Smile and Nod

(Note: This piece differs in content and tone from most of the other things I write in this blog. I wrote this five years ago but never published it due to the sensitive nature of the subject. It is not written as a dig at my mother but rather a snapshot of what I was going through during the year that followed my father's death).

***

     I wade through the boxes, bins, and totes that are strewn across my mother’s apartment. The living room is filled with long-forgotten treasures recovered from her storage unit; treasures collected from her daily trips with my father to the Goodwill store. Treasures that probably cost her $500in total to buy, but which she has paid $800to store over the past eighteen months.

     There are memories here, memories of when my father was alive; remnants of her happy past, lovingly preserved in a tin can tomb. Each item has a story and my mother is more than happy to tell it.

     "Remember this?" Her eyes mist over as she holds up a picture of a French village, ripped from an old calendar. The picture once had a frame and hung on her wall. It was ugly then and uglier now, crinkled and torn at the edges, but I’m a dutiful daughter. I smile and nod.

     "Your father and I found it by accident. We were out looking for salt and pepper shakers one day when we came across this perfectly good calendar. It was a few years old but the prints were still good so your dad framed them. Got twelve pieces of art for less than a quarter. I wonder where its frame is?” She searches through another crate and, not finding it, sighs. “Oh well, I can probably decoupage it onto a piece of wood or something. I need to get started on making Christmas presents anyway.”

     "What will you do with the rest of this stuff?" I sort through a nearby tote and find pictures of my dad from his infancy through his sixty-fifth birthday, when he was taken from me; pictures I resent my mother having because some part of me believes they are mine. I was his child. She was only his wife. I take a few, concealing them in my purse. She will never know. She has so many.

     "What do you mean, what will I do with this stuff? Keep it!" She clutches an old Tupperware bowl she has just unearthed to her chest. "I'm too old to start over now."

     My heart softens. This is her life. All that she owns. Every ounce of self-worth she still possesses is neatly bundled up in boxes I helped her gather from behind Safeway. It's junk. All of it. But it's her junk.

     "My therapist will be happy," she continues. "Going to storage and getting all this stuff back is a big step in my grief recovery."

     My toddler niece, born the day of my father's funeral, enters the room and removes a photo from a carton. "Look!" mom says, a smile spreading across her face. "She found a picture of your dad. She knows her grandpa." She has always been convinced that my niece is the reincarnation of my dead father. This cements her theory. She pulls my niece onto her lap and strokes her hair.

     I smile and nod.

     "I never knew being a pack rat was a sign of mental illness," my mother sighs. This was a new confession coming from her lips.

     "Well, being a hoarder,” I explain, purposely changing her wording, “means that you can't let things go, or that you have an obsessive-compulsive personality."

     She laughs. "Maybe both!" She is giddy. She used to deny she had a problem but lately she has begun to relish her craziness, to luxuriate in it like one would a hot bath. It defines her. It gives her purpose. But she will only accept it in the context of my father's death. He caused it. Before that, she insists, she was perfectly normal.

     "My psychiatrist told me there aren’t enough years left in my life to cure me." She grins like she has just won a game. "So he loads me up on pills now. I can't believe your father's death would do that to me."

     I want to say more. I want to say ‘mom, don’t you remember our childhood? Remember how checked out you were? Remember how you were so depressed you slept for days at a time and we were left to fend for ourselves?’

     But I don’t.

     I smile and nod.

     I spy another picture of my dad on the top of the nearest pile. I perform a sleight of hand trick and take it, knowing she would never give it up willingly. It's mine now. I’ve got secrets too.

     "But I think my psychiatrist is just going through a mid-life crisis and hates all women," mother continues. "He's probably about forty-five. You know how men are when they get that age? Crazy, all of them.”

     ‘Yes, mother,’ I want to say. ‘All your problems are related to my father's death and by men suffering mid-life problems. Your sanity, or lack thereof, rests completely with the men around you who have oppressed you in one form or another. Either by dying and leaving you behind, by running off with your mother's best friend in your formative years, or by labeling you a nut so far gone there isn’t enough time left on this earth to cure you."

     But I don't.

     I just smile and nod.

 

Magic Man

The Witches of Dark Root

(Novel to be released Summer, 2013)

Prologue: Magic Man

 

February, 2005

“Goodbye, Martha,” Maggie said, practically pushing the woman out of the store. “See you tomorrow.” Martha Silverton had finished her shopping an hour before but she was just getting started on her gossiping. Maggie couldn’t endure another evening of ‘who is doing what in Dark Root.’ It was bad enough when her mother did it, but listening to her mother’s friends drone on about the comings and goings of the locals was a whole new level of torture.

“Quick! Lock the door!” Maggie’s sister Eve said as she emerged from the back room, sucking on a piece of candy, “before any more of mother’s cronies drop in.” The two women had been working the store without their mother for the past year now, but their mother’s friends still insisted on coming by ‘just to check in’.

Maggie glanced out the window. Martha had found a new victim, a young woman who was about to enter the book store next door. With any luck the woman would occupy Martha’s attention for at least ten minutes, long enough for Maggie to finish closing the store and sneak away, unnoticed.

 “You need to order more peppermint,” Eve said. “We’re out.”

“You order peppermint,” Maggie replied. If Eve was going to eat all the supplies, she could order them as well. While Eve lectured Maggie on the many reasons her older sister was more suited for ordering – she was better at math because she was practically a boy, she had no social life and thus had more time for ordering - Maggie began dusting the hundreds of knickknacks that covered the shelves of Miss Sasha’s Magick Shoppe.  She stopped at a glass owl, a figurine that had been in her mother’s shop for as long as she could remember, and ran her fingers along the ridges of its wings. It was an ugly thing, with eyes that bulged and a beak that hooked, but Miss Sasha insisted that one day it would find a proper home. “I’m leaving first,” Maggie spoke to the figurine. The owl regarded her with large, knowing eyes. ‘I wouldn’t bet on that’, it seemed to answer.

Maggie finished dusting and then looked around for something else to do. She was torn between reading a stack of magazines Eve had smuggled in from the book store and checking out the new herbs they had ordered, to see if any of them looked smokable. It was almost six and that meant that soon she would have her freedom. She had planned a night of drinking at the local park and she had already secured the beer, thanks to a Lindsburg girl who was more than happy to purchase it in exchange for a love charm.  Maggie had gotten the better deal on that one. The beer was 8.99. The charm, made in India, cost her less than fifty cents. She glanced again at the clock, frustrated that it didn’t seem to move.

