Tag Archives: Christmas

Airports, Christmas and Breakfast in Bed

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Today’s thankfuls: smart phones and WordPress 2.0 for the Android. It may take forever to write a post from my phone, but I’m a man on a mission today!

Sunday afternoon I arrived at PDX a little bit after 1:00. Going through security felt surreal; actually boarding the airplane was even stranger. I’m used to picking people up or dropping them off at airports – not flying. I managed to grab a window seat near the wing and settled in for takeoff. I was a little
nervous as the engines powered up and we raced down the runway, and then we were airborne. “This isn’t so bad,” I thought as we ascended to our cruising altitude, and I settled back to enjoy the flight.

That’s when it got bumpy.

Turbulence was so bad it felt like we were on a roller coaster for awhile. Worse still, the captain wouldn’t let the flight attendants out of their seats for the beverage service. I wanted my bloody mary!!!

About halfway there things calmed down, and I was able to breathe again. I got my drink – free of charge, even – plus a bag of peanuts and pretzels. Thank you, Southwest. The last hour was completely smooth, and I actually started to enjoy the whole experience. It was dusk as we descended into Vegas, and the lights were just coming on. I saw the Luxor and a few other neon-bathed hotels. And then we were on the ground.

I met Tara in the baggage claim area, and we embraced with our usual fervor. I wished her a Merry Christmas and we kissed for awhile. Stopped for a quick bite to eat and then left Vegas for the long 4-hour drive to Ely. That was uneventful; there were no strange lights in the sky, but we did pull over at one point to look at the stars. There was no moon and the sky was clear; all I can say is, wow.

It was damn cold, too. 13 when we reached her house around 10:30. It felt great to walk through the door again; when I left on September 11th I didn’t even know if we were going to pursue a relationship. Now we’re practically inseparable and I love it! We settled in next to her Christmas tree and exchanged gifts…what a blast that was! It’s so nice having somebody special to share the holiday with. I love everything she got me, but just being there was the greatest gift of all.

Tara didn’t have to work on Monday, so we spent the morning lounging in bed and watching movies. She made us scrambled eggs and green chili gravy (yum!!) with tortillas, which we also ate in bed. Talk about a decadent morning. I didn’t want to leave, but eventually we got up. Took a walk, relaxed at her place some more, and then drove out to visit her grandparents for awhile. They are very nice people, friendly and warm and welcoming. I like them a lot. I also got to meet her sister Maggie. A little after 5 we drove back into town and met up with some people at Racks for Monday Night Football. Maggie was there, along with Tara’s youngest sister Jessie, Jessie’s boyfriend Arturo, and another friend named Taylor. Oh, and then Tara’s dad showed up. We all had a good time and enjoyed delicious greasy bar food. I apologize to my body for that, but whatever. We left about 7:30, made a quick stop at the grocery store, then back to Tara’s place, where we crashed early.

She has to work most of this week, so we kissed goodbye and she left around 7. I’m enjoying coffee and watching a movie and just generally kicking back and relaxing. She’s going to pick up lunch for us, and this evening I’m cooking her dinner: my oughtta-be-famous chicken cacciatore. Role reversals be damned, it all feels pretty domestic and I’m kinda digging it.

This visit is off to a fantastic start, and I’m loving every minute of it. There may not be any snow in the forecast, damn it, but otherwise it’s perfect.

Catch ya later!

Burning Down The House, Part 3

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It’s pushing 11:30, and I’ve had a busy and productive day. I should be curled up in bed – it’s right there, after all, soft and cozy and less than two feet away – but instead I’m writing in the ol’ blog. There is a reason for this, though.

I’m practically choking to death on burned popcorn fumes.

Delicious as popcorn is, the smell is another story. Even when it’s cooked perfectly, that aroma – which hangs around longer than an unwanted houseguest over the holidays – permeates the atmosphere and practically seeps into your pores. Kind of like bacon; delicious on the palate, but boy does it overstay its welcome on the nose. Burned popcorn is twice as nauseating, and the smell lingers four times as long. Admittedly, I’ve had issues with stovetop popcorn in the past, but nowadays I’m an expert at making it. In other words, I am not to blame for this latest fiasco. I was, in fact, upstairs in my bedroom, chatting away with Tara on the phone, when I first noticed that the house smelled like it was on fire. Fortunately this was not the case, but I learned later it nearly was the case; Rusty had decided to make himself popcorn, but had either forgotten about it or had the heat up too high or something or other – the exact details disappeared in a haze of teen-excuse-speak – and it doesn’t really matter anyway; all I know is, at one point he carried a smoking pan of popcorn outside in order to prevent a possible raging inferno. I suppose I ought to thank the boy rather than chastise him for the awful smell that is still here hours later.

The only thing worse than the smell of popcorn is the smell of BURNED popcorn. (Courtesy of thenondairyqueen.com)

You know what, though? It’s Christmas Eve Eve. I should have visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, but instead I close my eyes and see flames creeping up the stairway. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sleep when every inhaled breath fills your nostrils with the acrid odor of scorched popcorn?

It’s going to be a long night, folks.

By the way, this is the second time Rusty almost burned the place down. Just a few days after moving here in 2006, I smelled something burning one morning before work but couldn’t locate the source. After a fruitless search I dismissed it as paranoia and nearly walked out the door, but it was so strong I decided to make one more sweep of the premises. That’s when I found his bedspread, half off the bed and draped over a nightlight that was missing a cover. The bulb had burned a hole in the bedspread. Had I just gone to work that day without double checking the house, I’m convinced at some point I would have received a very unpleasant phone call from the fire department.

