Why? Because the worst thing that could happen is not that you lose them. The worst thing that could happen is you save them for a special occasion and then lose them. Or that you don't wear them for fear they'll be lost and they grow dusty. You lost out on all the days before they were lost when you could be wearing them and drawing pleasure from beauty. You put the light under a bushel basket to protect it, and wind up living as if you did not have own those diamonds at all.
Last night I learned how poorly I take a compliment. My daughter caught me doing what I almost always do when given praise. I criticize it by pushing up against it my own less complimentary opinion of myself or my work, or I counter it by offering a return compliment to put whoever gave the kind words on a higher plane than me. Mock humility in practice to the point of becoming reflexive.
Shocked to have this moment of clarity illuminated by my 17 year old, I asked her, "How would you suggest I respond?" She then role played to explain I should simply say "Thank you." and all that inner critic that I wanted to just let out in the moment, should be sent packing. To not simply take the praise was to insult the giver, to refuse the gift, was to be rude. She went on to explain that to deny what someone else said as being true for the sake of oddly enough, not allowing myself to think I looked bad, made the other person feel bad for trying to praise me.
I looked in the mirror this morning and realized, this was all true. It wasn't all the truth of me, but there was a nut of it, stemming from never quite believing I was worthy of compliments let alone friends. It also explained my near compulsive desire to launch into what my children refer to as my stand up routine whenever brought into contact with strangers.
Suffice it to say, I got skewered. New People! Time to make them laugh, appear confident, smile, laugh too loudly, it's show time folks! Impress. Dazzle. Leave feeling high from the interaction, certain I've made a friend for life even if I never see them again. Wonder why no one calls or emails five minutes later. They've seen this enough times to know it is not intimate, it is a mock sharing. It is shared, but it is rather like a blog, for public consumption.
Then I sat there mad...like do we ever get over our own hang ups...does it really take to the age of 46 to even recognize a hang up? and then...why now? Friends are like diamond earrings and compliments. They should be given/enjoyed daily or they will grow dusty and be lost when it comes time for a special occasion, diamond dearings to be shown and known and enjoyed.
So when a friend called to talk about the reunion, she didn't realize she'd touched on a newly exposed vulnerability. We both felt like the coming event seemed a little flat. That I had only a few friends coming to the college for this 25th year anniversary was the fruit of not having spent time with them since, not being present then or now, save when it fit my schedule.
Being present always means the same thing, being there for the other, and I'd spent much of college not being present at my own school. To those to whom I was close, they remain, but two are deceased. Since then, while I form friends quickly --like creating lots of shallow roots, many of those friendships were built on shallow soil. Others have died from a lack of tending. Still others are there still hoping to be breathed on at some point, and then I asked.
You'd think by now, I'd know to ask and ask often and shoot, spend the whole day asking because God never tires. Friends. Despite ten children and a wonderful husband, great parents and in-laws, sister and brothers, sister and brother in laws, despite everything and everyone I knew, I felt lonely. Friends God. I want friends.
My heart asked before my head understood what I was asking but I did ask.
And God always answers. He knows how I work too, which is good, because He can pour through that junk that I use to keep things shallow or at least, incidental. He also knows I have little patience so the phone rang almost immediately.
I wanted desperately to be the one to be there for the other for everyone else...yes that sounds very selfish and yes...it is. Yes it was. One of the ones I had been there for, even when it was hard, even though it might have been born of my own selfishness, was the first to call in response to my prayer. And she set me straight. Getting off the phone with her, I felt both exhausted and exhilarated.
Then I called three women I like, who I would like to have as closer friends. I have to start being the friend to the people I hope to name as such and that means, time. I sat afterwards marveling at how stupid it is that I spend so much time not recognizing the gifts put in front of me, pushing them aside like compliments. Refusing to fully take on the gifts and the givers. Keeping the earrings in a box. And I'm carrying around a gong in my head, so that when the stand up lady shows up, I can bang her off the stage. The one not putting on the show is much more interesting and it's time she stopped pretending, she didn't want to be seen.
Oh. And I put on my diamond earrings.
Showing posts with label gifts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gifts. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Christmas Regulations
It began with a question meant to while away the time driving from home to mass. “Hey kids! The grandparents in Texas want to give a family gift. Any suggestions?”
“A Dog!”
“A Fish!”
“A kitten!”
Sensing a trend I did not favor, I explained. “Rule number one: We shall add no living things to our family this Christmas.”
“What about a tree?”
“Nice try. But trees need to be planted at a different season, so while it’s a good idea, no. Let’s try again.”
“A Car!”
“A Boat!”
"A Tree House like they have on Phineas and Ferb."
“Okay, rule number two: This is out of range. Think less expensive.”
“Candy!”
Me: That's a bit on the low side for a family gift.
“Donut maker!”
“Deep Fryer!”
Hearing loud protests from those who do not like donuts and those who do not like fried anything and wanting to quell the appliance litany that was starting to coalesce...blender...ice cream maker...pizza oven...my kids watch too much Food Network... “Okay, rule number three…we probably don’t need a food related gift.”
“Hamster?”
“Again, remember I said no living things.”
“So the rule is the range is somewhere between Candy and a Boat, and nothing that breathes and nothing you eat.” My oldest son summarized it for the younger ones. I still thought the bell curve was a bit large.
“Skateboard Park!”
“Helicopter!”
“Pool!”
Yep. Too large. “Mmmmm. We need to add one more rule. You know how I said no living things? Well, we also want nothing that turns living things dead. Plus I think they were outside the stated range which I will modify, it must be smaller than a go-cart.”
“You keep adding rules.” My daughter pouted.
“Well it's a gift. And I think intent and results matter. I don't think your grandparents want to give things that can cause death.”
“We didn’t say guns.”
“Or knives.”
“Or Bear traps.”
Me: “That’s good because you’re not getting guns or knives or bear traps. Did you want guns or knives or bear traps?”
“No.”
“Not particularly.”
“The bear trap might have been cool.”
Me: “How do you even know about bear traps?”
“Civil War Series and the History Chanel”
“Little House in the Big Woods.”
“Wyle E. Coyote.”
“Okay. Nothing living. Nothing dead. Nothing that makes the living dead.”
“So no zombies.”
“Well, they’re not exactly keeping with the spirit of the season and we said a family gift.”
“We could get a family of zombies.”
“Cool. And if they got out of hand, the bear trap would come in handy.”
“Or the boat for a quick get away.”
Me: Okay, last rule because we’re almost to the parking lot. It must be in some way possible, fun, affordable, safe, not living and for the whole family. How about a basketball hoop?
I see grins in the rear view mirror as I park. "I think Mom planned that."
That's giving me way way way too much credit...but I'll take it.
“A Dog!”
“A Fish!”
“A kitten!”
Sensing a trend I did not favor, I explained. “Rule number one: We shall add no living things to our family this Christmas.”
“What about a tree?”
“Nice try. But trees need to be planted at a different season, so while it’s a good idea, no. Let’s try again.”
“A Car!”
“A Boat!”
"A Tree House like they have on Phineas and Ferb."
“Okay, rule number two: This is out of range. Think less expensive.”
“Candy!”
Me: That's a bit on the low side for a family gift.
“Donut maker!”
“Deep Fryer!”
Hearing loud protests from those who do not like donuts and those who do not like fried anything and wanting to quell the appliance litany that was starting to coalesce...blender...ice cream maker...pizza oven...my kids watch too much Food Network... “Okay, rule number three…we probably don’t need a food related gift.”
“Hamster?”
“Again, remember I said no living things.”
“So the rule is the range is somewhere between Candy and a Boat, and nothing that breathes and nothing you eat.” My oldest son summarized it for the younger ones. I still thought the bell curve was a bit large.
“Skateboard Park!”
“Helicopter!”
“Pool!”
Yep. Too large. “Mmmmm. We need to add one more rule. You know how I said no living things? Well, we also want nothing that turns living things dead. Plus I think they were outside the stated range which I will modify, it must be smaller than a go-cart.”
“You keep adding rules.” My daughter pouted.
“Well it's a gift. And I think intent and results matter. I don't think your grandparents want to give things that can cause death.”
“We didn’t say guns.”
“Or knives.”
“Or Bear traps.”
Me: “That’s good because you’re not getting guns or knives or bear traps. Did you want guns or knives or bear traps?”
“No.”
“Not particularly.”
“The bear trap might have been cool.”
Me: “How do you even know about bear traps?”
“Civil War Series and the History Chanel”
“Little House in the Big Woods.”
“Wyle E. Coyote.”
“Okay. Nothing living. Nothing dead. Nothing that makes the living dead.”
“So no zombies.”
“Well, they’re not exactly keeping with the spirit of the season and we said a family gift.”
“We could get a family of zombies.”
“Cool. And if they got out of hand, the bear trap would come in handy.”
“Or the boat for a quick get away.”
Me: Okay, last rule because we’re almost to the parking lot. It must be in some way possible, fun, affordable, safe, not living and for the whole family. How about a basketball hoop?
I see grins in the rear view mirror as I park. "I think Mom planned that."
That's giving me way way way too much credit...but I'll take it.
Monday, November 21, 2011
100 Blessings
This week is Thanksgiving. We should give thanks. Even in this economy, with all the unrest, all the agitation in our society, we should be overwhelmingly grateful. A friend of mine starts her day counting her blessings before she even puts her feet on the ground. What a way to start every day! She is also (no coincidence) one of the most grounded people I know.
It isn't cliche to count your blessings because we so often forget to do this, that it isn't a common practice. Rather, it's common to Not count your blessings, to take them for granted and presume that they are somehow acknowledged in the non-acknowledging of the gifts in one's life. We need moments like Thanksgiving, and older traditions and celebrations than this, to remind us to think beyond today and tomorrow, to think about our past and about all the things in our everyday that give the everyday salt, light, heat, truth and beauty.
Numbering these was done only to keep count and in no way designates priorities, because all of them are simply blessings; simply things and people and experiences for which I feel tremendous grattitude, some serious, some not so, all blessings that bring joy, comfort, and make the day no matter what the day, Thanksgiving.
100. Being alive.
99. Chocolate.
98. My health.
97. My children.
96. Flowers.
95. Our Parish.
94. Answered prayers.
93. Old friends.
92. New friends.
91. Listening to my children play music.
90. Watching my youngest daughter learn to dance.
89. Date night.
88. Having my best friend/husband of 21 years.
87. My inlaws.
86. My parents.
85. My brothers
84. My sister.
83. my 2 nephews and 7 nieces.
82. my extended family
81. my degree.
80. Good books.
79. snow.
78. the rosary.
77. the beach --Caplen, Texas.
76. homemade pumkin pie
75. this country.
74. our house.
73. the 24-7 Christmas music radio station even though it started before Advent because it brings my littlest children great joy.
72. 18 years of being a stay at home mom
71. phone calls from family and friends.
70. mail that isn't bills.
69. foot rubs.
68. writing
67. the level of wit and education of my children, always delights.
66. the occasional talent to shock my children by proving 1) I can paint and 2) I can dance.
65. a sense of humor.
64. going to see sporting events.
63. Unexpected good music that somehow makes wherever you are, a more perfect moment.
62. mass.
61. the school that shelters and educates and has loved all my children.
60. flowers that still bloom in November.
59. Seeing deer with full antlers still makes me watch with a touch of awe.
58. Soup that cooks all day.
57. Warm fires on cold nights.
56. the way the kids love to decorate for every holiday by making 1000 pictures to tape on the walls.
55. the feeling after exercising.
54. getting enough sleep.
53. unanticipated art --in architecture, displays, flashes of deliberate beauty both manmade and not.
52. listening to my husband read to the children for bedtime.
51. when the older ones do the dishes or some chore unasked.
50. when any of them do a chore because it is asked.
49. All the things I've yet to learn.
48. freedom
47. being asked to pray for someone.
46. seeing my children grow in grace and wisdom.
45. occasionally experiencing it myself.
44. when I don't give in to fatigue.
43. seeing the generosity of those around me.
42. miracles.
41. dreams told over the breakfast table.
40. rediscovering talents that have laid fallow.
39. discover new ones.
38. sunrise.
37. sunset.
36. the gifts that each child has.
35. the gifts that each child requires of me.
34. the gifts that each child reveals I need.
33. vine ripe tomatoes
32. shooting stars.
31. sensible advice
30. Having a four day weekend.
29. Sleeping in.
28. Being on time.
27. unexpected presents.
26. visits from friends.
25. finding a lost earing/shoe/brush/picture/paper/book.
24. eating together as a family.
23. playing football outside.
22. drinking hot red raspberry tea inside.
21. seeing one of my kids lost in a book.
20. being asked to play by them.
19. the seasons of the Earth
18. the seasons of the Church
17. the promise of Summer.
16. finding that perfect gift for someone.
15. good photos.
14. recognizing and then making time because someone needs it.
