Adventures of a Stinkier Sort

December at a Glance - the final word

This is my refrigerator.You can tell a lot about a person by their fridge.  When I first met my husband, he had a very fancy fridge.  It was one of those sub zero jobbies.  He lined the shelves.  The front was polished clean; it was non-magnetic.He did not keep a grocery list there, it was not a place for the display of children's masterpieces; it was a refrigerator.  Period.I could have told you right then, without ever setting foot in any other part of his house, that this was not a man that would appreciate bathtub finger paints, or the miracle that is the dry erase pen.  This was a man that framed his children's artwork for display, folded his underwear, and squeezed the toothpaste from the bottom only, thankyouverymuch.I lived there, in that house, with that refrigerator, for almost 6 years.  (The fridge, you see, is not a cut and dried tell-all of a man.  This particular fellow, for instance, has a tendency toward zany games of laser tag with screeching shouting children.  The costume for this jolly fun-making?  His silk ties wrapped in military fashion about the forehead, sage smudges on the forehead and cheeks.  I could tell he had real potential).When we moved to the farm, I crowed with glee.  The fridge was old (like everything else on the farm) with a magnetic white front!  The children and I immediately set about making fun magnets from dollar store half marbles and magazine clippings.Over the years,  bubble magnets have welcomed several other magnetic additions.We adore magnetic photo sleeves.On any given day you might find these people hanging about the kitchen: or any combination of a myriad of other funny folk.In addition, the happy acquisition of several sets of Magnetic Poetry allow for an ever changing display of thought and creativity.The day my oldest turned seventeen, she left this: On MLK day, I came in for lunch to find this:  And just two nights ago, in the wee wee hours, a little elf arranged these lovely words: And that's all fine, you are thinking, but could she get to December already?!Okay, alright.  Here it is:Stink and I returned late the night of the 23rd of December from a whirlwind trip to WVA.I lugged the little miss up the steps to her bed, tucked her in and headed back out to bring in the luggage.On my way out the door, I noticed, in the dark kitchen, an even darker puddle of what looked like... ahem...blood. (ACK!)Hesitant, I stood with my hand on the light switch for nearly a minute thinking "Okay, alright...calm...just what is the appropriate plan of action when it appears that a large puddle of blood is leaking from beneath one's freezer?"I flipped on the light and indeed, a large puddle of blood, was leaking in slow oozing yucky rivulets down the uneven-ness that is my kitchen floor (character - remember) and pooling in the middle.So, I did what any of you might have done.  Gingerly stepping over the puddle, I made my way into our master bedroom and shook my fellow from sleep."I'm sorry to wake you," I began," but there seems to be something dead in the freezer."He opened one eye and looked at me."You didn't happen to put something dead and bleeding in the freezer? ...did you?"Now he sat up and looked squarely at me in the dark; he shook his head and scoffed to himself."I thought you just ask me if there is something dead and bleeding in our freezer.  How was your trip?"Now I am tugging frantically at his arm.  "I did say that there is something dead and bleeding in the freezer.  You have to get up right NOW and find out what it is!" (I will, ignore for the moment, the cowardice of this, but I REALLY didn't want to open that door.)Long story short, the refrigerator went belly up.  We bought a new one the next day and brought it home.  But before we could bring in the new and wring out the old (BLECH!) I had the job of emptying the old fridge (ACK! BLECH! BLECH!).So now, if I've lost you, I am elbow deep in dead and mush and stench, I have no salvageable food left, I have puddles of yuck on the floor and am expecting 28 people in 24 hours.I took everything off of the fridge, and tried to remember where it was and how it looked.  The magnetic poetry, for the most part was randomly thrown into a pile 250 words thick.Once the foul job was done and I had all but bathed in Anti-bacterial gel, we brought in the new appliance.Here's where the story gets good.I am not generally what I would call a "crier".  I like to face things head on - whip them into shape and move forward.  Occasionally, however, I host, cater, and attend what I like to calla "party for one".(on a side note, for further, and far more eloquent explanation of "the party", please see this most amazing blog.)So, as I replace each photo, I am, in turn, fretting inconsolably about each loved one.I worry here, I lament there, I recall every needlessly harsh thing I have ever said or done to that person and flog myself for it.I mourn and cry and snot. (It's a good thing I don't invite anybody else to my parties ;) )The task of replacing the 250 jumbled word magnets seems almost insurmountable.I carry the piles and piles to my now clean floor in front of my new white fridge and begin small; I sift through the piles and find one word for each letter of the alphabet and begin to alphabetize them.I do this mindlessly for some time, there on my knees, and I have my moment.(Here, I'm going to get sort of personal, so if you'd rather skip to the punch line, feel free.)I would not consider myself a religious person; I avoid congregations in general, as well as most churches.  I am, however, very spiritual. So I'm having my moment - me and God and the fridge.I'm crying out my sadness, my overwhelmed self totally giving over.I'm begging for something... please, I think, please.How can I guide my poor children?How can I know where to turn when I can't even trust my own decision making?By now, I have reached the last small stack of words - piled one on top of the other.the first - He (I put that in the h's).then, can (that's a c).then, believe (at this point, I'm paying attention.  That's almost a sentence I think, and I put believe up on its own).then in.and finally, as I am breathless and silent tears are coursing down my cheeks,you.You may not believe me, you might start questioning the real randomness of the piles, you might talk to me about chance and probability.And that's alright.but I kept those words together, right there on the freezer to remind me, that I am not alone;even when I'm all snotty from the ugly cry, and covered in stench.Maybe even particularly then.  