In all fairness, I too once nearly set my townhouse afire. I was frying chicken in a cast iron skillet, the oil got too hot, and – woosh! Hello, grease fire. Thankfully, I was smart enough to disregard my first instinct to throw water on the burning pan, and instead covered it with a lid. A close call, but honestly, at the time I was more upset that I had ruined that last batch of chicken. Because it had turned out really good. 

I sure hope my insurance agent isn’t reading this post, by the way. Otherwise my premiums might just skyrocket.

Like I said, today was pretty busy. I hit Target for some last minute Christmas items, mostly stocking stuffers, though in truth I hadn’t gotten my parents gifts yet, and to make matters worse I had no idea what to get them. I figured I would wander the aisles hoping for inspiration. Fortunately, it struck. They are just so damn hard to shop for! And whenever I ask them what they want, it’s always the same response: “You don’t have to get us anything.” I know they think that’s helpful, but it sort of isn’t – of course I’m going to get them something, unemployment be damned! You know what I love? When you hit upon the perfect gift idea for somebody. A week ago, I thought of an incredibly awesome and appropriate present for Tara’s mom, Tracy. The only problem is, I had to do some scrambling to put it all together, and I didn’t get it mailed out until this very afternoon. Too late to make it there by Christmas, but I’m hoping she appreciates the thoughtfulness and – let’s face it, modesty be damned, the sheer, unbridled genius of this present enough to overlook the fact that it’ll arrive a few days late. And yes, I know, I didn’t have to get Tracy a gift either, but you think I’m going to turn down an opportunity to impress my girlfriend’s mother? Not a chance, people. Next week, I’ll be busy trying to impress Tara’s friends and her dad’s side of the family, only I won’t have any cool gifts to rely on – just my charm and wit.

Lord help me.

So, this is it. Christmas Eve is 35 minutes away now, and I’m as ready for the holiday as I’m going to be. All the shopping is done, the presents are wrapped, and we’ve gone through our entire collection of holiday movies save for one or two. Saturday afternoon, we head to my aunt’s house in Oregon for our now-traditional Russian dinner, followed by It’s A Wonderful Life when we get home. Just me and the kids. I’ve already told them there will be no popcorn. Then it’s Sunday. Christmas Day. Up early for presents, breakfast with my parents, drop the kids off at their mom’s house, and a few hours later I’ll be deposited at the airport, ready to embark upon my first airplane ride in more than a decade. In a mere 42 hours, I will be in Las Vegas. In 48 or so, Ely.

Merry Christmas, all!

I Paid $300 for Fake Bark

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I sat down to write a Christmas-themed post and happened to notice that the time is exactly 12:25. Coincidence?

I’ll leave that up to you to decide.

So here we are, a mere five days before the big holiday, a fact that is difficult to swallow. On the one hand, it doesn’t feel as Christmasy as usual this year; thanks to my surgery and hospital stay, I was unable to string up holiday lights outdoors. I didn’t think it wise to crawl on my belly and dangle off the garage roof while trying to staple lights to the eaves. That wouldn’t have been good for my incisions or my psyche, knowing that one miscue could send me right back to Ye Olde County General. Since I didn’t put up outdoor lights, I also chose to skip the indoor lights I normally hang from the banister, but I attribute that more to laziness than a fear of falling. And then there’s the tree. I’ve been buying a freshly-cut Douglas Fir for the past couple of years, having grown tired of the fake plastic tree. Back when I was married, I used to pester the ex for an artificial tree. I always thought it would be more convenient and save us money in the long run, but she was a traditionalist and would have none of that. So naturally, the very month we divorced back in 2006, I ran out and bought myself an artificial tree. Not just any artificial tree, mind you; I bought the best I could find, a top-of-the-line 8′ pre-lit fir that was so detailed it even had fake bark decorating the center poles. And, err, it was sort of pricey. Like, $300 pricey.

Gulp.

The ultimate #%$@ gesture. 'Tis the season!

What can I say? I was freshly single and it was the ultimate F-you gesture (so perfect for this magical time of year). I told myself I was reclaiming my independence, starting fresh, and by god if I wanted an expensive fake tree, then I was going to have an expensive fake tree and there was no nagging wife to stop me. Plus, I reasoned that I spent about $25 on a real tree every year, so in a mere dozen years this artificial baby would pay for itself. Ha! I really showed her!

I loved that tree the first year. Did I miss the scent of fresh pine? Sure, but that’s why they sell evergreen-scented candles, right? So that second marriage-free Christmas I bought a couple of those candles. The problem was, they didn’t really smell like a Christmas tree. Neither did the plug-in Glade dispenser. By year three I was sort of cursing the tree, which was difficult to store because it was so damn big and bulky. Plus, as convenient as having built-in lights was, those lights happened to be clear, and I have always preferred colored lights. Especially ones that flash and strobe and chase and fade in and out. Turns out I like my Christmas to resemble a discotheque. So, by year four I swallowed my pride and bought a real tree again from the corner lot. Last year (year five, if you’re counting) I not only bought a real tree once more, but I finally managed to get rid of the fake tree – which had been taking up residence in Audrey’s bedroom closet during the 11-month offseason – by surprising my parents while they were away on a cruise. The kids and I hauled the tree over to their house and decorated it for them, since they were halfway around the world and weren’t returning until a few days before Christmas. I thought it was a really sweet gesture, though I will admit when it came time to take down the tree I found myself conveniently busy and insisted they hang onto it since it was so much more impressive than the tiny artificial tree they usually put up, one which – I must point out – did not contain so much as an ounce of fake bark…just a green metal pole. Bor-ing. Clearly, I was doing them a favor, upgrading their future holidays with a much more realistic looking phony tree. Plus, Audrey had closet space again. We high-fived each other on the drive home, all the while remarking “free at last!”

