Notes from SoCal

A Southern Californian Christmas landscape. Please note the palm trees.

I hope everyone is basking in the warmth and happiness of family. Or friends. Or people that you just sort of tolerate accompanied by egg-nog with a certain amount of oomph added in. However it is that you roll. I am down in Southern California with most of my family. It's 11:30am and I'm still in my pj's which would indicate that it's already a very good Christmas indeed.

In the past few years I haven't been able to spend the holidays exclusively with my branch of the family. Marriage tends to complicate things - in the best of ways usually - but often during the holidays you find that the push-me-pull-you becomes increasingly intense. I come from parents who graciously have always said, "Do whatever is the least stressful for you," and I feel that in years past this has led to a certain amount of neglect on my part towards them. While they have never once made me feel guilty about this, my own conscience has prodded me with some vigor - sort of like a steel toed boot in the kidneys, if you will - and so this year I remedied that and flew down to San Diego with them and have been fully immersed in the usual family traditions, some of which I have forgotten after years of not being present for them.

And to be here with them? Oh, it has been heaven.

We have eaten and laughed and opened wine and snacked and told stories and traded recipes and made plans for the week and giggled at each other and poked fun and loved and have not let an hour pass without someone exclaiming, "This is so much FUN!" And it is. It is hilarious fun. Two days in and I already feel refreshed, if not somewhat fatter than when I stepped off of the plane on Wednesday. But that is what January is for - vigorous cleansing. So I will just continue to enjoy this time and hope that each one of you is doing the same.

I think we spent a lions share of Christmas Eve shopping for food. It's a family sport. Our team always wins.

Yesterday was spent in the gathering of ingredients and preparing of Rouladen which is a German culinary masterpiece. It sort of looks like a turd landed on your plate amidst homemade noodles and red cabbage. So from a visual perspective it's not the best thing you've ever seen. But the flavor? Holy Moses. It's something I cannot even begin to describe, which is probably better since I can't have all of your showing up at my sisters doorstep demanding a bite. I took this opportunity to learn how to make them properly since my parents have never written down the recipe and their version is peerless. So if I know you and you bring me a present (I wear a size 8.5 shoe), I'll perhaps make them for you. I'm now being summoned to the kitchen to learn how to make the corresponding noodles, so I must fly. Happiest of Holidays to you all.

Haggling over radishes.

I carry you in my heart

You'll have to read this through a thick gauze of forgiveness as I took an Ambien about an hour ago and am really only half aware as to what I'm writing. Also, I think I just bought a set of steak knives and a vibrator. Hard to say as I temporarily fell asleep and then came to on a website that my mother would qualify as unladylike. I'll see what shows up in the mail over the next week...

...I've done this a few times before. Taken a sleeping aid and then woken up in the morning with my inbox filled with shipping notifications for things I bought while under the influence of my medication. When a faux fur vest showed up that gave off the impression that I had taken up wearing road kill as fashion, I knew I had to limit my access to the outside world once an Ambien has taken a swim down my gullet. So this foray, here, is somewhat verboten. Normally, I put myself straight to bed and read until my lids need to be propped up. However, I'm feeling frisky this evening.

Well, not frisky so much as just thoughtful. I'm home from yet another trip down south. This time it was for my nieces wedding and from Wednesday evening to Saturday night, I think I only sat down once, and that was to watch Heidi and Scott say "I do" to one another. It was an amazing ceremony. I've been having a hard time putting into words my feelings on how this weekend, this wedding, went. I spent much of it in tears, for reasons I'll explain later, but more than anything, I was just in awe. In awe of the strength of the love that they have for one another. In awe of how much their relationship has touched those around them. In awe of how peace just seems to surround Heidi and Scott and how their love for one another extends so beautifully out towards the people that they care for in their lives. As individuals they are each unique and people that you want to know. As a couple...well, it's inspiring.

