The Pros and Cons of purchasing a live tree:
Pros:
1) Smells of Christmas. Is there anything better than waking up in the morning and smelling the glorious aroma of pine wafting through the house? And it's even better knowing that it is not a Glade air-freshener that you plugged into the wall last night, but the actual scent of Christmas, emanating from a living thing which now resides in your living room, garbed in all the tinsel and ornaments of the season.
2) Just feels right. There is something traditional and homey about picking out a tree, bringing it home and inducting it into the family for a few wonderful, holiday-spirit filled weeks.
Well, that's just about it for the pros...
Cons:
1) You have to trim it. If you don't trim the tree, it will not look pretty, it will look like, well, a tree, with fingery branches and uneven needles.
2) Bald spots. Unlike fake trees which are manufactured to have even branch distribution, real trees, like real people, can sometimes acquire bald spots. And when I say sometimes, I mean all the time. Pine-pattern baldness is a rising epidemic in American populations of Pine, Douglas Fir and Spruce.
3) You have to water it. Fake trees are a lot less like pets and a lot more like, well, Christmas decorations. So keep that in mind when making the decision to buy a tree next Christmas.
4) It sheds. Also like a pet. Better hope you got some extra vacuum bags in your stocking from Santa this year. You're going to need them.
5) Ridiculously short life span. Even with the proper amount of watering, you cannot reasonably expect a live tree to stay live for more than a month after being decapitated. So, unlike the rest of us normal Americans, you will probably be putting up your Christmas tree the week before Christmas which means that you will not only look like a Scrooge but will probably feel like one as well.
6) Sap. It's going to get on your hands when you bring the tree into the house. It's going to get on your ornaments when you're decorating the tree. It's going to get on your carpet while the tree is sitting patiently, awaiting Christmas. It's going to get on your hands when you take the tree out of the house.
7) Nasty Surprises. When I say nasty, I do mean nasty. Particularly here in Florida where it is warm enough in the winter for little critters to live quite comfortably in those branches. Time for a flashback! Everyone, close your eyes and imagine with me... Actually, don't close your eyes, then you wouldn't be able to read the flashback. Okay, here we go:
As you've probably guessed, this year my family bought a live tree. When we were bringing it into the house, we found a snake skin in tree. We laughed nervously and tossed it into the grass. That should have been our sign. Instead, we took the tree inside and set it up. So, after a while the tree died, having been neglected in the watering department, and it was looking pretty sad by Christmas time. The day after Christmas we had decided to take down the tree and throw it out. Before we could do so, I had to put the opened gifts away, as they were still somewhat strewn across the living room floor. While picking up, I noticed a baby praying mantis. I jumped a little, more startled than frightened, and asked my younger sister to rescue the small, twiggy thing and take it outside. We started wondering how it had even gotten inside. Emma suggested that perhaps there had been an egg sac in the Christmas tree and then, simultaneously, almost in slow motion, we all looked up. All over the wall and the ceiling, at least fifty of these creepy little bugs. And who knows how many were still in the tree! Now the quest to get the tree out of the house was even more urgent. Luckily, with the help of a broom, a vacuum, and, on the part of my environmentally aware younger sister, a small plastic cup, our house is now praying mantis free, but it was still a very disturbing hour and a half.
Let this be a lesson: Do not buy a live tree, particularly if you are a Floridian. Not only is it a huge hassle, but hideous things can happen.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Men Everywhere
So, I promised everyone that I would post something funny here after yesterday's post. At first I was nervous. How am I going to come up with something hilarious off the top of my head??? I'm not a stand up comedian!
Well, fortunately for me, and for you, I don't have to come up with my own material because people are throwing it at me in the streets.
Point in case: I walked to the UPS store today because I needed to check my mail. Sadly, there was nothing in my little U-Box, so I was leaving, feeling depressed, when I overheard the following conversation between a young couple:
Girl: "You remember what I was wearing Friday night at the club?"
Boy: "...... uh...... yeah, yeah. I remember."
Girl: *skeptical* "Well, then what was I wearing?"
Boy: "Uh.... you know, that, that one dress. Looked real good on you, babe."
Girl: "You don't remember!"
Boy: "No, no, I do. Yo ass looked real nice."
Girl: "So, you remember what my butt looked like but you can't think what color my dress was? Why are you never paying attention?!?"
That poor guy. This particular couple was black, but that's not really important, because right now, millions of couples from every ethnicity, culture, country and generation are having this conversation. Pure and simple, ladies: men everywhere are drawing a blank on what their girlfriend wore last Friday night.
It's because we have too many clothes. They can't keep track of all of that, and if they can, they do it somewhere deep in their subconscious, not easily recalled at the drop of a pin. So don't hate on your guy if he can't tell you the shade of magenta of the blouse that you wore on your first date five months ago; their brains just work differently.
