The Time for Dreaming

We don’t overdo Christmas decorations here, but I deeply appreciate people who do. And I’ve always wondered…

Isn’t January tougher to deal with afterward? Do you decorate so lavishly to light up your outside, or to light up your inside? And when you have to take down all of those lights and displays, do you find your life…blander? Like a match has just suddenly been extinguished? How do you get that light back?

I’ve actually always wondered about this. Too much decorating has always seemed dangerous to me.

The magic of Christmas is a tough act to follow, but I’ve always believed that when it’s over, January is tough enough stand on its own with its own gray majesty. I decorate modestly so that when I take my Christmas decorations down on January 2, the only thing that greets me is the raw bleakness of January.

January is a playground, when the Earth recedes, ceases to be the main event, and lets us have our way with it. A month for skimming down snow-covered mountains, wandering down deserted hiking trails, bip-bopping into warm coffee houses, and finally being freed from the noise and pretentiousness of summer.

Any gadfly can appreciate summer. It takes a true philosopher to appreciate January.

It has been said that January is the month for dreaming. 2022 will go down on record as the most important year of my life, and I get all lit up inside when I think about the things that are going to reveal themselves through those twelve months. My life as it is now will not be even vaguely familiar when 2022 is through.

And no amount of Christmas lights can compete with that.

Some Droppings

“Mom, did you buy a goose?”

Strange sentiment from my oldest son, but not one that is altogether strange in my house. Not that we talk about geese that much, but seriously, anything goes ‘round these parts.

After inquiring, he led me to the back mechanical/mud room, and pointed out piles of what looked like fairly fresh goose feces all over the floor and the stairs.

Animal fucking feces?

Already cranky from having dropped a 45-pound plate on my big toe at the gym earlier that morning, this was the last straw. With my head throbbing, which I must admit was a nice distraction from my foot, I knew being the adult that I had to tackle this problem. I mean, there were strange animal feces inside my house. So I did what any self-respecting adult would do.

I turned on a cringey Christmas movie and crawled under a blanket. When I emerged 16 hours later, I was better able to think, and we have since then come up with a few theories:

A goose found its way into the house. This has been debated and disproven.

After inhaling Chipotle, one of my sons’ friends made a left into the mechanical room instead of a right into the bathroom. Unlikely.

Someone pissed at me entered my house, locked his small dog in my mechanical room, and let him go to town. I held out for this one, but I was voted down.

There is a hole in my crawl space, and a cat got in.

We have settled on this last as the most likely, and as I write this early Monday morning (you’re all asleep), my day will now include a call to the local plumbers.

I love my plumbers. They know who they are. They come through for me over and over, and other than my sons, my most intimate relationships these past four years have been with my plumbers and American Express. They have seen me through everything.

But I digress.

Before I leave you, here’s a quick story:

Last week I was writing in the pre-dawn hours, same as now, and I heard a hamper drop in the back room. A hamper dropping at 5:00 a.m. for no reason in an empty house is not as startling as you would think, as we’re used to that stuff here. Things go bump and thump in the night all the time in my house.

So I paid it no mind. Until later in the day after the Feces Discovery. Now I get it.

Whatever feced all over my mechanical room must have gotten out of the mechanical room, bumped into a hamper, startled itself, and ran back in. Which is good.

Because if I was writing at 5:00 a.m. and saw an animal run across my floor, that would have been the end of me. The end.

I’ll keep you updated. Have a great Monday.

Cranksgiving

(This is my last post for the week, see you on Monday. I will also be away for the Christmas holidays, so there will be no posts from the 25th to the 1st either).

Did you know that Cranksgiving is actually a thing around the country? Something about a scavenger hunt, a food drive, and a bike ride. Sounds like a blast. I love people who do good around the holidays, especially when they’re not me.

So in honor of Cranksgiving, here are some things I am NOT grateful for, dagnabbit:

Laundry. All the boys are back, and so is their laundry. I wish there was a laundry chute to hell I could throw it all down. NO, I don’t do their laundry, but it still takes up so much space in my back room. And their clothes are all so threadbare, what have they done with all of the clothes I’ve bought them for twenty years? The nice button-downs, the khakis, the crisp long-sleeved t-shirts? Their laundry looks like laundry for the cast of “The Little Rascals.”