“I’ll close the blinds,” Eve volunteered. Maggie shrugged. Eve could do all the work if she wanted to.  “Maggie! Look!” Eve called her to the window. Maggie tossed the magazine onto a chair and joined her. Eve pointed directly across the street to Delilah’s Deli, at a man Maggie had never seen before.

“Who is he?” Eve asked. “I don’t recognize him at all.”

Maggie moved to get a better view, nudging Eve out of the way. “Well, he isn’t from around here,” she said, and Eve clucked her tongue at the obvious statement. Of course he wasn’t from around here. His grey coat and khaki slacks identified him as a city person, not a man who spent much time skulking around the small, backwoods towns of Central Oregon.

“He’s handsome,” Eve said and Maggie silently agreed. Though daylight was turning to dusk Maggie could still make out a thick mane of wavy brown hair and the strong line of his jaw. He leaned forward, speaking to a gaunt young man who was listening attentively to every word.

“You can have the friend,” Eve said, waving her right hand dismissively. Maggie noticed the dreamy look on Eve’s face. She had probably already planned their wedding.

Delilah’s Deli was closing shop, its neon sign flickering on and off, like eyelids fluttering shut. The waitress filled ketchup bottles and swept around their booth but the stranger made no effort to hurry through his conversation. The other man continued listening, excitedly taking notes. Maggie wished she could read lips. Or minds.

                    “We have to find out what he’s doing here,” Eve said. “It’s just not natural.” Though the town teemed with tourists during the fall when the Haunted Dark Root Festival took place, it was rare to see anyone arrive in the off months. A tourist in February was practically unheard of.

                “Probably just passing through on his way to Salem and really wanted a sandwich. It happens.”

“Why do you have to take the fun out of everything?” Eve said, her eyes lighting up. “Maybe he is here for a reason.” She conjectured about his fabulous life as a scientist, an archeologist, or an astronaut. “Or maybe even a producer!” The last revelation worked her into frenzy and she pulled out her compact to check her appearance. Maggie wasn’t convinced that he was any of those things, but there was something special about the man. He had an energy that crackled and popped.

Unexpectedly, he turned in their direction. Eve ducked out of sight but Maggie stood her ground, locking gazes with the stranger.  His dark eyes stirred something inside her, jolting her awake. He blinked once, and then returned to the conversation with his friend.

                “We should bring him over.” Eve’s eyes flashed with mischief. Maggie watched her sister push a stepstool across the floor to gather oils and vials from a high shelf that ran the perimeter of the shop. Next, she collected an assortment of herbs from bins beneath the counter. “Candles! I need purple candles.” She was driven when she had a mission, not the same dreamy girl who sat behind the counter, talking about the wonderful things she would do one day while she ignored the customers.       

             “Like a fly to a spider,” Maggie said, shaking her head.  “Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about we just walk across the street and talk to him?”

Eve huffed. “Just because you’re too good for magic, doesn’t mean some of us don’t respect the craft.”

“I’m not against magic. I just think it’s a waste of time. Plus, I’m not sure most of it really works.”

“We can’t all be Wilders, can we?”

Maggie’s face reddened. Wilder was the term for a natural witch, one with thoughtless and reckless magic; a witch who had not yet learned to control her powers.  It was a derogatory word, rarely uttered in polite company. The light bulb buzzed overhead, threatening to burst, and Eve moved her gaze to the ceiling to prove her point.

“Calm down,” Eve said, placing her stack of objects on the counter and arranged them into neat piles. “I didn’t mean it.” She had been around her sister long enough to know when she had pushed things too far. “Casting spells is fun, Maggie, as long as we don’t have mom here, grading us like school kids. Now, where’s the book?” Eve scanned the room for their mother’s book of spells and incantations. Maggie shrugged, not offering to help. If Eve wanted to buy into their mother’s brainwashing, that was her choice, but Maggie was done with it.

“Ah, here it is,” Eve said, finding the small, leather-bound tome on a chair near the entrance, half buried under a magazine. It was dog-eared and musty; a rare book, their mother claimed, filled with spells that would have otherwise been lost to time had they not been carefully scribed onto those pages.  As a result, customers were permitted to read the book but were never allowed to borrow it. So protective of the book was Miss Sasha that only family members could remove it from the store without suffering a terrible curse. What the curse was, nobody knew, but Sasha Shante was a formidable witch and there was not a soul in Dark Root brave enough to take the chance.

Maggie regarded Eve as she went to work creating a concoction of vanilla, rose petals, and thyme - stirring the mixture with the quill from a dove - barely glancing at the open book beside her. Maggie guessed that Eve had committed the man-luring spell to heart. Eve looked up, while continuing to stir. “Wouldn’t it be exciting if we fell in love and he took me away from this Godforsaken town? Now that Merry is gone, there’s nothing to keep me here.”

At the mention of their missing sister’s name, Maggie grew irritated. “You really think you’re getting out before me?”

“Someone’s got to take care of mom. She’s not getting any younger. Besides,” Eve said, her eyes flickering towards the open window. “I have to get out of here. I am going to be a famous actress one day and I need to go to someplace like New York or Hollywood. I’ve read the tea leaves, Maggie. It’s my destiny.”

“You do dream big,” Maggie said, “but even if your spell works and you get him to wander over here, what makes you think he is going to fall in love with you?”

“Duh! Look!” Eve stopped working long enough to pose. With long, dark hair that fell to her waist, dimples so deep you could put dimes in them, and a body that was both thin and curvy, she was beautiful, almost exotic.

“And,” Eve continued, before Maggie could comment. “If for some reason that isn’t enough to snag him, one sip of my special tea and he will be buying me a ticket to London to study Shakespeare.” Eve winked and retreated into the back room, returning with a white porcelain cup and teapot. “You might not have dreams Maggie, but I do. I refuse to end up like you.” She opened the teapot and sprinkled something inside, tea leaves she had grown and cultivated herself, just for such an occasion.

Maggie was about to tell her that she had no intentions of staying here either, when the door opened and the man from across the street entered.  Maggie did a double take, wondering if Eve’s spell could have worked so quickly.          

“Well, hello there.” Eve said, startled. She dropped a cloth over her concoction and extended her hand. “Our shop is closed, but I’m brewing tea. Perhaps you’ll have a cup?” Eve slinked towards the man, her long hair swaying sensually around her.

                The man did a quick perusal of the room, taking in the candles, books, and oddities of the shop. His eyes rested momentarily on their mother’s book of spells before moving on.  He nodded, satisfied. He strode past Eve and stopped before Maggie, looking her up and down. “Actually,” he said when his eyes met hers, “Maggie Maddock. I’m here for you.”