That being said, I would like to make an exception: if the guy in question happens to be gay, chances are he remembers exactly what shade of magenta you were wearing and why it didn't work with the lipstick you'd chosen.
Boy 1: "Do you remember what I was wearing Friday night at the club?"
Boy 2: "Yes, I remember what you were wearing. And I remember those shoes you were wearing, too." *shakes head* "Unh-uh."
Well, fortunately for me, and for you, I don't have to come up with my own material because people are throwing it at me in the streets.
Point in case: I walked to the UPS store today because I needed to check my mail. Sadly, there was nothing in my little U-Box, so I was leaving, feeling depressed, when I overheard the following conversation between a young couple:
Girl: "You remember what I was wearing Friday night at the club?"
Boy: "...... uh...... yeah, yeah. I remember."
Girl: *skeptical* "Well, then what was I wearing?"
Boy: "Uh.... you know, that, that one dress. Looked real good on you, babe."
Girl: "You don't remember!"
Boy: "No, no, I do. Yo ass looked real nice."
Girl: "So, you remember what my butt looked like but you can't think what color my dress was? Why are you never paying attention?!?"
That poor guy. This particular couple was black, but that's not really important, because right now, millions of couples from every ethnicity, culture, country and generation are having this conversation. Pure and simple, ladies: men everywhere are drawing a blank on what their girlfriend wore last Friday night.
It's because we have too many clothes. They can't keep track of all of that, and if they can, they do it somewhere deep in their subconscious, not easily recalled at the drop of a pin. So don't hate on your guy if he can't tell you the shade of magenta of the blouse that you wore on your first date five months ago; their brains just work differently.
That being said, I would like to make an exception: if the guy in question happens to be gay, chances are he remembers exactly what shade of magenta you were wearing and why it didn't work with the lipstick you'd chosen.
Boy 1: "Do you remember what I was wearing Friday night at the club?"
Boy 2: "Yes, I remember what you were wearing. And I remember those shoes you were wearing, too." *shakes head* "Unh-uh."
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Tears are for the Living
Editor's Note: I'm just warning you now, this post isn't funny. If that's what you came here for and you think you'll be disappointed, come back later, I'm sure I'll have something humorous for you.
Last night I was feeling a little bit lost and a little bit (lot a bit) sad. I was confused and angry and looking for some sort of answer, something to make sense. Led by this conglomeration of emotion, I wound up flipping through the Bible at an obscenely early hour in the morning, hoping that some passage would jump out at me and suddenly shine a light on everything.
After a few minutes of frustrated page turning, I decided to just settle in, read a few stories and go to sleep, so I turned to John. I had just started reading the story of Lazarus (Chapter 11), the one who was raised from the dead, and instead of feeling happy, like I normally do when reading that story, I became angry. Jesus raised this man from the dead. He can work miracles, so why Lazarus and not my Dad? I'm not saying that I was expecting Him to raise the dead for me, but is a little bit (lot a bit) of healing too much to ask?
Still frustrated, I kept reading. Both Mary and Martha come to Jesus and say "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." I found myself thinking, "Lord, if you had been there... weren't you there?" But shortly after this, John goes on to write,
I read that line and I was suddenly crying.
Don't you see? Jesus did not weep for Lazarus, because He knew that Lazarus would be alive again. He wept for Mary and Martha, the people whose lives had been shattered, whose hearts were torn open, who felt loss and grief and loneliness. He wept for their sorrows, but not for Lazarus.
In the same way, I know that He did not weep for my Daddy, nor does He. He may weep for us, those of us left without a father, a husband, a brother, a son, a friend... in fact, I'm sure He does, and that gives me comfort to know that God feels my sorrow and heartache, to know that He understands. God, too, watched someone that He loved pray for death to end his last struggling breaths; He knows anguish and loss and mourning. So, yes. Jesus wept for Mary and Martha, and He weeps for me and my family whenever we cry out of loneliness or anger or fear. But He did not weep for Lazarus because He was soon to raise him back to life. How much better is it that He was not weeping when my Daddy died because He was raising him not to life on this earth but to eternal life? How could Jesus cry at death when He is so busy welcoming His faithful child into Heaven?
That was my answer.
Having an answer doesn't make the sadness go away, but it makes it easier to bear, knowing that God doesn't watch from afar, unmoved by my tears, but rather sheds tears of His own. It's like a hand to hold in the darkness, or a tissue offered by a good friend. It doesn't make the bad go away, but it's better than suffering alone.
Last night I was feeling a little bit lost and a little bit (lot a bit) sad. I was confused and angry and looking for some sort of answer, something to make sense. Led by this conglomeration of emotion, I wound up flipping through the Bible at an obscenely early hour in the morning, hoping that some passage would jump out at me and suddenly shine a light on everything.
