Reluctant to Stereotype

I had a daughter. (Well, DH & I had a daughter.) We gave her dolls and stuffed animals and girly stuff, and she seemed to like them. When she was five, she liked the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Well and good. We got her many TMNT action figures. I don't know if she every really played with them or if she was exhibiting DH's collection mania. When uninformed people said that they were "boy's toys," she, and we, said she could play with whatever she liked, so long as it didn't result in even temporary damage to her (no roller blades!) or the house (no finger paints). When she presented the world with our grandson, I had to adjust my thinking somewhat: he could have stuffed animals, but he also liked cars (toys and the movies), footballs and other "boy's toys." So now, my grandson has a little sister. The first year, toys were easy: soft baby toys, books, balls, etc. But she's over 18 months now. I want to give her girly stuff like baby dolls or play kitchen stuff (can you say "stereotype?") Don't worry. Her parents already gave her a toy "computer," pink, like her Mommy's. But I don't want to make her fit into just a girl's mold. Do I get her cars and trucks? Her big brother already has a ton of those, and he'd likely take them away to play with them anyway. Do I give her girly stuff, and, as she grows, let her think that Grandma is limiting her? So what do you think? Shall I just get her what I think she might like, figuring that she, like her mother, will request what interests her? Or should I try to mix it up, even picking something that doesn't "light my fire" as a gift?

Holiday Memories: Rocks But No Coal

The holidays always bring so many memories of my youth, good and bad. The good include Midnight Mass and coming home in the mysterious dark at about 2 a.m., the music on the stereo, and the suspense of what might be under the tree. The games on Christmas and New Year's Days. The decorations. The smell of the fresh tree, selected some evening in December then decorated the Sunday before Christmas. The bad include my oldest sister's tantrums which were a regular staple of the holidays. She was never happy, never content. But I always sought the best of times and concentrated on that, looked for the amusing in any situation. For example, one holiday season, our television broke down between Christmas and New Year's. The good part was that a friend of my next older sister's (the sane one) loaned us a portable and I watched the Rose Bowl parade on that, experiencing a miniature television for the first time. So I have lots of memories, but the one today is about the special boxes under the tree.

I don't know about other families, but our fresh trees always seemed to lean to one side. Daddy would saw off the bottom to make it flat, but the tree always seemed unbalanced. It would be screwed into one of those small red and green stands that held water so the tree wouldn't dry out too quickly. The stands were short and had three legs curving to lie flat on the floor. The trees would always tip over, spilling water and knocking off ornaments (those glass balls made quite a mess of shards).

Mother, also the mother of invention, pondered the problem one year, then got three good-sized boxes, put several rocks into each, then wrapped them in the most beautiful paper and decorated them with lengths of ribbon. These nicely wrapped packages she placed under the tree, one weighting each leg of the tree-stand. Beautiful. When the tree came down, she placed each box into a plastic bag and put them away with the rest of the decorations to use the next year, and the next. In time, when the paper and bows got tattered, she's re-wrap the packages . It was kinda nice, because when the tree went up, there was no waiting for brightly decorated packages to be placed under it. And after Christmas morning, there were always packages to add to the ambiance.

I can't recall what happened when my brother-in-law married into the family, probably the exact same thing that happened in 1976, the first Christmas Dearest Hubby spent at my parents' home. (The first year we were married, we were unable to go.) Christmas morning came. My husband loves Christmas, loves the presents. Really he's a big kid at heart and at his parents' home, he'd go bounce on his sisters' beds to waken them while it was still dark. Poor DH, he was so totally unused to our way of doing things. After waking, we always cooked a big breakfast (eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, sweet rolls, milk, juice, and coffee in her collection of china cups), then had to wash the dishes. It was 11 before we were ready, then that year, Mother realized she had no film for her camera, so sent Daddy and me out to find some. So it was noon before we finally started. We didn't have a lot of presents, just enough for everyone to open a few. We progressed. We aren't a family to all rip open the gifts all at once. Each gift was distributed, oohed and ahhed over, opened and admired, the paper folded (to save or throw away), ribbons saved or placed on one's head for decoration as we sipped juice, coffee or a stronger libation (it was after noon, after all).