Trashed Kitchen. Breakfast sandwiches, frozen pizzas, pots of pasta, hard-boiled eggs, lasagna, cold-cut sandwiches, pork products, cheese nachos, takeout, bowls of cereal, winter salads. We’re no sooner cleaning up from breakfast when someone is ready for lunch, and then it’s time for me to cook dinner or for Thanksgiving. Jeez Louise.

Coats and Shoes. Carhartt jackets, varsity lettermen jackets, golf windbreakers, hoodies, foul weather gear. Slip-ons, sneakers, golf shoes, sneakers, Uggs, sneakers, slippers, Uggs. My house is a sea of coats and shoes this time of year, there is just no controlling it.

Papers. Papers to read, papers to grade, just a sea of papers. And that’s not even counting emails. When you’re a teacher, there is always a requisite pile of papers to get through before you can even THINK of beginning to enjoy the holidays. It was my favorite part of my 23-minute retirement, not having papers to grade. Aaaaaaand, here I am again.

People who talk about watching holiday calories. Can’t you just shut up and let the country enjoy a day of gluttony? You’re a pain in the ass, and no one cares about the calories in dark meat, or about how many miles you ran Thanksgiving morning. Oh, you need to run after Thanksgiving dinner to burn off your calories? Great, lace up and fuck off.

That’s it for me. Enjoy yourselves, especially my fellow Cranks.

Ready to Wear

Hey guys, whatcha wearing for Thanksgiving Day dinner? Picked an outfit yet?

Eighty percent of men just spit out their coffee.

Pants. A shirt. Shoes. End of dilemma for men. For women, choosing an outfit for Thanksgiving Day dinner requires more effort. Don’t reach for jeans or shapeless sweaters, ladies, use the day to wear something pretty.

Here are some choices from one of my favorite designers, BCBG. BCBG knows The Dress. They know what we like, and what we look good in, so trust them. And while it’s too late to order anything from them in time for Turkey Day, you can see what you already have in your closet and try and recreate it.

A floral shirtdress. This dress earned me a half dozen compliments last week. The Winston Button-Down Mini-Dress is on sale, too.

A halter top and black pants. You can’t go wrong with a halter top and black pants. This emerald green Evie halter top is appropriate for older women, and looks great with all skin tones.

Peplum top and leather leggings. Little ooh-la-la here, but this two-toned rib knit jewel toned peplum top with black leggings will match the cranberry sauce, but you’ll look better. And sidenote: don’t ruin the outfit with ugly shoes. Wear sleek black shooties to keep the black monotone look consistent.

Long-necked crew shirt with leather skirt. This blue crew is a no-brainer, but if you’re 50+ ladies, please note: be careful with the leather skirt. It’s a look women our age can screw up if we’re not careful. Make sure the skirt hits the top of the knee or mid-calf, none of this mini-skirt stuff. Make sure it’s sleek and sophisticated, not tight and trashy.

Wrap and jeans. If you want to just be comfy, and you refuse to leave your jeans behind, at least make it this look: The hooded wrap with high-waisted jeans will keep you snuggy all day, and you’ll even be able to play in the post-feast touch football game without having to change.

Structured blazer. My first choice for any event, a structured blazer can go over ANYTHING. Gold lame tights, pencil skirt, jeans, leggings, it all works.

Black dress. Nothing more needs to be said. Black dresses work ubiquitously, and the Lara Wrap Vest Dress is one of my favorites.

Grayturday

I went to Nordstrom on Gray Saturday.

Gray Saturday, or “Grayturday” to shopping aficionados, is the Saturday before Thanksgiving. Shoppers who shop on Gray Saturday are well-known for being too chicken to shop on Black Friday, and insist on paying full price so as to get the best stock before the lunatics hit the stores a week later. Stores owe us a debt, because we get them into the “gray” before they get into the “black” after Thanksgiving.

They’re welcome

So literally and semantically speaking, Grayturday is grayter than Black Friday, and lives up to its name.

After I grabbed a few items for my boys in men’s wear, I wandered upstairs to women’s fashion. Not really looking for anything specific, I meandered through the aisles. Shapeless dresses, check. Frump wear, check. Natty old lady suits, check. Size zero cocktail dresses, elastic waistband sweatpants, amorphous tent dresses.

Check check check.

There wasn’t even anything to drool over. No jewel-toned body con dresses, no neutral colored dolman sleeve knit blouses with matching skirts, no sharp double-breasted blazers with festive print blouses.

Nothing feminine, nothing body conscious, just…gender neutral sleep wear.

