Saturday, December 31, 2005

A Very Soapy Water Christmas

It's been a while since I last blogged. I'm uncertain what to write about, as Christmas has passed, New Year's has passed, and like the headline on this week's Onion, about 75% of it has already been forgotten. No offense to the holidays or the people with whom I spent them. If I think hard enough about it, it was a really fun, great time. So, if I'm going to Holiday Blog, I better do it before the 12 days of Xmas pass us by.

The Kid had a fabulous Christmas and is still basking in its glow. All of the battery operated toys have had to have battery replacements already. Well, except for one. Every year, my uncle chooses an electronic singing Christmassy gag present to send to my mom. This year, it was a bear with a santa hat and a somewhat disturbing undulating butt that sings "Shake Your Booty." Naturally, the children in my family found it fascinating. The adults all enjoyed it throughout the week, until there was one particularly long Shake Your Booty Marathon that made sure that that song will be indelibly etched in our minds. I've been completely unable to shake it [ew. see, I didn't mean for that pun to appear]. In future years, the children of our family will be asked, "What is your favorite Christmas Carol?" And they will answer "Shake Your Booty." At that moment, the devious laugh of my Uncle Bill will be heard, like a whisper, haunting the room.
I've developed a new-found paranoia regarding Santa Claus. Perhaps it because my niece, 9, is getting all analytical on us, and I fear the time is nigh for her. Thusfar, none of her questions have even gotten to The Kid. She interrogated him one evening about the wrapping paper that Santa had used in our house. He totally remembered, which surprised me. She had received a different paper. Hmmm.
Then, on Monday, The Kid I spent the day at my mom's house. This was an unplanned, day-long visit (lucky mom!), because I woke up on Monday morning to painter dudes on my balcony. This wasn't a complete surprise, as my HOA is currently repainting my building, but a situation that was less that perfect for my day off (robe, bad cable TV, and painter dudes looking in my condo. uncomfortable). So, to mom's we went. Mom, having turned a new leaf and enacting her resolution to organize her stuff in 2006, was cleaning out her closet when we arrived. Indeed, the same closet that I hid the wrapping paper that "Santa" had used to wrap The Kid's presents. This paper roll is still in my mom's closet when The Kid finds it, yells for us, and says, "Look! Santa and Meema have the same wrapping paper!!!" Freaking out, I just look at him, waiting for him to flash back to his conversation with my niece, to connect A to B, and for all of the fun of Christmas to fall to pieces in my mom's closet. Instead, The Kid says, "Meema knows all the good places to shop! Just like Santa." Phew.

Saturday, December 24, 2005

Christmas Letters

I normally write a Christmas letter every year. I usually take the Kid out somewhere and we take a special picture to put in with the letter. I've even bought the special poinsettia laser printer paper and envelopes. I would spend hours, nay, days, on the letter, the addresses, the stamping. I would muse on life, tell about vacations, events, etc.

But what do you do when your Christmas letter would more likely read like Officer Krupke than Yes, Virginia? I tried writing a letter, but it kept coming out very Eeyore.

This year was tough, which is why I think I'm having a hard time not only with a Christmas letter, but with Christmas in general this year. Christmas comes during the longest nights, shortest days, and a time when my body just wants to hibernate. I want to do nothing but sleep.

2005 is a year I will be glad to be done with. But I'm trying really hard not to concentrate on the bad. Sure, my gramma died, I spent more time in psychiatrists and psychologists offices and school meetings than ever before, The Kid was diagnosed as bipolar in 2005, but I've also confirmed and reconfirmed throughout the year how much I really love That Kid. I mean, I love him so much I just look at him and want to consume him. Like I mean I want to EAT him. Whoa, that sounds psycho, but I think parents and people in love every where say, "Yeah, I know what that means." Lovers and madmen, and all that.

I can't forget, as well, that we had a fantastic summer. My best friend and truly, my soulmate (if only I swung that way!), Jaci decided early in the summer that she was going to move home to Chicago at the end of August. The entire summer, then, was devoted to spending time with her. The Kid and her have an extremely special bond, like they just like to hang out without me around. 2005 will go down as the year in which Sunday Sundae was invented. It is also the year in which Jaci met Anton Newcombe (also look here). Ha.

