Single-Tasking in a Multi-Tasking World

A couple months ago I went to Walgreen's. I picked up a few items and took them to the register. The woman who rang me up was on the phone. She acknowledged me with a nod while she rang up my order, talked on the phone, and straightened out a display on the counter. When she hung up, there was a big smile on her face. "Always multi-tasking, that's me!" She was clearly very proud of her ability to do so. I was not as impressed as she expected me to be. Why? Because I was one of those tasks, and she was only giving me one third of her attention - probably less, when you figure that she also probably had some stuff running all around in her brain that wasn't immediately visible to the casual observer. I was only getting a third of her attention that I knew of.

Now I can multi-task too, and certainly have when the situation dictates a need. Everyone can. It's not a particularly impressive skill, it's just a necessity of life sometimes. She may have been in just that situation and I don't judge her for that. I wasn't bothered so much by the multi-tasking as I was by the evident pride she took in it. I thought about how differently I would have handled the same situation. I would have hung up the phone and said (to the actual living customer in front of me) "I'm so sorry about that!" Then I would have been sure to give them my undivided attention for the remainder of the transaction. Which took, like thirty seconds. Are all of these other things so important that you can't give another human being thirty seconds?

Ok, this was a small, tiny incident and maybe I'm being too hard on the Walgreen's clerk for not giving my chapstick and band aids the attention they deserved. Or maybe I'm being self-important - expecting a clerk to drop everything and actually wait on me when I come to her counter. But wait - isn't that her job? She was so proud of all of the things she was accomplishing at once that she neglected the real live person in front of her.

She was a clerk at Walgreen's and I was a customer. It didn't put a real strain on our relationship. But think about how often we do this to our friends, our spouses, our children. If my feelings were hurt when the clerk at the drugstore couldn't offer me thirty seconds of her undivided, think about how it feels to our loved ones when we can't step away from our oh-so-important chores to give them our undivided for a moment or two.

This seems to become a lot more exaggerated during the holiday season. We're trying to accomplish a million things at once and not giving our full attention to any of them. Maybe it's time to slow down. Maybe it's time to pay a little less attention to the shopping, the baking and the decorating and a little more attention to the people who are right in front of us. Will they be more likely to remember the perfect tree, or the conversations you have when you're doing nothing but listening to them? Which would you be more likely to remember?

Sigh.

It occurs to me that I may be feeling the need to write this because I do not have the perfect tree or the perfect decorations. I have not and will not bake the perfect cookie. I will not be giving anyone the perfect gift this year. But I can listen. I can give a little time. I can find a way to make that time undivided. I can do that. Maybe this is my way of convincing myself that that's good enough.

Please don't tell me I'm wrong...

Not What You Had in Mind (An Open Letter for Mother's Day)

Dear Mom,

Our relationship has never been traditional. Right from the start we did things differently. Most babies make their presence known to their mothers via a series of physical manifestations - dizziness, nausea, a missed period... You learned about me through a phone call. "We have a baby for you, if you're interested."

Not what you had in mind, but you'd make it work.

You, the pale, green-eyed German blonde, were handed your little girl - a swarthy little olive-skinned creature with masses of coal black hair.

The only baby picture of myself I could find! I know I have boxes of them somewhere...

Not what you had in mind, but you'd make it work.

Mom and Dad in the pre-baby days

You were athletic and popular. You were so pretty. As I grew, I was clumsy and weird. I always had my nose in a book. You grew excited at sporting events. I was moved by music. We didn't really know what to make of each other.

Not what we had in mind, but we'd make it work.

You were sick a lot. You spent too much time in the hospital. I missed you.

Not what I had in mind, but I'd make it work.

You were - are - a planner. I was - am - a free spirit. Our habits regarding these traits drove each other nuts. You demanded order. I required spontaneity. You were a worker bee. I was a forest fairy. A weird, clumsy, bookish forest fairy.

Not what we had in mind, but we'd make it work.

Your friends kids got married and made them grandmas. Your sisters kids got married and made her a grandma. I traveled and matriculated long past the age when most had put away their school books and moved on into the real world. I didn't have any interest in anything that was going to tie me down for longer than a semester at a time. I was flighty long past the age when such a quality might have possibly been interpreted as charming.