I finished my first circuit of women’s wear in a record time of five minutes, and as I began my second circuit, I started to feel paranoid, like I was being watched.

The mannequins were staring at me. Androgynous, hairless and mostly naked, like Sphynx cats, or those women who take keto too far, they held vigil over the second floor. Some were clothed but wearing shapeless ill-fitting garments falling off of their prepubescent bodies, exposing clavicles and disturbingly dramatic thigh gaps. There was nary a curve to be seen. No breast mounds, no cleavage, no muscles, or fullness, or femininity, or life force.

Just skeletons and zombies, looking in desperate need of a sack of double burgers, truffle fries and extra thick chocolate shakes.

Feeling unnerved, I opted out of a second circuit, and headed to the shoe department. Shoes make everyone happy, and even Sphynx cats can fit into kitten heels. But on the front-facing displays, there were no grownup women’s shoes. No sling-backs. No stilettos. No pumps, ankle booties, wedges, or Mary Janes. None of the shoes that make women feel and look sexy (yes, I said it).

Plenty of Uggs, though, and slippers, and big overstuffed blankets tied with red bows.

More loungewear.

“May I help you?” A lovely young salesgirl smiled at me encouragingly.

“No thanks. I’m headed to lingerie.”

Back up the escalator to the second floor, all the while avoiding the bald zombie gazes, I headed to lingerie, took a deep breath and smiled.

Finally. My world.

Bustiers, bras, garter belts, teddies, baby doll dresses. Lace, silk, thongs, boy shorts. Lavender, rose, emerald green, purples, even a splash of canary yellow.

I had reached my nirvana.

After I splurged on some beautiful lingerie, I descended the escalator and felt the mannequins staring at me combatively. I opened up my Nordstrom bag, pulled out a black bustier, and waved it in front of their faces.

Suck on that, skinny bitches.

Tubs

Everything in my body and soul rebels at the thought of having to decorate for Christmas next week.

I don’t want to take my gourds off my mantel. I don’t want to store away my pumpkin brulee candles, or my fall door wreath, or the “May Your Pumpkins Always Be Plump” sign in the powder room. I like coming downstairs in the morning and seeing my orange and beige mantel decorations, the pinecone centerpiece on my dining room table, and my scarecrow kitchen hand towels. I’m not done looking at them yet, they still bring me so much joy.

Drat. I hate storing fall away for a whole year, we get so little of it in Jersey as it is.

But the crazy “We might as well get the decorations up now while it’s warm” people are out in full-force, and I have to agree with them. Getting Christmas decorations up and over with is the only way to go. And as many mothers know, especially single mothers, getting your kids to bring down those Christmas decorations out of the attic over Thanksgiving weekend is key to Christmas decorating success.  

Tubs. Freaking tubs. So. Many. Freaking. Tubs.

My boys bring my red and green Christmas tubs down in an organized fashion on Black Friday. I play Christmas music to put them in the spirit, and try to have something delicious bubbling in the crockpot, to make the day as festive as possible. The older they get the busier they are, so finding time when all three are home gets tougher every year. Luckily the Friday after Thanksgiving seems to be ubiquitous in its generosity of time, and if they work quickly, the process barely takes an hour.

For Tub Removal Day, each boy has a role, and who does what switches from year to year. The first boy is the Surveyor. The Surveyor stands in the attic and assesses what tubs need to come down and which ones don’t. The Surveyor has to make sure he doesn’t step through the floor, so the position comes with a high degree of authority and surefootedness. The Surveyor gets to say arrogant things like, “I’m in charge, just do your menial job,” and “Don’t question me, just do as I ask,” and, “Because I said so” without fearing brotherly recrimination. The Surveyor slides the tubs down to the Accepter, who waits at the bottom of the steps.

The Accepter, while being the easiest job of the three, is fraught with danger because very heavy tubs are being slid towards his face. But this is a popular job, because all The Accepter has to do is accept the hand-off from the Surveyor and try not to get his nose broken. As the Surveyor slides the plastic tub down the attic steps toward The Acceptor, The Surveyor might say something along the lines of, “This is a heavy one,” or “Light one here, must be the stockings,” or “Yo, grab this one from the base.” The Acceptor accepts the tubs, says some version of “Got it” with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and hands them off to the third boy, the Runner.