After a few minutes of frustrated page turning, I decided to just settle in, read a few stories and go to sleep, so I turned to John. I had just started reading the story of Lazarus (Chapter 11), the one who was raised from the dead, and instead of feeling happy, like I normally do when reading that story, I became angry. Jesus raised this man from the dead. He can work miracles, so why Lazarus and not my Dad? I'm not saying that I was expecting Him to raise the dead for me, but is a little bit (lot a bit) of healing too much to ask?
Still frustrated, I kept reading. Both Mary and Martha come to Jesus and say "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." I found myself thinking, "Lord, if you had been there... weren't you there?" But shortly after this, John goes on to write,
33. When Jesus saw her [Mary] weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, He was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. 34. "Where have you laid him?" He asked.
"Come and see, Lord" they replied.
35. Jesus wept.
I read that line and I was suddenly crying.
Don't you see? Jesus did not weep for Lazarus, because He knew that Lazarus would be alive again. He wept for Mary and Martha, the people whose lives had been shattered, whose hearts were torn open, who felt loss and grief and loneliness. He wept for their sorrows, but not for Lazarus.
In the same way, I know that He did not weep for my Daddy, nor does He. He may weep for us, those of us left without a father, a husband, a brother, a son, a friend... in fact, I'm sure He does, and that gives me comfort to know that God feels my sorrow and heartache, to know that He understands. God, too, watched someone that He loved pray for death to end his last struggling breaths; He knows anguish and loss and mourning. So, yes. Jesus wept for Mary and Martha, and He weeps for me and my family whenever we cry out of loneliness or anger or fear. But He did not weep for Lazarus because He was soon to raise him back to life. How much better is it that He was not weeping when my Daddy died because He was raising him not to life on this earth but to eternal life? How could Jesus cry at death when He is so busy welcoming His faithful child into Heaven?
That was my answer.
Having an answer doesn't make the sadness go away, but it makes it easier to bear, knowing that God doesn't watch from afar, unmoved by my tears, but rather sheds tears of His own. It's like a hand to hold in the darkness, or a tissue offered by a good friend. It doesn't make the bad go away, but it's better than suffering alone.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Pretty in Pink
Editor's Note: Not a children's story.
The
setting is Plastic Ville, California. Plastic Ville is a tiny, sleepy town full
of tiny, sleepy people with plastic skin and joints that only move forty-five degrees
in either direction. But they are a happy race of people. There is no need for
moveable joints in Plastic Ville. These people know nothing in life other than
their perfectly manicured paper lawns, perfectly buffed plastic cars and perfectly
matching family sets, sold separately, of course.
At
least this is how Plastic Ville looks to an outsider. Their painted smiles fool
us into thinking that there is nothing more to worry about in life than when
the next model of house boat will be released. But for those of us who have
been there, for those of us who know,
well, it’s completely different. Allow me to tell you…
The first
person that you need to know, if you’re going to understand anything about
Plastic Ville and the people who live there, is Barbie. You might think you
know Barbie, but trust me, you know nothing. We’ll start in the summer of 1988,
shortly after the beginning of summer break.
It’s
the summer before senior year and things are looking brighter than ever for
Barbie. With her superior make, allowing for fuller hip rotation, Barbie’s high
kicks land her the role of captain on Plastic High’s cheer squad, meaning she
has a built in set of the prettiest, trendiest, most flexible friends any girl
in Plastic Ville could ask for! But don’t think that stops Barbie from making
friends outside the squad. No, Barbie is pretty and likeable, so she makes
friends wherever she goes. That’s why, at the beginning of summer, 1988, she is
throwing a huge pool party. It’s at this pool party that our blonde, vacant-eyed
heroine meets Ken, the love of her life. She knows that he is the love of her
life because he is perfect and plastic and never stops smiling. Through the summer
they spend a lot of time together and pretty soon everyone in Plastic Ville
knows that they are going to spend the rest of their lives together.
Everyone
except Theresa. You don’t know who that is? Doesn’t anyone remember Barbie’s brunette friend? Well, if you’ve forgotten
about her, you’re not the first one. Resa was Barbie’s first real friend,
before Barbie became popular and pretty, back when everyone was just a little
kid at Plastic Elementary. Now, in high school, Barbie’s grown into her looks:
she has the perfect body, perfect smile, violet eyes, platinum hair with a
perfect perm (remember, this is the eighties) and the charisma that could charm
the slobbering, rabies-filled muzzle off a bloodthirsty hellhound. Barbie’s
parents are also rich, which helps a great deal. Resa, on the other hand, has
brown hair that is curly underneath and straight on top, giving her head
roughly the shape of a yield sign. Her eyes are brown, not impossibly purple
like her friend’s; she wears overalls, has braces and is basically as blind as
a bat, so cue the glasses. But Barbie loves her, or rather Resa worships Barbie
and Barbie loves anyone who loves her.