 

In Defense of Barbie

     I've given my step-daughter all my old Barbies, including the 'collector' dolls that may be worth a few bucks. I have about fifty of them, in various stages of dress and decay, accumulated since childhood. They've been sitting in my garage for years now, collecting dust, and I figure someone should have some fun with them.

     She gasps as I hand her each one. She asks me about their costumes and accessories. I tell her the story of how I came to own each doll. She gives them loving hugs and sets them up in her playroom.

     She plays with them all, combing their hair until it falls out, dressing and undressing each one. I try not to cringe when she puts the Bob Mackie dress on Vetrinarian Barbie.

    She looks longingly at the Barbies that are still encased in their plastic boxes, and asks if she can remove them. "I will be very careful," she promises me as I glance towards the 2002 Holiday Barbie I let her take out of the box the previous week. It now resembles a beat up drag queen. I shake my head, letting her know it's not yet time.  She nods, undetoured, and plays with them anyway. She lines them up in their containers, marching them into their dream  house, as if they are on their way to some macabre all-mime ball.

     "Some girls aren't allowed to play with Barbies," she tells me conspiratorilly. I smile and say nothing. I've heard the argument. By allowing our girls to play with these dolls we are setting them up for unrealistic body expectations. Once Barbie infiltrates their brains they will start hating their bodies, puking up their lunches, and appearing on the Dr. Phil show.

     "You can play with them when you are here," I respond to her. "You know they aren't real right?"

She nods, showing me the foot of one of the dolls I had chewed through when I was a kid. She giggles and responds."If this was real, it would really hurt."

     I'm not sure who first decided that Barbie was the devil. I never looked at Barbie and thought, 'if only I had her small waist and those giant, nipple-free boobs my life would be perfect.' The reason I wanted to be like Barbie had less to do with her measurements and more to do with her kick ass shoe collection. She had the closet I always wanted.

      Barbie isn't the antithesis of feminism. In fact, I when I was a kid I saw her as a superhero, second only to maybe Oprah. She could babysit Skipper in the morning, pull an afternoon shift at the McDonalds, perform surgery in the evening, and still have time to go into space.  She may have dated Ken but she never had to ask him for money. When you work four different jobs, you can buy that dream house on your own.

     Barbie isn't bad. It's just a toy made of plastic. We don't tell our boys they shouldn't aspire to be transformers, mainly because we know they understand the difference. I would hope we give our little girls the same credit.

     I will do my best to teach my step-daughter the difference between fantasy and reality. In fantasy you get perfect skin and arms that bend in every direction. You get twelve careers and a house that never gets dirty. You get a boyfriend with a corvette who only comes around when you want him.

     In reality you get...



     Well, maybe I won't teach her about reality yet. It's going to be tough enough on her when she learns about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I'll give her a few more years before I tell her about the real world.

Time Passages

She got me. Worse, I didn’t even know she was coming. A quick detour through Waikiki’s evening street market district and I was one hundred dollars poorer.

“This is all your fault,” I said, grumbling to my husband and handing him my wad of ‘fun money’. “You had to check out that alley. I should have known we were going to get mugged.

He laughed. “As I recall you bought this stuff willingly. Besides, you might have fun with these products.” He was more cheerful than I expected. “It’s good for you to pamper yourself sometimes.”

Easy for him to say. He grew up in a house whose motto was ‘Life is good’. By contrast, our own family motto was ‘Hide your money and your women. The Vikings are coming’. Needless to say I wasn’t a spender, I was a hoarder. Giving the woman all this money, just for something that I was going to slather on my face then rinse away, seemed wasteful.

But she was so smooth, and beautiful, and from Israel. She had skin like soft desert sand and eyes the color of the ocean. And she appealed to my Achilles heel - my vanity.

“Look there, April.” She handed me a mirror as she sat me down at her cosmetics stand. “Do you see those spots on your cheek?”

I shook my head. I hadn’t seen them before. But here, under the unforgiving glare of her fluorescent lights, they stood out like craters on the moon.

“And over here, you have a bit of rosacea going on. You must not scrub very often do you?”

I shook my head again, ashamed.

“And those little lines on your forehead. Those are only going to get worse.” I started to say something but she stopped me.  “You have bags under your eyes too…you must not get enough rest.”

“Fix me!” I burst out, unable to control myself any longer. “Fix all of me!” How had I not noticed this all before? Suddenly, I felt like Franken-beast out terrorizing the villagers. How could my husband have let me go into public like this? I glared at him as he checked out the nearby stands.

“In my country,” she cooed, taking my hand to let me know everything was going to be okay. “I got addicted to these products when I served in the Army. They are from the Dead Sea. You can look at my skin and see what they do.”

I not only wanted to look at her skin, I wanted to lick it. It didn’t matter that she was twenty and I was…not twenty. I wanted a face like that.

 “How’s it going over here?” My husband ambled in our direction. “Need my debit card?”

I looked at her to ask ‘can we do something about this?’ She nodded.

“Yes, honey,” I said to my husband. “I need your debit card.”

For the next fifteen minutes she showed me how years of bad nutrition, bar soap, and not living in Israel had taken its toll.  “Buy these April. They will make you look very beautiful, for your age.”I didn’t want to be beautiful for my age. I wanted to be beautiful for her age. I let her know and she sold me two more items for my patch and repair kit. I was a target, but I didn’t care. I had spent weeks dieting so that I would not feel ‘fat’ in Waikiki, but I hadn’t counted on feeling something else: old. So after a very good sales presentation I schlepped away with a bag full of products, and a promise from a beautiful Israeli girl that in just one week my lines softened, my jaw tightened, and the bags under my eyes gone for good.

As we left I noted that most of the people on the beach were young. There was a glow around them, and not just because their skin was still supple. It was because they had years left to plan, and live, and dream. The road to the world lie ahead of them, paved with possibilities. They had so much time ahead of them, and I did not.

 Maybe that was the real reason I bought all those products. If I looked as young as they did, maybe I could fool time into letting me go back, letting me do it all again. Relive every moment I had heretofore taken for granted: holding my sons, kissing my husband for the first time, spending time with my dad before he passed. The lines that were beginning to emerge on my face were a new reminder that time was passing, and I was passing too.

“Want to go back to our room and watch a movie?” My husband asked. It was 9 PM. I looked around me. There were young, fashionable people scurrying off to clubs and piano bars. If I ran to our hotel, slathered on a week’s worth of product, I might look good enough to infiltrate their group. I wasn’t that young anymore, but with the right clothes, makeup, and miracle cream, I could pretend.

