Seventy-six

Well, we're back. This is the first time I've ever come back to my once beloved Minnesota and thought,  "I hate it here."  Yesterday at this time, I was running down a beautiful desert trail, today I'm huddled in my basement watching it rain.  We're going back in three weeks for Thanksgiving, and I cannot wait.

So I got to Arizona Friday morning , Mike and I went for a run, and then JP and I hit the grocery store for provisions.  (I mentioned a while ago that I've had a cold, and as usual, I went and got myself addicted to nasal spray again.  So while JP was picking out lunch meat, I wandered into my favorite aisle to stock up on Afrin.  Luckily, JP caught me and wouldn't let me buy it, not even when I meanly accused him of being a Hollywood health nut granola.  He would only let me get saline spray.  Of course he was right, and by the next morning I was cured.  If it weren't for him I'd be Yasmine Bleeth right now.)

Anyway, we spent the rest of the afternoon lolling at the pool, arguing about who'd be more famous in five years, Jon Stewart or Colin Ferrell. (I voted Jon Stewart, on the grounds I don't think CF will be alive in five years.) We left for the border at dawn the next day. 

Now, we all know Mexico is basically a toilet.  But you can either resist it or embrace it, and if you embrace it, you're gonna have a lot more fun.  Our hotel room was actually pretty nice, if you don't mind lights that don't work or spiders the size of catcher's mitts or sand all over the floor.  There were two double beds.  Billy was not amused at the thought of sharing with JP, in fact he accused JP of planning it all ahead of time so he could make untoward advances while explaining to him, "It's only weird for like, a minute."  That became the line of the weekend. 

I bought two silver bracelets from a charming young man on the beach, and I'm quite certain I got a great deal. Mike found me and steered me away twenty dollars too late. The show was fabulous. RC played for FOUR HOURS, right there on the sand.  SOOOOOOOOOOO fun.  Finally ended at 1 am.  Mike and I went to bed, the others went off to find food. (Is that what we're calling over the counter Viagra these days?)  I woke up at 9:00 and tripped over Billy, curled up on that filthy floor with a couch cushion. He looked like a sand crab.

You know how the ride to somewhere is really fun, but the ride home again just blows donkey farts? Well, in this case, that was literally true.  Plus, we had to wait in line for an hour to get back over the border.  The worst part about that is trying to ignore all the disfigured people pawing at your car trying to get you to buy tortillas. "No, sorry, I need to get back to America.  You can't come."  We stuffed ourselves with McDonald's best efforts on the road.  I was so full I almost didn't eat all the chinese food we ordered an hour after we got home. 

So it was all great fun, I got lots of runs in and kicked another drug habit. If not for all the beer and greasy food, it was almost like a celebrity spa weekend.  I missed the babies terribly, but right now they're in school and I'm missing the warm weather almost as bad.  I'm taking Molly to the Y so I can sit in the hot tub.

Just got back from church (well, a couple of hours ago, but then I ate half a loaf of banana bread and passed out,) and the guy doing all the readings, the lectern? The lector? Is that what he's called?  Hannibal Lector? So Hannibal Lector's voice was absolutely ridiculous, it was too good.  It wasn't even a radio guy's voice, it was more like a science fiction movie voice.  Instead of listening to the word of God, I kept waiting for him to say "Please remain seated while the red gas of death permeates the room."  Now I suppose I have to go to confession. "Forgive me, Father, instead of really participating in mass, I kept thinking  Mr. Smith is really a science fiction villian.  And wondering if Kathy Devers, who was sitting right in front of me, meant to do that to her hair."

We saw Love Actually last night, Mike and I completely loved it.  We saw it with Mary Louise and Andy, both of whom were very lukewarm.  I was perplexed by that until this morning in the shower, when I figured out the real reason why.  I've mentioned before how both of them are absolutely crazed Lord of the Ring fans, how every year Andy was Gandalph for Halloween and Mary was Galadrial even though she was too old to dress up and the two of them would speak elvish to each other and whenever Keebler commercials would come on they'd sniff and snort and say, "Those aren't elves," and so forth. 

Well, they started discussing their battle plan for seeing The Return of the King in the car on the way to the cineplex last night, so by the time the movie started, it had become just an annoying distraction until they could resume their conversation.  Looking back, I should've realized when Andy stopped in the theater to study the ROTK poster, that that was the moment he checked out completely, that there was no Markenson.

