MAKIN' MEMORIES SCHWEGMANN'S STYLE

As we've established, I have a lot of screwed up memories from childhood. Sometimes it was my Dad having a bong sitting on top of the TV (which he tried to convince me was a vase), other times it was watching him chop wood in his living room or looking on as my Mom switched price tags on Christmas trees - always a good time.

There do exist other memories that aren't so twisted thanks to the other women in my life, my Grandmothers. When I was a little kid, they would race to see who could get me an Easter dress and white patent-leather shoes first. Oh, how I loved searching through the big and chunky section of Belk-Legget to find pastel perfection. Those white shoes never quite fit thanks to my freakishly high arch, so they were a one-wear type of deal.

Yes, I went to church on Easter. No I didn't pay attention. Instead, I spent the time day dreaming about the exquisite fried meal that was coming my way after the wah-wah-wah-wah of the sermon. Easter dinner is one of the few things that I miss about the South, but then again food is a very big deal there, which is probably why I was so chunky.

Truth be told, I feel bad that Piper is missing out on that aspect of childhood. I want her to experience an unnaturally poofy dress, the thrill of those patent leather shoes for a day (poor thing has my feet) and being forced to sit still during what is quite possibly the longest hour of your life. In order for these things to happen though, I have to go against every fiber of my being and take her to church, and I'm not so sure that's a good trade off in the end.

Eggs? Check. Rabbits? Check. Easter, is that you?

So since Easter service at a church is out, I figured that I could at least let her enjoy the tradition of letting her get her grub on at Easter brunch. You know, the Jesus holidays always bring the best food don't they? I bet on the eighth day God actually made Crisco.

I thought that trying to get the family together would be a fun thing to do. How wrong I was. I made plans for Piper to go to the local Easter egg hunt (the Easter Eggstravaganza - I didn't make that up), and the next day a nice family brunch. My awesome plan first met resistance from Mark who took issue merely with the word "Easter," even if it was combined with "brunch." There is really only one kind of brunch that I would steer clear of, and that's a Holocaust brunch. Can't imagine that the portions are that big (I am so sorry).


Instead of going out, Mark said that he'd just make brunch at home. That's kind of like watching someone have a full on stroke in your kitchen, and then eating at the hospital. Yeah, it's that much fun. After a day of woman pout, Mark finally relented and agreed to brunch in a restaurant with our parents. I'm just hoping that I can talk my dad out of the workout pants long enough to eat. I know I'm in trouble when I get a text that asks "how nice is this place?"

It's not really because brunch is such a big deal, it in and of itself. It's because I'm trying to make memories. It's strange, but I feel like all of the traditions of my family have slipped away with my Grandmothers. What's even more strange is that I miss that silly shit. I miss my Nana trimming the maple crust off the Honey Baked Ham to the horror of everyone at the table. I miss the annual "Airing of Grievances" at my uncle's house. It was BYOB and you'd better also bring your thick skin because on Christmas Eve, everyone got a turn. Not many people get away with calling me "little Linda" and live to tell the tale.

Now I am aware that's not an appropriate tradition for a little kid, but what in the world am I going to hand down to her? A special evening with the Wii? Sitting at the table texting each other? I'm not sure, but this is the year that we start figuring it out. We'll start with food. Like anyone from the South knows, food can pretty much fix anything. Especially if it's both dough and fried. I don't care if I have to drag everyone kicking and screaming to fucking brunch, I Goddamn will. Don't test me. I'm making memories here people.

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MY TEETH HURT

Here we go, brace yourself. The Valentine Cometh.

For me, Valentine's Day is a lot like New Year's Eve. There's too much pressure. Pressure to do something and for God's sake you'd better have a good time. It's always "what are you guys doing for Valentine's Day? Are you going somewhere for dinner? What are you giving? What did you get?" I always want to tell people that a) I've worked in enough restaurants that the last thing I want to do is go fight for a table somewhere, anywhere, on the 14th. and b) I'd rather pay a bill than have flowers that die, and some box of Russell Stover which I am only going to cherry pick until I hork it down in under an hour. To be honest, flowers make me sad because they're so pretty and then you have to watch them die, slowly, in a vase. I guess that is a little morbid, but I'd rather think of it as sensitive in a Morrissey kind of way (look it up).