Now,
why is it that Theresa didn’t think that Barbie and Ken would be together
forever? Jealousy, of course. Before you get upset, please understand that there
is no love triangle here. Not only does Resa not stand a shadow of a chance with
Ken, but Ken doesn’t even love Barbie, so rather than a love triangle, it's really just Barbie’s affection for Ken being deflected by his inability to
love her back and Resa’s affection for Ken being deflected by her affection for
Barbie and by her own crippling timidity.
Barbie is not blissfully unaware of
her boyfriend’s lack of reciprocation; she merely decides not to let it ruin
her senior year. Besides, he’s still a wonderful companion! They like all of
the same things and no one gives a better opinion when shopping. What more could
a girl want than a boyfriend who will not only go to the mall with her but
happily stay there long after she’s ready to go home?
As for
Ken, poor misguided Ken… Well, he is trying. Things are going well for Plastic
High’s class of ’89. Resa is doing the majority of Barbie’s homework, helping
Barbie maintain a 3.0 average (Barbie never was
the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree) and everyone is getting ready for
Homecoming. As cheer captain, the pressure’s on for Barbie to win that crown,
which means the pressure’s on for Ken to win that crown, too, although
typically speaking the captain of the football team usually wins.
Did I
fail to mention that? Ken isn’t the captain of the football team, or the
captain of the baseball team, or basketball or soccer. Rather, he’s captain of
the swim team and president of the Art Club. But he’s dating Barbie, so nobody
really asks any questions. Knowing that he needs to win this to salvage his
relationship, he does all the right things. Ken goes out and buys Barbie a
beautiful gown (pink, of course) and a matching bow tie for himself. There is a
simply to die for baby blue tux in the
window, but Ken opts for the subtler look just to be on the safe side. At the
dance, with Barbie looking gorgeous in layers of tulle and satin, Resa looking like
a slightly squashed blue cupcake that got in a fight with a hair dryer and Ken
looking like his usual charming self, the announcement is made: Barbie is the
Queen, by unanimous vote, and Ken is the King. The celebration begins.
Two
weeks later, Barbie has something to say.
“Ken,
we’re expecting.”
Yes, it’s
true. After the homecoming dance, drunk on victory and jello shots, Barbie and
Ken had signed a contract requesting that they be sent a baby. Did they mean
to? Of course not! But in the heat of the moment, even plastic people make
mistakes.
Barbie received
the notice in the mail this morning: there will be a beautiful, blue eyed,
blond haired little girl arriving within two weeks. She is mortified. Imagine
having to walk around with this secret for two weeks! And when the baby comes?
People will notice; people will stare. Barbie begins to realize that her
perfect, plastic life is about to become imperfect. She turns to her boyfriend,
the only perfect thing left in her world, hoping that he will know what to do
or at least what to say. But Ken says nothing; he just looks at her in
disbelief. And this is when Barbie goes off the deep end.
Fast
forward two weeks. Barbie’s life is not over. In fact, it looks like pretty
much the same, perfect life it has always been, except for a few details. She
and Ken are no longer a couple, although they keep up the charade for image. Her
parents agreed to raise the baby since Barbie is an only child and they are
both retired. Surprise, everyone! Kelly isn’t Barbie’s sister after all. What?
Don’t tell me you weren’t ever the tiniest bit suspicious that Barbie had a sister
so much younger than her.
So
Barbie makes it through her last year of high school, although she is sadder and
more disillusioned with life. What about Resa? Well, she finally stops wearing
overalls, at least to school, but she still spent Valentine’s Day alone,
studying for Barbie’s science test, as she is now doing all of her friend’s
homework while Barbie goes to parties with the boys from University of
California, Plastic Ville, trying to fill her empty soul and soothe her fragile
ego. As for Ken, he settles into a
comfortable role at Barbie’s side, watching her float through her last year of
high school and wondering why he can’t seem to love this beautiful girl.
You
see, things really aren’t perfect in Plastic Ville, and this is only scratching
the surface. There’s so much more to Barbie and her companions, as well as all
the other inhabitants of this tiny town. If you ever care to visit Plastic
Ville again, I could tell you how it is that Barbie’s had so many careers or
perhaps why not everything is squeaky clean in the rubbery lives of Polly Pocket
and her gang. Once you know the secrets, you understand that Plastic Ville
people are just like us, except tinier, made of plastic, and sold, starting
between $8-10, at local toy stores.
