Tag Archives: Holidailies

DFW on Ice

by

Butterfly

I’m posting at nearly-midnight again, but this time it’s because last nights sleet and freezing rain turned into this morning’s widespread power outages.

Our power glitched for a minute or so around one AM, but our friends who live less than a mile away have been without power, and, subsequently, without heat, since four this morning.

As today’s high temperature was around 29 degrees, we invited them to come here. And so they are tucked upstairs in one of the spare rooms, with their younger son and dog. Their older son chose to wrap himself in all the blankets and stay home with the cats.

And so we had an old fashioned snow day, listening to music, each working on a project, drinking hot cider.

I wish I had the energy to write something more interesting, but I’m exhausted, and cold (must go turn heat up.)

Happy Birthday, Maximus

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Max, age five

Oh, my dearest doggy, you are FIVE years old today. That’s middle-aged for a breed like yours, a breed we think is pointer/boxer, but could be most anything, really.

How well I remember that windy day in February, 2009 when we met your then-tiny little self. You were ten weeks old, and I kept telling Fuzzy we didn’t want a puppy, but he thought your black and white fur looked like your sister Cleo’s, and we knew Zorro didn’t have much more time with us.

I remember how Fuzzy snapped your picture through the bars of your crate at PetCo, and said, “Come see this puppy,” and I remember how the first time I picked you up you gnawed on my neck until you finally fell asleep in my arms.

I remember when you were so small you slept in a cat bed, and so tiny you couldn’t climb the stairs. You used to pick up Cleo’s leash and make her follow you around the house. You weren’t quite certain of what to do with Zorro, but he left us a week after you came. I think he waited to be sure you were right for us.

We didn’t always get along, my Maxi-taxi. You were my first big dog, and I had to learn a whole new language with you. It wasn’t until you were three months old that I knew we’d be alright. You’d escaped from your crate, and even though Fuzzy’s side of the bed was closer, you came right to me, and put your cold wet nose in my hand. I knew, then, that you were MY dog, just like Zorro and Cleo had been. Perry had joined us by then, but he’s never as obvious about who his people are as you always have been.

In the first year of your life, you ate rocks and razor blades, water bottles, entire pairs of Keds, and more paper towels than I care to count. Once, I even found you chewing on the side of the house! I was convinced something you’d swallowed would lacerate your esophagus or perforate your intestine, but except for allergies, you’re remarkably healthy.

And now you’re five years old, and the quiet gentleman of the house, except when you do your post-dinner show, roo-ing and galloping up and down the hall.

I love that you wake up half an hour before you really need to go outside, just so you can come into the bed with me and snuggle while Fuzzy showers. I love your raspy-tongued kisses, and the way you can eviscerate a squeaky toy in five minutes, then carry the empty fleece carcass around for months.

I love that every night when I go to bed to read, you come and curl up with me. I love that you’re patient with your adopted brother Tedasaurus Rex, even though he had the nerve to grow taller than you, and that you make the foster brothers and sisters who rotate through your life feel like part of the pack.

I love the way you, my 80-pound darling, can manage to get lost in our postage stamp of a back yard, and I love that you still think an empty paper towel roll is the best toy ever.

I love the way you’ll chase a ball til it stops, then turn around and give me that look that means, “If you’d wanted it back you should have adopted a retriever,” and I love that even though you’re a gentle giant of a dog, you have a basso profundo bark that makes me feel safe when I’m alone.

I love that you’re as happy to sit on the deck and just WATCH the birds and squirrels as you are to chase them, and I love that the last thing I hear at night is your deep, restful, doggy breathing.

So, happy fifth birthday, my Max.

You can’t really be called a Monster Pup any more, but in my heart you’ll always be my puppy.

Peeling the Eggplant

by

Lollypop Santa

We’ve all heard the story (possibly apocryphal, but it’s a good story so, who cares?) about the woman who was making a roast. Her daughter, watching her, asked, “Mom, why are you cutting the ends off the roast?”

The mother replied that she was doing so because it was the way she learned from her mother, but didn’t know why it made the roast better.
Together, they went to the other room to ask Grandma why the ends were cut off the roast, and the old woman replied that she’d HAD to do it that way, because it was the only way the roast would fit in the pan.

Similarly, those of us who grew up with grandmothers and mothers who peeled eggplant before using it, also peel eggplant. But the thing is, you don’t actually have to peel eggplant for most dishes. Sure, it feels rubbery when it’s raw, but it cooks down fairly well.

