2012 ... Is it over yet??

     Twenty Twelve has been an awful year. A truly, gosh-darn, terrible year.  I'm sure many folks would agree. Oh, it started out all right, joyously ringing in the New Year with a champagne toast, (then suffering the next day with a ringing in our ears and dry toast.)  It was all downhill from there. For most of my comrades, between the economy, natural disasters, a divisive election and abysmal reality shows, there has been little cause for celebration.

     For me, the ominous cloud came in the form of a broken appendage. Just a small one, the third toe on my right foot; not one I use a whole lot. Unfortunately, it was two weeks after I'd made the brave decision to take ballet classes. At the age of forty, I'd decided to pirouette into middle age and erase that task from my bucket list.

     What an embarrassment it was to explain, to those who asked, how I actually broke my toe. Concerned friends assumed I'd broken it quite romantically, or even athletically, "It happened while you were dancing? While you were doing yoga?"  No, dear readers, I whacked it while walking into the bathroom in the middle of the night. A grand old frontal SLAM of my foot into an open, and utterly invisible, door.  The obvious antics ensued: shouts, screams, tears and hopping around on one foot. Then, the gentle 'removal of the sock' which revealed a strange-looking and awkwardly bent toe to which my significant other remarked, "You're gonna have to pop that back into place."  ~swoon~

     So I hobbled about for a week or so. I wore ugly, soft flats instead of cute, high heels. I avoided ballet.  And... the year got progressively worse. No raises, no vacations, an unbearable summer with a daughter on the cusp of adulthood, a dog bite, a hurricane that knocked over our fence and a frightening car accident that totaled our Hyundai.

     For the record, I am fed up with 2012. And I am chucking my usual optimism. Why should we humans thumb our noses at the Mayan's ancient prediction that Dec 21, 2012 will be the 'end of it all?'  Or that there won't be a zombie apocalypse? All those folks purchasing survival bunkers may be on to something!

    Perhaps I'm being morose, or just cynically pessimistic. In any case, I still intend to take Rob's advice and buy LOTS of canned goods and water before December 21st (just in case.) But that is only half in jest, because underneath it all I am optimist, as most of us are. People are inherently hopeful, thank goodness. They've been through a lot worse this year than the silly things I complained about.

     We may be on the ropes, but I'm looking forward to 2013 - a better year. Cripes.. it has to be!
     See you all in January, folks ;-)

Chapter Fourteen: Winter Holidays

Thanksgiving and Christmas are the most festive part of our year: childlike anticipation, holiday traditions, parties, feasting, shopping and presents! Plus, there are unexpected moments of humor.

We hosted Thanksgiving this year. I've found it takes several people to pull off a successful Thanksgiving dinner. I am so grateful to Rob and his mother, Connie. Rob bravely risks burning his hands in the oven while checking the turkey, and he’s the official carver of the bird. Connie is a terrific cook and potato-mashing expert. If not for her, potatoes would be splattered on our kitchen cupboards again. (I just can’t master the electric mixer.)

My daughter has more of a ‘food taster and humorous commentary’ role on Thanksgiving. She naps before the turkey is served. She was astute as Rob searched for a turkey baster. He muttered quietly, “It might be in the garage, think I used it to siphon brake fluid out of the car.”  When a baster was finally produced, my daughter yelled, “Is that the same one?!”

We cut our own Christmas tree this year, which was a first for me. We proudly pulled a little red cart behind us, through the mud, on a blustery cold day, happy as ever, as we disagreed on which tree to cut. Good times--

Keeping a clean house during the holidays is not easy, especially when a college student returns. My daughter’s rambunctious kitten came with her, and he enlivened our household. Keeping a kitten off a Christmas tree is a task in itself! We frequently hear hissing, spitting and yowling and may see a blur of orange and black as our two cats show their appreciation for one another. Our dog, Shnoop, is a chagrined referee.

Rob owns approximately seventy-five coats, jackets and hats, which he leaves all over the house. I’m constantly hanging them up. He had the once-terrific idea of installing a coat rack in our garage. But there’s an unfortunate side effect to hanging outerwear in a cold garage: “Thanks dear, just put my coat on. It’s stiff and now I’m freezing.”