Like New Year's, Valentine's Day can be relationship nightmare especially if you've just started dating someone. As the holiday approaches you have to asses each scenario. Should you suggest something to do for New Years/Valentines? By doing that are you being presumptuous? And if so will your new boyfriend/girlfriend run the other way? Should you wait for them to say something? If so, what if they don't? Does this mean that they don't like you or don't take things a seriously as you do? What if they are waiting for you to say something and if you don't, then they think that you don't take things seriously?

I have a sneaking suspicion that dudes don't put that much thought into it, but I think that women do. At least I did, but I was/am a neurotic mess, therefore it may not hold true for everyone.

When I met Mark, all of that changed. Not the neurotic part, but all the worrying. He too thought that Valentine's was stupid, so we celebrated by going to a Chinese buffet. Don't judge. It was college, we were broke, and in those circumstances it's always quantity vs. quality. So for this upcoming Valentine's Day, instead of getting some schmaltzy card with two ceramic children holding hands, I thought that I'd let Mark know how much I really love him in because/in spite of the following:

• Telling me stories from the AMB that I don't care about (these are his online "friends" that are the most caustic group of people that I've ever heard of. Although at times they can be funny second hand. I'll never think of Mastadon without laughing).
• He thinks that he's a better driver than I am. Yes, I may have had more accidents but... I think that I just lost my argument.
• Belief that the weather is the root cause of everything, ie. colds, flat tires, dog thirst.
• Wearing his chef's jacket to McDonald's.
• Refusal to throw out old socks, boxers and shoes because he might need them as "backups" one day.
• The permanent filing system which consists of tiny bits of paper stuck in his wallet. It's very Costanza-esque.
• The many, many inventions that he "thought of first." We are still waiting for that Furniture Slider royalty money.
• Announcing that he is going to "bring back" certain slang terms. I just don't think that people are ready to refer to movies as "talkies" again.
• Truly believing that 1975 was the greatest year ever, with an equation to prove it.
• Unwavering hatred for the Doobie Brothers.
• Thinking that he could survive any type of apocalyptic situation because he was in the boy scouts. Personally, I think that his zombie contingency plan reeks of failure.
• Not ever letting go the moment, in the heat of an argument, when I said something about his "stupid fucking face." I was referring to the face he makes when he's frustrated. He totally didn't see it this way. Ten years after the fact, I am still defending myself.
• Pausing the DVR whenever he has a proclamation to make during/about a TV show or movie. I always think that it should be accompanied by "hear ye, hear ye..."

But that list is exactly why I keep him around. He's absolutely my best friend, a great dad, and my longest running relationship. Except for my cat, Mitchell and that relationship was totally co-dependent and abusive. Anyway, Mitchell died, so if Mark can hang in there another three years, the title is his for the taking. Personally, I think that Mark is one groovy dude, you know, the bee's knees, the cat's pajamas. Check me out, I'm bringing it back.

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SUGARTITS

Thank God that Holidays are over. OK, there is still one more day, but it  really doesn't count because most people don't leave the couch all day. Frankly, that is my ideal way to start a new year. Lazy. Even though I enjoyed the actual Christmas part of the holiday, I'm totally over it now. I'm ready to put up the decorations, get the new basketball goal out of my living room (thanks, Dad) and most of all, get rid of the goddamn tree.

When we went to pick out the tree, we had Tanner with us and it was like, 12 degrees, so we didn't take a lot of time to peruse their fine selection. I really wanted a Balsam Fir, but we wound up getting some other kind that resembles the Balsam, but cheaper. I did it against my better judgment because we bought the same kind last year by mistake, and pretty soon discovered why it was cheap. It's a pokey tree. Meaning that every time I touched the thing I got stabbed by its needles and then enjoyed 10 minutes of residual stinging. It was like a tree made entirely out of stinging nettles. Fun, fun, fun.

I began to think that over the course of a year, my mind must have erased the pain that the tree had previously inflicted. Like a tattoo or childbirth, your mind just blocks it out so that hopefully you'll be dumb enough to do it again (hello two kids and three tattoos). Sure enough, as soon as we got the thing home and tried to put it in the tree stand, I was already feeling hundreds of pine needles penetrating my skin. While I was under the tree getting poor man's acupunture, Mark was using his work gloves, which I didn't even know he had, to position the tree. Looking at it in the stand, I began to cringe as I thought about how painful it was going to be to hang ornaments.

