Just What I've Always Wanted

Did you get everything you wanted for Christmas? Yeah, me neither.

 I hate to sound ungrateful, but after a few trips around the sun, I have a pretty good sense of what I like, what I need, what I use, and what I appreciate. I do enjoy a surprise now and again, but at the same token, I am pretty expressive and have an inability to hide my feelings. My polite thank you is usually cancelled out by my face.

I come from a family of list-makers, and as such, we tend to make wish lists for birthday and holiday gifts. It makes life easier for everyone. You know if you get me something from the list, I will be happy, and you also know that you have not wasted your time and effort on something that may be returned or hidden somewhere until the appropriate amount of time passes before I can donate it to charity or regift it.

I realize the same handling applies to the gifts I give other people. I make a solid effort to think about what someone would like or use before I buy it because I want the recipient to be happy. I don’t give gifts out of obligation; I give them out of affection.

I’m really pretty easy to please because I like to be remembered. I also have a different set of expectations from close family members than for friends. And when it comes to my husband, well, I kind of wish he would just stick to the list.

This year, like most years, I wrote out my Christmas gift wish list. I didn’t have a ton of things I really wanted, which is great, because my husband and I decided not to buy each other presents. For the past few years, we have used Christmas as the occasion to take care of major things around the house. One year, it was a new light fixture for the foyer. Another, we redid most of the kitchen. Last year, we celebrated the birth of your savior with new garage doors.

For Christmas this year, we opted to replace our sectional sofa, but with the annual holiday break at the factory, we knew our gift would not be ready on time. We decided to get a few things to open to make the day feel special and set a budget limit that we both promptly ignored. I asked for a gift certificate for a massage, a better waffle iron that you flip and flip back like the ones in the 3-star hotel lobby breakfast bars, and Botox for my crow’s feet.

My husband asked for what he always asks for,nothing. I got him a cotton throw to match the new couch, a copy of his favorite holiday movie, and a new pair of ridiculously expensive sneakers to replace his worn-out ones that he still slaps around in after almost half a decade.

Cut to Christmas morning. The girls opened their gifts and enjoyed just about everything. My husband loved his blanket, was less than thrilled with the sneakers, and puzzled by the movie because he thought he already had it, which he did not, for the record. I loved my massage gift certificate. And then he had me open a huge wrapped box that sat lonely under the tree.

When I looked inside the shipping box, I had no idea what it was. I saw a manual with Japanese characters on it, and lots of packing material. There was also a large, round thing that looked pretty high tech.

“Do you know what it is?” he asked me.

“A Roomba?” I asked. I was really confused because I did not ask for a Roomba. I am not a stickler for a well-vacuumed house, and I doubted my ability to train my cat to ride it.
“Guess again!” He was so excited.
I looked a little closer and realized it had an almost oval shape, and a lid. “Is it a toilet seat?”
“Not just any toilet seat!” He could not contain himself.
“Is this one of those fancy Japanese toilet seats?” I asked.
“It’s a bidet! Remember when you said you wanted a bidet?”

Truth be told, I didn’t remember saying that, but clearly he did. He remembered it so well that it stuck in his mind for months until it was time to buy me something really special.

“Are you surprised? “He asked me.

“Incredibly,” I replied.

We finished opening all the gifts and went on to enjoy Christmas music and some fabulous cinnamon rolls. The toilet seat sat in its box, forgotten for the time being.

In the afternoon, I talked with my friend, MJS. We had that whole “what did you get” conversation. She told me about her haul, and then I told her about my toilet seat. MJS works with an assisted living community. She knew all about my toilet seat.

“We have lots of residents who have those installed before they move in,” she told me. “It’s great! All the residents should have them. When you get old, your accuracy starts to wane.”
“They miss the bowl?” I asked.
“Let me put it like this: it beats shit under your fingernails,” she replied.

A few days later, my husband offered to install it for me. “If you really like it, I can have an electrician come to the house to put a new outlet near the toilet.”

“This thing has to be plugged in?” I said.
“Well, it can’t very well run on batteries,” he said.

I don’t know why, but it never occurred to me it was electric. Perhaps it was because I didn’t know all that much about it.

“What does it do, anyway?” I asked. It was easier to have him tell me than to make the effort to read the manual myself.