And then, a funny thing happened. A few days after putting the real tree up, it fell over, flooding the carpet with water and an inch-deep layer of pine needles. How this happened exactly is a mystery, though I blame my cat Sydney, who had demonstrated a fondness not only for batting balls off the lowest branches, but also took a liking to the water in the stand, which she lapped up eagerly whenever she got the chance, completely ignoring my cries of “gross!” and “eww!”

Hmm. Two problems I never had with a fake tree…

My, that's some realistic looking fake bark.

So this year, because I’m an indecisive bastard, I was sort of looking for an excuse to reclaim that pricey fake tree that I had once loved, then despised, and now missed. I couldn’t very well take it back from my parents, though; that would make me an Indian Giver. Luckily, Fate had my back and dished up the perfect solution. Granted, I wish it hadn’t involved my gall bladder, but whatever works, works. Upon my return from the hospital, I pulled the ol’ surgery card and asked my mom if she would mind if I took the tree back since I was in no position to wrestle a big, heavy real tree into my home this year so soon after a major operation. Plus, there was the fact that I am flying to Nevada on Christmas Day, and leaving a real tree up for nine days after the holiday wouldn’t be prudent. She agreed, and long story short (ha – too late for that!), my pricey fake tree is back this year, standing proudly in the corner.

Naturally, I miss the smell of pine…

Anyway. Whatever. It’s worth the convenience! And in another eight Christmases, it will have paid for itself.

And while I said this year feels less Christmasy than normal, on the other hand, it’s also managing to feel more Christmasy than ever. I feel absolutely inundated with spirit because, for the first time in many years, I will be spending the holidays with a woman who is very special to me, and who I love unconditionally. I may be slightly apprehensive over the idea of flying, but hell, if Santa can get from Point A to Point B relying on nothing more than a team of lighter-than-air venison, I figure a 747 will be a piece of cake. Exchanging gifts next to her fake pre-lit tree as soon as we return to Ely is going to be wonderful. So, while the house may be a little less festive looking this year, it’s a different story inside my heart.

That’s what matters most. Just ask the Grinch.

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How To Write a Farcical Holiday Letter

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Since Christmas is the season for garish Santa ties and getting hammered off eggnog sharing, I am turning my blog over to Lisa Nowak today. Lisa is both a fellow Portlander and writer who specializes in Young Adult fiction. I had the pleasure of meeting her in person at the Wordstock Festival in October, where we were both hobnobbing with our fellow literati. If you hurry over to Amazon, Lisa’s book Running Wide Open is on sale for 99 cents. If I owned a Kindle, I’d probably have three copies by now! Her latest release, Getting Sideways – Book 2 in her Full Throttle series - is available, as well. Lisa is a talented writer and an all around cool person, so pay her a visit! And without further ado, I’ll let her talk about a topic near and dear to her heart this time of year: holiday letters.

How to write a farcical holiday letter

Last year I heard a lot of talk about holiday letters—mostly how tired everyone was of the bragging involved. Devious person that I am, I set out to write one that was so funny and outrageous people would clamor to read it. What my husband and I came up with was a hit, which made me think I should share my thoughts on how to create such a masterpiece. You know, so I could have an excuse to drag ours out again this year in the name of educating the masses.

Courtesy of highlinetimes.com.

The following is my basic formula for a hit holiday letter, with examples provided:

  1. The achievements depicted should contain enough truth, and enough of an individualized flair, that they’ll make your friends and family groan. (In the letter below, Bob is a mechanic who’s not exactly the epitome of physical fitness, and I’m a cat-lover who’s far too “Type A” to ever achieve enlightenment.)
  2. While you should use a personal touch, the ideas and traits should also be universal enough to be funny to a complete stranger. (Hence the men-and-toilet-seats joke and the reference to swimwear for cats.)
  3. If you don’t have a lot of people in your family, include your pets. (All four of our cats got billing in our letter.) If you don’t have pets, consider an inanimate object. For example, a car that’s notorious for being a clunker might have achieved immortality by securing a place in Carhenge.
  4. Use photos to liven it up. If you can pose or Photoshop them to make them ridiculous, that will add to the laughs.
  5. If you’re having trouble coming up with ideas, let the family get involved. (My husband provided a lot of the stuff in our letter.)
  6. Make it outrageous enough that no one can possibly mistake it for fact. If you have any doubts about the gullibility of your friends and relations, include a humorous disclaimer.
  7. Keep it to one page. Really, you’re not THAT funny.

Dear Friends and Family,

Holiday greetings! We have had a truly wondrous year and would like to share news of our good fortune with you.

This summer, Bob hiked the entire length of the Pacific Crest Trail in his Birkenstocks while carrying three Haitian orphans on his back. In September, he invented a fuel injection system that will allow cars to get 500 miles per gallon. But most impressive of all, after years of intensive training, he finally learned how to put down the toilet seat.