“I’m glad you bought yourself something,” my husband said, taking my hand. “But you didn’t need it. You’re already beautiful.”

“For my age?” I looked up at him and batted my eyelashes.

“For any age. We have lots of years ahead of us, and they are going to be good.”

He was right. I smiled and wrapped an arm around his waist. The siren’s call of a warm bed, popcorn, and a movie with my husband was stronger than the call of the world. I realized I didn’t need to go back. I had all that I wanted, and needed, right now.  

When a Writer Takes a Vacation

       I stared at my aqua-marine messenger bag. It sat innocently on the recliner, where it had resided all week long. It saw my comings and goings, and I could feel its make believe eyes, watching me.

     “You can stare at me all you want,” I said. “I’m not taking you.”

      I was prepping for a romantic getaway to Hawaii with my husband, a trip I had been looking forward to all winter. It was going to be a week without children, family, or pets; A trip where we could lose ourselves in the moment without having to worry about anyone, or anything, along the way. This included my laptop and its accompanying messenger bag.

     “You know you are going to end up taking it,” my husband said as I arranged and rearranged my bags for the trip. “You might as well pack it now.”

     “You don’t know me as well as you think you know me. I can be strong. It just takes a little will power. That’s all.”

     “Uh-huh,” he answered and I walked away with my nose in the air.

     Maybe I had failed before but this time I could be strong. My identity wasn’t tied to my laptop. I was April before it existed and I would be April afterwards. This was my chance to prove it, to him, and to myself.

     “Besides”, I said to the bag as I threw it in the closet so it would no longer tempt me, “you’re bulky and oversized. You haven’t shed your winter weight. You’ll just slow me down.”

     As the time for our trip drew nearer I could feel the calling of the bag growing stronger, even through the closet door.

     “April, please take me. I can be a lot of help. Whenever you have a great idea I will be there for you. You wouldn’t want to lose that great idea, would you?”

     Shut up.

     “And if you leave me for a week you may lose that flow that’s been going so well in your novel. You could forget character details and motivations. And you will just get further behind on finishing it. Didn’t you say you’d have that second draft done by mid-March?”

     Shut up!

     “Please! I really want to see Hawaii! You won’t even know I’m there.”

     I hate to admit how obsessed I was and how the dilemma had cast a shadow over my trip. I was feeling a bit like Anthony Hopkins character (a ventriloquist) in the movie Magic. By the end of the movie the dummy and the ventriloquist had become so infused with one another, the audience wasn’t able to discern who was who anymore. My laptop had become my dummy, and it was really starting to creep me out.

     “Just take it,” my husband said again as I was recounting the reasons it needed to stay home.

     “No. I’ve made up my mind.”

     “Yeah. We’ll see.”

     On the day of our trip we packed our car, pulled out of our driveway, and rambled down the street that would lead us to the freeway. Having successfully left my bag in the house, I was feeling rather smug and was about to give my husband a great big I told you so lecture. But before we could make it out of our subdivision the panic set in.

     “Stop!”

     My husband looked at me, smiling. “You want your bag don’t you?”

     “Yes,” I nodded meekly. “I feel like a mother who forgot her child at the supermarket.”

     “Well, you lasted longer than I thought you would. It’s a good first step.”

     “I had just really hoped…”

     “It’s your safety net and your umbilical cord, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Even if you don’t write one word on our trip, you will be happy it came along.”

     He pulled into our driveway and I rushed into the house, cursing all the way. I threw my archaic, seven-pound laptop into my messenger bag, found my thumb drive, and ran for the car.

     “You are going to break my shoulders and make me use an extra bin in security,” I scolded it as we drove. “It’s because I lug you around all day that I have to go to physical therapy for my back.”

     “But you would have missed me so much.” It answered.

     “Yes. I know.”

     My husband shook his head. “You know I’m sitting right next to you? I can hear your imaginary conversation with your bag.”

     “Don’t listen to him,” the bag said. “He doesn’t love you as much as I do.”

     “I know.” I answered.

     “You’re insane,” my husband said. “But I love you.”

     “Just drive,” I directed him. And he did.

More Quirky Fun for 99 Cents

Just bumping my book...

If you like my writing give this a try. Its an offbeat love story about a woman, four men, her menopausal mother, a walking condom, and true love.

It will have you laughing (and thinking) the whole way through.

The Universe is a Very Big Place (on Amazon)

April Loves Eddie

     Well, it's Valentine's Day. The day of love for many, loneliness and cruelty for others.

     I have my own story of unrequited love. It's a sad tale. And it started in the third grade.

     It was February and we were getting ready for our annual Valentine's Day party. I was sure to get lots of Valentines because the boys had voted several weeks before, and had chosen me as the girl they would mutually like. To show their sincerity they had been writing me letters, singing me songs, and chasing me around the monkey bars. They had even flipped their eyelids at me.

     Though I secretly enjoyed their attention, I'd walk by them, nose in the air. I had only one love, the leader of their pack: Eddie (Last name unremembered).  He had fabulous hair and a really cool binder with a picture of Han Solo on it. He had also professed his love to me during a violent game of dodge ball.

     But I couldn't bring myself to say it back. So I played it cool instead.

     As Valentine's Day drew nearer, and my need to play kiss and catch with Eddie exclusively controlled my every thought,  I came up with a plan.  "You need to buy me two sets of Valentine's cards," I said to my mother.  "We have a very big class this year."

     It was a lie of course, but I couldn't tell my mother the truth: that one of those sets of cards- the entire Tweety Bird collection - was going to Eddie (Last name unremembered).

     I spent the evening before our class party adding personal messages to all 32 cards, convinced that when he read "I like your hair" and "Your dad looks a little bit like Mr. Rogers," he would sweep me off my feet and we'd spend every lunch recess thereafter playing dodge ball together.

     It was a solid plan.  After all, he loved me. I just had to let him know I reciprocated the feeling.

     The morning of Valentine's Day our classroom was filled with excited chatter. We waited anxiously for Miss Wilson to announce that it was time to deliver our cards into the red, construction paper envelopes we had glued together the day before. Finally, we were called, alphabetically by first name, to the front of the class. I was first to contribute. With sweaty hands and a beating heart I made my way forward. The class leaned in to watch. Would I have Snoopy or Star Wars cards? Would there be candy in them? As the first card deliverer, I was setting the bar.

     Drop. Drop. Drop.