“It does everything! It can heat up.”
“I don’t like a hot toilet seat. It disturbs me to know someone else sat there before me.”
“Well, it does other things too. It has a remote control and dual cleansing nozzles, for the front and the back.”
“At the same time? Dual action?”
“No, of course not. It also has a feminine hygiene setting.”
“I am supposed to douche with my toilet seat? Hand me that manual,” I said. “What is this? Pulsating action? Am I supposed to go the bathroom or get off on it?”
He grabbed the manual back. “It has a setting for kids too.”
“In case they have not yet been sexually abused by the toilet seat? To kind of loosen them up, break them in?”
He ignored that last comment. “It’s not a toilet seat. It’s a bidet. It can also air dry your holes.”
“Great. I always wanted someone to blow smoke up my ass. I guess this is the next best thing.”
“See? I told you you wanted one,” my husband said.

For now, the toilet seat is still in the box. My cats take turns sitting on and in the box every day. One of these days, we will get around to installing it and taking it for a test drive. I haven’t pushed the issue because it’s too damn complicated and also, to be honest, I am a little bit scared of it.

Out of Courtesy

Have you seen the news coverage of the brawls at malls all across the country? We have come to expect a melee at Walmart on Black Friday, but out and out mob violence at the local shopping center on the day after Christmas seems to be yet another new low for the US. It wasn’t just a mall or two; 12 malls in different parts of the country had to shut down to stop the clashes.

This level of discord is a concrete sign of the disconnect we have in our politics, our lifestyles, our wealth, really any area in which we can differ. With all the talk we have had about hope and tolerance and acceptance and coexistence, all we have really seemed to unite about is being against one another.

At the core of our dissonance is what I consider to be one of the key issues: a lack of civility. We are no longer a civilized society. We used to at least pretend to be polite to one another. We might have occasionally let someone in front of us in traffic. We would try to find patience in line at the grocery store. Hell, we used to wait in line. Now, we have devolved from a community with a sense of belonging to isolated beings with no regard for our fellow humans.

About a month ago, my daughter, E, stood at the crosswalk by her high school. There is a school crossing sign on the side of the road but no crossing guard to help older students safely walk from one side to the other. When E stepped into the road and walked, one car didn’t stop until it was mere inches from hitting her. She crossed the street in a clearly marked space during school hours when drivers should slow down and certainly stop for pedestrians, but that’s also a thing we don’t do anymore. So she was almost hit by the car.

The driver, who had to slam on her brakes, was also a high school student, a sophomore with a learning permit. Her mother was in the passenger seat next to her, ostensibly to offer guidance. The student put down her window and yelled at E.

 

This is what she said, with her mother next to her: What the fuck are you doing?

My daughter stood in the road, still shaking from her near miss. E didn’t respond verbally, but she did give the girl the finger. I have talked to E about flipping people off. It is one of those gestures that just makes people flip their shit. There is no turning back from the finger. She didn’t defiantly raise her hand in the air. She kept it discreetly by her side, where you would have to look closely to see it was an obscene gesture and not a nervous tic. The mother saw my daughter’s middle finger for what it was.

 

She leaned across the car and yelled this: Don’t you ever do that to my daughter again or I will fucking rape you in the ass.

My daughter told me this story when she got home from school that afternoon. E was still upset, not so much that she was almost hit by a car because that is an almost daily occurrence. She could not believe a mother, seated next to her own daughter, would yell such a vile thing to another female child. It was so shocking to both of us. I didn’t even know what to tell her, other than to stop flipping off people. Short of taking out her phone to record the incident or to snap a photo of the license plate, she really didn’t have any options.

We spent a week or so saying it to each other, to take some of the power out of the words. Do the laundry or I’ll fucking rape you in the ass. Pack your lunch or I’ll fucking rape you in the ass. Make your bed or I’ll…you get the idea. Humor, however inappropriate, took away a bit of the sting.

Here’s my point. If we are a society where women are comfortable threatening children with anal rape for crossing the street at a crosswalk in a school zone, then we are most definitely a society that will fight over a half-price hoodie at the mall. We will say whatever we want to strangers on the Internet. We will get ours before they get theirs. We believe we are entitled, more so than the other people may think that they are the entitled ones. It turns our that we are all wrong.

We may not like the outcome of the presidential election. We may not think life is fair. We may not worship the same, or any, god. We may believe respect is earned and not demanded. Can’t we at least agree to the golden rule? Can we not treat others as we would like to be treated? Can we not make an effort to find the common ground or at least follow some semblance of orderly politeness?

I, for one, make an effort in little ways. I observe yield signs and red lights.  I wait my turn for service at restaurants and in stores. I teach my children to be kind, not judgmental. It sure would be swell if some more of us could try a little kindness and a little less complaining. A touch of civility could be the secret to making our society better. It certainly couldn’t hurt, and it won’t cost any of us a thing.

