Something Useful for Christmas

For Christmas, Wendy received Tinkerbell 2: Something about Treasure that was Lost or Something from Nana and PopPop Timmy.


NORMALLY, the arrival of a new Disney movie in our home heralds weeks of misery to come for those of us who do not generally like songs about whistling while working after the seventeenth time. This, my friends, is different. I am actually excited to see the further adventures of Tinkerbell in our home. Why? Why? Because Tinkerbell's problems have nothing to do with finding true love and more to do with her own stubborn independence/temper issues? Because she works through her issues while solving complicated fairy engineering problems? Yeah, yeah, sure. But then, there's this:

Yesterday, after our second viewing of Search for Treasure and Stuff, I glance over at Wendy, and she is staring at me and twitching her eye in mock annoyance. This made her look more like she had to fart than she was glaring a menacing glare of doom...but still! TWITCHING HER EYE.
Thank you, Nana, Timmy, and Tinkerbell, for teaching my daughter a very valuable lesson about Woman Power. Instead of singing songs about stupid crap, you have learn not to be a sarcastic temperamental jerk which often gives you an eye twitch. As she is a daughter of mine and Carl's, it is probably very important that she learn this early.

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I also must give a shoutout to my mom, who gave Wendy this:




If you knew my mom, you'd know that a sequined flapper dress is exactly what she'd want for Christmas. It is also a perfect gift. Thanks Mom!


*continues to try to teach my stubborn child about the joys of jazz hands*

Cheer For All

I sit here at 1:20 on Christmas Eve afternoon in smugness. I am done (DONE!) all of my Christmas crud.

The smugness is made more smug, because as I type, Carl is out doing his yearly tour of the lower circles of the Inferno-Target, the Big W-Mart, etc.-having been informed on Tuesday that yes, sweetheart, there is a Santa Clause, and Christmas Eve is two days from now. P.S.: You are Santa Clause.

Christmas has actually been nice and low-stress for me this year, having no money with which to shop. (OOOH! More silver lining to unemployment! Score!) (By the way, I may have an interview for an office job on Monday! *knocks on wood*)

Fun tricks to play on yourself when you are poor:

Horde gift cards from last Christmas all year, and buy Christmas presents with them this year! I am good at hording gift cards. So, thank you, all you past family selves who didn't know what to get me last year. You made shopping possible this year. My mom even gave me our family gift card early this year. I bought some home stuff for us that I wanted, wrapped it, and put it under the tree from her and my step dad. Nice, right? COOL TRICKS!

And then there is the handmade stuff. I can't tell you about most of it, because some of the recipients own computers and will probably be idly dicking around on them tonight. (HI STEPH! HI JAIMIE!) Back in November, my mom suggested to me that she might want a cabled beret/tam (there was an argument about which was which and if they were in fact the same thing) in cream. So I found a pattern and knitted. And knitted. And knitted until I was cross-eyed and arthritic. She does not own a computer, so I can show you:

Because of this hat, I didn't get to knit Carl the fingerless gloves that he would like, but that's okay, because we promised that we wouldn't buy each other anything this year, and knitting something would be like cheating via a loophole. Dirty. Underhanded. Low. (One fingerless glove may just show up in his stocking yet. We still have twelve hours before Christmas is actually here.)

Since Erin is busy being newly 16, and Carl is busy with his annual pre-Christmas Igottaworkgottaworknow freak-out, Wendy and I have been busy providing cheer. Hanging stockings. Stringing lights. Baking cookies, wrapping presents, decorating the tree. This is okay by me. Last year, I was a haggard school teacher strung out on coffee and working-mom turmoil. Last year, all I wanted to do on Christmas Eve was to drown myself in a large vodka and pomegranate 7up. And I did. This year? This year, I have time to help Wendy hang ornaments at her eye-level and then laugh my ass off at my bottom-heavy tree.

This year, there is cheer. I am actually enjoying my Christmas. So SUCK IT, shit economy! SUCK IT, job/lackofjob stress! I don't need you! I got to spend time making this filmstrip of Wendy and snow and stuff with grainy pictures from my cell phone! My digital camera is dead and requires expensive batteries!



Merry Whatnot, everybody. I hope it is awesome, and full of many happily enjoyed cocktails. (My choice this year: nog. Spiked with less bitter tears of frustration and more whiskey and joy.)

DMV Hell Doesn't Suck For Once

Have I told you the story about how I have been driving on an expired license? For a year? No? That was probably smart of me. You never know when one of your internet friends is going to place an anonymous call to the local po po and have you arrested for driving your kid around without a valid license...

Yes, I see your eyebrows. They are all arched up in surprise that I am such an irresponsible scoff-law. I did actually try to renew six or eight months ago online. But as I have no mail box, I do not have an officially Google/GPS-sanctioned address. SO...the internet DMV gave me the finger, spat at me, and sent my camera card to my previous addy. Then I just didn't want to deal with it. For six or eight months. I am what you might call a master procrastinator.
(WHAT? You don't want to go to the DMV either!)