I think everyone who walks down the aisle with the person they intend to spend the rest of their life with has just as much of a chance as anyone else of making it the distance. But then there is this little subsection of people. This tiny percentage who, before they even take their vows, seem to have a more mature and wizened understanding of what marriage is and how theirs will proceed. They grip each others hands tightly and you know that they are one before they ever proclaim that before their friends and families. They are the marriages that you look up to even though you might be married already and have several years on the newlyweds. And this is how I feel about Scott and Heidi. That they found each other amidst the quagmire of this life and created their own little oasis and have, in this imperfect world, found a tiny bit of perfection in their love for one another.

It was one the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

Some things never change.

I touched down in San Diego with my parents yesterday and the first thing out of my mothers mouth was, "OH! We need to go to the store to buy some of that powder so we can, you know, poop!"

The bands back together! It's always good to know I can count on "regularity" being a part of my weekend. Right after "laughter" and "possible girth increase due to too much food." But I brought my Official Eating Pants, so all is well.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Healing balm

So there are many things that I enjoy about my life, but what I love the most is being an aunt. My first niece, Holly, was born when I was only just about to turn seven and I’m closer to her and my second niece, Heidi, in age than I am to either of my sisters. For this reason, the whole familial package just sort of blends into one large group of people who are related. However, I’ve changed the diapers of anyone younger than my brother (and there's seven people who fall into that category), an activity that none of my nieces and nephews can claim. Yet. Turnabout is fair play, people, and those Depends have to get on one way or the other.

Anyhoo, we’d all been rather baby deprived up until three-and-a-half years ago when Nicholas came into our lives. He’s my sister Steph’s son. I don’t get to see him anywhere near often enough, and when I do, he’s been more interested in what he can Climb or Take Apart to really pay much attention to That Blond Lady Who Is Always Trying to Kiss Me Stop It PLEASE. I’ve persisted, however, because I HAVE changed his diapers and dammit, you’re going to hug me because I’ve dealt with your poo.

Sunday, I scootched down in the blistering heat to Steph and Tim’s house to enjoy an afternoon with the family. As I’ve mentioned before, the AC is out in my car, so I wilted into the house in a state of extreme dampness considering the temperature was well over 100 and DEAR GOD no one needed to hug me since I was clearly practicing for menopause. Everyone gave me wide berth as I stood in the foyer, a puddle spreading out from around my feet. Nicholas, however, had no such compunction about showing affection and hurled himself around my legs, where he proceeded to slide down to my ankles since he couldn’t get a grip on my skin. But he latched onto me furiously and didn’t let go for the entire afternoon.

If there is anything that will soothe a black mood better than an affectionate child, I don’t know what it is. At some point that weekend, I had cracked through his reality, and he was not going to let me out of his sight. This small person, my little nephew, completely erased the cesspool of negativity that I had been swimming in since Saturday morning. He drew me pictures, he insisted that I sit next to him at all times, he cuddled with me on the couch while we watched The Incredibles. Best of all, though, he came outside with a popsicle for me and insisted that we go and sit up in his tree house together. A date, if you will. And if you have not had such an experience in your life, then I pity you. Even in the withering heat as I sweat through my clothes, there was nothing better about Sunday than that moment, with Nicholas pointing to Kylie explaining, “She’s POOPING Auntie Jen! Then she will go peeps. Popsicle is COLD! Look! Spider! It’s HOT!” I find these kinds of conversations completely enlightening as most of my days are spent speeding through a packed schedule. To take the time to sit - even if my skirt needed to be wrung out - and notice the things that capture the sights of a three year old, well, you’d be astonished as to what you’ll notice.

And on that day, I sorely needed that. Not only the chubby arms around my neck, but for someone to say to me, look! the leaves are green! I pee’d in the potty! let’s spray the dogs with water just for the fun of it! And so we did…and my head felt remarkably healed. It was a good way to start the week.

My weekend. Or, how when everything is perpendicular and parallel I experience spontaneous orgasm.

You know how sometimes you're really excited for the weekend because of the prospect of sleeping in? and no work? and whatever wild and crazy thing you do on your days off? sex in a tree? I'm just riffing here. But then you're all wheee!, you get home, pour yourself a cold one, relax on the couch for a while and then find that suddenly it's Sunday night and you're watching Friends reruns on TBS and you think, "WAIT A MINUTE! Where did my weekend go?" and then you're all depressed and disgruntled because Monday is staring you in the face like a zombie who is trying to figure out how to best suck out your joy and verve?