But all good things end and finally, we sighed and started to stand and pick up. DH was surprised! "What are you doing?" he said, "there are still presents under the tree."

"No, they're all gone," someone replied, looking around.

"No, I see them," DH exclaimed. "Right there."

Several of us bent over, looking. "No, I don't see any," several of us said, looking puzzled.

DH looked at us like we were crazy. "There are still gifts!".

"There are no more gifts," I told him, peering into the branches of the tree, seeking a stray gift.

"Right there!" he pointed under the tree,as we all searched.

Finally it hit us and we all started laughing, which annoyed him even more. We knew the boxes of rocks weren't gifts and didn't notice them at all, but he'd been watching these large, well decorated pieces the whole time, wondering what was in them and to whom they were destined.

Ah, the joys of newlyweds learning the holiday ways of the other's family. I am not sure he ever forgave us for the boxes of rocks masquerading a Christmas gifts. I do know that Christmas mornings in our own home was never as leisurely as those of my childhood. And we never had wrapped rocks under the tree.

How proud can I get?

Dearest Hubby and I attended a baseball game recently in a good-sized American city. Being the types that 1) hate paying an arm and part of a leg for parking if we can help it; 2) want to avoid the mess of post-game traffic; and 3) really do think that if you can take convientent public transportation, you should, found parking on the fringes of the city and used the light rail. It was nice, fairly clean and not expensive. Coming back, of course, half of the poeple of the city and most of the next two states packed themselves (with the encouagement of said light rail's employees) sardine fashion into, well, sardine-like cans. Most people suffered in silence as we waited for the trains to move (whch seemed slow in comparison to other public transport we've used). And anyone who knows me can guess, I was miserable. A bad back combined with claustrophobia make me wonder which circle of hell held this many people in this small a space. As DH expressed concern, andI kept telling myself that this would pass, I noticed the people lucky enough to garner seats. A few older people, parents with small children perched on their laps, and a LOT of teens and tweens busily texting their current status to all of their friends, who were probably sitting in the next car. Personally, I don't care of they text. I'm not a teacher, to worry that they are forming bad writing skills, nor am I their parent to have to pay the phone bill or be concerned that they may develop carpel tunnel of the thumbs. No, what I thought of was my daughter, and of one of the moments I was proudest of her.

Again, anyone who knows me knows I am proud of my Darling Daughter, and there have been many moments that come to mind when I think of that fact. I can be complacent that somehow we guided her through childhoold and her teen years with little screaming, crying and cursing (DD, did I ever apologize for cursing?). She was a good dancer, and just thinking of her senior solo still brings a lump to my throat. She graduated from college, then obtained a master's degree and a job (no small feat these days) that she likes (even rarer). She looked around carefully, and either by accident or design, marrried a wonderful man that we like and is kind to her aging parents. And now she's a fabulous mother, loving but firm, while still working at that job, making me proud by proving that one can be a terrific mother and still pay attention to a career. But sometimes I forget the little things, and this miserable light train trip reminded me of one of the best.

Years ago, DH, DD & I went to visit The Mouse at WDW. we stayed on site and took advantage of the World's bus transportation system (see numbers 1 & 2 in the first paragraph). DH has a habit of racing us through the crowds to be in the front of most transport lines, so we'd usually get seats on said buses. DD would sit next to us as people straggled aboard, standing in the aisles. And then, I began to notice, at some point, she'd get up and offer her seat to someone, allowing that person to sit while she stood and surfed the bus back to our lodging. Eventually, I mentioned it to her, that it was nice. She told me that she waited until someone got on who reminded her of me: a little overweight and very tired looking. I still get all choked up at this. Not only was she doing me proud by being polite (perhaps showing the world that, yes, we had raised a child who was POLITE) but also that she thought enough of me that she wanted to help me by proxy.

After DH and I & escaped the sardine can, he mentioned all of the youths sitting while older people (believe me, we weren't the only older ones on that train), and also reminisced about DD's habit of kindness. It made me feel a bit sorry for the parents of those children who weren't kind enough to think beyond themselves. Those parents weren't hurt by their children's inaction at this time, but they will never know the pride one can feel by knowing that their children are kind to strangers. I do. So my backache eased a bit. Pride is a good painkiller.

