Bring On The Eggnog.

I prefer mine spiked with a little bourbon. Hopefully, at this writing, the adult male member of the household has made the run to the grocery and liquor stores, and we're fully stocked with the makings of some good,old-fashioned eggnog.
It's how we like to spend our Christmas eve.
We're not really a family that's big on tradition, but it seems our years evening before Christmas consists of the spiked nog, settling before the television, and watching the video of  our daughter's first Christmas, when both her Nonnie and Papa were still alive. Afterwards, we watch A Christmas Story and then It's a Wonderful Life.
If I can work up the ambition and enough guilt, I'll make my way to a midnight mass.

To be honest, Christmas eve hasn't been the same since my mom passed away. She made it special for everyone and anyone who showed up at her house. The number of gifts under the tree were embarrassing. We could have helped restock a homeless shelter with clothing, bath items, and electronics. No one left my mom's house empty-handed.
One of my favorite dinners she'd make was a pork roast with an apricot glaze. I never bothered to get the recipe from her, and after she died, I had to make long search of the internet to track down something that came close. The only thing I remembered was the glaze was made with apricot jam and Russian salad dressing. It sounds disgusting, but it is seriously delicious.
After she passed away, my brothers and I started doing our own holiday plans with our respective families. I usually make the trek north to see them the day after Christmas. We all like for the young cousins to see each other and stay close, or at least as close as possible. Not always easy when your homes are separated by more than five hundred miles.
So tonight, I will try to figure out what to feed the two other members of my household. It won't be an apricot glazed pork roast, I'm sad to admit. Maybe next Christmas eve.
But I'll always have eggnog.

I'm Sure It's A Phase

One of the hardest things about motherhood, at least for me, is having to look at the little darling I delivered to the world (a two day ordeal, thank you very much) and declare her one of the biggest bitches I've ever met. She is a piece of work, my daughter. But of course, I love her.

The other day, there was not one thing I could have done or said that wasn't up for debate. For instance, I was running errands, busy as hell, and needed to ask the male adult in the house a question. I phoned home not in any way, shape, or form, anticipating issues. Darling daughter answered the phone.

"Hi, sweetie, is daddy there?" My tone was light and neutral. Very pleasant, yet bland, I thought. No need to poke the tiger, or in this case, teenager.

"Why do you want to know?" I couldn't see her face, but the sneer made it's way over the cell, loud and clear.

"Look, I don't have time to argue with you," I said. "I need to talk to your father. Is he there, or isn't he?"

It was a question that required an answer of yes or no. Why, I wondered, did she insist on making it a thousand times more difficult than it needed to be?

As it turned out, her father was not there, but the rest of my interactions with her for the remainder of the day were equally as challenging.
She says it's because I'm annoying. Clearly, I had no idea.
Silly me...I thought I was simply being a mom.

The Great Christmas Blizzard of 2009

You can't really appreciate a massive snowstorm until you live in an area that totally freaks out when the white stuff starts falling.
I'm a Detroit native and also lived in Lake Tahoe. Snow typically doesn't scare me. Living in a Mid-Atlantic state is a totally different story. It takes the mere threat of a mere two or three inches to send people into a panic, making a wild dash to the grocery store to stock up on bread, toilet paper, and milk. I have no idea as to why these three staples are always the top three on the list. For me, it's way more important to make sure there's some good wine and cheese on hand, not to mention the key ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. In a pinch, if we run out of toilet paper in our house, there's always paper napkins. Oh sure, once in a while, the toilet clogs up if you use too much...but such is life.
In any case, the snow started falling in earnest late Friday night and didn't stop until last night. As of this writing, Sunday morning, I'm guestimating there's a good 18 to 24 inches out on the deck.
We did take a ride around town late yesterday evening. A party we'd been invited to had not been canceled and we braved the trek over to the other side of the city in my very capable, all-wheel drive, SUV.
This morning, I'm thinking about putting on my warmest fleece and muck-luck boots and taking a walk through the neighborhood, see if any stores are open for a little Christmas shopping.
Enjoy the White Christmas while it lasts. Beats rain, anyway.

Oh Christmas Tree And Other Holiday Bunkola

I'm not sure why it takes almost a week to get a Christmas tree up and running in my household. On paper, I think my family likes the concept of a beautifully decorated tree. Reality is another story. After a week of discussions on the pros and cons of a big tree versus the table-top variety, it became very apparent that no one really wanted to make the huge leap of getting into the car and actually buying a tree.
By last Sunday, I'd had it and realized it was up to me. I drove down to Whole Foods (it really is nice to have one so conveniently located) picked out the first nicely shaped tree that would fit in the back of my SUV and drove home.
It's now Wednesday...I'm still decorating the damn thing! Oh well. Some people have heartwarming holiday traditions, I have my yearly holiday torture.
After dragging the seven foot tree up two flights of stairs by myself, another member of my household (who shall remain nameless for a variety of reasons) helped me maneuver it into the tree stand. It was straight and well-shaped, and ready for some twinkling lights.
Yeah, right. I had already gone through the four sets of lights from last year. They all seemed to be in perfect working order...until I had three quarters of the first string wrapped around the upper half of the tree. I happened to glance over at the youngest member of the household (who shall also remain nameless because who wants to be called out in your mom's blog)as she held onto the tail end of the lights, which were, for whatever reason, no longer twinkling.
"SON OF A @&*$#*%*," I screamed, loud enough to make the poor kid drop the lights. "ARE YOU $&*#*#+&*% KIDDING ME?"
Yes, I yell and swear, so sue me. My people are loud and short-tempered, it's genetic.
"I suppose this is my fault." said my daughter. "I didn't do anything, I was just standing here!"
"It's not your fault," I said, regaining some composure. "Let's pull them off and string a new set."
"Mom, go sit down, I'll put them on," she said.
And she did, very nicely, I might add. Today after work, we'll add a few more decorations, and I think we'll be done!

