Santa And The Republican Conspiracy

Honestly, I struggle a little with the Santa thing; probably because I don't have kids. (As often as I am sorry for that, I figure I also escaped having to explain global warming.)

Don't get me wrong. I absolutely love talking to children about Santa, and I love watching them talk about Santa. I love seeing their faces absolutely glowing with pure adoration. It is so uncomplicated. They love Santa because Santa brings them toys. Except for putting together that pesky little list, that's all Santa does: bring toys. Simple as that.

I was wondering the other day though, whether this gets a little problematic at some point?

I was wondering how a parent helps their child, sooner or later, make sense of putting aside such an intricate, detailed belief and grasping a reality that is so different from what they were taught. It doesn't occur to anyone that they've been sold a bill of goods? (It is a classic example of the way I can overthink an issue.)

The Y Chromosome who lives in my house is a child psychologist. When I asked him, the question he put to me in immediate response was, "What's the difference between that and the politics of the last eight years?"

Isn't that great? I guess he's right -- we all love to love and believe the unbelievable, and when we start to realize over a period of time that something is exactly the opposite of what we thought, we become habituated to it until it is as though it always was (or something like that).

Maybe if as children, we had been completely outraged when we found out that Santa was a hoax, we would never have put up with George Bush. "I REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I WAS DEFRAUDED IN THIS FASHION! IT WAS SANTA!! I VOWED TO MYSELF THAT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN!"

Habituation is for the lucky ones, however. My niece came downstairs on Christmas Eve and suggested that she needed to sleep in her mother's bed because the fact that Santa could get into the house in the middle of the night gave her the creeps. (In my book, she has a point.) My sister looked at her and flatly said, "There's no such thing as Santa, go back to bed." Mom: 1, Santa: 0, Kid: Back In Her Own Bed. You can probably guess, my sister wouldn't give a nanosecond's thought to keeping her "Santa's wrapping paper" separate from her own wrapping paper when she thought her kids were getting suspicious.

But then, there is also the unlucky parent: my sister told me a friend of hers has a very bright son who said to his mother one day, "I'm starting to believe that Santa Claus is a fake."

When she asked him what he meant, he said, "You know, sort of like a myth -- like the Easter Bunny and the Baby Jesus."

Considering her family is Catholic, how do you think she got THAT one sorted out?

For Christmas CDs I highly recommend Brian Wilson, What I Really Want For Christmas. My favorite song is in the beginning: The Man With All The Toys. My favorite greatest Christmas movies are Love Actually and A Christmas Story. Please tell me you've seen them.

Salmonella SCHMALMONELLA, This Is The Greatest Egg Nog In The World

We went to Catholic schools and at Christmas my mother would make this for the nuns and priests. It's funny to think of myself at the age of 13 walking into the principal's office with a jug full of this stuff and plunking it down on the counter. Our principal was Sister Roseanne and I still feel guilty that I never told my mom how much she wanted the recipe.

P.S. Don't even read this recipe and think about driving.

6 Eggs
3/4 Cup of Sugar
1 Pint Cream
1 Pint Milk
1 Ounce Jamaican Rum
1 Pint Whiskey

Beat separately yolks and whites of eggs. Add 1/2 cup of sugar to yolks while beating. Add 1/4 cup sugar to whites after they have been beaten very stiff. Mix egg whites with yolks. Stir in cream and milk. Add the pint of whiskey and the rum. Stir thoroughly. Serve very cold with grated nutmeg. Makes a total of 5 pints. Each serving approximately 692,435 calories, 385 grams fat.

Warning: The consumption of raw or undercooked eggs could be hazardous to your health.

I'm drinking this anyway but you could also try cooking it if you're that worried.

Christmas Trees, Ornaments, Cans of Soup: They All Have Feelings Too

My mother was not a particularly sentimental woman. She had a sort of disdain for saving mementos even from some of life's more significant events. Shortly after she was married she donated her wedding gown to a convent so the nuns could wear it when they became brides of God. I remember playing with her wedding veil until the tulle on it turned yellow and became matted like dreadlocks. She was the one who got sick of it, and when she did, she simply threw it out. I was the one who cried.