Me with other people's babies - my cousin's babies, to be exact.

Not what you had in mind, but you'd make it work.

You lived in the same town forever and wouldn't have - wouldn't - dream of moving. I moved when I got bored. Which was a lot. I always worked in my field, but not in traditional ways. You never knew what to make of my choices.

Not what you had in mind, but you'd make it work.

Eventually I did settle down and get married and start making with the grandbabies.

Mom and Lea

That was more like what you had in mind. You could work with this.

Since then, of course, we've learned that there are as many similarities as there are differences.

Mom and Liv walking on the beach this February in Myrtle Beach

We're both happier near water. We both enjoy long walks through the woods, on the beach, even through the neighborhood. We both laugh until we cry (and sometimes until we emit other bodily fluids, but that's not a tale for polite company). We both talk too much. We're both generous with our time, attention, and affection. We both care deeply.

Most of the things that are good and true about me came from you.

Shelby, Wendy, Dad, Mom, Liv, Me, Lea, Tom, Cooper

I hope that's close to what you had in mind. I think it's kind of worked.

I love you, Mom.



P.S. Happy Mother's Day to you, too! I hope if motherhood isn't exactly what you had in mind, at least it's something you can work with.

Cinco de Mayo

Hola! Hoy es Cinco de Mayo. No es una dia muy importante por los Mexicanos, pero es una dia mucho importante por los Norteamericanos a beber la tequila. Y la cerveza. Pero mas importante? La tequila.

Me gusto mucho la tequila.

Ok, here's the thing: don't jump all over me for my ridiculous butchering of the Spanish language. It is, as they say, limited by disuse. There's a very good reason my use has been limited. Like to hear about it? I thought you might.

All those many years ago when I lived in Texas I had a job which required me to communicate on a daily basis with Spanish speaking Mexicans. I dealt with one gentleman in particular very regularly. He always communicated with very broken and labored English.

One day I thought to myself (I thought), "I speak Spanish very well! Why am I making him struggle with his English when we could be communicating so easily in Spanish?" I thought this, you see, because I had taken four years of high school Spanish and three years of college Spanish. I'd always gotten pretty easy 'A's' and my teachers had always complimented me on both my speaking and writing . Yepperdee, I was one confident communicator.

Folks, if I could remember what I said to him that day, I would tell you, but I can't. It was a long time ago, for one thing, and for another, what happened next is such a vivid memory that it easily supercedes whatever inconsequential words I uttered to inspire it.

What happened, after I made an earnest effort to speak to him in his native tongue was: he laughed. He didn't just laughed. He LAUGHED!!! Not lol or LOL, but ROTFLMAO!!!!! He doubled over, holding his belly with both hands. He wiped away a tear and laughed some more.

I stood there, confused, trying to figure out what I'd said or done that was so funny. "What? Que? What?" His only response was more laughter. When he came up for air, I asked, in English, "What is so funny?"

"What you say!"

"What I said was funny?"

"Si" he answered, barely managing to stifle another giggle fit.

"What did I say that was so funny? I want to know so that I can correct it."

He paused for a moment and clearly considered his answer. "I think it was no so much what you say. It was how you say. Here, people say Spanish bad with Texas accent. This I hear. I never hear no one say Spanish bad with Yankee accent before. You sound so funny!" He let out one more giggle, but this one was more controlled. "Sorry for laughing." he added. I watched him mocking my pronunciation and shaking his head as he walked away.

That, my friends, was the very last time I attemped to speak Spanish. My confidence was shot all to hell. So was my desire to make things easier for him. He wants to laugh? He can struggle with his damn English. You won't catch me making an effort again.

Years later, when I was teaching ESOL, I retold this story many times.

I learned a lesson that day. Respect the effort. If he had gently corrected my word choice or my pronunciation - even if he'd chuckled a little when he did it - I would have learned and possibly even improved. We could have learned together. As it was? I gave up. I didn't need to be laughed at and I'd be damned if I was going to set myself up for that again.

We both lost out that day.

So I guess I'm just saying, appreciate the effort.

Comprende?

Y tambien? Una tequila mas, por favor.

Living in the Present

It feels like I should be posting reflections from the year past and resolutions for the year to come. It's what's done, no? So I tried. Truly I did. I thought about the year past - the highs and the lows - but mostly the pleasantly mundane middles. I thought about the things I should resolve to do in the year to come. I couldn't come up with anything that held my interest long enough to bother to write about it.