Holiday traditions are sort of the same way. Some of them, like the roast, or the eggplant, we do because we always have. I grew up with a butterfly at the top of the Christmas tree, and the first year I had my very own tree, I felt guilty for putting something OTHER than a butterfly up there. Then my husband and I found a lovely quarter-moon ornament and that was our topper in the first years of our marriage.

More recently, as our (fake, plastic, pre-lit) trees have become taller and taller, we’ve had to adjust the topper again. Currently, it’s an angel I bought at Cracker Barrel, but I picked her because she’s got this delicious smirk, as if she knows some great secret.

Sometimes, though, traditions have to be completely new. Since moving to Texas nine years ago (yes, that feels like forever to me, too) we’ve planned Christmas Eve to be our night. Sure, we might go to a Christmas Eve service (or two – because I love midnight mass, so even when we were at UUCOC, we’d still go), but otherwise, we keep the evening low-key.

Christmas Day, however, is all about inviting friends and “chosen family” over for brunch. Everyone gets at least one present to open, and we celebrate with laughter and good food.

I’m sure as we age, we’ll come up with some newer traditions even than those, but whether we spend Christmas with just ourselves, or with other people, whether we peel the eggplant, or not, the entire season will be full of fun and friends and fabulous food.

Today’s Santa: The very young child of a friend dubbed him Lollypop Santa, and the name stuck. He’s from Cracker Barrel. Seriously, sometimes they have great decor.

Holidailies 2013

This is Your Brain on Ice

by

Red Santa

I lived in Colorado for seven years (on and off) and I never learned to ski, but I did learn to ice skate, and ever since my booted-and-bladed feet first touched ice, I’ve been in love with the sport.

These past few Sundays have found me sitting on the bed folding laundry and watching figure skating competitions. I’m not sure who I’m rooting for, which means I don’t much care who wins, but I enjoy the skill and artistry, even so.

My own skates sit, idle and dusty, at the top of the hall closet, their blades covered in purple and turquoise guards bought eons ago from a rookie player from the San Jose Sharks who was doing his time in the pro shop.

My first skating memories, however, have nothing to do with rinks and music, and everything to do with funky metallic ‘thermal’ socks that made my feet itch and sweat, and snow-packed rolled-up cuffs of jeans, and water ripples frozen into the surface of the ice.

We skated outside, and stayed out til the ice and snow had frozen our laces to the point where my best friends Siobhan, Larissa, and I would seriously contemplate walking home on our skate-guards or attempting to skate down the road, frozen three feet thick with old snow and dirty ice.

That was in Georgetown, when I was seven, and The Town would turn the baseball diamond into an outdoor skating rink for the kids, so we wouldn’t take it into our heads to go all the way out to the reservoir. (Don’t tell my mother, but sometimes we DID go all the way out there on our bikes, but never to skate.)

So we would turn circles and try basic spins, and hope that our short and sassy Dorothy Hamill-esque haircuts looked as cute on us as they did on her.

I’m pretty sure they didn’t.

I’m not sure why ice skating is on my mind tonight, but it might have to do with the recent re-discovery of this ancient picture of me:

Skating in Evergreen

I don’t really remember the day, but the notes on the back, in my mother’s handwriting: January 1st 1977, Evergreen Lake, CO. Elevation 8,500 feet. Temperature 6 degrees. “If you take my picture I’ll scream.”

Today’s Santa: On my fireplace mantel, every year, stand a collection of Victorian-esque Santa Claus dolls. This one is one of the oldest, the red one.

(Hey look, doing Holidailies just before midnight…again.)

Bread

by

Gardener Santa

So here I am, once again writing my Holidalies post at 11:50 pm. This is NOT the habit I wanted, this year.

But this time I have a good excuse: I was at a meeting at church, part of the core group of people planning a new evening service to begin in February.

One of the things we talked about was how we wanted to handle communion, and the suggestion was made that actually breaking a loaf of bread, passing it and the wine from hand to hand, ministering to each other, might be a really lovely way to make that ritual more intimate.

It got me thinking, on the way home, about the other times I’ve shared bread with people. My friend Marcia is an amazing baker, and I have fond memories of a marathon session making hot cross buns in my kitchen several years ago.

My aunt Patricia is a baker as well, and it is her cornbread recipe that I follow, and have been following, for more than twenty years.

And then there’s my grandfather. He was a career Army officer, retired and worked in the civil service, retired from that and played gentleman farmer in his New Jersey back yard. He grew grapes and strawberries, composted everything, and baked the most amazing loaves.

I remember his thick fingers pushing through the warm, sticky dough as he kneaded it. I remember the crock of sourdough starter that had a special spot on the back of the dishwasher. I remember the way he would lovingly grease each pan and then dust it with cornmeal, and I remember the steaming bread, fresh from the oven, slathered with butter.