Holiday television shows and movies are fabulous fun. Who can resist “A Charlie Brown Christmas” or the animated “Grinch?”  My family quietly tolerates “A Christmas Carol” (all versions) and “A Christmas Story” over and over, and they hear Christmas music in the house beginning November twentieth. (Okay, maybe they have no choice.)  Regardless, it’s all about setting the holiday mood: decorations, mistletoe, wrapping paper, bows and gift boxes all over the house. At what other time can you burn pine-scented candles?

In December at our house you’ll hear things like:

“I should wear my glasses when shopping. I almost bought a tub of your favorite gummy bears, only to find it was fruit cake mix.”

“Are you sure you want the Hair-extension Glam Barbie?  She’s sold out in five stores. How about a nice nurse Barbie?”

“Hold the dog still while I snap a photo of him with the Santa hat on.”

“Can we regift that present?”

“You gave Uncle Butch the spiked eggnog? Don’t let him ride the sled down the stairs!”

     Of course, the best part of the season is being surrounded by loved ones. It makes you take a deep breath and appreciate that which is most important in our lives ~ presents! Just kidding…

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Chapter Thirteen: Grocery Shopping

     I'm very lucky to have a man who loves to do the grocery shopping. Unfortunately, that is not always good for our wallets. I am notoriously frugal; I make lists and stick to a budget. I rarely succumb to impulse purchases. (I buy just four rolls of toilet tissue at a time, or half a gallon of milk. Rob, however, strolls down the store aisles, tossing items into a cart like Paris Hilton at a Prada sale!)

     Several times Rob offered to do the food shopping alone, which I thought was terrific!  But I slowly realized that he prefers going alone, because I'm a killjoy, reining in expenditures and putting the kibosh on purchases.

     After my daughter left for college, it was only two of us in the house, but Rob insisted we become members of our local bulk item club. These shopping trips were hard for me: a warehouse of endless products looming two stories high, set on pallets and wrapped in industrial plastic. Big neon signs with prices three times the cost of regular-sized items in our supermarket.  Rob guided the shopping cart cheerfully while I hyperventilated, saying things like:

"Who's going to eat a five-pound jar of olives?"

"Do we really need twenty-four rolls of toilet paper?"

"Don't you think forty waffles is a bit much?"

     My protests were met by Rob's patient and logical explanations that buying in bulk would ultimately save us money. Other times, he pretended not to hear me.

    The problem also extended to our trips to the butcher, where I had a definite prix fixe in mind.  When I arrived home, laden with meats, Rob inspected the bags and interrogated me:

"Only three pounds of ground beef?"

"Why didn't you get a whole ring of smoked bologna?"  

"You didn't get any fried pig ears for the dog?!"

     And on it went. I spent too little and Rob spent too much. So, we consented to meet in the middle.  I'm less tight-fisted with expenses and Rob keeps (somewhat) to a budget. Truth be told, we have alot of fun shopping together; it never loses its 'romance.'  And you know what they say, the couple who shops together, stays together!

Chapter Twelve: Halloween & Haunted Houses

     Halloween is by far one of our favorite holidays.  My daughter and I consider it as exciting as Christmas. The Halloween season holds revered traditions for our household; we plan them with thrilling anticipation. We also adore horror movies and haunted tours. (I take full responsibility for this. My strict Catholic upbringing forbade pagan-istic things, including going to Dante's Inferno in Coney Island or The Haunted Mansion on the New Jersey boardwalk. These restrictions ensured an intrigue with the macabre for the rest of my life.  Trick or treating, however, was encouraged. There are many loopholes for Christians, it seems. My mother's love for theater, and her sweet tooth, prevailed!)

     Like most families, we choose trick or treat candy that we enjoy, because someone's got to eat the leftovers, right? As for pumpkins, there's something fun about sticking your hands in a fresh, cold one and yanking out the stringy, orange innards. Plus, you can bake the seeds- YUM. Through the years, carving at our house became more elaborate. We bought cutting kits, tracing patterns, electric candles and even 'pumpkin bling' to turn our jack-o-lanterns into veritable works of art. My daughter's skills far exceeded ours. When she proudly completed a perfect carving of the Headless Horseman (per the package label, Level of difficulty - Advanced) we were humbled and impressed!

