It’s January 9 and about zero degrees. No one wants to be out there. The holidays are over and I have no winter travel plans. It seemed like a good time to drag out some old things I wrote when the weather was kind and I could walk to the mailbox barefoot.
July 15, 2009 – The Garage Sale, Part 1
I try to avoid selling things to strangers out of my garage, but it seems that every five to ten years I need to do a great purge. Which doesn’t mean I’m not sending things to Goodwill on a regular basis. I think it’s a testament to the American ability to collect crap. Which isn’t to say my stuff is crap. I don’t want it anymore, but I’m sure people of discriminating taste will be breaking down the door. This is the kind of stuff I’ve uncovered to date:
20-30 assorted key chains
Shoe charms
Deviled egg carrier
Halloween costumes (including Siamese twins pants and all the characters from Kingpin)
McCalls magazines, ca. 1952-1959
11 prom dresses
I also have two wedding gowns which I’m sure the owners won’t part with. No, those dresses will hang upstairs for another 15 or 20 years being saved for their own daughters, who won’t want anything to do with them.
I’m planning the sale for mid-August because I need that much time to move things into the garage and to motivate my three daughters by whatever means possible (threats, bullying) to come and sort through their treasured keepsakes. Each of them has a pile in the basement with her name in chalk above it. These are adults. They’ve been adults for a long time. Two of them have their own homes with their own closets and basements. I told them last week they had to come over and take what they want, because anything left will be sold. Jill came over last night (with the kids, a mistake right there). Did she go through her stuff? No. She took several items off my sale pile though, which will now sit in her basement for the next five years, while the kids made off with some old toys and broke an ornament I might very well have gotten a buck for.
Gina is coming over on Saturday. She was the last one to live at home, so she has several boxes in the upstairs closet as well as that pile in the basement. And Jessica insists that she has nothing to sell (20-year-old skis? an end table with half a top?) and no storage room at her apartment. So you see, this is where the threats and bullying come in.
If anyone needs a prom dress, I probably have the shoes to match.
Stay tuned for The Garage Sale, Part 2
Made my list of New Year’s resolutions yet again. I find that list-making gives me a sense of accomplishment, almost like actually doing the things on the list. Probably the only 2010 resolution I kept was quitting smoking, a big surprise to me and no doubt others, motivated primarily by fear. I may have kept other resolutions. I don’t remember them anymore.
Reflection is good though. I wanted to reflect on the many memorable events of last year, but for the most part I just came up with things that annoyed me, like:
1. The stitches behind and under my ear were supposedly removed two weeks after surgery, yet every other week another fragment of surgical thread works its way up and I have to yank it out myself. Is this my job? It’s gross.
2. Hi-lex has lost the bleach war. It’s a mystery to me, but there you are. I don’t like Clorox, i.e., chlorine bleach; I like Hi-lex, i.e., some other kind of bleach not chlorine that gets clothes really white. I knew of one major chain that still carried Hi-lex (a tiny island amid a sea of chlorine on the shelves), but in 2010 that store too bowed to the god Clorox. Civilization has taken a step backward, if you ask me.
3. Just when it looked like we may be nearing the end of the Paris/Britney/Lindsay madness, along came the Kim/Khloe/Kourtney insanity. “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” actually won a People’s Choice Award this week (Best Guilty Pleasure). If, like me, you were trying to retain a shred of faith in the American viewing public, just forget it.
4. How is it that younger women today do not understand the concept of The Slip? One of last year’s popular fashion trends was the little print dress in silk, rayon and other clingy fabrics. Fine, but please, look in the rear-view mirror. The only people behind you who enjoy seeing every bump, bulge and ripple of cellulite are people you probably wouldn’t want to be alone with. The Slip. Learn of it.
5. Billy Joel had double hip replacement. Billy Joel! How old does that make you feel? They said it was for a lifelong congenital ailment. Right.
Maybe remembering the things that annoyed you isn’t the most positive way to start a new year. I did get a beautiful, if fat, new grandson. And I also bought some very cute shoes.
So I was idly surfing Google Images recently (and who doesn’t do that?) when I ran across this picture, which started me wondering what it might be like if the Daughters and I had taken up lounge singing. This is the kind of thing that happens when you don’t have a date for New Year’s Eve.
