left behind my pointy-toed boots at a retreat center.

By the way, this errant shoe is still here in my storage room. I never figured out where it came from.

When vacuuming the heating vent near the front door, I found a toddler-sized sandal. I have no idea who it belonged to–probably us, many years ago. Some kid must have pulled up the grate and dumped the sandal inside.  Also?  Perhaps I should vacuum out the vents more than once every nine years.  But let’s not rush into anything.
Speaking of shoes, no one is allowed to wear them in the house anymore because we just had our carpets cleaned and I am trying to prolong the cleanliness as long as possible. Wish me luck.

Merry Christmas, but not to me

My 5-year old spent the afternoon at her grandmother’s house which is chock full of bric-a-brac with a large side order of gewgaws, and a heaping helping of curios. Grandma also has a lot of stuff, particularly costume jewelry and chocolate sitting around in candy dishes. My daughter adores visiting.

While I stood in the kitchen waiting for my mother to package up some ham and cheesy potatoes she had overbaked, I caught a glimpse of my estranged sister’s handwriting on an envelope. The sticker-dotted envelope sat right next to the kitchen sink. It looked like a Christmas card.

For a moment, I felt the tiniest ghost of a pang, the flimsiest regret that my sister and I no longer speak. We haven’t spoken a word to each other in over five years. A couple of years ago, I sent her an email and asked if we might discuss in through email why we weren’t speaking. She emailed back, “I’ll call you when I get there,” (there being here–she lives in Japan and was due for a visit to the Pacific Northwest). I emailed back and said, “No, we need to talk before you get here.”

She never emailed me again. She never called me, either.

It’s strange when a person you’ve known literally your whole life (except for those first sixteen months, but I wasn’t exactly a conversational wonder in my babyhood, so that doesn’t count) rips you out like a perforated page in a book. Granted, my anger at her was justified, in my opinion–despite my explicit instructions not to make copies and keep some particularly graphic pictures of my giving birth, she ordered herself copies from negatives and took them back to Japan with her. When I discovered this theft, I emailed her a concise, direct demand to return my photographs. I never got my photos, an explanation or an apology. And that was the end of our sisterhood.
Not that we were very good sisters anyway. If friends are the family you choose for yourself, sometimes family are the friends you wouldn’t have chosen in a million years–you have nothing in common other than a gene pool. For all our differences, though, we were still sisters, sister who had nothing in common, who grated on one another’s nerves and didn’t particular like spending time in the same room from our very earliest days together.

Still. She’s living a life completely outside the frame of my life. She not only cut me out of her life, but cut my children out of her life, too. I imagine it’s easier for them and yet some day, will be more difficult. They don’t miss what they never had, but one day, they’ll wonder why we don’t speak and ask whatever happened to their aunt.

And my explanation will sound so ridiculous: Your aunt doesn’t speak to me because I asked her to return some photos of me giving birth that she took without permission. The deeper explanation is so tangled even I have no idea where it begins and where it ends. You know when you can’t unravel a knot? Sometimes, you just have to cut it out and start fresh.

I guess that’s what we did.

Farewell, O Christmas Tree

The Christmas tree my husband purchased in Detriot ten years ago has been dismembered.  Its branches lie in bunches, segregated according to size.  Tomorrow, I will drag out the large box, pack it away and send it off to the church, where I hear the youth pastor will appreciate having a seven and a half foot tall fake tree for the youth room.  And I say, “Good riddance.”  Good riddance to festivity, good riddance to the rumpled tree skirt the cats frolic underneath, good riddance to Christmas Past.  I’m sick of it.

My daughter came in as I was yanking off the top branches of the tree and said, “Mom, what are you doing to the tree?” with dismay just like Cindy Lou Who when she caught the the Grinch stuffing the Christmas tree up the chimney.  I said, “Christmas is over.  We have to put all this away.  If it were Christmas all the time, we’d never get to swim in the pool, you know.”

Indeed.  If it were always Christmas, when would we celebrate the Fourth of July?  If it were always Valentine’s Day, when would we go trick-or-treating?  If it were always the beginning, when would we ever reach the end?

In other news, I ate a whole sleeve of Ritz crackers tonight.  Don’t tell my other blog.  Don’t even ask.  I have no idea what came over me.

Dropping the balls, crashing the plates

I never got the hang of juggling. I know there is a pattern to it, that you are supposed to toss the balls in a particular direction, but whenever I tried to juggle, the balls had their own wacky orbits and did not follow any pattern whatsoever.