There has been a lot of good times with the tough times this year. That's life. And I love it.

Merry Christmas.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005


In a rare move for me, I've been in a consistently bad mood for the past two days. See, I'm truly wired to be happy. But for the last two days, I've been a complete grump. Work has been terrible. My boss cannot type. Coupled with that fact, he is an attorney. Simple tasks, like e-mails, take 500 times longer when one is working with a non-typing attorney. It's not different than usual, but it's been bugging me more, especially since I have plenty of my own work to do. Also, I'm getting a cold. Then there is Christmas, and although I really love my family and there is absolutely nothing I'm dreading this year (I expect no family spats, etc), the fact that Christmas is coming just pisses me off for some reason. Everything ticks me off. EVERYTHING. It's been upsetting.

For this reason, I'm feeling the necessity of a good Festivus airing of the greivances a few days early, if for no other reason, perhaps this bloodletting with make me get over this craptastic mood I've been in.

So, here is where I let it all out:

To The Kid's Teacher: You belong in a 7th grade math class, not in Kindergarten. You are cold, bitchy and nothing my son deserves in a kindergarten teacher. I know a good number of teachers and retired teachers read this blog. You must know I hold nothing against teachers in the grand sense. Just this one. She sucks. She lacks basic people skills. Her grammar and spelling is embarrasing. She treats communication with parents like going to the dentist (that would be with a horrid sense of obligation, devoid of pleasure). In my observations of her classroom, she has almost no interactions with her students as people, and instead delegates the job of speaking directly, one-on-one, to students to her para. One of The Kid's friend's parent called me one night to ask me if I found her unfriendly. I told her absolutely that I did find her unfriendly, and more than that, I felt like she would prefer if parents were not part of her job at all. The Kid's Friend's Parent replied, "Phew. I thought I was the only one. I was starting to worry that it was a race thing." While general unfriendliness is always preferable to racism, I found this exchange very disturbing.

Today was The Kid's last day of Kindergarten for the first semester. I sent him off to school with little gifties for The Teacher, The Para and The School Psychologist. They were pretty minor gifts, note pads, magnets, matching pens. You know, 3-5 dollar gifts. But still, they are presents. I also sent him with a Memory Game, requested by The Teacher on the school's giving tree. Each teacher wrote down their wish list on little snowmen, christmas trees, snowflakes, etc, for things that they would like for their classrooms. I will add that on Tuesday, I sent him with another item from her wish list. Additionally, my mom contributed an item on The Teacher's wish list. He came home from school today with a thank you note from The Para. He said The School Psychologist loved her gift most of all. I asked him what The Teacher said when he gave her her gift. He replied, "Nothing. I don't know." I asked, did she say Thank you? He thought about it for a minute, and said, "Well, I think so. I mean, she should have, right?"

She sucks. The end. She's not going to permanently scar him or anything, but she's literally not who I had in mind for him. Like, I open-enrolled him at that school with The School's other kindergarten teacher, who is exactly who should be teaching kindergarten, in mind. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one who open enrolled her child at The School. They had to hire another Kindergarten teacher, hence, THE Teacher.

Only one more semester left. We can only hope for a better assignment for 1st grade.


Okay, airing of the greivances is now over. Now it's time for wrestling. Where's that Kid?

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

The Best Worst Days

My Gramma died on December 4. She was 92 years old.

My mom called me in the last two minutes of the Bronco-KC game to tell me the news. The Broncos were attempting a come-from-behind win. I couldn't find my phone, however, so the ring went unanswered (typical of me, so if you ever call and get my voicemail, I'm probably home, I just am frantically following the ring, picking up pillows and blankets trying to locate it). When I eventually found the phone, I saw that my mom called. A call during the final two minutes of any bronco game by my mother would be unlikely, but especially during THIS game, so I knew there was something wrong. I called her back, and got the immediate voice mail transfer which is the 21st century's version of the busy signal.