13. giving a rub Paul puts my hand on his back or feet when I put him to bed, and when I pull back to leave, he grabs my hand and says, "Mommmm" so I know, he wants to be rubbed to sleep.
12. having your baby fall asleep in your arms.
11. the night sky
10. being invited out to do something.
9. the beautiful state we live in.
8. cooking for my family and having it well received.
7. learning new things.
6. winning when I play cards or chess -rare either way.
5. getting better at playing the piano.
4. the kind people who are educating Paul so well.
3. 45 years of life that feels almost luminous, it has been so fun.
2. having so many people to love.
1. the Eucharist
It isn't cliche to count your blessings because we so often forget to do this, that it isn't a common practice. Rather, it's common to Not count your blessings, to take them for granted and presume that they are somehow acknowledged in the non-acknowledging of the gifts in one's life. We need moments like Thanksgiving, and older traditions and celebrations than this, to remind us to think beyond today and tomorrow, to think about our past and about all the things in our everyday that give the everyday salt, light, heat, truth and beauty.
Numbering these was done only to keep count and in no way designates priorities, because all of them are simply blessings; simply things and people and experiences for which I feel tremendous grattitude, some serious, some not so, all blessings that bring joy, comfort, and make the day no matter what the day, Thanksgiving.
100. Being alive.
99. Chocolate.
98. My health.
97. My children.
96. Flowers.
95. Our Parish.
94. Answered prayers.
93. Old friends.
92. New friends.
91. Listening to my children play music.
90. Watching my youngest daughter learn to dance.
89. Date night.
88. Having my best friend/husband of 21 years.
87. My inlaws.
86. My parents.
85. My brothers
84. My sister.
83. my 2 nephews and 7 nieces.
82. my extended family
81. my degree.
80. Good books.
79. snow.
78. the rosary.
77. the beach --Caplen, Texas.
76. homemade pumkin pie
75. this country.
74. our house.
73. the 24-7 Christmas music radio station even though it started before Advent because it brings my littlest children great joy.
72. 18 years of being a stay at home mom
71. phone calls from family and friends.
70. mail that isn't bills.
69. foot rubs.
68. writing
67. the level of wit and education of my children, always delights.
66. the occasional talent to shock my children by proving 1) I can paint and 2) I can dance.
65. a sense of humor.
64. going to see sporting events.
63. Unexpected good music that somehow makes wherever you are, a more perfect moment.
62. mass.
61. the school that shelters and educates and has loved all my children.
60. flowers that still bloom in November.
59. Seeing deer with full antlers still makes me watch with a touch of awe.
58. Soup that cooks all day.
57. Warm fires on cold nights.
56. the way the kids love to decorate for every holiday by making 1000 pictures to tape on the walls.
55. the feeling after exercising.
54. getting enough sleep.
53. unanticipated art --in architecture, displays, flashes of deliberate beauty both manmade and not.
52. listening to my husband read to the children for bedtime.
51. when the older ones do the dishes or some chore unasked.
50. when any of them do a chore because it is asked.
49. All the things I've yet to learn.
48. freedom
47. being asked to pray for someone.
46. seeing my children grow in grace and wisdom.
45. occasionally experiencing it myself.
44. when I don't give in to fatigue.
43. seeing the generosity of those around me.
42. miracles.
41. dreams told over the breakfast table.
40. rediscovering talents that have laid fallow.
39. discover new ones.
38. sunrise.
37. sunset.
36. the gifts that each child has.
35. the gifts that each child requires of me.
34. the gifts that each child reveals I need.
33. vine ripe tomatoes
32. shooting stars.
31. sensible advice
30. Having a four day weekend.
29. Sleeping in.
28. Being on time.
27. unexpected presents.
26. visits from friends.
25. finding a lost earing/shoe/brush/picture/paper/book.
24. eating together as a family.
23. playing football outside.
22. drinking hot red raspberry tea inside.
21. seeing one of my kids lost in a book.
20. being asked to play by them.
19. the seasons of the Earth
18. the seasons of the Church
17. the promise of Summer.
16. finding that perfect gift for someone.
15. good photos.
14. recognizing and then making time because someone needs it.
13. giving a rub Paul puts my hand on his back or feet when I put him to bed, and when I pull back to leave, he grabs my hand and says, "Mommmm" so I know, he wants to be rubbed to sleep.
12. having your baby fall asleep in your arms.
11. the night sky
10. being invited out to do something.
9. the beautiful state we live in.
8. cooking for my family and having it well received.
7. learning new things.
6. winning when I play cards or chess -rare either way.
5. getting better at playing the piano.
4. the kind people who are educating Paul so well.
3. 45 years of life that feels almost luminous, it has been so fun.
2. having so many people to love.
1. the Eucharist
Sunday, December 19, 2010
I Got the One Week to Christmas Blues....
This elf has been thrice thwarted. I've made a list. I put it on my computer on a spread sheet. My computer died Friday. It is under warranty but will be away at Santa's workshop for the next two weeks. I made a second list, I wrote it on paper using an old fashioned writing utensil called a pen. I left the list in the car. The car decided Saturday to pay its respects to the car equivalent of Santa's workshop and won't be back until Tuesday at the earliest. When I did go to the store, I discovered one of my children had helpfully brought in my purse into the house and somehow taken out my wallet, ergo I had no means to purchase anything the one time I actually made it out to look. 0 for 3, I may be busted back down to AA for this Christmas season.
Now, it is up to my brain to remember all those good thoughts I had on one of the two lists, and to eventually figure out how to take care of those lists.
It is times like these I am glad to be Catholic, because I can do that whole 12 days of Christmas thing legitimately. It's not that I procrastinated or was overwhelmed or anything. I was celebrating the season "properly." Yeah that's what I'm doing. Right. My kids won't buy it either.
My big issue is what. I look in the stores and catalogues waiting for lightning to strike; but so far, nothing has caught me up with its whimsy where I'm imagining the kiddos opening it and feeling that rush of delight at having an unspoken wish granted.
It may be that the problem is unique to having 9 children. Within the confines of these walls, having had kids in the home since 93, we have amassed a rather extensive collection of toys for both girls and boys. I'd wager we have almost every conceivable toy already somewhere in the house. They may be scattered, they may be broken, they may be the wrong color, size or model but we own them somehow.
Take art supplies: if you collected all the markers in this house, you'ld have six boxes full though many of them would consist solely of black, a muddy yellow, green and orange, because blue, purple and red are the favorites for use and get dried out most often. Likewise if you collected all the crayons, at least three of those big boxes that came with the sharpener would be filled; again with a heavy show of force by gray, white, black, green and orange. I could make the same case for hot wheels, knights, barbies (at least 75 strong, all undressed).
Supplemental purchases we've done. I've bought clothing for Barbies. One year I even spent two nights of my life welding those too tight shirts and skirts to the ladies. Within five minutes of the discovery, the girls had returned all Barbies and their friends to the au naturale state. Legos don't add to the existing pile, they become new piles. Sometimes, more is just too much. I've been threading as much as possible, but it feels self defeating to then go shopping to create moreness.
I want them to have whimsy, I want to feel it too. But all this defense in depth of toys means Christmas consists of figuring out what each child wants that we can manage that we don't already in some capacity have such that giving it would be redundant and anti-climactic. Some of my offspring have discerned this dilemia and come up with helpful suggestions via their wish lists. The proposed items are creative, thoughtful, meaningful, clever, unique and guaranteed to not be in any way, replications of what has been received before.
But I have informed them and Santa that we are not in the market for either a pony or a dog.
So this elf is flunking elf school; and worse than that, on Wednesday, they all get to go to the dentist.
Now, it is up to my brain to remember all those good thoughts I had on one of the two lists, and to eventually figure out how to take care of those lists.
It is times like these I am glad to be Catholic, because I can do that whole 12 days of Christmas thing legitimately. It's not that I procrastinated or was overwhelmed or anything. I was celebrating the season "properly." Yeah that's what I'm doing. Right. My kids won't buy it either.
My big issue is what. I look in the stores and catalogues waiting for lightning to strike; but so far, nothing has caught me up with its whimsy where I'm imagining the kiddos opening it and feeling that rush of delight at having an unspoken wish granted.
It may be that the problem is unique to having 9 children. Within the confines of these walls, having had kids in the home since 93, we have amassed a rather extensive collection of toys for both girls and boys. I'd wager we have almost every conceivable toy already somewhere in the house. They may be scattered, they may be broken, they may be the wrong color, size or model but we own them somehow.
Take art supplies: if you collected all the markers in this house, you'ld have six boxes full though many of them would consist solely of black, a muddy yellow, green and orange, because blue, purple and red are the favorites for use and get dried out most often. Likewise if you collected all the crayons, at least three of those big boxes that came with the sharpener would be filled; again with a heavy show of force by gray, white, black, green and orange. I could make the same case for hot wheels, knights, barbies (at least 75 strong, all undressed).
Supplemental purchases we've done. I've bought clothing for Barbies. One year I even spent two nights of my life welding those too tight shirts and skirts to the ladies. Within five minutes of the discovery, the girls had returned all Barbies and their friends to the au naturale state. Legos don't add to the existing pile, they become new piles. Sometimes, more is just too much. I've been threading as much as possible, but it feels self defeating to then go shopping to create moreness.
I want them to have whimsy, I want to feel it too. But all this defense in depth of toys means Christmas consists of figuring out what each child wants that we can manage that we don't already in some capacity have such that giving it would be redundant and anti-climactic. Some of my offspring have discerned this dilemia and come up with helpful suggestions via their wish lists. The proposed items are creative, thoughtful, meaningful, clever, unique and guaranteed to not be in any way, replications of what has been received before.
But I have informed them and Santa that we are not in the market for either a pony or a dog.
So this elf is flunking elf school; and worse than that, on Wednesday, they all get to go to the dentist.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
What is an Experience of the Holy Spirit?
It's a question that has stayed with me over the years. What is an experience with the Holy Spirit? My sister asked it of me when she was preparing for confirmation, 17 years ago. What she was asking was essentially, how do you know when God is using life to instruct you and offering grace if you aren't fortunate enough to see flames or begin speaking in tongues or see the Spirit descend? How in this scientific empirical world, can we know God is with us?
The Holy Spirit has always been to me, my closest touch to God. When I was very young, my parents took me to a charismatic retreat. They told me they would pray for my throat to be healed. That weekend, I remember there being a pool and wanting to swim. I remember my mother cleaning my tracheotomy and bandages in the hallway of our home. She didn't tell me she had plugged me up. It was the first time I was ever able to talk and not turn instantly blue after having the artificial airway closed. It was a healing that hadn't happened in six years of trying until we asked once more.
Two years later, when the tracheotomy was finally removed, my father took me to a jewelry store and bought her a golden sand dollar necklace with the date engraved on it. He told me I could pick out anything I wanted. There were bunnies and butterflies and flowers and hearts. I picked a descending dove. I still wear a replica of that medal today.
My oldest daughter is receiving the gift of the Holy Spirit on Wednesday. And I am still seeking a means to tell her the answer to that question my sister asked of me so long ago. It is hard to explain except in context, for the Holy Spirit is always infused into our lives, always permeating everything, always seeking to saturate our lives with the fullness of God's love. When my sister asked this question, I farmed it out to all the people I knew who held their faith lives dear.
The result was a collection of letters including a story by my dad about his brother who through and despite his madness, was used by the Holy Spirit to serve the hidden poor with his generosity. My Uncle loved deeply and suffered greatly but he was fun; he could take in the poor even as he was being taken in by the poor. This man with the tattoos also put up reminder notes in the bathrooms for his brothers and sisters to pray for me when I was first born. He also made everyone get up in the middle of the night to say the rosary. He was also my sister's Godfather. The Holy Spirit specializes in tapestry weaving of our lives. What we see as loose ends, God uses to tie others into our lives and all those in Heaven hope we will recognize the patterns of this great tapestry and seek to follow along.
There are seven gifts of the Holy Spirit; wisdom, understanding, good counsel, courage, knowledge, piety and fear of the Lord. We can know we are of the Holy Spirit and acting from the Holy Spirit by the fruits of our actions; charity (or love), joy, peace, patience, benignity (or kindness), goodness, longanimity (or long suffering), mildness, faith, modesty, continence, and chastity. The fruits cannot come except through the gifts and all reveal God's love and our love for God and others. We can know when we are not acting in the Holy Spirit if we encounter ourselves engaging in the opposite of these fruits. It's not difficult to recognize, though it is often difficult for us to comply.
The impulse to think of someone else, to do something, to say something, to offer a compliment when none is called for, to pick up the phone to speak to someone we love just because we love them, these are the whispers of the Holy Spirit to us, calling us to be luminous to others. We do not need to be sane or well or young or old to hear and follow those whispers; only listening and obedient. Anytime we act beyond what we wanted to, serve more than we wished to, did more than required but with willing hearts, we are being luminous towards others and we are following the whispers of the Holy Spirit.