So, DD, if you ever read this, know that I am proud of you for all of the big things. But prouder still of the small ones. You will understand this some day. Your Precious Child will suddenly do something unexpected for someone else for love of you. The glow is so warm. Enjoy!

Pizza ... and everlasting love

I hated pizza as a child. My first and, for many years, only exposure was the Chef Boyardi version that my mother tried several times. It tasted like bug spray on a stale saltine, not made any better by the fact that she made it on Fridays (no meat added!) so that it was just what came out of the box. Of course, we were Southerners living in central California, so she knew nothing of pizza to begin with anyway. It was a failed experiment. The rest of the family ate it, if not with gusto at least with acceptance. Picky eater that I was, I ate bread and butter.

So when I went to college, I could not understand why all of my friends so liked going and eating pizza, but they also heartily consumed spaghetti out of a can and dorm food, so I really didn't think a thing of it. My downfall came on a Saturday morning in the spring of my freshman year. I had several friends on my dorm floor, and we were visiting around and ended up in one girl's room. I'd awakened too late for breakfast and was hungry, and for once was eagerly waiting lunchtime so she offered me the contents of last night's pizza box. I declined at first (pizza: yuck!), then noted that she had a loose pill sitting on her dresser. Being the daughter of my father, whose prime directive on medicine was "Don't dose yourself," I felt she should put it back in the aspirin bottle or prescription bottle or whatever. My friend pointed out that it was neither aspirin nor prescription, but yellow sunshine, then had to clarify what that was. To cover my naive shock (this was about as far from Daddy's directive as I could imagine), I turned my attention to the limp box of leftovers.

Of course, in those days, most pizzas in middle America, or the hills of northwest Arkansas at least, we simple thin crust models. No deep dish, foldable, cheese in the crust variety. A lone triangle of browned ground beef with thin layer of cheese on a pie-like crust sat, lonely and cold. I am not sure if it was my embarrassment that I wasn't cool with being greeted with stray LSD pills on a bright Saturday morning, or my hunger, but I took a bite.

Was it the truth of the maxim that hunger is the best sauce? Or was it really that good? It was wonderful! Over the next few weeks, I had pizza several times (actually, over the next three years, I would have pizza several times a week), and quickly settled on a favorite: beef and black olives, although I ate a number of varieties. When Dearest Hubby and I began, well.. really we never dated, per se, but when we began doing such things that might include pizza, he always acquiesced to my favorite, although I learned that he would also partake of pepperoni or sausage or Canadian bacon on occasion. Over the next thirty-five years, we've eaten lots of pizza on various crusts: thin, hand-tossed, cheese-in-the-crust, even Chicago-style and french bread, but almost always beef & black olive. After one recent foray into deep-dish heaven, I though to wonder why he never really wanted anything different, so I asked. You'd think that after 35 years, there would be nothing I didn't already know, or at least, have figured out on my own. He said that before we got together, he didn't like pizza. Seems his first taste of this faux-Italian delight was a homemade Chef Boyardi from a box that his mother had produced, and he spent the rest of his childhood wondering why anyone would eat that willingly. We were obviously made for each other.

Lightweight?

Am I a lightweight, figuratively and literarily speaking? I went to the doctor earlier last week, one I hadn't seen in several years, one who knows what I do, my interest in genealogy & history & the origin of names, one I like a lot. As I waited for him, I was reading "New Moon," the second book in the Twilight series. I had resisted reading the series because: 1) Sookie Stackhouse notwithstanding, I am not a big vampire fan; 2) I know it's mainly aimed at the young adult market; and 3) I generally resist reading anything that everyone else drools over (Bridges of Madison County pops to mind). I expected him to chew me out for not having this particular check-up for three years, but when Doc came in and saw what I was reading, he surprised me by wanting to know why I was "wasting" my time reading part of the Twilight saga. He started telling me about a book he thought would be worthy of my time.