Last night at a New Year's Eve party, there was some discussion over whether we live in the past, present or future. We all agreed that we spend some time living in all of those places. I know I do. But if I'm going to be honest with myself, I do spend a lot of time living in the past. My past was more interesting. It was more exciting. It makes for a better story. My present, while certainly more pleasant than my past, doesn't make for a good story. Let's pitch the book, shall we?

Ok, it's about this middle-aged unemployed-by-choice chick who is happily married and living in the suburbs. Also she's overweight.

Where's the conflict?

There is no conflict. She goes about her life and is mostly happy and content. Sometimes she gets frustrated, though. Is that a conflict?

Depends - what frustrates her?

Well, her kids don't always listen to her. And the world isn't always nice to people who are overweight.

That? Is not a story anyone would want to read.

No, I guess it's not. So I think about my wild misspent youth. I think about how much better the music and movies were when I was younger. I listen to said music and watch said movies whenever I get the chance. I impose them on my children so they'll "know what good is".

Speaking of children, Tom and I are constantly telling Lea to live in her present. She, like so many of her generation, will be out somewhere - with actual people - but will continue to do most of her socializing via text. We remind her to enjoy the people she's actually with. "Be where you are", we say to her. She rolls her eyes, puts the phone away for a moment, and has it out again the next time our backs are turned. I've stopped coming down on her so much about it, because I recognize that it's not just her. It really is the hallmark of this generation.

But not mine.

So I think, if I'm going to make any resolutions at all, that my resolution will be to live in the present this year. I will go to the gym because I feel better when I work out, not because I am working towards a weight loss goal I'll never achieve. (hold me to that one, will you please? It's so hard not to fall into the "this time it's gonna work - for real - I just have to want it badly enough" mentality) I will live today for today and not long for yesterday or dream of tomorrow. Ok, I'll still totally do both of those things, who am I kidding? But I'm going to resolve to give today precedence.

Year of the Owl?

A few years back - 21, to be exact - my aunt Miriam passed away. She was a widow who had never had children. After the funeral, any of her belongings of value were distributed more or less fairly among her remaining siblings - there were 9 of them altogether. After that, a table was set up full of little tshotshkes and mementos for us nieces and nephews to sort through. We were each encouraged to take something by which to remember our aunt. I took a lovely pink depression glass bowl and her sewing kit, thanks for asking.

After we were all through, several items remained on the table. Most of them were tacky and cheap (and by using the term 'most' I'm being generous and respectful of the dead and stuff...) Even among the tacky and cheap, though, there was one item that stood out. A bright pink ceramic owl.


One of my cousins had a young daughter at the time, and she decided that this owl was the most beautiful thing she'd ever laid her little eyes on. She was two or three years old at the time. There's a reason you don't see many toddlers being consulted on interior design. Anyway, she thought it was beautiful and really wanted to have it. Her father told her no and gave her some silly reason which I do not remember. My sister overheard the exchange and asked the toddler, "Do you like this, sweetie?" "I love it" she replied with hearts and stars in her eyes. "Then it should be yours" my sister said, carefully wrapping it up for her and handing it to her like a prize. Then my sister caught my cousins eye and said (to the toddler, she said) "Something so beautiful should be displayed in your living room where everyone can see it, not tucked away in your bedroom." The toddler solemnly nodded her agreement and my cousin glared at my sister.

Later that year, when our extended family gathered together to exchange gifts on Christmas Eve, my sister recieved a beautifully wrapped package from my cousin. I don't imagine I need to tell you what was inside. He instructed her to display it prominently. The next Christmas she presented the owl to someone else and so it has gone for the last 21 years.

This year, Tom received the owl. The rules are that the owl must be displayed prominently in your home for the entire year, at which point you must pass it on.

Several cousins have done little photo albums documenting their year with the owl. One wrote a poem - an ode, if you will - a few years ago. Us? We started a blog for it.

Upon arriving back home, we chose a prominent spot in which to display the owl then started planning posts and photo-ops.