Lisa started the year by designing an entire line of swimwear for cats. In March she achieved enlightenment and went to Tibet to have a beer with the Dalai Lama.  In October, movie studios went into a bidding frenzy for the rights to her best-selling, coming-of-age/mystery/fantasy/thriller tome, “Larry Otter: Prisoner Of The Marshy Mallows.”

Margaret received national recognition for watching every program broadcast by the Hallmark Channel in 2010. In addition, she single-handedly saved Barnes and Noble from financial ruin with her online purchases.

As for the cats, Keelan and Loki achieved fame by e‘rat’icating all the vermin from the state of Oregon and chasing them back to California. A special award will be presented by Governor Kitzhaber in January.

Dakota was called to Washington D.C. to spearhead a campaign entitled, “A Mouse in Every Pot And A Cat On Every Lap.” Despite an embarrassing altercation with the First Dog, she received bipartisan support.

Laptop was a bit less ambitious, but none-the-less discovered a cure for depression. She is currently in negotiations with Pfizer. 

In closing, we’d just like to say, if anything in this letter strikes you as the least bit plausible, please go out and stock up on hay. Santa’s bringing you a pony.*

Best wishes,

Bob & Lisa

*(Okay, maybe the part about Laptop was true.)

*********

Lisa Nowak, a certified professional smartass, thinks humor is a plus in almost any circumstance and sprinkles it liberally throughout her books. The first one, Running Wide Open, was published in June. For those of you who might be wondering, she is not, and has never been, a diaper-wearing astronaut. She lives in Milwaukie, Oregon, with her husband, four feline companions, and two giant sequoias.

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Mother Nature Is One Big Tease!

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I love snow. Always have, always will. I figure this is because I spent so many years living in Hawaii, where a “cold snap” is defined as a temperature in the lower 70s. Snow still feels like a novelty to me – a magical gift from the heavens, one that buries the world in a pristine blanket of white. Snow is purity and beauty – it erases the world’s imperfections and glosses them over, turning the landscape into a real-life Norman Rockwell painting. When it snows, anything is possible.

So, when I woke up this morning at 8:00 and opened the blinds to find everything covered in white and big, fat snowflakes falling to the ground, I leaped out of bed. Literally. And then I pressed my nose against the glass and stared, marveling over the silver dollar-sized flakes piling up so quickly. Even though my bedroom window overlooks the garage, and my view consists of a row of townhouses across the way, the whole scene looked like a winter wonderland. I quickly brushed my teeth, eager to race outside and take a walk in the snow, only to find the clouds breaking up and nothing but a few lazy flurries drifting to the ground. Drat! Foiled again. Mother Nature has been that way this winter, teasing us with snowflakes in the air, only to snatch them away the moment it begins to look like they’re going to amount to something big. This was the third time since Thanksgiving week that has happened.

2008 was our best year ever for snow!

I suppose I ought to be living in Buffalo. The only problem with that scenario? I’d be living in Buffalo. I like spicy chicken wings as much as the next guy, but Buffalo does not strike me as an ideal city to call home. I love the Pacific Northwest far too much to ever consider moving away. Unfortunately, Portland’s proximity to the mild Pacific Ocean means we don’t get a lot of snow. Rain, yes. But our average snowfall is around 5″ a year. Often, we’re lucky to get that. There are exceptions, of course. In December 2008, it snowed and snowed and snowed. We had a true white Christmas, with over a foot on the ground that day. Ended up with 18″ for the month, a record. My dad mumbled and cursed (he’s no snow lover, probably because he grew up in Trenton), but I was in heaven. If every winter gave us snow like that one, I’d be a perpetually happy camper.

Sadly, this is not the case. Everything has to come together exactly right for snow to fall in Portland. That means, 9 times out of 10, when the National Weather Service predicts snow, nothing happens. Conversely, when there’s no mention of snow in the forecast, we are occasionally surprised. Like one year ago today. Cloudy with rain, they said. Cut to late afternoon, and a surprise snowstorm that stranded motorists and gave us a couple of inches. That was a fun afternoon for me!

Usually, when it’s cold enough to snow, there’s no moisture. And when there’s plenty of moisture, it isn’t cold enough for snow. Like this coming weekend – frigid weather is moving in. It’s going to drop into the 20s at night and only the 30s during the day. But the friggin’ sun is going to be shining. What good does that do anybody?! You know what, Mother Nature? Bite me.

This is what I like to see!

There’s still plenty of winter left. It isn’t even January yet, after all. We might still end up with a good snowstorm or two. I just hope they don’t start predicting one, because if that’s the case, we’re doomed.

But enough about the weather. Today marks a record for me: it’s the longest I’ve ever kept my Christmas tree up. I’m like Mr. Fa La La La La, all gung-ho for the season…right up through Dec. 25th. The next day? It feels weird seeing Christmas decorations and lights. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt this way. Many people – most people? – leave their tree up until New Year’s Day, at least. But in my mind, it feels like the two holidays clash. New Year’s is champagne and party favors and balls that drop and Auld Lang Syne. Christmas is lights and stockings and Santa and Hark The Herald Angels Sing. You wouldn’t hide Easter eggs on the 4th of July, right?

I rest my case.

Which is why I traditionally un-Christmas the house every Dec. 27th. This year I’ve resisted the urge to put the tree out to pasture and box everything up longer than ever before, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t bugging me a little bit more with each passing day.  Besides, to squeeze the tree into my abysmally tiny living room, I’ve had to move the Man Chair away from its cozy spot in the corner to practically the middle of the room, and that just throws the feng shui all out of whack. So, the odds of my tree and other Christmas decorations lasting until Saturday are pretty slim, but we’ll see.

