Value wIT

Today there will be no layering of clothes to ward off the winter. There will be no expedition to ski slopes or museums.  In fact, there will be little activity at all.

The Professor and I were awakened to a “Fiesta” prepared by our children who had used a step stool to gain access to dishes and cups.  Upon entering the dining room we found the table set with a bowls of chips, plates of chocolate coins and cups of wine – real wine that was poured to the edge of the teacups.  Guess we’ve made quite the impression on our children – solid nutrition and quality vintage is the breakfast of champions.

Signs had been made announcing the fiesta and cutouts of animals had been taped to the walls. Oddly, our children, who are woefully uneducated with respect to religion, had fashioned a cardboard cross and erected it in the center of the table.  Curiously, the cross was embellished with Jesus’ blood (red marker) as they explained. Not quite sure what to make of this religious statement.

I say our children are not educated on religion, but that is really not true. Certainly they have had some exposure to Christianity, as until this year they attended an Episcopal school. Furthermore, they go to church at least every fifth Sunday when The Professor and I have Altar Guild duty. The kids help us polish the brass rail of the altar and set-up the communion vessels. However, I don’t push Christianity on them and only answer questions as they are asked.

My religious training was completely different, as my Southern Baptist grandmother read the Bible to me every night I spent at her house. She helped me say my prayers and assisted as I answered the daily questions in my daily Bible study guide.  On Sunday mornings I checked boxes on the front of an envelope that asked if I had:

• Read my Bible every day
• Witnessed to at least one person this week
• Answered daily Bible Study questions
• Tithed at least 10%
• Attended Sunday school
• Attended Sunday morning church service
• Attended Sunday night service
• Attended Wednesday night service

My grandmother gave me the appropriate combination of coins to constitute my 10 percent tithing goal. Not exactly sure what amount of my nonexistent income equaled 10 percent, but the weightier the jangle of coins the more pure I felt as I sashayed my well turned-out self into the Sunday school room and sat on the black-slated wooden chair.  The Sunday school teacher, Mr. Webb, weighed close to 500 pounds and could barely move his mouth because his face was puffed to such extremes that there was no room left to move his lips.

Mr. Webb would hold the basket in front of each child while making soul-connecting eye contact as the child placed his envelope inside the basket. On more than one occasion a child would sheepishly handover the envelope with few boxes checked as tears fell down their faces.  After the envelope collection, Mr. Webb would tally the results and my Aunt Flossie would pop into the class to collect our basket and statistics.  Aunt Flossie would then compare our class to the other classes.  At the big church service, the preacher would announce which class had the most participants reading their Bible, witnessing to sinners, tithing and attending the most church services. 

Devil be damned. I was always on the holy side because my grandmother monitored my daily progress, gave me money and dragged me to the church house every time the doors opened. There was never any doubt Mr. Webb could find in my heart. All my boxes were checked.

The poor kids who lived out in the country were another matter.  Their sinner parents didn’t have a car to get them to the church, or the discipline to make them read the Bible every day, or for that matter, a sharpened pencil to check the boxes on the envelope. Most definitely, they didn’t have the extra money to tithe. 

Mr. Webb found these children by his fierce commitment to the practice of witnessing. He would pick up a few members of his Sunday school class and drive out into the country where the crew would pay a kindly visit to the house of the unwashed.  The car ride was pleasant enough as it never felt like we were going to “witness”. It just seemed like a bunch of kids going for a ride. We joked and laughed and tumbled out the car when it stopped at the end of the Hinson’s dirt road. The Hinson’s house was crooked and made from failing wood, and the yard was littered with all matters of extinct car parts and old furniture.

The five Hinson kids raced up to our holy group and within ten seconds the whole gang was in full gallop across the dirt yard. Chasing chickens, playing hide-n-go-seek, climbing under the house or sitting on a rusted motorcycle – it was all great fun.  Mr. & Mrs. Hinson didn’t seem to enjoy Mr. Webb’s visit as much as the children, and it was always disappointing when the playtime came to an end.  Mr. Webb made sure the children knew that fun like this abounded at Littletown Baptist Church every Sunday and Wednesday, and he would swing by to give them a ride to the service.

The Hinson parents probably hit the hooch before Mr. Webb could drive us off the property. Because she told me years later, I know that when Mr. Webb popped in on my wayward cousin for a session of witnessing, she was often times in the midst of firing up her bong or snorting a little cocaine.  Mr. Webb’s attempt to drag Linda Faye back to church always provided her with immense entertainment because she was stoned out of her mind, and Mr. Webb’s porky personage sent her into fits of laughter.

Just a hunch, but maybe all my early exposure to hell and damnation (mixed with the odd spice of Christian racism) has caused me to leave the door to religion ajar for my children.  Surely, there are those who will differ with this way of raising children and say that it is a great disservice to leave children with an unexplained open void in terms of religion.

Maybe so.

After this morning’s Fiesta ended, I wandered back to the bedroom to find The Professor tucked under the blankets reading a book and watching the snow softly fall from the sky.  I cozied-up to him and we listened to the pounding of little feet coming down the hall in search of us.  The feet stopped and presumably looked into the empty room preceding the bedroom. Pound-pound back to the other bedroom. Silence. Pound-pound back to our room. Bingo. We are found.

Our little guy snuggles in to the warm bed between us and silently, father, mother and son, commune with the unspeakable force of nature and the power of the Maker to generate beauty and miracles. Salvation is obvious.