I sat down at my computer to set up the new blog and glanced at my page-a-day calendar. I always have a yarn/knitting related calendar because I am just that super-cool. My pattern for the day? 'Birds of a Feather' - a PINK OWL done in novelty yarn intarsia on a black bag. I think I know how the owl will be presented to it's future caretakers next Christmas...


But wait, there's more!

Sitting in my inbox is a notification that I have a new follower on Twitter - a chick who posts (with alarming frequency - I tried to follow her back, as is, I'm told, polite, but it was overwhelming) as an OWL. Sometimes. And sometimes as a chick. Whatever her issues are are not what I'm here to discuss. Though I bet they're interesting.

So - all of these owls and owl references fell into our laps in a pretty condensed period of time. I spent hours researching the symbolism associated with owls (ok - busted - I did a quick google search and this is the first thing I found) and learned this:

Throughout many cultures, the symbolic meaning of owl deals with:

• intelligence
• brilliance
• perspective
• intuition
• quick-wit
• independence
• wisdom
• protection
• mystery
• power

Not bad, eh? So if all this owl business is indeed prophetic rather than simply coincidental, I think I'll take it.

His Heart Grew Three Sizes That Day

I had the nicest conversation with a friend last night.

He is a stubborn man who had, several months back, gotten himself embroiled in a feud with an equally stubborn man. I like both of them, but definitely thought my friend was in the right. Not that it matters what I (or anyone else) thought, because this feud was ON. I mentioned they were both stubborn, right?

Last night my friend told me he ended it.

He walked right up to the other guy and said I want this to be over. I don't want to start the new year angry at you and I sure don't want to start it with you angry at me. The other guy hugged him, thanked him, and accepted the olive branch that had been offered. Accepted it graciously and enthusiastically.

When I asked my (I mentioned he was stubborn, right?) friend what had prompted him to do this, he said something along the lines of having been moved by the holiday spirit. He said this had been such a wonderful holiday and he didn't want it to be marred by a feud.

I was so proud of him. What he did was hard.

This of course led me to ask him about his holiday - what made it so wonderful, that it prompted such a massive change of heart?

His answer, as it is with most things magical and wonderful, was that he couldn't quite explain it. Due to the failing economy, there were less presents under the tree, and the ones that were there weren't as extravagant as they'd been in years past. So it sure wasn't that. He didn't know - it was just - something.

When he left, I thought about that. Since returning from Christmas at my parents', many people have asked if I had a nice holiday (I did, thank you very much for asking) but not one single person has asked, "what did you get?" or "was Santa good to you?" or any variation on that. I haven't asked, either. Hmmmmmm. I think I have always asked/been asked that in Christmases past. What's going on? Could the failing economy actually have us finding pleasure in simpler things? That was one cloud I was pretty sure didn't have a silver lining, but maybe it indeed does.

We have been spending the week between Christmas and New Years sleeping in, napping, eating comfort food, and generally indulging our lazy decadent selves. And it is kind of wonderful.

So - how were your holidays?

And So It Begins

Sometime in late December, 1961 or early January, 1962 two people I don’t know anything about hooked up somewhere in western Pennsylvania and made a baby. In September of 1962 that baby was born and she was me and that’s the end of the part these two people play in this story. I have, throughout the years, come up with many dramatic, romantic and tragic stories about how all of this came to be, but the truth is probably a much simpler matter: Roe v. Wade was still in the future and this woman had enough sense not to pursue a back alley abortion.

The next three months were spent with more people I don’t know anything about. Foster parents who saw to it that my basic needs were met.

Meanwhile, in another part of western Pennsylvania, the woman who would become my mother was making some difficult choices. She was only in her mid twenties and she had already suffered through more miscarriages than any woman should have to endure in a lifetime. Her doctor had warned her that another attempt at pregnancy would be more likely to result in her death than in a baby’s birth. Her heart and her body were at odds. She knew in her heart that she was destined to be a mother, but her body had had its final say. She would not be making a baby. She mourned the babies she would never carry, and then let her heart win. She and the man who would become my father made the decision to pursue adoption.

Just a few days before Christmas, the call came. The adoption agency had a little girl for them. Were they interested? Indeed they were. When they met me, before any papers were signed, the man who would be my father did a little inventory. Fingers and toes? Check. He was an informed consumer. He was not going to accept delivery of damaged goods. Apparently I passed the inspection, because they signed the paperwork and got the gears in motion.