Soup's On!

Are you enjoying this holiday season, or are you feeling the stress? If you are having a week like mine, you are probably doing a bit of both. Like many of my mixed-up friends, my family celebrates both Chanukah and Christmas. This year the lunar and Gregorian calendar collide, and the first night of Chanukah shares the spotlight with Christmas Eve. For those of us who overdo, it’s a level of excess unlike any we’ve seen in recent years.

I’m hosting my older sister and nephews this season and decided to make a nice Jewish dinner on Christmas Eve. I made two kinds of rugelach a few days ago rather than attempting homemade jelly donuts, also known as the difficult to pronounce sufganiyot. I even made my own applesauce to go with the potato latkes that will grace my table.

All we really want to eat is latkes. They are crisp and greasy and salty and truly delightful. They also sit in your gut, daring you to digest them, while you wonder why we celebrate a minor Jewish holiday by eating the equivalent of a Waffle House side dish. We have to have something else to balance out those potato pancakes, and I thought matzoh ball soup and a salad might help move things along.

I like to make my own stock. I don’t do anything unusual. I am not browning fatty backs and wings to bring out the flavor. I do not roast my onions and carrots to a delicious caramel before adding them. I just kick it old school with my chicken, veggies, seasonings, and water and let the whole pot simmer away on the stove.

With all the extra food in the house for the double holiday, I didn’t have room in my refrigerator for a big stock pot. I do have an extra fridge in the garage that is usually stocked with beer and old sodas that no one wants to drink. When we have company or holiday meals, our food overflow goes in the outside fridge. I had my husband rearrange his odd assortment of beer to make room for my stock pot and, interestingly enough, a honey baked ham that I plan to serve alongside the turkey breast for Christmas dinner. We don’t keep kosher, but we are also not big ham fans. Chances are good that thing is going to see the trash can Christmas night, minus a slice or two.

After the stock finished cooking, I let it cool for a little while before removing the chicken and pouring the broth through a strainer to remove the tired, old veggies that gave their all to the cause. With the stock safely transferred to another pot, it was ready to go in the outside fridge. I carefully lifted the pot of hot chicken stock and carried it towards the garage door. My daughter, S, held the door for me and scurried down the short flight of brick stairs to open the fridge door.

I took a step or two, and my heel caught on the third step.

Have you ever noticed that when you fall, you feel like it happens in slow motion? I lost my balance and fell back oh so slowly, trying to figure out a way to break my fall without spilling the stock on my daughter or myself. Make no mistake, that broth was simmering away mere minutes before. It was still plenty hot and ready to do some damage.

I fell down, landing hard on my butt and scraping my calf on the brick steps. I would like to say I didn’t spill a drop of soup, but I did. I spilled three drops. S was terrified, but honestly, other than the scratch on my leg, I was fine. I saved myself and the broth.

I perfected the art of falling with food when I was nine. A friend of mine had invited me to join her family on their boat, and we stopped at a sandy spot along a creek to play on rafts and have lunch. Her father grilled hot dogs for everyone, and I got it in my head that I wanted to eat mine in the small inflatable boat they had tied to the pontoon. It was moving gently with the current, and when I turned around to plop down in the middle, I fell, missing the little boat entirely. I landed hard in the water, in over my head. Somehow, I managed to save my hot dog, my right hand clutching it high in the air above the water’s surface.

That’s how I felt, holding that pot of hot broth. I was triumphant over tragedy, saving the soup, dodging what could have been not only an unfortunate loss of homemade stock, but also narrowly avoiding a severe burn a few days before Christmas Eve. It was a Christmas and Chanukah miracle, all wrapped into one clumsy fall.

Enjoy whatever holiday you want, however you choose to celebrate it. Maybe yours will cross over like mine, with a pot of matzoh ball soup right next to the honey baked ham in the fridge.

Empty Handed

I didn’t win the lottery.

To be honest, I didn’t really expect to win, but the Powerball had reached a ridiculous over 400 million dollars, and someone, at some point, was going to claim a buttload of Benjamins. Why not me? Why not my family? Why not now?

The Saturday after Thanksgiving was the last big Powerball, and my husband said in passing that we ought to get a lottery ticket. We were at the beach for the holiday, and we planned to drive home on a Friday. Our drive would take us by interstate and by small rural 2-lane roads, which meant we had the opportunity to pull over to a truck stop in the middle of nowhere and buy some tickets. It always seems the big winners get their tickets in some heretofore unheard of dead end, so there was precedence for our theory.

