The Sneak

Twas the night before Christmas, when I left for the store
and heard Copper asleep on the couch, with a snore.
I placed treats out for guests, on the table with care,
I’d be gone for a few. But they should be safe there.

Perhaps I should take him? No, I’ll leave him instead.
And I’d no sooner gone, then he’d raised up his head.
Never dreamed he’d do damage before I got back.
But that nose woke him up, led him straight to the snack.

Out of reach was the tray, but that didn’t matter.
He sprang from the couch and it caused quite a clatter.
His leap was too great. That pup slid like a flash.
Skidded ‘cross the table. Hit the plate; what a crash.

The carpet now covered with new-fallen treats
Made it easy for Copper to get at the eats.
When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,
But a platter of caramel foil covered reindeer.

With a little old trick, and a scamper up quick,
Those reindeer were gone in as much as a lick.
Yet more goodies waited. Some were found on the shelf.
He devoured them. It’s Christmas. Why not help himself?

"Now Hershey! now, Reeses! now, Nestle and See’s!
Candy canes! Nut clusters…anything please!
From friends’ kitchens or stores that are found in the mall
Now eat ‘em up, eat ‘em up, eat ‘em up all!

As dry heaves came and went, with wild eyes he did spy,
that yummies were sitting up high in the sky.
Though forty pounds heavy, it seemed that he flew,
to the top of the bookshelf, quite nimbly too.

And there red and green M&Ms in a bowl
became some of the next type of sweet that he stole.
He swallowed them quickly. With a hop turned around.
And from six feet up down he came with a bound.

His coat was still clean, from his head to his foot,
But his muzzle, from chocolate, looked covered with soot.
And the scene was left clean. Not one mess did he make.
Nor was there trace evidence left in his wake.

His eyes were glazed over, in near coma from candy.
At times he acts dense but those smarts come in handy!
He had a sweet face and a stout little belly
That dragged when he walked. And boy was he smelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
A sharp, impish dog who was proud of himself!
Familiar sounds came, raised his ears on his head.
As I pulled in the drive, he was soon filled with dread.

A last glance at the scene, oh so proud of his work,
While I came through the door, pushed it closed with a jerk.
He sprang to couch, laid his head on a pillow,
and fooled me. I praised him, that crafty ole fellow.

When I peered through the house I was fooled by his ploy,
"Aww, he’s still asleep. Why he’s such a good boy.”
My hands filled with bags, off to put them away.
Then I paused…didn’t I leave some treats on that tray?

Just as good as football

Five years ago when I found out that I was pregnant I was secretly (ok, ok...outwardly) hoping for a boy.  I would have been a great mom to a boy.  I love sports, mud, farting and general grossness.  I do not like flowers, sparkles, princesses or anything pink.  So, suffice it to say, I was a little worried when I found out I was having a girl.  However, the one thing that made me look forward to having a baby girl was the thought of putting her into ballet.  Ballet was a huge part of my childhood.  I don't ever remember NOT being in ballet.  I grew up at the studio and loved every single minute of it, including the blisters and the calf cramps.  Ballet defined me.  It gave me purpose and I am thankful every day that my mom got me started when I was two.  And I have to admit that discovering that we were having a girl made me more than a little excited at the prospect of having another ballerina in the family.  It would be something that we could share and enjoy together. 

Well, I got my wish.  My daughter is a full fledged dance junkie.  I find myself reliving my memories through her and I love it.  From the moment I walked her into the studio and was hit with the fond smell of broken in leather and hair spray I have been nothing but thrilled to see my childhood through her eyes as she is now establishing many of the same memories for herself. 

And tonight marks a milestone in our combined experience.  Tonight we will walk through the backstage doors for her first ever Nutcracker performance.  I spent many, many, MANY hours on a Nutcracker stage (six performances a year for sixteen years..although, I have to admit that it kind of scarred me for a while.  You know those stories that you hear about war vets who freak out when they hear the sound of helicopters?  It's reminiscent of that).  Tonight I will be on the flip side of things.  Tonight I get to play hair and makeup mistress to my daughter.  Tonight I get to wait backstage and watch her perform her heart out.  Tonight I get to give her a flower as she takes her bow.  After all the years of being the one in the spotlight, tonight I will have the honor of waiting in the wings and watching my little girl shine.....pink, sparkles, and all.  Good luck princess.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

If I had to choose, I would say that my favorite activity of the Christmas season is unwrapping all of the ornaments in preparation for decorating the trees. (Yes, I said trees...8 of them to be exact...sigh).  There is something nostalgic about unwrapping the carefully packed pieces.  Something about gently unfolding the tissue paper that has cradled a special ornament for the past year evokes the excitement and anticipation that I felt as a child unwrapping a gift.  And as each ornament is revealed, so is a memory.  Perhaps I am overly sentimental but I have very dear memories about most of my ornaments.  Some are old, some are new.  Some are handmade, some are store bought.  But, they all hold a very special place in my heart. 