I knew something was wrong, but never in a million years imagined it was my Gramma. Even though she was 92, she was still mentally sharp (if not more than me on a good day). She told me once that she attributed this to her daily habit of doing word searches and crossword puzzles.

When I finally did hear from my mom, she told me that Gramma had died. Weirdly enough, we are gauging time by that Bronco's game, which she was also watching. She died during the 2nd quarter or halftime, I think. Because she also had grandchildren living in Kansas City, we are uncertain for whom she was rooting. I take comfort that she had Denver and KC on her mind as she watched the game, and so was thinking of us all. She loved watching football games, and I don't think it really mattered to her who was playing, as long as she could watch a game. It is especially fitting that this was her last (I just wish the Broncos had won, ha ha). There is a connection with football and women in my family, a tradition I never really realized was so multigenerational until my sister wrote this, much more eloquently than I ever could, here.

After I had a good private cry, I had to prepare to tell The Kid that his Great-Gramma had gone to heaven. I'm not an over thinker. I am also not a "protector" of kids from bad news. My dad died when I was twelve, and I've often thought that I grieved and understood my dad's death in a much more intuitive way, as only a child can, than my sisters (all adults by then) and mom. Children, quite simply, are amazing in their wisdom.

I knew I had to just tell him, simply. I had no idea how he'd react, as he's never seen death except in our family dog (he was only three) and a slew of pet fishes. I went to get a drink of water. He had quickly taken over the TV after the bronco game, and I told him to turn off the TV and come to the kitchen. He saw that I'd been crying, and I must say I love that my child has empathy. He knew I was upset, and in a soft voice, said, "What's wrong, mama?" I told him, Great Gramma Taylor died today, she's in heaven now.

His reaction shocked me. He gasped and started bawling. Much like I was surprisingly shocked that my Gramma had died in the first place, The Kid's emotion also surprised me. He stood by the fridge, crying. He leaned back onto the fridge and slid down by his back, into a fetal position while holding his arms out for me to hug him. We cried and hugged in the kitchen for a long time, until I moved him onto the couch, where we talked through our cries. He asked me, "Does this mean we won't see Gramma ever again?" That's right, Kid. "But I'm going to miss her." Me too.

The funeral was set for Friday, December 10th in Bethany, (North Central) Missouri. This town is both my Gramma and Grampa's birthplaces, and where my Grampa was laid to rest 11 years ago. It was strange to go to work on Monday, wanting to mourn, but not really knowing how that would be done here in Denver, and knowing that we'd leave for the funeral on Thursday. The week went by in a liminal state, until we could get to Missouri.

On Thursday, we finally set off. It's a 12 hour road trip. Not much to tell about this road trip except that The Kid and I did our own version of Homer and Bart's "are we there yet?" but ours was more like, "Are we still in Kansas?" Yes. [10 minutes pass] "Are we still in Kansas?" YES!

When we arrived in Bethany, it was late. I roomed with my sister who told me about the next day's service. She, of course, would be singing, as she is a professional singer, and as a family we do everything we can to hear her sing at every family event (Bonnie, now you know why we bought the karaoke machine... ha ha). Gramma was not a religious person, although she was by all accounts a good, faith-ful person. She didn't leave us instructions, bible verses or poems to read at her service. Everyone had been racking their brains to choose a bible verse or two, and no one really had volunteered to give a eulogy.

I tossed and turned all night thinking that no one would eulogize her from our family (of course the preacher was going to, but he had only recently met her at her brother's funeral, just a month ago). The seed of the eulogy took shape as I fell asleep, so the next morning, I volunteered. The way my family is, someone would have done it, and done it beautifully, I just volunteered first.

So, the service began at 10:30 the next morning. I remember little, as funerals always go so quickly. The preacher said nice things. Bonnie sang wonderfully. My sister Kathy read a bible verse that I still don't know what it was. My cousin Stephanie, all heart, read from Ecclesiates. Then it was my turn. I would have no idea what I said, except that I kept the pages that I wrote my notes on, but the basics were thus:

If there is one thing in my short 29 years on earth is that funerals are the ultimate bittersweet experience. Although you've lost someone that is dear to you, you have the opportunity to come together with all of your family and friends, to mourn and show your love. We get to sort through the memories and make new ones together. There is laughter through the tears.