     I put each card into its corresponding envelop. A few of my classmates slumped back when they saw that there were no lollipops taped to them.  A few others looked relieved to see that my parents were as cheap as theirs.

     Drop. Drop. Drop.

     At last I came to Eddie's pocket. It was red and beautifully decorated with stick figure drawings of Indians and dinosaurs. I ran my hand discreetly across it before dumping 32 cards inside.

     A collective gasp rang through the class. An entire box of Valentine's cards going into just one envelop? No one had ever dared such a feat. Maybe I would be hailed a hero.

     My dreams were short lived, however, as the students broke out into that most horrible childhood chant: April and Eddie sitting in a tree. I turned as red as Eddie's envelop, delivered the remaining cards to the undeserving pockets of the other students, and raced to my seat.

     As I passed by Eddie's desk I offered him a shy smile. He turned his head away.

     I slid into my seat as the chanting continued. Eddie wouldn't look at me.  I had brought disgrace to the  third grade alpha male. And I was being shunned.

     At lunch recess Eddie (Last name Jerkface) sat on the grass surrounded by his cronies. The girls let me know that he was reading each of my cards - complete with special handwritten messages - out loud to his friends. I could see them through the cafeteria window as I nibbled on my sandwich. With each card he read the boys doubled over in laughter. I never left the lunchroom.

     By the end of the day the boys voted in a new girl to like: Audra (Last name Bitch). They threw rocks at her, chased her around the monkey bars, and even flipped their eyelids at. her. She squealed appropriately at each gesture and didn't snub a one of them.

     For the remainder of the school year she was Queen and I was forever known as 'that girl that won't stop following Eddie' (Last name go-f-yourself) around.

     I moved away the following year but I kept track of Eddie through friends. After high school he married twice, had seven kids, and made a career of selling farm supplies.I hear he does okay for himself.


     Love is a strange and wonderful thing and I'm not sure why we chase it. But we do. Even when we are young. And the trials and tribulations of keeping love, once found, continue through the rest of our lives.

     If you're not careful, in the time it takes to dump 32 cards into a construction paper envelop, it can be gone.

The Good Wife's Guide - Updated for Today's Woman

The Good Wife's Guide

From Housekeeping Monthly, 13 May, 1955.

Original Article

 

While browsing the Internet I came across this gem on how to be a Good Wife, circa 1955.

I'm not sure about you,  but I dont' think I'd last long following these 'rules'.

In that spirit, I've submitted a new guide for the modern woman. It's much more managable. You just replace martini's with depression pills and away you go.

Here are the original 'rules' (in bold) and my modifications below. Follow either set of rules at your own peril.
                                                                            ***

1. Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Today's Good Wife: Call your husband on his way home from work. Tell him to pick up a bucket of chicken and a six pack of PBR. Tell him his other option is that suspicious looking leftover in the fridge that neither one of you can put a carbon date on. Most men are fearful of  food poisoning and  will be excited to avoid this.

2. Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dust cloth over the tables.

Today's Good Wife: Shove all your QVC merchandise into the closets. When they are full use the garage. You can clean them out for your annual yard sale. When he asks what why there are 300 wickless candles on your credit card receipt remind him of the time he 'forgot' to wear his wedding ring to his high school reunion. Rinse and repeat as needed.

3. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.

Today's Good Wife: At the time of his arrival, start the washer and dryer, even if there's nothing in it. He will think that you've been hard at work all day and will forgo his usual lecture on "what exactly did you do while I was gone?"

4. During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

Today's Good Wife: Set the shed on fire. Make sure all of his GI Joe Action Figures,holey pairs of underwear, and pictures of his ex-girlfriend are inside. When he asks 'What the hell happened' say 'Oopsie daisy' followed by 'Sorry honey, I'm a girl. I didn't know this matchy thing could get that hot. My bad.'


5. Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Today's Good Wife: Prepare yourself. Put on your game face so that he can't tell you've been fantasizing about what it would have been like to have married Rod Bishop, that cute jock you used to date, instead. Douse yourself with a can of fabreeze and remove all evidence of your afternoon Cheetos binge.

Double up on the Prozac. 

He has just been working with a lot of pretty women who still have their hopes, dreams, and pre-baby figures.

Cry yourself to an ambien induced sleep, but wait until he's busy with his computer porn addiction.


6. Don't greet him with complaints and problems.

Today's Good Wife: Don't greet him with complains and problems. Let him find out for himself that little Bobby flushed thirteen washcloths down the toilet and that you cancelled the NFL package on cable so that you could afford your Mystic Tanning sessions.

By allowing him to figure out the problem himself, you are letting him play Sherlock Holmes. Men love role play.


7. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Today's Good Wife:Make him feel comfortable. Never take out the garbage. Don't wash the dishes. Let your home become as filthy as his old frat house. It will bring back warm feelings of nostalgia for him. If that doesn't provide a sense of comfort for him, scream at him like his mother used to. He compares you to her anyway.

8. Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Today's Good Wife: Be a little gay. Submit to that threesome he's been hounding you about. Or tell him about that guy you kissed in college who looked sort of like Janet Reno.

By participating in his deviant fantasies you are buying yourself time to figure out where your life has gone wrong.

9. Don't complain if he's late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

Today's Good Wife: Don't complain if he's late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Hey, it's more KFC for you and you get the queen bed to yourself . When he stumbles in at 3 AM drunk and horny, make sure to have the doors locked and the sprinklers on. A nighttime bath is both refreshing and invigorating and won't use up all your hot water.

10. Be happy to see him.

Today's Good Wife: Be happy to see him. On Fridays. When it's payday.Tell him you will deposit his check for him, then take a good chunk of that money and put it somewhere he won't look. Like the pantry. Save it. You'll need it.

11. Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

Today's Good Wife: Listen to him, even as he tells you all sorts of fun facts about nuts and screws and some guy named Ted in accounting whose wife let him buy a riding lawnmower. He might also add that there's this new woman at work who reminds him of you ten years ago.

Let him talk until you want to stick hamsters in your ears just to drown out the noise.

Start a conversation in a Yahoo Chat group with a random stranger who 'gets you' while your husband is watching Sports Center. Plan your escape.

12. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

Today's Good Wife: Arrange his pillows for him. Try to resist arranging it over his sleeping face. It's not time. Yet.

13. Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

Today's Good Wife: Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. That lipstick on his collar was probably due to a freak cranberry juice accident and those bodies in his trunk are most likely those of previous wives who did questions his motives. Shut your mouth and call Lifetime Television. Let them know you have an idea for their next episode of Wives with Knives.