So I'll ask for your prayers for my daughter and all the daughters and sons that prepare for this sacrament, and that there lives may be luminous mysteries, permeated with the Spirit. For it is only in the weaving of all of our lives with God's love, that we will make the world into a cloak of pure beauty.
Thanks.
P.S. And if you want to share an experience of the Holy Spirit to help flesh out the fullness of what it is to experience the whispers of God, I will present these to my daughter along with my own.
The Holy Spirit has always been to me, my closest touch to God. When I was very young, my parents took me to a charismatic retreat. They told me they would pray for my throat to be healed. That weekend, I remember there being a pool and wanting to swim. I remember my mother cleaning my tracheotomy and bandages in the hallway of our home. She didn't tell me she had plugged me up. It was the first time I was ever able to talk and not turn instantly blue after having the artificial airway closed. It was a healing that hadn't happened in six years of trying until we asked once more.
Two years later, when the tracheotomy was finally removed, my father took me to a jewelry store and bought her a golden sand dollar necklace with the date engraved on it. He told me I could pick out anything I wanted. There were bunnies and butterflies and flowers and hearts. I picked a descending dove. I still wear a replica of that medal today.
My oldest daughter is receiving the gift of the Holy Spirit on Wednesday. And I am still seeking a means to tell her the answer to that question my sister asked of me so long ago. It is hard to explain except in context, for the Holy Spirit is always infused into our lives, always permeating everything, always seeking to saturate our lives with the fullness of God's love. When my sister asked this question, I farmed it out to all the people I knew who held their faith lives dear.
The result was a collection of letters including a story by my dad about his brother who through and despite his madness, was used by the Holy Spirit to serve the hidden poor with his generosity. My Uncle loved deeply and suffered greatly but he was fun; he could take in the poor even as he was being taken in by the poor. This man with the tattoos also put up reminder notes in the bathrooms for his brothers and sisters to pray for me when I was first born. He also made everyone get up in the middle of the night to say the rosary. He was also my sister's Godfather. The Holy Spirit specializes in tapestry weaving of our lives. What we see as loose ends, God uses to tie others into our lives and all those in Heaven hope we will recognize the patterns of this great tapestry and seek to follow along.
There are seven gifts of the Holy Spirit; wisdom, understanding, good counsel, courage, knowledge, piety and fear of the Lord. We can know we are of the Holy Spirit and acting from the Holy Spirit by the fruits of our actions; charity (or love), joy, peace, patience, benignity (or kindness), goodness, longanimity (or long suffering), mildness, faith, modesty, continence, and chastity. The fruits cannot come except through the gifts and all reveal God's love and our love for God and others. We can know when we are not acting in the Holy Spirit if we encounter ourselves engaging in the opposite of these fruits. It's not difficult to recognize, though it is often difficult for us to comply.
The impulse to think of someone else, to do something, to say something, to offer a compliment when none is called for, to pick up the phone to speak to someone we love just because we love them, these are the whispers of the Holy Spirit to us, calling us to be luminous to others. We do not need to be sane or well or young or old to hear and follow those whispers; only listening and obedient. Anytime we act beyond what we wanted to, serve more than we wished to, did more than required but with willing hearts, we are being luminous towards others and we are following the whispers of the Holy Spirit.
So I'll ask for your prayers for my daughter and all the daughters and sons that prepare for this sacrament, and that there lives may be luminous mysteries, permeated with the Spirit. For it is only in the weaving of all of our lives with God's love, that we will make the world into a cloak of pure beauty.
Thanks.
P.S. And if you want to share an experience of the Holy Spirit to help flesh out the fullness of what it is to experience the whispers of God, I will present these to my daughter along with my own.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Seven Takes Friday
1.
First, hello to all the new people who have decided to follow my blog. Leave a comment, introduce yourselves. I hope my stories, rantings, ravings and musings bring you a smile, if not an outright laugh. 2.
This Lent, I've been focusing on my personal Gritch.(My personification of the original sin version of me). Some days it's easy. Some days, it's not.One of the things Lent does is call us not simply to reform/repent, but to begin to consider what it is that brings us to the point of making the wrong choices; if you think of sin as the alcohol, think of the sinner as the addicted soul who deliberately choses to drive to the bar in the first place. I'm trying to work on not getting into the car to go somewhere away from God in the first place.
"Lead us not into temptation," isn't simply a plea for God to rearrange our world so we never struggle, it's also a request for the grace to deliberately embrace obedience; to NOT lead ourselves to those places we fail most often.
3.
I have lost my keys. It is now day five. Given the last post, this might be God's way of assisting me, but I live in perpetual fear that I'm going to go out somewhere, lose the half a set I have now and wind up with a vehicle that can go nowhere and the kids in the back saying, "We need a snack." If you have good connections with Saint Anthony of Padua, please petition him. I have but I also pester the poor man daily for kids shoes, time, inspiration, patience and any number of things that I find I have in short supply.4.
Yesterday, I tried to impose the 7 to 7 rule about going on the internet. I didn't make it. I checked three times for emails but didn't look at any news sites I normally haunt; and the thing was, by 6:45, I was jonesing for a break and I could hear the words, "Could I not stay." with the kids who were chattering and playing and asking to help make the birthday cake. We made the cake. Two kids wrapped the presents. My oldest daughter decorated. Then we took a break and it was 7:30; the kids were watching shows and I went to the computer. After ten minutes, I was bored and went back to being with people. So we'll try it again today; but I've already messed up because I started writing and it's now 8:16 and I do have to do some writing work for a grant so I won't be able to be computer free; so it feels like I've driven to the bar but I'll just order a diet coke.
5.
Printing up the grant so I can make the edits in pencil so I will keep to my promise as much as possible. I'll just drive to the place but I won't go in; yeah. I'll bring my diet coke with me so I won't be thirsty.6.
New York State is thinking of banning salt; granted it would be for restaurants and bakeries but this sort of ruling has unintended consequences. To anyone who cooks or bakes, they understand that salt is necessary. Such a ban would eliminate almost every baked good there is in existence except for the Eucharist. Hey wait.7.
My daughter felt very proud of her gift to her brother for his birthday. It was fun, it was inexpensive and she thought of it herself. Water balloons. I may have to institute a pre-approved and no-fly list for birthday gifts in the future. Oy.
Monday, December 7, 2009
It's The Thoughtlessness that Counts
Suffering from writer's block, enjoy another Christmas special recycled for your reading pleasure.
This ran in the Island Park News on December 5th.
Men are hard to shop for, in my humble opinion. Perennial stand-bys like clothing, hobbies, sports and power tools feel rather like Ken doll accessories. Men don’t have an old-reliable, guaranteed “Oh Yes!” type gift like chocolate is for women.
The shops that cater to men smell like ancient leather-bound tomes on a library reference shelf. Their wares are usually are dull brown with a hunter green trim. Even the names of men’s stores seem like an afterthought; like the owner set up the shop and then said, “We should call this something. This store is for men. How about ‘Man’s Store?’ OK! We’re done.”
My husband likes gardening, so I’ve used that crutch for years. Receiving “practical” gifts has ensured my beloved can garden, hedge and weed whack the yard with the best of them, but there is a bit of a let down with these sorts of gifts. In the dead of winter, getting gardening equipment is like receiving electronic toys with batteries not included. He has to wait until the spring thaw to play.
When not giving him a new trowel, I have also admittedly used this season of giving to take care of necessities he needed. But let’s face it; socks wrapped up in a beautiful box are still just socks. My husband deserves an Oscar for his enthusiastic responses to my presents. I may buy them, he many need them, and he may use them; but the gifts themselves lack that lavish quality borne not from the price tag, but from the pleasure that even a passing mention of them might evoke.
I suspect it is lot easier shopping for me. Consider the Christmas day phone call to parents. My husband phones his mom, saying, “I got a shirt, some fishing tackle, a football jersey and a cordless drill.” It does not sound as exciting or evocative as my equivalent, “I got Godiva, a red sweater, a new purse, and a silver cuff.”
He had me at Godiva.
Even decades of receiving truffles has not ever made me think, “You gave me this last year!” In fact, the one year I didn’t get chocolate, I spent the rest of the morning sniffing around the tree to see if I’d missed a present.
My low water mark in gift giving came ten years ago. I ordered a book for my mother for Christmas. My family was coming to stay with us. The week of my parents’ visit, my Mom talked about how much she had enjoyed this book she found in my old room. It was the same book I had ordered for her. My thoughtful husband solved the problem by popping into a book store for some opera CD’s for me to give to her. But as we sat wrapping presents for my family and his, I suddenly realized I hadn’t purchased anything for him.
On Christmas morning, when he opened his lone present from me, he read aloud the book’s inscription, “I was thinking solely of you as I wrapped this gift. Better presents in the years to come, Love, Sher.”
Spousal love, and the fact that I had given birth two days before, mitigated my error, but I now shop for him first no matter what the holiday. I know my long suffering husband deserves better; something exclusive and passionate and fun. Maybe I'll stop by Man's store and pick up a new leather wallet and a hunter green tie./
This ran in the Island Park News on December 5th.
Men are hard to shop for, in my humble opinion. Perennial stand-bys like clothing, hobbies, sports and power tools feel rather like Ken doll accessories. Men don’t have an old-reliable, guaranteed “Oh Yes!” type gift like chocolate is for women.
The shops that cater to men smell like ancient leather-bound tomes on a library reference shelf. Their wares are usually are dull brown with a hunter green trim. Even the names of men’s stores seem like an afterthought; like the owner set up the shop and then said, “We should call this something. This store is for men. How about ‘Man’s Store?’ OK! We’re done.”
My husband likes gardening, so I’ve used that crutch for years. Receiving “practical” gifts has ensured my beloved can garden, hedge and weed whack the yard with the best of them, but there is a bit of a let down with these sorts of gifts. In the dead of winter, getting gardening equipment is like receiving electronic toys with batteries not included. He has to wait until the spring thaw to play.
When not giving him a new trowel, I have also admittedly used this season of giving to take care of necessities he needed. But let’s face it; socks wrapped up in a beautiful box are still just socks. My husband deserves an Oscar for his enthusiastic responses to my presents. I may buy them, he many need them, and he may use them; but the gifts themselves lack that lavish quality borne not from the price tag, but from the pleasure that even a passing mention of them might evoke.
I suspect it is lot easier shopping for me. Consider the Christmas day phone call to parents. My husband phones his mom, saying, “I got a shirt, some fishing tackle, a football jersey and a cordless drill.” It does not sound as exciting or evocative as my equivalent, “I got Godiva, a red sweater, a new purse, and a silver cuff.”
He had me at Godiva.
Even decades of receiving truffles has not ever made me think, “You gave me this last year!” In fact, the one year I didn’t get chocolate, I spent the rest of the morning sniffing around the tree to see if I’d missed a present.
My low water mark in gift giving came ten years ago. I ordered a book for my mother for Christmas. My family was coming to stay with us. The week of my parents’ visit, my Mom talked about how much she had enjoyed this book she found in my old room. It was the same book I had ordered for her. My thoughtful husband solved the problem by popping into a book store for some opera CD’s for me to give to her. But as we sat wrapping presents for my family and his, I suddenly realized I hadn’t purchased anything for him.
On Christmas morning, when he opened his lone present from me, he read aloud the book’s inscription, “I was thinking solely of you as I wrapped this gift. Better presents in the years to come, Love, Sher.”
Spousal love, and the fact that I had given birth two days before, mitigated my error, but I now shop for him first no matter what the holiday. I know my long suffering husband deserves better; something exclusive and passionate and fun. Maybe I'll stop by Man's store and pick up a new leather wallet and a hunter green tie./
Sunday, May 10, 2009
The Gifts of Mother's Day
Mother’s day is a type of emotional Rosharch test of a mom’s relationship with her kids. The children go to school and the teachers have them paint rocks, glue puzzle pieces, color charts and create prose and poetry to illustrate their love for the one who brought them into this world.
To date, I have three paperweights covered with old jewelry, a Popsicle trivet, a tie dye pot holder to go with the trivet, and two button covered heart pins. To avoid massive quantities of duplicate gifts which invariably trigger “Hey, that’s mine, I gave her that last year.” Or “Where’s mine that I gave you last year?” or worst of all, “Mine was better,” I’ve had to switch preschools…twice. Alternatively, I could have stayed with my first pick and eventually gathered enough glittery jigsaw puzzle piece pins to assemble a life size poster of the unfortunate blonde from the movie Goldfinger.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thoughts; the thoughts are lovely. It’s just sometimes Mother’s day reveals more about how little of the message we send every day seems to be getting through. For example, the teacher of my first born made a sheet with a yellow daffodil on it. Every child answered the question, “I Love my mom because…” and there were sweet things like she makes me pancakes, she lets me use bubble bath, she fixed my train set. And then, there was my son’s response, “She lets me do anything I want.”
