Christmas Quiet

Last year's handmade card from my girl and boy

Wednesday night before Christmas. Just returned home from a long workday to a hauntingly quiet house. I can almost hear the crickets chirping. The kids left for their dad's today and won't be home till 2:00 Christmas day. It's been six years since their dad and I separated, and this year he got prime Christmas time (we alternate) — Eve and morning. After six years you'd think I'd be used to this. But there's the tree — lovingly decorated with traditional German ornaments and little gems created by the kids over the years. The table's decked out with red runner and candles nestled in advent wreath. Pine tree clippings decoratively scattered about the house and homemade cookies from last weekend's cookie decorating party ready and waiting. The proverbial Christmas lights are on, and no one's home.

Fact is, if the kids were here, I don't know if I'd be getting much warm and fuzzy from them anyway, due to the fact that they're teenagers and just a little too cool for all the kid stuff. Our Christmas traditions are fun, but my girl and boy no longer approach them with childlike excitement from days of old. We go through the motions and all agree on the cute factor. But I'd give anything to go back to the days when belief in Santa held precedence over anything we did this time of year.

I guess married couples with families also experience this phenomenon. But at least hubby and wife have each other. Dang if it isn't hard to come home to an empty house, kids gone, and no one to talk to. There's nothing on TV and I'm too wiped out to read a book. No one's posting anything good on Facebook. I didn't sign up for this.

My thoughts have hitched a ride on my funk and turn to a pre-Christmas seven years ago. Back then I was under the impression we were a happy family. Hubby and son had been working on a project in the neglected sunroom behind our garage since October — I was informed it was my Christmas present and not to go in there. I honored their request, and on Christmas Eve, my family escorted me — blindfolded — to the room: A carpeted oasis complete with heated jacuzzi spa, framed prints of tropical scenes, potted plants, surround sound stereo, lit candles, new slippers and a fuzzy robe hanging in the corner — the best present I'd ever received. If this isn't proof your husband loves you, I don't know what is. Four months later I discovered the horrible truth. I've been a single mom — God I hate that term — ever since.

I hardly ever go back to that day in my life — and the disastrous year that followed. Things are so much better now. And this Christmas I can celebrate the fact that because of all that's happened, I've made room for good things in my life. Like wonderful friends, old and new, who have been loving and consistent beyond belief; a good man who loves and appreciates me for exactly who I am; a deep and complete connection with my creator; and a renewed appreciation for my own worth and talent. Best of all, these two amazing children who I love more than life itself, and who should be here with me tonight drinking eggnog and laughing at my lame jokes. God willing, this will come to pass in 2 1/2 days, although I can't guarantee the laughing at my jokes part. They're a tough audience lately!

If you have made it this far, thank you for allowing me my forum to lament. I feel a lot better.

Yuletide greetings, all. Look around, the gifts abound.

Back of card. I believe the formula's correct, but have never actually checked my son's math to verify this.
Why would I?

Third Advent

Today, Third Advent, my heart is full of warmth and gratitude.





The lovely choral rendition is by the San Francisco Girl's Chorus.

a healing garden

"To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends. To appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded." 
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

Rosie: The queen of the castle

My compliments to cultivator.

Avec musique:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofk9JyCQqKs

a.m. workout

Before you begin:  Wake up too early, consume two cups of coffee; throw on some sweats and a hat that covers your ears; and this is crucial: select ideal i-pod playlist.

1. Begin with slow warm up

2. Pick up pace, change direction

3. Increase water intake

4. ... and your heart rate

5. Stretch

6. Illuminate from within

7. Bend downward

8. Move forward with intensity

9. Don't bother the other athletes

10. Remember good posture

11. Breathe in

12. Breathe out

13. Listen to your inner voice

14. Cool down with a little slow spinning

15. Lower your heart rate

16. Stop and smell the flowers


Repeat 10 times: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oqi7-2EPGv8

happy birthday, art carney!

When you're stuck in the routine, depressed, slightly peeved, or just plain bored, nothing will snap you out of it like a dose of good comedy. And by good I mean, of course, The Honeymooners. This clip's wonderful in its entirety, but if you're in a hurry, skip to 1:10 — best physical comedy ever! Art Carney/Ed Norton, I salute you! (oh, and Jackie Gleason, you're not so bad yourself!)

kids' night out

It's Friday night. Son (17) drove daughter (14) into town — a 45-minute commute. Before they left, they called me at work, politely asking for advances on babysitting income, gas money, dinner funds. I mean, really. Do I only exist to prepare balanced meals, pack lunches, and shell out the bucks? Nah. I love that they like to hang out together, and that big bro will look out for little sis. They'll have a blast. They work hard and deserve this. Downside: mom spends Friday night solo eating chips & dip for dinner and, uh, pouring more drivel into her blog page.

But I miss them. Yes, I worry ... and I'm hugging them a little tighter this week. My son's friend was in a  car wreck the other day. He and his passenger were lucky to crawl from the car unscathed, but the kid (a really good boy) will lose his license for a year for being underage and driving a minor. Another acquaintance is dealing with a teenage pregnancy. Yet my children are both in good places right now. My son has embarked on his first romantic relationship. This girl's parents won't let her date or go to dances, so the two pretty much see each other at school and talk on the phone — the ideal girlfriend, in my book! When her cell phone died, he valiantly made arrangements to get her a replacement, confirming my inherent belief he is just a good boy, through and through. And now I know he has the capacity to feel true love (or something like it). Heartwarming to see the boy so happy — he actually has a little kick in his step (for my son, this is saying a lot!) Another milestone in the life of a boy who only yesterday was told he was going to have a baby sister. He vetoed our suggestions for child-to-be names in favor of his pick: "Zuzu." We had a conversation the other day that included the word condom. I took it as a personal victory.