MOI, JESSIE IN HER BLONDE WIG PHASE, JILLY AND BABY GINA
It’s true! The Caramels are back, out of rehab and performing live on stage this New Year’s Eve at the beautiful Weewahatchee VFW in beautiful Weewahatchee, Minnesota. Let us sweeten your night with all-new arrangements of our biggest hits, including “I’m Itching for You, Calomine,” “Walter on My Mind,” “I’m Just A Package Marked Fragile” and, of course, “You Don’t Know the Meaning of Auld Lang Syne.”
But hurry – tickets are going fast. Just $5 gets you a rollicking good time and all the champagne punch you can drink!
Dec. 20, 2006
If I hadn’t had to work yesterday, I wouldn’t have been exhausted at my granddaughter’s Christmas program, even if it did go on and on…and on. Because why settle for one rendition of “Jingle Bells” when there are three? And if you’re paying good money for trombone and cymbal lessons, I suppose you want to hear the school band play 10 or 20 tunes with a general holiday flavor. Anyway, it was worth it to hear the kindergartners get through “Elfie the Elf.” Maria was the elf with her hat on backwards, so she was easy to spot. I have no complaints.
Dec. 21, 2007
Went to the always surprising school Christmas program last night. You may remember last year’s event, when the school band played no less than three versions of “Jingle Bells” and Maria distinguished herself by wearing her elf hat backwards with the bell dangling in front. This year I’m happy to report that the band was restricted to playing the overture and Maria not only sang but also attempted to keep the boy next to her on task despite vigorous resistance. This year’s program had a soccer theme – kind of a stretch, I thought, but having the advantage of minimal costuming, since jerseys and shorts took care of almost the entire cast.
So the evening should have been, and probably would have been, straightforward were it not for my other grandchildren – three under the age of four now, and all with no sense whatever of acceptable audience behavior. Christian ate all the candy meant to sustain them for the night in the first five minutes, while Grace never lost her fascination with flip-up auditorium seating. And you might think a three-month-old child somewhat limited – they sleep, they lie there, they cry. Not so. Cosette sings. Infant singing is a sort of unearthly sound that’s hard to describe, but it’s loud and won’t be deterred by some stupid pacifier.
All in all, an entertaining evening, and no more than I expected.
Dec. 29, 2008
Made it through the annual Christmas programs again. The elementary school put on a play about the true meaning of Christmas, which I’m sure inspired every parent and grandparent to rush home and return all those toys in the closet. It took me a long time to figure out what the girl in the bell costume was supposed to be. Until she started ding-donging, I was pretty sure she was a lampshade, but if you think about it, that makes no sense. Maria was in the choir. She is an excellent choir member.
Being an equal-opportunity grandma, I also went to the preschool Christmas program, where you can always count on seeing three- and four-year-olds not follow the script. There’s always one little girl who knows the words and motions to every song, a bunch of little ones who give it a half-hearted try, and a kid who won’t do a thing. I was pretty sure that kid would be Christian, but I was wrong. He sang and he didn’t fall off the steps.
When Christian first started preschool, my daughter Jill was a little alarmed by what you might call his anti-social behavior (I wouldn’t call it that but no one ever sides with me). Anyway, we were all happy when Christian made a friend. Elliot wears glasses and comes about to Christian’s chin. Elliot was the kid who wouldn’t do anything. Not one word, not one finger twitch. Elliot was a statue. I like Elliot.
Dec. 18, 2009
This year’s preschool Christmas program lived up to every expectation, largely due to the boys in the Teddy Bear class, who are three and four years old and have no attention span worth mentioning. My favorite kid this year was the boy who had his back to us for the entire concert. I suppose if you don’t plan on singing anyway, why look at your parents (and grandparents who came all the way from Burnsville) sitting hopefully in the audience?
Then about midway through “Building up a Temple,” another Teddy Bear, who apparently found just being there exhausting, decided to sit down on the step. This caught on quickly, of course, and pretty soon the boys on either side of him were sitting on the step too…until one of them decided to climb the steps to see how the boy who wouldn’t face the audience was doing. At this point Mrs. Olsen, the Teddy Bear teacher and no dummy, went on stage and restored order.