So yesterday, Carl looked over at me with an air of don't-EFF-with-me-woman! determination, declared that enough was officially enough, and informed me that this license problem was going to go away NOW. He then drove me to the dingiest part of the county, and waited with Wendy in the car for Mommy to get all legal again. He is a saint, and I will bake him pies.

Honestly, I expected more guff from The Man about this. Instead, I got a jolly gentleman (I'm sorry-there's just no better word for him; he was all large and rosy) who waived the $5 camera card replacement fee and winked at me. What's more, my license picture looks even better than the one from five years ago.

Let me repeat that: Above the neck, according to a legal document, I look better now than I did right after college, before baby, job and home stress. Yeah, okay, maybe it has something to do with how I am now slightly more mature about brushing my hair and dabbing on some eyeliner for a picture...but let me have my moment of happy delusion, okay? I can go ahead and get a speeding ticket now! Because I look good on my non-expired license!

You're right. It doesn't take much to thrill me lately.
:-)

Three

When last I blogged, I was in Colorado, making turkey, drinking wine, and getting all maudlin about things. I have several items to report:

1. My dad is okay. He will get out of the hospital today or tomorrow, and despite the prospect of facing some serious habit changes, he has a good attitude. My sister and I are not fatherless mongrels. (We sang him "Hard Knock Life" from Annie while he was stuck in ICU. I'm pretty sure that's what pulled him through.) He is now very cheerfully letching after the Russian nurse who gave him a good, attentive shave one day, though as far as she was concerned, "bald face on man same as bald box on voman-no use!"

2. The turkey was awesome. My sister and I were together, alone, so we raised a glass, ate piles of Thanksgiving, and watched a mindless Vince Vaughn romp-com. Holiday. Achieved.

3. A week after my getting home, Wendy is still happy to see me. She keeps turning around from whatever she is doing to reach up and pat my cheek with her hand, all aglow with baby love. We had a birthday thing for her yesterday...less a party, and more of a birthday cake-baking playdate/spaghetti dinner.

Last year, on Wendy's second birthday, I was at work from 6:30 AM til 4:30 PM, and didn't get Wendy home til 5:30. She fell asleep in the car, and slept the rest of the night, while I stressed out about school stuff and cried about barely seeing my baby on her birthday. We may as well have been in different states.

Unemployment sucks. But I am glad that I have had the time to spend with my family, for all recent events both drastic and mundane.

(My apologies for the grainy cell phone pics. Somehow, "camera" wasn't on my list of things to bring on My Dad's Heart Attack trip.)

Dear Turkey,

I sacrifice you to the oven of my sister, in the spirit of gratitude for all things beautiful in my world.

Gratitude for my child and family and friends; gratitude for my own life. Gratitude for the opportunity that I have to be in Colorado to sit next to my dad, who did not die, and to simply hold his hand and talk to him.

It is a difficult thing to see fear in my parent's eyes and watch the reality of mortality dawn on the faces of those I love. It cuts deeply to see it all this closely, this way: nothing is guaranteed...we will all eventually leave each other. But it will not be this day, and for that, I am thankful.

So, I commend you, turkey, to your fate. I plan to sit on the deck overlooking the yard, watch the sun set over the mountains, and have a glass of wine while you finish cooking. I will gaze down upon the apparitions of my younger self and sister playing under hauntingly familiar trees and sky, and then we will render joyful destruction upon your carcass in the name of gratitude.

I am 28 years old, and you are the first turkey that I have made by myself. I know you will be delicious.

~Mo

How to Pack for Your Dad's Heart Attack

Stuff to bring:

1. Your game face

2. Clothing for dressing in layers-the temperatures of airplanes, hospitals, and foreign states vary widely.

3. Pictures of your young daughter, son, or cat that he has only met once-guilt has healing properties.

4. Your book/IPod/cell phone/laptop/knitting-waiting around takes up a lot of time.

5. A full cast recording of Douglas Adams' Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy-Keeps the mood light as you fly through the thin air of the Earth's higher atmosphere into an unfamiliar universe where your parents are suddenly mortal, and you have the power to consent to life-and-death procedures about which you know next to nothing.

Sub list- Songs not to listen to as you fly a shuddering airplane away from your young child and toward your possibly dying father:
-Freefalling, Tom Petty
-Dust in the Wind, Kansas
-Spirit in the Sky
-Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin
-Porcelain/Wait for Me/Pale Horses, Moby
-My Father's Eyes/Tears in Heaven, Eric Clapton
-Bittersweet Symphony, The Verve
-Radiohead (just too emotionally confusing)
Sub list #2-Songs that are OK:
-Everybody Hurts (So hold on...), R.E.M.
-Aerodynamic, Daft Punk
-Beautiful Day, U2
-All is Full of Love, Bjork
-Lord of the Rings Soundtrack (gives one the sensation of going on an epic quest)

6. Nice shirts and clean pants...business casual if you can swing it. (Doctors statistically give out 27% more info with 14% less condescension to those who appear to engage in business casually.)

7. A graphing calculator, protractor, scratch paper, and a math major prepared to assist in the moment-to-moment calculation of your dad's chances of survival, based on the string of seemingly arbitrary but in fact highly scientific percentages given out by medical professionals over the course of his stay in the ICU.

