An Independent Contractor's Christmas

WHEN did it become winter? Yeesh… I look up from my computer (to which I am chained for more hours a day than I care to admit) and BOOM! Somebody dumped a pile of white crap that those in the disgustingly perky “winter sports are fun!” crowd like to call “awesome powder DUDE” – and they had the nerve to dump it in my driveway! What were they thinking? I am a firm believer that this stuff belongs (a) in the mountains; (b) in snow globes (where it can be pretty for the equivalent of a few seconds before it disappears under some bobble-headed bimbo in the VERY TRADITIONAL winter fur bikini…. hell, I have one – don’t you????); or (c) in the occasional Christmas movie - but that’s about it. Even my kids have been trained to react to any weather forecast containing the word “snow” with the following response: “Mommmmm… that weather guy is swearing again!!”. In my house, THAT is the “s-word”. Being the adaptable person that I am – and rejoicing in the fact that being self-employed means my morning commute is from the coffee maker to my computer – I decide that the best way to cope is to immerse myself in Christmas spirit. What better day to put up the Christmas tree?! I’m already home and how long could it possibly take? Surely not longer than what my commute USED to take when I worked downtown. I can spare the hour before work, right? Luckily, our tree is that stunningly natural, 8-foot “pine”, joyously described as “flame retardant / inflammable” on the tastefully handcrafted cardboard storage box. The only chopping down I have to do involves several yards of cobwebs – and I can do that with my eyes closed (literally). After hauling the tree box and several Rubbermaid storage bins of ornaments up to the living room, it’s time for a break. I mean, decorating the tree is supposed to be accompanied with at least hot chocolate, isn’t it? So, off to the kitchen I go and forsake the coffee maker for some instant cocoa. Since this is a special day, I splurge and use the one with “marshmallows” – and, trust me, that’s in quotes for a reason. I really think the box should say “with added chips of Styrofoam” but, hey, if my kids are willing to believe these are marshmallows, it takes the pressure off me having to produce good quality Rice Krispie treats any time in the foreseeable future. “What? They’re dry? Damn marshmallows!” Ok, steaming cup in hand, I make my way back to the living room and promptly decide that I really should have Christmas music. Since the satellite TV company so thoughtfully provides a channel of exclusive “traditional holiday” tunes, I figure that’s my best choice. After an hour of “Montel”, another hour of “Oprah” and several sweeps through the channel guide, I find the music station. To the strains of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”, I bop my way back to the kitchen for another cup of cocoa. The first one seems to have disappeared. I hope the dog burned his tongue. Fresh cup of cocoa and I head back into the living room – only to realize a horrible thing. There is NO room for the tree. Re-arranging the furniture is next on the list – and only takes another couple of hours of trying to decide what to do with the chairs that only barely fit in the room at the best of times – without the added splendor of the “8-foot pine”. After a brief moment of wondering why we really need a couch at all, I finally find a workable arrangement. Then, I plop down in a chair, exhausted from the heavy lifting and begin to think that this whole Christmas nonsense is just highly over-rated. Doesn’t everyone say that it’s getting too commercial??? Yeah, that’s it… I wonder if the kids would go for finding their presents under the “praying it’ll survive the winter” magnolia in the backyard next to the shed? Maybe I could convince them that Santa quit Weight Watchers (apparently the same night I did) and he just couldn’t fit down the chimney this year. With a sigh, I resign myself to the fact that I really can’t destroy the visions of sugarplums that have been dancing in their heads since… ohhhhhhhhh ‘round about July when they started writing their Christmas lists… and I open the cardboard box and get to work. In what seems like no time, the front door opens and the family’s home… calling out their greetings, asking about my day. I am eager to respond with a festive “I put up the Christmas tree!” but, before I have a chance, they are standing behind me. One daughter gives a complimentary “Nice tree stand, Mom… but the trunk pieces look a little crooked” while her sister chimes in with “It’ll look ok once you get some branches on Mom”. And it will – we “work at home” types have a dedication to perfection and are experts at time management. Personally, I just want the same contract Santa’s got… one day of work per year and everything else is done by the elves. Now just TRY to convince the elves to do anything productive when they are 12, 15 and “already past admitting his age”. It’s no wonder nothing ever gets accomplished around here. HO HO “@#$%-ing” HO… now it’s off to work I go. Oh – and I’ll keep you posted on the tree!