Meanwhile, in the living room, our daughter was watching Jaws and playing with her new pocketknife. How will it all turn out?

The ski suit was blinding blue and green with a giant sign on the back stating OBNOXIOUS TEXAN.  Accessorized by orange goggles, my four-year old son was more than pleased with his appearance. He seemed unsure if skiing meant slaying wild beasts or shooting errant intruders, never the less, the jumpsuit and headgear satisfied his every need to feel like a warrior. At least my daughter had the sense to wear all black skiwear (a testament to her future) so that she might be mistaken as a Coloradoan.   

Today marks the sixth day that The Professor and I have spent every single minute with our children. We love them, no doubt. However, the little people are loud and never stop making noise. Yabber, jabber, yacky-yak, hum, sing, squeal, yell, scream, cry, whine, snore. We dropped them at ski school and read the sign “Beyond This Point Children and Employees Only.” Bye-bye.

The sound of silence.

In exchange for cash the children will be skied, fed, napped, learned, snacked and skied again. What a deal. Once upon a time I tried to teach one of our older children to ski. Such a mistake. The middle daughter was about nine-years old and it seemed like she was getting the hang of it, so I took her a little too high, I guess. By the time we finally made it to the bottom of the mountain, the runs were closed for the day and the ski patrol was looking for us. The Professor was all a worry and the other daughter was crying for her lost sister – not necessarily for her new stepmother.

Granted, I do not own the most technologically advanced ski clothes. I learned to ski with some kids from Denver who taught me to never look like a Texan by wearing snow bunny and/or furry clothes. The lesson was that one should wear jeans, look cool and not fall. Today I decided that advice was so 25 years ago. 

Ski clothes these days, it seems, keep people warmer. The 10-degree weather accompanied by the prospect of skiing the side of the mountain that was shaded from the sun made me wish I was wearing better engineered clothes. I stopped by the bar to consider if I was a good enough skier to try the sunny side of the mountain.  Either the Painkiller (hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps) would give me the courage to attempt a harder run, or it would lure me into ordering a second drink. 

Like magic a pamphlet for the spa appeared in my hand. There was initial excitement but experience told me the poor quality paper and graphics would mean a yokel beauty school dropout would be dabbling at an ayurvedic massage at my cost.  I would rather eat rancid tuna salad than have a disappointing massage.  Buttoning my sweater, activating the headband feature of my running shirt (smart, huh?), zipping my coat and slipping on my gloves, I headed out to buy a lift ticket.

Immediately, the wind slapped my face and bit my nose. Within 30 seconds I am frozen to the core. Watching the lift I imagine how cold the metal seat must be.  The lift stopped and the riders were held hostage as the seats swung to and fro as some mechanical problem was addressed or a rider was collected from a fall. Swinging in the air while the wind brutally attacks must be extra unpleasant. My lazy mind conjured the alternative of lying naked on a heated bed while Mandy rubs oil on my back.

It turns out that Mandy’s name was Chasta, and it wasn’t the best massage, but it beat the hell out of frostbite. When my 80 minutes were finished I begged Chasta for another service – a manicure, an eyebrow pluck, facial, colonic, anything -- no dice. Chasta was booked with Après Ski Sports massages for the rest of the day.  I was being thrown out into the cold again.

By this point, it was me against Winter. I had to find a way to avoid being outside. This is going to sound so snobby and very un-me, but when it comes to skiing I think the motto must be “Go big or go home.” It came to my attention that I was in a rinky-dink resort in New Mexico and aside from Chasta’s meager services that were received in a less than plush environment, there was nothing else to do….besides ski.

In Aspen, for instance, there are great stores, restaurants and tons of beautiful people to watch. As I sat on a lacquered picnic bench and ordered another Painkiller that I didn’t even want, the people seemed less than attractive. I put on my worldly, kind mind and tried to image how good and interesting the people with the long gray ponytails and Navajo sweatshirts must be. It was like the pirate fantasy … seems like a good idea as the pirate rips your shirt off, but when you are face to face with the pirate and he hasn’t brushed his teeth, the fantasy goes bad. 

Two girls from California walked in. No, I didn’t ask if they were from California, but there was no chance they were from anywhere else.  Momentarily, my stare-factor was appeased as I gazed at their blonde hair piled high upon their heads, their plumped lips and the black jumpsuit with a slate graphic pattern ornamented by a low-slung gold belt.  Who designs a get-up like that?  Are there significant skiwear designers? 

The California girls were the only action at Tippy’s Hide-a-way Bar and aside from a store that sold Alpaca teddy bears, there was nothing to do in Rinky-Dink Village.  A bookstore would have been nice, but I would have settled for an outdated People magazine or even a torn set of instructions for a generator – written in Chinese.  I guess when people go skiing, they ski. Go figure.

The sunlight beams through the windows like an advertisement for summer swimming, but the fluffy snow piled outside the windows reveal the true chilly temperature. It is the first Christmas of my life that I’m not being rushed to model new holiday clothes for a family lunch or race to cleanup the spent wrapping paper before a flock of revelers descend upon my house.  It’s the first Christmas that as a parent I have not obsessively coordinated my children’s pajamas and hair arrangement for photos of the big Santa reveal.

