not that you asked...

Remix: Christmas 2005

It’s hard to believe that the Christmas season is officially over, isn’t it? Well, I guess it is unless you live in our house, the one that is now completely null and void of any kind of Christmas cheer as I was a virtual unshowered whirlwind of decoration elimination all day yesterday. When Dave got home from a shopping trip with his dad I broke the news to him gently.

“I hope you were done celebrating Christmas,” I said, gently. “Because I boxed it up and I need you to put all 200 tons of it back into the attic with those skinny arms of yours.”

Dave didn’t seem surprised, and frankly, I understood why. I finished my Christmas shopping in November so while everyone else was whoring themselves out at the mall like crazy during the week leading up to Christmas, I reorganized our entire house. Linen closet? Check. Buffet full of barware and stemware? Check. Bathroom cabinet? Check. Hall closet? Check. Junk drawers? Check. Master bedroom complete with closet overhaul and dresser drawer compartmentalization meaning PLEASE PUT YOUR UNDERWEAR AND SWEATERS IN THEIR DESIGNATED SEPARATE LOCATIONS? Check, check and check. In fact, I am such an insane psychopath that by 11pm on Christmas night I had already put away all of our gifts and then VACUUMED. I’m blushing a little bit just writing that, because I am obviously not quite right in a mental kind of way.

And even though Christmas is all about the giving and the charity or some crap like that, we still racked up some good old-fashioned loot this year. Dave got new speakers and a tuner (which is just a fancy word for a stereo if you ask me) and I got a new coat, luggage, a dustbuster (!!!) and some jewelry, but the best thing I received this year was my very own pair of lovely lovely snowshoes. Snowshoes! ACID GREEN snowshoes! I KNOW! That whole global warming thing better be a big fat crock because I am in serious need of a horrific, stranded-for-days blizzard.

Anyway, so that ended up being kind of a long introduction to the real meat of this post which was intended to be a rundown of some of my favorite Christmas moments from 2005. So. Without further ado, as they say.

* * *

Favorite Salvation Army Bell Ringer Moment

Scene: Safeway, two weeks before Christmas. Dave is getting the car while Emily dumps her spare change into the little red pot that is manned by a large, overzealous black man with no front teeth.

Bell Ringer (loudly and with gusto): Thank you! Bless you! Merry Christmas!

Emily: Merry Christmas!

Bell Ringer (still loudly and with even more gusto): You are beautiful and you will be even until you are 70!

Emily: Uh… thank you?

* * *

Favorite Overly Sentimental Christmas Moment

Scene: Chili’s Restaurant and Bar, December 22. Dave and Emily are finishing up dinner with four friends.

Emily: I don’t know what is wrong with me, I cried at the stupidest Christmas commercial ever today.

Dave: You cry at everything. EVERYTHING.

Emily: Honestly, this was completely unnecessary crying. It was over a Little Debbie snack cakes commercial of all things.

Emily’s friend Christie: Oh my God, I know exactly what you’re talking about! The one with the little boy and the letter to Santa?

Emily: YES! YES! The letter about how he was very very good…

Christie: Yes! And then he remembers how he splashed in the tub…

Emily: And how he let all those dogs in the house that got mud all over the furniture…

Christie: And then he crosses out “very, very good…”

Emily: And then he crumples up the whole paper!

Christie: And writes instead that he has TRIED to be very good!

Emily: And I just broke down in tears!

Christie: Me too!

Emily: It was just so SAD!

Christie: I know! I know! Why do they do that to us?

Emily: I know, it makes me want to start crying RIGHT NOW just thinking about it.

Dave and Christie’s husband Travis: [closing their eyes, shaking their heads and sliding down in their seats in silent, distraught embarrassment]

* * *

Favorite Badly Communicating Husband Moment

Scene: Dave and Emily’s study on the morning of December 23.They have both taken the day off of work just to spend it together.

Dave: So we’re not getting each other speakers for Christmas?

Emily: Not unless you want me to return the gifts I’ve gotten you already.

Dave: You got me gifts? Already?

Emily: Dave. It is TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

Dave: So I should get you something.

Emily: Um.

Dave: Well, what do you want to do today?

Emily: I don’t know. What do you want to do?

Dave: I don’t know… maybe we could go to the mall and you can just keep your eyes closed.