There are many nominees for favorite.  My 'NOEL' balls  remind me of Aunt Mildred and Uncle Jim (they were always in place, front and center on their tree).  I have several ceramic pieces that were cast and painted by my super talented Aunt Nettie.  Many an ornament comes from my dancing days and are 'Nutcracker' themed.  Then we have my silver ornaments (given to me over years and years by everyone in the family).  And, of course, my Lenox ornaments (each and every one from Grandma....those are even more special now).  But if I had to choose one....just one....as my very favorite, it would be the porcelain bell with Santa kneeling and praying before the baby Jesus. 

This ornament reigns as favorite year after year for several reasons.  First, because it was an ornament that I inherited from Grandma.  Second, because it was given to her by her closest friend Janet.  But most of all it is my favorite because I believe that is a fabulous and succinct display of how we should celebrate this incredible holiday season.  As cliche as it has come to sound, Jesus is the reason for the season.  And I am a Christian who celebrates as such.  And, in addition (not substitution) my daughter has been raised to believe in the magic that is Santa Claus.  I don't see why being a Christian must be mutually exclusive with Santa Claus.  It's all about keeping things in perspective and in their proper place.  How does leaving out some cookies threaten a belief in the Saviour?  Why does a visit to the man in red minimize the babe in the manger?  If your faith is threatened by the whimsy and fantasy of the north pole, then you have a much more serious issue to deal with than ole St. Nick.  Is Jesus what is most important at Christmas time?  Absolutely.  So to that end we read the Christmas story from our Bible each night of December and my daughter's favorite Christmas carol is 'Joy to the World'.  But we also get a visit from Santa at our party every year and we leave out cookies (good ones, too) for Santa and carrots for the Reindeer each Christmas Eve.  And, if ever I feel my perspective getting a bit out of whack I take a stroll over to my tree and I gaze upon the man in red kneeling before the Lord. 

Prince or Pyro?

For me, a fireplace is a must.  Gotta have one.  There is nothing quite as lovely as sitting on the couch, cuddled in a blanket, reading or watching while the fireplace is ablaze.  It is nearly a complete sensory experience.  Smelling the smoke, listening to the crackle, watching the flames dance, feeling the warmth.  Love it.  Luckily I married a man who also appreciates a nice fire and as a result, as soon as the temperature drops, we crank up the fireplace. 

Now, I am connoisseur of the fireplace fire, but my husband is a fire purist.  Seriously, sometimes I think he's a little crazy.  There are no gas lines for him.  No four hour burning logs. No faux fire that you make appear with the touch of a switch.  No...for him, the act of creating a fire is a complete, almost religious experience. 

It all begins the previous year.  As our pine trees drop their needles (which most people mow up and toss away) Joel is out there raking piles and storing them for kindling.  Next comes the treks up the mountains to hunt and gather downed wood.  It's just him and his tools (radio, chainsaw, gloves and the trusty Bear Grylls survival kit - a leatherman and flint).  He goes up alone and comes home with a truck bed full of wood.  This process is repeated several times. 

Next comes what I believe is his favorite part: the chopping of the wood.  It's quite a sight to behold.  He gets out there with this bright yellow ear plugs and his Mark Knoffler headband and he's ready to go.  There is a whole, elaborate set up.  An axe and a sledge, several wedges, a brick lined area for the wood to rest during splitting, large piece of wood to act as a rise, covered nook for stacking.  It's the most (only) organized thing that he does. For hours upon hours you can hear the sound of the axe falling deeply into the wood....the sound of the sledge driving the wedge, splitting the logs.  He's like a combination of Ron Reagan, Abe Lincoln and Paul Bunyan.  Except Paul Bunyan had Babe the Blue Ox to keep him company.  Joel just has Copper the Dimwitted Dachshund. 

After weeks of preparation and hard work we have enough wood to satisfy our desire for the cheapest form of entertainment in which we partake.  During the winter we have fires nearly every night and I love it. And it's all because my crazy, hardworking husband refuses to go to a gym.  Why do endless reps with a barbell when you can just be a modern day mountain man?  Thank you Joel for your wood.

Who wears lipstick to the gym?

Went to the gym today. I went, as I always do, in workout attire; some black stretch pants and a t-shirt (this is essentially my uniform for life.  Black pants, U of R shirt).  My hair was tied in a knot and since I was going to be working out and soon to be drenched like a sweaty beast, I didn't see the need to touch up my left over make-up before I went.  After all, I'm going to the gym to workout, not to make a fashion statement (That's what the rest of my life is for.  I'm SUPER stylish----please take note of the sarcasm).  And I assume that everyone who is going to the gym has the same mindset.  Couldn't be more wrong. 