Yea. I didn't have one of those weekends.

This weekend, I ORGANIZED. Which is to me what a speedball and a large bottle of vodka is to an addict. Or: HEAVEN. There were clothes to be thrown out, the front closet to be reckoned with and you should see my desk! The pure genius and creativity that shall now FLOW given the sheer beauty of my desk!

I also started to attack the guest bedroom closet, but that is going to take some planning. I'll have to draw up schematics and buy some shit to tackle that area which is also known as the third ring of hell OR The Closet of Which We Do Not Speak. I did step one toe in there to assess how bad the situation had become. We're at least on Orange Alert. I didn't stay in there long enough to really make an exact statement on it's condition as I was afraid of being swallowed whole by some pillows and Marc's down jacket(s). I did make it out with a bag that I hadn't seen in a while and SWEET HOLY MOSES. My knitting supplies!

I'm not bragging when I say that my mother taught me to knit when I was six years old. I'm not bragging because I suck at it righteously. In fact, after she went over the basics and was sure I wasn't going to inadvertently stab an eye out with the needles she left me to my own devices. I came to her some days later with the mangled scarf that I had managed to produce after dropping stitches for roughly a week straight - she patted me on my head and said, "Don't worry Liebchen, you're good at other things." She then turned around an laughed and laughed and laughed in a way that, as a child, I wasn't entirely sure how to take.

I attempted to knit on and off for several years, giving friends things that I'm sure have died dusty deaths in the back of closets. And so when I rescued this bag from the depths of The Place Where Things Go to Die, I was curious as to what I had most recently given up on. I pulled out a wad of dark blue, gorgeous yarn that had been stabbed through with needles, most likely out of frustration on my part. I unrolled the mass and realized it was a scarf I had been knitting for Marc in the early years of our relationship, when things that you made had sentimental value.

I sat on the floor laughing. I had started this project after being laid off during the wreckage of the dot-com years, my hands idle with the yawning gap of time I had between jobs. Mom had suggested that I re-attempt knitting and I had gone down to the store with her to pick out yarn and start a pattern that she deemed me capable of. I labored over it, driving down from San Francisco whenever I had dropped a stitch, which at first was often. About a month later, I had something that a person could feasibly wrap around their neck and, with the pride of someone who has no perspective on their work, I took it down to show my mother.

She took it out of the bag and unrolled it on the counter top, chewing her top lip furiously as she examined my work. A rather pregnant pause ensued with more lip chewing and some hand rubbing across her mouth. Finally, she could hold it in no longer and burst into laughter, the kind where she had to support herself on the counter top. I was flummoxed, surprised. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh darling. You could not possibly be this hard up that you have to give THIS to Marc for his birthday. Aren't you on unemployment? Do you need some money?" and then she went into another gale of laughter which lasted for a very, very long time. I think she actually had to sit down and there was a bottle of wine opened to calm her down.

I called her yesterday to relay this memory after I had given the scarf a proper burial. Her response was, "Ahahahahahahaha! Ahem. I DO recall that thing. You know love, we can't all be good at everything. Ahahaha! Perhaps you should just give knitting a rest."

Indeed. Know thyself - maturity for the win!

Why with the sequins? WHY?

My time down south is coming to an end. I leave today to float up back home, but I’m happy to report that my head is in a much better place and I won’t be rending my garments and falling to the floor in paroxysms of misery and angst.

I've decided that I ought to open up a cottage industry, finding wedding gowns for people. (I just lost ALL of my male readers right there, I guarantee it.) I came down here with the intention of doing a lot of sitting and inspecting the insides of my eyelids, but my niece went and got engaged a few weeks ago, and we decided that a bulk of this weekend would be dedicated to finding The Dress. Seeing as I accomplished this with Angie just recently, I was primed and ready to wade my way through fields of sequins and bead work and tulle to find something sleek and magnificent for Heidi.