Most parents get nine months to anticipate the arrival of a baby, but my parents only had a couple days. And they were a couple days right in the midst of the general Christmas hustle and bustle. In just a couple days they had to acquire all the things a baby would need - a crib, diapers, bottles, clothes, blankets – no baby showers thrown by friends or sisters or aunts or cousins – no time for it. (Fortunately, in 1962, babies needed far fewer items than they do now, so this task was less oppressive than the one which you might be imagining.)

They got everything together in time to accept delivery of their infant on December 18, 1962. One week before Christmas. I went home for the first time at the age of three and a half months. I knew love for the first time at the age of three and a half months.

Apparently when they met me for the first time – inspection day – I had been dressed and groomed very nicely. When they picked me up to take me home, I was wearing a dirty undershirt with a medal of a saint pinned to it. False advertising! They were not delivered the same degree of cuteness that they’d been promised. Lucky for me, grooming and clothing are issues easily rectified, or I might have been returned before my warranty expired.

As it was Christmas, of course they viewed me as the best gift ever. I was placed under the Christmas tree to illustrate that fact in a more tangible manner. Unfortunately, I was allergic to the tree (a pesky allergy that persists to this day). The symptoms that developed as a result of this threw my new mother into a panic. The final papers weren’t yet signed and she was pretty sure they were going to take me away, since the first thing she did upon bringing me home was to allow me to get sick. It doesn’t work that way, of course, but try telling that to a woman who’s been through what my mother had been through to find herself in the position of parent. She was rather understandably distraught.

My sniffles cleared up, the adoption was finalized, and we were a little family of three.

Each year I celebrate the anniversary of that adoption - a day which doesn't mean anything to anyone except me, my mom and my dad. It means the world to us.

The Nutcracker - SWEET!

My family went to see The Nutcracker tonight. This was particularly exciting for us because our friends' daughter was dancing the part of young Clara. She did an excellent job, and we were proud to know her. Tom and I both commented on that pride during intermission and tried to imagine what it must have felt like to be her parents sitting in that audience on her opening night. I'm certain our wildest imaginings fell short.

I was a little concerned that our girls were perhaps a little old for The Nutcracker. You always picture little girls in fancy dresses going to the ballet as a part of their Christmas tradition. To be sure, there were a lot of them there. But I think perhaps our girls were the perfect age for this experience. Some of the younger kids acted bored - they had a hard time sitting still and remaining attentive for a 2 hour show. I felt particular sympathy for the parents who rushed crying young 'uns back the aisle and out of the theater, trying to be as minimally disruptive as possible. But my girls - they were enthralled. The magic began the moment we stepped into the Ohio Theater - a beautiful theater any time - all decorated for Christmas. It wasn't the first time we'd been there, but I'd be lying if I said we went often. I wish we did, but that's not the case. Anyway. Our seats were amazing. We were on the floor - far enough back to have a good view of the full stage, but close enough to actually see the expressions on the faces of the dancers. Awesome. It was so neat watching the girls straddle that line between childhood and the teens. They looked so grown up. Stunningly so, if I might be so bold. Lea gets dressed up sometimes, so she didn't shock me so much, but when Liv came downstairs in a dress, looking all grown-up girly - well, that was a little bittersweet. It swayed more strongly to the sweet side, though, when the show started. My little girl was captivated. Looking at the childlike wonder on her quickly maturing face was just - well, it was perfect. I leaned over and saw similar looks gracing Lea and Shelby's faces. Too good to be true.

We had also been concerned that they might be dancing to taped music, as there have been some (major) issues with the Columbus Symphony this year, but a live orchestra was indeed in the pit. Tom and the girls walked up and checked it out during intermission and were duly impressed.