Redvines: Short List of Ingredients, Long List of Memories
So there's this little thing called candy. And I don't care if you eat it all of the time or some of the time, you know it's good. If you say that you eat it none of the time, you're lying and you know it. We all have our favorite types of candy. Some like Sour Patch Kids, some like Swedish Fish (for inexplicable reasons, they say that they are the same as Sour Patch Kids but they are, in fact, 1000% more disgusting), some like M&Ms, some like Skittles. Whatever your brand of candy, that's cool. Having a sweet tooth isn't a bad thing and sometimes it's just nice to munch on something while watching a movie or playing a board game.
Now, if you've ever eaten candy (which we've already established that you have) chances are you've heard of Twizzlers. Just in case you haven't, let me clear it up for you: Twizzlers are fake licorice treats made out of stringy red plastic, and that's about exactly what they taste like, too. Mmmm, sounds delicious, right? Of course not. Yet people buy them and ingest them. Whatever.
Infinitely more delicious are Redvines, and yet a disproportionately small number of people actually are aware of this candy's existence. Allow me to enlighten you: Redvines have been around before Twizzlers, making Redvines the original and Twizzlers the sad, flavorless copy. They have a texture that is actually like that of licorice rather than an old rubber boot and they taste like Heaven on freaking Earth.
"No, no." some of you are saying. "That's not what Redvines taste like at all! You're spreading lies, Redvines are-". I cut you off there (chloroform, useful stuff...) because I do not care if you agree with me or not. In all honesty, we could quibble about which is the better candy for years and never come to an accurate conclusion because it is all a matter of opinion. If it were a matter of taste, neither would win, because they are actually both terrible, artificially flavored sticks of sugar and gluten. Sorry, it had to be said.
"But wait, now you're contradicting yourself! You just said that Redvines tasted like Heaven on Earth. Why don't you-". Seriously, I have a limitless supply of chloroform, stop interrupting.
Redvines taste like Heaven on Earth because that's how I want them to taste. Don't you see? Redvines aren't about the taste. They stopped being about the taste when I turned seven or eight and learned to distinguish between actual flavor and just super sweet. It isn't about eating corn syrup and wheat flour and Artificial Flavor and Red 40. If it were about that, I would find something better to do, like inject pure fructose into my veins.
No, eating Redvines is about eating something that I have shared with every person I have ever cared about. And if you're feeling sad because I haven't eaten a Redvine with you, I'm sorry, it was probably due to lack of funds rather than lack of love.
Remember the Pensive from Harry Potter? And the memories were like silver liquid that they would pour into the rune inscribed stone basin and then they would be able to watch the memories as if they were actually there? Redvines are like that except that you can eat them.
Eating a Redvine I remember the time that my dad and stepmom made mixed drinks in these red striped martini glasses and drank them through redvine "straws" and we were all laughing because they looked ridiculous and they had to keep changing out their straws. I remember the many, many times that my grandma and my sister and I would buy a huge barrel of 100 Redvines and stay up late watching as many inappropriate movies as we could find on TV, or playing board games and laughing until we cried because we were all sleep deprived and slap happy. I remember sitting with my Daddy in the hospital watching Iron Man 2 and then Thor and sharing Redvines with him while complaining about the hospital alarms going on. There might have been a fire, we didn't care. We were eating Redvines. I remember watching the faces of my friends as they tried a Redvine for the first time. Some were surprised, some were appalled, some tried to eat all of them.
So whatever you candy preference, I'm sure there's one candy that brings back memories of childhood or high school or college or all three. Or, if you're like me, most candies bring back memories, but that's just because my memories attach easily to objects and smells and people.
Now, if you've ever eaten candy (which we've already established that you have) chances are you've heard of Twizzlers. Just in case you haven't, let me clear it up for you: Twizzlers are fake licorice treats made out of stringy red plastic, and that's about exactly what they taste like, too. Mmmm, sounds delicious, right? Of course not. Yet people buy them and ingest them. Whatever.
Infinitely more delicious are Redvines, and yet a disproportionately small number of people actually are aware of this candy's existence. Allow me to enlighten you: Redvines have been around before Twizzlers, making Redvines the original and Twizzlers the sad, flavorless copy. They have a texture that is actually like that of licorice rather than an old rubber boot and they taste like Heaven on freaking Earth.
"No, no." some of you are saying. "That's not what Redvines taste like at all! You're spreading lies, Redvines are-". I cut you off there (chloroform, useful stuff...) because I do not care if you agree with me or not. In all honesty, we could quibble about which is the better candy for years and never come to an accurate conclusion because it is all a matter of opinion. If it were a matter of taste, neither would win, because they are actually both terrible, artificially flavored sticks of sugar and gluten. Sorry, it had to be said.