As I stood there staring at the strange words he’d chosen, I thought of how I’d promised him I would never tie his shoes again if he quit trying. I considered how I’d demanded he make his bed daily and made him do extra math and English enrichment the summer BEFORE Kindergarten. I’d even refused to get him a Charizard Pokémon card that cost $60 for his birthday. Instead I’d bought him a shirt with the beloved but irritated orange flame-tailed dragon on it that was six sizes bigger than my son because it was the only one in the entire mall I could find. Then I thought about the fact that he currently drives me crazy because he still wears the orange shirt to bed and he’s a teenager!
But it isn’t just my first child with which I’ve had odd experiences owed to the second Sunday in May. I’ve had the same first grade teacher for three of my children. She has them assemble books about their Moms. The results from each Mother’s day have made me certain that whatever else is going on in my kids lives; they aren’t paying much attention to what I do. One page said, “My mom likes to …” I would have answered: write, bake fattening desserts and read. In the books thus far, the survey results indicated I do jazz, (haven’t since I was 17), another answer, play video games (Nyet, that’s Dad), and my personal favorite, watch TV. (No, I’m the person who turns off the machine).
They were consistent about where I like to vacation, the beach. But apparently I have voiced at some point, a loathing of California, France and Japan, as these are three places I’ve indicated I would never want to go. These books show me that what I am doing, even if I think I’m doing something else, isn’t what they perceive. I think I’m jumping up and down and saying, “Clean! I shouldn’t have to pick up your socks every day…” and they’re understanding something else. One thing’s for sure, they aren’t getting that they should pick up their socks! But the books make me grateful that perhaps, the reality I’ve created for them is not as hard as I think sometimes I can be.
The kids have given me glitter boxes and pipe clean flowers and I have loved the love conveyed in them all. Their hopeful eyes as they wait for me to open the presents are more lovely and more valuable than the beaded key chain or a CD sun catcher for the garden inside the tissue paper. The hope in their hearts is what every Mom all over the world hopes to grow and develop by the daily care they administer.
Sitting at the table over a leisurely bagel breakfast, my daughter yawned and asked “What do you want to do today Mom?” I could tell she was already not listening as she eyed her sister’s book, the fifth in a series that the older one had just finished. “I’d like to…” I started as I saw her pick the precious tome up from the table and curl up into a living room chair to disappear in a world of demi-gods fighting in New York. I went to the jewelry box to fish out a few button and jigsaw pins for accessories while I murmured to no one in particular, “I’d like this to happen, just as it’s happening.”
Maybe it is true that I do let them do anything they want. Happy Mother’s Day!
To date, I have three paperweights covered with old jewelry, a Popsicle trivet, a tie dye pot holder to go with the trivet, and two button covered heart pins. To avoid massive quantities of duplicate gifts which invariably trigger “Hey, that’s mine, I gave her that last year.” Or “Where’s mine that I gave you last year?” or worst of all, “Mine was better,” I’ve had to switch preschools…twice. Alternatively, I could have stayed with my first pick and eventually gathered enough glittery jigsaw puzzle piece pins to assemble a life size poster of the unfortunate blonde from the movie Goldfinger.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thoughts; the thoughts are lovely. It’s just sometimes Mother’s day reveals more about how little of the message we send every day seems to be getting through. For example, the teacher of my first born made a sheet with a yellow daffodil on it. Every child answered the question, “I Love my mom because…” and there were sweet things like she makes me pancakes, she lets me use bubble bath, she fixed my train set. And then, there was my son’s response, “She lets me do anything I want.”
As I stood there staring at the strange words he’d chosen, I thought of how I’d promised him I would never tie his shoes again if he quit trying. I considered how I’d demanded he make his bed daily and made him do extra math and English enrichment the summer BEFORE Kindergarten. I’d even refused to get him a Charizard Pokémon card that cost $60 for his birthday. Instead I’d bought him a shirt with the beloved but irritated orange flame-tailed dragon on it that was six sizes bigger than my son because it was the only one in the entire mall I could find. Then I thought about the fact that he currently drives me crazy because he still wears the orange shirt to bed and he’s a teenager!
But it isn’t just my first child with which I’ve had odd experiences owed to the second Sunday in May. I’ve had the same first grade teacher for three of my children. She has them assemble books about their Moms. The results from each Mother’s day have made me certain that whatever else is going on in my kids lives; they aren’t paying much attention to what I do. One page said, “My mom likes to …” I would have answered: write, bake fattening desserts and read. In the books thus far, the survey results indicated I do jazz, (haven’t since I was 17), another answer, play video games (Nyet, that’s Dad), and my personal favorite, watch TV. (No, I’m the person who turns off the machine).
They were consistent about where I like to vacation, the beach. But apparently I have voiced at some point, a loathing of California, France and Japan, as these are three places I’ve indicated I would never want to go. These books show me that what I am doing, even if I think I’m doing something else, isn’t what they perceive. I think I’m jumping up and down and saying, “Clean! I shouldn’t have to pick up your socks every day…” and they’re understanding something else. One thing’s for sure, they aren’t getting that they should pick up their socks! But the books make me grateful that perhaps, the reality I’ve created for them is not as hard as I think sometimes I can be.
The kids have given me glitter boxes and pipe clean flowers and I have loved the love conveyed in them all. Their hopeful eyes as they wait for me to open the presents are more lovely and more valuable than the beaded key chain or a CD sun catcher for the garden inside the tissue paper. The hope in their hearts is what every Mom all over the world hopes to grow and develop by the daily care they administer.
Sitting at the table over a leisurely bagel breakfast, my daughter yawned and asked “What do you want to do today Mom?” I could tell she was already not listening as she eyed her sister’s book, the fifth in a series that the older one had just finished. “I’d like to…” I started as I saw her pick the precious tome up from the table and curl up into a living room chair to disappear in a world of demi-gods fighting in New York. I went to the jewelry box to fish out a few button and jigsaw pins for accessories while I murmured to no one in particular, “I’d like this to happen, just as it’s happening.”
Maybe it is true that I do let them do anything they want. Happy Mother’s Day!
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Thank You Notes Delayed equal Thank You Notes Denied
The following is a cautionary and true tale.
A few years back, we held a party. People brought presents. As we were cleaning up after a day of feasting, we began to open the gifts given to welcome and celebrate our daughter's birth and baptism. I remember saying, "We need to write this down." Paper was not readily found in the moment, so the back of a blue envelope was used.
Dimly, it registered in my brain, this was unwise.
But on I pressed, making a careful record of each gift and the giver as we went through the stack of bounty so graciously and generously given. The pen I had ran out, so I grabbed a pencil. That too eventually became a stub of wood, such that the last three presents were written in blue crayon on the front of the envelope in dull large print.
You know what happened next.
The envelope disappeared. I searched everywhere for days. I undid trash bags looking for it, but ultimately concluded it had gone out in the recycling. I mean, it was the back of an opened envelope.
I racked my brain and tried to rewrite the list from memory but knew I was failing as I tried. Unable to do anything other than sputter, I allowed myself to swallow hard and hope for finding it. It never happened.
So this past week during Spring Break, I announced to the children lounging over breakfast discussing video game strategies, "We're going to write Thank you notes."
A chorus of "For What?" and "Awwwwws." went up as I produced a stack of paper, pens, envelopes, crayons and stamps.
But I had decided. Everyone was writing someone, even the toddlers. As the addresser and stamper of the letters, I hadn't planned to be a proof reader, but after a few drafts, we held a tutorial to establish the rules of Thank You writing etiquette.
1) Editorial comments about one's sibling and how much he hogs the present given are not germane to the whole "gracious thanks" concept and should be nixed.
2) More than three misspellings and either an eraser and a dictionary or a rewrite is required.
3)Drawings are permitted but must have some tangential connection to the gift/giver/recipient. The connection is relative to the age of the creator. From a five year old, "Thomas the Tank Engine" wants to say thanks works just fine. The rest of you older ones, I expect actual prose.
4) Hints of upcoming birthdays/holidays and desired items while in the process of giving thanks are in poor taste.
5) Even if you saw them in person and said thanks, write it anyway.
6) You loved every gift. Even the ones you didn't.
7) Neither broken crayon nor torn art work nor loss of seat when you got up for a snack shall stop you from the appointed task.
8) Never mention that the gift was 1) broken or 2) a duplicate, in actual discourse or in print.
9) Mom is the final arbitrator of the thank you note.
10) Stamps are not stickers even if they do stick.
That morning resulted in six written stamped addressed letters which I promptly took out to the mail box even though it was raining. The mail had already arrived but I put the flag up and felt satisfied in a job well done.
The next day was trash pick up and recycling day and I called out for volunteers. Two children scrambled eager for the opportunity to walk in the rain intentionally, even if it was just to take out the garbage. When they returned from their task, sopping wet, my daughter handed me a stack of mail. "These were in the mail box waiting for you Mommy, I got them for you."
Six written stamped addressed envelopes sopping wet lay on the table.
"Thank you honey." I murmured as I sighed internally thinking “Every task somehow takes three attempts to get partially done!”
So if you didn’t get an acknowledgement, just give me a bit more time, I’m still searching for that blue envelope and a stubby pencil or crayon.
Then, I promise not to mail them on recycling day.
A few years back, we held a party. People brought presents. As we were cleaning up after a day of feasting, we began to open the gifts given to welcome and celebrate our daughter's birth and baptism. I remember saying, "We need to write this down." Paper was not readily found in the moment, so the back of a blue envelope was used.
Dimly, it registered in my brain, this was unwise.
But on I pressed, making a careful record of each gift and the giver as we went through the stack of bounty so graciously and generously given. The pen I had ran out, so I grabbed a pencil. That too eventually became a stub of wood, such that the last three presents were written in blue crayon on the front of the envelope in dull large print.
You know what happened next.
The envelope disappeared. I searched everywhere for days. I undid trash bags looking for it, but ultimately concluded it had gone out in the recycling. I mean, it was the back of an opened envelope.
I racked my brain and tried to rewrite the list from memory but knew I was failing as I tried. Unable to do anything other than sputter, I allowed myself to swallow hard and hope for finding it. It never happened.
So this past week during Spring Break, I announced to the children lounging over breakfast discussing video game strategies, "We're going to write Thank you notes."
A chorus of "For What?" and "Awwwwws." went up as I produced a stack of paper, pens, envelopes, crayons and stamps.
But I had decided. Everyone was writing someone, even the toddlers. As the addresser and stamper of the letters, I hadn't planned to be a proof reader, but after a few drafts, we held a tutorial to establish the rules of Thank You writing etiquette.
1) Editorial comments about one's sibling and how much he hogs the present given are not germane to the whole "gracious thanks" concept and should be nixed.
2) More than three misspellings and either an eraser and a dictionary or a rewrite is required.
3)Drawings are permitted but must have some tangential connection to the gift/giver/recipient. The connection is relative to the age of the creator. From a five year old, "Thomas the Tank Engine" wants to say thanks works just fine. The rest of you older ones, I expect actual prose.
4) Hints of upcoming birthdays/holidays and desired items while in the process of giving thanks are in poor taste.
5) Even if you saw them in person and said thanks, write it anyway.
6) You loved every gift. Even the ones you didn't.
7) Neither broken crayon nor torn art work nor loss of seat when you got up for a snack shall stop you from the appointed task.
8) Never mention that the gift was 1) broken or 2) a duplicate, in actual discourse or in print.
9) Mom is the final arbitrator of the thank you note.
10) Stamps are not stickers even if they do stick.
That morning resulted in six written stamped addressed letters which I promptly took out to the mail box even though it was raining. The mail had already arrived but I put the flag up and felt satisfied in a job well done.
The next day was trash pick up and recycling day and I called out for volunteers. Two children scrambled eager for the opportunity to walk in the rain intentionally, even if it was just to take out the garbage. When they returned from their task, sopping wet, my daughter handed me a stack of mail. "These were in the mail box waiting for you Mommy, I got them for you."
Six written stamped addressed envelopes sopping wet lay on the table.
"Thank you honey." I murmured as I sighed internally thinking “Every task somehow takes three attempts to get partially done!”
So if you didn’t get an acknowledgement, just give me a bit more time, I’m still searching for that blue envelope and a stubby pencil or crayon.
Then, I promise not to mail them on recycling day.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Maryland is for Crabs
My mom sends Christmas Pajamas every year. Sometimes she worries that P.J’s aren’t the most exciting gift to get at Christmas, but they are seriously looked forward to every year by everyone.
This year, it was a Lobster motif. The pants had lobsters on a navy background. They were fun. The younger ones had those onsies with footies. After three days of wearing the lobster pajamas, I declared the sleepware needed a break, and a wash!
Getting dressed for bed, my three year old daughter was visibly upset. She marched up to me in her substitute night gown for the evening with a dark frowny face. “I Want My Crabs!” she snapped.
This year, it was a Lobster motif. The pants had lobsters on a navy background. They were fun. The younger ones had those onsies with footies. After three days of wearing the lobster pajamas, I declared the sleepware needed a break, and a wash!