Regardless of the miscommunication, Dave and I both agreed that this was one of the best Christmases ever. Very little stress, lots of friends and family to share it with and also? Kick-ass presents. Never underestimate the presents, especially the ones bought at the last minute which always, ALWAYS cost more. (Thank you, Dave!) I hope you all had memorable Christmases of your own. Next stop: 2006!

Acclimatize me

The other night my entire family went out together for dessert to celebrate my sister-in-law’s birthday. Except that everyone apart from my parents ordered dinner instead and then we stuck them with the bill like we always do. It’s tradition!

Dinner with my family is always a kind of crapshoot, and by that I mean that no topic of conversation has ever been officially declared taboo. You just never know what you’re going to get, a precedent set by my father back in 1994 when, despite my mother’s vehement protests, he detailed his vasectomy procedure for my brother and I over a homemade lasagna.

Understandably, when Dave first joined our family, this kind of conversation made him writhe often and uncomfortably in his seat. After all, his family was cut from a more political, current events, traditional dinnertime conversation kind of cloth. True, his older brother is not above farting loudly and openly at the dinner table, but they would never TALK about it, much less let the smell remind them of the time Dad crapped his pants on the way home from West Virginia like it would have for us. They, instead, have perfected the art of the quiet and civil “dirty look.” You know, as opposed to the art of pointing and screaming and doing it all with your mouth full.

This last family dinner together was relatively tame by our standards. Yes, the misshapen booth seat did make you feel like you were sitting on the toilet! Yes, breastfeeding does sound kind of disgusting and painful regardless of its necessity! Yes, during his birth my brother’s head HUNG OUT of my mother for nearly 20 minutes while they tried to vacuum the rest of him out! Dave laughed heartily along with the rest of us while managing to keep any violent episodes of shuddering and gagging to a minimum, and my heart nearly swelled to bursting with the pride of knowing how far he has come in just two short years.

What a guy.

Dear Local Safeway Franchise,

YOU ARE GOING TO RUIN MY MARRIAGE.

Remember a couple of months ago, how I staunchly refused to visit you because I considered you dirty and dingy and small and devoid of certain essential items like, oh, I don’t know, GROUND BEEF and BANANAS and REDUCED-FAT TRISCUITS? And then you lured me in anyways, what with your close-to-home proximity and your low, low prices and your friendly—if at times overbearing—checkout staff and those delicious refrigerated soups with 1000 calories per spoonful but OHHHHH they are SO OUTLANDISHLY tasty? Remember? DO YOU?

And now you’re going all high and mighty on me with your new “renovation” and your “harkening back to the old days” distressed wood floors and your expanded and excellently priced wine selection and your no-longer-ghetto-with-only-a-selection-of-offensively-dyed-carnations flower shop. I thought this was a good thing, at first, Safeway. I really did. I confess that I have sung your glowing, glorious praises from the rooftops and in person to each and every neighbor with whom I still maintain a good reputation. But you haven’t pulled the wool over THESE beautiful brown eyes! I SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING, and Dave is going to KILL ME if you keep it up. Do you hear me? You will be an ACCESSORY TO MURDER! CEASE AND DESIST!

I understand that you’re simply trying to capitalize on this new one-stop shopping mega-grocery store thing. I get that. But do you know what will happen to me if I cannot resist those little extra displays of goodness that are appearing where the pharmacy used to be? Do you know what my husband will do to me if I bring home one more shiny vase-shaped trinket that he will eventually be forced to place in the attic with all the other lonely shiny vase-shaped trinkets as I have apparently forgotten that our home is merely 1300 square feet and not some gigantic McMansion? And anyway, I am just not sure I am comfortable shopping at a place where there is tantalizing Home Décor available right next to the turkey bacon. Something about that just does not feel right.

And what about the fantastically new and improved Hallmark aisle, huh? I certainly was not prepared to feel the intense pressure that I did to buy three Hallmark Expressions cards so that I could have James Taylor: A Christmas Album for the low, low limited-time price of $7.95. The OLD Safeway would have NEVER afforded me the opportunity for this kind of overindulgence. And yet, here you are, NEW SAFEWAY, with your fancy new marketing ploys, making it impossible for me to get through your fabulous and newly floored aisles without placing handfuls of mindless, ridiculous CRAP into my cart. You had me buying Safeway-brand tissues last night because the BOX WAS CUTE! I don’t even have a cold! I don’t even intend to GET a cold! Even if a sick day meant that I could watch Ellen and A Baby Story and then Oprah and nap in-between them! Ok, ok, so maybe a cold doesn’t sound so bad… but the tissues were UNNECESSARY. Honestly! This is all just so IRRITATING!