     We enjoyed trips to pumpkin patches, as well as bumpy hay rides that scratched our legs but were fun nonetheless.  We stocked up on apple cider, Indian corn and gnarly gourds. We discovered that sure you could choose the biggest pumpkin in the field, but then you had to carry your forty pound purchase across two acres! 

     Halloween parades and haunted houses were age-appropriate when my daughter was little, and only mildly spooky. Then we sought scarier activities as our quest for fright intensified. Our Halloween seasons progressed from nights lost in a giant corn maze, to haunted evening rides at an amusement park, to a tour of a ramshackle hotel where terrifying gory-faced actors chased us, to a decrepit former prison, which once housed Al Capone, where even more gory-faced actors chased us. (I don't like to jog but certainly get a month's worth of running in October!)

     Horror movies got better and better, giving us thrills and chills. Yet we appreciated the timeless classics like "Halloween" and "The Shining."  (Say what you will, great costumes are created every year, but a quiet guy in a Michael Myers mask standing in the corner at a party is ALWAYS terrifying.)

     We keep our fingers crossed each year, in the hopes that someone we know will throw a costume party. And usually we're not disappointed. Rob and I are fully prepared that we may need to carry the torch and host a Halloween party. If so, I'll embrace that role with enthusiasm! The magic of the holiday is that it's the one day of the year you can be anything you wish, no matter how scary or silly.

     So fellow ghouls, find your fog machines and spooky music CDs, practice your werewolf howls and witches' cackles. Fill that candy dish and happy haunting to you!      

     



           

  

Chapter Eleven: Summer Fun Part II, The County Fair

An exciting summer event is the annual county fair. The farther away you live from a city, the more of a big deal the fair is. We have neighbors who participate in the demolition derby. They prepare their junk automobiles months in advance, spray-painting them with catchy nicknames like “The Dominator” and “Sweet Lorraine.” The demolition derby is not to be confused with the truck pull or the tractor pull. These are separate events entirely! The fair lasts over a week, so young and old can choose which nights they want to attend. The teens prefer Fridays and Saturdays. Retired folks prefer mid-week, when the blue ribbon pie and livestock awards are presented.

We never ate before going to the fair, as the food was the best part. The traffic heading to the fair was bumper to bumper for miles. This added to the excitement.  Wooden signs adorned the highway as we crawled at a snail’s pace: “You’re almost there! Funnel cake, buy one get one free! Lawnmower races, 7pm!”

Once at the fairgrounds, we parked a quarter of a mile away in a grassy field, which was either muddy from recent rains or dusty due to recent drought. Teenage boys in sleeveless flannel shirts directed us where to park. They motioned for us to come closer and closer. These young men expressed disgust if we left six inches between our vehicle and the car in front. Walking into the fairgrounds was exhilarating. It gave you a glimpse of what was to come: parents struggling with strollers and toddlers, sullen teens trying to avoid walking with their parents and bickering young couples.

At the front gate, which was literally a wooden gate, we paid five dollars and received a ticket, which we immediately gave to another ticket taker three feet away. We walked around to ‘take it in’ and view the food stands. It was important to plan the noshing sensibly.  If we were going to gain seven pounds eating unhealthy food, we might as well make our culinary options worthwhile. (Either way the night would end with a good dose of Pepto Bismol.)  We decided to start off with something hot and hearty, like chili dogs and cheese steaks made by the local fire department. We also enjoyed sausage sandwiches and meatball subs proudly prepared by the Ladies Auxiliary.

Other delights of the local peasantry were foods on a stick. These included grilled corn on the cob and cheesecake dipped in chocolate. Then there were the fried goodies, like elephant ears (fried dough sprinkled with cinnamon) and funnel cake (fried dough topped with confectioners’ sugar.) One year our county fair stopped using lard, for health reasons, and switched to vegetable oil. Complaints about diminished flavor were heard all around, so lard was brought back due to consumer demand!