Meanwhile, the girls kept singing. My granddaughter Grace, who has a very small speaking voice, sings really loud, so we had no trouble at all hearing her. She had every word and gesture down too, and after the program Mrs. Olsen very kindly called her “our star,” which I think is pretty much what Gracie sees when she looks into the future.
After the Teddy Bears sat down, it was time for the Frog class to sing. Most of them are five and have been down this road before, so while the girls still carried the load, the boys endured. There was the kid who kept us up to date with announcements between each song (“This is the last one!”), but at least nobody gave up and sat down. Christian is big now. I waved at him like a lunatic and got half a smile. I still gave him lots of kisses afterward and told him how great he did. He didn’t care.
So that was it, and I don’t think you could spend a more enjoyable hour during the holiday season.
December 22, 2010
I went to Maria and Christian’s school Christmas program last night, which is usually one of the happier things I do during the holidays. This year’s performance had everything you’d expect and then some. You haven’t really heard “Jolly Old St. Nicholas” until you’ve heard it played on the recorder by a bunch of fourth graders. And the school band was in fine form, although the lack of a bass drum player meant one of the female flutists had to take over that instrument for “Here Comes Santa Claus.” The girl’s utter disdain for the bass drum was truly impressive. She could barely get out of her folding chair and drag herself over to it. And then you’d think the mallet weighed 50 pounds. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard “Here Comes Santa Claus” played more mournfully.
The bell ringers went on a little too long (four holiday tunes with no verses omitted), but I am loathe to criticize them lest Maria have bell-ringing in her future.
Christian’s kindergarten class did a commendable job, particularly on “Jingle Bells,” where they got to ring the little bells hanging around their necks at all the jingly spots. As they had to wait for their turn a good long while sitting on stage, the bells became objects of great fascination – first you examine your own bell, then you study your neighbor’s bell, then you hang the bell from your ears.
In the finale, the fourth graders sang. That’s Maria’s class, and while most of the classes looked more resigned than merry, the fourth-grade girls were almost bouncy. They smiled, they knew all the words and they sang loud. I concluded that fourth-grade girls are a good way to wrap up a Christmas program.
Went to the annual Trinity Baptist Preschool Christmas Program yesterday, always a treat. Grace, who jumped up to the Frog class this year, was of course up to the task. Gracie likes people, she likes preschool, the world is good and singing is her thing. In fact, all the Frogs (ages 4-5) did pretty well, or at least tried, unlike some malcontents in the Teddy Bear class (ages 3-4) who flat-out refused.
The Teddy Bears were up first, probably because it’s hard to keep them focused for more than five minutes. Two of the boys wouldn’t sing at all this year. The one in the front row was obviously ticked off from start to finish. The one in back stood silent for the first half of the program, then decided to sit down on the step, and finally just laid face-down and covered his head with his arms.
The Frogs, having attained a certain level of maturity, did better. All of them kind of moved their mouths and some did the motions. The one touch-and-go moment was during “The Five Days of Christmas,” when they took turns going up in groups to hang their ornaments on a little tree. The maneuvering involved in going up and down the steps, getting one’s ornament to stay on the tree, then meeting another group going the other way, was almost too suspenseful to watch. Still they all made it back to their assigned places. Sort of.
Turns out the boy who laid down on the step has a crush on Grace. I found this out from her father, who found out from Mrs. Wilson, the Frog class teacher, that the boy either kissed Grace or tried to (that part is a little vague), which is the kind of thing teachers have to report to parents nowadays. My son-in-law, Lynn, wasn’t too happy about it either. He told Gracie, “Next time you just tell him to shake your hand.” Seriously.
Anyway, it was another thoroughly enjoyable Christmas program. And everyone did really well at eating cookies, drinking juice and running around the gym afterward. No dropouts there.
It’s snowing and blowing again. The weatherfolks say this storm could be as bad or worse than the Halloween snowstorm of 1991, which has become our yardstick for all storms thereafter. No worries about a white Christmas, just whether there’s enough milk, bread and liquor for the duration.