(Honestly, I’m having a hard time with her being engaged. Not only do I feel as though I was JUST changing her diapers yesterday, but so many of my memories are of her being small and racing around - she never walked - with a fountain of blond hair coming off of the top of her head that seeing her in dresses that make her look decidedly statuesque and grown up have me thinking, “WAIT! Is she potty trained yet? Come here and let me help you blow your nose!” I feel as though I’ve spent the last 20 some years standing still, and all of the tiny people in my life have just grown up so quickly around me. It’s strange, this getting older thing.)

We did find the most perfect and beautiful dress for Heidi. Poor Scott is not going to know what to do when she walks down the aisle. I suggest we have a glass of water on hand, more to throw at him than anything as there might be fainting involved. We were fortunate enough to find the right dress at the first boutique that we went into. Though, feeling as though we ought to do our due diligence and cast a wider net, we went to another shop yesterday. Bad idea. We walked in and it looked as though a sequin factory had had intestinal issues and exploded all over everything in sight – we all immediately broke out in hives, dry mouth and my left leg is still itching. Our requests of things that were “Sleek. Sophisticated. No trimmings,” somehow got translated into, “AS CLOSE TO LITTLE BO PEEP AS POSSIBLE.” All that was missing was the flock of sheep. Sweet fancy Moses, we didn’t last long and decided that we needed to go back to the original shop and try on The Dress once more just to erase the memory of the prior shop. And then have drinks. DRINKS WERE REQUIRED AND PURELY MEDICINAL.

And then we spent the rest of the day decorating various flat surfaces all over the house in an effort to recover. We do not like shopping. The end.

Old cheese

So a new week! Yay! And I'm still in Southern California with some of my favorite people, which is delicious. Last week, I felt like I was in some sort of hellish holding pattern...some purgatory...you know, where you have to do your taxes all day, the cork always breaks off in the wine bottle and your pants are just a little too short and you have on lame socks. That was Last Week in a nutshell.

But the week took a remarkable turn for the better on Thursday. Amazing what a short plane ride south can do for one's spirits. I had boarded in San Jose and was settling into my aisle seat (preferred since it has such easy access to the often needed potty) when an older woman came up and asked to sit in the window seat. I happily gave it to her and hoped that no one would require the middle seat since I like my space...you never know when might want to break out into jazz hands during a flight. That extra seat gives you ample space to really flail.

The older woman was kind and chatty. We exchanged some pleasantries and about five minutes in she said, "Well, dearie, I'm afraid it's just one of those busy bladder days. I'm going to have to head up to the toilet, and from the looks of it (people were still boarding) I'm going to be swimming upstream and causing quite a ruckus." I let her out and she made her way back up to the front. Her comments of, "I'm so sorry, but my bladder just won't WAIT," faded as she was swallowed up by the passengers. I went back to reading my book (which is excellent!) and was surprised a few moments later to have someone smack my shoulder with considerable force. I looked up to see what I thought at first was a LARGE man, but ended up being a homely woman of impressive girth hovering over me. "I want to sit in the window seat. Get up," she said.

I don't like being bossed.

"The seat is taken," I replied, looking back into my book in the hopes that she wouldn't consider the middle seat since there was so much hate spilling off of her, I didn't think there was enough room for both her and her bad attitude in our row.

"Is your friend IMAGINARY? Because I don't see anyone there," she spat, apparently under the impression that I was put on this earth solely to make her life miserable.
Now, I really wanted to run with that because how can you not when given such a golden opportunity? I wanted to say, "No, idiot, he's right here next to me. Don't disparage my boyfriend Chris Pine like that." But with FAA regulations being so tight these days and not wanting to get kicked off of the plane for being a kook, I said, "No, she is in the bathroom."
"If you're trying to save a seat for a friend, I'm going to get a steward up here to make you give me the seat. You're not allowed to save seats. I want the window. Move."
I couldn't believe this woman was arguing with me when the back half of the plane wasn't even full. I stood up, partly to give her what for, and also because I saw the cute little woman from before come out of the restroom and knew she would want her seat back. (There are certain moments when I'm especially thankful to be tall - for instance when someone is irritating me and thinks that I'm just this little blond thing that can be pushed over. I was over 6 feet that day, being in high heels. It was glorious watching her lean back and blink as I rose over her). "I'm not saving the seat, the woman who is ALREADY sitting in it is on her way back and if you would kindly move, she'll be able to take her seat again. So if you'd still like to get a steward up here, that is fine with me as I'd dearly love to explain how rude you've been. I'm sure the passengers that you're holding up behind you would agree. So please, just find somewhere else to sit." See? I can be polite even when I'm basically telling someone to shove it.