So, when I got married on December 19th, 1998, I had little Christmas ornaments made from the design of my wedding invitation and I gave them out to my guests. I had a few extra and so did she. Five years later, when I was getting divorced, I asked her, "What do you think I should do with the ornaments?" Her short answer: "Hang them on the tree."

Of course! What was I thinking? Duh.

In fact, I spent Christmas with my mother in Pennsylvania when my divorce, highly contested, became legal on Christmas Day of 2003. I remember looking at the tree and thinking, "How many of these ornaments did she get anyway?" The tree was covered with them. Apparently, she must have really liked them -- she had quite a few.

Of course, I was not surprised she didn't even fake an attempt to protect me emotionally (I can hear her now, "...from Christmas ornaments?!?!"). My mother was ruthless when it came to stuff like that. When it came to throwing away things like high school yearbooks ("You'll never see them again!"), giving away your favorite paperbacks ("Sorry, I thought you read it already!"), she was glib and completely at a loss trying to figure out the arcane value we attached to things.

The irony is that what my mother lacked when it came to feelings of nostalgia, she more than made up for when it came to anthropomorphizing.... anthropomorphizing almost anything. She was one of those people who could make you believe that a can of soup could feel lonely. She thought of her sewing machine as eager and she believed her cat had a true and internally articulated desire to be held like a real human baby.

She was gifted.

Her ability to impose human feelings on virtually anything made her one of the greatest kindergarten teachers who ever walked the planet. She taught children to read by using blow-up cartoon characters of letters and the following year, she criticized the new teacher for letting the students see "Mr. M" lying deflated on the shelf. I could never figure out if she was sad for the students, sad for herself, or sad for Mr. M.

Hence the Christmas wedding ornaments. My mother loved decorating for Christmas and she loved her Christmas tree.

(She loved it right up until the day after Christmas. Then, all of a sudden, having crossed that invisible line, her tree became simply a piece of dried out, fire-hazard-needle-dropping-heap-of-nostalgia, and it needed to be immediately removed and set curbside as soon as possible, lights included.)

My mother really liked the Christmas wedding ornaments and liking them made it worse for her. She thought they were pretty and she attached no negative emotional significance to them. Therefore, she absolutely did not want them to feel lonely and left out and she knew they would make the tree (feel) pretty.

And after all, as she once said to me about Christmas trees: "They want to be dressed up, you know."

Now I have the ornaments; they're sprinkled all over my tree, I think of her and I figure who cares if they were once attached to something else. (Who was that guy anyway?)

I also have these great cupcakes, golden pine cones, and this adorable bird. I love ornaments. I think my tree does too.

I'm Taking A Stand

I think words that aren't regularly used in the spoken language should be banned from print. I'm tired of the word "roil." I don't ever hear anyone use it but I see it all the time in the paper and I'm tired of it. Try Googling the word ROIL with the New York Times. Ha. A million hits if you get one. It's not a convenient word to use. It doesn't roll off your tongue and if it springs to mind, it certainly isn't easily placed gracefully into a sentence. I've had it.

If I Were Not A Woman I Would Not Be a Wacko, I'd Just Be A Mad Man

We live on a busy street. Well, actually, it's a two-lane highway, so calling it "busy" is kind. Kind of an understatement too. The speed limit is 30 but most people seem to consider that simply a stupid suggestion. It's noisy and some of us are afraid to rake leaves or shovel snow at the edge of the road. (Or just don't feel like it.)

We let our cat out. I figure for cats at least, a short happy life is way better than a long miserable one. If I see him across the street I'm fine, but if I see him about to cross the street, I flip out and run in the house. I guess it's a good thing he's not my kid.

We let our dogs out in the back yard. There's no fence. Most of the time, unless there's some kind of wild and unusual distraction (like say, a person, walking down the sidewalk) they don't go out toward the street. We have to be careful though, they can take off pretty fast and they go immediately on auto-pilot if the wild and unusual distraction is also walking another canine.