14. A good wife always knows her place.

Today's Good Wife: A good wife always knows her place. It turns out its in prison. For murdering her husband.

It All Started with Nancy Drew

      It was the summer before fifth grade and I had just turned eleven. Once again, I would be the newkid in school and I spent several weeks staring out the window, picking apart the girls who walked by, trying to guess by their mannerisms and clothing if they would accept me.

     By nature I wasn’t shy but years of moving around, sometimes cycling through two or even three schools in a single year, had taught me to be…careful. By studying the locals first I could copy them, lessening the risk that that I would spend my lunch hours alone, pretending to read a book.

     As I peered through the window, a cranberry sedan pulled into my driveway. I watched as two figures talked in the front seat. Eventually they emerged, carrying several large sacks and boxes. I recognized them as my grandmother and her new husband whom I hadn’t seen in over a year.

     I could hear excited squeals as my mother and siblings ran out to greet them, but I stayed sequestered in my room. I was at the age where family affairs took a back seat to more pressing issues, like my quest for popularity. A knock on the door let me know that my lack of presence had been noticed. I opened the door to find my new step-grandfather standing there, a small bag dangling from his hand.

     “Thought you might like this,” he said, handing me the bag. “I picked it out myself.”

     I raised a suspicious eyebrow at him. “You did? Why?”

     “Well, we’re both newcomers to this family. We have to stick together.”

     I took the bag and pulled out a yellow and blue hardcover book. I searched the rest of the bag, hoping for something else, like money.

     “Nancy Drew,” he explained. “My daughter loved it when she was your age. I thought you might too.”

     “Okay,” I said. I took the book, closed the door, and flung it on my bed.

     Dusk had settled and the neighborhood quieted as kids were summoned into their houses for supper. My mom announced that it was Shepherd’s Pie for dinner, and I faked a stomachache. With nothing else to do I fell onto the bed and opened the book. Anything was better than Shepherd’s Pie.

     I had read books before. I had grown up on the staple of children’s books available at that time,
works by Cleary and Blume. But there was something different about this book. I wasn’t just reading the story. I was immersed in it.

     Maybe it was because Nancy was my first grown up protagonist. Through her I was transported to an adult world where girls were allowed to make their own decisions, date, and drive. In addition, she was bright and curious, traits my teachers also accused me of, and I felt a kinship with the ‘girl detective’.

     The more I read about Nancy the more I loved her. I dove into the book, coming up for air and food only briefly and at the insistence of my mother, and had the entire novel read in one long weekend.When I closed that last page I was confronted by an emotion I had never experienced when reading a book: loss.

     I was never going to see Nancy again!

     The realization, along with prepubescent hormones, made me burst into tears.

     I couldn’t lose Nancy. I just couldn’t. I picked the book again. I wasn’t ready to part with my new heroine, and I would simply read it again. That’s when I noticed a long list of other titles on the back of the book. Nancy solved many mysteries, not just this one!

     From that day on, I was hooked. I begged my mom for odd jobs to earn enough money to buy another book. It wasn’t enough to borrow them from the library, I needed to own them. To possess them. I couldn’t bear to part with one, after it had become such a part of me. Whenever I was alone, I would look at my bookshelf – which was growing rapidly – and know that I had a friend there. All I had to do was open a book.

     Nancy taught me a lot that summer: I learned new vocabulary words including “chided” and“titian-haired” and “sleuth”. I learned that there were sinister people in the world but if you were pure of heart you could overcome them. And I learned that just because you lost one parent, it didn’t mean you were lost.

     Admittedly, Nancy also got me into trouble. I started seeing clues, and secret passages and mysteries everywhere. I tried to convince my little sister to climb into the heating duct because I was sure there was treasure hidden there (luckily she didn’t). And once I had my parents call the police because I was convinced I had witnessed a murder. I had been out riding my bike and was sure a man had threatened a woman with a knife. Upon investigation, it was determined to be a pork chop bone.

     When school started I was a different person, poised and ready to take on the world. Nancy could do it.

     So could I.

     That year I strode into the classroom, not caring at all what I was wearing. I took my seat among a classroom of strangers, smiled confidently, and raced through my schoolwork so that I could read the next chapter of a really good book. I must have been intriguing to the other girls, for I never sat alone at the lunch table. Even when I wanted to.

     In the years since fifth grade my tastes have changed, but my love of a good story hasn’t. Every time I pick up a new book, my fingers twitch, my mouth goes dry, and my heart races. I’m off an adventure and I just can’t wait to get started.

     I still feel a sense of loss when I read those two dreaded words: The End. But with the help of a Kindle and a Nook, I’ve learned to curtail my book hording tendencies. I don’t need to see them in order to be transported back. I will always have them. I just have to remember.

*
By April Aasheim. Originally published on TheIndieExchange.com Feb 5, 2013

Un-Decorating the Tree

“It’s time we take down the tree.” I hollered downstairs to my husband who has had his eyes glued on the NFL playoffs all morning. Suddenly, like a comic book superhero, he ran up the stairs, zipped past me, and stood in front of the tree.

“Already?”

I sighed. My husband liked Christmas more than most children. It was one of the things I found endearing in him during our early stages of courtship. He would keep the tree up all year if I let him.

“Yes, honey.”

“But we just put it up.”

“Almost two months ago. It’s time.” I crossed my arms and he slipped back into his mancave. If I wanted to un-decorate the thing he wasn’t going to stop me, but he wasn’t going to help me either.

My step-daughter sat on the sidelines, half-watching, half-playing with her harem of new Barbie Dolls that Santa had somehow managed to load onto his sleigh.

“You okay with this?” I asked her. She nodded back, ponytail bobbing.

I sighed again, returning to my task. Dozens of lights, ornaments, bows, and candy canes donned our tree. Removing them was a daunting task. It was always more fun putting them on the tree then taking them off.

I reached for an ornament, stopped, and found another. My brain said ‘take them off’ but my hands weren’t cooperating.

“Okay,” I said out loud, feeling crazy because my husband and step-daughter had lost interest by now, “you can do this.”

As I reached for the purple ceramic teddy bear - painted long ago by my son when he was young and still thought I was amazing - I stopped. I couldn’t take it down. It was too much.

I wasn’t just stripping the tree, I was stripping away my life; Years of collected memories going into a box. How could I do this? It was almost cruel.

I surveyed the tree again. Every ornament had a story: the beautiful, expensive ornaments given to us as gifts, hanging alongside the dime store decorations accrued during  years I could barely afford a holiday. “Remember that one?” My inner voice asked. “Your dad gave you that one on his last Christmas…”

I choked.