The older woman slid back in and I sat back down after the angry woman moved on muttering something about how she couldn't believe she was being forced to travel with a bitch such as me. I got comfortable again, and the little old woman turned to me and said, "I'm SO GLAD you got rid of her. She was being just hateful to the people who were working the counter. HATEFUL. And then she came and sat next to me while we waited to board and she smelled of old cheese. It was quite awful, as old cheese tends to be. It would have made the flight very long, don't you think? Would you like a Wethers?"

And I DID want a Werthers. It was if Last Week went to the back of the plane with the Cranky Woman and the Lovely Older Lady ushered in the New Week with her cheery disposition and candies. I settled into my seat with my book and smiled the whole way to SoCal. And I've been smiling since.

The post wherein I confess to eating too much chocolate

Sweet tap-dancing Moses, it's been a week. It's Friday afternoon, and a project that was supposed to take two days - TWO DAYS - is now on Day 6. It should also be noted that I have consumed more calories this week due to stress than I have in ages. Thank God I now have a lovely backyard to swan about in as I'm not going into polite society until I've worked the chocolate off of my ass. So if you need me, I'll be over here, curled up in an unflattering pair of dog-hair covered yoga pants. You know, that pair that's been pre-stretched for such situations.

I would put up more pictures today, but the workers are still in the yard, and they didn't come prepared for a photo session, so you'll have to wait until Monday when I shall post our yard in all of its patio-laden glory. Next step, plants. Seeing as I kill everything that I touch, I'm leaving that area to an expert. Which is to say, my mother. Things thrive under her care; they are too frightened not to. What she lacks in stature, she makes up for in German-ness, which sound dubious at best, but if you meet her, you'll understand how the Germans made it as far as they did during WWII. It's not the master race, but it's an efficient one. Trust.

Have a great weekend, all! More Monday - and Happy Mothers Day to the Mom's that read this. May your daughters not grow up to have a not-so-secret blog wherein she regularly uses her family for content. Or, at least do enough to give her GOOD content...it's the least you can do.

Dutch Blitz. If you don't play it, I can't know you.

So I’m back. From vacation. Home. Whee. It’s cold here. It was not cold there. I am decidedly grumpy about this, this coldness. I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and found that my toilet seat had, somewhere between 11pm and 3am, turned to a block of ice. This was surprising. Also, unpleasant. I’ve been avoiding peeing since I got home from work today because I should not have to HOVER OVER THE TOILET SEAT IN MY OWN HOME for fear that my ass will suffer from frostbite. My bladder is unhappy about this. But my ass is warm, so the bladder can just suck it.

Let’s see. I didn’t do so well with the not drinking thing, but I did behave. I didn’t, for instance, drink so much that I walked into the closet in the middle of the night, thinking it was the bathroom. No, I did not. Though someone DID and the next morning wasn’t feeling so well and relayed to us his adventures amongst the hangers and clothing while on the hunt for the potty. Next time, bring supplies, my mother said.

Those two cases of wine she sent down? Almost completely gone. There is a program for people like us. Or we should teach a program. Depends on your stance on wine consumption, I suppose.