Although none of them are ours, there are also quite a few children on our street. Within the 6 houses on each of our sides and across the street, there are seven kids under the age of 8 and more than half of them are just past being toddlers. We're two houses away from a corner where in the last three years, there have been about four accidents; the cars end up on our neighbor's lawn and have to be towed away. I've suggested Jersey barriers but I think the concern is that the person speeding who's trying to make a left-hand turn from the right lane might get hurt (as opposed to the toddler who wants to play in his yard). Jersey barriers don't exactly complement picket fences either, so there's also the eyesore factor.

So, the speeding traffic is annoying, but when we complain enough the City sends police out, and during the summer we sit on our decks and cheer when they pull people over. It bugs me, but it's not something I obsess about too much.

Sunday was a little different though.

On Sunday, as I pulled out of my driveway, a large, flatbed tow truck came barreling down in the right hand lane and passed me at a remarkably fast speed. Beloved pets and spirited, sweet little children flashed before my eyes.

I will not deny I have a short fuse at times. And sometimes when I get really pissed off, my reactions to certain events are very powerful. They feel very logical (to me).

So, when the tow truck stopped at the light at the end of the block, I pulled behind him and I sounded my horn until the driver leaned out of the cab. I also leaned out, and I yelled, "Do you know there's a speed limit on this street?"

His answer was far more clever. It went like this: "LADY, I work for the City of Manchester and I'm on my way to a bad accident! FUCK YOU!"

Before this I had just been ticked off, now, I became infuriated. So I did the perfectly sensible thing and followed him. When we got to the "really bad accident," which by any other standards would be described as a fender bender, I pulled over and got out to talk to the cop who very politely made short order of dismissing me with the advice that I call the City of Manchester.

I stood there for a second. I had been on my way to a nearby lake where my dog and I walk a trail around the edge. I was wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants and still sporting a terrific interpretation of bedhead. I had a choice: get back in my car and continue calmly on my way in the proverbial peaceful, albeit reluctant, pursuit of health and happiness (perhaps follow up later) ...OR rush home, boil through the doorway, slam out my laptop, get on the phone, and start screaming at anyone who answered any number I dialed.

Let me be perfectly clear: I am far more comfortable with the latter.

The compromise sucked. And against my better judgment, that is what I chose. I drove home to get my phone, tried to make the calls on my way to the lake, and then when I got to the lake, the trail was closed.

I could feel the blood pumping in my temples.
 

Once I got home, it took me about 45 minutes to find my laptop. I was undeterred. (No surprise there, really, I'm actually pretty used to losing my laptop -- almost as used to losing it as I am to losing my mind.) 

 

I made a list of my city officials, drafted my letter, and chain linked their emails. Then I called Performance Towing, the owner of the tow truck company, to see if they cared, and to see whether they wanted me to copy them on the letter (translation: I called Performance Towing, the owner of the tow truck company, to pick a fight). Big mistake. The next thing I know, I'm arguing with him over whether the guy was really speeding, and whether tow trucks fall within the emergency vehicle exception. By then, I was apoplectic.

Then something snapped. I have felt that snap before.

It usually happens to me when I'm in a white hot anger, especially when the nature of the anger is that of indignant outrage, inspired by another's oh-so-poor-and-unacceptable-behavior, obnoxious manners, so-offensive-and-so-unacceptable, so-thoroughly-inapposite-to-those-which-I-should-be-shown, and.... so unlike those of my own... (setting aside, of course, the behavior that they deserve -- like, maybe, pulling up behind them, and yelling out the window at them).

I had this sensation of something like a hot spotlight on my forehead. It wasn't just because I started it. I did. I know I did. BUT.

He was obnoxious first. He was speeding. Plus, he said the "F" word. BUT.

I could feel the sensation getting bigger and hotter.

It was because it didn't matter.

It didn't matter. You know why it didn't matter? I'll tell you why it didn't matter. It didn't matter because I am a woman.

(Whip. Cream. And. Cherry. On. Top.)

That guy went back to his boss that night and his boss said to him, "I got a call about you today from some crazy lady" and that guy said to his boss, "yeah, that woman was a real wacko."
 

If a man had done what I did (and it's not unreasonable to believe that one of the fathers on this street might) he would be called "angry," but because I am a woman, I will be called "crazy."

But what do I know?  Apparently, I'm a wacko. I hung up and hit SEND.