Some of you might have the same tradition that my family seems to have ==> that something will break down during a holiday. In my family the breakdowns usually have to do with plumbing and/or water. This Thanksgiving it was the washer.
A crack in the tub. I have to admit (only to total strangers would I admit such a thing) that I'd been noticing a bit of water on the floor recently, but had ignored it. I've found it effective, over the years, to try to ignore most things until they eventually go away. Or have to be taken care of.
Finally too much to ignore so I called McNally's to take care of it. The nice man came out, checked it out, sucked air through is lips and told me it would be a total risk to wash more clothes in the old thing. Could break in half at any second, evidently.
Giving myself little pep talks about only needing a simple white washer; ("nothing fancy; there's usually only one of me; perhaps I'll get one of those tiny stacking washers; simple, little, cheap") I held my head high, my purse tight and walked into the store.
Ha -- walked out with the million dollar super-sized heavy duty etc etc front loading state of the art wonder washer.
I did not, however, pay an extra $500.00 for the deep blue color. I do have my standards.
Excuse me ... I am in the process of washing every quilt & comforter in the house...
Monday through Thursday I keep things pretty simple, structured and about the same every day. On Friday afternoons things are a little looser and the children have plenty of activities they can choose from; promoting individual choice, responsibility, and just plain fun.
We have "Creation Station", a box full of different kinds of papers and doo-dads they can cut and glue and create to their hearts' content.
Some of the boys made masks.
They glued them to their faces!
Gotta love kindergarten....
I heard about this guy who decorated his Christmas tree with nothing but Uglydoll keychains. Then he took a bunch of pictures of the Uglytree and posted them on the internet for everyone to see.
- 16:55 First snow of the season. Lovely. brizzly.com/pic/MLF #
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Borrowed from: the Sacramento Library (although, if someone wanted to get it for me for Christmas, I would love them forever and ever)
Rating: 10 out of 10
Synopsis: God in couples counseling? Sounds sacrilegious, but in the adept hands of comedian, writer and actress Isaacs, it's a success. Isaacs reached bottom at age 40: no job, no boyfriend, no home. Of course, she blamed God. So off they went to counseling with the ever-patient therapist Rudy. Isaacs moves easily between recounting her life story and her counseling sessions. She describes encounters with the Nice Jesus of her Lutheran upbringing; the Oakie Pentecostal church and the militant counselor; the Rock-n-Roll church and the Orthopraxy, Dude church, plus her rocky acting career and her love life, including guilt-ridden sex and Mostly Mister Right. Isaacs readily admits to being snarky, but she's honest about her quest and its conclusion. She's funny, biting, earthy and brilliant.
Review: I've been putting off writing this review because of just how much I loved this book and I don't feel like my review can do it justice. Susan Isaacs is a) raw, b) brilliant, and c) hilarious. The literary device she created —of taking God to couples counseling—worked perfectly and did a great job of giving the whole book a cohesive feel that is sometimes absent from memoir. The evolution of God's voice throughout the book is especially well done. Reading about the difficulties Isaacs went through in her walk with God felt so much more real than a lot of other Christian books I've read in the past. It's like she's, this is going to sound crazy, an actual person. She is refreshingly honest and I just fell in love with her story and the way she dealt with what came her way. And did I mention she's funny? Bitingly funny. I couldn't recommend this book more highly to all of my Christian girlfriends and to anyone who's disillusioned with the church. We ended up reading it for my book club and every single person absolutely loved it.
so the to-do list I just made is three feet long, but at least I have one. I've been hiding in a cloud of avoidance ever since I ate turkeys. (yes, I got into more than one.) but turkeys are not to blame. it takes a while to reconcile with one's lot, so to speak. and when one is re-conciliating, one cannot simultaneously strive. one is not built that way. does one ever reconcile? does one reconcile too much or too little? does one reconcile too much where little is called for and too little when much is called for?
