Bears and Colts and "D'oh!s" and "Don'ts!"

Will Lovie's Lambs Beat Indy?
Guess what? I don't care who wins. Really. I'm just a spectator at a spectacular spectacle - a Super Bowl party. Food as far as the eye can see. Large, loud guys with numbers on their backs - why am I reminded of a stockyard? Why can I not see the television set?

Just let me see the commercials. Who shines, who whines. There are a few other viewers who feel this way, and we band together like nervous gazelles around a pond. When a commercial comes on, my herd skitters from the buffet to the screen, being careful not to be trampled by the wild beasts hulking the other way. Thirsty, they're stampeding toward the watering hole, stabbing at the buffet we've just left. Fortunately, they're carnivores, so they ignore the vegetable plate at which we've been grazing.

When the game returns, we retreat to the shadowy corners of the room, where the wild things aren't, to resume discussions of whether the Geico Gecko is really the spurned love child of the Budweiser lizard.

If six months ago you told me that I would be sitting in a friend's home watching a game televised from Miami between teams from Chicago and Indianapolis, I wouldn't have believed you. To be honest, I don't know you that well anyway, so I probably wouldn't believe anything you said.

Who cares about the game - this is more a social event, tradition, raison-de-eat, etc. than it is a about le football. Don't fret and spill your beer, though - that's as far as I'm going to analyze this partay extraordinaire - the wildebeest are stampeding toward the bathroom, so I gotta run.

Brrrrr....

Very cold here in SoCal. I got up at 4am to see what 30 degrees looked like. It looks dark. And cold. Much like what, say, 47 degrees looks like, only 30 is more of an event. At least here it is.

The weather, when we actually have it, makes front page news. "Possible freezing temperatures! Right after this commercial break!!" "Ways to keep warm! Use blankets!! Details at 11!!!"

When I was born in Poughkeepsie, NY, it was 30 below zero. Three feet of snow on the ground. Even the blanket of snow was shivering. Eskimos have about 30 different words for snow. So do New Yorkers, but most of them can't be printed here.

I was supposed to be born at Christmas. In honor of that untimely timing, my mother was going to name me "Holly", so you can see why I held off making my entrance into this world. By late January, however, my mother had had enough. 10 months pregnant, she decided to induce labor by shovelling snow in the driveway. This would have worked better if she had shovelled the hospital driveway, and if the city had not been a solid chunk of ice.

Despite most roads being impassable, we somehow made it to the hospital, past the elevator and almost to the delivery room. My dad was a bit peeved that he wasn't able to pace the waiting room a few times like dads in the movies. I've been trying to warm up ever since.

It was cold growing up in New York. I remember pipes bursting in our baseboard heating system because they had frozen, and the smell of burnt fur as our dog leaned against the wood stove, trying to keep warm. I learned the hard way not to ever rub your nose (or mine) in the bitter cold. Nose hairs freeze solid, becoming tiny frozen needles that, when rubbed, stab the lining of your nose. The bad part is that you don't always feel the damage until you defrost. The good part is that you don't start bleeding profusely until you defrost.

Hence my move to SoCal, where the weather is now betraying me. I was hoping to develop some hot flashes to counteract the cold snap, but no such luck. Although I have been able to generate a lot of hot air about the good cold days, and that has helped to keep me warm.

The cold-weather stylists here keep me laughing. When the thermostat dips below 50, fashionistas clunk about in bulky Ugg boots and ultra-fluffy jackets over skinny leggings, looking like primeval bigfoot flamingos. You would think that women who buy $250 boots should be able to afford underwear, but apparently not. I guess they don't have to worry about any bizarre sledding accidents, because down below is one place you really don't want to build up a snowdrift.

Eat Your Heart Out

My wireless keyboard sits perched atop my oddly distended belly, my chubby fingers barely able to type. I recline backward to give my writhing torso room to suffer, shudder, and belch. Moans emanate from various locations. Tracking the gurgles, I discover my intestinal track runs counter-clockwise. Call Ismael, 'cause you've found the White Whale. Why did I do it? Why, why, whine?

