Friday, December 30, 2011

Merry Christmas, Mama


If I should ever leave you whom I love
To go along the Silent Way, grieve not,
Nor speak of me with tears, but laugh and talk
Of me as if I were beside you there...

And when you hear a song or see a bird
I loved, please do not let the thought of me
Be sad...For I am loving you just as
I always have...You were good to me!

There are so many things I wanted still
To do---so many things to say to you...
Remember that I did not fear---it was
Just leaving you that was so hard to face...

We cannot see beyond...But this I know:
I loved you so---'twas heaven here with you!

-Isla Paschal Richardson

Friday, December 23, 2011

Mattie is coming to visit today!

So I had to quickly clean up. I can't believe I got everything in there; all those years of playing Tetris finally paid off. The Spoffice closet doors will likely remain closed long after his departure.


Also, on a totally unrelated note, I made something in my Dutch ovens (I used both!) and wanted to share. Corie (the babysitter), I made your recipe the very next night!




Except I used too much wine so we ended up making a creamy white wine sauce to serve with it. (Read: Dan ended up making a white wine sauce while I flipped out about fucking the whole thing up.)



Looks good though, right?




And of course Dan had to have his fun along the way.


Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Tonight's dinner

Fuh real.

Dan made up this little plate for me to enjoy while wrapping (which apparently became blogging). I bet you're wondering, "Hey, Lola, what's in the bowl?" And I shall tell you---it's cookie cereal. Or cookie soup. Whichever name you prefer. We took a bag of all our treats from the cookie swap last week to the Cape to enjoy in our room (because what's a romantic getaway without cookies to gorge on?) and they got crushed amidst our purchases on the ride home. "Don't throw them away," I said calmly (or maybe screamed), "We can add milk and eat it with a spoon. It will be fun!" And fun it was. And tasty. And I feel pretty brilliant. Win, win, win.

In other news:

I'm posting the following picture because the whole scenario made me laugh. The other day after enjoying a breakfast of steak fajitas (yup) (and, no, I'm not pregnant---I just eat like this), Dan alerted me to the fact that I had food in my teeth. (We all know I'm a sexpot.) I handled it as best I could without having to go to all the trouble of flossing and used my tongue to work it out. Then I got in the shower. When I stepped out (and wrapped myself in a towel, so we're clear) this is what was on the bathroom mirror.

He does this kind of shit every day:


I fell to the floor laughing. I so look forward to Dan making me laugh like this when we're cute old people.

Until then---we're still at war.

The Battle of the Christmas Cards score is as follows:

Dan: 10

Lola: 31

I almost feel bad now. Except I love it. Except I feel bad. Except I don't.

We've decided the contest will go until January 1st to give people plenty of time to get their cards out (and send me oodles). I'll give you the highlights then (or sooner if I feel like it) but I'm psyched to report that some people---Spew Crewer Sassy and good friend and "Punkin Chunkin" champion Buffster McDavey--- have sent multiple (four apiece!) cards. Sassy sent a leftover card from 2007 featuring a picture of only two of her daughters because the third hadn't been born yet! And two of Buffster's cards were ones that she received and then slapped my name on so I now have season's greetings from "The Flemings" and "Ken" (which also made me hit the floor laughing).

This has brought much joy to the season. Despite getting trounched (and let's hope for no Hail Marys), even Dan is enjoying it.

Which makes me feel bad.

Except it doesn't.

I'm sure it's just another thing we'll laugh about when we're cute old people.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Round Yon Virgin Mother and Child


They really do remind me of mother and daughter.


I'm in red heaven.

Can you stand it?

This time it was my Aunt Gail who made a Christmas dream come true.  I am awash with gratitude.

She gave me the Dutch oven from her own kitchen...which was given to her by a woman who made luscious tomato sauces in it for 30 years before gifting it to Gail.  It is browned and marked by meals past and this gives me such joy.

I love that one of these ovens comes with its own story and personality and the other is for me to create.  And there will be feasts.  Oh there will be feasts.  I feel a strong need to use these vessels to pass on the generosity and love and sacred human connection with which they were sent to me.

So stay tuned for pictures.

And, my dear, dear G.Bird, my heart is swollen with you.

I just can't take it.

Right this minute---All is calm, all is bright.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

I don't mean to rub it in but we even got snow...