This entry, brought to you by the letter “M"

I walked into a restaurant for dinner recently and immediately noticed a huge bird flapping frantically near one of the back tables. From my vantage point at the entrance, it looked for all the world like it was trying desperately to escape, yet was somehow tethered to its spot. It was then that I realized – this was no BIRD! It was a middle-aged woman and she was now seated, much to her chagrin I’m sure, with a rather large group of people, most of them male. Welcome to Menopause! Mother Nature’s a sick bitch, really. Probably because she went through it first and now she gets her kicks watching the rest of the female gender suffer. With a combination of empathy, fear and morbid curiousity, I watched the woman in the restaurant over the course of the evening. She took off her sweater, put it back on, fanned herself with her menu, ordered hot tea, took a walk outside without a coat in November – in Canada – and all this was routinely interjected with more flapping! She was a going concern and, I would imagine, exhausted by the end of the night. She tried her best to hide all this hustle and bustle from her dinner companions but any woman on the receiving end of the gale-force wind she was creating knew exactly what was going on… and sympathized. I was so freaked out at this glimpse into the future that I got online when I got home that night and I started researching symptoms of menopause. If I’m going to be out in public some day, flailing around like a disjointed Muppet on an episode of “Estrogen Street,” I’m damn well going to be prepared. Besides the delights that I expected (and have heard about from friends, relatives and strange birds alike), such as hot flashes and fatigue, I discovered these really FUN ones: -Tingly or itchy skin, described as feeling like bugs are walking all over you -“Buzzing” sensation in your head or a shock sensation under your skin -“Brain fog” or memory lapses Add to these the lovely prospect of weight gain, increase in facial hair, bladder control problems and changes in body odor and I’m thinking I’ll be a freakin’ shoo-in for the lead in Shrek 10, 11 AND 12!!!! I guess it’s no wonder that irritability, mood swings and anxiety are on the list. Who the hell can feel good about themself when they’ve got bugs crawling through their increased facial hair and their body decides the best way to deal with that is to self-electrocute?! Personally, I’ll be hoping the night sweats just wash ‘em away… and praying to the spirit of Jim Henson for the memory lapses to kick in!

Mac and Cheese in the Bathtub

For Halloween this year, after my earlier lament, I decided to leave the candy-giving-outting to my older daughter who, at 15, grudgingly hung up her pillowcase. This is the child who has always loved Halloween – even more than Christmas. Fortunately, she didn’t need to be sedated. In any case, while she got into the spirit of giving by donning a red and black devil wig (complete with red horns) and a red-trimmed black cape, I helped her sister prepare for our night out on the town. This year’s costume was a huge hit – although we’re not quite sure what she was. An unofficial survey yielded that she was a baby ogre (“you can’t be a real ogre because you aren’t big enough!”) or an evil troll. One lady asked if she was a leprechaun. I swear I heard my daughter mutter under her breath, “Do I LOOK magically delicious?!?!?” Her costume consisted of a long, black “gown” that velcroes down her back. Covering its entire front, from shoulder to thigh, is a protruding, gruesome, toothy latex face – complete with hairy red beard. A tall black hat – with a barely visible, let’s-not-have-you-falling-down-everyone’s-front-steps mesh panel – covered her head and rested lightly on her shoulders. From this description, you should be able to determine that, try as I might, I spent the entire night speaking directly to my daughter’s navel. I kept expecting that damn mouth to move. “Mom!! HELLOOOO! I’m up here – talk to the HAT!” So, there we were… me and the baby ogre. Scanning the neighborhood for porch lights. I came to one immediate conclusion – we were in for a LOT of walking. What is it with people these days? Is it too much trouble to have a little fun with the kids just ONE night a year? In our area, more and more people are developing sudden “commitments” that preclude them from being home between the hours of … ohhhh … 5:30 and 7:30 p.m. on Halloween. You know for a fact that the majority of them are cowering in their basement or, quite possibly, eating mac and cheese in the bathtub by candlelight JUST to avoid the appearance that they are TOO CHEAP to give out candy. Hey, I know it’s not really cheap. For what it cost me to make 100 treat bags, our family of four could have had dinner at a nice restaurant. But you know what? That same amount of money can make a whole lot of kids happy – and that’s worth more than one dinner. Anyway, back to me and the baby ogre. We had a grand ole time. We talked about everything and nothing, gushed over the cute little kids, and generally enjoyed each other’s company. AND we laughed. We laughed at the lady who gave out sodas at her house. Baby Ogre went up to the door and the lady stepped out onto the porch and asked my daughter’s navel, “Ya want cola or orange?” Her bewildered hat replied something along the lines of “uhhh… um… cola????” We laughed at the lady who was wandering around her front lawn in a HUGE cow costume. She was all teats that woman! I’m sure every breastfed infant within a five-mile radius was salivating. Anyway, Cow Lady came barrelling down her sloped lawn in the direction of Baby Ogre. I admit, my mind was sensing a trainwreck – or at the very least “udder disaster.” But, much to Cow Lady’s credit, she stuck a good hind hoof halt right at the curb and neatly deposited a treat into Baby Ogre’s bag. Cow Lady asked me if a lot of houses further along her street had their lights on. I told her “Maybe 3 or 4” and she was visibly annoyed. Can’t blame her. If I had the nerve to parade my teats around the neighborhood, I’d probably appreciate an audience too. As we walked away giggling, making our way through another Halloween, Baby Ogre’s hat shook slowly side to side and was heard to mutter, “I may… never… drink milk… again.”