I want to throw out a disclaimer here about my life, which is, for all practical purposes, pretty damn cushy. I don’t work full time. We live quite comfortably. Our needs are met, and we have enough to travel and have nice things. I do appreciate what I have. We are very fortunate, and for the most part, I am generous and not materialistic.

At the same token, I would like to be able to do, well, more. My daughters will soon be in college, and how nice would it be to not have to worry about how to pay for their education? What if we had enough extra money to fix up the stuff we have been putting off around the house? What if we could take a trip to Disney World before Christmas? I recognize that I do not need over 400 million dollars. I would have been happy with a cool million, enough to handle that wish list and have a little left over to share with others in a charitable way. A million doesn’t go as far as it used to, you know.

We did go to Disney World before Christmas a few years ago, when at least one of our kids was still considered a child by Disney age guidelines. It was traditionally a slow week, which meant lower hotel rates and a free Disney dining plan. Airline tickets were a tad more affordable because we had more competition in our market. The temperatures were perfect for amusement, and the crowds were small, and we could ride almost every ride more than once without having to Fast Pass or wait in line. We refer to that as the Good Old Days.

Now my kids are considered adults, and there is no off-season, and we don’t have that kind of money to blow on an extra vacation just because it would be fun. I miss the Good Old Days.

So, yeah, I was thinking about college, but really, I wanted to go to Disney World. We stopped at a gas station between two towns, the names of which are irrelevant and instantly forgettable. My husband stayed outside to pump premium gas into my European crossover SUV, while my daughter, S, and I went inside the convenience store to purchase snacks and drinks and five dollars’ worth of lottery tickets.

After grabbing a bag of Bugles, our preferred car snack, and selecting the most disgusting version of Mountain Dew currently on the market, which according to my spouse is the grape-flavored Pitch Black, we walked up to the counter to pay.

“Is that all?” the cashier asked me.

“No, I would also like to buy some lottery tickets,” I told her.

This was the second time in my adult life I have purchased lottery tickets. Any other time we had a wild hair to lose some money, my husband was the one who did the deed. I don’t know the protocol for playing the lottery, as everyone near me was about to discover.

“What do you want?” the cashier said.

“I would like five tickets, please. And make them Powerball,” I said.

"Ten dollars.” she said.

I hesitated a moment, trying to understand how my five tickets turned into a ten dollar purchase. Then I remembered the Powerball part was an extra buck a ticket.

“That’s fine,” I said, and handed her my credit card.

"Numbers?”

“Hmm? Oh, um, I’d like quick pick please.”

She printed out a small receipt and put it on the counter. “Cash,” she said. Her irritation with me was visible.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Cash, not credit. You can’t charge lottery tickets.”

Did you know you cannot buy lottery tickets with a credit card? I sure didn’t. I took my wallet out of my moderately overpriced name brand handbag and dug around. I found two crumpled dollar bills and some pennies.

“I don’t have ten dollars,” I said. “Is it all right to wait and let my daughter run out to the car? S, go tell your father I need ten dollars to play the lottery.” I spoke those words. The whole thing was really happening. I was, in fact, this person.

A small line formed behind me. The cashier sighed and looked at me. The other cashier quickly handled the purchases of the other people waiting.

S came back inside with some money from my husband. “Here you go,” I told her, handing her the bill. “I’m sorry about that.”

She took my money and pushed the receipt in my direction. I grabbed it and our other stuff and went back to the car with S trailing behind me.

“I don’t think we are going to win, if the purchase experience is any indication,” I told my husband, handing him the slip.

“Everyone knows you can’t buy lottery tickets with cash,” he said.

“Apparently not everyone,” I said to him.

Two days later, the lottery numbers were announced, and out of our five tickets, we won four dollars for hitting the Powerball number. It was the only number out of all the numbers for the five lottery tickets that matched. Our four dollar win meant we only lost six dollars, so I guess that’s some sort of consolation. We planned on using our winnings to buy more lottery tickets. I think that’s how gambling works.

In case you were wondering, one person did win the entire over four hundred million dollars. One. Single. Person. I think it was a woman in Michigan. I don’t know what she is going to do with all that money, but I hope she goes to Disney World before Christmas.