I've gathered from my observations, made during hours spent walking my way to nowhere on the treadmill, that there are three types of people who frequent the gym.  Each group has it's own look, style and characteristics, much like the cliques found in a high school quad.  I fall into group one.  We're the fatties who have found our way into the gym, perhaps by mistake (those strip mall doors all look alike....mirrored so you can't see what's inside. You mean this isn't the frozen yogurt place?) but now that we're here, we are committed to working hard and getting healthy.  We're the ones who are hanging off of the elliptical, red faced and sweaty, appearing to be seconds from a heart attack.  We don't have the latest workout gear or the fancy shoes, but we're there....slightly intimidated my the crazy contraptions some call weight machines, but we're there nonetheless. 

Group two is made up of former members of group one.  These are the people who have worked hard and it shows.  They are toned, running with ease and getting in a great workout.  Their clothes are legitimate workout attire, not just some old cut off sweats, and they have shoes that keep them from pronating.  They are friendly, helpful and I am inspired by their work ethic.  You can tell that it's hard work, but oh so worth the effort.  I like these people.  They are who I aspire to be. 

Then we come to group three.  Ahh, group three.  You know them.  Hopefully  you AREN'T them.  Group three are the size zero girls with the watermelon breasts (oops, you mean my shoes don't match?) and the fake tans, who you can tell have obviously gone to great pains to prepare themselves for their 'workout'.  They've showered, carefully selected an adorable outfit and spent far too long on their hair and makeup than anyone should who's destination is a gym.  Group three are the huge, greasy dudes in the free weight section who are yelling at each other to get in 'one more baby....one more!' They're the ones who must rub up against the machines when their backs itch because they can't get their morbidly over sized arms to bend far enough to reach the spot (it's very reminiscent of the gorillas on the Discovery channel.  Maybe I'll put down my People magazine and watch these guys for a while).  Group three doesn't actually do much working out at the gym.  There is a lot of walking back and forth between the machines and using of the mirrors to check themselves out from all angles.  Group three pisses me off.  They are who I hope to fall on after I clutch my chest and go flying off of the treadmill.

A fat kid visits the gym.

I love food.  Everything about it.  The way it looks, the way it smells, cooking, eating......love it.  This is not a good thing when combined with my addictive personality.  Some people struggle with alcohol or cigarettes.  I struggle with the overwhelming lure of the Sausage McMuffin.....or three Sausage McMuffins to be exact.  And possibly a hash brown or two.  (Seriously, do they put crack in that stuff because they are irresistible to me on every level.)  And I'm no better than the junkie laying in the street.  I crave them.  I can literally taste them in my mouth every morning as I make the drive to score my daily fix.  If I don't have any money, I start digging under the couch cushions in order to scrape up enough cash for at least one of the delicious treats. 

Then you throw into the mix the fact that I have copious deficits of will power.  Sometimes I'll be okay.  Sometimes I'll make the trek to the drive in and purchase just one McMuffin (okay, it's never less than two.  I mean, who are we kidding?).  But with almost total certainty I'll make a second trip that day and get two more.  Does it count as four if you eat them two at a time, twice a day (I was never very good at math)?  I'm terrible and I know it....clap your hands.

Way back in the 1900's, circa the time of Ace of Base and Alanis Morrisette, I was a gym rat.  I loved to work out and it showed.  I had always been a dancer, so I had that great dancers body, made even better by the sculpting of weight lifting.  But eventually you get a life and six days in the gym turns to four.  And four turns to two and eventually I was only driving by the gym on my way to the doughnut shop.  Although, I'd always be sure to wave my chocolaty fingers at the people inside (those poor people....don't they know how much better it is on the other side?  The first one is free...).  I was okay for a while because I was still pretty active.  I was coaching and choreographing and taking care of my grandmother; all things that kept me in shape. 

But lately I've noticed a recurring problem that I find quite unsettling.  When I picture myself in my mind I look the way I did when I got married ten years ago.  Then I walk past a mirror and think 'who's that fat chick'?  Oh wait, it's me!  Not good.  I've turned into the cliche fat cheer coach.  Definitely not good.  Ok, time to do something about this.  So on that note this morning I got my fat butt out of bed, drove my fat butt to the gym and hoisted my fat but onto the treadmill.  I'm determined to look better and feel better and to have the vision in my mind match the reflection in the mirror.  So it's off to the gym 5 days a week and no more McDonald's.....okay, maybe just one....two.  Definitely no more than two.....per day.....dammit. 

Before pic (soon to be 'again' pic)

Waaaaay, back in the day.

Sunday Blessings

Every Sunday I like to post a few things for which I am grateful. 

• Family.  What would we do without them?
• My puppy dog Peaches.  17 years old and going strong.
• The simple pleasure that is listening to and watching Joel and the babygirl camping out in the backyard. 
• Books.
• A remarkably cool summer.
• The sense of peace that is derived from knowing God is in control.