I am trying to juggle a new full-time job, four full-time kids, three stinky cats, two blogs, a husband and a partridge in a pear tree. Everything’s going swimmingly, except for this blog-thing. (And the cooking dinner thing, which I can’t seem to get running smoothly.) I smack my forehead at about 1:00 a.m. and say, “Oh, shoot! I forgot to write in my blog!” and then I fall into a horrible dream in which someone is chopping off my toes. (Not really that particular dream, but that is the worst childhood dream I can remember.)

And you know that feeling you have when you’re in a room full of loud people and you’re talking in a normal tone of voice to a close friend and then suddenly, you realize you have just said out loud, “And the doctor said the discharge was . . . ” just as a conversational lull occurs and your private confession has turned into a head-turning shouted announcement? Oh, you don’t know that feeling?

Then you will not empathize when I explain that sometimes, now, that’s what it feels like writing a blog which has become somewhat less private that it was in the beginning. My topics for conversation are fairly limited . . . and my children are going through a boring, bickering streak . . . no one is giving me any good material, at least nothing I can use here. I clearly need to mingle with more strangers who have no idea what a blog is.

There’s a book about blogging called No One Cares What You Had for Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog which makes me want to clutch my heart in a dramatic gesture and gasp, ” . . . and probably nobody cares what I did today, either, or whether my daughter is driving me nuts with her constant chatter . . . ” It’s tricky to fashion something out of nothing day after day.

And so Happy New Year! 2008! Doesn’t it just seem like yesterday that the nutcases were trying to freak us out by telling us that the world “as we know it” would cease to exist on January 1, 2000? Because the computers would grind to a sudden and lethal halt and we’d all have to beg those fatalists to let us into their bomb shelters so we could eat their stockpiled lentils and oatmeal? I did not participate in that tomfoolery . . . who has time to fret about The End of the World As We Know It when there are more important things to consider such as whether or not there are clean underpants for everyone in the family? And such as whether U.S. Americans can locate The Iraq on a map?

Oh, the late-night hosts are killing me with their writer’s-strike beards! First David Letterman and now Conan O’Brien. Beards always make me think of my dead dad, which is a rather morose thought, but then again, I love to remember him and then shake my head over all the technology he has missed in these eighteen years since he’s been gone. He was one of the original fans of the computer. He built one from a kit in 1977. It had red and blue button and I have absolutely no idea what it did, other than take up all his spare time. He programmed it with cassette tapes, which seems ludicrous, but I promise, it’s true. He would have been in love with the Internet.

So, I know you don’t care what I had for lunch (nothing! I ran out of time between running errands and starting work), but do you care that I painted over the red stripes in my living room? My 9-year old is disgusted with our boring “Wheatfield” walls, but my husband has breathed a sigh of a relief at the monotonous sight. He’d love nothing more than to live in a plain-jane house that looks exactly like a dorm room before anyone moves in. Beige walls, a book shelf, a bed. What else does anyone need?

Well, in less then eight hours, I will be back on the computer, working again, throwing plates into circular patterns that end up spinning wildly out of control. I am a rotten juggler. But I can type without looking at the keyboard and surely that’s worth something.

*  *  *

In the lull between Christmas and 2008

I am still printing out the last twenty Christmas letters.  I just can’t quite get it together and my newish printer is recalcitrant, and now, low on black ink.  You’d think it would be simple to print out 90 Christmas letters (with three full-color pictures), but the printer has balked from the start at printing more than three pages at a time.
In the meantime, I started painting my family room.  I had painted red stripes on one long wall six years ago when I was pregnant and I am so over the red stripes.  I painted my family room bright gold a few years back to match a bright gold couch (the theory being that if the quite ugly couch matched the walls, it would disappear).  It did work, the couch is long gone and the walls remain gold.  Soon, those walls will be a sedate shade of “Wheatfield.”

I bought a “PaintMate,” which is an ingenious syringe-type device.  You suck the paint into the handle and then the paint dispenses into the roller as you’re painting.  No paint trays, no fuss, no muss.  If only it were capable of taping the baseboards and edging along the ceiling.

I made the mistake of giving my 14-year old a digital camera and now it’s as if we are living with the paparazzi.  I may go stark raving mad and shave my head if the constant hounding does not stop and stop soon.