Coming Right up

My younger daughter, S, told me yesterday that she has never seen a performance of The Nutcracker. I have to admit, I was floored at her announcement because I’ve seen it at least seven times now, as have my husband and my older daughter, E.  It has become a holiday tradition of sorts for the three of us to have a lovely dinner downtown and see the show.

S has never sat in the audience; instead, she has been up on the stage. For seven of the past eight years, S danced in a variety of roles. She has been a little mouse, a party girl, a toy soldier, a toy soldier on horseback, an angel, and a big mouse. Well, twice on the big mouse, and believe me, she is still disappointed about it. She has been on pointe and in ballet shoes. She has had her hair curled and her face covered with a mouse head. The one year she missed was due to an injury, and she volunteered to help with the production even when she could not perform.

The Nutcracker is a huge commitment for everyone involved. Auditions are generally held at the end of summer, and practices take place every weekend for months until that one weekend in December. There are many families way more involved and committed to the experience than mine, but we each contribute in some way to make it work.

Honestly, I love to watch the show. I love dressing up and going out and sitting in that slightly uncomfortable concert hall seat. I love when the lights dim and the musicians play. I love the grandeur, and the tradition, and I love when I see my child take the stage for roughly five minutes, knowing that she will have this special experience of realizing the reward of her hard work and dedication as well as the thrill of taking the stage with professionals from around the world for an audience of over 3,000 people.

This year, my sister, LK, joined us to watch the show. After our delicious dinner, we went to the concert hall and took our seats. We had good seats too, almost in the middle of the row, closer to the front, a great spot to see all the action. The first act went off without a hitch, and I was impressed as always by the quality of the performance.

After a twenty-minute intermission, the second act began. I love the second act because that’s when all the trippy stuff happens in the Land of Sweets. Spanish, Arabian, Chinese, and Russian dancers all perform, and the music and choreography and costumes are mesmerizing. Indeed, we were all engrossed when it happened.

Sometime during the Arabian or Chinese dances, we heard this horrible sound. It came from two rows behind us, and it was like a splash, only human. A human splash. It wasn’t a sneeze or a cough; in fact, it was so unusual a sound to hear in public that at first we didn’t know what to make of it.

About thirty seconds later, it became aromatically clear that the sound we heard was, in fact, the spew of vomit. My sister is notoriously phobic about vomit, and E is almost as bad, so the fact that the two of them were in such close proximity to someone else’s puke and powerless to flee made all three of us anxious. We had to turn around repeatedly to see if it was directly behind us. The large man seated in that row may have been targeted. He had an awkward look on his face and moved around, unsure if he should stay seated or get up and leave. We took comfort in knowing it was at least a row away.

We covered our noses with our fingers, but seriously, the smell. E, who was not in the greatest of moods, courtesy of being seventeen, decided there was no way she could sit through the rest of the show. She did that thing where she would start to stand and then sit and then sort of squat because she didn’t want to be rude, but really, it was too late for that, all the while with that look on her face that showed her contempt for other people and crowds and bodily functions. I told her to go, and so she did.

At that point, my sister took E’s seat. Apparently, the woman next to her made the mistake of putting her purse on the floor, as well as the bottoms of her shoes. LK leaned into me and we covered our faces with our collars because our fingers alone were not enough of a filter. On my other side, my husband sat and watched the show, oblivious to the panic and disgust we were experiencing. He later said he could smell it but chose to ignore it. I insist that smelling vomit is not a choice.

With E gone and LK next to me, we turned back to the show, and damn if we didn’t miss almost all of the Chinese and Russian dancing. After a bit, the smell dissipated, or we adjusted like my husband, but we were able to make it through all of act two and curtain bows.

We met up with E in the lobby. She told us that after cleaning the soles of her shoes in the restroom, she sat on a bench by herself. Soon after, an older woman sat next to her, even though all the other benches were empty. She held in her hand a large trash bag, inside of which was her vomit-covered coat. She gave E a sheepish look, and E got up and moved to another bench.

I debated asking for a refund for E’s ticket. The seats were over 55 a head, and she was too grossed out to see the entire show. I also thought for about a minute or two that they should have turned on the lights and thrown some cat litter or baking soda all over that puke, but the show, as they say, must go on. There was nothing to do but sit and watch.

After congratulating S on another successful show, we spent the drive home discussing what would cause a grown woman not to get up and leave if she felt that she was going to be sick. She certainly wasn’t a child who may not understand that nauseated feeling, but an adult? And in a formal theatre? Again, it wasn’t a heavy metal show or a football game; it was the motherfucking ballet. Have some class, people.