"But wait, now you're contradicting yourself! You just said that Redvines tasted like Heaven on Earth. Why don't you-". Seriously, I have a limitless supply of chloroform, stop interrupting.
Redvines taste like Heaven on Earth because that's how I want them to taste. Don't you see? Redvines aren't about the taste. They stopped being about the taste when I turned seven or eight and learned to distinguish between actual flavor and just super sweet. It isn't about eating corn syrup and wheat flour and Artificial Flavor and Red 40. If it were about that, I would find something better to do, like inject pure fructose into my veins.
No, eating Redvines is about eating something that I have shared with every person I have ever cared about. And if you're feeling sad because I haven't eaten a Redvine with you, I'm sorry, it was probably due to lack of funds rather than lack of love.
Remember the Pensive from Harry Potter? And the memories were like silver liquid that they would pour into the rune inscribed stone basin and then they would be able to watch the memories as if they were actually there? Redvines are like that except that you can eat them.
Eating a Redvine I remember the time that my dad and stepmom made mixed drinks in these red striped martini glasses and drank them through redvine "straws" and we were all laughing because they looked ridiculous and they had to keep changing out their straws. I remember the many, many times that my grandma and my sister and I would buy a huge barrel of 100 Redvines and stay up late watching as many inappropriate movies as we could find on TV, or playing board games and laughing until we cried because we were all sleep deprived and slap happy. I remember sitting with my Daddy in the hospital watching Iron Man 2 and then Thor and sharing Redvines with him while complaining about the hospital alarms going on. There might have been a fire, we didn't care. We were eating Redvines. I remember watching the faces of my friends as they tried a Redvine for the first time. Some were surprised, some were appalled, some tried to eat all of them.
So whatever you candy preference, I'm sure there's one candy that brings back memories of childhood or high school or college or all three. Or, if you're like me, most candies bring back memories, but that's just because my memories attach easily to objects and smells and people.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Wish List
Dear Santa,
I usually don't write a wish list, because I have everything that I need. But this year I figured, what the heck. I've been through quite a lot this year, so I suppose that makes me eligible for the "Nice List". I'm going to try to keep my list concise, mostly because I hate asking for a lot of stuff. It feels greedy and selfish. Also, the thing I really want, well Santa, you can't give that to me. I know you probably would if you could, since gift giving and wish fulfillment is sort of your forte, but know that I understand and I'm not angry with you, because you're still pretty great.
Furthermore, you might be wondering, Santa, why I am sending in my list so early. Well, Thanksgiving is over, which means it's officially Christmas Season. I thought that if my letter came in before most of the other boys' and girls' letters, that you would have time to puzzle out my bizarre requests.
With that being said, here is my wish list:
1) I'd like to stop being angry. I know you can't actually give me that, since it's more of a personal life change, but if you could send maybe a stress ball as a stocking stuffer, I'd appreciate it.
2) My mom put all of my boots, scarves and hats in storage. I'm hoping she'll retrieve them for me, but on the off chance that she doesn't, I could really, REALLY use some boots, hats and scarves. Ideally, I'd like all of my old ones back, since they are adorable and I was so looking forward to wearing them.
3) A mirror that doesn't tell me the wrong things. That's my way of saying that I want to look in the mirror and like the reflection every day. Again, it's more of a personal thing, but if you have a magic mirror of sorts, that might work as a training wheel kind of deal.
4) Two nice, preferably leather bound journals, although just regular bound will work, too, as long as there are a lot of pages. Check with my mom on this one, though, because she might already have it covered.
5) Lime and black pepper perfume. There's a website that has a couple of options, the lady's located out of Berkley, California. It's not too expensive, and I was thinking of buying some samples as soon as my new debit card comes in the mail. I'll let you know if the samples are any good or if this is a total bust.
6) And most of all, I want to understand how I feel, why I feel and where to go from there.
I know it's not a perfect list, mostly it just looks like I need a self-help book or two, but I figured I'd let you know that I'm still here and that I still think about you. I'm not expecting a large pile of improbable gifts under the tree this year, so don't worry too much about me, although if you can't find a magic mirror, I would at least like the journals. Oh, and a special ornament for the tree, maybe in the shape of a bicycle.
All my love,
Meghan (Making Christmas shopping difficult since 1994)
Editor's Note: My scarves, boots and hats were not in storage, like I said. They were in the same box with all of my sweaters and winter clothes. I do still require a pair of black boots, however.
I usually don't write a wish list, because I have everything that I need. But this year I figured, what the heck. I've been through quite a lot this year, so I suppose that makes me eligible for the "Nice List". I'm going to try to keep my list concise, mostly because I hate asking for a lot of stuff. It feels greedy and selfish. Also, the thing I really want, well Santa, you can't give that to me. I know you probably would if you could, since gift giving and wish fulfillment is sort of your forte, but know that I understand and I'm not angry with you, because you're still pretty great.