Getting dressed for bed, my three year old daughter was visibly upset. She marched up to me in her substitute night gown for the evening with a dark frowny face. “I Want My Crabs!” she snapped.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Happy Father's Day
You'ld think being a writer, I'd be able to bang out 700 words in a heartbeat on Fatherhood, on the meaning of Dadness, and what having a husband who is a great Dad, and a father, whom I cherish, and a father in law who is loving, means. I also have a brother and brother in law, who awe me with their dedication to their children. I know we're all supposed to be that loving with our sons and daughters, it's still moving to see it in action. And I know countless families, where the fathers are so present, it's beautiful. They are the father's of my children's friends. And then there are the priests and teachers, who act in lieu of Mom and Dad when our kids are at school or mass, who present again, the image of what we are all supposed to be, thoughful, attentive and giving, loving and responsible. None of these people are perfect, but they through their example, provide glimpses of what God wants of all of us.
But it's hard.
To capture the essence of what these men mean and avoid sentimentality in the process, you're supposed to pin it down on specifics in writing. For example, instead of, he ate a poor lunch; He ate cold tomato soup from a can with buttered burnt toast.
So here goes: To my father, thanks for always loving us, even when we drove you nuts. Thanks for taking us sailing and fishing and buying us ice cream after we'd fought all the way to the store anyway. Thanks for reading me Watership Down and getting mad when I'd forged a signature on an F or gone cruising down Dowlen Road after you and Mom said I shouldn't. Thanks for all the long hugs when we greet at the airport for one of your visits or one of mine, and for the puns that pop up like mushrooms in our conversations. You're beautiful. You always make me smile.
To my husband, who pushes me to learn history and pay attention to politics, who keeps me from spending too much time in front of the computer writing by calling up to sing Surfer Girl and request that I water his plants and fix the fish filter, or brings home an unexpected book or game and helps devise systems to make the workload of all these children less taxing, thank you. Watching you take our son out to the garden when he's having trouble with his temper is a beautiful thing. Listening to you teach your daughters about past presidents and being on the sideline as you cheer your daughter on in softball, these are gorgeous moments for me as your wife. You love your daughters and your sons beyond well, and that makes you all the more wonderful to me.
My father in law has shown up quietly with great generosity at various moments in our lives and I am grateful for all of his help and assistance, even if I'm sometimes more than a bit stubborn in the moment. I can see how my husband became the man he is, by how his father acts and speaks, and I love his sense of humor.
So to all men out there who are fathers, who are in the trenches fathers, who tie shoes and coach teams, who sing for their children's first communion and bag groceries at the pantry program, who are present in their children's lives in a real brick and mortar kind of way, Thank You! Happy Father's Day!
May this year give you more presents than the perenial tie, painted rock, steaks in a box and gift certificate to home depot, may this year be the one where your children begin to recognize, How Great a Gift they have in You.
I'll return to humor on Tuesday, and discuss how my daugher who is two considers gargling to be a legitimate form of self expression in conversation. We're still working on finding out what it means.
But it's hard.
To capture the essence of what these men mean and avoid sentimentality in the process, you're supposed to pin it down on specifics in writing. For example, instead of, he ate a poor lunch; He ate cold tomato soup from a can with buttered burnt toast.
So here goes: To my father, thanks for always loving us, even when we drove you nuts. Thanks for taking us sailing and fishing and buying us ice cream after we'd fought all the way to the store anyway. Thanks for reading me Watership Down and getting mad when I'd forged a signature on an F or gone cruising down Dowlen Road after you and Mom said I shouldn't. Thanks for all the long hugs when we greet at the airport for one of your visits or one of mine, and for the puns that pop up like mushrooms in our conversations. You're beautiful. You always make me smile.
To my husband, who pushes me to learn history and pay attention to politics, who keeps me from spending too much time in front of the computer writing by calling up to sing Surfer Girl and request that I water his plants and fix the fish filter, or brings home an unexpected book or game and helps devise systems to make the workload of all these children less taxing, thank you. Watching you take our son out to the garden when he's having trouble with his temper is a beautiful thing. Listening to you teach your daughters about past presidents and being on the sideline as you cheer your daughter on in softball, these are gorgeous moments for me as your wife. You love your daughters and your sons beyond well, and that makes you all the more wonderful to me.
My father in law has shown up quietly with great generosity at various moments in our lives and I am grateful for all of his help and assistance, even if I'm sometimes more than a bit stubborn in the moment. I can see how my husband became the man he is, by how his father acts and speaks, and I love his sense of humor.
So to all men out there who are fathers, who are in the trenches fathers, who tie shoes and coach teams, who sing for their children's first communion and bag groceries at the pantry program, who are present in their children's lives in a real brick and mortar kind of way, Thank You! Happy Father's Day!
May this year give you more presents than the perenial tie, painted rock, steaks in a box and gift certificate to home depot, may this year be the one where your children begin to recognize, How Great a Gift they have in You.
I'll return to humor on Tuesday, and discuss how my daugher who is two considers gargling to be a legitimate form of self expression in conversation. We're still working on finding out what it means.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Every Breakfast Tells A Story...
My favorite breakfast in the whole world is blueberry pancakes with syrup and Jasper county sausage on the side. The problem with this combo was that it used to require tremendous coordination of my parents, not to mention the postal service.
Before the internet and 24-7 mail order catalogs, maple syrup didn’t exist in the south. My grandmother from Dunkirk, New York would to ship it to us once a year for Mom’s birthday. Mom would parcel it out like a miser, for fear its golden taste was being wasted on young moppets who might have been just as happy with Mrs. Butterworth.
Dad grew up on sugar cane and caro syrup and enjoyed experimenting. He’d buy boysenberry and blueberry and blackberry flavors. We liked the colors but not the taste. We knew what the Good Stuff was.
Then one day, Dad was cleaning out the cupboards of extra stuff. He was consolidating the peppers into one space, doing inventory for a grocery shop. When he found three different types of mustard, he began interrogating no one in particular, asking “Why do we have three jars of pepperocini? Did you know we have four different kinds of olives in this pantry and over fifteen separate types of jam in the second fridge alone?”
Mom could have said many things at this moment, but she wisely responded, "That’s why you are clearing out the stuff dear." And left the room.
Dad got efficient and ruthless in his cleaning frenzy, to the point of being reckless. He consolidated the syrups, all of them: the boysenberry, strawberry, the cheap log cabin and the sugarless into the biggest tin of all, the Pure Grade A Dark Amber Maple.
My childhood was a fairly happy one, but I remember, this was a grave sin.
Suffice it to say, Mom got a new tin of Grade A Maple Syrup and it is now considered sacred, such that she eyes every new different bottle of syrup that darkens our door with suspicion.
Now getting the Jasper County sausage was a separate issue all together, shrouded in secrecy.
My dad gives his clients, his friends and his family and those who know about it, two wonderful gifts at Christmas time; a five pound bag of rice from the Beaumont Rice Mill (our ancestors started and some of our family still own it), and a five pound slab of spicy pork sausage known only as Jasper County sausage. Dad hunts ducks in LaBelle and thus has contacts with all sorts of people from the South East Texas area, including apparently this mysterious sausage man.
Once a year he clears out the Suburban and drives to Jasper County, (we don’t know where) and comes back with his truck filled to the gills with fresh processed meat which we then dutifully wrap in butcher block and red cellophane and tie with green ribbon. Then the freezer is stuffed and we begin the sausage runs around town, delivering spice, rice and good cheer as we go.
The only thing I think I know about the Jasper County Sausage man is that one year he got a new helper. That year the links were shall we say, extra spicy. Almost inedible by some standards, but I found if you drenched them in maple syrup, all that was left was the pleasant after burn of eating something hotter than usual for breakfast and feeling you had conquered any chance of being labeled a wuss, (and all before noon).
Now we have tried over the years to learn the name and address of this man. Somehow, Dad always manages to duck us, I think it tickles him that we have to take it on faith that this sausage will reappear each year. Once, my younger brother even tried to tail him to Jasper but Dad lost him on the back roads. In recent years, however, he has taken Mom. I suspect he has sworn her to secrecy.
Still, while maple syrup and jasper sausage are filling enough on their own to supply all the calories necessary for running a few marathons, they need the plain comfort of fresh pancakes. Pancakes are the Larry to Curley and Moe in breakfast.
For years, my parents had used the very sensible (you are too short, you are too young) rationale to keep me from the griddle. However, when my mom went into the hospital two months early with my sister,I thought it had become necessary for me to master making breakfast for my brothers and myself.
Could I have made cereal? Yes but that’s too easy. Could I have made scrabbled eggs? Yes, but I had been making those for years and those were boring. Could I have made oatmeal or grits? Yes again, but I didn’t think of those because, well, I wanted pancakes.
Now most pancakes are fool proof but then most of my functional cooking life, I have personified fool. A Mensa member I am not. After I wrecked the kitchen, my Aunt stepped in to do clean up and save my bacon, or at least, my pancakes.
Still, after years of practice, I can now flip them with a practiced ease and make my own favorite breakfast thank you very much, I just have to get Dad to cough up the info on the sausage man.
Maybe I can bribe Mom with some Maple Syrup.
Before the internet and 24-7 mail order catalogs, maple syrup didn’t exist in the south. My grandmother from Dunkirk, New York would to ship it to us once a year for Mom’s birthday. Mom would parcel it out like a miser, for fear its golden taste was being wasted on young moppets who might have been just as happy with Mrs. Butterworth.
Dad grew up on sugar cane and caro syrup and enjoyed experimenting. He’d buy boysenberry and blueberry and blackberry flavors. We liked the colors but not the taste. We knew what the Good Stuff was.
Then one day, Dad was cleaning out the cupboards of extra stuff. He was consolidating the peppers into one space, doing inventory for a grocery shop. When he found three different types of mustard, he began interrogating no one in particular, asking “Why do we have three jars of pepperocini? Did you know we have four different kinds of olives in this pantry and over fifteen separate types of jam in the second fridge alone?”
Mom could have said many things at this moment, but she wisely responded, "That’s why you are clearing out the stuff dear." And left the room.
Dad got efficient and ruthless in his cleaning frenzy, to the point of being reckless. He consolidated the syrups, all of them: the boysenberry, strawberry, the cheap log cabin and the sugarless into the biggest tin of all, the Pure Grade A Dark Amber Maple.
My childhood was a fairly happy one, but I remember, this was a grave sin.
Suffice it to say, Mom got a new tin of Grade A Maple Syrup and it is now considered sacred, such that she eyes every new different bottle of syrup that darkens our door with suspicion.
Now getting the Jasper County sausage was a separate issue all together, shrouded in secrecy.
My dad gives his clients, his friends and his family and those who know about it, two wonderful gifts at Christmas time; a five pound bag of rice from the Beaumont Rice Mill (our ancestors started and some of our family still own it), and a five pound slab of spicy pork sausage known only as Jasper County sausage. Dad hunts ducks in LaBelle and thus has contacts with all sorts of people from the South East Texas area, including apparently this mysterious sausage man.
Once a year he clears out the Suburban and drives to Jasper County, (we don’t know where) and comes back with his truck filled to the gills with fresh processed meat which we then dutifully wrap in butcher block and red cellophane and tie with green ribbon. Then the freezer is stuffed and we begin the sausage runs around town, delivering spice, rice and good cheer as we go.
The only thing I think I know about the Jasper County Sausage man is that one year he got a new helper. That year the links were shall we say, extra spicy. Almost inedible by some standards, but I found if you drenched them in maple syrup, all that was left was the pleasant after burn of eating something hotter than usual for breakfast and feeling you had conquered any chance of being labeled a wuss, (and all before noon).
Now we have tried over the years to learn the name and address of this man. Somehow, Dad always manages to duck us, I think it tickles him that we have to take it on faith that this sausage will reappear each year. Once, my younger brother even tried to tail him to Jasper but Dad lost him on the back roads. In recent years, however, he has taken Mom. I suspect he has sworn her to secrecy.
Still, while maple syrup and jasper sausage are filling enough on their own to supply all the calories necessary for running a few marathons, they need the plain comfort of fresh pancakes. Pancakes are the Larry to Curley and Moe in breakfast.
For years, my parents had used the very sensible (you are too short, you are too young) rationale to keep me from the griddle. However, when my mom went into the hospital two months early with my sister,I thought it had become necessary for me to master making breakfast for my brothers and myself.
Could I have made cereal? Yes but that’s too easy. Could I have made scrabbled eggs? Yes, but I had been making those for years and those were boring. Could I have made oatmeal or grits? Yes again, but I didn’t think of those because, well, I wanted pancakes.
Now most pancakes are fool proof but then most of my functional cooking life, I have personified fool. A Mensa member I am not. After I wrecked the kitchen, my Aunt stepped in to do clean up and save my bacon, or at least, my pancakes.
Still, after years of practice, I can now flip them with a practiced ease and make my own favorite breakfast thank you very much, I just have to get Dad to cough up the info on the sausage man.