As I watched some of those moms deal with children who were less than enthralled, I was reminded of the story of the first time my parents took my sister and I to the ballet. We were in Washington D.C., visiting my uncle and doing some sight-seeing. My dad wanted to see the Kennedy Center, so we stopped, just to see the lobby. A well-dressed gentleman approached my mother and asked if we were there to see the show. She explained, no, we were just there to see the facility on our way to the zoo. He asked if we'd LIKE to see the show, as he had tickets he would be unable to use. He told her she'd be doing him a favor by taking them. She reluctantly accepted and we, in our sight-seeing clothes, were led into the theater. We just kept going, and going - past many oppulently dressed and bejeweled folks - to incredible seats. Something like the 4th row. An amazing opportunity that fell right into our lap. Except that my sister and I were bored and we made sure our parents knew it (without causing a scene or being loud, of course). At intermission, we left. You see, my sister and I had been promised pandas. We were, as I mentioned, on our way to the zoo. All this dancing stuff was nice and all, but PANDAS, YA'LL!!! It is with no small amount of shame that I retell that story. We've both, I think, made it up to our parents (as well as we could - we've never managed to drop 4th row seats in the Kennedy Center in their lap again, but we've been otherwise gracious).

I'm so glad, as I mentioned earlier, that we waited until our kids were at an age where they could really appreciate the experience for what it is. The best part: All of them, Tom included, left the theater wanting to go to the ballet again.

What a nice Christmas present.

And on a more random closing note, why don't more men wear capes? Why don't more people wear capes? Capes are awesome. I think I want, perhaps need a cape. Maybe Lea's not the only drama queen in the family...

The Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future

We put up our Christmas tree yesterday, but it was no big deal. I honestly believe it only made it up this year at all because Olivia was so insistent. My mom called the other day to tell me she'd finally finished her outdoor decorating. I said I had, too. She said, "Oh! What did you do this year?" I said, "I changed my wreath."

I'm finding myself feeling very blue this year and I'm having a really difficult time summoning up my Christmas spirit.

As we put up our little artificial tree yesterday, that spirit became more and more squelched rather than coming more and more alive. I think I know why.

When I was growing up, Christmas was rich with tradition. The tree, for example: We would go to a local tree farm with a saw and traipse through the woods - usually through the snow - to find the perfect tree. Dad would cut it down and we would drag it back to the big shelter where a price was determined. They always had a big fire going in the huge stone fireplace and the smell was divine. The smell was Christmas. We would have glazed donuts and Coke out of a bottle. That's a glass bottle, kids. Dad would have coffee. We would linger there till we were warmed up from our winters walk, then one of the guys who worked there would help dad secure the tree to the top of the car. When we got home, the tree was set up and lights were tested then strung around it. Multi-colored lights with great big bulbs. And so it stood (despite my sister and I jumping at the bit to decorate it) until my uncle and his family would come over that evening for dinner and a tree trimming party. Each ornament was lovingly unwrapped and reminisced over before being carefully placed on the tree. The finishing touch was strands and strands of silver tinsel.

Compare that to us putting up our tree this year: An artificial tree was lugged up from the basement. We had to give up real years ago because all of us suffer from such ridiculous allergies. We can visit homes with real trees, but we have a hard time sleeping in them and breathing at the same time. Breathing is kind of a good thing, so we opted to keep doing it, even if it meant going with a yucky artificial tree. So. So the artificial tree with attached lights was popped into place and plugged in. Sort of like an electric umbrella. It's small and in a corner, so there really was no way for us all to work on decorating it. Obviously Tom and I left that task to the girls, who were much more excited than we were. I kept knitting on the couch, sometimes offering words of encouragement or advice. Tom left the room completely and sat at the computer. They strung bead garland (Liv asked why we were putting Mardi-Gras beads on the tree. Heh!) and, at least this part remained familiar: unwrapped and reminisced about each ornament before placing it on the tree. They did not prioritize the way I would have, so some of my favorite "front and center" ornaments wound up on the back of the tree while precedence was lent to some that, well, let's just say I wouldn't have chosen them to receive such honored spots... but that was the chance I took when I opted to stay back and let the girls have at.

It's up.

Meh.

When did this happen?

When I was in college, we always got a tree and celebrated together, even though our semester was over well before Christmas. My roomates, myself, and several significant others would get together and trim the tree and have a few cocktails. Or get a quarter keg or something - who can remember exactly? We decorated extensively - I remember there not being a single thing in our little apartment that was not lit up or decorated. It was quite festive, in a tacky overdone sort of way. We taped Santa hats to the photographs of people that decorated our home on less festive occasions. (less festive being relative, of course. We were a celebratory lot. We celebrated Friday pretty faithfully. And we held a big party with invitations, decorations, and champagne when Beth and Phillip got married for the first time on Guiding Light...) When our semester was over and we went to our separate homes for Christmas, we donated our still quite usable tree to a local women's charity to brighten up the lives of the kids there. It wasn't all parties and lights.