Furthermore, you might be wondering, Santa, why I am sending in my list so early. Well, Thanksgiving is over, which means it's officially Christmas Season. I thought that if my letter came in before most of the other boys' and girls' letters, that you would have time to puzzle out my bizarre requests.
With that being said, here is my wish list:
1) I'd like to stop being angry. I know you can't actually give me that, since it's more of a personal life change, but if you could send maybe a stress ball as a stocking stuffer, I'd appreciate it.
2) My mom put all of my boots, scarves and hats in storage. I'm hoping she'll retrieve them for me, but on the off chance that she doesn't, I could really, REALLY use some boots, hats and scarves. Ideally, I'd like all of my old ones back, since they are adorable and I was so looking forward to wearing them.
3) A mirror that doesn't tell me the wrong things. That's my way of saying that I want to look in the mirror and like the reflection every day. Again, it's more of a personal thing, but if you have a magic mirror of sorts, that might work as a training wheel kind of deal.
4) Two nice, preferably leather bound journals, although just regular bound will work, too, as long as there are a lot of pages. Check with my mom on this one, though, because she might already have it covered.
5) Lime and black pepper perfume. There's a website that has a couple of options, the lady's located out of Berkley, California. It's not too expensive, and I was thinking of buying some samples as soon as my new debit card comes in the mail. I'll let you know if the samples are any good or if this is a total bust.
6) And most of all, I want to understand how I feel, why I feel and where to go from there.
I know it's not a perfect list, mostly it just looks like I need a self-help book or two, but I figured I'd let you know that I'm still here and that I still think about you. I'm not expecting a large pile of improbable gifts under the tree this year, so don't worry too much about me, although if you can't find a magic mirror, I would at least like the journals. Oh, and a special ornament for the tree, maybe in the shape of a bicycle.
All my love,
Meghan (Making Christmas shopping difficult since 1994)
Editor's Note: My scarves, boots and hats were not in storage, like I said. They were in the same box with all of my sweaters and winter clothes. I do still require a pair of black boots, however.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Food Gifting: A Brief but Accurate History
Sometimes, little things make you want to go crazy and do something you've never done before. The little things could be anything. A song you hear, something a person says, a change in the weather.
The weather here has gotten chilly, which is wonderful, unless, like me, you don't have any winter clothes with you. A grand total of four sweaters and two quarter-sleeved shirts leaves me literally out in the cold. But I took a walk tonight to wake up and clear my head and the brisk weather got me thinking.
I realized that I want to bake. Maybe it's the idea of warm bread/cookies/scones/what-have-you coming out of the oven while the windows frost over from the outside; maybe it's the idea of the upcoming holiday season which gives me the insane urge to make ridiculous amounts of delicious food for which everyone's stomach will thank me while their waistlines curse me. More than that, though, I think it's my need to do something nice for someone who is constantly doing nice things for me. How do you repay someone for being themselves? Well, obviously you bake them a tray of scones, a basket of muffins, a loaf of fresh bread.
Food gifts are older than time itself. The first cave man to shoot a prehistoric cervidae (deer) brought it home to the first cave woman, boasting over his fine catch and offering it to her, an obvious token of his undying, Neanderthal love. Overjoyed at the prospect of skinning and cooking the bloody carcass, Mrs. Caveman took the massive thing and turned it into the first venison stew. This was before seasonings were invented, but it was still pretty damned good, and this set the standard: women give better food gifts than men. Of course, Mr. Caveman meant well, but from then on, he decided that he was better suited to giving gifts like brightly colored leaves or particularly shiny stones that he found while out hunting. Mrs. Caveman quickly amassed a large collection of such thoughtful but useless trinkets and her husband quickly amassed a larger mass.
Not all cavewomen gave better food gifts than their men, however. Not everyone had Mrs. Caveman's natural talent for turning dead flesh into something edible. Fire was relatively new and the convection oven was not even a passing innovative thought behind the large foreheads of those early people, so making palatable meals was challenging. Hopeful cavemen often received back pieces of raw meat that had merely been cut with a dull stone and arranged on a flat leaf. This was before garnishing, but they did their best to make it look appealing. There was no comparison, however, between their lackluster attempts and the culinary marvels of Mrs. Caveman and those who managed to replicate her delicate searing of deer flesh. The other cavemen quickly figured this out and chose mates accordingly.
With this going on, the poor creatures who couldn't cook, being naturally selected against, became endangered and very nearly extinct. Unfortunately, there has been a rise in the kitchen-impaired gene recently, made possible by the invention of microwave dinners and women's rights.