Went to Maria and Grace’s dance recital last Saturday. It was packed. When little kids perform, you can count on family to be there – tired parents, little sisters, big brothers, cheerful grandparents, loyal aunts, bored uncles, clueless cousins – by golly, we show up! And that’s to see your little Ginger Rogers on stage for approximately two minutes of a one-and-a-half-hour show, because there are a lot of classes in that dance school and every one of them gets their moment.
From what I saw, my own granddaughters, who are exceedingly graceful and light on their feet, could have had extra time – solos perhaps – but that’s just my opinion.
I sat next to Christian for most of the performance. He had seen his sisters dance, so his attention wasn’t exactly riveted on the stage. I gave him a stick of gum, which amused him for a while. I looked over once and the gum was hanging from his nose. I looked over again and it was hanging from one eyelid. Finally his mother, sitting behind us, leaned over and told him to put the gum in his mouth and keep it there. Which he largely ignored.
Last night was the second annual manicure/pedicure party in honor of my friend Julie who died in 2009. Julie liked having her nails done, so a bunch of us who loved her started gathering at the nail salon on her birthday to do the same. The organizer, of course, was Barbara, who could have organized the settling of the West and done it with half the covered wagons and happier Indians. We bring our daughters and granddaughters, food and wine, and catch up.
So I’m snowed in for the time being. But I do have soft feet, copper-colored toenails, and enough leftover deviled eggs to last till the snowplow comes through.
So the weather. There’s just no predicting it. It’s only December 7. and we’ve already had two snowstorms, both with horrible timing. Minnesota winters aren’t nearly as cold as some people think, but they make up for it in perversity.
I lost two trees in that first heavy snowstorm on November 12. I didn’t know it till the thirteenth, when I came home from the hospital, all medicated up and miserable, and found them blocking the driveway. It was a shock. My daughter Jessica, who was driving me home after spending the night in one of those plastic-covered bed-chairs the hospital provides as a deterrent, was driving a little fast, because the street hadn’t been plowed yet (big surprise) and when that happens you have to take a good run at the driveway lest you miss it and end up stuck down in the cul-de-sac. So when she came around the curve and saw the downed trees, she decided to take a quick left past the mailbox and into the front yard instead, where she did indeed get stuck. (To be fair, I may have been screaming instructions at her.)
So there we were. Jessica was wondering, “How am I going to get my bootless, drugged-up mother into the house?” and I was thinking, “For the love of God, will I always be at the mercy of the fates and Minnesota weather?” Then I just opened the car door and, weaving a little, stomped into the house.
Last Friday’s snowstorm wasn’t as wet or heavy, but it lasted all day, and by the time I set out for Maria and Grace’s dance recital that night, every car on the freeway had given up trying to find a lane and simply stopped, as cars on the freeway will do for no apparent reason. I mushed on for 45 minutes before I turned around and mushed back home.
We live in Minnesota. We endure. The trees were cleared out of the driveway, the car was dug out, and there was a matinee performance of the dance recital on Saturday. Big cold snap coming next week.
Gathered with the family again to give thanks and eat turkey (except for my son-in-law Lynn, who is a vegetarian), because we are, if nothing else, proud Americans.
No Butterball turkey this year, because Gina started a dairy-free diet last week in hopes of curing Baby Bret’s acid reflux, and Christian is allergic to butter along with everything else, and other people aren’t too sure but that they may be allergic to something too, so as I said, no butter in the turkey or the stuffing or on the green beans either. There was butter in the mashed potatoes, but Jessica stepped right up with her recipe for pureed cauliflower, which she swore tasted just like mashed potatoes, although let’s face it, they weren’t exactly flying out of the bowl.
Ten-year-old Maria was especially thankful that she has surpassed me in height. This is not a huge accomplishment for most ten-year-olds, but we made a big deal about it anyway.
Six-year-old Christian, once he was sure everyone was going to stay put and pay attention, moved us all with a stirring tale about the Indian Squanto, the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving.
Three-year-old Cosette wasn’t frightened by her older cousins this year. She has gone over and is one of Them now.
Four-month-old Baby Bret is a big, happy baby, fatter than the last time I saw him and he was plenty fat then. His cheeks are fat, his tummy is fat, and his little legs are fatter than you can imagine. It’s like lugging around a 16-pound, smiling turkey.