Truly, it might be the first Christmas I have ever enjoyed.  Eleven years ago was a great Christmas when The Professor and I slipped off to Colorado to celebrate Christmas and become engaged. The snow pelted our gingerbread inn and trapped us inside by a roaring fire where we reveled in new love.  However, the phone call to my mother announcing the engagement put a massive damper on the day, as her reaction was anything but warm wishes. In fact, her seething caution and hysterical outburst followed the silence when she disconnected our phone conversation left me floundering in emotional turmoil. It was like being presented a gorgeous Baked Alaska and the moment before you put the first bite in your mouth someone extinguishes a cigar in soft meringue.

The set-up of our holiday house prevented Santa from leaving the Christmas loot in the main room, as the children would have woken up and ripped into the goods before the parents could get out of bed. The solution was to set out the bikes and assorted gifts in a closed room.  The children came into my bed and were loving and sweet and weren’t distraught that Santa had not come. The seven-year old gave a shrug and declared that in fact there were no presents.  Not being showered with gifts didn’t seem like a big deal to her, which was my very best present! 

Of course, when my son opened the door to the closed room and discovered that Santa had indeed left two bikes, he was ecstatic  One bike is green and says Gremlin on the side. The other bike is gold and says Mesa. Hence, Green Gremlin and Golden Mesa are racing around on secret missions to battle evil and save the world for good.

In my own mind, I’ve fought evil Christmas and scored a goal for good.  Sitting in front of the fire, there in no pressure to hurry and dress for a family lunch or rapidly scoop the explosion of wrapping paper and crapola off the floor so that a group of guests can dump a second load that will need sorting and cleaning…and batteries.  Now, if I could only resist the wicked temptation to drive into town and connect to the Internet (If you are reading this, then obviously I have driven into town to find the Internet God.)

The Great Christmas Boycott of 2007 continues to be just what the doctor ordered.   Today Santa went into town to pick-up the bikes. The children played in the snow and I read in peace and quiet.  DE-lightful.

After lunch we headed to town where I bought coffee at three places until I found free Wi-Fi. What is the deal? Santa Fe is stingy with the juice. Why? After I was able to read my email (thank goodness 1-800-Contacts and Daily Candy sent me something), I was ready to enjoy the town. 

We stopped by a gallery that was close to where we had parked the car and my husband offered to take my heavy backpack and some shopping bags to the car.  The children and I scrutinized every piece of art in the small gallery until it became obvious we had overstayed our welcome. After all, it’s Christmas Eve and most of the stores already closed. I am sure the gallery owner was ready to send us on our way, especially because we bought nothing (though there is still hope I will get the painting by Bradford Brenner to the left of this paragraph.)

The kids and I stand outside the gallery and kick dirty snow at one another. Despite the long johns under my pants, the fancy running shirt with the headband-hood and the long-sleeved cotton shirt under my Icelandic wool sweater and down coat, I am cold.  The sun is setting and the chill is turning into frost. My husband has been gone for more than an hour.  The shoppers have gone home and it is getting dark. My mind is racing that The Professor has been mugged or experienced a heart attack. 

Finally, after an hour and 15 minutes I go back into the gallery where the owner’s husband and children have come to get her for a walk up Canyon Road to see the luminaries.

“Hey, sorry to bug you, but my husband has never returned from taking bags to the car. I think I need to call the police. Could I use your phone?”

The owner remembers when my husband left the gallery is shocked that it has been so long.  She offers to keep my children while her husband goes with me to the parking garage to see if my husband is lying dead on the ground. We walk the half block to our car and see that the bags have been deposited into the car. Next stop is the Plaza police. However, we can’t find them because Christmas Eve on The Plaza is working up to a slow frenzy. 

Back at the gallery I call 911 and begin explaining how my husband is missing. The owner is obviously traumatized and is trying to comfort my children with,

“I know we are going to find your daddy very soon. Don’t you worry.”

I am thinking about how for the rest of my life I will tell people about how 2007 was the most perfect Christmas until my husband fell on the ice and bashed his brains out. 

Finishing the details of the 911 call, I stop mid-sentence to say,

“Never mind. The missing person just walked in.”

The Professor has so many good qualities, but directions are not part of those qualities. He had been lost. 

My aunt’s house perfectly suits her. She is a writer, nearing 80-years old and is the most fit (mentally and physically) of any of my friends. She is a progressive thinker and hits the nail on the head when it comes to putting life into context.  Her house, a self-designed adobe, sits above Santa Fe and turns its back on the city to face the mountains.  The house wraps around in a half circle as if to hug her personal and favorite view of the mountains.

The horseshoe shaped house features a master suite on one end and a guest room on the opposite end.  The room next to each major bedroom is an office for either my aunt or uncle. A modern day Georgia O’Keefe, my aunt sits in her office, which she calls her niche, reclining on her chaise lounge and creates art. My aunt is a bold leader who is free from societal constraint. However, she is held hostage by little worries like the dinner over-cooking or the children not wearing mittens, and she frets over every detail and every word of every sentence. Releasing a sentence to live in infamy is hard fought in her world. When the sentence is released, it’s right and all who read it are impressed.

This juxtaposition of a fierce trailblazer who sweats the small stuff is the same personality of my daughter.  It makes perfect sense that my daughter walked into her great aunt’s house and immediately gravitated to the niche where my aunt churns out her novels.  Most naturally, my daughter settled in and began a project.  When it was time for dinner my son conveyed that my daughter couldn’t join us because, “she’s on her long chair doing her work.” 