At a Glance Part 2 or Gifts

When you're pregnant, I think it's fairly common to spend a good portion of the day envisioning your child.  I did this a lot, imagined the gifts that our little person would receive; dark hair from him, eyes from her, his height, but please God, not my ... well, you can fill in the blank. 

The reality of course is that we, as parents, are not the rainbow fairies from Sleeping Beauty; we do not flutter about the heads of our infant babes sprinkling gifts on them like glitter - a little beauty here and bit of kindness there.  Oh, no, the gifts we give come in all sorts of packages; and I, I have apparently given our gal Stink more than just the length of my eyelashes.

I have this thing - this lyric thing.  I can hear a song once, maybe not even in its entirety, and know the lyrics as if I had written them myself.  It's a sort of useless gift, harmless really, except that I also have a tendency toward twisting.

I don't mean the flexible, yoga sort of twisting. I mean the "I didn't know that "Secret Asian Man" was not the theme to James Bond until I was a long married woman" sort of twisting.  The lyric bending, verse slaughtering sort of twisting that I, at least within the confines of my immediate familial circle, have become known for.

And this, it seems, is one of the gifts I sprinkled upon the head of my unsuspecting child.

I discovered this in mid December. 

We were in the grocery store, the Giant near Stink's school, when I noticed her humming along to an eighties tune by, signer-turned actor-turned singer again, Jon Bon Jovi as it was piped through the aisles.  As we left the store, she surprised me by singing parts of the verse (not the chorus, the VERSE).

I was sort of proud, with a vague sense of dis-ease, "Whatcha' singing babe?", I asked her casually.

"Oh," she replied, "I'm singing that Laura Ingalls Wilder song from the grocery store." (laura and mary were her imaginary friends for a year or so two years back).

"What song?" I asked. 

"You know..." she replied, breaking into head banging grunting song, "Whoaaaaa, we're half way the-ere.  Whoaaaaaaa - ooooooooh livin' on the Prairie."

Oh my.

"Perhaps," I thought, "perhaps, it is just a fluke...a one time thing" and after the appropriate correction to the lyrics, I went about life and holiday preparations as planned.

All seemed well until the weekend.  She'd spent the afternoon with her dad and older siblings, out and about the town.  When she returned, she was, again, headbanging. *as a side note, we are not, generally a heavy metal sort of family, I can only credit the eighties hair-band music to the complete rejection of the other "All Christmas All the Time" stations.

"IIIIIIII", she sang, "like to rock and bowl all niiii-iighhhttt and party ev-er-y day" she followed that up with a rousing "eat cheese and chowder - eat cheese and chowder" lead-in to a grand air drum solo.

It was not a fluke.  Some mothers give their children a songbirds voice, some, grace or doe brown eyes.  Me?  I give my child the lesser known, and somewhat quirkier gift of twisted song.  Great.

(For those of you that are not eighties inclined, "Living on the Prairie" by Bon Jovi is more commonly titled "Living on a Prayer", and the lyrics for Kiss's eighties youth anthem : "I like to rock and roll all night - (and party every day)"  and "You keep on shoutin', You keep on shoutin'!")

December at a Glance

Roooooaaaarrrrrr!  Grooooowwwwlllll! Yes, friends and folk, these are the sounds of me, coming out of hibernation.  (I would post a picture, but it's just not pretty).

In the next few posts, we will examine, at a glance, the month of December.

We begin with the "Great Cookie Bake".

Begun years ago, the "Great Bake" has taken on a life of its own.  It occurs sometime in the beginning of December, and entails any number of people coming to the ol' farmhouse, arms laden with dough and sprinkles and other holiday stuffings.  These same people spend the day rolling (and eating), cutting (and eating), baking (more eating), and decorating (yup, munching here too) a variety of cookies that they then set in the line of "cookies for the taking".  At the end of the evening, bags are distributed, and each happy baker exits with a variety of yummishness set and ready for the season.  Here is a short pictumentary on the day...