I wanted to have some sympathy for the woman. She didn’t set out to ruin everyone’s evening. She didn’t feel well, and for whatever reason, she wasn’t able to leave before she got sick. But then I thought about the audition and all those Saturdays of practice and the hundreds of dollars spent for everyone to watch the show, and I decided no.

You ruined more than your own night; you ruined the performance for at least two rows of people. You made me miss the Chinese dance. Perhaps you should stay home and watch it on DVD, or, at the very least, bring a discreet bag with you. Pick an aisle seat maybe. Wait and eat after the show. Go to a different show, maybe Disney on Ice. I’m sure you won’t be the only one puking there.

A Little Bit of Pixie Dust

I haven’t written a blog in almost two months, and my silence is weighing heavily on my mind. It’s not that I haven’t had stories to tell, because there is always a story. It’s really a combination of things. They fit together like a puzzle that disappoints when you place that last piece, when you don’t have a sense of accomplishment, just the realization you have wasted your time.

The primary reason I haven’t blogged is my freelance work producing web content. I spend most of my days writing, just not writing anything fun. Now, if you are interested in the benefits of metal roofing or storage units or replacing your windows, then I’ve got you covered.

I do have to be creative to make boring topics semi-interesting, and I have to do it on strict deadlines and formats and word counts. I am writing more than ever, but none of it makes me feel very good, and it barely adds loose change to my pocket. The few cents a word helps to cover the occasional dinner out or birthday gift or shoe splurge, and I am gaining what I hope will be valuable experience, and so I persist.

In addition to not having as much time or as many creative sparks, I am struggling to find humor in the every day. This is a tough one for me, because laughing is my favorite. But ever since November 8, things just don’t seem so laughable anymore. Now, every day brings another brick of sadness and hurt. My disillusionment has become the existence of so many like-minded people, when every day I want to see what’s happening in our country and the world, and we sink lower than the day before. It’s a pretty hopeless feeling, and I can’t shake it.

Part of it is that what used to amuse me seems so trivial now, as if I am wasting time on frivolity that could be better spent bearing witness to the shit show into which our political system and government has devolved. Also, things seem personal now, and hurtful, and laughing at weird news feels cruel and sadistic. We have real problems to address, but now, we cannot rely on those in charge to weigh things like facts and reason and logic before making decisions. I feel a responsibility to pay attention even if I am powerless to do anything, and all that paying attention is exhausting.

I grew up in a less than happy home. My main coping mechanism was humor. It helped me survive a pretty rough childhood, and it’s been there like a touchstone throughout my adult life. Now, I feel deserted, and alone, and scared, and at a loss. I don’t know how to cope without an ability to find comedy in tragedy. Without the humor, it’s just pain.

I have been feeling like this for weeks, and I have hesitated to express it. I don’t want to sound melodramatic and fragile. I live a pretty nice life now. I am fortunate. The social issues that matter to me do not necessarily affect me directly, and I know I am lucky. People like me who are not in survival mode are exactly the ones who need to stand up for people who can’t for whatever reason do it for themselves. Maybe it’s the reform Jew in me, or the intellectual, or just the sensitive soul I am, but the compassion I wanted for myself when I was a child is what I now share with others in whatever small way I can. I am disheartened because it doesn’t feel like it’s enough to make a difference for anyone.

I am writing this now, at the beginning of December, when I normally try to write and post 12 blogs, my annual Twelve Blogs of Christmas. I have been trying to meet this goal I set for myself every year at a time when we are all feeling both the joy and stress of the holidays. This time of year is especially busy in my home. From October to January, it’s one celebration after another. Halloween, my older daughter’s birthday, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, New Year’s, and my younger daughter’s birthday. Throw in a good football season, and we have the makings of a mental breakdown’s worth of to-do lists and preparations. That’s a fuckton of work to be done, my friends.

In a good month, I may post two or three blogs, which as of late has dwindled to none. And now, at the start of December, I want to meet my goal. I want to take twelve moments out of my life or out of my mind, where I do most of my living anyway, and write them all down and share them with you. I can’t promise they are all going to be funny, but hopefully, they will be relatable. Who knows, maybe together, we can find a reason to get up every day and keep going in a pretty hopeless time. For me, it will be writing. For you, I have no idea, but maybe, just maybe, it will be reading.

For what it’s worth, this counts as number one. Eleven more to go. I would say game on, but I really hate that expression. Instead, I’ll leave you with this…HERE WE GO! Please read that in Peter Pan’s voice, because that’s how it sounds in my head.