After a while, the human race discovered how to make bread, probably the best discovery ever made. Once this happened, it was all over. Women everywhere had the secret to making heads turn, jaws drop and stomachs rumble. Is there anything that smells better than freshly baked bread? Exactly. From there, it was a simple couple of steps to turn that bread into various and sundry pastries, which we have been baking ever since.
Therefore I think it is something genetic inside of me that calls me to knead dough, to watch bread rise, to say thank you in this manner. Of course, it's inadequate. Everything's inadequate but some traditions are too perfect to be altered.
Apart from the weather, I've also been listening to a lot of good music lately, and spending time with good, honest, down to Earth people. I don't just want to bake. That's a temporary fix for my need to DO something. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm going to do something that will make a difference. Maybe it'll only make a difference to a few people, but that's all that really matters, right?
My dad touched the lives of so many people, just doing what he loved: teaching and being a father. I don't think he knew how much he meant to the people in his life. That's all I want. I want to mean something to the people who mean something to me. I want to be at least half the person my father was. Genetically, that's already true, so I guess I'm on the right path. I look in the mirror and I have inspiration to be someone worth knowing.
For starters, I'm collecting recipes and plotting when to unleash their deliciousness on the people who most deserve them.Be prepared.
The weather here has gotten chilly, which is wonderful, unless, like me, you don't have any winter clothes with you. A grand total of four sweaters and two quarter-sleeved shirts leaves me literally out in the cold. But I took a walk tonight to wake up and clear my head and the brisk weather got me thinking.
I realized that I want to bake. Maybe it's the idea of warm bread/cookies/scones/what-have-you coming out of the oven while the windows frost over from the outside; maybe it's the idea of the upcoming holiday season which gives me the insane urge to make ridiculous amounts of delicious food for which everyone's stomach will thank me while their waistlines curse me. More than that, though, I think it's my need to do something nice for someone who is constantly doing nice things for me. How do you repay someone for being themselves? Well, obviously you bake them a tray of scones, a basket of muffins, a loaf of fresh bread.
Food gifts are older than time itself. The first cave man to shoot a prehistoric cervidae (deer) brought it home to the first cave woman, boasting over his fine catch and offering it to her, an obvious token of his undying, Neanderthal love. Overjoyed at the prospect of skinning and cooking the bloody carcass, Mrs. Caveman took the massive thing and turned it into the first venison stew. This was before seasonings were invented, but it was still pretty damned good, and this set the standard: women give better food gifts than men. Of course, Mr. Caveman meant well, but from then on, he decided that he was better suited to giving gifts like brightly colored leaves or particularly shiny stones that he found while out hunting. Mrs. Caveman quickly amassed a large collection of such thoughtful but useless trinkets and her husband quickly amassed a larger mass.
Not all cavewomen gave better food gifts than their men, however. Not everyone had Mrs. Caveman's natural talent for turning dead flesh into something edible. Fire was relatively new and the convection oven was not even a passing innovative thought behind the large foreheads of those early people, so making palatable meals was challenging. Hopeful cavemen often received back pieces of raw meat that had merely been cut with a dull stone and arranged on a flat leaf. This was before garnishing, but they did their best to make it look appealing. There was no comparison, however, between their lackluster attempts and the culinary marvels of Mrs. Caveman and those who managed to replicate her delicate searing of deer flesh. The other cavemen quickly figured this out and chose mates accordingly.
With this going on, the poor creatures who couldn't cook, being naturally selected against, became endangered and very nearly extinct. Unfortunately, there has been a rise in the kitchen-impaired gene recently, made possible by the invention of microwave dinners and women's rights.
After a while, the human race discovered how to make bread, probably the best discovery ever made. Once this happened, it was all over. Women everywhere had the secret to making heads turn, jaws drop and stomachs rumble. Is there anything that smells better than freshly baked bread? Exactly. From there, it was a simple couple of steps to turn that bread into various and sundry pastries, which we have been baking ever since.
Therefore I think it is something genetic inside of me that calls me to knead dough, to watch bread rise, to say thank you in this manner. Of course, it's inadequate. Everything's inadequate but some traditions are too perfect to be altered.
Apart from the weather, I've also been listening to a lot of good music lately, and spending time with good, honest, down to Earth people. I don't just want to bake. That's a temporary fix for my need to DO something. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm going to do something that will make a difference. Maybe it'll only make a difference to a few people, but that's all that really matters, right?
My dad touched the lives of so many people, just doing what he loved: teaching and being a father. I don't think he knew how much he meant to the people in his life. That's all I want. I want to mean something to the people who mean something to me. I want to be at least half the person my father was. Genetically, that's already true, so I guess I'm on the right path. I look in the mirror and I have inspiration to be someone worth knowing.
For starters, I'm collecting recipes and plotting when to unleash their deliciousness on the people who most deserve them.Be prepared.
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