Maybe I can bribe Mom with some Maple Syrup.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Letter From Santa
My dearest children,
The question arises from age to age as to my actual existence. There comes a time in each person’s life when they must decide if they wish only to be governed by rationality, or if faith plays a role in their everyday being. I am part of that transition, true. I represent the joy and glory and bliss and innocence of childhood at Christmas.
Though I never knelt before the Christ child, I make to Him a present each year, of one day and one night, honoring his birth. I provide an opportunity for people, when more than most pause to consider the past year of blessings, when more than most pine to reconcile with their family and friends, and more than most open their hearts to their neighbors, their spouses, their children, and even to total strangers. Some people even find the most beautiful of presents by opening themselves to God on this day. I travel the world in one night, bringing hope and whimsy and the wish of true peace on Earth, the type of peace the World has never known but secretly pines for at its core.
My story gets told and retold and revisited and reinvented with the nuance and creativity of every age, and each year I do it again and again, willingly and happily, because it brings people to Christ. It brings people together to celebrate. “And wherever two or more are gathered in His name….” I am called Saint Nicholas, Santa Claus and Father Christmas, I have thousands of names beyond Kris Kringle. I am the great facilitator of Christ. People complain that Christmas has become secularized, but more accurately, the secularized world becomes more Christmas’ed each year, as more people celebrate it, even if only with the tree and the dinner and the presents.
I won’t say that Christmas is simply about Love because that’s inaccurate. Christmas is about Christ and Christ IS Love. Christ is MORE LOVE than the world can often tolerate. Yet we desperately need to keep Christmas every day, to welcome Christ into the world via our hearts, our homes and our everyday lives. Welcome to Christmas Day my Children and know that I never stop believing in you.
Merry Christmas
Love, Santa
Thursday, December 20, 2007
How To Completely Stress Out This Christmas
How to Completely Stress Out This Christmas…
November 29, 2007: We just had Thanksgiving! I’m not in the Christmas spirit yet. Procrastinate. As the song goes, there are twelve days, I’ve still got time. Week one passes, and I pat myself on the back for breaking out the lights and putting up three Christmas displays.
December 8, 2007: Felt Virtuous. Bought Christmas Cards today! However, I also was wanting to be frugal so I only bought two boxes. Our Christmas card list easily tops four boxes…oh well, I’ll get them later. Looking at the cards that have already come in, impulsively, I decide I want a picture this year. Assemble everyone. We can’t find good Christmas pj’s because I haven’t hit the mall for fear it would hit back. Oldest is in Dad’s robe, middle one is wearing pink, youngest is hidden in a Christmas blanket because she spit up before we finished setting up. Say Cheese. Three year old son doesn’t look so good. Six shots into the Christmas shoot, he throws up.
Decide we’ll finish the roll with the season and get them developed then, but two weeks pass and we keep forgetting to bring the camera.
December 15, 2007: Panic sets in, impulsively surf the net and ring up a tidy sum online. Feeling subsides although there is still a lot to do, and I only got a few things….
December 18, 2007: Husband’s panic attack takes place, credit card is warm to the touch.
December 20, 2007: Still have not sent card one. We haven’t taken pictures at the Christmas Concert, Christmas Party or the Cub Scouts’ Christmas award ceremony. Couldn’t find the camera. In a random search for a box of diaper wipes, I find the camera under a National’s baseball cap, under the bed. There are still fifteen shots left. In desperation, I grab the thing and shoot random shots of everyone to finish the 36 exposure film. Take the next day for double prints. Every shot has werewolf eyes on someone, except the one where my son is turning a funny shade of green.
December 21, 2007: Go to Christmas program for end of school. Missed first half because of triple diaper change in the car. Very bad. Make it to wave at kindergartener, so I’m thinking “That counts!” until my oldest daughter gives a bracing hug and says, “Did you see me?” “I made it.” I say with a smile. She reads through it and slumps away. “I stink.” I think. She is now happily chattering with friends. “Maybe not.” I think hopefully. She gives me a “I forgive you but you’re in the doghouse look.” I’ll make it up to her when we go shopping for teacher gifts that afternoon.
My toddler is trying to drink the Mississippi’s worth of water out of the fountain. As I remove her from the fountain, she fights, she screams, she drops. She hurts her hand. Bad. I take her to the school nurse.
“It’s either a sprain or a broken wrist.” She explains.
Four hours at the emergency room later, I joyfully call my husband and fork over the $75 co pay for an emergency visit, “It’s only a sprain.” We get home, it’s eight o’clock, they haven’t done homework, they haven’t eaten. We finally get the last one to bed and realize…
The Kids get out of school tomorrow and I don’t have teacher gifts! Husband obliges by producing chocolates originally intended for me. Feeling deep resentment. Not in the right mood, can’t wrap the boxes that have come, going to bed.
December 22, 2007: What do you mean we're hosting Christmas Dinner? No one briefed me on this…Call Crisis Cleaners and beg to get on the schedule…eat chocolate preallocated for teacher gifts out of stress. Swing through the Starbucks to purchase gift cards for six teachers. They only have five. Decide the one I know the least will get a different certificate. Guilt manages to nag me into stopping at a second Starbucks and getting a better bigger gift certificate for her.
December 23, 2007: I have the cards. I have the stamps. I have the pictures. I never bought the second two sets. Just as that starts to melt me down, something else does. What’s Christmas without an appliance breakdown? The Dryer is on fire. I call 911. I throw the three diaper sets in jackets and lock them in the car in their car seats. The Fire department comes and declares the infernal contraption dead. Appliance man can come in January. Using a different man would invalidate Home Warranty plan. Too stressed to write cards. We’re doing Epiphany Cards this year. Husband agrees and produces Christmas wine, also originally intended for me. There won’t be much under the tree…he starts to explain. “Yes there will, I’m getting a new Dryer.” We drink the wine. "We’ll wrap things up tomorrow night."
December 25, 5:30 a.m. Time for bed.
Merry Christmas!
November 29, 2007: We just had Thanksgiving! I’m not in the Christmas spirit yet. Procrastinate. As the song goes, there are twelve days, I’ve still got time. Week one passes, and I pat myself on the back for breaking out the lights and putting up three Christmas displays.
December 8, 2007: Felt Virtuous. Bought Christmas Cards today! However, I also was wanting to be frugal so I only bought two boxes. Our Christmas card list easily tops four boxes…oh well, I’ll get them later. Looking at the cards that have already come in, impulsively, I decide I want a picture this year. Assemble everyone. We can’t find good Christmas pj’s because I haven’t hit the mall for fear it would hit back. Oldest is in Dad’s robe, middle one is wearing pink, youngest is hidden in a Christmas blanket because she spit up before we finished setting up. Say Cheese. Three year old son doesn’t look so good. Six shots into the Christmas shoot, he throws up.
Decide we’ll finish the roll with the season and get them developed then, but two weeks pass and we keep forgetting to bring the camera.
December 15, 2007: Panic sets in, impulsively surf the net and ring up a tidy sum online. Feeling subsides although there is still a lot to do, and I only got a few things….
December 18, 2007: Husband’s panic attack takes place, credit card is warm to the touch.
December 20, 2007: Still have not sent card one. We haven’t taken pictures at the Christmas Concert, Christmas Party or the Cub Scouts’ Christmas award ceremony. Couldn’t find the camera. In a random search for a box of diaper wipes, I find the camera under a National’s baseball cap, under the bed. There are still fifteen shots left. In desperation, I grab the thing and shoot random shots of everyone to finish the 36 exposure film. Take the next day for double prints. Every shot has werewolf eyes on someone, except the one where my son is turning a funny shade of green.
December 21, 2007: Go to Christmas program for end of school. Missed first half because of triple diaper change in the car. Very bad. Make it to wave at kindergartener, so I’m thinking “That counts!” until my oldest daughter gives a bracing hug and says, “Did you see me?” “I made it.” I say with a smile. She reads through it and slumps away. “I stink.” I think. She is now happily chattering with friends. “Maybe not.” I think hopefully. She gives me a “I forgive you but you’re in the doghouse look.” I’ll make it up to her when we go shopping for teacher gifts that afternoon.
My toddler is trying to drink the Mississippi’s worth of water out of the fountain. As I remove her from the fountain, she fights, she screams, she drops. She hurts her hand. Bad. I take her to the school nurse.
“It’s either a sprain or a broken wrist.” She explains.
Four hours at the emergency room later, I joyfully call my husband and fork over the $75 co pay for an emergency visit, “It’s only a sprain.” We get home, it’s eight o’clock, they haven’t done homework, they haven’t eaten. We finally get the last one to bed and realize…
The Kids get out of school tomorrow and I don’t have teacher gifts! Husband obliges by producing chocolates originally intended for me. Feeling deep resentment. Not in the right mood, can’t wrap the boxes that have come, going to bed.
December 22, 2007: What do you mean we're hosting Christmas Dinner? No one briefed me on this…Call Crisis Cleaners and beg to get on the schedule…eat chocolate preallocated for teacher gifts out of stress. Swing through the Starbucks to purchase gift cards for six teachers. They only have five. Decide the one I know the least will get a different certificate. Guilt manages to nag me into stopping at a second Starbucks and getting a better bigger gift certificate for her.
December 23, 2007: I have the cards. I have the stamps. I have the pictures. I never bought the second two sets. Just as that starts to melt me down, something else does. What’s Christmas without an appliance breakdown? The Dryer is on fire. I call 911. I throw the three diaper sets in jackets and lock them in the car in their car seats. The Fire department comes and declares the infernal contraption dead. Appliance man can come in January. Using a different man would invalidate Home Warranty plan. Too stressed to write cards. We’re doing Epiphany Cards this year. Husband agrees and produces Christmas wine, also originally intended for me. There won’t be much under the tree…he starts to explain. “Yes there will, I’m getting a new Dryer.” We drink the wine. "We’ll wrap things up tomorrow night."
December 25, 5:30 a.m. Time for bed.
Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Sauce for the Goose...
For all the pieces out there about men being similar to trees when it comes to gift giving, the unspoken super criminal of gift giving is “us.”
Seriously.
We’ve all flunked at least one Christmas where the poor husband got socks. Socks! If we got socks for Christmas, we’d stew for months. It would be the stuff of legend. There would be flaming emails and calls so prolific as to melt the entire eastern seaboard’s communication grid. All males in the family would have to go into witness protection program or engage in a self flogging reeducation camp on proper presents just to insure such an experience would never happen again...ever.
Part of the problem is Men’s stores; you go in there and see what...drab clothing. Golf clubs, the smell of wallets. Fun times. These uninspired shops continue to exist because we’ve allowed it. We've enabled them to continue. We go to the mall with the best of intentions…we know our guy. So we think, we’ve got time and ooh look, there’s a sale on capes. I need a new cloak. Okay, now to business! Look at that, I’ve been needing some new gold hoops and maybe some make up since it’s bonus time. Hey, the salon isn’t crowded. I’ll just squeeze in a haircut.
Oh geez! I haven’t shopped for my love and I’m running out of time, I’ll just duck into the department store and…What did I buy him?
That year, I was in rare form. He got a red sweater, new socks, The A team third year complete season and a gourmet Chocolate bar (and one for me). Not my finest moment as a wife.
It is testimony to his great love that I still get presents.
I wish to sever this disfunctional relationship with the Men's store, to stop being co-dependent with those indifferent purveyors of "Y" chromosone geared presents.
Having racked my brains for an appropriate way to categorize Male gifts that are Gift Worthy, that knock their not so new socks off, I decided to consult an expert.
I ASKED MY HUSBAND…
After he recovered from the shock, here are the secret top ten gift giving ideas with helpful tips on the side for Men.
10) Clothing that looks like what we already wear –We do not accessorize and we hate to shop, so if you get us a nice shirt or a jersey from our favorite team, this is cool. Note: Other than for sporting teams, we don’t wear red. Don’t buy red. Don’t expect us to wear red if you do. It will be regifted to a younger brother as soon as we reach the post office or we’ll mumble gratefully “thanks” and then said sweater will always be at the dry cleaners or in storage somewhere.
9) Electronic gadgets –oddly enough, this is not as big a hit as you might think. Unless it is compatible with what already exists or we’re proficient with technology and some of us aren’t, these gifts are a source of frustration. We don’t want things that require reading directions. We don’t like directions. We don’t ask for them and we don’t like having to use them to operate a television.
On the flip side, brainless technology is also a bad call. Robo dogs that need walking? Talk about fuzzy logic! Look, it’s not real but you still have to devote time and energy to it; no thank you. Stores pimp gadgets with batteries included for men. Real men see through this as a blatant appeal to women, buy this and you’re done! Look Honey, I bought you a laser pointer. Isn’t it neat? Um…I think the robo dog needs to go for a walk.