Today we've come together to say goodbye to Gramma. The first thing that I think of when I remember Gramma is her accent. There is none out there like it, she had the most amazing affect to her voice, containing Missouri, Washington DC, Texas, Nebraska, all in one. Henry Higgins could have never placed this one.

The second thing I think of is food. Her amazing molasses cookies, hamloaf, her excessive freezing... All remnants of her generation, of waste-not-want-not, and the understanding of real need.

The third thing, is her opinions. If you knew her, you knew her thoughts on everything.

The fourth were her letters. Our Grampa's letters were weekly updates on his typewriter: long, wordy newsletters to his friends and family. [total side note and not mentioned in the eulogy, but I think my grampa would have been a blogger!] Gramma, however, wrote something more like a telegram, a real slice of the 5 minutes it took her to write you her note: "Dear So-and-so, The weather is fine. Uncle Don is out running the dogs. I'm going to make a sandwich. Love, Gramma."

The amazing thing is that most of my memories of Gramma are intermingled with everyone else in our family. I can still see my dad cleaning the picture windows of their house before Gramma and Grampa's 50th wedding anniversary. I remember Christmases in Texas, and the long road trips to and fro, and the varying degrees of drama within. I remember Gramma making breakfast while we lined up for morning hugs from Grampa. I remember talent shows at the reunions in Kansas. I remember hearing Gramma laugh at her great grandchildren at our big family reunion just this past summer in Colorado.

As I think of all of these family memories, I realize what a great gift Gramma gave us. Eachother. We are her legacy. She's given us so much to share, so much to build on, and so much to be grateful for. She gave us the gift of us, a family, together.

Thank you. And Goodbye.

I know that I didn't say all of that. I also cried very hard through much of it, so if I said it, it might not have been intelligible.

The service was really simple but beautiful, and was mostly attended by family although there were a couple of family friends who were there. There was a mouse, however, who attended the service. As he didn't sign the guest book, it is uncertain if he knew my grandmother, or if he was a funeral crasher, like Maude. At any rate, he darted around the podium/pulpit/dais (it was a non-denominational funeral home, I don't know what to call it), under the flowers, and even under the casket and gave my mom and my aunt a good case of the giggles in the middle of a prayer.

After the funeral we went for lunch at Bethany's finest eating establishment, The Toot Toot. It's an all you can eat extravaganza of farm food and Midwestern delicacies (I'm so not kidding, the food is really good. As a testimonial, as we ate, a huge family-or village?-of Amish or Mennonite folks came in for a meal. If the Amish are showing up for the farm food, you know it's good...). There is an extraordinary amount of antique-ish dolls, old signs and fantastic old photographs of local history throughout the restaurant. The chairs and tables have price tags on them. I have no idea why, but I might venture to guess that if you really over indulged at the buffet, you could just buy the chair you are sitting in and perhaps another patron could just throw you, still affixed with mashed potato and gravy epoxy to the chair, into the back of their pick up and just drop you at home. Just a possibility.

In all, it was an great experience. I feel so morbid saying this, but I really like funerals. Like I said in the eulogy, it's a chance for the family to get together, to bond, to re-cement. And I feel that right now. I've seen my entire extended family twice this year. This is, all things considered, the best thing about 2005 for me. My Gramma only got to see us one of those two times, but I am confident that she would have been pleased to see us together again.

One last note, and I'll end this very very long post. My Mom gave Gramma a "Grandmother's Journal" a couple of years ago and she filled it out. It is absolutely priceless. In it she wrote about her childhood, her parents, meeting and dating Grampa. My advice to the internet and the world: if you have a grandparent who you would be interested in knowing more about, give one of these books to them. Hopefully they will fill it out.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Procrastination of more important things...

Shannon told me to do this, and as I am having a hard time writing in complete sentences lately, I will comply.