The next day I borrowed Mark's gloves to string the lights on and damned if those needled didn't poke through leather work gloves, which I didn't even know he had. By the time Piper was ready to hang ornaments, I was bracing for an hour of impromptu crying about "tree owwies." Oddly enough I was the only one that was crying about it. Eventually I just started shoving ornaments into the tree to prevent myself the pain of having to actuall hang them from a branch.

Against the primal instict to avoid pain, I again crawled under the tree to water it, because no matter my age, that's somehow my job. The good news was that because the tree had a natural defense system, no one really bothered it. Tanner rolled too close and got a sharp prick in the face and decided to roll to somewhere safer, like the fireplace. Piper knelt down near it and took a needle to the kneecap, only relieving the pain with a Hello Kitty Band-Aid. They are apparently made of magic and are something that the medical community should really look into. Even I avoided my OCD Christmas tradition of re-positioning ornaments because I knew that I was asking for trouble.

Suddenly the tree went from bad to worse, which I didn't think was possible. Mysteriously all the water was gone and the thing was drying out - fast. I put more water in it, and the next day it was dry again. This went on for a few more days until one night I looked over and saw a weird stain on the tree skirt. I investigated further only to discover that the spot was a gigantic drool slick left by the dog. The friggin' dog had been drinking tree water. At least it explained the recent increase in his trips outside and the dog poop all over the patio. I really thought that the tree stand doubling as a water bowl ended when Mitchell died last year, but I'm now getting the impression that it was a team effort.

When I examined the wet tree skirt with the gigantic snail trail of  drool, I realized that there was absolutley no water in the tree stand and there hadn't been in days. I quickly filled it up but noticed that the tree was no longer taking nourishment. It was if he'd given up, which became apparent as it dried out more and more. At this point I am actually very hesitant to turn on the lights for fear I am lighting a powder keg. I really don't want to be one of those women standing in the driveway being intervied by the local news station in my pajamas.

Side note: this is where I mention that in the event of a fire, flood or tornado there is one item that I will not leave my house without. My bra. I may have crazy bed head and no shoes, but you can bet your bottom dollar in the event of a natural disaster I will have the support I need. My friend had a fire in her apartment a few years ago, and ignored my advice. Although she forgot the bra, she did rescue the cats, so I guess it's alright. It's just a good thing that there were no news crews around.

Over the course of this last week the branches have become brittle and the needles are more dangerous than ever. It's hard to imagine, but our tree has become a lethal weapon, Gibson style. Minus the anti-semetic slurs and domestic abuse. The good news is that we get to take this thing down day after tomorrow and Mark and I are already trying to come up with a game plan on how to get it out of the house without sending everyone to the hospital. I think that it's going to involve us wearing every piece of winter outwear that we have to wrangle this thing out onto the curb. I feel bad for the garbage guys and think that I should really leave them a warning note or something. "Caution! Tree may cause sharp pain, eye bleeding and increase your desire to gamble."

So, even though we gave up on trying to keep the tree alive, apparently it still has water in the stand, which I found out today when I went home for lunch and caught the dog drinking out of it. Again.

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MERRY CHRISTMAS

This time of year always makes me think of Christmas past. Christmas was always both a stressful time and a highly profitable time of year for me. I had to maneuver three different Christmases with two different families, which was a lot to take for a little kid who really only wanted to stay at home on Christmas Day. However the upside was that I got a freakin' ton of presents. Or, as my Mom would say, "full scale model of the Earth."


When I was young it was usually a Barbie Christmas. I had the Barbie Dream House, which my Dad hated because he had to put it together, the Barbie Townhouse, Jeep, Mercedes, Horse, Dog and a variable cornucopia of Skippers, Kens and accessories. In fact I had so many Barbies that  one year I got a Barbie store, which sold hats and shoes, because my Mom said "bitch gotta get a job to pay for all of this stuff." I like to think of it as she was trying to teach me a lesson about the value of a dollar.


Yep, Santa was very, very good to me. When I started to question his existence, I was told that as long as I believed, Santa would come. From that point on I made it my mission to make "Santa," or as we called him, "Ms. Clause," happy. All this meant was that I kissed up to my Mom for the month or so before Christmas and left a glass of Zinfandel instead of milk and cookies. It usually worked.