Safeway, don’t do this to me. I can’t afford to shop at Harris Teeter. The Giant Food up the road only has one checkout girl and she is of a very frightening Goth variety. And shopping at Wegmans is like entering some kind of Food Rodeo where people are always grabbing and pushing and acting like the world’s biggest Nor’easter is hitting in roughly 36 seconds and we will all be stranded for DAYS WITHOUT SUSTENANCE.

Please, Safeway, all I ask is that you tone it down just a tad. For me? Pretty please? I just don’t think I can handle these kinds of marital challenges during the holidays. Although now I do have a soulful James Taylor CD that I can crank up to drown out Dave’s screaming. (He’s simply not happy about all that extra cash money I bequeathed you.)

Sincerely yours,

Emily

Note to self: Am not Martha Stewart

Over the weekend I hosted two separate gatherings at our house: a Sunday brunch with my two oldest friends from elementary school and our mothers, and a Sunday dinner/dessert with my in-laws and various other sundry relatives. From the beginning I understood that this would be no minor undertaking, after all, I was currently in possession of only one white tablecloth and should it become soiled between meals then I was to be screwed in what is known as “a royal way.” And that was in addition to the fact that I was to be responsible for FEEDING PEOPLE. Through their MOUTHS. With food that should not only taste good, but have no lingering ill effects afterwards. Difficulty rating: EXTREME.

Saturday morning I woke up at 8am, having half slept off the lingering ill effects of the office Christmas party I had attended the night before (and in case you were wondering, yes, I failed to win Employee of the Year for the second straight time, very upsetting) and got straight to work in a very bleary-eyed and yet businesslike manner. The morning’s agenda included the production of one batch of Award-Winning Chocolate Chip Cookies, one Eggnog Cheesecake, one Darn Good Chocolate Cake, one Sausage Breakfast Casserole and one Spicy Mexican Shredded Beef concoction. Unfortunately, around 11am, the Spicy Mexican Shredded Beef smell began to clash hideously with the delightful sugary holiday smells that had once permeated the kitchen, but the damn thing had to simmer for 10 straight hours before I could do anything with it. As a result, we were forced to endure the overpowering smell of the Makeshift Mexican Bakery for the remainder of the day. A feckless mistake that I can’t imagine Martha ever making.

I made the cookies first, and then the chocolate cake, thinking myself quite clever as they both required a preheated oven with the exact same temperature. In between batches I cleaned as much of the house as I could and sent Dave out for as many minute errands as I could think of so that he would not be needlessly Swiffered to death as he sat on the couch. The cookies and cake were flawless and so I decided to take a break from baking and have fun setting a pretty table before moving on to the cheesecake. So I did, and it turned out nicely, and I was thinking, in a very bad punny way, how this whole entertaining thing was a friggin’ piece of cake. Behold!

 

After the table had been set, photographed and gloated over, I hunkered down to begin the cheesecake. Dave was about to make a run to the liquor store, but I begged him to stay until I had the cheesecake filling under control, as it was to require the use of a food processor and I wasn’t so sure that I was going to be able to effectively substitute a blender to do a food processor’s work. He patted me patronizingly on the head and told me I would be fine and then he headed out the door as fast as he could as his eyes were beginning to water from the abundant overuse of Pledge on every wood and wood laminate surface we own. And he was right, making the filling in the blender was easy, in no time at all it got all smooth and lump-free just like the recipe said it would. The only thing left to do was to pour the filling into the pie tin and bake away.

Except.

Except that when I lifted the full pitcher off of the blender base, THE BOTTOM FELL OUT, and TWO QUARTS of Eggnog Cheesecake filling goo poured ALL OVER THE COUNTER AND FLOOR in an exceptionally and disastrously un-Martha-like way.

I stood there, horrified, for probably 30 seconds, wondering alternately if I should call Dave up and ask him to pick up three more blocks of cream cheese on his way home from the store or just cry. Instead, I simply grabbed a spatula from the drawer and scraped everything I could get off the counter right into the pie plate. When the spatula method proved to be a bit slow-going, I simply abandoned it and scooped everything I could up with my hands and dumped it into the pie plate. And then I sighed dramatically.

 

And THEN I baked it up nice and even, and my in-laws gobbled it up with what looked like glee not 24 hours later. Brilliant!