...and room service because it was just too cozy to go traipsing about in the cold.  I'm just not sure it gets much better than this.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Here's a fun e-mail to get on a Friday afternoon


From: Danny Boy
To: Lola
Subject: Crazy Idea


When I get home, let’s take off for the Cape. We will stay tonight and Saturday---Christmas shop, get cozy, do Christmas Cards and relax. No plan – let’s just go. What do you think?


What do I think?

What do I think?

Well, I'll be honest. Because I sometimes tend to have an Aspergian reaction to change, I was taken aback for a minute. I had already planned some of our weekend---the Farmers' Market, pork chops, a movie.  But I "recalculated," set my brain to its spontaneity setting and off we went, arriving in Chatham last night at 10pm.

It's gorgeous here---beaches everywhere, pink roses still in bloom, white lights adorning some of the most beautiful homes I've ever seen. Our room overlooks a big sandy beach, ocean and then long sandbars further out. It's a great big room so we're not on top of each other and there's a fireplace which of course ups the coziness factor. When we got in last night we poured a couple of glasses of wine (oh, you know it) and I read my book under a blanket by the fire while Dan worked on Christmas cards.  Because life is sometimes perfect, I even saw a shooting star when I went to take in the night sky from the deck.  This morning I got up extra early and went and had my coffee at the main inn, alone in this stately room decked out with Christmas trees, red and white Poinsettias and a whole gingerbread village. My favorite part was the deck railings made out of white chocolate covered pretzels.

Now we're readying to head out for a little shopping in downtown Chatham, an adorable little town. I've been to Chatham one time before and fell in love with the place. I have little desire for a life more complicated than that which Dan and I are currently living but if a windfall were to hit, this is where I'd land---in a sweet little cottage with a boat.

My mom always said that if she was going to live anywhere besides Rhode Island that it would be on the Cape and I feel her all over this place; it was where she came for her last weekend getaway just two months before she died.  I'm glad she got to experience this one last time. I keep looking around and feel so fortunate to be around such beauty. My mom would love the whole idea of this Dan and Lola Christmas weekend and I keep hearing her telling me to relax and enjoy it.

And so we will.

And so will you.




Thursday, December 15, 2011

Monologues With a Drunk: A Dialog

Photo courtesy of Danny Boy. (Impressive, right?)

A winter’s evening in New Hampshire. A redhead who doesn’t look a day over 20 sits in her apartment pondering her therapist’s suggestion that she give up drinking for a couple of weeks.

Me: I think I’m going to have a glass of wine. I really need a glass of wine.

Asshole Inner Voice: But you should at least think about not having it. She only suggested you give up drinking for two weeks ‘just to try it.’

Me: Yeah, but it’s December 14th. Nobody gives up drinking on December 14th.

Asshole Inner Voice: You can’t even go the night?

Me: I didn’t drink last night!

AIV: Yeah, but that’s because you were still drunk from the night before. It doesn’t count.

Me: (Huffs) If I wanted to skip a night of drinking I totally could.

AIV: Then why don’t you?

Me: Because it’s December 14th! WHO GIVES UP DRINKING IN THE MIDDLE OF DECEMBER? WHO, I ASK?

AIV: Getting awfully defensive aren’t you?

Me: Well you’re being a total fuck!

AIV: I’m just saying, I don’t think people without drinking problems have conversations like this with themselves.

Me: That’s ‘cause they do meth and their inner conversations are about that!

AIV: It’s just one night.

Me: But I’m feeling edgy. How about just a small glass?

AIV: Ah, the bargaining stage of alcoholism.

Me: You really are a fuck.

AIV: Why don’t you just take a bath?

Me: Who takes a bath without a glass of wine?

AIV: Why don’t you just go to bed early and read your book?

Me: Who reads in bed without a glass of wine?

AIV: Are you hearing yourself?

Me: Are you hearing yourself?

AIV: I’m you.

Me: Yeah, the lame part. DORK!

AIV: Don’t you understand that when you insult me you’re insulting yourself.

Me: (In whiny mocking voice) Don’t you understand that when you insult me you’re insulting yourself.

AIV: Real Mature.

Me: Real Mature.

AIV: Ugh, you are such a child.

Me: (Opens and closes hand while mouthing blah, blah, blah.)

AIV: I don’t need this. Have your wine. Kill your brain cells.

Me: I knew I’d break you.

AIV: You realize this is a problem, right?

Me: (Pouring wine) Add it to the pile, biotch!