So I found the book my doctor prescribed and checked it out. It is "Pillars of the Earth" a 900+ page tome ("tome" is fancy-speak for "ton," which the book weighs) by Ken Follett, set in medieval times, about the people surrounding the building of a church. It started with a hanging, but slowed after the beginning, as we began to laboriously learn about all of the characters. I understand this was/is a very popular book, and Doc had even told me it was an Oprah book (see #3 above). "Pillars" is populated with kindly priors and wicked priests, illegitimate children and forced marriages, spousal abuse and betrayal, impotence and rape, Moorish scholars, flying buttresses, and what passes for celebrities intertwined into the story. Very exciting, but I am really not interested. It sounds and reads like a mini-series, like the John Jakes Patriot books from the 1970s and 1980s, which I, at first, gobbled up but got tired of the way Jakes kept name-dropping. (Two characters reminiscing about seeing "little Abe" in the wilds of Kentucky and "wasn't he cute?" was the breaking point for me on that series. It just strained my credulity that they might have run across Lincoln as a child as they fled from, IIRC, Canada to Tennessee.) Plus "Pillars" is set in medieval times: poor sanitation, death, poor sanitation, torture, poor sanitation, corruption, poor ... well, you get the drift.

I could finish wading through it, but, like wading through the sewers of Paris, I really am not interested. So my question to myself: Am I a lightweight reader? Have I limited myself in my reading habits reading unworthy material? Or, since I have read so much over the years, am I just pickier about what I want to take the time to read? I've read plenty of classics and plenty of cr*p in my time, both for pleasure or class or work, but I don't wish and don't need to read to impress anyone else. I've read non-fiction but prefer fiction. I've read "To Kill a Mockingbird," "Animal Farm," "Doctor Zhivago," "Moby Dick," "The Great Gatsby," "Madeline," much of Vonnegut and Heinlein, and all of Bujold and the Harry Potter books. I have read Georgette Heyer and Sylvia Plath, and although Plath was a fine writer, I'd rather read Heyer because one doesn't contemplate suicide when reading her. So I must have already made my decision as to what I want to read, regardless of how anyone else sees me.

And then the next question is does anyone have the right to ask someone else why they are "wasting time" reading something? I personally don't care what others read. I've heard all of the stereotypical criticisms: westerns are dime novel shoot 'em ups; mysteries are formulaic; science fiction is just Buck Rogers adventure; romance is just ignorant women's fantasies. All of these statements ignore the fact that all of these genres host some very fine writing with well-developed plots and imaginative characters, while each genre also produces garbage. I've been talked into reading books by all sorts of people, and was disappointed at times, but hit enough paydirt that I keep following suggestions. The same person that nagged me into trying Charlaine Harris also suggested another series that I didn't like. But she was right about Sookie, so I will listen when she suggests something else. So no matter what it is, if you like it and, knowing me, think I will, too, go ahead and suggest it. I might or might not read it. Like "Pillars," I might take and look and decide to not read it now, or at all. But my decision doesn't make me a literary lightweight. It just makes me me.

And by the way, "New Moon" keeps my attention, flows well and I don't want to kill myself when I am reading it.

Bella, now, is another matter.

Christmas Memories

Like other special days in our lives, Christmas, New Year and the days around them tend to invoke my very vivid memories of my fifty-mumble Christmases. Daddy never talked about his childhood Christmases (stupid me, I didn't ask), and Mother's biggest memory was of the time they all got some candy, and her older sister hid hers in the sewing machine drawer so that when their brother ate all of his, she could retrieve hers and eat it in front of him. He beat her at her own game by finding the hiding place and consuming the goodies, then laughed at the sister when her big moment fizzled.

My Christmas memories are divided by the places we lived. Lexington, a snowy city when I was young, California and warm Christmases later on, and Arkansas and the decorated staircase banister. Hunting for Christmas trees every place we lived, until I married a man allergic to evergreen. Through all of those years, Mother was baking and decorating. She made fruit cakes (and you haven't had fruit cake unless you've had one baked in October and given a "little drink" every few days until Christmas), fudge, divinity, marble divinity, cookies. And those are just the sweets. Midnight Mass, the big breakfast on Christmas morning (which drove my wanting-to-open-presents husband nuts as we were finally ready for "The Tree" at 11:30 when Mother realized she didn't have film for her camera and sent Daddy and me out to locate some). In earlier years, there was always one unwrapped gift waiting to surprise us as we entered the room. Mother loved Christmas and the wonder, and her devout belief in the religious origins and adherence to many Advent customs (Advent wreath with, yes, daily prayers, and I used to get up early to go to daily Mass with her) didn't prevent her from enjoying the secular traditions. When Darling Daughter was about 7, I asked Mother when I stopped believing in Santa. My then 77-year old mother turned wide eyes on me and said, "You don't believe in Santa?" And that was the last word on that!