Later at dinner, I mentioned how Mike hadn't seen The Two Towers yet, and they both looked at him like I'd said "Mike thinks Osama Bin Laden is cool." And I can see that it is a huge internal struggle for them both.........on the one hand, they both feel you should have to pass a written exam on the books in order to see the movies, on the other, the more people who see the movies, the more likely to then read the books.....but is that even a good thing? Are these so called 'people' really worthy of the books anyway?  I mean, they read them, devoured them, back in the day. For the love of the Shire, they didn't really choose the books at all, the books chose them.  And please understand, I love the movies too, and I can't wait to see ROTK, but I know I'm not in their club and I'm both jealous and relieved.

Seventy-eight

I've never had a real Christmas tree.  Growing up Hubbell, there were certain things you just didn't question:  Nabisco cookies, Republican politics and fake Christmas trees. And we've had a little fake tree our entire marriage. I bought it back when Mike was  still coaching and therefore, never home, and he had no voice in those kinds of decisions. Whenever my kids would ask me why we didn't have a real tree I'd relay grampa's horror stories of  dried up trees bursting into flames and free health care for illegal immigrants.

Anyway, Mike joined the men's club at our church and he volunteered to work at the tree/lot fundraiser this year.  Seemed Grinchy not to get a tree from my own husband's lot. So last Sunday, I dropped the kids at my sisters and went to see what all the fuss was about.  Let me tell you, I was nervous. I mean, a REAL tree? Next you're gonna tell me I have to get a dog.  Mike was havin' a good ol'  time, wearing his bright yellow vest and stocking cap, watching the Vikings inside his heated trailer, eating chips and basically bonding with the other fellas.  I picked out the tallest tree I could find, I mean outside they all look kind of small, you know?

We had to cut the top off to stand it up in the living room. Plus, no one told me they foof out like giant umbrellas after two days. The thing is the size of the Hindenburg. It literally takes up half the room. And lighting it......I pondered whether to do a layering/wrapping sort of thing, or perhaps a zigzag pattern.....I even drew a out a map. It took me half an hour to get the first strand on, and I did exaclty one branch. It took about ten strands to do the bottom third, which was as high up as I could reach anyway.  For the top, I just started flinging the lights at it lasso style.  The kids decorated it after school yesterday. All the ornaments are smushed onto one two foot section. Last night during prayers, Meg added, "and please don't let our Christmas tree go on fire." 

Sure does smell good, though.

I'm trying reeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaally hard not to get Scroogey right now, but all the forced holiday cheer at school is starting to piss me off.  This happens every year, but now I have two kids there so it's ramped up to a thousand. Today I have the mother/daughter Christmas Tea. The next two nights are the Christmas program. Yesterday was Meg's dance recital. And every stinkin' day, there's another note sent home in their backpacks: "Please have your child write a note to all their teachers telling them how much they love and appreciate them!! Have the notes dropped off at Mrs.Delaney's desk for delivery! Make sure they are done in red or green ink, and turn them in no later than tomorrow at eight a.m.!!  If you could have your child attach a candy cane or something to the notes, that'd be great!! Thanks so much for your help in this very special project!! From, all of us at the 'Good Moms who aren't You' council!!"

"Please send two bags of chocolate chips to school with Meg tomorrow! Thanks a bunch!"

"Please make sure your child's gift to their eighth grade buddy is gift wrapped by tomorrow and make sure it cost at least twenty dollars!!"

"Your child received their list for a family in need!! Please choose a gift from the list and send it to school, gift wrapped, by tomorrow!! Thanks a lot for your help in this VERY SPECIAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLL PROOOOJECT."

EVERYBODY FUCK OFF.

Man, that felt good. And here's the thing: If they would just send one master note or list home the day after Thanksgiving telling me everything needed for December, I would be happy to do it all.

At least this time, our 'family in need' is actually in need, so I can feel good about myself for helping them.  Last year, We had a family who asked for, my hand to God, leather jackets and cd players and a widescreen tv. I'm not kidding.  And I'd love it to pieces if Christmas programs and recitals were banned forever.  Or at least say, "no recitals until the kid's been in dance class at least five years". 