AIV: I can’t believe you couldn’t go one night.

Me: I can’t believe you’re still talking. (Takes first sip, swallows, closes eyes and smiles.)

AIV: Well, what are you going to do with yourself now?

Me: I’m going to write!

AIV: You should have said that in the first place! Who writes at night without a glass of wine?

Me: (Glug, glug, glug.)

Asshole Inner Voice and Me in unison: It’s our artistic temperament!

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

In the spirit of Christmas---I'm kicking Dan's ass!




And the Battle of the Christmas Cards score is:

Dan: 3
Lola: 12

Wassup now, Danny Boy?

There is no game on the planet (okay, except Scrabble) where I beat this guy and while I hate to get ahead of myself, I smell candy cane-scented victory.

Keep sending 'em, kids. Every little bit helps.

So I've been getting some shit for not posting more regularly and all I can say is---I am a temperamental artist and sometimes my temperament forces wine, cookies, and sweatpants on me and allows for nothing more.

For instance, yesterday I was as hungover as I've been in years and I simply couldn't move beyond drinking water and reading my book all day. (I'm hoping that the opportunity for vicarious living makes up for how annoying it is to hear that I actually spent an entire Tuesday recovering from a hangover. And I did. By God, I did.) (Also, next week when I am in a panic because no holiday tasks have been completed, I give you all permission to point and laugh.)

Why the hangover? Well, peeps, the blog and outside world converged on Monday night when I was invited to a cookie swap over at Spew regular Sassy's beautiful home. There is a Spew Crew---Sassy, Manchestaaa!, and Dammit Janet (formerly known as Just Janet and before that BFYNM: Best Friend You Never Met)--- who became followers of this blog via my sister Bec and who have been as supportive and enthusiastic of it as family...but we didn't really know each other outside of here. I had crossed paths with Sassy and Manchestaaa! a handful of times back when I watched my niece but the first time I ever met Dammit Janet was at my mom's funeral (which is when she changed her Spew handle from Best Friend You Never Met to Best Friend You Finally Met). I hadn't seen any of them since then but Sassy invited me to her party (and Danny Crocker contributed six dozen peanut butter balls for the swap so I could play) and it was a most fantastic time. Apparently cookie swaps are just awesome holiday parties that dudes aren't invited to (except for Sassy's hubby, of course, who surprised everyone by serving up Kahlua and Baileys in sugar-rimmed glasses and should therefore be invited to every party ever). It was fantasmo and so great to spend some time with these ladies---I got to actually learn about them which was such a treat.

Yet another way this blog has brought me joy...

I never take it for granted that I get to connect with all of you lovelies so even though I take sabbaticals and try to get away with posting songs or pictures as Spew filler, please know how appreciative I am that you show up here. I'll try to do better...I'll try!

Normally, I never really have to think up what I'm going to post here. It usually just comes Spewing out and (if my temperament allows it) gets caught on the page. The truth is that it's the editing that keeps me from posting. I've written so many entries that just never made it up because I didn't have time or the temperament to clean them up for posting. Temperament (which I have spelled incorrectly each time I've typed it so far in this post---you complete me, Spell Check) is now going to be my scapegoat for all things. I wanted to clean the Spoffice but my artistic temperament would not have it. I wasn't going to drink tonight but my artistic temperament was thirsty. The point is that the actual writing doesn’t usually require much effort.

The reason I bring this up is because right now I’m working for it. Right now I am not Spewing; I am faking it. (The first part was real, I swear. Only since the last paragraph have I been faking it. And all the other times before this were real too---don't go getting a complex.) I'm just a little jammed up. I've written about this before--- how my brain freezes like a computer with too many programs running when I've got a lot on my mind and that's what's going down right now. And before you say it, yes, if I didn't spend entire days nursing hangovers I would probably have a better grip on life. (But, as I see it, we deserve to be rewarded for drinking bottomless glasses of wine. And it was not so much a reward as it was---I cannot go anywhere or do anything today without dying so I will move as little as possible and hope the dying wanes.) (Wanes, Rob. Wanes.)

