Foolery

Spanish Pipedream

I swear this came on the radio just after I finished my last post.  I hate my little psychic moments.

"Spanish Pipedream" by John Prine

 

She was a level-headed dancer on the road to alcohol
And I was just a soldier on my way to Montreal
Well she pressed her chest against me
About the time the juke box broke
Yeah, she gave me a peck on the back of the neck
And these are the words she spoke

Blow up your T.V. throw away your paper
Go to the country, build you a home
Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches
Try an' find Jesus on your own

Well, I sat there at the table and I acted real naive
For I knew that topless lady had something up her sleeve
Well, she danced around the bar room and she did the hoochy-coo
Yeah she sang her song all night long, tellin' me what to do

Blow up your T.V. throw away your paper
Go to the country, build you a home
Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches
Try an' find Jesus on your own

Well, I was young and hungry and about to leave that place
When just as I was leavin', well she looked me in the face
I said, "You must know the answer."
She said, "No, but I'll give it a try."
And to this very day we've been livin' our way
And here is the reason why

We blew up our T.V. threw away our paper
Went to the country, built us a home
Had a lot of children, fed 'em on peaches
They all found Jesus on their own

 

. . . maybe it's A SIGN.  Rats.

Merry Christmas, My Little Target Market

Santa showed.

 

He didn't bring Baby Alive (the doll that poops), he didn't bring Wii or Playstation anything.  He did bring a lot of small things, like coloring books and pens and little Schleich PVC animals.

 

I was sweating the whole morning scene, but it turned out wonderful.  Smedley has a way of cutting through the pleasantries to say exactly what she's thinking, which is exactly what I'm afraid she's thinking -- but not this time.  She was THRILLED with the color books, the pens, the Schleich animals.  I need to have more faith.

 

Sparky, of course, would've been happy playing with the bows and wrapping paper, so small presents to her are still magical.  She doesn't even seem to know, or care, what Baby Alive is, and the dearth of Baby Alive and Baby Alive Accessories (sold separately) under the tree didn't faze Sparky one bit.

 

So I was a little surprised to see Sparky standing in the doorway to the kitchen this morning looking crestfallen.  She and I were the only ones awake yet.  "What's the matter, honey?" I asked.

 

"Santa didn't come," she whispered.  I scooped Sparky up and tried not to choke up as I explained to her that Santa comes on Christmas Eve and not again for a year.  It never occurred to me that she would look for him each morning after Christmas.  She took it in stride.

 

What both girls don't know yet is that they still have packages to open.  We stretch Christmas out as far as we can to keep things fresh, and to keep the girls from becoming even more overwhelmed than they are.  It's a good system, one that is very forgiving to late shippers (and I'm one of those myself).

 

The girls got new jackets from Grandma Lynne and Grandpa Dave, and they were very excited.  Sparky's has the words "snow princess" embroidered on the rump.  Smedley declared that her coat also read "snow princess," though she was just making it up for some reason.  She thought better of it, though, and immediately announced that she had been "lying," as she put it.  Then she suddenly became morose and grumbled, "Mine REALLY says 'fat girl' because it makes my butt look fat."  I was shocked and my face must have shown it.  Smedley instantly broke into a wicked grin, so I knew she was kidding and that she wasn't really putting herself down.  But it's disturbing that a five-year-old would ever think in those terms, and that she's learning to equate self-worth with dress size.  She's not getting it from us, she's getting it from marketing.  I'm gonna blow up the TV.

 

So Merry Christmas to both of you, dear readers, and here's hoping that the spirit of the season hasn't been drowned in too much alcohol, bloated with too much eggnog, overwhelmed with too many presents, or cheapened by too much marketing.

 

I'm really thinking about blowing up the TV.

Festivus For The Rest Of Us!

I’m considering celebrating Festivus this year.

While I don’t have any specific plans to do so, I think there will be ample opportunity to celebrate this weekend as we ramp up to the annual Christmas blowout. My brother Mantel Man and my Uncle Kenny will join us at my parents’, so I have written an explanation of Festivus to read to them as we gather around the groaning board adding a new fat layer for the long California winter ahead.

What is Festivus, you ask? Well, you asked.

Festivus is a secular holiday celebrated by an earnest group of spiritually-deprived people on December 23. It was popularized by a 1997 episode of the hit TV show Seinfeld, but it owes its traditions to the family of Seinfeld writer Dan O’Keefe. Its slogan is "A Festivus for the rest of us!" Festivus is has three traditions:

 

The Festivus Pole: The only decoration of the holiday is an aluminum pole, selected for its simplicity, its lack of adornment and the distracting quality of tinsel, and its "very high strength-to-weight ratio," in the words of Seinfeld character Frank Costanza. It is also very low-maintenance.