My daughter, who is bold enough to lead the most diverse of personalities, is crippled by what seems to me to be the most innocuous situations.  It would never faze her to write a play, plan or game and orchestrate a room full of strangers to engage. However, I spent 40 minutes in Dairy Queen with her because she could not pee if there was anyone other than me in the bathroom.  We waited in line until the two of us could be in the two-stall bathroom at the same time, thereby excluding any stranger. It took forever for two people to finish at the same time so that my daughter and I could both enter the ladies room at the same time.  I felt stupid saying “Oh, please go ahead of us. We’re waiting….for the right alignment of the stars.”

The essence of my aunt and daughter is one of bold, trailblazers, who wear a cloak of reservation trimmed in dignity. They wear a complicated costume that is only suited for them.  Oh, how I would love to wear the hat or the pants of that costume, but their peculiar outfit just won’t fit me.

I am the opposite of these two, and maybe that is why we enjoy each other’s escapades. My modus operandi is to broadcast any load of crap that my fingers type –- proof reading be damned.  My aunt and my daughter labor over their work and aggressively crumple it up and re-write or re-draw.  They are stunned (maybe embarrassed) by my lack of restraint, and I am impressed by the quality, depth and purpose of their work.

We are different, but we pursue the same purpose (don’t we all, really?) At the very end, we all strive to write, draw or speak the essence and truth of humanity.  Such an easy job.

On the eve of Christmas Eve, there is absolutely no doubt that boycotting Christmas was the best idea for my little family. 

We arrived in Santa Fe early this afternoon with the perfect build-up to peak the children’s interest-- mine as well.  As the car got closer to Santa Fe, and farther from the rest of New Mexico that is depressed, desolate and devoid of white fluffy snow, the mountains coyly showed us their winter hats.

Yesterday’s snow had left small deposits of snow on the side of the highway and the children begged with all their heart to flee the car and touch the snow. Strict parents that we are, we deprived the children of fondling the foreign weather matter. In an effort to build to the perfect climax, we held the children at bay and kept them from grabbing paltry hands full of icy snow until they could touch the real soft, plentiful snow in Santa Fe.  Foreshadowing, well, iPhone Weather, told me that five inches of powder awaited us in Santa Fe.

Like an experienced lover, the parents didn’t disappoint. The wait was worth it as we drove in the secluded driveway of our holiday house and the children tumbled out the car doors before The Professor could shift into park. 

“Out of the snow until you change your clothes,” we screeched in typical everyday (as opposed to vacation) parent fashion. 

The key to my aunt’s house worked like a charm, but I couldn’t find the alarm keypad in time to ward off the Sheriff’s appearance. As I pleaded with the security official over the telephone,

“We are relatives. I have the security code, but I couldn’t find the alarm panel in time to enter the code. Put on your clothes!  It’s 26 degrees. No, not you. I’m sorry. My children are naked and looking for snow clothes, but the alarm is howling in the background and I can hardly hear you. Don’t touch that drum!”

After we bid the Sheriff farewell, The Professor spends an hour pouring hot water on the snow in the driveway so that our car can break free from the trap that has snagged it.  I am sure people who often deal with snow know some better secret than boiling hot water to melt it, but we’re from Texas. Hurricanes are our specialty.  We know nothing about snow.

No matter how dire he looks, I cannot assist The Professor in his quest to free car, for my sole mission of the day is to find the Internet connection.  I have been warned that there is no wireless high-speed connection, and I have mentally prepared for how life with dial-up will be, BUT the fact that my fancy MacBookPro doesn’t even have a hole for a telephone connection causes me to contract the vapors.

Meanwhile my enterprising daughter has appropriated a plastic toddler rocking horse and re-purposed it into a sleigh to race down the hills.  Never mind that I should warn her of cactus at the end of the hill, or help my husband put wood under the tires – again, my single focus is to connect to the Internet, and I must succeed.

The fourteen-hour trip from Austin to Santa Fe found me replying to my friends’ emails or text messages within minutes of receipt, but now in the tranquility of the arroyos and big blue sky finds me untethered to my main base. How will I know what my friend bought at IKEA? How will I monitor the progress of my friends’ first married Christmas?  Will I be the last one to know if Josie got the engagement ring from Dan? What about the blogs I read? Will the authors melt in despair without my witty comments?

The Professor, who is the antithesis of handy, somehow manages to free the car from the snow. The children, who are relentless, manage to court frostbite and beg to come inside for hot chocolate. I, who am dogged about my Internet, give up hope and begin to build a fire. Oh, the fire. No exaggeration, it took me an hour to build the fire. Finally, I gave up and opted for a rest in the Japanese bathing tub, which is three-foot deep circular tub with jets.  While soaking in a combination of buttermilk, coconut milk, cream and milk (SumBody Milkbath-get sum), I hear a popping noise. Wrapping my dripping body in a fresh towel, I race to see what my children are destroying, but instead find a roaring fire!

The Professor arrives with tasty groceries that include yummy champagne, cheese and nibbles to satisfy the wee people.  I stop moisturizing my naked body with lemon crème lotion gifted by my Secret Santa and depart the roaring fire to don my domestic impersonation.  That crafty Professor stuck the champagne in the snow when he came home, and within thirty minutes, frill and chirp fill the air.  We cook. We drink. My daughter lights the Christmas tree and my son builds a fine Lego tower.