The job of the Runner is the most physically demanding, as he has to take each tub down the stairs and deposit it on the living room floor. The Runner’s annual goal is to bring the tubs down as quickly as possible so that he can run back up the stairs and feign boredom by looking at his phone. The Runner likes to say things like, “I’m back, you guys are so slow,” and “Could we move this along, some of us have lives,” and “What’s next, let’s go, let’s go, let’s gooooooo!” The Runner had for many years been my youngest, as his big brothers convinced him when he was a small child that The Runner role was “the coolest,” and he should do it because he was “the fastest.” Circa his middle-school years he was on to them, and he stopped “running.”

Many years I find it ironic that my oldest son chooses to be The Surveyor, my middle son chooses The Acceptor, and my youngest agrees to be The Runner. It’s almost like the chronological pecking order naturally distributes itself in the actual process.

Once the tubs are down, the responsibility falls to The Organizer, aka Mom, to place all of the  decorations in the annual spot, and then find somewhere to store the tubs. Usually that “somewhere” is the mechanical room, which is where the tubs stay until the first week of January, when the process starts all over again, only this time in reverse.

Just like life.

Me Being Me

I voice texted myself a writing idea while I was driving yesterday, and when the text sound came through, I got all excited

“Ooh, who’s texting me?”

Oh, it’s me.

I texted myself a Thanksgiving recipe from Instagram, and when the text sound came through, I got all excited.

“Ooh, who’s texting me?”

Oh, it’s me.

I screenshotted myself a picture of a label on a dress I liked in a store, so as to look it up when I got home. When the text sound came through, I got all excited.

“Ooh, who’s texting me?”

Oh, it’s me.

I fall for this Every. Single. Time. My stupidity is consistent.

I went into the lounge at school on Tuesday to use the ladies’ room, and I put my messenger bag in the sink while I freshened up. The motion-sensored faucet turned on and soaked everything in my bag, including a pile of student papers.

Shit!

Angrily, I grabbed my bag out, and tried my best to dry the stack of essays and my lunch. Dabbing at my bag, I gathered myself and took a deep breath, getting ready to apply lipstick and brush my hair. I placed my messenger bag into the sink to look for my lipstick and my brush, and the automatic faucet turned on and soaked everything in the bag, including a pile of student papers. Again.

Shit!

This is my favorite time of year, so I like to sit outside on campus between classes and enjoy the brisk weather and the antics of the students. Two weeks ago, as I sat at a table in the middle of the quad, eating my yogurt and listening to music, I was attacked by bees who were determined to share my Stonybrook peach yogurt. Even when I finished the yogurt and moved the container and the bag to the trash can, they continued to plague me. The smell, I suppose, clung to me.

Last week, I sat at a table in the middle of the quad eating a raspberry scone. I was attacked by bees who were determined to share my scone. Even when I finished the scone and moved the bag to the trash can, they continued to plague me. The smell, I suppose, clung to me.

On Tuesday, I sat at a table in the middle of the quad drinking a protein shake, and I was attacked by bees who were determined to share my shake. Even when I finished the shake and moved the bag to the trash can, they continued to plague me. The smell, I suppose, clung to me.

This post had no point. Just a little bit of me being me.

Gotta Run

I was looking through an old Moleskin notebook yesterday, and some old notes made me laugh out loud.

I had taken notes down when I was still in the dating scene, and by “dating scene,” I mean of course nonsensical, adolescent messaging and predictable excruciating suffering through days of middle-school conversations until I finally got so tired of the guy that I ended all communication with him altogether.

Good times.

Anyway, these notes are titled “What They Really Mean,” and refer, obviously, to the true meaning behind the things men say on dating apps. There’s only a few, but enjoy.

When he says,

“I love to travel.”

He means:

“I went to Branson once.”

If he says,

“I played competitive sports in high school and college.”

He means:

“My junior high team won the Dodgeball competition three years running.”

When he says,

“After church I was out all day getting stuff done.”

He means,

“I watched four football games and bid for baseball cards on eBay.”

If he says,

“Hey, sorry I forgot to text you this morning.”

He means,

“I’m playing hard to get.”

If he says,

“I love petite women.”

He means,

“I’m 5’4, but willing to wear lifts.”

If he says,

“Do you use a cleaning service?”

He means,

“Do you want to support me in my old age?”

If he says (and this is a real one, I swear. I actually met this guy in person, and he was the creepiest human being I have ever met in my life)

“I own a sporting goods store, and do you believe a guy came in one day wearing a leather bondage mask?”

He means,

“What is your stance on S&M?”

If he says,

“Hey, what’re you up to today? I have a ton of work to do.”

