Hopefully he won't fall asleep while...

My husband is a closet mountain man.  He's often said that the only thing keeping him from turning Amish is that he couldn't live without a radio.  Now, it's true that five or six days a week stares at a computer as a desk jockey.  But that is because he is an incredibly hardworking person who does whatever is necessary (not what he likes, or what makes him 'happy') to provide for our family.  The last thing that he would ever enjoy doing is sitting in front of a computer....or sitting at all actually.  He's just not a sitter.  He's the guy who feels guilty if he plants himself in front of the tv to catch half of a Lakers playoff game.  Joel would much rather be out in the elements doing just about anything.  Unfortunately, that is a pastime to which he doesn't treat himself very often.

So, last month when I read an article in the newspaper about how the SB County Forestry Department was seeking volunteers to count the long horned sheep in the mountains, I immediately thought of Joel.  First thing I did was set down the paper and call the number to sign him up.  Didn't even stop to consult with Joel as to whether he'd be interested.  Partly this is because I KNEW that he'd be interested but mostly it's because I knew that Joel would never volunteer himself for something that he would enjoy.  He'd think it was too indulgent.  That's the Norwegian coming out in him.  They're a very unpretentious people.

Cut to today.  Joel is sitting in an orientation meeting as we speak and will be headed up to tent camp in the mountains for the evening (in the snow) in preparation for his early morning start tomorrow.  As any Italian wife would do I packed him enough food to sustain him for a week for his 24 hour excursion.  He's got his trusty Bear Grylls survival kit on hand (Leatherman and flint).  Neatly packed away (yeah right...probably just thrown on the passenger seat of the truck) is the most important item for any trip - reading material.  He's going to have a blast and hopefully bring back some stunning pictures.  In true 'us' form (ie: inappropriate) as I kissed him goodbye I asked if his life insurance was current.  He replied by saying we didn't have to come looking for him unless he was gone for over a week.  I love that guy.  Sure hope he doesn't freeze to death.

It's safe to say that God is the best and most obvious example of unconditional love.  In the earthly realm things aren't as simple.  Parents can upset us, siblings can become detached.  Children can disappoint us, spouses can alienate. As the years pass BFFs often become distant memories.  But through the highs and lows in life one thing is guaranteed....regardless of your age, marital status, career path, financial stability, your dog will always love you.  A dog is the purest form of unconditional love in this life.

It took some smooth talking and a bit of emotional manipulation, but nearly eighteen years ago I was able to convince my mom to let me get a dog.  I made a call to the local shelter and was set up with a family who had just gotten a puppy but had to let her go because of an impending move.  After a phone conversation they brought over ten week old 'Hannah' --a cream colored fluff ball with big slipper like feet-- for a visit.  I remember sitting on the kitchen floor (some of the ugliest yellow linoleum in history) and calling her over to me;  with the clap of a hand she came bounding over and slid right into my lap.  Done deal.  She was mine.  The family left and Peaches became the first true love of my life.  "That dog is going to be huge" said mom.  "Just look at her paws."

Peaches was special (only pet owner to think that, right?).  As a puppy she could chew through a pair of shoes in record time.  She always seemed to have a smile on her face.  She was a happy, happy dog.  Fiercely protective, she defended me against intruders the likes of the U.P.S. man with mother bear like prowess.  Always at the ready for a car ride, one clink of the keys would start her spinning in circles towards the door in anticipation.  Literally.  And she was smart too.  How many dogs do you know who can spell?  Couldn't even spell the word walk without causing her heart to start racing.  When she was younger (and could still jump onto the bed) I'd leave the house, bed made nicely, and return to find her not just on the bed but IN it.  Seriously.  Under the covers, head on the pillow.  Special.

One of the best parts of being mama to a dog like Peaches for so many years was the deeply rooted relationship that was formed.  We understood the nuances of each others emotions in a way that was truly unique.  I could speak to her like a human and she knew exactly what I was saying.  Often times I didn't even need to speak.  Many a time when I was sick or feeling badly about something she's seek me out and lay with me.  Best cuddle buddy ever.  Years spent together taught her to leave the room if I turned on football (I tend to yell.  A lot) and taught me that she didn't like yellow Starburst.

And as is often the case, when we lose a trusted friend or family member, the things that we miss aren't the obvious.  It's the little things that make the void most apparent.  I miss the sound of her sneezing when she lays on her back.  I miss the way she falls asleep with her tongue sticking out.  I miss the smell of her in the bedroom.  I used to get annoyed by the copious amounts of dog hair that filled my house (my car, my purse...).  Now I dread the day when I'll be able to leave the house without a lint roller.