Since we couldn’t find the switch to light the chandelier, we had no choice but to eat by candle and fire light. Out the window the big, full moon rises over the mountains and Die Zauberflote fills the air.  The perfect moment.  This is Christmas. This is it.

After dinner, the champagne ends, but the picturesque evening continues as The Professor sets aside Middlemarch to lead the children in making a paper chain to decorate the tree. I want to weep, but instead use my aunt’s cast iron skillet to brown a ham bone and bits of ham left from dinner to make a soup.  As I scrap the sticky meat from the pan, I wonder which of my ancestors has used this pan before me.  Pouring a bit of cold coffee (as my grandmother taught me) to deglaze the pan, the steam bursts forth and fills the room with the smell of “home”…no matter that it is not our home.  The connection and fondness toward relatives is deep and transcends gifts.

LOVIN' this Christmas (except for the part where I am sitting in a hotel lobby posting this.  Still no Internet.)

“Are you done with Christmas shopping?”

“Well, we’re sorta boycotting Christmas this year. So, I guess I’m done.”

Scrunched nose, “WHAT? What do you mean you are boycotting Christmas?   You can’t do that! You have small children. What about Santa?”

What about Santa?  I’ve seen Santa’s sarcophagus engraved with his likeness in Myra, Turkey and Santa wasn’t a fat, jolly man who flew through the sky with a red-nosed reindeer.  St. Nicholas was tall and slim with a serious look and a long, thin beard. I’m fairly certain his goal was not to make-or-break retail sales the weekend preceding baby Jesus’ birthday.  The legend of St. Nicholas never mentions bringing toys to children.  According to lore, St. Nicholas did bring gifts of dowries and food, but there is no mention of him ponying-up an X Box or Bratz Styling Head. 

My mother is rolling in holiday depression because I’m not glossing a goose with butter and creating a memorable affair for her and the rest of the family to enjoy.  I think the family met and agreed upon a strategy whereby they would heap false praise upon me and my ego would glow and I would continue to strive to please and impress them with holiday feasts and parties.  The party is over.

I’m not staying up late to assemble plastic villages made in China, nor will I wake up early to prepare a cozy breakfast using all the ceramic holiday dinnerware that my family has gifted me– the holiday ceramic plates to be used at breakfast or pre-holiday meals as opposed to the holiday china plates to be used at formal Christmas meals.

I will not be breaking down cardboard boxes, stuffing packaging in plastic bags and overfilling my garbage can. Nor, will my housekeeper be filling her car with our excess garbage to dump in her apartment complex trash dumpster. There will be no war zone under the Christmas tree that fills me with dread. I won’t be sorting gift piles and trying to make sure checks and gift cards don’t accidentally get thrown into the trash.

Instead, I’m being driven across the West while eating a Snicker laden Blizzard from Dairy Queen and writing to you. Instead of breathing recirculated air in Macy’s while my eyes water from the glare of over-accessorized shoppers pushing and prodding while they grab the latest celebrity endorsed perfume, I am watching scrub country and snow clouds roll past my window.   The baby is asleep in the backseat and my six-year old has been silently reading for the last four hours.  Aside from The Professor’s occasional veer off the highway, life is peaceful.

Back to my mother.

“Oh, Bitsy. This is going to be the worst Christmas ever (because you, my only child, are leaving me alone.)  I have to go to my friend’s daughter’s house and it will be just terrible. She doesn’t know how to do Christmas. Bless her heart.  You do such a great Christmas. It’s always perfect. (Friends Daughter’s) food will be awful. She will have food trays from the grocery store. Hmpf. When they do their Santa Claus (distribution of gifts) I’m going home.  They will all get me a present, but I’m not giving them anything.  I never like one thing they give me. (Daughter #2) has never given me a good present. Hmpf.”

Why is this whole holiday gig about the presents?  When are Americans going to wake-up and realize that this consumer driven shopping frenzy exists to pump retail sales – not to “show her your love with a diamond from Helszburg Jewelers.”  Presents are from the devil and only cause pain, frustration, debt, desperation and envy.   Of course, my experience is clouded from youth when my mother often left the room crying because she didn’t get what she wanted.  My six-year is similar. Sad.

Last week my first-grader cried when her great aunt who has never even laid eyes on her mailed her a pair of socks that were embellished with pink bows and flowers. The idea that the aunt thought my daughter was anything other than a tomboy who eschews all things pink and frilly was so personally offended that tears welled-up in my daughter’s eyes. Compassionate mother that I am, I delivered a blistering sermon about being spoiled and ungrateful.  “Even though you don’t like a present, never let it show. Say thank you and be grateful that someone took the time to think fondly of you.  Almost 100 percent of the time you will not like a gift someone gave you. Buy your own presents.  Just be happy to have a friend.”  Somehow this lecture took the tone of “don’t depend on other people to meet your needs.”

Often times I think gift exchanges are about the receiver assuring the giver that the present effectively communicates its intended message like:

“I acknowledge your projected Posh Spice persona, so here is a luxury item;”

or

“You have succeeded in your poser wine/art/fashion image, so accept this rare vintage/painting/dress.”

or

“Got it. You’re a community activist. A donation has been made in your name.”

or

“Uh, thanks. I got your sanctioned Amazon list and here is the precise item from the link you sent me.”

or

“Here is a gift card in exchange for the gift card you gave me.  Let’s admit we don’t know the essence of one another.”