What, you were thinking I’d throw it OUT?

So overall the weekend was a success, even though on Monday morning this old, creaky, 27-year-old body of mine felt like it had been bench pressing 675 pounds for six straight hours and then got run over by a truck but lived. As it turns out, entertaining is completely overrated and entirely too much work, regardless of how many white tablecloths you own.

Just Answer It

About an hour ago, my work extension rang and the Caller ID indicated that the call was coming from our house. I burst out laughing when I saw it; it was Dave calling to inform me that he would be working from home for a few hours this afternoon.

* * *

At some point last year, Dave and I started thinking that maybe our household should be abiding by some kind of budget. In theory, this sounded like a brilliant, responsible, ADULT kind of idea, which is exactly the kind of idea we actually DON’T have all that often. Of course, it took about six weeks and 15,000 throw-down arguments to figure out exactly what the word “budget” meant to each of us. Dave just didn't seem to understand that if I stopped paying regular visits to Ann Taylor, it would totally hurt her feelings.

So we switched from cable to satellite TV despite my angry protests that I would have to memorize the locations of my favorite channels all over again. We sold our old cars to get newer, more reliable models with less maintenance. I tragically broke up with Ann. We started stealing our neighbor’s wireless Internet connection. I began cutting coupons out of the Sunday paper that I could never quite bring myself to use. And then we switched to a cheaper phone provider.

A few weeks passed and I began to notice that no matter when I called someone on our landline, they never answered. Parents, friends, relatives, my office, it didn’t matter. No one was answering when I called and I was starting to feel insulted and impotent. And like maybe I hadn't been monitoring my underarms as religiously as I should. Then one day, my mother called and after we hung up, I called her right back. NOTHING. I knew she was there, she’d just hung up the phone! So I called again and let it ring until voicemail picked up.

And then I did it again.

And again.

And again.

Finally, on the sixth call, TWENTY-FOUR RINGS LATER, she picked up, sounding completely exasperated.

“Hello?”

“Mom!” I yelled. “What the heck is going on? I’ve called you like six times in a row. Why are you not picking up the phone?”

She sounded surprised, which in turn, surprised ME.

“Emily?” she asked. “This is you? Then… well, why does the Caller ID say, ‘Just Answer It’?”

I had no idea, but I had a bit of an inkling who did. We hung up and I got the culprit on the phone so I could ask him personally.

“Oh,” Dave replied when I asked. “Well, when I signed up with the new service, they asked ME what I wanted the Caller ID to say. I put ‘Just Answer It.’ I didn’t think they’d actually DO it.”

* * *

I don’t get the opportunity to see that pop up on the Caller ID very often, but when it does, I have to laugh thinking of all the people who thought if they answered the phone when we called that there would be some horrible salesperson on the other end just itching for the opportunity to ask them for a donation to the police department or to participate in a survey about funding allocation or to offer them a lower finance rate on their second mortgage. And then I cry a little, because dear Lord, it must be depressing to be a telemarketer.

Lumpy

Early last week, as I was leaning against the counter in the bathroom, I discovered a large, tender lump on the right side of my groin. Specifically—and I tell you this to prevent you from spending any precious time wondering if perhaps the thing was growing somewhere VERY VERY PRIVATE—the lump had materialized right where my leg meets up with the thorax-ish part of my body. A panicked consultation with Dr. Google, my physician of choice, revealed that these were my inguinal lymph nodes and that they could be distended for any number of reasons, reasons that ranged from a minor toe infection to mono to full-blown AIDS. You can imagine how hard it was to not find this vast range of options tremendously comforting.

I goaded Dr. Google into giving up a little more information and found a recommendation from a reputable website that said I should only feel obliged to seek medical advice if the lump’s groin vacation lasted more than a month, or possibly, if the lump invited any of his lymph node buddies into town to join in the party. Then—and only then—would I need the assistance of a medical professional to evict them.

A couple of days passed. I got cantankerous with Dave on numerous occasions for bumping into my painful personal area in the kitchen or passing in the hallway or during the night, but I was more than willing to put my trust in the free online advice I had acquired so I didn’t think much else of it. But then another painful lump appeared in my neck and Dave started to worry, and my mom started to worry, and so I figured I might as well go to the doctor. Not because it would put them both at ease or make the problem go away, but instead because now it was Friday and I could probably time the appointment just late enough in the day that I could enjoy a couple of hours of daylight with the dog instead of dragging myself back to work when the appointment was over.