The Six Million Dollar Gift

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I just got back from the grocery store, and the first thing I noticed as I went inside was the absence of a bell ringer. You’d think I’d be thrilled about this, right? After all, when last I spoke, I was talking about going out of my way to avoid giving them money. And yet, their abrupt departure leaves me feeling a bit empty inside. It’s proof that the holiday season is over for another year (or in the retail world, seven months – but that still feels like an eternity). Though Christmas is rarely perfect, it’s always magical, and I hate to see it go. So yeah, I even miss the bell ringers.

This holiday had its ups and downs, as they always do. For one thing, Audrey and Rusty gave me an early gift last week: a stomach virus that hit me hard on Wednesday morning. I know the holidays are all about “sharing the joy,” but really, they could have kept that one for themselves and I’d have been just fine. With 48 hours to go before Christmas Eve I was a little worried I’d be under the weather, but they’d both gotten over their bugs in less than two days, and so despite an unpleasant afternoon spent in bed whining and moaning (because I’m a guy, and that’s what we’re programmed to do), by the 24th I was feeling much better. Good thing, too, as we’ve got this family tradition that entails traveling to my aunt’s house in Newberg, Oregon for a Russian feast on Christmas Eve. Why Russian? We just picked the culture at random! Nah, I kid. We’re half-Russian on that side of the family. Several years ago, my aunt and cousins started making pelmini and borscht on December 24th, and it’s become a tradition we’ve all grown fond of.

This year, I wanted to contribute something, so I decided to make piroshki. I’d never done them before, but I’ve eaten them, and they are delicious. They’re basically meat-filled turnovers, if you’re curious. I opened my big mouth and volunteered to cook them and bring them over…and then I proceeded to get sick. Luckily, I was better in time to whip up a couple of batches, and while I had issues with properly rising yeast, for the most part they turned out pretty good. There are things I can do to perfect them, and I have a feeling I’ll be making them again next year (because my aunt said I would be making them again next year), so I’ve got another 363 days to get ‘em right. Dinner was great, and the kids and I were home by 8 PM – just in time to put on our final Christmas movie, It’s A Wonderful Life. As much as I love the film – and I do, it’s a true classic – I always marvel over the fact that, even though approximately 20 years passes in the course of the movie, nobody ever ages (except for young George Bailey in the opening scenes). Not Mary, or Mr. Potter, or Uncle Billy, or even old man Gower. Anyway, after the movie finished, Rusty and Audrey went to bed and I brought down presents and filled stockings while watching the Yule Log burn on PBS. Christmas morning, we were up at 7, my parents came over to cook us breakfast, and we opened our gifts. As we sat there, reveling in the moment while surrounded by discarded drifts of wrapping paper, I started thinking about my favorite presents over the years.

You know how Ralphie yearns for the Red Ryder BB gun in A Christmas Story? I can relate to that sense of longing: in 1976, all I wanted was a Kenner 12″ Six Million Dollar Man action figure with a see-through eye and roll-up rubber skin that revealed a bionic arm. This was the coolest thing ever, and I was a big fan of the show; I’m pretty sure I wanted to grow up to be just like Steve Austin. What 7-year old boy doesn’t want to end up with super strength and robotic body parts?! I got what I wanted, and while it was a birthday gift instead of a Christmas present, I was ecstatic. This picture says it all.

Could a kid look any happier? And could furniture look any uglier??

I would be remiss if I didn’t point out the hideously unfashionable furnishings that filled our home at the time. That couch was an eyesore! And about as comfortable to sit on as cement.

But as bad as that is…sigh…check out my clothes. Specifically, those pants. I have no idea why, but I loved them! I thought I looked so cool strutting around in ‘em, and wore them all the time. (Mom, how could you let me??).

The point is, I loved that Six Million Dollar Man action figure. It was the greatest toy ever. And I really, really wish I still had it, because apparently they are worth a mint these days. Not that I could ever sell it.

He's no Bionic Man, but he is The Boss!

This year, I got some nice presents, too. My favorite? Bruce Springsteen‘s The Promise - a boxed CD/DVD set with a remastered version of his 1978 classic Darkness On The Edge of Town. It includes two discs’ worth of bonus unreleased tracks, a making-of documentary, and two complete concerts. I’ve been a fan of The Boss since the early 80s, so this was like a modern-day version of my Steve Austin experience. I’ve even got a similar photo in which I am proudly holding up this gift. It’s like 1976 all over again (I even have a red shirt on), though thankfully I am not wearing those atrocious pants.

I guess this just proves that, even as we age, the perfect gift can still make us smile with joy.

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Beating The Bell Ringers

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Man, the holidays are stressful. It’s all because of the Salvation Army bell ringers. You know who I’m talking about – those folks waiting in ambush outside stores this time of year, the ones with the big red kettles who wear aprons and ring bells and wish you a “Merry Christmas” when you’re coming and going. Let me make something clear: I want to help them out. Most years, I contribute spare change, or maybe a dollar or two, whenever I pass by. It’s for a great cause, and besides, charity is good for the soul. But being unemployed, money is tight this year, so I can’t afford to give every time. I feel guilty passing by them without dropping something into the pot, though. Fortunately, after much thought, I hit upon the perfect solution to this little holiday dilemma: I’d simply sneak by undetected.

Ho-ho-hope you don't catch me sneaking by! (Image courtesy of seattleweekly.com).