Communicating is hard enough using words, but using Circuit City to express your sentiments is even more complicated. This Christmas I am using my words to convey my feelings toward friends and family. (Well, expect for all the J.Crew gift cards I sent to nieces and nephews.  It is too weird to explain the Christmas boycott to young relatives you only see once a year.)

Will Santa be shitting a load of miscellaneous crap down your chimney this year?  Since last year’s toys were unmemorable, I had to check my gift database to recall what Santa brought the children in 2006. Yes, I have a database that sorts all the giftees alongside their gifts. The database allows me to brainstorm gifts for all on my list and then track whether the gift has been purchased, boxed, and wrapped.  Also there are notes detailing the cost of said gifts so that one child or relative doesn’t make out with an Aston Martin while another child gets a Matchbox car. 

See two of 14 items that my stepdaughter, who will be 20 years old in a couple of weeks, got when she was 11 years old (the graphic of little gift boxes is missing):

Gifts for Janie          Bought    Boxed    Wrapped    Cost

1.  Solar System Set  yes           yes         yes           $
2.  American Girl     yes           n/a        yes            $$

Feel free to ask me what gifts were given to my children or my nieces and nephews in 1999 and I’ll happy search this handy database and let you know.

Last Value wIT post talked of how my family is boycotting Christmas this year, and wow, thanks for all your emails with the not-so-subtle message that I’m a grinch.  An email from Neela says, “It’s fine you don’t want to participate in Christmas this year, but it’s a selfish thing to do to your children.  You’re thinking about yourself and not the rest of your family.” 

Where do I start, Neela?

I promise, as in
cross-my-heart-hope-to-die-stick-a-needle-in-my –eye,
if my children did not get one single present this year, they would not mind.  However, Santa is giving them something, so settle down. Each child is getting a bike, a pair of pajamas (with feet even), and a hand-knitted blanket.  Maybe I’ll wrap a stick and a rock to make it more meaningful.

Usually, Santa shits down a huge array of crapola – look at the picture to the left from last year and notice the stuffed dog that was supposed to sit, stay and bark on command. The dog never worked and was in the garbage within weeks. See the train table in the background filled with wooden trains? Sometimes when children visit our house that train gets some action, but my children never touch it.  Same situation with the robot and the big truck filled with Matchbox cars.  All the toys sit in the playroom and rarely get touched.

Honestly, I mean really and truly, my children don’t play with toys.  Today they played “Spy Club” with the neighbor kids all day. Apparently, Spy Club requires a backpack, some leftover Halloween candy, rocks from the neighbor’s landscape, and a hat worn backward - nary a toy, though.

Maybe, like Neela’s email suggests, I am only thinking about myself because to me Christmas seems like a retail orchestrated display of lunacy. How much time is spent shopping for the “right” gift and settling on something that fits a predetermined price list?  Ever aimlessly walk around a store thinking, “What would my aunt like that costs $50?”  You leave with a  $42 candle and an $8 piece of colored glass on which to sit the candle. So meaningful.

I found a cute little present for my mother-in-law the other day, but monetarily it doesn’t measure up to the preset amount of money that a MIL gift should cost; so, I have to search for a companion gift.  Never mind that in April I got her an over-the-top set of Asian porcelain pieces for no reason. Would it be rude to write her a note and say “Love on those Asian men I got you eight months ago.”  Of course, the “right” thing to do would be to shell out some cash for a meaningless trinket to add to her mound of meaningless trinkets.  My MIL has a packed house and probably doesn’t even recall the gift I gave her back in April – the gift that I bought because I wanted to, not because it was December and time for a gift.

This random exchange of resources is bizarre.  Since we are going to be out of town on Christmas, we exchanged gifts with my mother during Thanksgiving. I wrote her a check and she gave the kids some gifts and a check. Did our checks cancel each other out?

Finally, I will play the Grinch card one last time and ask “Why so many toys for needy children?” So far there are five occasions where I have been asked to bring an unwrapped toy to donate to a needy child.  In fact, we attended a parade where about ten truckloads of toys were collected.  I hate shoving plastic crap onto poor people.  There is a great coat and backpack collection program in our town, not to mention a Food Bank that is suffering.  Spending $15 on a Power Ranger is akin to saying, “Let them eat cake.” It makes my heart ache to think any child will be unhappy on Christmas morning, but if the child were hungry and sick wouldn’t a ham and a health insurance card be better than a Power Ranger?

I’m leaving you with a memory from last year. Remember when two of my gifts got returned?  Relight that fire. I took this post down because my family was in jeopardy of reading this blog (think they are off the trail and if they aren't, too bad), but here is a reprint:

Christmas 2006

Part 1 – Refused Gifts

This Christmas season of giving was a shocker to me in that two of the presents I gave were rejected by the receivers and returned to me. Don’t you find that odd?  Rude, yes, of course, that is the obvious and immediate reaction, but what is interesting to me is how the receivers both felt entitled to receive and expect a gift from me, and separately how they expected me to know their desires and procure the perfect gift of their dreams.  When the gift did not match the receiver’s wishes, the gift was returned with the unspoken edict that I should try again.  It was like the professor returned graded papers and mine said, “Not your best work. Please re-do.”  I would have been happier with F.  The subject would have ended with failure. As it stands now, I have an outstanding re-do on my list of tasks and my pleasing and competitive training wants me to score A+.