When I had a Monday-Friday job, Saturday was naturally laundry day. Every week I would have to ask Mr FD to carry the laundry hamper downstairs for me, as it was often too heavy for my back. May I repeat, EVERY Saturday I had to ASK Mr FD to bring down the laundry hamper from our bathroom.
Now, I don't have a Monday to Friday routine, and I do laundry during the week, trying to leave the weekends free. You know, just in case the last threads of our sanity tear and we give in to spontaneity, heaven forbid!
NOW that I no longer do laundry on a Saturday, every Saturday without fail, WITHOUT A REQUEST, Mr FD brings down the laundry hamper and places it with pride in the middle of our small laundry. It sits there like a dog poop on your priceless heirloom rug. I say nothing, trying to ignore it, but oddly enough it makes me want to rip his throat out.
I do not do the laundry. It sits there until the day I do, in the meantime, our dirty clothes mount up on the floor of our bathroom. I prefer not to say anything as when I am back in the work force I will no doubt want him to bring that damn laundry hamper down each and every Saturday again.
I just want to know - does he know what he is doing? Is he playing games with me - stirring the lizard he calls it. Passive aggressive games of marriage...sigh. Or did he just finally get the message through his damn thick skull and is now probably wondering why I am not postulating myself at his feet in gratitude?
Is it him, or is it me? I know, it's him. It is always him.
I don't think I will ever enjoy Christmas as much as I did when I was a child. Back then, seemingly, all I needed to do was wear a silver - as silver as Christmas tinsel - visiting dress:
Or kneel by the tree and play with the fire engine which was undoubtedly meant for my brother:
...in order to know that the very summit of the year had been reached, the time of the bright exhale.
Christmas was the decorated, fragrant tree and a house that was remarkably changed. I had nothing to do with this - I would just watch my parents bring the holiday inside to dazzle us.
Now, during the course of the years, there have come worries, disappointments, petty ugliness and cynicism: the detritus of adulthood, of living on your own. These bruises have hurt the innocence that dared to look forward to a day because it was...happy.
But there is one good thing. Now, every Christmas it is up to me to decorate some lucky tree waiting with evergreen hope beside its brethren in some orchard/hardware parking lot. It is up to me to transform my apartment with shiny things and swathe it with all the radiance of the season. And then on The Day, I will invite my parents over so I can dazzle them.
I've been watching a lot of old B&W movies lately. They all involve murder. I just realized that Hitchcock's Sabotage is based on Conrad's Secret Agent. The latter is my favorite of Conrad's novels. The film is not as haunting as the novel, largely because there is no detective (maybe there is--I read it many years ago--but it's not important) in the novel. The line that has stuck in my mind goes something like this: life does not stand much looking into. That is the horror: there is no detective in life.
I ate my first papaya today. I must have had papaya before, but this is the first one I cut open. It's odd that I have never had one before this. Even this one was given to me by someone else. I don't have anything against papayas. In fact this is the first time I've noticed the faint aroma and the mild favor of its flesh. Its blandness is intriguing. I think I've never had it before because it falls somewhere between a melon and a pear and therefore through a mental crack. Now it has finally found a place in my symbolic order.
What else? I am tired, despite a day spent in doing almost nothing. I bought things like toothpaste and supplements at the drug store. I do not like my own recorded voice or moving image. I am running out of This American Life episodes for the road.
Finished Tainted by Brooke Morgan.
I enjoyed this book, although I never really got sucked into it. Basically, it was good enough where I always wanted to keep reading but not so good that I had a hard time putting it down. (Solid read, though, and it's in paperback.)
Holly is a single mom (to five-year-old Katy). She doesn't really have much of a social life (partly due to Katy; partly because she's a homebody anyway). Katy's dad isn't in the picture and Holly's life is Katy and Henry (Henry is her grandfather, Katy's great-grandfather). And then she meets Jack. Jack's British and gorgeous. He sweeps Holly off her feet (as in they move in together pretty quickly and get married not too long after that). Everyone seems to love Jack, but is he really what he seems?
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