I’m trying to get ahold of my brain though because I told myself I just wouldn't do holiday stress this year. Really I just I can't . My body can't afford the energy depletion and my brain cannot take any more frazzle. Last week I showed up an hour early to my therapy appointment---which has been at the same time for the last two years---and was so oblivious to my mistake that I actually called my therapist from the waiting room and left a message asking what’s up with this shit (as nicely as I could). When I figured out I was early---Dan reminded me after I started sending him angry texts about the situation---I left another message explaining my mistake and then apologized for the negative psychic energy I sent her way. My brain is fried and there is no hustle to my bustle. I collapsed after we finally got our tree up the other day not from a physical fatigue but an emotional one. I felt a longing for my mom with every red ribbon loop and wire hook I hung from the branches and while in the end it was beautiful and I was glad it got done, I couldn't go on. I told Dan that was all I could muster this year in the way of decorating---if he wants the stockings up, he'll have to hang 'em himself.

And I'm not alone. I went to a holiday grief support group the other day where women told stories of how for years their one effort at "celebrating" the season was to go out to the backyard, grab a pine tree branch and throw it in a pot of soil. Many of the women there felt, as I have, that sometimes they seemed to the outside world that they are through with grieving when of course this isn't true. It's something I've talked about with my sisters too. You smile, you say I'm fine and then you go home and remember that a piece of you is dead and nothing will ever be the same. The other night I got a text message from one of my sisters late into the night which explained the agonizing emptiness that had just come over her as she remembered my mom's goneness. She didn't want me to do anything, she wasn't holding a knife to her wrist, she just was in immense pain and wanted someone to know. I got it. Not everyone gets it (though all of you seem to) and that can be hard. You feel like they expect there to be some sort of expiration date on your pain and of course there isn’t.

I thought that I had gained little from this support group---other than writing material, of course---but I'm recognizing now that it helped to be in a room where there were no such expectations. To be around a group of people who understand why I’m still having thoughts like, "Oh, I better call my mom, it's been a while since we talked," only to remember she’s gone and then feel so stupid and sad that this is still happening. That's what put me down the other night. I wanted to call my mom and tell her I put my tree up. I wanted to just chat with her and see if she had decorated her tree yet and ask her how her shopping was going.

I just want to go home to her.

And then today my therapist suggested that I give up drinking for a couple of weeks.

I actually laughed.

And just so we're clear, although I certainly do like my wine these days, I really don't have a drinking problem. I have plenty of problems, most of which I've admitted on here, why would I start lying now? The suggestion to abstain from alcohol was more about maximizing my energy by avoiding the depressant properties of booze. Fuh real, I can quit any time I want...just not in the two weeks before Christmas. Just not.

And like that, I'm Spewing. I can tell because I have no filter and told you about the drinking thing.

Apparently my artistic temperament doesn’t know what an inside thought is...

Friday, December 9, 2011

So, this happened.




I wrote a blog on Saturday about how owning a Le Creuset Dutch oven was my dreamiest of Christmas dreams. I might as well have been writing about wanting a Benz, the thing seemed so far out of my reach. And I wrote it because it was really just a funny little scenario going through my head---the family members of Le Creuset employees going, “Oh great, another fucking pot,”----while I so covet the things.

Four days later---four days later!--- it arrived and an actual smile rose on my face as I lifted the heavy package from the front porch. I made my first meal in it that very night and it was tastier than anything I'd ever made because it was born in a red cast iron castle.

So, how did this come to be?

Well, allow me to introduce you Spewers to Rob, who is known by everyone in his life---his family, his friends, his clients---as Bob. Only my mom and thus all of her daughters and husband ever called him Rob. Even back in seventh grade when my mom and Rob first met, everyone called him Bob. I’m not quite sure why she christened him Rob, only that she did and then the friendship lasted for the rest of her life.

Rob has shown up occasionally in the comments section here, usually expressing a loving sentiment about my mom or a smart-ass witticism. Take this comment he wrote the day I was going in for my colonoscopy: “...I hope by the time you read this it will all be over and you'll be pronounced a perfect asshole.” He also sends me private “Gotcha!” e-mails every time I make a spelling or grammatical error on here and, with my mom gone, he is the first person I would consult for guidance in this area. (Actually, he probably doesn’t “Gotcha” me every time which my self-esteem appreciates.) But I work to keep a close eye on errors in large part to stay off his Grammar Nazi radar so you can attribute at least my hearty effort to post mistake-free entries, to Rob.