"Stop being silly", I told myself. "This isn’t permanent. I will see all my treasures again next year."

But maybe I wouldn’t

I thought about people I knew - whose lives had suddenly ended. They hadn't gotten their 'one last Christmas'.  I thought about how fleeting life was and how you never knew for sure if things as simple as a holiday would come again. I choked again and the tears welled up.

“You okay?” My husband hollered up at me. He was good at ‘feeling’ me, even when it was the NFL playoffs. I gulped, swallowed, and nodded. He didn’t see me but he understood.

Somehow I collected myself and got the job done. I removed them all, carefully wrapping each one in soft newspaper. I placed them in boxes in long, thin rows, hoping they would make the journey through another year intact.

“You know the holidays are coming back,” my step-daughter said, marching her dolls around in a parade on the floor. “They are in a circle.” She is an incredible girl. She understands things on a level most people don’t get.

I nodded at her and smiled.

“Halloween first?” She asked. Her blue eyes widened as she tried to imagine what she was going to dress up as.

“Not Halloween. Not for a while.”

“Oh. First it’s Valentine’s Day, then Easter, then my birthday…” She counted down. “Then Halloween?”

“Yep. You’re getting good at that.”

“That’s why I go to Kindergarten.”

I saved her Hallmark Ornaments for last: Ariel, Cinderella, and Snow White. They had all mysteriously lost their arms during the festivities this year. She gave each a peck on the head and told them she would see them next year. Then I put them in the last bin, and closed the lid.

I smiled. She had faith in the circle. So could I.

The house looked starker, emptier as I removed the last trappings of Christmas from our house and piled them into the garage.

“All done,” I told her when the last bin was stacked.

“Maybe we can get some glue and glitter and red paper and start decorating for Valentine’s Day,” she said. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.

“That sounds like a great idea. I think a trip to the craft store is in order.”

“I’ll get the keys,” my husband said. He must have heard us, even though his team was playing.

“No.” I looked around the house. My husband was cozy in his sweatpants, my step daughter was dressing one of her dolls. Pictures of my family – my sons, my siblings, my mother, my father - graced the shelves. Life was uncertain but life was good. “Let’s wait a few days. It’s good to remember things before moving on. Besides,” I added, looking at the bare window where the Santa Claus cling-ons had been only moments before, “It will give us something to look forward to next week.”

My Winter Road Trip

     Just returned from a vacation to my husband's home state of Montana. I was raised in Arizona, and the whole 'driving in the snow' thing is new to me. Needless to say I had more than one or two white knuckled moments on the drive home.

     My husband informed me that we only had four treacherous obstacles to pass...kind of like a quest. I had my imaginary break going the entire time. I also created a list of Ten Things You Never Want to Hear Your Husband Say on a Winter Road Trip.

10. This is the exact spot where the Donner Party gave up and ate each other.

9. I sure hope that was a bear.

8. The good news is...if we make it through the next two hours we will probably live.

7. Ever had road kill?

6. This is just like that first part of Fire in the Sky.

5. I just need to answer this one last text...

4. The nearest bathroom is 380 miles away. But, we do have an empty milk jug and a funnel in the back seat.

3. I had a dream you left your curling iron on and the whole house caught on fire.

2. If we do get stranded, just make a snow fort. It will keep you warm.

1. Maps are for pu**ies.

Going Ho-Ho-Home for the Holidays

     Getting ready to drive to MT for the holidays. It seemed like a good idea when we planned it. A case full of snacks, my travelling play list, magazines to read, and a joke book to keep the driver (my husband) entertained while he watches the road.

     Road trips are always fun, right?

     Except that I forgot one crucial element: the weather.

     It seems that Jack Frost is working against us. There are blizzards and closures and all manner of bad things falling from the sky. Now I have to ask myself what I was thinking when I thought driving to MT would be more fun than flying?

     Its looking like we may be late getting to our destination. Or maybe not getting there at all.

     But if my Hallmark holiday movies have taught me anything it's that as long as there is Christmas, there is hope.

     The movies start out like this: a well meaning couple with a car full of presents, snowed in. They are depressed and miserable.  How will they get back home for the holidays?

     Perhaps the snow will miraculously let up and they can make the drive at the last minute.

     Or maybe the family will come to them.

     Or...maybe the couple will decide to spend the holidays at home, making the best of it with hot cocoa and candle light while munching on Spam and fig newtons (okay I fudged on the menu).

     Those are fine endings, but my favorite goes like this...


     It's Christmas Eve. We werent able to make it home. We are woebegone as we hang our empty stockings on our non-existent fire place. "Maybe we can just sleep through Christmas," I say, looking at the clock and the bottle of Nyquil on the nightstand.

     "Sounds like a good plan," my husband says, sighing dramatically. "There's always next year."

     Suddenly, there's a jingle outside.

     "Honey," I say to my husband, "are you expecting a package?"

     "No." My befuddled husband scratches his head. "The post office is closed for the day and the weather is so bad no cars can visit. Not sure where that jingle is coming from."

     I (naturally its me, and not the befuddled husband) rush to the door and fling it open, fighting back the snowflakes that are obscurring my view. I see a brown hoof on our lawn, and then another. I do a quick count. Why, there are (what's 8 x 4 again?) oh there are 32! My eyes rise towards a shiny red craft in the yard. A sleigh! A fat old man sits atop it, a giant red bag to his side.

     "I've come to take you two to your family for Christmas. Get on in!" He waves us over. Our jaws drop. We jump into the sleigh, no sweaters or gloves, and sail away, over the blizzards, and are set down gently on the roof of my in-laws.

     "Thank you!" I say as I tumble out of the sleigh. But I'm too late. The mysterious, fat stranger is gone.

     Somehow we slide off the roof and hop down onto the ground without damaging our ankles. We look into the window. There is goose and duck and turkey on the table (though I can't tell the difference between any of them). Holiday music is playing magically on the piano. We have made it just in time for Christmas Eve dinner. And all is well.


     That's how I think it will play out. Hallmark wouldnt lie to me. If TV has taught me anything it's that if you wish hard enough, miracles happen.

Or maybe we'll just make the drive and take our chances. The worst that can happen is that we get stranded in the snow and have to eat each other. But that's another movie and it's on the Syfy channel. They don't air that till New Year's.

Reminder: My book The Universe is a Very Big Place is available for download free today on Amazon. Also tomorrow.

De 13 and 14th only. Happy Holidays!