 

The Festivus Dinner and the Airing of Grievances: As with most holidays, on Festivus a feast is the centerpiece of the celebration. After the meal has been served comes the Airing of Grievances. Each person present is encouraged to list all the ways that he or she has been disappointed by the other celebrants over the past year. In the O’Keefe family the grievances are reportedly spoken into a tape recorder for posterity.

 

The Feats of Strength: Festivus ends with the Feats of Strength, in which the head of the household chooses one of the other celebrants to wrestle. Festivus officially ends only when the head of household has been pinned, and not before.

In deciding whether or not to spring this holiday upon my unsuspecting family, I must consider several things. The Festivus pole, spare and unadorned, will likely appeal to my uncle the architect, but not to my brother the traditionalist. The Festivus Dinner can be any food of one’s choosing, apparently, and as long as it is volumetrically represented in pounds, my whole family should be happy.

The Feats of Strength worries me, as I cannot imagine Dad willingly wrestling with anyone except perhaps his old college buddy Joe, who will not be available that day, or I’d call him. The idea of pinning a 72-year-old man, after a meal volumetrically expressed in pounds, is profoundly unappealing.

But the most obvious sticking point is the Airing of Grievances. In my family we have to work pretty hard to keep from airing grievances about each other nonstop. We’re the big noisy Italian family, without the Italian, and with liberal doses of smartass. With a holiday directive to let it all hang out, we’d kill each other.

So, after writing this, I’m inclined to change my mind. I think Festivus is a great idea among polite and clever people who can ad lib complaints such as "I’m disappointed that Theresa cut that gorgeous long hair of hers," or "Now that you’ve lost all that weight, Luigi, there’s so much less of you to love!" Until my family can sleepwalk through lines like those, Festivus is for the rest of them.

Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy New Year, and especially Merry Festivus.

The Twelve Days of Richard

This is an ode to my mailman Richard, a.k.a. "The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave," who has been my at-work mailman/letter carrier/postman/postal service employee (or whatever tag is in vogue) since my days as a business owner.  I used to complain to him that all he ever brought me was bills; we developed an elaborate play-fight ritual in which he called me "Trouble," and I threw him him out of my store every day.  You had to be there.

The last time I wrote him a Christmas poem, he posted it on the wall of the Chico post office for all to read, apparently.


The Twelve Days of Richard

On the first day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
A warning from P.G.&E.

On the second day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
2 stacks of bills
And a warning from P.G.&E.

On the third day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
3 credit cards
2 stacks of bills
And a warning from P.G.&E.

On the fourth day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
4 catalogues
3 credit cards
2 stacks of bills
And a warning from P.G.&E.

On the fifth day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
5 letters from Nigeria!
4 catalogues
3 credit cards
2 stacks of bills
And a warning from P.G.&E.

On the sixth day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
6 "finally got heres"
5 letters from Nigeria!
4 catalogues
3 credit cards
2 stacks of bills
And a warning from P.G.&E.

On the seventh day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
7 moldy fruitcakes
6 "finally got heres"
5 letters from Nigeria!
4 catalogues
3 credit cards
2 stacks of bills
And a warning from P.G.&E.

On the eighth day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
8 missing children
7 moldy fruitcakes
6 "finally got heres"
5 letters from Nigeria!
4 catalogues
3 credit cards
2 stacks of bills
And a warning from P.G.&E.

On the ninth day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
9 parking tickets
8 missing children
7 moldy fruitcakes
6 "finally got heres"
5 letters from Nigeria!
4 catalogues
3 credit cards
2 stacks of bills
And a warning from P.G.&E.

On the tenth day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
10 last chance offers
9 parking tickets
8 missing children
7 moldy fruitcakes
6 "finally got heres"
5 letters from Nigeria!
4 catalogues
3 credit cards
2 stacks of bills
And a warning from P.G.&E.

On the eleventh day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
11 final notices
10 last chance offers
9 parking tickets
8 missing children
7 moldy fruitcakes
6 "finally got heres"
5 letters from Nigeria!
4 catalogues
3 credit cards
2 stacks of bills
And a warning from P.G.&E.