And you can definitely attribute every single “fuck” I’ve ever written on here to him too. Every fucking one. Growing up, Rob was like an uncle to my sisters and me and in addition to visiting often he was also my first real pen pal. And though I was probably not even 10 years old, though I was but a young and innocent fawn just awakening to the workings of our planet, Rob never shied away from dropping an f-bomb on me if the situation warranted it. (“Ah, fuck your sisters if they’re being mean to you.”) The swearing---in person he could do it in Donald Duck’s voice!--- along with his owning this Mickey Mouse phone



cemented him as the coolest guy ever.

I also somehow knew that he had written at least one novel in the years my mom had known him (though I think he totals more than this now) which made him the first real writer I knew and this of course upped my appraisal of him. ”Whoa, a novel,” sweet young Lola thought. “The guy wrote a fucking novel.”

Not only were his letters great---and typed!---but sometimes he even sent us packs of Garbage Pail Kids, the collecting of which I lived for at the time. One afternoon, delivered in a fantastic cardboard tube addressed specifically to Cherie and me, this arrived.



And now he was a God.

He also would often include funny little poems in his letters, poems which I can still recite to this day.

Little Miss Muffet
sat on her tuffet
eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider
who sat down beside her
and she ate him too.


And also this:

Mr. Antiselli
had a pimple on his belly.
His wife cut it off
and made it into jelly.


I suppose I stored his writing tone somewhere in my brain without realizing it--- the irreverence and humor and of course all the fucks. In many ways, his tone and my trying to emulate it became part of the foundation of my writing style.

It was also this sense of humor that my mom, a woman born to laugh, loved about him. Rob’s story of their meeting goes like this: He was a year older than she when this cute redhead walked into his math class and because my mom was such a fox, he assumed she was stuck up. When the teacher sat her beside him in the classroom, in part so she would set a good example, Rob assumed my mom would never talk to him. The two ended up laughing their asses off for the rest of that school year, throughout high school and into adulthood. They dated briefly just after high school but the relationship was destined to be a friendship. They saw each other through years of new partners, counseled each other through hardships and, even during a large span of years when they lost touch, always kept a place open in their hearts for one another.

It’s a friendship I love hearing (and I think Rob likes telling me) about, especially since her passing. The stories of this time are magic for me. If I could go back to any moment in her history, I would position myself behind some tree and just watch her walk home from school. How did she walk? Did she carry her books or was a bag slung over her shoulder? What was her throaty laugh like then? Every time Rob paints a picture of my mom as a teenager or a twenty-something, he is giving me the gift of getting to know her then. So, though we’ve been in touch through e-mail for over 10 years, I think our correspondence means more to both of us now. I am his connection to her and he is my connection to a version of her I didn’t know, one which gives me an opportunity to understand her even more than I could when she was here.

When she died, Rob was the first one at the wake, sitting there---clearly broken---staring at her closed coffin. I hadn’t seen him in 12 years and left the reception line to sit next to him for a minute. I can’t remember what we said---what could we have said?---but I knew, undoubtedly, that his grief was as deep as mine. Though I haven’t been the most consistent pen pal he still checks in at least once a month and wrote me notes on my mom's birthday and the anniversary of her death. He also asks about my dad’s health and is always wondering how my sisters are holding up, how I’m holding up.

And he sent me a fucking cherry red porcelain-finished cast iron Le Creuset Dutch oven (which is much better than an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle). (Though he did say that my choosing a red one made me seem kind of whorish.)

“Yes, Virginia, I read the Spew and found that you want a red Le Creuset,” he wrote to me. “Aha...time to bring joy and cheerfulness to one who deserves much of it...”

Can you take it?

I could hardly take it.

In fact, when I told Dan about it I cried because the thoughtfulness and kindness and beauty of doing something like this just overwhelmed me. (I could almost hear him retching while reading the similarly-worded note of thanks that I wrote in response.) “Joy and cheerfulness”---man, did he bring ‘em. It’s not just that I have a shiny red new toy (but I do! I do!) it’s the whole gesture which just shook me. (Rob, I admit to having a "which" versus "that" problem. Help me.)

But seriously, can you take it?

Now, because I respect his desire to preserve the illusion of his being a cynical prick, I must mention that he insisted that I understand that it “is most assuredly NOT a Christmas present.” He loathes the exchanging of Christmas gifts and says that he has everything he needs “so I wind up getting meaningless crap that I make a point of throwing out disdainfully in front of the giver.” When I asked him if he wanted the complimentary red tea kettle that came with the Dutch oven, feeling a little greedy at this point, he answered only, “I need a red tea kettle like I need a second asshole.” (Can you imagine how much fun it was for little mischievous me to get these kinds of letters as a kid?)

