Counting my cocktails instead of sheep

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‘Oh, yes. I have plenty of blessings to count, too.’

If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, thank you. I appreciate your giving me and my measly little blog any thoughts at all (!)

No Namibia excuse. Not this time, anyway. For a real trip, read “The Four Seatmates of the Apocalypse”

Confession: I haven’t been anywhere (except maybe off the rails). I just haven’t been feeling very funny lately. (Well, maybe I’ve been feeling “funny,” just not “funny haha funny.”)

There’s the fact that my wonderful friend and shirt-tail relation, Aunt Eleanor, left us to go hit Saint Peter up for a donation to the Eleanor Whitmore Daycare Center. Eleanor: “What do you mean, you’re short of cash? What about those pearly gates, mister?!”

Eleanor wangling a donation out of Dude Man 

And, not as earth-shatteringly important — not even close — but all the Christmas goings-on can make me feel, well, melancholy. Yesterday I cranked up a Christmas playlist on Spotify and found myself tearing up over Dean Martin doing “Let it Snow,” for heavens sakes.

Sometimes opera makes me cry. But that makes me happy

Thanksgiving doesn’t have that kind of effect on me. Maybe because I’m too busy planning and organizing and cooking. And maybe the very things about it that make it (IMHO) the Best Holiday Ever — no gifts, no decorations, no carols — mean there are fewer “triggers,” if you will. Though the aroma of pumpkin pie can do me in. Maybe that’s really why I didn’t make one this year. (And not the fact that nobody but me will touch it.)

I mean, what’s not to like about Thanksgiving?

So I decided to list some blessings. Some things I can think about to turn those blues into red and green sparkly lights.

    1. Having a family I really like. You’d be surprised (maybe) at how many people don’t. I wish I had a dime for everyone I know who’s said something like: “Oh, I have a sister, but we don’t speak.” Or: “No, my father won’t be joining us this year. Or ever.” Oh, I do have a few in-laws who are not exactly my favorite people — if you are reading this, you are definitely not among their number — but we can be in the same room without bloodshed.

      I even like the Whitmore side of my family. Maybe not each and every one, but definitely the ones you see here!

    2. Not having to wear a housedress. When I was a kid, all the older women wore those. With orthopedic shoes. And support hose. Now we in the 70-Plus Crowd are clad in leggings. Hmmm…maybe housedresses should make a comeback.

      My mom is, fortunately, still going strong — and still has a hand in the fruitcake-making. Tho she does NOT sport a housedress. Or leggings, for that matter

    3.  Being able to boast that I’ve taken a bath with a cousin and an aunt — at the same time. Now that people have such small families — not to mention waaay more bathrooms! — the chances of this happening are slim to none.

      Rub a dub dub — three kids in a tub! Left to right: aunt, me, cousin

    4.  Not having to pass the lutefisk. True, I miss my Gramma’s Christmas dinners. (Even the time my Aunt Marilyn read about roasting the turkey in a bag, so she put ours in a paper grocery bag and it caught fire.) But I don’t miss having that big ole bowl of cured fish buried in custard. Yes, some people ate it. My Gramma and my Uncle Ronald, to name two.

      Yup. There was a bowl with lutefisk on this table. Gramma and Ronald (to her left) loved it

    5. Living in a city that decorates itself. I really don’t enjoy putting up decorations. (See “Deck the Halls with Bough of Holly” for my Grinch-like take on holiday decor.) But I do enjoy looking at them. So thank goodness we have plenty of done-by-others Holiday trappings to admire.

      I had absolutely nothing to do with decorating this tree

Well, that’s it for now. Gotta go get ready for a party. Actually, two parties. Which is another thing I’m counting as a blessing: that I still get invited to places where festivities occur. Cheers!

Nor did I decorate this tree. And I don’t even have to go to the Met –it’s right out my window!

New York City. December 2023

The Proustian Popcorn Pan

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‘My brain explodes with salty, fluffy memories’

I mentioned last week that my One and Only Mom was moving to new digs. All went smoothly, thanks to Only Sister Laura and Oldest Younger Brother Scott, who wrestled furniture and wrangled boxes.

Heck, they even unpacked, which in my experience (most recently with our dreaded downsizing, which you can read about in ‘The Tunnel at the End of the Light’) is way way worse than packing.

Boxes ready to be unpacked in the Ken & Barbie House. (Note that I only show my own unpacked boxes)

Mom to OYB Scott while putting things away in her new closet: “I need to go shoe shopping.” OYB Scott to Mom, after opening box containing literally dozens of pairs of footwear: “Um, what about these?!” Mom: “Well, I like shoes.”

Oh, I almost forgot to mention that Youngest Younger Brother Doug, while not present for the Unpacking, played a big part in Mom’s Move too — he was one of the Intrepid Ones who sorted and boxed and toted the stuff from her Seaside apartment. (You can just glimpse him taking a much-deserved Baseball Break in the photo at the top of this post.)

A better view of Doug as he and Mom take a Scrabble Break

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The Year of the Snake

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Year of the Snake

 

Or, How The Child almost did not come to exist.

First, let me just say that, yes, I know that 2015 isn’t really the Year of the Snake. It’s the Year of the Sheep. Which doesn’t sound nearly as sassy. As a matter of fact, Chinese families everywhere have been working the calendar so that their babies’ births do not fall during the Year of the Sheep. (If you care, you can read why here, especially if you think I might be making this up.)

Well, anyway. It’s the 7th of January, and I know I really should have written this post last Wednesday, but it was New Year’s Eve and I was afraid everyone (but me and the Dude) would be out celebrating, so I posted that piece about ‘When Harry Met Sally’ instead. So sue me.

But back to me and snakes. Continue reading