On the twelfth day of Christmas
My mailman brought to me:
12-vanity-Christmas-letters-from-people-I-haven’t-actually-
seen-or-spoken-to-on-the-phone-in-well-over-ten-years-
but-their-lives-are-just-so-gosh-darned-interesting-and-full-
that-they-feel-the-need-to-regale-me-each-year-
with-tales-of-their-ski-trips-to-Vale-and-Aspen-
or-their-childrens’-endless-tennis-championships-
and-of-course-their-purchases-of-THIRD-beach-homes-
which-they-call-cottages-even-though-I’ve-never-heard-of-
a-cottage-with-a-maid’s-quarters-etc.-etc.-etc.-
ad-nauseum-ad-infinitum–-HA! Yes, twelve of those . . .
11 final notices
10 last chance offers
9 parking tickets
8 missing children
7 moldy fruitcakes
6 "finally got heres"
5 letters from Nigeria!
4 catalogues
3 credit cards
2 stacks of bills
And a warning from P.G.&E.

Merry Christmas, Richard.  Now get outta here!

Keeping Tradition Alive

Last night was our annual pilgrimage to purchase dead green foliage for our home, which we will adorn with lights and shiny things until it is bone dry and shedding profusely. We will then put all of our available income into small shiny boxes and push them under this foliage. When the boxes are opened the income inside will evaporate and be ignored by our children.

What can I say, we're from a primitive culture.

Note to powertothepeaceful

Note to powertothepeaceful:

 

Thanks!!  And please send me a link to your blog; I can't seem to find you, but I'm helpless that way.

 

-- Laurie

Maybe The Tooth Fairy Is Home Sick With The Flu, Too

My life is all about BARF this week.

 

Saturday night Smedley started hurling, but it was mostly over within 12 hours.  Then last night (Tuesday) Sparky brought everything up, at least three times, maybe more.  Sparky went through three sets of jammies and two sets of sheets, but -- lucky me! -- her Mankie and Poohbear and Joshua, World's Ugliest Gender-Indeterminant Doll were all blissfully barf-free.

 

And the Tooth Fairy forgot to show up for Smedley!  The second tooth in about a week simply fell out of Smedley's mouth onto the floor at bedtime; no blood, no pain, no tears, no drama, no kidding.  The Tooth Fairy was so well prepared last week for the first tooth that she even had time and energy and foresight to leave a little note with a toy, as well as a little toy for Sparky under her pillow.  (The note explained that sometimes the good fairy likes to treat the siblings when a very first tooth is lost.)  I can't entirely blame the T.F., however -- she had stashed a little book in my closet for the next Tooth Emergency, but some nosy girls found it the other day.

 

Smedley forgot to check under her pillow, so somebody up there must like the Tooth Fairy; a phone call to Chas placed just in time has ensured that now Smedley's teeth have a value of two bucks (hastily shoved under the pillow before she gets home from school).  Bad Tooth Fairy.  Bad Mommy.  Good Daddy.

 

I hope we're done with teeth -- and barf -- for a while, but I'm not counting on it.

From Their Mouths To Mr. Dangit's Ears

The girls have been entertaining me lately, but I never seem to get past jotting down their bons mots. I'm lumping several together for you.

 

Sparky picked up some weird song from a cartoon, I think, because it came around again the other day. She tends to sing things over and over and over, and this day it was “No cowboys, just cowgirls, no cowboys, just cowgirls, no cowboys. . .” for oh, about an hour. I don't know why, I don't know what it means, and I don't think she does, either. But she affects the bored teenager flat-aspect pretend Eurotrash accent just perfectly.

*     *     *     *     *

Over at Grandpa's house last week, it was time to leave, so I said, “Give Grandpa a hug goodbye, Sparky.”

Sparky figured out a new way out of the situation: “I don’t think Grandpa took a shower today.”

*     *     *     *     *

Saturday Smedley proclaimed, for no reason I can name, “His first name is God and His last name is Dangit.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

Poor Smedley came down with some bug Saturday night that brought back to the light of day all that she had ingested since lunch. Sunday morning she felt much better, but not even watered-down apple juice stayed put for long, so she ate almost nothing all day. I kept checking on her and offering her various things, which she seemed to appreciate.

She came walking up to me, "to test my legs," she said, because she’d been immobile most of the day. She smiled and reached out to pat my shoulder. “I can’t make up my mind,” she said, smiling up at me, “to throw up, or kiss you.”  She knew it was funny because I couldn't help but laugh, so she whispered, “Write it down, Mama.”