Both gifts were to relatives, very close relatives. So close, I guess that they feel our relationship is tight enough to withstand the truth, which is that my gift did not suit their fancy.  It’s not like it was a sweater that didn’t fit, and they asked for the receipt or store name so they could make an exchange. One gift was tickets to a play, dinner, hotel room, and in-room manicure and pedicure. Sounded pretty good to me—pleasurable, varied, creative, thoughtful, relaxing, uh, expensive. Apparently, it was not enough. The gift receiver casually dropped the gift certificates at my house several days after receiving them, and tells my husband that the gift is being returned. The husband tells me the news while the gift receiver is in my presence. Stunned (initially at the rudeness and then by the insanity) I implore in a high-pitched phony sweet tone, “What?  You don’t want it? Why?” The response from the gift rejector is – are you ready for this:

“It just doesn’t sound very fun to me.”

The second gift receiver called me on the telephone and said of the $100 wallet I gave her, “I’m going to mail it back to you. I won’t use it.”  Could she not have given it to her local garbage collector or Goodwill?  What, on God’s green earth, made her think she could call me and tell me that the thoughtful gift I went to the trouble of wandering the stores to select was not suitable?  Maybe she thought I enjoyed standing in the f-ing long line of the post office to mail such a crappy gift to her.

What if someone gave you 72 working hours (not including sleep time)  and $3,360?  Would you be excited?  Well, I just gave myself that gift and it feels really good.

Officially, my family is skipping Christmas 2007.  Sounds like a big deal, and to my mother, mother-in-law, neighbors and possibly the retail world, it is. To me, however, it isn’t quite the rest at the Mount Sinai Hospital that I yearn to take, but it’s a start.

Last year after Christmas I wrote:

Next year, as I indicated in a story about the 20+ hours I spent hand-sewing ribbon onto Christmas cards, my family is skipping the Christmas folderol.  Let’s tally how many hours and how much cash we’ll save:

1. Decorating house – 2 hours, $100 on greenery, candles, etc. The numerous RubberMaid containers in storage hold the items already purchased that are used year to year.
2. Christmas tree – 8 hours, $40. It took seven hours to put the lights on our tree this year. No joke.  We use ten strands of lights and typically about four of those strands have to be replaced.
3. Baking – 6 hours, $200. This year I spent $48.52 on 2 tbs of Calvodos brandy that was required for a recipe.
4. Toys for Tots – 1 hour, $120.
5. Presents – oh, so many hours, 8, conservatively, $2,000.
6. Wrapping – 6 hours, $100.
7. Taking down decorations – 3 hours, $100, cost of the lamp replacement that was broken in screaming fight that occurred because of holiday stress.
8. Thank you notes, 5 hours, $50 for personalized stationary. Try overseeing a 5-year old as she painstakingly sounds out, “thank you for the kaleidoscope.”
9. Christmas cards, 20 hours of sewing, 4 hours of addressing, 2 hours making list and crossing off the decreased, divorced or too distant, $300.
10. Holiday photos, 2 hours, $200.
11.  Santa presentation and family meal on Christmas day, 3 hours, $200 for family of 15.
12. Holiday clothes for children, 4 hours, $150.  The children never have anything that fits at holiday time and it always seems like they need new shoes, dress, etc. It adds up.

These tasks and hours are just off the top of my head. I am sure I am forgetting the card and cash to the newspaper delivery guy, church sexton, hair cutter, babysitter, etc.  Conservatively I spent $3,360, and 72 hours on Christmas this year. 

Gee, 72 hours is three entire days that I could give myself to choose how I spend my time, and $3,360, according to the local Food Bank will pay for 17,000 meals. Without cooking, I could feed a family of three people three meals a day for five years.

Usually, the day after Thanksgiving – who am I kidding, the night of Thanksgiving – I begin decorating my house for Christmas.  I’ve talked myself into the idea that decorating is fun. Is it? I mean, really.  Would taking a family walk or doing shooters from a naked table dancer be more fun than twisting broken lights around an itchy tree?  I’ll let you know.

So far:

• No trips to attic to fetch Christmas storage have been made.
• No boxes have been dragged across polished wood floors leaving scuff marks.
• No Radko ornaments have been broken while unpacking stored boxes.
• No trips have been made to buy thousands of tiny white lights.
• No spousal fights over decorating skills have occurred.
• No children have been scolded for touching precious heirloom ornaments.
• No carpal tunnel from attempting calligraphy on 300 holiday cards has flared.
• No postal official has been demeaned for smart-alecness – hence, general public safety has been secured.
• No crack has been smoked.

I’ve opened an account at a local nursery and will be giving a tree or Fingerling plant (for the less horticulturaly inclined) to all on my gift list. Other than that, I am accepting interesting invitations to holiday parties and am happy to spread good cheer, but there will be no parties at my house. 

The morning after school dismisses, the fam is piling into the car and driving away to a borrowed house. (This would be a good time to rob my house, but Dick Cheney is staying here so it would be an unpleasant time to break and enter.)   The MIL thinks it’s awful that we have no tree for the little ones and will be ripping them away from good ‘ole Santa. 

Here’s the deal on Santa - he is a thief. Santa steals time, money, imagination and maybe even character.