My Book Free Dec 13 and 14!

Top Reasons Aliens Visited Us on 12/12/12

So...

There are two UFO sitings on opposite sides of the US coast: San Francisco and New York.

Scientists are saying they are NOT UFOS, but most likely balloons with lights.

I for one, believe. But why would UFO's visit SF and NY? And why now?

I've got some theories about why we are being visited:

• The aliens are testing out a new and efficient Hanukkah tradition. They know Earthlings are busy. By putting up three or four lights in the sky at once, we can knock this holiday out in half the time. This will give us more time for other holidays like ThanksXmas.

• They've heard NY and SF throw the best parades. Sorry, greys, you missed Macy's by a month and the Rainbow one by half a year. Check back later!

• They checked their fortune cookies and determined that 12/12/12 was the luckiest day for taking over the earth. And to Feng Shui the mother ship.

• They've heard about the Mayan Calendar Prophecy and wanted to see if it was true. Got here early to get good seats. The SF aliens have also reserved seats around Area 51 for their friends Bob and Carol and their 23000 kids.

• The shopping! Hello! If you can't find a great coat or a fabulous pair of jeans in San Francisco or New York, you just aren't looking right.

• They are doing research to see which city scares easier. Sadly, startling humans just isn't as easy as it was in the 1930s. Stupid Internet.

• The earth is the only designated pit stop in an intergalactic Amazing Race.

• They've cloned an army of Dick Clarks and brought one back just in time for New Year's. Watching the countdown from the Moon wouldn't be nearly as fun without him.

• They saw that picture of the cop and the homeless guy on their I200Pad. It inspired them to bring shoes to all our homeless. Too bad their shoes only come in sizes: 000, extra narrow.

• One of the alien's wives wanted a steak she didn't have to prepare herself for a change. Cow mutilation is so 1950's.

• Both ships got lost on their way to Saturn and no matter how many times Lois and Zgfriiee nagged their husbands wouldn't stop and ask for directions.

• They just wanted some really good Chinese food (and China was closed).

My Holiday Ritual

As part of the Meet the Family Blog Hop we are supposed to share something we do as a family during the holidays.

I've never had much permanency in my life. I spent most of my childhood moving from one house to another. In my early adult years I also traveled quite a bit, living in 5 states in 12 years. These last ten years in Oregon have been the longest I have ever lived anywhere, and in the same home.

One tradition that I have established for myself is my end of the evening 'me time'.  This includes finding the cheesiest, gushiest Christmas movie I can tolerate from TV stations like Lifetime, Hallmark and TMC. The plots are pretty much the same. Save a town. Save Santa. Save Christmas. Sometimes characters find love in the process. I've been doing it since I've owned a TV. Admittedly, its gotten better since I got cable.

I'm a writer but I enjoy how predictable these are. They are like comfort food for me. I know without a doubt that everything will be okay by the end of the movie and that are no surprise endings. If I'm really lucky there's a kiss under the mistletoe.

A few years ago I got married. The first year my husband watched me watching my movies. He said it was cute and charming and one of the things he loved about me.

Last year he started watching them with me. Every night before bed he would slide onto the couch with me, pick up the remote, and find one the two of us would watch together. We ate cookies, drank cocoa and laughed at all the ludicrous plot points of our chosen flick.

Of all the wonderful things my husband does for me, this little tradition ranks high on the list. These movies aren't his thing, but he shares them with me. He's telling me I'm not alone anymore. And that's more than I could ever ask from Santa.



This post is part of a "meet the family" holiday blog hop. Please visit others participating in this activity by clicking on the button below.

Feliz Navi-Enough?

     Making cookies with my mom this morning. I feel bad that I'm not more 'jolly' about it. The commercials tell me that I should be smiling, singing, joking, utterly and completely enjoying my task. But my face is drawn  and my brow is wrinkled as I mix and knead the dough. I don't like cracking eggs. I am sure an eggshell or two escapes into the bowl. My fingers are sticky and I can't wipe them off with a paper towel. I wash my hands a zillion times. This is supposed to be fun, but its work.

     I have lights on the tree and candles glowing and baby it really is cold outside. But in these moments I wonder where all the 'magic' of the season is; Why I look forward to something so much only to have it become another thing on my 'to do' list?

     I know that when this season is over I will mourn it. I will have nothing to stave off the lonely months of January through March. Portland winter rain, without the warmth of twinkling lights, is downright depressing.

     I jump back into my cookie making, determined to give it the spirit it deserves. Sprinkles. That's what these cookies need. Sprinkles make everything better.

     Meanwhile mom is buzzing, her hands elbow deep in dough. She is talking about things I don't understand. Relatives I never knew. Conspiracies I can't imagine. And what Bones is doing on TV.

Fa La La La - Run!

So I'm going away for Christmas. It's the third year in a row that I will be spending Christmas with my husband's family, and not my own.

I'm okay. Really I am. My family has plans of their own on Christmas anyway. Still, it feels funny. It's like my house will miss me or something.

It also feels weird to hang lights and deck the halls when we won't be around to celebrate.

My step-daughter asked me if Santa will still come to our house if we aren't there. I want to tell her that yes, of course, Santa will come. He won't skip our house just because we aren't there. We have a Santa Stops Here sign that says so.

However, although she is five I think she may be trying to trick me into more gifts.

She knows we are doing 'present day' early this year, before we take off (she will be spending Christmas with her mom).  If Santa comes and we aren't there, naturally there will be presents waiting for her when she gets back.

Clever kid.

For now I'm just fudging, hoping she forgets. She's only five. Her attention span can't be that long.

On another note we are leaving on Dec 21, 2012, the day the Mayan Calendar ends and some say, so does the world.

I was watching the History Channel and it aired a special on Nostradamus and his end of world predictions. According to Nostradamus experts they've narrowed down the exact epicenter of the end of the world. Ironically, it happens to be the exact place I will be traveling to on that day.

I can just see the line of cars leaving the area as we are driving in.

I guess if the world is going to end its better to be at the center of it than the perimeter. I've read The Road. I don't want to be kept on ice in some body's basement meat locker when the resources run dry. At least this way it's Boom. Game over.

Still, I might stock up on water and jerky. With Twinkies out of the equation I'm not sure what other food sources will last indefinitely and are easy to pack.

I'm also running up credit cards and running on the treadmill. The first is in case the world really does end. Might as well charge as much as I can if I don't have any debt. Does this mean my student loan is finally forgiven?

The second is in case the world sort-of ends and I need to run away from shit. All that treadmill running will come in handy.