Stupid candy. Never again. Well at least not until it's on sale. Or maybe when the Easter candy comes out, which should be, at the rate we push holiday selling, in just a few minutes.

• I love you - here's a huge wad of sugar. If you're nice to me, I have Tums.
• I love you - I'm proving it by fattening you up so no one else will want you.
• I love you - please take this so I don't eat it and get sick.

Reading and eating are a painful combination. That's why I took up writing. It's much harder to stuff yourself when you're typing. If you're just reading, in the space of 10 minutes you can unknowingly consume 83 "Be Mine," "For You," "U R Cute," and "So Fine" pieces of pezzie poison.

My dear, darling, departed, passive-aggressive Nana used to bake for us grandkids. Every damn day. Sounds wonderful, doesn't it? No. No. No. It was like the movie "Groundhog Day," only with bundt cakes. We'd come home from school, the witching hour for kiddie apetites, and she'd appear with a big lump of dry cake. She'd parade right past my mother, who would be preparing dinner, sometimes with sharp kitchen utensils. "Have some cake," Nana would say, which is Gaelic for "If you love me and want me to live, you'll eat this. Now." Her spirit lives on in these heart-shaped little pieces of turmoil.

For some unknown reason, the air here in my office has grown increasingly toxic. I have to leave now, or risk the gases reaching the pilot light on the stove. Save yourselves!

The Cranky Season

As I mull over another SoCal year come and gone, I wonder...
...do I need a pedicure?

I once resolved never to make a New Year's resolution. (Yeah, I know - irony and juxtapostion make strange bedpillows.) However, this past year was pretty awful, with terrible things happening all over the world - Tom Cruise became a daddy, George Clooney stood me up again, the Yankees got ripped off in the playoffs... So I figured - maybe I could somehow make 2007 a little better, a little nicer. Think global, act local, all that yadda stuff. With a bit extra junk in the trunk , I figured I'd do what I could to make my little part of the world pretty. I'm joining the cattle call known as the January Starvation & Fitness Festival of Lites and Weight-loss Infomercials. Diet time. Happy, happy, me.

Coming off weeks of stringent partying, I'm determined to run, crunch, and pump my flab away. Unfortunately, after gorging myself silly in traditional holiday fashion, I'm afraid the only thing that vicious, torrid exercise is will do for me is give my stretch marks whiplash.

They (whoever 'they' are) say to never go on a diet alone, so I insisted that my overstuffed closet and bulging credit card balance join me. After all, they had gotten me into this mess, or at least gotten into it with me. Plus, if this worked out, I'd fit into my old skinny clothes, throw out my 'fat' clothes, and quit buying new 'fat' clothes. So that's like killing 7 birds with one candy bar. Or something.

Here's the only caveat - this diet thing makes me cranky. I certainly don't mind being cranky, but it is apparently a HUGE issue with other people. Like they've never suffered through a diet before. Come to think of it, some of them could really afford to relax their grip on the feed bag once in a while. I mean, talk about taking a walk on the wide side.

By the way, I'm not exactly what you might call fat, just emotionally tubby, which is worse, because I feel like I'm fat, but I'm not, so nobody empathizes with me. We're talking about five pounds, tops. Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder, right guys? Hopefully a lite beer.

Since I've started my diet, ok, since I've started talking about starting my diet, the rest of the world just doesn't understand how hard it can be for me to be me. Waddle a mile in my Uggs, ok? But noooo, they squawk at me to quit complaining, that I look gorgeous already, that they would love to be me....it's enough to make me sick, which would be ok if I were into that binge/purge thing, but that's as passe as Britney's virginity.

Anyway, I'm not sure if it's really the diet making me cranky, or just everyone pissing me off. Either way, it's a fine how-de-doo lightyear away from merry, jolly December. And it's certainly not my fault. It's not, it's not, it's not.

Sigh...where's the chocolate?

Too Christmas?

Too loud, too lit, too much. Overindulging ... underestimating.... emotions and opinions swelling and swirling on the tidal wave of loot, lights, and libations. Too much hype, not enough help.