My Dad on the other hand wasn't so diplomatic. When I was about seven I was visiting him for Easter and kept talking about the Easter Bunny. I knew that he wasn't real, but I really wanted to make sure that I planted the Easter Basket seed. I figured since my Grandmother was with me, it wouldn't be an issue. Well, I was dead wrong. The night before Easter, my Dad took me outside and told me "look, Santa and the Easter Bunny don't exist, deal with it." Oh my God my Mother was pissed. Sometimes on a cold night, if you listen really close you can still hear the echo.


There were other Christmases that left a permanent scars. Like the time that instead of gifts Santa (my Dad) left me switches, which is the Southern equivalent of a lump of coal, except they are meant to beat you with. Don't worry my Mom and Grandmother were super-pissed at my Dad and later that day my Grandmother burned them. Later I learned that my Dad's reasoning was that I had been a "little shit" the entire year, but I am sure that the fact that my parents were going through a divorce had nothing at all to do with that.


Now that I look at it in print I think that I should have a business card made up with the stories above and hand them out to every one that asks me why I hate Christmas. Or, should I say hated. Now that Piper is old enough to get excited, I find that I am looking forward to Christmas for the first time in many years. I participated in the decorating of the house, even using my Mom's very traditional decorations that she sent me. I normally go for kitsch, but Piper tries to play with it all and it's very hard to explain that "it's vintage" to a three year old.


So on this Christmas Eve, I find myself looking forward to tomorrow and watching Piper get everything she asked for, or as I like to call it a "full scale model of the Earth." But in keeping with a family tradition, I will ask her to leave Santa and his helper a couple of beers to wash down those cookies.


Merry Christmas!

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BAD MOON ON THE RISE

During Piper's four days of unfortunate intestinal distress, there were many fake-outs that led us to believe that the worst was over. During one such reprieve, I unwisely decided to take her a "Breakfast with Santa" that I'd already paid for. I think had I not already laid out the cash, cooler heads might have prevailed and we would have skipped it. But hey, eleven dollars is eleven dollars.

I should have known better. I did know better. Especially since right before we left, she had a "throw up in her pull-up." Her words not mine. Mark and I thought that the phrase was pretty great and throughout the next couple of days turned it into a techno song of sorts. I still think that in the right demographic it could be a hit.

Anyway, we got her all cleaned up, waited a bit, and then decided to give the Santa breakfast a try, especially since I'd already mentioned the magic word: Santa. We braved the 20 degree weather and reached the Community building just in time for pancakes and Tang. When I asked her how she liked the Tang (because let's be honest, that shit is gross), she said "it's good." I then told her "well the astronauts drink it," thinking myself all kinds of clever and cool. The couple across looked at me like I was an astronaut - from planet crazy. Hey, I can't help it if I'm old and I remember that damned ad campaign.

Piper had exactly two bites of pancakes when she looked at me and said, "I need to go to the potty." I could tell by her face that it was serious. I immediately took her hand and sprinted to the bathroom and we made it time. Almost. All I'm going to say is that I left that bathroom with a pair of panties in my pocket and she went back to the Santa breakfast commando.

I tried to get her to go see Santa, since you know, he was the reason that we were there, but she didn't want to. Instead she wanted to do crafts. I was like "kid, I didn't pay eleven bucks for pancakes and Tang." But we did some crafts and after a while I suggested that we give Santa another try. She approached him with a lot of trepidation and then tried to hide behind me. I kept trying to lure her over to Santa so I could get a picture, even telling her at one point "look, he has a candy cane, don't you want to get a candy cane?" That's when I realized that I was actually encouraging my daughter to take candy from strangers, so I backed off that one.

Then Piper did what Piper does best, which was to throw a fit right there in front of Santa and everyone. Not realizing that the floor she was about to fling herself on was concrete, she really nailed her nose during the episode. I looked at the dude playing Santa and he kind of shrugged and I drug Piper on the highly-buffed floor back to the crafts table.

We were just sitting down to more coloring when two of her friends from school came up to say hi. I asked them if they'd seen Santa and they, of course, had. I then asked if they wouldn't mind taking Piper up there and holding her hand so she wouldn't be scared. They obliged and I have to say that it was super cute. They all walked up there and Piper's fear completely vanished as she ran up to Santa and gave him a great big bear hug, just as her pants fell down, exposing her butt to the entire crowd waiting in line.

She got a candy cane.