Once we had our Darling Daughter 26 years ago, many Christmases were spent at our own home, although there were a few during which we traveled 876 miles to my Mother's. Each time, Dearest Husband declared that never again would we traverse snowy and icy roads for Christmas in Arkansas, but he gave in and we would go back. I have so many memories of Christmases the past 26 years. There was the year our Darling Daughter needed a nap during the opening of presents, the time she'd rather play with the bows than the gifts we bought her. The time Santa's Helper at the Mall told her that Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were boys' toys and she asserted, "Girls, too!" I was so proud! There were years she hounded us out of bed at 6, then the years we had to haul her out at 10:30. The year we gave her Dad a Razorback Beanie Baby, the year we gave her a red Tommy coat, the year she and I wrapped "Apollo XIII" in a BIG box so Dearest Hubby wouldn't know he was getting it. I remember movies a lot. We always had a new one on video to watch, and then, after our Darling Daughter got a job at a movie theater, we actually saw a movie on Christmas Day while she worked. Just being in the same building meant Christmas together. More recently, DD's had to fly home and Christmas has meant DH's compulsive collecting and decorating. Picture the house from "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation," only inside.

And now, 2009, a new set of memories begin: our first with our Wonderful Son-in-law (hereafter just Wonderful Son; the genie in me wishes precise definitions of relationship, but my heart just thinks Son). He came to visit during the Christmas season shortly after we met him, but left to be with his family for the big day. For a while, I couldn't remember if he was with us for Christmas Day that year or not, since I associate that year with his visit. I remember him making snow angels and decorating cookies when he was here. And snuggled up asleep on the couch with Darling Daughter. Last year, his responsibilities prohibited him from being able to come up and we missed him, but this year, we get to have the pleasure of his company.

And, of course, coming up with DD & WS will be Fabulous Grandson, making his first Christmas appearance anywhere. And we get to share it. What will the future hold? FG decorating cookies along with Dad. DD reading to FG? FG helping DH with the Village? More snow angels in our yard? Noisy toys? Games? Visits to their house for Christmas, watching his Mommy & Daddy tuck him in several times on Christmas Eve? All that and more. Like a kid on Christmas Eve, I can't wait.

Defining Heat, (probably) Part 1

There's a television show (bows to my Snow Queen friend who equated geekdom by her television shows, either the number, or the shows, or the fact that she could rattle them off so easily, I'm not sure) that's been on the USA network for two seasons now, Leverage. The characters are interesting and I like Parker best, the thief who's a bit crazy, but, even the first time I watched it, at my advanced age of 29+++, I realized that some of my friends, and probably many women, would enjoy it to watch Eliot, the martial arts-warrior member of the crew. His face is nice, but not wildly handsome. He's got muscles, which most of us find somewhat attractive, but there's just something that he exudes that says, "I am the hottie around here." This character wears workout clothes, sometimes gloves without fingers, a stocking cap (Daddy called it a watch cap, but I am sure there's another name now), and a ponytail, from which his hair occasionally falls. I've always liked long hair (although I never could get DH to grow his long), and the relaxed look this character is just amusingly appealing to me (I may be a grandmother now, but I can still appreciate art, right?).

This past weekend, a customer (although not necessarily one of OUR customers) came in and headed immediately for the computers to try to get on and do who-knows-what-but-not-genealogy. I saw him from the side and back (no face) as he entered and immediately though, "Ugh!" Then I realized he was dressed exactly like Eliot does on the show, the clothes, gloves, cap and ponytail. The difference is that this guy looked (and smelled) like he hadn't bathed or washed his clothes in a week. The contrast of well-packaged scruffy guy (popular in cinema, television and fiction) and street-person scruffy guy (common in real life), so similar yet so different, was startling. Therefore, my first definition of hotness, which was probably a given anyway, is that of cleanliness. One may look ragged, but one's clothes must be clean and one must have bathed within recent memory. In other words, bad boys must not smell bad(ly).