Rides at the county fair were a lot like the ones at the beach, only not as safe.  The attendants looked like they’d been given a weekend furlough. The straps on the rides were frayed and sticky with cotton candy. We had to time going on the rides precisely, so as not to induce nausea.  Walking through the livestock buildings was a good option right after eating, despite the smell. We were dazzled by the county’s prized bunnies, chickens, horses and steer. The baby chicks peeped their way into our hearts. Smitten, we promised ourselves we’d build a coop and keep a dozen of those precious fluff balls in our yards. This feeling usually passed once we exited the barn. 

The demolition derby was a thrill. Juggling bags of roasted nuts and cold sodas, we climbed the metal stairs to watch the heats.  This was where the assemblage of people really got interesting. We sat near an entire family who wore John Deere tee shirts and baseball caps; it was hard to tell the ladies from the gents. For an hour, I became the unwilling custodian of a precocious toddler in a camouflage-print diaper and no shoes. The stands were packed with raucous spectators. We raised our plastic mugs in a universal salute. We cheered for the drivers as they drove in a manner that would normally get them arrested. We urged them on until their vehicles were smashed to the size of Tonka trucks.

Artisans and crafters had stands set up for the art lovers. One could buy crocheted potholders, silver and turquoise jewelry and lawn ornaments made from farm implements.  Home décor, which incorporated chicken and piglet motifs, was also popular.

The last night of the fair hosted a fireworks show; a celebration that ended with a bang, and a sad reminder that summertime was over.

* * *

Chapter 11: Summer Fun, Part one

Chapter. 11 Summer Fun, Part one

     The joys of summer are many − fireflies, ice cream trucks, warm summer nights, sitting outside  sipping mint juleps while “beer can chicken” sizzles on the grill. One sublime evening, we were delighted to discover that we had a bunny hole in our yard. Ever the nature lovers, and being curious humans who can’t leave things alone, we put on rubber gloves and leaned down to look at it. Three baby bunnies were nestled inside. They were absolutely adorable! We continued to watch them. Our cat came over, jealous that we were not paying attention to her. I noticed that kitty had something not-so-nice hanging from her nether region. So I picked her up by the hind quarters to inspect. Then our dog came over, jealous that we were not paying attention to him. The dog, alas, stepped in the bunny hole.

     Mayhem ensued. Three terror-stricken, squealing bunnies ran in three different directions. Our pets instinctively chased them. The three of us chased after our pets who were chasing the bunnies. We looked like the Keystone cops. We bumped into each other, ran in circles, shouted, scolded, amid a scuffle of animals who were running, pouncing, squealing, meowing and barking. One unfortunate bunny bonked his head on a rock wall, but found sanctuary inside it. His siblings trembled under the garbage cans, while the ferocious cat and dog waited for their prey. We had to drag our pets inside and attempt to coax the bunnies out of their hiding places. We tried to convince them that the bunny hole was safe. But those little guys didn’t trust us, and the next day we saw that mother bunny had taken her babies elsewhere. We learned never to mess with nature again!    

* * *

Chapter 10: The Family Beach Vacation

Ch 10. The Family Beach Vacation

Vacations are exciting endeavors, even in the smallest of families. The extended family vacation is even more fun. Ours consisted of bringing loved ones together at agreed-upon oceanside resorts, where there was plenty to do, plenty of hotel rooms and plenty of restaurants to choose from.

Somehow, year after year, we ended up gathering in one person’s room, repeatedly chose the same restaurant, always needing a table for twelve (waiters cringed when they saw us) and, at least once, each of us was coerced into an activity we really didn’t enjoy. But togetherness prevailed. 

We allowed my daughter to bring her best friend. They got a hotel room of their own. I only entered their room once, about four days into the trip. The heat was on in the room, wet bikinis were piled on the floor, the carpet was sandy, beds were littered with wrappers and empty soda cans and there was a stray cat in the bathroom. I turned pale and walked out, calling over my shoulder, “Dinner in ten. Meet us at the car!”