Guys, I almost still can’t take it.

It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. There I was just rambling about my kitchenware lust without even a thought---I swear, not even a thought----that anyone would read it with anything other than a sense of humor; and there he was reading it with a sense of tenderness and altruism. (It almost made me feel bad for making fun of the Jordan Marsh ladies.) (Almost.)

We’ve exchanged a few notes since---he says it’s just a fucking pot and I’ve told him that it’s so much more than just a pot.

See, of course this is a hard time of year. Of course it is. I know people expect the pain of losing my mom to have waned but the truth is that it hasn’t and is even more pronounced in the midst of this season...especially since my mom was practically, as Dan said it, Mrs. Claus. She is Christmas for me. Even as I got older---and this is something I am only recognizing now---the entire month was always about moving one day closer to my returning to her, to my returning home. If “home is where your mom is,” I must admit that I'm a woman lost. So I was getting cynical about the season. $52 billion spent on Thanksgiving weekend---what the fuck is wrong with this country? The song “It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” felt like it was taunting me. “Oh is it? The most wonderful, huh? The MOST FUCKING WONDERFUL? I call bullshit on you, holiday radio!” (You see Rob’s influence, right?)

But---and I’m sorry, Rob---despite his declaration that this gift did not come carrying even an iota of seasonal cheer, that’s exactly what it brought me. Holiday fucking spirit. My mom would have loved this story. She would have loved to have done this for someone and she would love that Rob---that guy from her math class all those years ago, the guy with whom she road around all night on the Staten Island Ferry at 18 years old---did this for her daughter. And so through this gift, through Rob’s generosity, I feel loved and I feel her. And fuck me for even writing the following Lifetime movie line---but it helped me feel Christmas. (Vomit, vomit, vomit.) The rest of the season will still be difficult, I’m sure of it. But it’s already better because of this red Dutch oven and the reminder it brought of what's real about this season---the love that connects us all even when we're not all here.

Rob, I am quite certain that this entry is error-laden (and I expect a list of my mistakes) but I wanted to get it up as quickly as I could because I am just so grateful. For the Dutch oven. For the Garbage Pail Kids. For showing me that the word “fuck” could be a tool of this writing trade---a trade which I’d always hoped, in large part due to our letter-writing---to pursue. For the stories of my mom. For the friend you were to her. For loving her laugh as I did. For reminding me that if you can get past the onslaught of Advertising and Assholes (I smell a carol) there really can be Divinity in giving and receiving and in this whole season, something my mom was always in touch with. The gift you gave, hiding in that red Dutch oven, was a glimpse of the realization that someday I'll settle a bit more into the idea that even just remembering her means going home for the holidays.

Thank you for that.

God (GiG) bless us, every one. Especially you, you old fucker.

Monday, December 5, 2011

And I'm on the board!


I just love this picture too much to take it down. Unless something else fun comes to me, it may stay up all month.

Thanks to Mattie's parents---who are always my first card of the season (holla atcha Pat and Henry!)---we have ourselves a tie game.

Dan: 1

Lola: 1

I fear that this contest is going to expose how few holiday cards Dan and I get compared to the rest of you.

Oh well. When baby Solomon is born someday, we'll up our game.

Dan feels very threatened by this competition. He told me that I am mistaken and that I win The Battle Of The Christmas Cards (title pending) every year due to my large extended family. While it's true that my family would beat his family in a tug of war, he has more adult-y friends with kids and everyone knows that it's the child population that brings the numbers up. Also, he has consistently sent out Christmas cards for like 15 years (have I mentioned he's waaaaaaay older than I am?) where as I have been, well, less consistent, so that works for him too. I used to send handwritten cards to the people with whom I wanted to connect around the holidays (like both sides, long-ass letter kind of cards) but eventually e-mailing throughout the year made more sense. Not so romantic, I know, but fuck, I got 'em out. It's family lore---and I think it really happened---that my mom once sent her Christmas cards out right before Easter. Love that lady. The fact that she still sent them...just love her.

Regardless of Dan's excuse-making and boot-shaking--- it's game on! (He tells me he has some tricks up his sleeve too.)