People, I love my daughter more than anything, but she's been dancing for three months. Surely, she could demonstrate tap-tap-shuffle to me in our living room. No, we think you should sit for two hours on a Sunday in a sweltering gymnasium and clap for other people's kids as well!!  And wouldn't it be more beneficial to my family (and all families,) if we could stay home one night and sit under our monster tree, reading stories and drinking cocoa, then it is to drag them out into the cold on a school night to hear them stumble through Good King Wenceslas?  And of course, that means finding a babysitter for Molly, I'm not about to take her with us. And then we get home at nine to wolf down sandwiches and cry our way through homework and everyone gets to bed really late and I miss the finale for Average Joe. And Mike's out of town again..........IS IT ANY WONDER I HAVE A RICH FANTASY LIFE STARRING ME AND EWAN MCGREGOR??

So short story long, I've done no shopping for my own kids and I'm starting to get super nervous about this half marathon looming in front of me, my 'training', if you can even call it that, is spotty at best.  And I love Christmas, I do. I love it love it love it. Just writing this down has refreshed me.

Seventy-nine

I had a few gals over Monday night, I needed some guinea pigs on which to test run some  new recipes for all the Holiday feasts I'll be throwing next week. (When I informed my family we were hosting Christmas Eve and having a New Year's Eve party, the reaction was laughter, lots of not very well hidden elbowing of each other and loud whispering. My parties have a reputation for being spectacular flops.)

Anyway, I made a bunch of new salads and appetizers and opened a few bottles of wine, and it was all very pleasant.  At nine-thirty, after I'd pushed the last inebriated housewife out my front door, I turned to the buffet and took stock.  No one had touched the red-cabbage salad or the onion dish, forcing me to scrap my 'Christmas in Siberia' idea.

As I was dumping these culinary mistakes down the sink, from upstairs came a  symphony of running, slamming, wretching and crying ending in a loud wail: "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM I'M SIIIIIIIIIIIICK!!!!!!!!!!"

I ran upstairs to find poor Meggie shivering in the bathroom, which she had completely hosed down with the contents of her stomach.  I cleaned her up, got her back into bed with a large bucket, and by the time I was done dealing with the bathroom she had overshot the bucket several times and woken her little sister in the process.  As I leaned in to pull her soaked bedspread off of her she did it again, right into my face. I could see it coming toward me in slow motion, hurtling through the air like a vomit bomb. I don't know how kids time it that way, but I swear it never fails.

It was a good two hours by the time things were cleaned up and everyone was asleep. The next day, while she laid on the couch watching  Mary Kate and Ashley, I bleached everything in the house. Even held the bottle up to my nose and took a big sniff for good measure. Probably took a few years off my life with that one, but that's the price you pay for good health.

Then Wednesday night, me and a whole group of family members  went to see The Return of the King.  Mike didn't have a ticket, but he decided at the last minute to go anyway and try his luck with a scalper.  So we got to the theater and like a shark smelling blood, this greaser in a cheesy suit immediately walks up to us and asks if we need tickets. He then pointed us back to the ticket counter, telling us the girl on the left side of the register has some.  We go up to her, loudly say "TWO FOR ‘HONEY’ PLEASE," but gesturing with our hands what we really want, and she's all "keep it on the down low," and sells us a seat.  It was quite a caper. Honestly, though, it was a madhouse, the manager was running around frantically with a walkie-talkie, yelling at everyone and sweating. When seating started, I thought we were going to be crushed to death.

Great movie! And I know I'm nit-picking, and I understand we needed the long, lingering ending after an epic like this, but I'm just saying; To all film makers in the future:  The less close-ups of Sean Astin, the better.

Eighty

So this is Christmas.......and what have you done?  Another year older........blah blah, I never really liked that song.

Christmas Eve,  we took the kids to the 4 p.m. mass. We got there twenty minutes early and still had to stand right next to the side door, which is down a long hallway and not even remotely near the actual church.  We could sort of hear echoes of Christmas songs occasionally, but that was about it. Then it was back to our house, where we were expecting my whole family for dinner. Meg made luminaries for the front walk, and I put the finishing touches on dinner. I made a hugantic beef stew. "Bring on the mad cow!" I thought, although I suspect I've had it for years. The stew was dry.  It takes a special kind of ineptitude to make dry stew. So we ate and drank and played games and at 9:30, just as everyone was getting on their coats to leave, the front door opened  and about fourteen more people tromped in, one of them bearing home-made bottles of Irish cream. No one left until midnight. Very fun.