On a much sweeter note, I asked my fourteen year old nephew what he'd like for Christmas. He's the toughest one on my list, but now that he's in high school his interests have broadened.
"I'd like a book that explains how women work," he said.
Ahh, my young, naive nephew. If only a book could help us figure out everything we need to know about the opposite sex.  I scoured the teenage book section on Amazon.com and came up with what looked like the best choices, books that advised nice boys on how to win a girl's heart while still being true to themselves.
I also sent him a case of his favorite body wash because after he's wooed the women, he's going to want to smell nice. That's important, too.

To Sleep Perchance To Dream

Shakespeare was so dead-on correct with this line. Granted, the Bard of Avon was caught up in the whole Hamlet mess when he penned it more than four hundred years ago, but the gist of it is, I like to believe, that if you don't get enough sleep, for whatever reason, you won't be playing at the top of your game.
At least I don't have to deal with ghosts. But a decent night's sleep sometime in the next few days would be fantastic.
For the past month or so, I've been averaging about five hours of sleep a night...and it's taking it's toll. In theory, eight hours of sleep doesn't seem like it would be too difficult to achieve. If you're managing to accomplish this each night, I applaud you. Could you please tell me how you do it?
I'm guessing you probably have a bedroom with an actual door attached. As far as sleep issues go, this would be my biggest deficit. I'm no longer sleeping in what was my bedroom. Apparently I snore, so I've been banished to my third floor loft. I'm not quite sure how or why it was decided that I would be the one to vacate the premises, but the place where I now lay me down to sleep every night is a twin size daybed.
The funny thing is, the person who accuses me of snoring can also hit some impressive decibel levels during the overnight hours. His snoring has been known to waft up three flights of stairs.
But he's only keeping me awake at night, and that's the important thing.

I think It's Getting Clearer...

When I started this blog my intention was to dwell on what it is that makes me happy. This endeavor, I've discovered, is not always immediately evident. It's a process and as it unfolds, I'm learning what it is that makes others happy. Or unhappy. Let's face it, some people simply choose to be miserable. It's what keeps them going.They love to wear their unhappiness like a gold medal and hope it rubs off on those around them. But I've decided those particular vultures won't drag me down.
But as I keep posting on a regular basis (not nearly as often as I'd planned) I realize that there needs to be some point to why I keep blogging. Obviously, it's not to entertain the huge mass of humanity that has glommed onto my posts!
So...
Here's what I've decided. Starting with the new year, it's time to embark on new adventures. At the age of fifty, it's time to dive headfirst into activities that normally scare the heck out of me or at the very least, make me very, very uncomfortable.
On December 15th, I will audition for a speaking part in a local stage production. I've been in the media for years, but have never attempted anything like this. I'm going into the whole thing with no expectations whatsoever. At best, they'll  like me and give me a part, and at worst, it will be a great learning experience.
What comes afterwards is up for debate...

Do I Really Have to Pay to Go to Detroit?

For three weeks now, I've been on an extensive internet hunt for the best air fares to my hometown, Detroit. As you may or may not be aware, Detroit has been having tough time the past couple of years. Many would argue that it's never been easy in the Motor city. But lately, the situation seems to be even more depressing than usual. For the love of God, the Pontiac Silverdome was recently sold at auction for a mere 585 thousand dollars! What does that tell you?
But getting back to my air fare search...
Here's what kills me: having to pay more than four hundred dollars for a round trip ticket to Detroit. I recently flew to Paris and only paid five hundred dollars for a round trip fare. I enjoyed Paris, it was my first trip to that gorgeous city and I had no problem shelling out the money for the voyage. And that's the point, it was a voyage, an adventure to a completely different continent. I needed a passport!
Detroit is not an adventure, it's merely a trip back for the holidays to visit family. Let's call it a 'Guilt' trip. Given the current situation in the Motor City, I believe they should be giving me some kind of discount to venture back. I even promise to say nice things about Detroit when I return.

Aha! So That's What Happened!

Funny Video: China recreates the 'Tiger Woods Incident' with CGI (with funny video)

Posted using ShareThis

I needed a good laugh today and this certainly provided quite a few.

Where Are the Odor Eaters When You Need Them?

My daughter has recently started doing her own laundry. Some friends would say I waited way too long to bestow this responsibility upon her, but I never really minded doing it. If I was throwing in a load of my stuff, why not include some of her dirty laundry? She never really seemed to have much. And yesterday, I discovered her secret.
I was going downstairs to throw in some jeans and sweaters and noticed her blue knee socks, part of her daily school uniform, were wadded up in balls under the living room table.
"Would you like me to throw those in the wash?" I asked. "I'm doing a load."
"Nah, it's okay," she said. "I'm going to wear them again tomorrow."
"But they're dirty," I protested. "That's digusting. Let me wash them."
"No, really, you don't have to," she insisted. "I wear my socks for a week before I wash them."
This explains why the child's feet smell like stale fritos. I was totally appalled.
"If anyone at school finds out about that, you'll be the class pariah."
When she went to the gym later in the evening, I threw the socks in the wash.
It wasn't until this morning, while at work, that I remembered I'd forgotten to put them in the dryer.
I hope she had another dirty pair tucked away somewhere...