But the highlight of the day came when everyone settled in the living room to watch old home movies. Jessica, who was sitting next to five-year-old Grace, turned to her during the showing of one ancient tape and asked, “Does Auntie look different now?” “Yeah,” said Grace, “You didn’t have a moustache then.”
And that’s the kind of thing that makes the holidays special.
That’s it. I’ve had it with surgery. If anything else goes whacko with this body, the doctors will have to make an extraordinary case for operating, and I’m not sure “or you will die” would do it. Had the tumor on my parotid gland removed last Friday and it was horrible. I wanted to die then for sure.
The thing is, I am not the best patient – ask my children, they’ll tell you. I complain, I argue, I don’t do as I’m told. I self-medicate – in the hospital, at home, I don’t care. It makes everyone crazy. And then in the hospital one is at the mercy of strangers, which keeps you from cursing as much as you might like. Some things I wanted to say in the 24 hours after surgery but didn’t:
1) There is no anesthesia in the world that doesn’t make me nauseous, so there’s no point in telling me it shouldn’t. As my personal definition of hell is 23 hours a day of nausea and one hour of anticipation, it’s fortunate for you that there was nothing close enough to throw when I found out you were giving me only a half-dose of nausea medication. Finally, I do not want a soda cracker. If you keep pushing it, I will have to kill you.
2) It seems no matter what time I ask, it isn’t time for more morphine. Really, is there a morphine shortage I haven’t heard about? Why are you hoarding it? Give me some!
3) I have an IV taped to my left hand to put liquids in, another taped to my neck to take liquids out, and every other hour I have to wear inflatable leg wraps. If there is an optimal position for comfort in these circumstances, I have not discovered it. The bed is a rock, and none of its 56 amazing positions will change that. The pillow is a rock on top of a rock.
4) Not only is my right ear and everything in the vicinity completely numb, it has the appearance of a breast implant gone terribly wrong. The scar below said ear looks like an amateur map of the Lewis & Clark Expedition. And I have bacitracin ointment in my hair. I do not feel pretty.
I can imagine the thousands of cell phone minutes burned when my daughters learned I was having surgery. “Who’s staying with Mom? What’s the plan? We need a plan!” They are patient and tolerant and sympathetic in the extreme, and after a day or so, I have to kick them out lest they lose their patience, tolerance and sympathy.
Those nodules on my thyroid gland? They will be the size of hard-boiled eggs before we part company.
I know. Long time no blog. I was sick. I was tired. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. I got a prescription. I feel better.
Looking back:
10/27 – e-mail to lottery-playing coworkers
The Powerball pool has gotten completely off track. No point in denying it. I know it and you know it. We actually ran out of money last Wednesday, but that’s okay because I didn’t buy a ticket for Saturday anyway. I have a lot of excuses you don’t want to hear. “Where’s the money?” That’s all you people care about. So let us move along briskly.
To be in the next round, drop off your dollar by noon Friday. You’ll want to get it in quickly. By this time next week, I expect to be intolerable. I started taking Chantix on Monday (you take it for a week before you quit smoking). I expect no pats on the back, because I DON’T WANT TO QUIT. I won’t be wanting encouragement next week, I’ll be wanting a damn cigarette.
See, I’m getting grumpy already. Out of sheer rebellion, I’ve decided to get a tattoo.
10/29 – e-mail to lottery-playing coworkers
I don’t want to name names, but some of you still owe me money. Stop procrastinating.
I’m down to half a pack of cigarettes and no plan. You’re supposed to have a plan. I don’t have a plan, and that’s the story of my life. It’s crunch time, action is required, but the only plan I have is something vague in the back of my brain… quit smoking, don’t overeat, exercise more, meditate…make a plan!
By Sunday night, I’ll probably be scaring the trick-or-treaters.
10/30 – notes on babysitting for Cosette and Baby Bret while their parents go to a Halloween party
Obviously these two (Gina and Bret) need to get away. They were standing in the doorway ready to leave just about the time I picked up Baby Bret, who was screaming loud enough to curdle breast milk. They looked at me, smiled, said “Bye” and never looked back. This would have been unheard of when Cosette was three months old. The times they are a-changin’.
10/31 – notes on quitting smoking
Quit smoking. Big whoop. It’s going okay. I guess.
Grandma Kissed A Sailor 