Take this quiz:

1. During three weekends preceding Christmas, I would rather:
    a. Wrap presents each Sunday
    b. Get a pedicure and see a movie

2. On Christmas Eve, I would rather:
    a. Stay up late assembling Chinese toys and throw said toys against window
    b. Cozy-up with the husband and favorite method of birth control

3. During the middle of the night would you like to:
    a. Sleep
    b. Toss and turn thinking that MIL will hate selected gift

4. On Christmas Eve-Eve you think it would be more fun to:
    a. Rework Christmas schedule to accommodate step-parents grandchildren’s acolyting schedule.
   b. Ski

5. After the big Christmas meal you want to:
    a. Watch kids ride their new bikes
    b. Hand wash all the china, silver and crystal and return it to its hiding place

This year Santa is not taking any of my time or money. Instead, I’m taking what is rightfully mine – a vacation.

   

I am bored, but at least not as bored as Tiffany Duport who claims in her website to have slept with Tom Cruise and George Clooney this year.

Seriously, I’m not designed for holiday living. Every since I was a child visiting my grandmother’s house over the Christmas holidays that awkward idle time associated with waiting for the next meal has gnawed at my insecurities and called the question of what to do with myself and how to connect to family.

My father was not much help in providing a solid “holiday happiness” role model. It was painful to watch him shift and squish his big body in what was clearly my grandmother’s chair -- as in, she was the only person who was ordained to sit in that chair.   When my father, lord-of-his-house, was ousted from Granny’s Chair, he aimlessly wandered the halls of my grandmother’s house trying to occupy his time until the holiday ended.

Wondering what to do with myself this Thanksgiving holiday was no different than it’s ever been.  Hands down, I can host an event. That’s what I do. I plan, fret, pop the big idea, and pull it off. Of course, once the meal is over and the family is sitting around enjoying each other’s company, I get nervous making chitchat. 

Maybe it’s the mixed group of lunatics, people out of context and children that could randomly spurt out, “Mommy, remember when you farted and it smelled really bad?”  Who knows why I resist hanging out in the living room sipping the last of the hooch, snoozing on the couch and reliving boring past holidays, but I do.  Tidying the damp cocktail napkins, straightening a lamp, it’s all I can do not to say, “Well, time for you to go home.”

This holiday had the regular cast of characters, plus the rogue guest, who left my house at a fairly reasonable time, but my mother, husband and children stayed….for days.  Usually, I whip myself into a frenzy on the Friday after Thanksgiving decorating for Christmas, but since I’m boycotting Christmas this year (more on that subject at a latter date) there were no boxes to unpack, trees to light or presents to wrap.

Sitting around the house on a cold and rainy Friday, Saturday and Sunday found me repetitively seeking solace and purpose in a hot bath. Even though the bathtub became a destination, it never provided any inspiration. Instead of sparking an idea, the bath served as a holding tank until the water cooled and the bubbles disappeared. Without a single thought running through my mind, I dried my body and waited for the next meal.

The children, still reeling from poor health and operations, needed antibiotics three times a day, pain medicine every four hours, asthma preventive twice a day, asthma breathing treatments every five hours, plus constant nose-blowing and refreshed glasses of water. Then there was the mother who was always cold and needed a latte on the hour.  To escape this healthcare ward, my husband and I raced for the car keys to see who would get the privilege of grocery shopping. I won!

Reverting to my old ways, I jumped into the car and planned a full grocery store run like I did before the days of bus-riding and small, necessity purchases. Freedom told me to drive to the underserved part of town where the power lines sag over the pot-holed roads and crime awaits at every light.  Well, maybe not crime, but at least suspicious solicitors who pitch money-getting schemes with interesting plots like,

“I just need some money to buy syringes for my diabetes medicine. I’m on my way to the hospital right now for a transfusion, but I’m out of money. We’re just passing through town on our way to X, but we’ve run out of money for gas. I need a beer. Do you have any money?”

The grocery store in this part of town was refreshingly REAL in that there was no overwrought attention to display like the new urban grocery store near my house that features a gorgeous display of polenta. The center of the store boasts an elegant round table piled high with a dramatic exhibit of seven different brands of polenta. Instead of one fancy container of $11 polenta, this grocery store sells 10lb bags of corn meal for $3.

Everybody is drunk chatty in this grocery,

“Honey, where they keep the butter?  Did I pass it up? Look at all those waffles in your basket. You gonna feed up a big crowd with that many boxes.”

No, actually, I’m going to continuously toast that many low-fat, whole wheat Eggo waffles for myself. I’m addicted, you see.  Nice chatting with you, but I’m off to see the whole hog head in the frozen meat section. There was not one, but five whole hog HEADS in the meat department. That means probably five families are stoking the coals to cook an animal head in this city in the next few days. Have you ever eaten hog head? Given hog head? Different.

On a sociological mission, I wanted to make sure I explored all aspects of this grocery store that shelved dusty, open boxes often spilling sticky liquid on the shelves.  Sounds like I’m so posh that I’ve never seen such grocery stores. Not true. These are the grocery stores of my past, I think. Actually, I’ve repressed so much that who knows what’s real and what’s a doctored memory.  Nevertheless, it’s been a while since I’ve been out of the Whole Foods Wonderland of Experiential Shopping that offers massages, sushi, chocolate sculpting and during the holidays, ice skating on top of the store.

After a couple of hours of fondling legumes in vats and following electric scooters of obese shoppers, I had to end this foray into reality and recoil back into the land of luxury and endless holiday idle time.  For that, I’m thankful?