Unfortunately, an appointment is never quite cut and dry with me. The family practice office I attend is notorious for consistently being stumped when I present with any kind of situation. This time was no different, except that the stumped doctor I saw was male, rather attractive and EXACTLY MY AGE. It was painful enough to have to say “I am suffering from a painful lump in my groin” to him, but then I think we were both ready to die of mutual embarrassment when he was forced to declare that I should find myself free of any “genital infection.”

Apparently, the second lump that appeared in my neck was evidence that there was no such infection raging anywhere inside of me or my genitals. And then—HONEST TO GOD and against his better bedside manner judgment—he asked me if I’d been kissing any teenagers so he could rule out mono. So two hours, a blood draw and a $30 copay later, the only thing they could tell me was to come back in a week if the lumps were still there. A week later (today, in fact), they’ve completely disappeared.

That’s right. Disappeared. Poof! JUST LIKE DR. GOOGLE ADVISED, and without the copay. Right now, there’s nothing I’d love more than to give a big old sloppy kiss to the Internet to show my gratitude.

Unless, of course, the Internet's a teenager.

How lovely are your branches!

This weekend Dave and I acquired our Christmas tree.

On Saturday, we wandered around our chosen tree lot, discussing specimens and making valiant efforts to be painfully polite to one another so that we might avoid any kind of public tree squabble. This despite the fact that one of us (not me) was enthusiastically suggesting we take home a tree that looked like it had just been beaten unconscious with an ugly stick.

After about 25 minutes of perusing, we stumbled across OUR TREE. I couldn’t resist welcoming it into our family BEFORE we sentenced it to a slow, laborious, needle-dropping death in our living room.

And then, because this was not some kind of full-service operation, we had to SAW IT DOWN. With our bare hands. (Well, and a saw, obviously. Though it was a HAND SAW.) Actually, Dave sawed while I tried to keep Hambone from anointing other people’s chosen trees with a steaming golden arc of pee. And so Dave sawed. And sawed. And sawed some more. Despite Dave’s insistence, however, I was not for one second going to believe that our tree was any more unwieldy to cut down than anyone else’s. After all, I told him, there were ITTY BITTY CHILDREN dragging around bigger trees than ours! Finally, after what seemed like forever, Dave motioned to me that it was time for my big speaking part in our Christmas Tree Theatre Production, which was to yell “TIMBER!” at the top of my lungs when it toppled over. Except that I had really and truly lost interest in the tree-cutting procedure at this point and was blabbing away on the phone instead. This made Dave a little bit angry.

Other things that made Dave a little bit angry include: the photos I took of him cutting down the tree, also the photo I took of him carrying the tree, also the laughing I did when he tripped over a rock while carrying the tree, also the other laughing I did when he got up off the ground with sap and mud all over him and also the other OTHER laughing I did when we got the tree home and it would not even BEGIN to fit inside our tree stand because the trunk was roughly the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s right arm. In some kind of alternate universe twist of fate, it turns out Dave was right about our unwieldy tree after all, so then I stopped laughing.

We decorated it the next day: I did most of the grunt work while Dave played the role of Ornament Nazi and refused to grant high-level tree clearance to several ornaments that I found perfectly inoffensive. Ornaments that passed clearance without any kind of interference from the Ornament Nazi included a talking Homer Simpson decoration, a family of cloth mice, a gigantic and downright hideous glass penguin that was appointed Tree Topper and anything with said Ornament Nazi’s photo on it. Denied ornaments included one creepy looking Snowbaby (though nothing quite as creepy as this), anything remotely sentimental and any ornament missing a hook with which to hang it. Never mind that there were roughly 80,000 hooks at the bottom of the storage box. The Ornament Nazi had exactly zero time or patience to be dealing with that kind of low-level administrative task.

The tree and the rest of our house are now decorated and brimming with Christmas cheer. And I’m sure Dave will join me in brimming with cheer, too. That is, as soon as his sawing arm stops aching.

Using the blog for evil

Emily: Our camera sucks. I push the stupid button and by the time it takes the picture the dog's already out of the frame. But this next one turned out. And it makes you look like Sean Penn.

Dave: Let me see that! [disappointed] Oh. No it doesn't.

Emily: Yes, yes it does! Look again!

Dave: I guess it DOES kind of make me look like Sean Penn. Unfortunately, Emily, I look like the Sean Penn from "I Am Sam." THAT'S JUST GREAT.