My own baking is aided by modern tools – a bread machine, a stand mixer – and, to be honest, I generally prefer to make batter breads, like the cinnamon swirl bread I baked yesterday, or the prune-laced soda bread I made for a friend on Friday.

We break bread literally and figuratively whenever we share our tables with our friends and families. Isn’t it only right that we should bake it, as well?

Today’s Santa: Gardener Santa is actually a candle I found at Big Lots (no, really) several years ago. He reminds me of my grandfather, though Grandpop didn’t have a full beard, ever, and he’ll never be lit.

Smells Like Anticipation

by

SeaSide Santa

Well, Hello, December!

It’s the first day of Holidailies and here I am typing as fast as I can so I can get this posted before midnight, and thus not fail on the first day, which would be really inauspicious.

It’s warm here today. Warm and muggy, and not Christmassy (Or Hanukkahy) at all, though the sky teased us with storm clouds that didn’t deliver. I don’t mind the warmth – it’s cool enough to not need a/c but warm enough to also not need heat – rare for Texas at any time of year.

But I miss that smell, that magical SMELL that comes when the night is crisp and cool, and the stars are particularly sparkly.

It’s the combined scent of chimney smoke and fallen leaves, damp earth and leftover turkey. It’s the fragrance of nutmeg and peppermint and crinkly tissue paper.

And when it’s this warm, this balmy, you just can’t smell it.

So I go through the motions. I take the plastic, pre-lit tree out, and let it rest in the house (because even plastic trees need to rest before you bedeck them with ornaments), and I open today’s door on the Advent calendar, which reveals, ironically, the image a star shimmering in the night sky, and I wait.

Because I know that soon enough the temperature will drop, and the skies will deepen, and that wonderful seasonal aroma, the one that smells like love and innocence and magic and anticipation, will ooze its way back into my perception.

And all will be right with the world.

Today’s Santa: I gave this to my mother four years ago. Purchased in Ocean Grove, NJ, October 2009.

Pay No Attention to the Chipped Nail Polish

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coffee cup ring Pay no attention to the chipped nail polish evident on my pinky. Instead, pay attention to the ring. My ring. My wonderful, silver, steaming-coffee ring.

I’d seen it on Facebook months ago, as had my mother, but had no idea where to get one. Imagine my surprise when my mother, grinning in that gushy way that only mothers can, presented me with a wrapped box on Christmas morning. “What does the card say?” she prompted, unbridled glee evident on her face.

“‘To my favorite coffee companion,'” I read aloud. Coffee has been a ‘thing’ for my mother and me ever since she would spoon a couple of teaspoons of her coffee into my milk on special mornings. These days our coffee dates are mostly virtual, because of geographical limitations, but no less special.

I opened the box, as I always do, with efficient ripping of paper. I will never be one of those people who saves every precious piece of tissue. (Except, well, this year I did make people return their tissue, since I had to throw away all the old tissue I’d used to wrap my ornaments after the horrifying mildew incident.) I believe wrapping paper is meant to be ripped. It’s even better when you get to hear that satisfying tearing of the paper – tissue doesn’t make that sound half as well as sturdier paper.

Inside a bag, inside the box, was this ring. A ring I’ve secretly coveted for months. A ring I never expected to find on Christmas morning.

“I love it,” I told my mother. “Where did you find it?”

“I saw it on Facebook,” she said. “And a friend knew a jewelry maker, who made copies.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” I asked, not that I had any intention of returning the ring.

“Actually,” my mother said, “it’s not. You can’t copyright design.”

So, pay no attention to my hands that were badly in need of moisturizer and a warm mug to hold, and look instead at the awesome gift I got, one among several awesome, special gifts, of which the greatest was sharing the holiday with family.

Pay no attention to the chipped nail polish either (I haven’t had TIME to get a mani-pedi in forever.)

Instead, pour a mug of something warm and tasty, and join me in toasting the people you love.

Human Moments and High Percentage Choices

by

Blue Christmas

Sometimes leaving all of your visiting family at home and heading out to midnight mass is a high percentage choice.

2:00 AM. Christmas Morning.
We arrived home from the late service at St. Alban’s at the Theatre just as the rain was beginning to fall, and the thunder and lightning hailed our arrival even before the dogs started barking their greeting. (The last three words are unofficial, and I add them here simply because, to me, the fact that this church meets in a theater is somehow appropriate. Theater celebrates words, and church the Word made flesh, and yes, my metaphor needs work, but really, how lucid are YOU at this hour? And besides who’s to say a theater is any less sacred a space than the Of-the-Meadow or In-the-Woods spaces we’re accustomed to seeing?)