I also want to declare publicly---because I've held this secret in for far too long---that Dan writes and addresses and mails all of our Christmas cards. I choose to no longer be ashamed. He's just better at it and just generally more responsible and efficient than I am. For years and years (starting long before he met me) he's been writing these wonderfully funny Christmas poems that he sends out to all his loved ones (and now mine) and it's gotten to the point that people hold on to them and look forward to getting them each year. He's just so adorable...

...and also so much better than me on so many levels...

...which is why I really need to kick his ass in this contest!

If you send me a card, I promise I'll send you one in return! Er, Dan will. (And not to ruin his fun, but just wait 'til you see what he's come up with this year.) (At some point I'll post it just so those of you who don't want to send me a card---Jerkfaces!---can see.)

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Scenes From a Mall Santa

This really happened---a (half) family Santa shot in the middle of the day at the bleakest of malls---and it was glorious. Not pictured: Shiloh, Pax, Vivienne, Maddox, Knox and Zahara. (Also, Cherie who was not in love with this picture of herself.)

It's a little heavy in these parts these days so let’s just have a little levity, shall we?

Some holiday thoughts and observations:

--- I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” is in essence a romantic duet which recounts the tale of a cozy, fireside date rape.

--- I would like to marry or closely befriend an employee of Le Creuset. I bet that the family members of these people probably get whole sets of this cast iron cookware of the Gods for Christmas and I want in. I just know in my heart that I would be a better cook if I only owned a red, porcelain-finished Dutch oven.

--- I gave a go to holiday shopping the other day---I was getting new tires put on Dan’s car (Who’s a good wife? I am.) and had no choice but to mill about a shopping plaza while I waited. While it turned out to be a win for the economy (and a lose for our bank account), I grew so weary that at one point I parked myself on one of the leather couches in the Best Buy entertainment section and donned a pair of 3D glasses just to get a break. December 3rd prediction---not a chance in North Pole hell that I will make it through holiday bustle with any measure of efficiency or grace.

--- On the aforementioned shopping trip I overheard an older (though not elderly) woman telling her similarly aged friend that she wanted to go to “that store, you know that store over there…you know that store to get that movie.” (The store was Best Buy.)

To which her friend answered, “You mean Jordan Marsh?”

Huh.

“Yeah,” the first woman said. “I wanna get that move, you know that movie…that movie that was on HBO but first it was a movie.”

Quickly surmising that it was not likely that the two were going to come up with the name of the movie if they were of the mindset that they would be doing their Christmas shopping at Jordan Marsh (probably after hitting up the Woolworth's counter) I told them I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation and offered my help.

“Okay,” the first woman said, readying, I thought, to give me a short description of the film. And with all the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old during a guessing game she said, “It’s a movie I would like,” and then referring to her friend, “but she wouldn’t.”

Huh.

The first woman continued, “The people are in another world...you know they showed it on HBO...and they can’t breathe.”

And the second woman, who was clearly more of a cinephile than I gave her credit for, said, “That sounds like Avatar.”

“Yeah,” said the first. “And they speak another language.”

“That sounds likes Avatar,” the second woman said again. “Are the people blue?”

“YES! They’re blue! And it was on TV…”

“It’s Avatar,” the second woman said again.

“YES!” the first woman exclaimed. And then she added, “Now if only we could come up with the name of it.”

I was mostly silent for the whole exchange. I have never seen Avatar and I also felt like someone was playing a trick on me.


--- We got our first Christmas card the other day and it was from a friend of Dan’s prompting him to exclaim, “I’m in the lead!” This has become our yearly contest---who gets more Christmas cards. (We have mostly separate friend-sets so it’s easy to keep score.) I often lose. In the past, I’ve attributed this to my being waaaaay younger than him. “My friends are too busy with raves and hallucinogens!” I’d say. But this doesn’t hold much weight now that I’ve hit 30, so I’m using my online resources to wage war. I guess what I’m saying is, send me a holiday card! (For mailing info please contact my publicist, Becky Breslin...or me via Facebook or e-mail.) If the numbers aren’t too dismal, I’ll give you an update on the score as the season progresses. Currently it is Dan: 1 Lola: 0. Help the needy, would you?

And with that I bid you adieu. I hope to return to you soon but I have been experiencing more ups and downs these days than a bipolar elevator, so one never knows.

Happy Holidays, my friends. And if any of you work customer service at Le Creuset…let’s do lunch.