In the brochure, the beach looked like a wonderland − powdery, white sand and beautiful blue water; in reality, it was hot, gritty and swarmed with people being knocked like bowling pins in the crashing waves. We didn’t care. We were on vacation! We settled our blankets and chairs next to folks who played their music too loudly. We ate sandy sandwiches from the cooler. We envied the toned and bronzed lifeguards. We ogled the beachgoers who should have worn bigger bathing suits. We put gobs of sun block one another after our shoulders and faces turned beet red.

Boardwalk amusement rides were also a hit in our family. The little ones went on the kiddie rides, and we adults tried to prove we were cool by going on rides that the teenagers chose. The spinning centrifuge with the drop floor was my least favorite. I became nauseous, convinced that my lunch would be splattered all over my fellow riders. I managed to get through it without vomiting and walked to a trash bin, swaying and queasy. A woman got to it before me. Unfortunately, the trash bin had a cover. I watched her squeeze her head inside it and barf sideways.

The rides provided your standard thrills to sun-soaked vacationers. There was the haunted house, which smelled moldy. There was the human slingshot, outrageously overpriced to deter the weak-of-heart. There was the pirate ship, which you had to race onto to get the best seats, hoping the chagrined folks wouldn’t spit when it was their turn to be upside down, and the high-tech roller coaster that twisted and looped over perilous ocean waves.

Then there was the small, metal coaster that made you wonder how it was approved by whoever inspected amusement rides. Rob climbed in, all six feet four of him, was knocked around like a marble in a tuna can, and complained of bruises to his knees, shins and ankles later that night.

When we tired of the rides, we moved to the arcades. These were the casinos of the boardwalk, except the winnings were not as good. Flashing lights, a cacophony of bells, buzzers and music were at seizure-inducing levels. But at least it was air-conditioned. Flip-flops and bathing suits were the only required clothing. There were men with hairy backs holding crying toddlers whose diapers were swollen with seawater. There were hundreds of teenagers playing games with skill and finesse we could only dream of possessing. Video games certainly changed since I was a kid! The games portrayed buxom, scantily clad women, frightening looking thugs and an arsenal of firearms that would make the NRA proud. Our family spent more money there than anywhere else. My daughter showed off her skills by spending eight dollars of my money trying to lower a claw to capture a one-dollar stuffed bear.

Walking the boardwalk was a challenge. If you weren’t careful, you could be enticed into getting a tattoo or having something pierced by a surly fifteen-year-old. You could also be coerced into purchasing a bong or a hookah pipe (for tobacco use only, said the signs.) If you were strong enough to resist those items, you might not have resisted the hecklers who ran the boardwalk games. They seemed intent on humiliating you into testing your dexterity by throwing an improbable plastic ring around a soda bottle or shooting a basketball through a rigged rubber hoop. And hey, if you didn’t want to win one for yourself, maybe you wanted one for the lady?

Just when we realized our wallets were empty, the children whined that they were hungry. Boardwalks planned brilliantly and placed ATM machines on every corner. Here we could buy one slice of pizza for the cost of a whole pie at home. We stuffed our faces with funnel cakes and ice cream as we walked around wearing the least amount of clothing we ever had in front of our in-laws.

Lounging at the hotel in the evening was a welcome reprieve. The adults decided to get tanked, while the children did cannonballs in the hotel pool. I volunteered to make a run to the wine store. I was feeling pretty saucy, looking smashing in a forties-style black and white tankini. I parked on the street and strode inside, smiling at everyone. I was disappointed that the clerk didn’t card me. When I got back to my car there was a forty-dollar parking ticket on my windshield.

As for activities, my daughter and I had the brilliant idea of playing miniature golf on a ninety-five degree day. For some reason, we didn’t have many takers. But my brother Matt, who was always a good sport, accompanied us. The heat was relentless. By the eighth hole, we were hallucinating. It was the first time I’d ever gotten sunburn on my feet. My brother soaked through two shirts. We cooled ourselves in a fishpond and the mini golf manager yelled. We raced to finish the game while looking longingly across the street at the water park, where most of our family was.

“I won, I won!” shouted my daughter, after she calculated our scores. She jumped up and down. Matt was already at the car, opening windows and blasting the AC. I collapsed in the vehicle, nearly faint with heat stroke. Matt said, “I think the tops of my ears are burnt.” 

I thought with a smile “Ah, vacation.”