Seven things to do before I die:

  • Make sure that every one I love knows it, and knows it well.
  • Write the post I am procrastinating right now.
  • Take The Kid back to the land where he was conceived, aka Ireland. The key to this is to take him when he's old enough to get it, be game with me while I make him cross sheep fields to show him the churches I researched in my former life, and ultimately be old enough to go to the pubs with me as well. Perhaps a college graduation present of some kind?
  • Go with my best friend to Southeast Asia, India, or Guatemala (all three would be okay with me as well)
  • Run a successful and "Meaningful, Beneficial" business with my best friend (big plans here, will write about it someday)
  • Meet Jimmy Carter, although Bill Moyers would do fine as well.
  • This is really geeky, but I'd love to go to the Oscars someday. I realize now that I will never be accepting my own award, but now I'd be happy to sit in the balcony.

Seven Things I Cannot Do:

  • Be completely rude to telemarketers. They tick me off, but I can't help but say sorry and please to them, because honestly they have one of the shittiest jobs on earth.
  • Run a marathon (because, why?)
  • Keep my house clean for more than three consecutive days. Maybe I should try for four and put it up with the things I will do before I die... There's a lofty goal.
  • Feel put upon. This is MY life, and if I'm bummed, I own that bumm-ed-ness.
  • Order magazines from those "keep kids off drugs" kids that go door to door in the ugliest pyramid scheme ever concocted.
  • Streak through a public place, like the Oscars, for instance.
  • Apathy. I just don't DO that.
Seven things that I love about The Kid:
(changed slightly to fit my purposes)

  • He's a charmer
  • He has the cutest freckles on his hand
  • He is loving, empathetic and feels deeply
  • He is earnest, and says everything with complete conviction and honesty
  • He has the most adorable swirly cowlick on his forehead
  • The way that he says the word, "waffle."
  • His creativity

Seven things I say often:

  • Yo. This is a great enhancement to the end of a sentence. It makes mundane statement just a little bit funny. It's tranformative. It turns the command, "Put your socks on!" into a more playful request of, "Put your socks on, yo."
  • Ridiculous. Because it so often fits.
  • I love you. Or at least I try.
  • These words may or may not actually come out of my mouth, but I think of them often, at least at work: jackass, fuck-wad.
  • For sure. I usually say it like the blond muppet lady in the band, like, "fer shure."
  • I've been quoting the movie Elf quite a bit lately. Even to people who've never seen the movie. Yesterday I told someone I had an idea that I was particularly psyched out of my mind about...
  • I type this into emails every day: Please let me know... Please let me know if you need any help completing XY or Z... Please let me know if this is report meets your expectations. Please let me know if there is anything else I can do... etc.

Seven books or book series I love:

  • Harry Potter
  • Lolita
  • V. (T. Pynchon)
  • Lord of the Rings Trilogy
  • A Prayer for Owen Meany
  • Don Quixote (the first postmodern novel!!!)
  • The amazing amazing art historical writings of Meyer Schapiro

Seven movies I watch over and over again:

  • Elf
  • Sunset Boulevard
  • Raising Arizona
  • Parenthood
  • Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (the original, thankyouverymuch)
  • Best in Show
  • When I was about 11 or 12, I watched Gone with the Wind EVERY DAY. Not the whole movie, but I could get through the whole thing in about a week. I adored Scarlett O'Hara. I bought it out of a bargain bin a couple of years ago, and was shocked that I loved her so much, I mean, she's a wreck, a horrible person, and she makes really bad decisions. But at least she was plucky, and would never go hungry again. This is proof that you can raise a feminist while as a child she can look up to misguided women (Scarlett, Barbie, etc).

I shall not participate in the "tagging" of other bloggers, mostly because my internet community is extremely small and I don't know 7 other bloggers...

Have a fantastic day!

Saturday, December 03, 2005

Fa wa wa wa

Note to self: Never forget how adorable it is to hear The Kid sing Christmas carols, especially the ones laden with the "L" sound, as The Kid now substitutes W's for L's.

"Deck the haws with boughs of hah-wee. Fa wa wa wa waaa..."