Only, you know what? That’s damn near impossible to do. Those guys (and gals) don’t miss a beat. I’ve tried every trick in the book – using the door farthest from wherever they are standing; timing my entrance or exit to coincide with a crowd of folks coming or going; pretending to be with somebody who has just dropped change in the bucket; telling them “I’ll give on the way out” when I’m coming in and “I gave on the way in” when I’m coming out; even – I’m ashamed to admit – conjuring up a fake conversation on my cell phone, preferably one in which I am receiving really bad news. The more dramatic my reaction, the better. I’ll be like, “She what?! How horrible! Is she going to be okay?” I have no idea who the phony “she” is. Probably an aunt – not that it matters. If I’m feeling especially creative I’ll add something like “What time are visiting hours?” or “Will it be a closed-casket service?” Nobody wants to hit up some poor fellow wallowing in grief for money, right?

They always catch me, though. To make matters worse, they’re super cheerful about the fact that I continually stiff them. Almost like they’re riding a sugar plum high or something. (As an aside…what on earth are sugar plums, anyway? All my life I’ve heard them associated with Christmas, and yet, I’ve never seen one for sale anywhere, and certainly haven’t ever tasted one. Are they fruit? Candy? Candied fruit? I suppose I could Google the answer easily enough, but I’m feeling lazy at the moment. So lazy I haven’t even clicked on the link above). Even when I’m practically dashing out the door because they turned in the other direction for a second, they’ll spot me just before I reach safety outside and assail me with a “Merry Christmas!”  And then, of course, I have to return the sentiment, which makes me feel about a hundred times worse since they nabbed me trying to leave without a word and pretty much called me out on the fact that I’m a cheapskate. Those guys are good. If I could, I would run out the door and into the parking lot as fast as I could. I might elude them that way, but then I’d probably end up tackled to the ground by security. Let’s face it, if you’re sprinting outside a store like there’s a tiger on your tail, it looks just a tad suspicious.

There is one final move you can make that, if executed properly, makes you look good without breaking the bank. I call it the Three Penny Fake-Out. It’s dangerous and not for the faint of heart – kind of like stepping into the lion’s den with raw meat shoved down your pants. One false step, and you’ll be eaten alive. Kids, don’t try this at home.

To pull off the Three Penny Fake-Out, you’ve got to have steady nerves and a poker face. The trick is to keep those pennies hidden in the palm of your hand by curling your fingers into a fist. Smile, make eye contact, but do not linger. The goal is to get in and out of there quickly. Wish the bell ringer happy holidays and, in one swift motion, let the pennies drop into the kettle palm down. Only the most skilled experts, those who have been practicing for years, can pull off the far trickier palm up maneuver. You’ll want to use three pennies because they sound like a lot of change falling into the bucket. Three pennies could be seven silver dollars, for all the bell ringer knows. It’s best to utilize this scheme when you’ve got somebody with change in their hands leaving the store right behind you. That way, should the bell ringer happen to empty the kettle in the next sixty seconds and discover that he’s been faked out with pennies, you can always blame the guy who followed you out.

I’m not a Grinch, I swear. I just play one on this blog.

Seriously, though, if when my novel is published and I’m a big-shot author, those three pennies in my hand really will be seven silver dollars. I promise.

‘Tis The Season For Traditions

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For some reason, last night a memory crossed my mind, something I hadn’t thought of in years. I remembered how, when I was 7 or 8 years old and living in Hawaii, one December me, my brother, and a friend or two took it upon ourselves to go caroling through the neighborhood. Keep in mind, on Oahu, late December is about the same as late June. Sunny and 85. It never felt very Christmasy, living over there, but that year we were bitten by the holiday bug and decided to spread the joy of the season to our neighbors. We didn’t have any sort of game plan, and being that young, we didn’t even know all the words to the carols we were singing. But we did it anyway. We’d ring a random doorbell, and when the person living there answered, we’d launch into Jingle Bells or Silent Night or whatever else struck our fancy. I guess most folks thought we were cute, because nearly everybody gave us something. Smiles and compliments, sure, but also baked goods. We ended up with more cookies and cupcakes and candy than we knew what to do with. I think a few people even gave us money. We didn’t do it for the reward, but we certainly didn’t turn down the free goodies, either. Honestly, I don’t know what we were thinking. But I’m impressed that my younger self was so brave to sing in front of complete strangers!

A few years ago, I was taking a walk through the neighborhood we lived in at the time with Rusty and Audrey (my kids – these are their new nicknames, since I am Clark Griswold. Besides, K1 and K2 were too impersonal. They sound like mountain peaks). Anyway, I mentioned this story to them, and Rusty got it into his head that he was going to do the same thing. “Do you dare me?” he asked.

I love it when kids of a certain age can be goaded into doing things with a simple I dare you. So, of course I answered in the affirmative. Rusty then marched up to some stranger’s door, rang the bell, and launched into Jingle Bells. The woman who answered stood there smiling, but did not offer him any sort of treat, and after that he was done.

Which means either society has changed since the late 1970s, or I was cuter and more in tune than my son.

Maybe both.

I’m all about traditions, particularly around the holidays. When I got divorced four years ago (it was actually Christmas week – man, talk about a surefire recipe for a blue Christmas), I felt that it was more important than ever to hold onto the things that we had done together as a family, and continue those traditions even though the kids now split time equally between two households. I believed this would give them a sense of normalcy during a chaotic time, and show them that life would continue despite the fact that mom and dad were no longer together. That first year, especially, this grasping on of the past helped. Nowadays, everybody has moved on, and our “new” lives have become the norm, but I hang onto those traditions just as hard. Because, when you get right down to it, traditions are the structure of a happy and fulfilled life. It’s no longer about clinging to the past, but rather, about creating memories that Rusty and Audrey may pass along to their own kids someday.