A look back... questioning, pushing, analyzing ... hindsight wrapped in a velvet ribbon. A pretty present before it's opened, a pile of crumpled paper when it's done.

At the darkest time of year, we light the night. At the coldest time of year, we offer warmth. We sing above the quiet, frozen earth. A time of extremes, endings and beginnings, solemn worship and over-the-top inflatables. Searching for the perfect cashmere wrap while downtown a child shivers. We're far from perfect, but Christmas has a way of illuminating our best and worst.

And then it happens. The lights dim, the noises end, and in the chill of the night, Christmas comes - quiet, simple, true. Hope for the new, rest for the old. Out with the bitter, in with the better. And peace.

The Secret Santa

Every year it was more of a struggle. His questions were becoming more complex, more suspicious. But it seemed like overnight that we went from "How does that HUGE guy fit down our chimney?" to "There are eleventy billion people in the world - there's no way he can deliver to everybody."

I'm a mom. My job is to have an answer for everything. It's what I do. It might not always be pretty, but it's gotta be there. For example:

Question - How does he deliver around the world overnight?
Answer - time zones- and since some poorer countries can't afford calendars, Santa can push the envelope a little and deliver on the 24th or 26th. Please don't mention this to anyone because it embarasses Santa a little. It used to be easy to get to everyone when there were less people, but now with air traffic, pollution, satellites....it's a tougher world.

Question - How does he deliver to everyone?
Answer - not everyone is Christian - you can leave off Muslims, Buddhists, Jews, Republicans...that leaves maybe a few zillion Christians, and some of them have been pretty bad, so they only rate a quick toss of coal down the chimney. How he tells the difference between coal and frozen reindeer poo in the dark after being up all night is beyond me. I never could, but that's a story for another day.

Question - Flying reindeer? Really?
Answer - steroids (not really) . Actually, the reindeer are an old tradition. Now he's got some pretty high-tech stuff. Not sure exactly what, since it eludes radar so well. Something with stealth capabilities. NORAD tries to track him every year and fails. Yes, he's that good.

Question - The Santa at the Thousand Pines Mall looks nothing like the Santa at the Sunny Valley Mall. And they both look kinda phony.
Answer - You think Santa has time right before Christmas to sit in a mall and listen to kids chatter on and on? Of course not! He's busy compiling his database, optimizing his hard drives and backing everything up onto disk. So make sure to have your list completed by December 1st so I can email it to him. Any later than that, and you risk crashing his database and losing your spot on his list. You know the part where he's checking his list twice? Yup -dual drives. But with a database that enormous, you can never be too careful. Oh, and the Santas at the malls? Santa has a deal with a labor union.

Notice that each answer led off in an interesting direction - maps, aircraft, computers, frozen reindeer poo.... However, as the questions got tougher, I had to resort to better distractions, such as, "Did you finish your homework?" or "Is your room clean?" or "Are there any cute girls in your class?" This would usually clear the room.

But he was persistent. Frustrated with the seasonal grilling, I finally said, "Listen, if you don't believe, you won't receive."

This scared his younger brother tremendously. He just wanted the goods and didn't want to rock the toy boat. "I believe! Oh, I believe!" he shouted like a good faithful worshiper at the Temple of Lego.

This year, now in 4th grade, my non-believer was studying the North Pole. "Mom," he said, "There's no land up there. Just ice, and it moves around, so there's not even a real pole or anything."

"That's strange," I replied. "Then where does Santa live?"

"Mom," he sighed, "I don't think there is a Santa Claus."

"What?" I gasped, shocked, shocked to my very core. I wasn't giving in without a fight. "Then who brings all the stuff on Christmas Eve?"

"I think Jesus does," he said, "Because it's his birthday, and that's the kind of guy he is."

I had no answer for that. None was needed. Sometimes the simplest answer is the one right in front of you, so close that you can't see it until you stay very still and calm, questioning everything, yet open to anything. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Joyous Kwanzaa - find your faith, stir it well, and keep it warm.