Please don't pass the soap....

As I lay in bed last night, trying to fall asleep to the soothing sounds of SNL, I was first made aware of the efforts by a large publishing company to edit (destroy) the extraordinary piece of literature, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  From what I read this morning, the publishers have decided to remove the 219 usages of the word nigger in an effort to make the book more 'palatable' for modern audiences.  Frankly I don't understand that on any level.  It begs the questions: Why are we comfortable with rewriting history?....Why are we willing to desecrate art merely because we disagree with its contents?.....Why do we choose to condescend to our children because it is easier than discussing a difficult subject? And most importantly, why would anyone want to make the subject of slavery more palatable?  Slavery is inherently offensive.  It was a terrible part of our nation's history from which far too many people died (both firsthand and as a part of the the fight).  But it is our history, nonetheless, and it is dangerous to make believe differently.  I don't ever want to think of the injustices of our past -slavery or otherwise- as anything less than despicable. As the saying goes, 'Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it'.  What will be the fate of those who willingly and voluntarily eliminate history? 

And is anyone else stupefied by the people who claim to be proponents of free speech yet are willing to dissect famous literature because they find it offensive?  Freedom of speech is all well and good when you are creating art the likes of a crucifix in a jar of urine, or when you are glorifying a Cop Killer in song, or when you go Bowling for Columbine.  But dare someone use a derogatory term about a black, a Jew, a gay, a woman, and all hell breaks loose.  You can't have it both ways people.  In order for our individual freedoms to persist we must take the good with the bad. 

Let's put aside for the moment the fact that Mark Twain was a satirist and there is a great chance that he chose his words to depict the ridiculousness of the racial inequities of the time.  Let's instead make the choice (another liberal buzz word that gets distorted) to use pieces of literature with potentially questionable content as a part of our greater education.   If I find something offensive I want to remember WHY I find it offensive so that I can be an advocate for the opposite.  I am not willing to erase the bitterness of the past.  Just ask a Jewish friend about how palatable that horseradish is at their next Seder.

I grow weary of the mindset that drives us to sugar coat everything. Much too much has been sanitized in the name of political correctness and protection of one's feelings.  Just as we have learned that too cleanly an environment can actually make us sicker, we should understand that this type of censorship only stands to make us weaker as a nation.  And I can guarantee that when my daughter reads Huck Finn she will have the opportunity for the words Nigger Jim to leave a bad taste in her mouth.

What I want for Christmas.

I don't do new.  I like old furniture, old husbands and old habits.  I go out of my way to plan my spontaneity very carefully. I like to carve out a comfortable little rut for myself and stay right inside of it.  That's just how I feel most satisfied. This is especially true when it comes to my holiday celebrations.  Tradition is very important to me.  Every year I rely on the same old recipes, lean towards the same decoration placement and listen to the same Christmas music.  It gives me a sense of history and warmth knowing that each year will be a version of the same.  But last year, five days before Christmas, the rock of my life - my grandmother - passed away.  That threw a big old wrench into my holiday wheel. 

So today, for the second time in two months I find myself visiting family in Tennessee.  Very generously, my parents arranged a vacation so that our family could be all together on Christmas.  I am officially WAY outside of my comfort zone.  I'm in a new place, with new smells, new food, and most importantly....new accents. And of course, in anticipation of the visit I approached things with the restraint and sensitivity that have come to be my hallmark (bwahahaha).  My preparation for this trip consisted of making minimally fourteen jokes per day about hillbillies, banjo players and people with dental 'defficiencies'.  When we got on the plane yesterday I started singing (about four keys away from anything resembling a tune and with an intentionally exaggerated twang) the Alabama lyrics 'a tender Tennessee Christmas is the only Christmas for me....'.  Needless to say, that went over like a lead balloon with my mom. 

But now it's time to admit that it was all a ruse.  I am excited about this opportunity.  I am thrilled to see my family.  I am giddy about the potential for snow on Christmas.  I am thankful for the blessing that came from tragedy (if grandma hadn't passed away last year none of this would be possible).  So thank you Lord for knowing the plan; For making it better than anything we could imagine; And for using tough times in our lives to show us that, not only do you love us, but that Christmas means so much more than the comforts of our traditions.

Remember: If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a boring holiday. Merry Christmas to you and yours.

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.