By the way, I am sick to death of hearing Britney Spears referred to as a “young mother.”  She is twenty-six years old!  Twenty-six, people!  Since when is twenty-six a “young mother”?   The media makes it sound like a  baby of twenty-six years old should be excused from being a good mother on the basis of her youth alone.  How utterly ridiculous.  When I was twenty-six, I . . . walked to school . . . uphill . . . both ways . . . ten miles . . . in the snow.

Well.  Anyway.  Twenty-six is not “young,” if you ask me, nor an excuse for irresponsibility.
Kids have arrived to play, making me think painting a second coat on my formerly striped wall now would be a mistake.  Nevertheless, I am going to start that project right now because the sooner I finish, the sooner I’ll be done.  And a little latex paint never hurt anyone.

Merry Christmas!

First of all, does anyone know where the tape is? No? No one?

Oh, wait. I found it.

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Kids!

The Christmas pageant was tonight. My 5-year old daughter endured a two-hour practice on Sunday afternoon. She dressed up as a sheep, crawled out by the shepherds, did great! This morning she informed me she did not want to be in the play. Then, while we sat in the pew, waiting for 7 p.m. to arrive, she told me she really wanted to be an angel. I reminded her that there were no more angel costumes and besides, it was too late to be in the play.

At 6:59 p.m., she said, “I really really want to be in the play. I changed my mind.” I told her it was too late and realized the glory of her current age. She did not throw a fit or cry or argue. Good thing, because if she had, I would have missed the amusement of the Christmas pageant.

First of all, the beautiful young couple with their gorgeous kids did the Advent reading and lighting of the final Advent candle. Only the young woman couldn’t get the lighter-thingy to light. I saw the youth pastor moving over to assist her . . .  and heard the unbelievably loud CLICK, CLICK, CLICK of the unresponsive lighter . . . and then, her husband finished reading, reached for the lighter-thingy and with one click, WHOOSH, there was the flame. (Hi, Jenn! Oh, that was funny!)

In no particular order, here are other things that made me laugh:

1) “Mary” chewing pink gum while sitting in the “stable” . . . and her mother hissing at her to stop chewing said gum. Two rows of us were in near hysterics. When “Mary” realized our mirth, she got that haughty teenage look of disdain.

2) One unruly black “cow” sucking his thumb.

3) My daughter brought a life-like doll with her . . . and the doll has fresh batteries. The doll was “asleep” . . . until a woman on the other side picked up the doll, waking the doll . . . just as the program started. The doll was cooing, moaning, giggling and the people in the row behind us were snickering . . . my daughter snatched the doll, trying to get it to sleep . . . and I finally, in somewhat of a panic, found the “off” button. But, oh, the hilarity.Perhaps all of this is more amusing when you are tired.

At any rate, Merry Christmas to you all. (Time to go arrange gifts under the tree!)

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The last Saturday before Christmas

My husband taunted me last night.  “What time are you leaving?” he asked.

I said, ” . . . ” and he interrupted before I could say it and said, “Ten?  You’ll never be out of here by ten.”

Oh yeah?  That sounded a lot like a dare to me and I am the girl who introduced myself to Jim Bakker (yes, that Jim Bakker) on a dare in 1985.  I was working on the grounds crew, saw Jim Bakker arrive at the Grand Hotel surrounded by his entourage and said to Kendra, my co-worker, “I should go introduce myself to Jim Bakker.”  She said, “I dare you.”

So, I dropped my rake and marched right over, stuck out my hand and said, “Hi, I’m Melodee.  I think you went to college with my uncle.”

So, Dear Husband, do not dare me or I will, indeed, leave the house by 10:00 a.m.!  In fact, I was nearly at the mall by 10:00 a.m.

And, not only that, but I found a parking spot one car away from Macy’s door.  I was out of there by 10:50 a.m., then stopped by Best Buy on my way to a movie.  (“Charlie Wilson’s War,” an entertaining flick, littered with the f-word and an opening scene replete with with nipples . . . why, oh why?)  After the movie, I drove back across town to Costco where I easily found a parking spot and bought four things:  a spiral ham, batteries, ketchup and mustard.  We consume ketchup almost as fast as we consume milk.

Then, to a department store.  I finished up my day at Barnes and Nobles, spending gift cards on myself.  Yes, myself!  I bought four books I’ve been wanting to read for a long time:

Eat, Pray, Love;

Mindless Eating;

Girl Meets God;

Three Weeks with My Brother.

Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask.  What book did you read in 2007 that you would recommend to other people?  My book recommendation for the year would probably be Peace Like a River or  The Sacred Journey by Frederick Buechner.

I also urge you to check out Librarything.com.  I use this free site to keep track of the books I’ve read.

Now, time to wrap the last few gifts.  Happy first day of winter!  And now, the days get longer . . . until we will wake up in shock that summer has arrived again.

Christmas is coming and my letter remains unwritten

My nose is cold all the time.  When I was fat, I looked forward to losing weight and cooling off.  If you haven’t been fat, you might not know this, but when I was fat, I was so hot all the time.  (And not hot in a good way.)

Sure enough, I lost 60 pounds and I’m freezing all the time.  And I’ve lost circulation in my face, apparently because my nose has turned into a little popsicle.

I have yet to write my World Famous Christmas Letter.  Oh, I know.  Christmas letters make some people cringe, but I write a little amusing one each year . . . I have done this for years and people tell me that they read my letter to their friends and OH THE PRESSURE.  What if I cannot write an amusing Christmas letter?  I need to carve out a little time to work on it.

HEY!  We have a new couch and chair.  I warned my children, “NO EATING ON THE COUCH!” and so far, they are all scared to death to even sit on it.  This is the first new couch we’ve had in . . . uh, 17 years.  The last couch I bought was white, which was a mistake, but I was not yet a mother and I had no idea that one day my toddler would barf Coke-flavored vomit all over it.

My daughter keeps bugging me to go to “the store where we bought those baby clothes” (I took her shopping for a baby shower gift) . . . she wants to buy a set of baby dolls she saw there.  She is relentless.  I doubt she will forget, even after Christmas.  Lucky for her, she has Christmas money coming (a money-filled card from a relative), so I will let her spend that on another dolly.  A girl can’t have too many dollies, you know.  At last count, she had eighteen.  (I know this because I attempted to quiet her begging by sending her upstairs to count how many dollies she already has.)

What else?

I don’t know.  I can’t think because my nose is too cold.

Are you finished Christmas shopping?  I am!  And not only that, but last weekend, I wrapped everything up.  I rock.  Even though I haven’t yet begun writing my World Famous Christmas Letter . . .

Hair products

Does anyone else have trouble picking out a shampoo and conditioner? It used to be simple. You were either “Normal,” “Oily” or “Dry.” Now you have to have an advanced degree in cosmetology to decide which one you need. Too much silicone and dimethicone and you’ll end up a slick mess. Too little and you’re hair will cling to your shoulders as if you are electrically charged. I just want clean hair which has been conditioned so I can drag a comb through it without pulling any strands out. Is this too much to ask?

When I was a kid, we used Prell. The green gel came in a clear tube, like toothpaste, and we squeezed a little dab out and washed our hair until it squeaked. Which can’t be good, can it? Squeaky hair? Then, when I was a little older, my mom sprung for pink Avon leave-in conditioner and then I no longer had to grit my teeth to get the tangles out of my wavy locks.

Remember your first blow-dryer? My dad brought one home . . . it looked use, which is odd. I think he might have been using it in his work with electronic equipment. (He had a “shop” in the garage, full to the ceiling with ham radio equipment.) I was in elementary school. Until that point, we washed our hair on Saturday nights (so we’d be ready for church) and that was pretty much it.

I sound like I am approximately 100 years old.

On Saturday nights, my mother would roll my hair on pink foam rollers. When I got older, I did the rolling myself . . . with disasterous results the time I used different types of rollers on each side of my head. I was rather unbalanced that Sunday morning.

Sleeping on rollers hurts. I can’t believe that I ever suffered that sort of pain in the interest of looking cute. (“Cute” being open to interpretation, of course.)

My daughter has naturally curly hair, little ringlets . . . which, if messed with, turn into a frizzy halo of hair. She likes to smooth her hair down, which makes her look a lot like an old woman who hasn’t been to the beauty shop for awhile. I predict she will hate her curly hair, even though I find it delightful.

Of course, I hate my curly hair and long for straight, thick hair, because we all want what we don’t have.

Which brings me back to hair products. What I want are hair products clearly labeled: “This is for naturally curly hair which is still thick even though the front area is thinning,” and “This will stop your hair from frizzing but not turn it into a greasy mess.” Or even “Normal,” “Dry,” or “Oily.”