When I was single, there were a few years I had to force myself to decorate, but after I did, I was always glad. Sometimes I had to drag the spirit in kicking and screaming, but it always arrived.

This year, I'm not so sure. I'm trying.

Oh man, and as I type this? All this business about spirit and lacking spirit and trying to find spirit has caused a little ear worm to find its way in and now all I can hear in my head is Barry Manilow:

Up, down, tryin' to get the feelin' again
All around tryin' to get the feelin' again
The one that made me shiver,
Made my knees start to quiver...

Sorry about that, yo.

I suffer, you suffer. Could've been worse.

And now I'm sort of smiling, because Barry led me right into "Can't Smile Without You" (and now you're hearing THAT in your head! Hah!)

Maybe Barry will help my heart grow three sizes this year and effectively save Christmas.

As for Christmas future - I hope it's not too late to make some really special Christmas memories with my kids before they go off and start making them for themselves.

Maybe next year.

I'm Thankful for Cliches

I know, I know - a post about thankfulness at the end of November? - does it GET any more cliche?

But here's the thing: cliches become that way for a reason. So is thinking about the things for which I am thankful around Thanksgiving week ground-breaking stuff? No, of course not. But is it relevant? Does it make sense? I think the answer here becomes a resounding yes.

Even the things I'm thankful for are cliche - I'm thankful for my wonderful husband, my beautiful healthy children, my home, my deep friendships (and my shallow ones, too!), and at this point, I know, you're hearing blah, blah blah. This stuff has been said a million times before, by people both more and less eloquent than I.

But there's a reason these things are cited so often by so many people. Ask anyone who's lived without a couple of them.

The love of a significant other, our health, our relationships; all of these things are easy to take for granted. It's a good thing to really think about how important these things are, how much they mean to us, how truly, truly thankful we are for them. If it takes a holiday in November to make us slow down and do it, so be it.

No Mere Mortal Can Resist...

My sister is a former teacher (like me!) and sometimes still gets the itch to create a fun activity for kids. Both of us used to scratch that itch by staging elaborate themed birthday parties for our kids, but our kids have gotten to the age where they like to plan the party activities themselves. I've responded to that by feeling like I've outlived my usefulness. My sister responded by staging Halloween fun for her neighborhood kids during Trick or Treat.

A couple years ago she did some pretty traditional haunted garage stuff. She got a good response and decided to go further the next year. So last year she set up a "Roadkill Cafe" (soylent green is people, ya'll!). It was much more elaborate than the haunted garage and was a huge hit. Interestingly enough, THIS year I noticed the Halloween shops were selling backdrops and props specifically geared towards spooky restaurants/cafes. My sister - always one step ahead.

This year, she decided to stage a Haunted Hospital. Unfortunately, she thought Trick or Treat would be held on Thursday night and booked a flight out of town Friday. Trick or Treat is Friday. So she was left with the choice of abandoning the project in which she'd already invested no small amount of money and creative energy or doing it on Thursday - the night before Trick or Treat.

Lea at the exit

She opted for Thursday and the concept grew. Now it was no longer a quick walk through for Trick or Treaters, but a big ole Halloween open house/party complete with games, crafts, music, karaoke (now that's scary ANY night) and maybe a little dancing.

Liv and some friends getting ready to party

She distributed invitations throughout her neighborhood and her kids and mine invited their friends.

The stage was set. Games and crafts in the front yard, haunted hospital in the garage. They entered a waiting room complete with gory gruesome patients in need and a nasty Nurse Ratchett type keeping things under control and denying treatment (I was a sort of zombified shuffling crazy person; Lea was the nasty nurse). From there they were led to the operating room where an unsuspecting patient received a surprise amputation. Tom wielded the axe. It was all very creepy. And a lot of fun.

post-amputation

My handsome hubby. I got to go home with him. Jealous?

My sister getting ready to hack off a little sumpin' sumpin'.

Of course there isn't a picture of me. There's never a picture of the person with the camera. But believe me when I say, I looked awesome. And I got to do the Time Warp. Again.