If I had to pick one word to describe my feeling at the end of this “midnight” mass, it would be the one I used with Mother Melanie: satisfying. Just as a really good meal leaves you neither still hungry nor over-stuffed, so, too, does a really good church service. And tonight’s service, while a little unconventional, was really good. Really…satisfying.

I think what I responded to the most were the human moments. Tonight’s service was mostly a cappella, and before the actual mass, there was a time of carol singing, led by the clergy sitting at the foot of the stage, asking for the congregation to choose the songs to be sung. (My favorites are not easily sung unless you know them – “Once in Royal David’s City,” for example – so I didn’t make suggestions – but I was silently thanking previous choir directors (Clyde Putman, Glorian Mulligan Stratton) for their attention to sight-singing and a cappella work, because while I “know” most all the songs we did tonight in the caroling and during the Eucharist, some I’d only ever sung alto on, and one was completely unfamiliar.)

But in addition to the singing, there were other human moments, like watching three young men (young enough to retain traces of childhood in their faces) singing “O Come All Ye FaithFul,” or listening to a guitar duet of “Silent Night,” or a delightful Oboe solo. Or even the moment when a phone went off and it turned out to be Mother Melanie’s own. After watching UUCOC move from a church full of such moments to one where even applause was discouraged, and people were required to “applaud” in ASL, it is these moments – spontaneous applause, appreciative chuckling, reverent irreverence – that really make a church feel comfortable to me. I like the ritual of high church, but I like the ease that comes from accepting that we are all human, all flawed.

I guess these moments sort of make me feel like God is the Ultimate Improvisor, and that when we allow ourselves to simply BE we are playing along in the grand game of “Yes, And.” (Lately, everything has come back to improv for me, which is weird, because I haven’t actually DONE any formal performances in well over a year.)

So, yes, I like this St. Alban’s-at-the-Theatre immensely. AND I got to do one of the readings tonight, which was almost like a Christmas present because I’ve always wanted to do that. AND I got to sing with Fuzzy in church tonight, which is another thing that always makes me feel grounded and centered. AND the people in this congregation are so warm, smart, funny and engaging that we hung out til one AM chatting even though we meant to linger for only a few minutes (AND they sent me home with leftover wine). AND I want to go back.

I’m never sure if God has a specific plan for me, or not. (See that bit about improv, again.) I’m still learning how to discern that still, small voice inside myself and, even more, to actually listen to it.

But as we drove home, I realized I felt completely at peace and connected with the world. True, a good part of that feeling was Christmas magic, but an equal measure was the result of feeling like I was answering a quiet call.

Whether it’s playing a specific character on stage, or feeling the click of satisfaction after mass, going with your gut instinct is usually a high percentage choice. And those human moments? They’re just another kind of Truth, and the best comedy – the best ART – always comes from a place of Truth.

Lagging

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I’m woefully behind in my blog, my book blog, and a Christmas project, and almost behind on work. Tomorrow, I’m staying home while my parents go out, so that I can finish what I need to with at least ONE of those things.

Right now, I’m tired, but it’s the tired that comes from a long day full of small gifts (and large ones) rather than a stress-borne tired, though there was some stress involved; I just can’t talk about it just now.

In the meantime, I’m writing this post mostly to prove I’m still here, still connected.

Tomorrow: baking cookies and writing tons of words.

Friday: Shopping for the Christmas party I’m hosting.

Saturday: Party on.

Sunday: SLEEP? At least I hope so.

And now? One more episode of Numb3rs on Netflix before bed.

Dog Tired

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three dogs

It’s just after midnight in my time-zone, and I haven’t even done much all day – except drop off paperwork with the Shelter 2 Rescue folks (Dexter’s final paperwork from when he was adopted last week), eat enchiladas, go to the comic book store, watch Fuzzy vacuum and steam-clean the downstairs carpets, finish reading a book, go to dinner with some of Fuzzy’s co-workers and some of their local friends (Hibachi scallops – yum), and help empty a closet and sort through the contents.

It doesn’t seem like a lot, but last night was a late night, and today I’ve felt over-tired and dehydrated even though I’ve been drinking water like crazy, and I think I just need to chill tomorrow, but I have more to accomplish.

I should want to curl up in bed with a book for the next hour or so, but somehow, sleep is calling, and I want to be up early enough to go to mass tomorrow.

My dogs kindly managed to all be still-ish at the same time, in the same room, earlier this week so I could shoot the picture in this post, allowing me to use the title Dog Tired, which I am, and so now, I’m off to bed.

Holidailies 2012