He means,

“I’m unemployed, and waiting to collect Social Security.”

And when I say,

“I gotta run.”

I mean it.

Creamed Corn

“Can you pick me up two cans of creamed corn on your way home?”

My son met this question with his trademark evasive blank stare, a stare all three of my boys have perfected, and one they use when they want to get out of doing something. It indicates the following:

What part of this can I pretend to not understand? The ‘pick up’ part? The ‘creamed corn’ part? Or the ‘on the way home’ part?”

He went with the “creamed corn” part.

“Creamed corn? What the hell is creamed corn?” His face registered revulsion, as if I had asked him to pick me up creamed innards.

I sighed. “It’s corn, smushed, you know, with cream in it.”

He continued to make that face. It’s the same face he makes when pulls open the fridge and the smell of hard-boiled eggs hits him. And it’s the same face that all of my boys use when they have to plunge the toilet, do yard work, or deal with summer trash can juice.

“Smushed corn with cream? What do you need that for?” Still with the face.

“Well, I want to make corn chowder, and this particular recipe calls for creamed corn. Does it matter what I need it for? I just need it. Can you run into the store for me on your way home or not?”

He considered his response, and furrowed his brow.

“I guess, but I mean, where would one find creamed corn if one were to look in the supermarket?”

I matched his circular logic. “One would find it in the canned vegetable section.”

He nodded sagely.

“I see. But it calls to mind a certain question- why don’t you just cream your own corn?”

Boys do this, you see. They lead you on a path of linguistical and syntactical nonsense until you forget what it was you even asked them. I knew that by the time I had not only explained to him but also justified the errand, I could plant a corn field in my front yard, and harvest corn myself.

But I was determined to win this one.

“Cream my own corn? Why would I cream my own corn when others will cream it for me?”

He considered that.

“Good question. Why don’t you just use canned corn, and smush it here?”

“I don’t have canned corn here. I don’t have any corn. If I had corn, even frozen corn, I wouldn’t ask you to stop for me.”

“Yes,” he said, grabbing his keys and his wallet. “I see your dilemma.”

I watched him. “So are you getting it for me or not?”

He smiled generously. “Sure, I’d be happy to, but I’m not coming home until late. I mean, can you wait to make your soup until 2 a.m.?”

He won.

“No, never mind then. I’ll go out and get it myself.”

He brightened. “Yeah, sorry Mom, you know I would have been happy to do it.”

Yeah, right.

Open Letter to a Cart Wanker

Dear Wanker:

Hey, I’m not here to preach. It’s just that I pride myself on returning carts to the cart corrals in parking lots. It’s such a small and easy thing one can do for humanity. When you consider global warming, oil spills, political vitriol and the possible extinction of the vaquita and the amur leopard, replacing a cart in the cart corral isn’t that big of an inconvenience.

But that’s just me.

I saw you at Target, you know. Real early, about 8:15 a.m., only five cars in the parking lot on Thursday morning. Remember that day? There was a storm rolling through, and the wind was cranking. I saw you leave Target, unload your cart, get into your car and leave.  

You saw me. I know you saw me. And I know you saw that cart whip itself across the parking lot into that red Accord. And then you left.

Which is when you officially became a wanker of the nth degree.

You must have also realized that the Accord most likely belonged to an employee When I went into Target, I was the only customer. So it stands to reason that that employee is going to work a long day, walk through the parking lot, and face a dinged car door.

After you sped away, I moved the cart off the Accord and placed the cart in the corral. People like me are always correcting the mistakes of people like you. I felt like leaving a note, to apologize to the owner of the Accord for you being such a wanker, but why should I apologize for you, too?

Must we balanced people always apologize for the existence of wankers?

Returning a cart to a corral, especially on a windy day, is not just about returning a cart to a corral. It’s not even just about consideration. It’s so much deeper than that, in a place that if you search real hard, deep down in your soul, you meet the person you are.

Can returning a cart to the cart corral really be that philosophical? Can it really be a testimonial of one’s relationship with the Universe?

Yes, I think it can. Because when you return a cart to the cart corral, you are accepting the moment. No matter how rushed you are, no matter what the weather is, you are embracing a moment that puts you in sync with the Universe. You are making the choice to do the right thing. To be a good person.

And that’s no small thing.

So I exhort you to think next time about your choices. Because one day, it might your car’s exterior meeting a wheeled projectile.

You would deserve it. Wanker.