You haven't lived until you've heard "Frosty The Snowman" on accordion.

Traditions are why we always go to Pomeroy Farm to pick out our pumpkins around Halloween. Why Planes, Trains And Automobiles ends up in the DVD player every Thanksgiving. And why, on Friday night, we went to Der Rheinlander for dinner, followed by The Grotto’s Festival of Lights. A pair of traditions dating back…I don’t know, eight or nine years now? The Rheinlander is a Portland institution that’s been around since 1963. It’s a German restaurant (duh) that serves really good food in a sort of kitschy setting complete with cuckoo clocks and strolling, lederhosen-wearing accordion players. Think Bavarian Disneyland. I’ve been going there ever since first moving up here – sixteen years now. And The Grotto is a Catholic sanctuary nestled among fir trees and towering cliffs; every Christmas, they put on a Festival of Lights display featuring over half a million lights, choral performances, carolers, nativity scenes, etc. At some point, back in my married life, we decided to combine the two and turn them into a once-a-year event, probably because they are just a few miles apart on NE Sandy Boulevard, and the Rheinlander isn’t exactly a cheap meal. It felt more special doing it that way, and gave us something to look forward to every December. I haven’t missed a year yet, and don’t intend to. Even when the kids have moved out, I bet I’ll still be going.

Sure, some things have changed over the years. The Rheinlander is a little stingier with their bread and fondue, and the soup that used to come with the meal is now an extra $5.50. And admission tickets to the Festival of Lights keep inching up; I didn’t get so much as a penny in change when I forked over $20 the other night. But you know what? The schnitzel was delicious, the lights were spectacular, and the warm, happy feeling I always get on what is probably my single most favorite night of the year? You can’t put a price tag on that.

I'd hate to be the guy checking all 500,000 lightbulbs.

Both of these photos are mine, but neither were taken this year. Or even in the same year. And that is the whole point about traditions: prices may rise and portions may shrink, but year after year, the experience is still going to be the same.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I Am Clark Griswold

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Wow, it’s December already. This is one of my favorite months…I always go a little overboard during the holidays (which explains the falling snow on my blog; great feature, WordPress!). My enthusiasm this year is tempered a bit by the fact that I am unemployed (and further by the fact that I have not received so much as a single call back on any of the jobs I’ve applied for – damn this 13% local unemployment rate!). I’m taking steps toward self-sufficiency and beginning to focus more on the freelance writing career I’d like to have, as it seems I may grow old and feeble waiting for some company to come along and hire me; last week I created an online portfolio/website with links to my published book reviews, web content, newsletters I’ve created, etc. I researched various options online for hours before realizing that the WordPress format is actually perfect for what I needed, so I created a second account, purchased my domain (first name last name dot com), set up my pages, created a Contact Form through Google Docs on the Hire Me page (which I also added to my blog here), and – voila! – now I’ve got something pretty nifty to point to when trying to sell myself. One can never have too much of an online presence when hoping for fame and fortune someday, right?

If it weren’t for the internet, what would I do with myself?!

I’ve also begun applying for freelance writing jobs. So far, I’ve earned a whopping $80 from this endeavor, but it’s a start, you know? We sent monkeys orbiting around the earth before man ever set foot on the moon. One step at a time.

It hasn’t been all work and no play, though. Everybody knows that made Jack a dull boy, and suddenly he was chopping down bathroom doors with a hatchet and trying to murder his family. I’d hate for a similar type of insanity to befall me, so I’m keeping myself busy as much as possible. Once Thanksgiving was over and done with, this gave me an excuse to decorate the townhouse for Christmas, inside and out. I wasted no time trotting out the decorations and packing up all the Harvest-themed stuff I’d had on display. I swapped one season for another in the course of an afternoon.

The biggest challenge? The outdoor lights.

The most enduring traditions of the holiday season are best enjoyed in the warm embrace of kith and kin. (Image courtesy of ugly-christmas-trees.com)

Until last year, I’d never bothered with them. I live in a condominium complex, which means my house is attached to a bunch of other houses. At least I’m on the end, instead of being sandwiched between two others. Still, it’s hard to go all gung-ho with exterior decorations when you’ve got this type of setup. But I missed the good ol’ days, when I had a house and would decorate it for the holidays, so last year I decided to put lights up. I hung them around the garage, and they looked pretty good. Plus, I was the only person in the complex to put lights up, so I immediately achieved the status of Clark Griswold of the neighborhood. In case you aren’t familiar with Clark Griswold (oh, the shame!) he is the patriarch of the Griswold family in National Lampoon’s Vacation series of films, played by Chevy Chase. Clark is a devoted family man with good intentions, and yet, he is accident-prone and often ends up in situations over his head. Take National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, for instance. A modern holiday classic and always, the first Christmas movie of the season for my family and I. Clark decides to string Christmas lights around the house, and in typical Griswold fashion, takes things to the extreme. Chaos and misfortune (but also a lot of laughs) follow.