I returned home with much less hair. My niece Heidi was looking awfully cute with a stacked bob. When asked who had sheared her thusly she pointed to my sister and so I dragged Candy upstairs and she administered the same cut on my head and now I look fabulous! and chic! and cropped! and possibly my hair is now cooler than I am, or I’m not cool enough to have this haircut – one of those. But - I’ll try. I think I’ll have to start wearing short dresses and dropping French phrases into my speech to match the hair. That will last for approximately one day, after which I’ll get very tired and retire to my room with a case of the vapors.

We spent much time playing cards. Dutch Blitz, which is a version of speed Solitaire, though played with Rook cards and an infinite amount of people. It is dizzying and fast and brings out the worst in us. Candy and I hurl insults at one another across the table while my mother tells those playing that since she gave us life, she could just as easily extinguish it if we don’t SLOW DOWN. Holly hums. Heidi mutters. Steph sits in the corner observing, yelling, I HATE THIS GAME! yet calling out help to those who need it and Anna, my brothers girlfriend (hi Anna!) who braved a weekend with the entire family and had never played Dutch Blitz before would cheerfully say “I got ZERO this round! I’m so happy I’m not in the negatives!” while Candy would moan “I ONLY GOT 50 POINTS!” Out of a possible 56. Candy always wins. She is scary fast. We need to hobble her.

Truthfully, though, I thought I would have more to report. There was so much laughter and general joy, but the stories are of the sort that someone who doesn’t speak the language of our family would just say “Meh, y’all are weird”. So I’ll spare you. I’ll tell you the story of the near assault on my person in the security line at the airport tomorrow. Because GOD FORBID I should travel without somehow making an ass out of myself in front of the TSA agents. I have my doctorate in General Foolishness. Truly.

Ruminations

I know why families were created with all their imperfections. They humanize you. They are made to make you forget yourself occasionally, so that the beautiful balance of life is not destroyed. -Anais Nin

It's Sunday night and I leave San Diego tomorrow. While there is much to tell - how could there not be after four days with my entire family? - I just have to digest it, to let this last night wash over me and sit, happy, in these last few hours with the people that I love the most.

I have friends who have siblings that they are not close to, that they see perhaps on holidays or every few years. Those kinds of relationships completely escape me. I don't judge, but I cannot, could not, survive for long swaths of time without my sisters and brother. We've often talked about living in houses that have connecting backyards. While we all live in different cities and that dream remains forever in the firmament, the idea is even more alluring now as adults since we all get along so well and never seem to have enough time with each other. Though I've seen everyone individually in regular increments over the past year, this is the first time that we've all been under one roof in a very long time and how I've missed the mayhem, the general chaos and the happiness that oozes out of everything as we eat, play and talk with one another.

I feel blessed, fortunate, lucky to have such a group of people to call my own. I'm sitting now in my nephews room. It's nearing 11pm and still the sounds of laughter crawl up the stairs and curl under the door. I'm sad to leave, wish we could stay like this in some sort of suspended animation for a few more days. It's wonderful to have these kinds of emotions, especially when I consider our family's past, its difficult history. My own relationship with my parents was scarred and mangled, something I suspected was beyond repair until it started, five years ago, to evolve into something more than hostile smoke signs that we would send up to one another from a safe distance, each of us letting the other party know how much disappointment they felt, how wounded they were. I don't know what caused the shift, but I'm thankful for it each day, even more so now when my mother stops me in the hallway and embraces me, whispering up into my ear, "I love you, my child." It stops my heart momentarily because there was a time when I yearned for that kind of affection and it didn't come. Now, it is precious.

And so I ache to leave tomorrow because it is never enough. It never is. Despite our differences, our abilities to drive one another mad, our tendencies to be in each others business, there is never enough time to tell each other how much we mean to one another. How much love flows between all of us. So I'll rise tomorrow and enjoy one more sun soaked day with my family before we fly off in different directions and resume our lives. We'll all be refreshed by this time together and will call, starting conversations with, "Remember that afternoon when...?" to momentarily dip back into the memory. And while it's not the same as being able to sit across from each other, pouring yet another glass of wine, it's something. And for those of us who come from a family whose past is filled with such pain, the laughter we enjoy now, the beautiful memories that we are building up, act as a balm to those old wounds and make weekends like this even more precious.