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CHRISTMAS, BLOODY CHRISTMAS

** OK, if you are super-sensitive about Christmas, God or retail, please do us both a favor and skip this post.

Well, it’s Christmas again – that special time of year when Santa sells liquor and angels sing ‘half off everything in the store.’ I hate Christmas. I know, I know. I’m probably going to have my Christian card revoked for just verbalizing that, but I’m pretty sure that I crossed that line the day I compared Jesus to a zombie (except he didn’t eat people. Think about it). My only saving grace is that God might find that funny because he/she/general life force, has one dark, fucked up sense of humor. If you doubt it, just look around you. It’s called “life.”

Granted I am a cynical person, but I see Christmas as nothing more than a orgy of buying and receiving shit no one needs (except for this year, I’m getting tires for my car, which I really do need). Exhibit A - the insane commercials on your TV. Once, just once, I’d like to meet someone that got a fucking car for Christmas.

All the Christmas hubbub makes me think about Hanukkah, you know, that other holiday and how civilized and practical it seems compared to the carnival-like atmosphere of Christmas. Eight days, eight presents, light some candles and enjoy some dreidel spinning – done and done.

My husband likes to remind me that Christmas is really for kids and now that we have one I’d better buck up and change my attitude. He’s absolutely right, but it doesn’t mean that I have to go quietly into that goodnight. I’ve promised to hide my crankiness as long as he postpones the Christmas kickoff until after Thanksgiving. Novel idea, I know.

By now it’s a cliché to bitch and moan about the commercialism of Christmas. I think that people were probably complaining about it at the second Christmas. The three wise men were all, "you know, myrrh ain't cheap, and frankincense and is just so passe nowadays. Besides, I mean have you ever seen them use this stuff? 'Cause I sure haven't."

Besides, no one is going to ever give a better commentary than Dr. Seuss, so the rest of us should stop trying. However, I don’t even think that the Grinch could have foreseen the complete anarchy that is Black Friday. Five years ago, unless you worked in retail, you had no idea what Black Friday even was. Now, companies tout the day as if it were, well, Christmas. For Christssakes, this year Sears actually had a “Black Friday” sale. I find it highly ironic and hi-larious that we now kick off the celebration of our Lord, the baby Jesus, with something called Black Friday. And I thought comparing Jesus with a zombie was bad (except he didn’t eat people. Think about it).

Ever since I left the wonderful world of retail, I swore that it would be a cold day in hell before I participated in the Black Friday chaos. I absolutely refuse to throw bows to get a HDTV, or to punch some stranger in the throat for an awesome deal on a laptop. I know that I’m giving away my age here, but I remember all too well the insanity that occurred during the Cabbage Patch riots of ’83. By the time Daddy learned to walk again, little Xavier was all but forgotten about. Shame.

However this year, I did it. I laced up my ice skates and I ventured out onto the lake of eternal fire, or as I like to call it, Target. I wasn’t really taking it very seriously as we didn’t get there until 10 a.m. Door busters, we weren’t. Piper and I milled around for a bit and I found a couple of things, but I steered clear of the electronics section, since that’s where the highest concentration of crazy seems to be during the BF sales. Mostly people were civil, but there were a couple of instances of people cutting me off with their carts to get that last $4 copy of Nights in Rodanthe. Then there was the high-school couple that decided to make out in the kid’s movie section, block the isle and apparently the stares of everyone around them. Finally after a couple of minutes of soft-corn porn, I piped up, “really guys? You picked today?” Of course they shot me a dirty “old lady don’t understand our love” look, but they got out of my way.

I decided to take a moment of refuge in the shoe isle, quietly looking at slippers for Piper trying to figure out which one would fit her freakishly wide feet (sadly, I do not see cutesy, strappy sandals in her future). I had just put a fuzzy pink number back when I heard the voice of an angel in the next isle. OK, not really. It was just some crazy lady humming “Silent Night” with all her might. And for the first and probably only time this holiday season, I took pause and delighted in the moment. Because even though this woman had probably been at Old Navy since 3 a.m., she had the will to sing a Christmas carol while browsing shoe carnage on Black Friday. That my friends, is faith.

Her vocal stylings made me think about what carol I might sing in the shoe isle of Target? If I ever felt so inclined, I think that it might go, a little something, like this…

“Siiiiiiiiilent Niiiiight, Hooooooooooly Niiiiiight, round yon virgin, these shoes are too tiiiiiiiiiight. Hoooooooly infant, they are a good priiiiiiiice, maaaaaaybeeeeeeeee they’ll streeeeeetch, maaaaaaybeeeeeeeee they’ll streeeeeetch.

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