Now, I’m not saying I went to the extreme, unless you take into account the fact that, once again, I was the only one in the complex who put up outdoor lights. My five strands of LEDs won’t cause a drain on the city’s power supply or blind neighbors who pass by. But, I did feel a certain amount of kinship with Clark as I strung up those lights while retaining my balance on a somewhat rickety ladder. Especially when I got up onto the roof and, lying on my stomach, reached beneath the eaves and staple-gunned the lights into place while partially dangling twenty feet above the ground.

“You checked the lights, right?” K1 (I ought to call him Rusty) asked as I stapled the last strand into place.

Err. Umm. No, I had not. But surely they’d be okay, right? After all, I’d just purchased them brand new last year. And they’re LED lights, which are both energy-efficient and long-lasting. I would certainly be spared the ignominy of a big scene in which I gather everybody around, Clark Griswold-style, as I flip the switch for the lights, only to have them not work.

I was not spared the ignominy of the big scene, however. I flipped the switch, and the lights did not work.

Well, some of them worked. But not all of them. I muttered a few choice curse words beneath my breath, and updated my Facebook status afterwards.

MP violated the first rule of hanging Christmas lights: I did not check all of them before they went up. Grr. Now I REALLY feel like Clark Griswold.

I assumed my FB friends would be sympathetic to my plight. Perhaps they’d offer me a good-natured virtual pat on the back, or send me encouraging words of wisdom. Instead, they pelted me with LOL’s. One particularly joyful friend even called me a “dumb ass.” Not that I blame her for that comment. I really should have checked the lights first. Even my teenaged son knew that!

Did I get mad and kick the Santa display in the front yard, though? I’m proud to say I did not! Mostly because I have neither a front yard nor a Santa display, but that’s neither here nor there. Instead, I made a trip to Target the following day. Bought some replacement lights, hauled the ladder back out, and checked every bulb, one by one, until I found the burned-out culprit. I replaced it, and my lights worked fine. It still boggles my mind that a single defective bulb can cause an entire strand to go dark. We have cell phones that are so smart they can practically cook dinner for us and change the oil in our cars, and yet we can’t come up with the technology to keep a string of lights lit if one of them goes out?

Whatever. My lights are working now, and I’ve got the best display in the neighborhood! (It’s the only display in the neighborhood, but again, let’s just overlook that for now).

All that’s left now? Kicking off our fun old-fashioned family Christmas by heading out into the country in the old front-wheel drive sleigh to embrace the frosty majesty of the winter landscape and select the most important of Christmas symbols.

No, not a Santa tie. A Christmas tree.

And if the kids are really good, I’m taking them to Wally World next year.

In The Bleak Midwinter

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The Christmas season is in full swing all around us, and this means an incessant dose of holiday music everywhere you turn.  On the radio…in the grocery store…in the background of your favorite sitcom.  We are being implored to deck the halls and haul out the holly left and right.  But did you ever stop and really listen to a lot of these songs?  I had an epiphany a couple of years ago when I realized that many Christmas songs are actually sad and depressing.

True, I was in the midst of relationship turmoil that year, but now that the dust has settled in 2009, I’m still hearing a lot of sadness and mourning in those lyrics.

Take, for instance, Christmas Bells.  I’ve only ever heard John Gorka’s version, but man, talk about cynical.  “And in despair I bowed my head, there is no peace on earth I said, for hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, goodwill to men.”  Definitely not a feel-good paean to peace and joy.

Have you heard that song called Christmas Shoes?  Talk about a depressing little ditty.  There’s this little kid, see, and his mom is dying, so he wants to buy her a pair of shoes…whenever that one comes up on the radio, I switch the dial.  It’s too hard to drive with tears streaming down your face.

Same Old Lang Syne by Dan Fogelberg is another one.  First off, I don’t consider this a “Christmas” song per se, but you only ever hear it during the holidays.  The lyrics tell of a chance encounter between former lovers on Christmas Eve, and is full of melancholy and regret.  It’s a double whammy for me, because it happened to be playing on the radio while I was driving to court to have my marriage dissolved…five days before Christmas.  It would be depressing enough even without that association.

Long live The King, but Blue Christmas is another song full of morose and longing.  It’s hard enough when the person you love packs up and moves on, but combine that with the Christmas season and you have a recipe for an aching heart.  “You’ll be doing alright with your Christmas of white, but I’ll have a blue, blue blue blue Christmas.”  Emphasis on “blue.”  Got it, Elvis.

How about Please Come Home For Christmas?  I don’t think any other song smacks of desperation like that one.  “My baby’s gone, I have no friends, to wish me greetings once again.”  Yikes.  Somebody contact the nearest suicide hotline.  “Cries will be singing Silent Night.”  Better hurry!  “There’ll be no more sorrow, no grief and pain, and I’ll be happy, happy once again.”  Man, I hope so, Glenn Frey – you’re bringing me down!

The tune that probably earns the title Saddest Christmas Song Ever – the one that takes the (fruit)cake, for sure – has got to be Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.  Cheery title aside, the lyrics were so depressing, they had to be changed!  Originally, it went, “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, it may be your last, next year we all may be living in the past.”  Wow.  How dark is that?  Even when it tries to aim for the upbeat – next year we might be together, if the Fates allow – it falls short: “Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow.”   Sheesh.  Makes you think the person singing the song is secretly wishing for a Remington shotgun wrapped up in a bright, shiny bow, and a carton of ammo in his stocking.

Give me Frosty The Snowman any day!  Only wait…don’t…because that’s nothing more than one long near death experience for the ol’ snowman, who is in grave danger because “the sun was hot that day.”

Merry Christmas, kids!