My daughter — I've said it before and I'll say it again — is a ray of sunshine. She was recently voted freshman homecoming princess. I don't hold much stake in that title — in my high school days this honor was reserved for the hottest, bitchiest girl in school who'd just die if forced to speak to someone in my lowly circles. But the internal light my daughter possesses is infectious, and her classmates have surely experienced it too. I love that when I drove her to the game in her sparkling dress and straight-from-the-salon up-do, she directed me not to the football field where all the action was, but to the other side of parking lot to meet her best friend — not the most glamorous girl on campus, but most likely the sweetest and most genuine. Together they would trek to the festivities from there. If I've raised my girl to value kindness over snobbery in choosing her friends, I think I've done a pretty good job. She's the real deal and I couldn't be more proud.

Treasured moments with each of them come fewer and further between these days. But I hold on to these truths: My son WILL watch an entire Christopher Guest movie with me. My daughter and I WILL shop 'till we drop together. And there's always the dinner table. These random snapshots are precious — and all to soon will be nothing but sweet memories. Just gotta make sure they're all recorded on the memory card as they happen. For now, I sit, wait, and worry.

Just noticed it's raining out there. Make that WORRY ...

Toxic

I always had a more than competent man in my life to handle things like automobile maintenance, indoor plumbing, broken door knobs, a bad fuse. But on my own it's a  major challenge just mounting a frame on a wall — I'm deathly afraid of my own power drill.

The ultimate feeble single mom moment came last week. It was we-haul-away-everything trash day and I had a dewsy. Months earlier (could it even have been a year?) I sorted through boxes of family photographs for choice images to scan and put on a photo disc. The task was happily completed, but what to do with all of the rejects? I started to throw them away, but the rubbermaid container I dumped them in was soooo heavy. Also it'd be like throwing away memories — not the picture-perfect ones — but memories just the same. And where to put it? I have a small living space: no garage, and only a small storage closet on the side of my house, currently overflowing with Christmas and Halloween decorations. It sat under my back porch for, um, over a year.

Months ago I was in the backyard, noticed the container, and lifted the lid. It was just after a hard rain and water had seeped in. The pics were ruined, and the box was really heavy. Why I didn't deal with it at the time, I don't know, but I reduced the situation to a note to self: drain container and put out on big-item trash day.

Three big-item trash days later was Thursday of last week. I wish I could describe the stench that eluded from that rubbermaid container as I tipped it over in the backyard. Who knew that a combination of acetate and standing water could create something so toxic? It filled the yard and house, I couldn't get it off my hands, and the kids were gagging. I hauled the noxious two-ton container the edge of the curb. Surely the trashmen would permanently remove it from our lives.  I got some on my pants and shoes and smelled it all day.

Later that morning I get a call at work from my property manager. Mission Disposal informed my landlords they wouldn't pick up the potentially toxic material. The property manager said the owners wanted me to know never to put anything like that out in the trash again and suggested I take it to a toxic waste facility. Yeah, like when will I have time to do that? I was sure they were all convinced I was operating a meth lab from my home.  I sat there at my desk and cried. I was mad at myself, my situation. Toxic seemed a most accurate term for everything in my life at that particular moment in time.

After writing this shitty first draft last night, I got up, turned around, and noticed a framed photo of my brother —  his high school senior portrait. Gosh, I miss him! Here I am whining about taking out the trash, when he was forced to endure toxicities of the most horrible kind. Living with full blown AIDS for almost 10 years, he transitioned from one "cocktail" to the next when the drugs became ineffective, brought his oxygen tank to work just so he could function, and endured months at a time of not working when the disease became really bad — all pretty much on his own with a couple of major heartbreaks along the way. In the end, along with the frustrations of his rapidly deteriorating mind and body and loss of independence (by nature he was independent to a fault), he had to come to terms with his inevitable demise — where would he be when this was all over?

So I wonder, who's more oppressed? The sufferers of AIDS, cancer, heart conditions, physical abuse, etc. etc. who are going through more than their share of hell on earth? Or we, the survivors, who must  exhibit strength during their pain, and in worse-case-scenario carry on feeling the constant void of their absence? I'm thinking the former. Life is rough and sometimes all I can do is cry at my desk. But I have my health, and for some reason my God's given me the the means to enjoy awesome sunset at the end of the day, a cool glass of wine, the daily joys my children give me, family that's there for me no matter what, creative outlets, romance, meaningful chats with my girlfriends, good food, great music. I think it's called grace.

I called the toxic waste facility and asked if they'd accept the stinky package. "That's just acetate. We don't consider it toxic," he said, "Just put it in a sealed bag in your regular trash can and they'll take it." Which they did when I put it out a few days ago (in an anonymous dumpster in town, haha!)

So NOT toxic. Sometimes words of wisdom from come from the unlikeliest of sources. Thanks for the reality check, toxic waste facility guy.