Finally got the kids settled, started putting the presents under the tree, found a note to Santa that Meg had written.  'Dear Santa, my list this year wasn't very big, but Molly didn't make one at all. I will give her some of my stuff. Love, Meg McCollow'.

Not a dry eye on my face. Then Mike and I gave each other our gifts. I gave him slippers and a book.  He gave me TiVo with a burnable dvd player. Not too lopsided. Oh, right, like the TiVo was just for me. "Don't you touch my TiVo!" I'll yell every time he goes near it. (insert filthy joke here.)

Meg came into our bedroom at 6 a.m.  I told her no way, go back to sleep, and she got into our bed and stared at me for an hour. Can't get back to sleep under those conditions. She put some sort of 'wake up' hex on me. They had the mountain of presents ripped open before the sun had fully risen.  Molly got a 'Disney princess' scooter complete with helmet and knee pads,  and she didn't take them off all day. The big kids got snowboards, and it was off to Grandma's to collect the cousins and go to the park. We spent the whole afternoon sledding and snowboarding.

Isn't it funny how for a kid, the violence with which you wipe out is directly proportional to how much fun you're having? Not true as an adult. I'd like to conduct an experiment to find out the exact moment hitting an icy slope face first at 80 mph stops being fun. Take a human and make them do it every day of their lives until the one day they stop laughing and say, "Nope, today it sucked."

This was the first time in memory there was not one scrap of food left after a Holiday meal. I think some people didn't even get to eat. My mom (who was hobbling around on a crutch because she slid down some icy steps a few days earlier--and we still expected her to make Christmas dinner! Number 796 why I'm going to Hell.) cooked a twenty-nine  pound turkey and the platter was totally empty. I think we even ate the bones. And once again, my poor dad got stuck next to my crazy Uncle (the same one who, once he's got a few Manhattans in him, which is always, starts giving out 'shoulder rubs') at the dinner table. It's his little Holiday curse.  Guy works hard his whole life, pays for this huge gathering every Christmas, and has to listen to Uncle Conlin loudly call dibs on the 'pope's nose'  and tell stories about kissing the Blarney stone EVERY DAMN YEAR. But it's just so entertaining for the rest of us.

Our store’s big annual Holiday race was the next night. Naturally, Finbar started throwing up Friday morning.  He slept all day long, finally got up just as it was time to go get the babysitter. (The one I didn’t tell my kids was sick! Number 797 why.....) I just told her he was tired, and to have him in bed by seven-thirty. Bad mommy!! It was a perfect night for a race, warm and not windy. A certain person, whose name I won't reveal, (me,) placed second in her age group and was thirteenth gal out of 440th over all. I'm just sayin'.

Then yesterday, we went to Mike’s brother's for McCollow family celebration. They're a more low-key crowd, but no less hilarious. Highlights include: Mike's brother-in-law Larry, the Narcoleptic physician who, when he isn't sleeping, is an impossible to understand low talker. Then there's  Aunt Ardy, who people keep telling me is suffering from Alzheimers but seems saner than ninety percent of my friends. Whenever she'd say something totally normal like "Whaddya think about David Letterman becoming a father at fifty-seven? At least he ought to follow up and make it legal." The whole family looks at her like, 'isn't it sad, what's happening to Ardy?'  And the topper, Mike’s mother, who wanted a picture of all the grandkids together. So after much calling in from outside, hair brushing, clothes straightening and coaxing of all the young'uns to at least look at the camera, Jennifer took a picture with her digital camera and then displayed it on her television for grandma's approval. Her reaction to the portrait? A pert, "Well, that'll never do." Her reasoning, and I quote, was "There are kids everywhere."  A few minutes later, after Mike’s sister was complaining about her son's slutty girlfriend, Doris just shook her head and grumped, "They never pick the ones you want." Hi.

So I hope you all had a wonderful Holiday.  Our tree is but a brown skeleton of its former self, but I'm trying to keep it up ’til the second. 

© Katie McCollow, 2004 • katie.mccollow@mac.com