8) Tickets. Like you, we’re busy. We don’t want to have to plan things. Buy two for a concert or a play or a show you KNOW we’d like or a game and set up the date. It will impress us you gave so much time to our relationship. If it’s a sporting event, make sure you’re mentally psyched for going because having an indulgence for a present isn’t fun. (A fun way for YOU to get us a planner we won’t buy, is to get the tickets and put the date with the tickets in the planner. But let us know to look, because otherwise, getting a planner for us is the equivalent of getting an ironing board. Whee.)
7) If we need a new watch, you can buy this. Otherwise, steer clear of men’s jewelry. We don’t accessorize. Even if we’re vegetarians, we still dress and focus on life in a meat and potatoes kind of way. One watch. Works for Day. Works for Night. Works for Dress and Casual. No rings. No necklaces. Nada. We’re men for crying out loud!
6) On the subject of needs: If our brief case, jacket or wallet looks drab or worn, this is an okay place to splurge and get us an upgrade, just make sure we won’t feel silly with it. As stated above, we don’t like shopping, even for us.
5) Channel your hunter gatherer skills for shopping. Watch and learn, track your subject and then move in for the kill. For example, books: We don’t’ want to know how we communicate. We don’t like having to work at just talking. Humor books also strike a false note, even if written by guys we like, as those get dated fast, one read and they’re done. Magazines? Be careful. Most guys don’t subscribe to GQ or Men’s Day type magazines. We do subscribe to SI and Time and Newsweek and National Geographic. Want us to read more? Go to a book store and watch to see what men pick up, peek at the selections and see if you’ve got a fit, then pounce!
4) No guy says they have a hobby. We have collections and obsessions, not hobbies –stamps, baseball cards, coins, model trains, fantasy football, movies and star trek. If we like golfing, we like golfing, it’s not a hobby. Got that? Good. Now, if we like doing something, get something for us we like doing. Just don’t write “For your hobby, hubby” on the card.
3) Homemade gifts…unless you’re really good at it, and even then it’s dicey. It’s not like we collect or appreciate quilts and as good as your pumpkin bread may be…well, we’ll appreciate the time and effort…but homemade promises…those work better. For example: a scrap book works! A sappy poem does not. We begin to cringe with the opening line, “My heart’s song transcends the stars…” A coupon for a one hour foot rub from you works! From the spa…well, most guys I know aren’t signing up on Saturday for a pedicure.
2) Food. There is no love so sincere. However, chocolate is not our go to of choice, it’s yours. Besides, we KNOW if we get chocolate, we’re going to have to share. Fruit of the month, well, it’s nice and we might be surprised by how much we like it…Wine of the month –better. A smoked turkey. Excellent. Imported stuff, Prime Steaks. Now You’re talking! Dessert of the Month –okay, you got us there. (Gift cards to restaurants however, do NOT work. They feel like a prepaid nag to go out). Take us to a place you discovered you know we’d love, that’s a date!
Food related items should be 1) high quality, 2) functional 3) not require additional high quality functional items. A Barbeque Grill tool set does not work well without the Barbeque grill. It’s like an empty jewelry box.
1) Affection and Attention. We like back rubs and unexpected kisses. We like a peaceful home. We want to come home to a woman that is delighted to see us not because of what we can do as relief pitchers with the kids or the chores, but because we are simply there. Forgive us our foolishness and abandon some of your frustration, we don’t want you to swallow it because then it’s still inside. We want your enthusiastic presence for us more than anything.
Look, we brought flowers, silver and chocolate!
Merry Christmas!
Seriously.
We’ve all flunked at least one Christmas where the poor husband got socks. Socks! If we got socks for Christmas, we’d stew for months. It would be the stuff of legend. There would be flaming emails and calls so prolific as to melt the entire eastern seaboard’s communication grid. All males in the family would have to go into witness protection program or engage in a self flogging reeducation camp on proper presents just to insure such an experience would never happen again...ever.
Part of the problem is Men’s stores; you go in there and see what...drab clothing. Golf clubs, the smell of wallets. Fun times. These uninspired shops continue to exist because we’ve allowed it. We've enabled them to continue. We go to the mall with the best of intentions…we know our guy. So we think, we’ve got time and ooh look, there’s a sale on capes. I need a new cloak. Okay, now to business! Look at that, I’ve been needing some new gold hoops and maybe some make up since it’s bonus time. Hey, the salon isn’t crowded. I’ll just squeeze in a haircut.
Oh geez! I haven’t shopped for my love and I’m running out of time, I’ll just duck into the department store and…What did I buy him?
That year, I was in rare form. He got a red sweater, new socks, The A team third year complete season and a gourmet Chocolate bar (and one for me). Not my finest moment as a wife.
It is testimony to his great love that I still get presents.
I wish to sever this disfunctional relationship with the Men's store, to stop being co-dependent with those indifferent purveyors of "Y" chromosone geared presents.
Having racked my brains for an appropriate way to categorize Male gifts that are Gift Worthy, that knock their not so new socks off, I decided to consult an expert.
I ASKED MY HUSBAND…
After he recovered from the shock, here are the secret top ten gift giving ideas with helpful tips on the side for Men.
10) Clothing that looks like what we already wear –We do not accessorize and we hate to shop, so if you get us a nice shirt or a jersey from our favorite team, this is cool. Note: Other than for sporting teams, we don’t wear red. Don’t buy red. Don’t expect us to wear red if you do. It will be regifted to a younger brother as soon as we reach the post office or we’ll mumble gratefully “thanks” and then said sweater will always be at the dry cleaners or in storage somewhere.
9) Electronic gadgets –oddly enough, this is not as big a hit as you might think. Unless it is compatible with what already exists or we’re proficient with technology and some of us aren’t, these gifts are a source of frustration. We don’t want things that require reading directions. We don’t like directions. We don’t ask for them and we don’t like having to use them to operate a television.
On the flip side, brainless technology is also a bad call. Robo dogs that need walking? Talk about fuzzy logic! Look, it’s not real but you still have to devote time and energy to it; no thank you. Stores pimp gadgets with batteries included for men. Real men see through this as a blatant appeal to women, buy this and you’re done! Look Honey, I bought you a laser pointer. Isn’t it neat? Um…I think the robo dog needs to go for a walk.
8) Tickets. Like you, we’re busy. We don’t want to have to plan things. Buy two for a concert or a play or a show you KNOW we’d like or a game and set up the date. It will impress us you gave so much time to our relationship. If it’s a sporting event, make sure you’re mentally psyched for going because having an indulgence for a present isn’t fun. (A fun way for YOU to get us a planner we won’t buy, is to get the tickets and put the date with the tickets in the planner. But let us know to look, because otherwise, getting a planner for us is the equivalent of getting an ironing board. Whee.)
7) If we need a new watch, you can buy this. Otherwise, steer clear of men’s jewelry. We don’t accessorize. Even if we’re vegetarians, we still dress and focus on life in a meat and potatoes kind of way. One watch. Works for Day. Works for Night. Works for Dress and Casual. No rings. No necklaces. Nada. We’re men for crying out loud!
6) On the subject of needs: If our brief case, jacket or wallet looks drab or worn, this is an okay place to splurge and get us an upgrade, just make sure we won’t feel silly with it. As stated above, we don’t like shopping, even for us.
5) Channel your hunter gatherer skills for shopping. Watch and learn, track your subject and then move in for the kill. For example, books: We don’t’ want to know how we communicate. We don’t like having to work at just talking. Humor books also strike a false note, even if written by guys we like, as those get dated fast, one read and they’re done. Magazines? Be careful. Most guys don’t subscribe to GQ or Men’s Day type magazines. We do subscribe to SI and Time and Newsweek and National Geographic. Want us to read more? Go to a book store and watch to see what men pick up, peek at the selections and see if you’ve got a fit, then pounce!
4) No guy says they have a hobby. We have collections and obsessions, not hobbies –stamps, baseball cards, coins, model trains, fantasy football, movies and star trek. If we like golfing, we like golfing, it’s not a hobby. Got that? Good. Now, if we like doing something, get something for us we like doing. Just don’t write “For your hobby, hubby” on the card.
3) Homemade gifts…unless you’re really good at it, and even then it’s dicey. It’s not like we collect or appreciate quilts and as good as your pumpkin bread may be…well, we’ll appreciate the time and effort…but homemade promises…those work better. For example: a scrap book works! A sappy poem does not. We begin to cringe with the opening line, “My heart’s song transcends the stars…” A coupon for a one hour foot rub from you works! From the spa…well, most guys I know aren’t signing up on Saturday for a pedicure.
2) Food. There is no love so sincere. However, chocolate is not our go to of choice, it’s yours. Besides, we KNOW if we get chocolate, we’re going to have to share. Fruit of the month, well, it’s nice and we might be surprised by how much we like it…Wine of the month –better. A smoked turkey. Excellent. Imported stuff, Prime Steaks. Now You’re talking! Dessert of the Month –okay, you got us there. (Gift cards to restaurants however, do NOT work. They feel like a prepaid nag to go out). Take us to a place you discovered you know we’d love, that’s a date!
Food related items should be 1) high quality, 2) functional 3) not require additional high quality functional items. A Barbeque Grill tool set does not work well without the Barbeque grill. It’s like an empty jewelry box.
1) Affection and Attention. We like back rubs and unexpected kisses. We like a peaceful home. We want to come home to a woman that is delighted to see us not because of what we can do as relief pitchers with the kids or the chores, but because we are simply there. Forgive us our foolishness and abandon some of your frustration, we don’t want you to swallow it because then it’s still inside. We want your enthusiastic presence for us more than anything.
Look, we brought flowers, silver and chocolate!
Merry Christmas!
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Gift Giving Primer
Illuminations of the Heart A Gift Giving Primer…
A certain young man whose name is lost to the ages drove five hours to spend a day over Christmas vacation with his girlfriend. It was a very heady thing for the family. They had spent the day ensuring the home sparkled and the meal would be perfect. He arrived, red faced from the cold as it was in the upper North East, bearing a beautifully wrapped small box.
Her face was breathless with anticipation as she opened her gift.
It was an antler candle.
Literally, a candle sculpted to look like the four pronged accessory of one of Santa’s eight.
Never has the soft falling of snow outside sounded louder than in the moments that followed.
In the interest of all young and not so young men out there who need to get something special for a female they treasure or hope to impress, the following is offered as a public service to givers of gifts everywhere, to promote relationship harmony whatever the reason or the season.
Women like things that are silver, red, sparkling, soft, chocolate, elegant and indicate the shopper spent some time reflecting on her specific personality. Please note men, buying one thing that is silver, red, sparkling, soft, chocolate and elegant is not physically possible, and even if it were, this is a present not a combo meal. Bad plan.
Top Ten Gift Giving Guide for Men Needing to Shop for Women as translated into sports metaphors wherever possible.
10) Fake Kicks seldom work.
Translation: Don’t give jewelry boxes unless there is something in them.
9) Look at the lady in question or visualize her and ask yourself, when would she read/use/wear this. If the image takes more than five seconds to conjure, put…the…present BACK.
If you buy it anyway, the kick is up and it’s no good!
8) You know how you’ve spent hours pouring over a fantasy football magazine to determine the best picks for the draft? We deserve as much time as the Tom Brady wantabes that come in the third and fourth round. This is not a fifteen minute stop off at the mall. Put together a sustained drive, spend the time on the clock and come up with a surefire winner.
7) Chocolates always work but not excessively or exclusively. A three pound jar of rasinettes does not qualify as a thoughtful present. Quoting Madden out of context: “The coach has to do a better job of mixing up the plays, otherwise the defense can just sit there and pounce pounce pounce and they’ won’t get anywhere.”
6) Don’t buy jackets for women –it’s the same principle that works for men –they have to fit and no two women are the same, so not every jacket hangs correctly. Think football. Shoulder pads have to fit. Ditto for hats, dresses and shoes. Getting the wrong size because it’s too big means you think we’re fat. Getting the wrong size because it’s too small means we are fat. Either way you lose. This is Sudden Death…Good luck.
5) Coupons for facials, hair cuts and manicures/pedicures are great. Gift certificates for electrolysis or waxings are dangerous even for seasoned veterans. Quote the Madden once more, “Hail Mary Passes work some of the times, but you’re always better off being able to put together a sustained drive, rather than hoping you can pull it out in the end. It’s a dangerous way to try to win the game.”
4) Guys, gift giving isn’t hard if you think of it as being like running the option play! Go to a Department store –and think inversely. The sections that one feels the least comfortable in are the sections probably most likely to elicit a favorable response from the female in question. (Crystal, Silver, Jewelry –good), (Sports goods, Bedding, Towels -not so much).
3) Appliances. Flag on the play! Even if you splurge and get them in red. Buying a spouse an iron for a gift is legal grounds for divorce in at least four states. You’ll be lucky if you get to repeat the down. Severe Holding penalties are more likely. Remember, they can almost always be called on every play.
2) Avoid stores that try to cater to pampering women with overly smelly salts and soaps. They also might signal to the thin skinned female, “You smell bad.” Consider this an offensive pass interference.