8. Snacks

9. A notebook-you will inevitably be filled with deep thoughts concerning mortality, your childhood, unfinished business with your parent(s), resolve over being a better parent yourself, etc. Your deep thoughts may occur in nebulous fogs floating through your head, or they may occur in lists. Either way, writing down your musings of staggering import and originality sometimes helps you feel better. Also, the awkward way people avoid your eyes after looking over your shoulder and reading "How to Pack for Your Dad's Heart Attack" is amusing.

Blogging because I don't really know what else to do.

My dad is in the hospital. I have gleaned most of my information about the whys and hows through the awesome power of texts from my sister, who lives with him in CO. (Ha! Take that, no cell phone policy!) It seems that he has had a heart attack and/or renal failure caused by severe infection and/or unbeknownst diabetes, and also loss of vision caused by a nerve being pinched by something in his neck. Nothing big. Nothing serious. Just, you know, everything at once.

You are right. I do sound removed. I am making light of a serious situation. It's how I deal.

So this is a conversation that has been going on between us and my dad for the past seven or eight years:
Us: Hey Dad. You should get that checked out.
Dad: I'm too cool to take care of my illnesses. See? I wear black sweaters and cop glasses.
Us: I don't know who ever told you that you are cool. Not us. Go see a doctor.
Dad: I will when I have the money.
Us: You don't need money. That's why you have health insurance. Through the business that you co-own. Where you are the boss.
Dad: As soon as things are straight at work, the real-estate market has leveled, the elk herds have moved to higher ground, and the moon is in the seventh house, I can deal with it.
Us: This is not really the kind of thing you put off, you know? You are almost 60.
Dad: What if I find out that I need surgery or something?
Us: Then you'll take off of work for a while, have surgery or something, and go back to work.
Dad: Well, if I am not working, the world could explode.
Us: If you die, you can't go to work. Think about that.

So, yeah. Glad you could make our point for us with such dramatic and colorful flair, Dad.

I might fly out to CO tomorrow. I don't know. Like I said, I don't actually know what the situation is. Texts from my sister. The fourth-party information from my mom (who is also highly dramatic).

But I'll tell you what, I have last minute Travelocity tickets up on my other tab , and I have a bag half-packed and ready to go.

I don't know what to do. So I blog. Thanks for listening, internets.

Deal.

Wendy: Can I play your game?
Daddy: I don't know, you are only nice to me when you want my Bejeweled.
Wendy: I'll be nice.
Daddy: Oh yeah? How nice are you gonna be?
Wendy: Um....thirty!

Yeah, that sounds like enough. A good-ish amount of nice. Not enough for a cookie, but just enough for Bejeweled.

HalloWeendy

Get it? Cause it was Halloween and her name is Wendy? Hallo-Weendy?? HAHA-okay, no.

Just here to pass the cuteness on to you, the customers.




We trucked the kid over to our babysitter's neighborhood, where there is prime, small-child friendly trick-or-treating territory. We got rained on a bit, but Wendy worked pretty hard, and we came back with a decent haul. You know, for an almost-3 year-old.

She had a great time, and so did we. I should add here that I managed to psychologically scar my child this season (what? again? when will I learn?) by way of Halloween-themed library books. My mistake was letting Wendy make age-inappropriate decisions for herself. Now she is afraid of "pretend floating eyeballs" and "mad wolves in the walls, not happy wolves," and won't stop talking about them.

*note to future self: REMEMBER THIS GUILTY FEELING. Also, remember the crying. No matter how mature she seems, when she wants to pierce something or drop out of school to be an artist, or go riding off to the shore with Taylor the tattooed senior, remember the crying.*

Happy November, everyone!

Interviews for Spazoids

I looked like this:

...but a suit jacket was involved, and I was slighly less rumpled, and there were less toothpaste spots hovering in front of me. So really, nothing like this. (I really hope I didn't have this look on my face during.)

It went well. Except for the hyperventilating somewhere in the middle.

Picture trying to steer a Ford Explorer with bad tires down a sloping, ice-covered driveway. Toward traffic. You imagine that at some point, as the sweat pools in all of your crevices, your foot will miscalculate the pressure required for the break pedal, and you will start to slide....

That's about what happens when someone asks that "tell me about yourself" question. I hit a slick patch, and suddenly, I'm hammering down the hill about a mile a minute toward an oncoming Mack truck and Just. Can't. Stop.

Now I need to send my suit to the drycleaners, because it smells like interview fear-today's on top of the reactivated stench leftover from the interview in August. (I only have one suit.)

But back to the "it went well" part...yeah. It went pretty well. I said some smart things. I asked genuine questions. I liked the people, and we had good, natural conversation. Of course, as is my post-interview habit, I rehashed every single word I said all the way home, and it all sounded like crap in retrospect. It was a long drive. I had time to think of many, many better ways to answer those questions. That crazy girl in the runaway Explorer who is yammering eloquently about skill-based assesment activities and state standards and gesticulating very sincerely to her dashboard?

That's me.