1) If all else fails, bring a related female, ask the related female. “Would you be excited if you received this as a gift?” Count the seconds to the response. If a lightning bolt would be more than five miles away… Penalty, too much time on the play, loss of down.
Next Episode, Shopping for Men, a translation for Women...
A certain young man whose name is lost to the ages drove five hours to spend a day over Christmas vacation with his girlfriend. It was a very heady thing for the family. They had spent the day ensuring the home sparkled and the meal would be perfect. He arrived, red faced from the cold as it was in the upper North East, bearing a beautifully wrapped small box.
Her face was breathless with anticipation as she opened her gift.
It was an antler candle.
Literally, a candle sculpted to look like the four pronged accessory of one of Santa’s eight.
Never has the soft falling of snow outside sounded louder than in the moments that followed.
In the interest of all young and not so young men out there who need to get something special for a female they treasure or hope to impress, the following is offered as a public service to givers of gifts everywhere, to promote relationship harmony whatever the reason or the season.
Women like things that are silver, red, sparkling, soft, chocolate, elegant and indicate the shopper spent some time reflecting on her specific personality. Please note men, buying one thing that is silver, red, sparkling, soft, chocolate and elegant is not physically possible, and even if it were, this is a present not a combo meal. Bad plan.
Top Ten Gift Giving Guide for Men Needing to Shop for Women as translated into sports metaphors wherever possible.
10) Fake Kicks seldom work.
Translation: Don’t give jewelry boxes unless there is something in them.
9) Look at the lady in question or visualize her and ask yourself, when would she read/use/wear this. If the image takes more than five seconds to conjure, put…the…present BACK.
If you buy it anyway, the kick is up and it’s no good!
8) You know how you’ve spent hours pouring over a fantasy football magazine to determine the best picks for the draft? We deserve as much time as the Tom Brady wantabes that come in the third and fourth round. This is not a fifteen minute stop off at the mall. Put together a sustained drive, spend the time on the clock and come up with a surefire winner.
7) Chocolates always work but not excessively or exclusively. A three pound jar of rasinettes does not qualify as a thoughtful present. Quoting Madden out of context: “The coach has to do a better job of mixing up the plays, otherwise the defense can just sit there and pounce pounce pounce and they’ won’t get anywhere.”
6) Don’t buy jackets for women –it’s the same principle that works for men –they have to fit and no two women are the same, so not every jacket hangs correctly. Think football. Shoulder pads have to fit. Ditto for hats, dresses and shoes. Getting the wrong size because it’s too big means you think we’re fat. Getting the wrong size because it’s too small means we are fat. Either way you lose. This is Sudden Death…Good luck.
5) Coupons for facials, hair cuts and manicures/pedicures are great. Gift certificates for electrolysis or waxings are dangerous even for seasoned veterans. Quote the Madden once more, “Hail Mary Passes work some of the times, but you’re always better off being able to put together a sustained drive, rather than hoping you can pull it out in the end. It’s a dangerous way to try to win the game.”
4) Guys, gift giving isn’t hard if you think of it as being like running the option play! Go to a Department store –and think inversely. The sections that one feels the least comfortable in are the sections probably most likely to elicit a favorable response from the female in question. (Crystal, Silver, Jewelry –good), (Sports goods, Bedding, Towels -not so much).
3) Appliances. Flag on the play! Even if you splurge and get them in red. Buying a spouse an iron for a gift is legal grounds for divorce in at least four states. You’ll be lucky if you get to repeat the down. Severe Holding penalties are more likely. Remember, they can almost always be called on every play.
2) Avoid stores that try to cater to pampering women with overly smelly salts and soaps. They also might signal to the thin skinned female, “You smell bad.” Consider this an offensive pass interference.
1) If all else fails, bring a related female, ask the related female. “Would you be excited if you received this as a gift?” Count the seconds to the response. If a lightning bolt would be more than five miles away… Penalty, too much time on the play, loss of down.
Next Episode, Shopping for Men, a translation for Women...
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Joining the Gamers' Club
What we don’t know innately, we marry.
For example, my husband has a built in GPS in his head. He can tell North on a starless night without a compass or those pesky Auroras Borealis. On the other hand, I still navigate the town that has been our home for thirteen years with mild trepidation. There is a Bermuda Triangle within its radius that plagues me still to this day. The directions for getting to the Victory Center where our daughters play basketball have imprinted on my brain such that I cannot get there….without getting lost first. I have come to terms with my faulty brain. I don’t take them to games anymore.
I dance, love musical theatre and enjoy reading the classics. He reads history for pleasure and can remember it without a test the next day. In other words, ask me if you’re playing Trivial Pursuit for the brown or the pink slice of pie, ask him if you need the history one. I don’t even remember what color that pie piece is.
Where are my…?
During our dating years, I marveled at how organized and put together my future spouse was. He never lost anything. I lost my purse and found it later the second night we met. My I.D. card fell out of my pocket in December. When the snow finally melted that semester in April, I found it again.
I have learned to look in the place where things ought to be first when beginning a mission to retrieve lost objects. Cue Mission Impossible music here. I am now the GPS for all items within the household.
"I can't find my music stand."
"It's next to the computer in the study."
"We don't have lunch boxes!"
"They're still out in the car where you left them."
“Where are my papers from yesterday?”
“They’re on the table under the lunchbox in the kitchen.”
Actually, I’m more like the brown paper envelope in the middle of the Clue Game. I have the answers, I just need the right question.
Scrabble, Upwards and On Words…
We play cards and strategy computer games and every board game there is in our house. My husband is the master of the set battle plan, thus he usually wins at hearts and always at “Go.” My method of play is more on the fly, I school him at chess and occasionally have a run of victories at cards. Where we both are evenly matched is Scrabble. He can plink down amazing words.
Because I’m a non-speller, my victories have been mostly moral ones, but there was one where I put down the “J” on a triple letter score to catapult to the lead, forming the word “Jo.” “That’s not a word. I challenge.” It was a bluff, but I lucked out. It means sweetheart. I tried calling him that for a time, it didn’t stick. It’s a stupid word and even I concede, I won, but with dishonor. (You have to say that last part with a Klingon accent).
Speaking of Klingons,
If anyone in cyber space has Quest for the Throne, the Klingon version of Star Fleet Battles (STB), I’ll buy it from you. Back in my sophomore year of college, he bought the game to teach me about STB quickly and I was undefeated in seven tries despite being an absolute rookie. Then the game vanished mysteriously. He promises he didn’t throw it away.
Gifts and Gift Giving
November 15, 1992 A day that remains pivotal in my spousal relationship. No, it’s not our anniversary or the anniversary of an anniversary or anyone’s birthday. It’s the day we stopped being newlyweds and became a “settled” couple. My husband came home and saw me putting away some shirts from the drycleaners. After dinner, he gave me a pensive gaze and said with recognition in his voice, “You don’t iron for me anymore.” I laughed.
December 20, 1997 We were wrapping up the last of the loot when it occurred to me I hadn’t bought my beloved a present. Expecting a baby, I could have punted and just allotted the oversight to pregnancy hormones. My admittedly feeble attempt to rectify the situation was worthy of spousal scorn, but he’s a very gallant man. My folks were in town for the holidays and I had purchased several books. Having overheard my mom talk about having read one of the books I had bought for her, I regifted on the spot. The problem was, he knew about that book in particular and the fact that it was originally intended for my mom. The inscription on the inside says it all. “I was thinking of you as I wrapped this book, Love S.”
The other day, my husband called me about a sign he saw talking about giving your wife a rock to remember. “How about some quartz?” he offered. “Wow. That would be great!” He showed up with what I estimate to be a 90 lb. boulder that looks very nice in our back yard. The sparkly earrings came later. I countered by getting him something I swore when we dated I’d never do, some practical gifts, fresh pants and socks. Then, feeling bad, I impulsively bought him a beautiful red blanket, and “The Man of LaMancha.”
Romance may be about getting hearts and flowers but love isn’t about getting what you want. It’s getting what you most profoundly need, even if it’s to be told to shape up. We’ve both demanded that the other become more of the person God intended us to be over the years. We diet and budget and struggle with organizational systems to manage our many charges together. He’s learned to bring chocolate on any occasion and how to dance, and I’ve discovered the History section at the book store under his tutelage. I’ve introduced him to musicals and classic film and he’s taken us to civil war battle grounds and explained the campaigns. He’s even navigated me over the phone to the basketball center. And together, we’re a tough match in cards or Trivial Pursuit.
Think I may buy an ironing board, just to surprise him.
For example, my husband has a built in GPS in his head. He can tell North on a starless night without a compass or those pesky Auroras Borealis. On the other hand, I still navigate the town that has been our home for thirteen years with mild trepidation. There is a Bermuda Triangle within its radius that plagues me still to this day. The directions for getting to the Victory Center where our daughters play basketball have imprinted on my brain such that I cannot get there….without getting lost first. I have come to terms with my faulty brain. I don’t take them to games anymore.
I dance, love musical theatre and enjoy reading the classics. He reads history for pleasure and can remember it without a test the next day. In other words, ask me if you’re playing Trivial Pursuit for the brown or the pink slice of pie, ask him if you need the history one. I don’t even remember what color that pie piece is.
Where are my…?
During our dating years, I marveled at how organized and put together my future spouse was. He never lost anything. I lost my purse and found it later the second night we met. My I.D. card fell out of my pocket in December. When the snow finally melted that semester in April, I found it again.
I have learned to look in the place where things ought to be first when beginning a mission to retrieve lost objects. Cue Mission Impossible music here. I am now the GPS for all items within the household.
"I can't find my music stand."
"It's next to the computer in the study."
"We don't have lunch boxes!"
"They're still out in the car where you left them."
“Where are my papers from yesterday?”
“They’re on the table under the lunchbox in the kitchen.”
Actually, I’m more like the brown paper envelope in the middle of the Clue Game. I have the answers, I just need the right question.
Scrabble, Upwards and On Words…
We play cards and strategy computer games and every board game there is in our house. My husband is the master of the set battle plan, thus he usually wins at hearts and always at “Go.” My method of play is more on the fly, I school him at chess and occasionally have a run of victories at cards. Where we both are evenly matched is Scrabble. He can plink down amazing words.
Because I’m a non-speller, my victories have been mostly moral ones, but there was one where I put down the “J” on a triple letter score to catapult to the lead, forming the word “Jo.” “That’s not a word. I challenge.” It was a bluff, but I lucked out. It means sweetheart. I tried calling him that for a time, it didn’t stick. It’s a stupid word and even I concede, I won, but with dishonor. (You have to say that last part with a Klingon accent).
Speaking of Klingons,
If anyone in cyber space has Quest for the Throne, the Klingon version of Star Fleet Battles (STB), I’ll buy it from you. Back in my sophomore year of college, he bought the game to teach me about STB quickly and I was undefeated in seven tries despite being an absolute rookie. Then the game vanished mysteriously. He promises he didn’t throw it away.
Gifts and Gift Giving
November 15, 1992 A day that remains pivotal in my spousal relationship. No, it’s not our anniversary or the anniversary of an anniversary or anyone’s birthday. It’s the day we stopped being newlyweds and became a “settled” couple. My husband came home and saw me putting away some shirts from the drycleaners. After dinner, he gave me a pensive gaze and said with recognition in his voice, “You don’t iron for me anymore.” I laughed.
December 20, 1997 We were wrapping up the last of the loot when it occurred to me I hadn’t bought my beloved a present. Expecting a baby, I could have punted and just allotted the oversight to pregnancy hormones. My admittedly feeble attempt to rectify the situation was worthy of spousal scorn, but he’s a very gallant man. My folks were in town for the holidays and I had purchased several books. Having overheard my mom talk about having read one of the books I had bought for her, I regifted on the spot. The problem was, he knew about that book in particular and the fact that it was originally intended for my mom. The inscription on the inside says it all. “I was thinking of you as I wrapped this book, Love S.”
The other day, my husband called me about a sign he saw talking about giving your wife a rock to remember. “How about some quartz?” he offered. “Wow. That would be great!” He showed up with what I estimate to be a 90 lb. boulder that looks very nice in our back yard. The sparkly earrings came later. I countered by getting him something I swore when we dated I’d never do, some practical gifts, fresh pants and socks. Then, feeling bad, I impulsively bought him a beautiful red blanket, and “The Man of LaMancha.”
Romance may be about getting hearts and flowers but love isn’t about getting what you want. It’s getting what you most profoundly need, even if it’s to be told to shape up. We’ve both demanded that the other become more of the person God intended us to be over the years. We diet and budget and struggle with organizational systems to manage our many charges together. He’s learned to bring chocolate on any occasion and how to dance, and I’ve discovered the History section at the book store under his tutelage. I’ve introduced him to musicals and classic film and he’s taken us to civil war battle grounds and explained the campaigns. He’s even navigated me over the phone to the basketball center. And together, we’re a tough match in cards or Trivial Pursuit.
Think I may buy an ironing board, just to surprise him.
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