Thanks

There are some traditions that are sacred. Easter egg hunts, back-to-school clothes, pizza Tuesdays...they just make sense. Then we have Thanksgiving, a big, fat, juicy four-day week-end perched like a sitting duck right before the big enchilada - Christmas. I've got eighty-seven thousand lights to put on the house, twenty-three dozen cookies to bake, seventy-eight presents to regift, and twenty-two cards to mail - and I'm supposed to put that on hold and cook a seven-course meal? Couple that with a couple of boys that abhor ham and detest turkey, and you see where I'm going with this. The lightbulb glowing over my head is not from the oven. Am I truly going to pull the frozen entrails of a dead bird out of its patootie just because my Nana did? My grandmother also drank Gallo wine, ate Kitchels, and watched the Price is Right. Sorry, Nana.

My boys each have a distinct reason for disliking the traditional turkey feast. My eight-year-old, the sensitive one, is a vegetarian. My seven-year-old says turkey is "icky," "gross," and "sick." Last year I tried to placate them by stuffing the turkey with the icon of kid-dinners - macaroni & cheese. It was "icky," "gross," and "sick."

This year will be different. This year, whether we like it or not, we're going to celebrate the true meaning of the season. We're going to be thankful for a four-day week-end. We're going to stay put and be a family even if it kills us. And my boys are going to be thankful they have a mom who can buck tradition and say, "Turkey, you may live, because you are icky, gross, and sick." Instead we will create a more palatable, albeit frozen, main course - a custom-made, turkey-shaped ice cream extravaganza. Gobble. gobble. Eat your heart out, pilgrim, and pass the sprinkles.

Santa Unwrapped

I've been wrestling with a fat man, this guy with the jumbo-holiday that shrinks my free time down to zip and puts a half-nelson on my credit card. Nothing jolly about it - it's time to sweat the small stuff - the tree trimming, the holly hoarding, to the point of wanting to roast a few nuts over the fire. It's too much, but I can't stop until I've turned the exterior of my house into a giant lite-brite and baked cookies for half the county. I can't, and I won't....and I shouldn't.

Because I've found out Santa's secret, why he does what he does. I've attained the "runner's high" in holiday giving. Like a fruitcake that tastes good, my hosanah moment shocked the bell off my jingle. It came as I shopped for strangers, for a family I will never know, except that they needed Santa's help. And now I know why it's so great to be Santa, to swoop in and light a candle in the darkness, to light a spirit that was dulled.

Funny how the biggest warm fuzzies can happen at the coldest time of the year. Granted, here in Los Angeles, that's not saying much. I won't flaunt stories of wearing shorts while baking Christmas cookies or wrapping presents outside under the palm trees. But it's not the heat, it's the timidity. At the holidays, most people are so busy within their own lives that they seldom reach beyond to find, however hackneyed, overlooked and trampled, the true meaning of Christmas. And that's a shame, since it's often as close as a whisker, a neighbor, a friend of a friend. And the feeling of giving, that rush all Santas live for, is a plush, velvet glow that lights candles, hearths, and hearts.

A Yankee Fan's Lament

Poe-thetic
Once upon a Wednesday dreary
As I toiled weak and weary,
Rose a blood red stain on baseball’s final chore.

So full the moon, but quickly shaded
Eclipsed by shame and sadly faded
Went the redbirds, swept in four.

Til a blood red moon appear
Til then no Bosox bat to fear
Gently tapping, tapping, tapping at Bambino’s door.

A freak nocturnal apparition
In the spookiest tradition
Only this...and nothing more.

Await the Red to win again?
Not in this lifetime, my friend
All I know is...nevermore.

Reading Me

I just peered at an online column for guys on how to be romantic. Maybe I shouldn’t go there, like a peeping Thomasina, but I thought that if I knew how they functioned, maybe it would be easier for me to figure them out. Then I would cry, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. Yes, I’ve heard - men are simple beings, nothing tricky really. Making things complicated only complicates things.

So strike one on me, but I’m not changing now, and that’s a whole ‘nother story. The title was, "Use Romance Novels to Woo Her," by Jason Davis. Guess I was drawn by the use of the word "woo." Funny word in an unfunny place. If you want to sweep a woman off her feet, Mr. Davis revealed, find out what her favorite romance novel is. All women, he explained, read these trashy paperbacks, and typically reread their favorite passages over and over. Well now, this was getting amusing. Woo, woo, woo on me. I looked at my bookcase and its inhabitants – the Bible (in case Mom visits), the Book of Irish Curses (in case Dad visits), various biographies (that scream "THIS person was successful – what’s YOUR problem?"), and Shakespeare to impress the hell out of any visitors. Sorry, no romance novels here- guess I’m a failure as a woman.

But if you were to snoop in the nightstand by my bed (don’t - I have a security system and you will be prosecuted), you’d find hope. After smashing a window and disarming the dog, my imaginary beau would encounter "Holidays on Ice" by David Sedaris. And if he were dumb enough to break into my house, he’d be stupid enough to consider this a romance novel. Taking the book, he’d follow the columnist’s advice, holding the book with the spine to the table and gently letting it fall open to the most read passage. This, by the way, was the key denouement of the column. So sneaky – breaking and entering AND divining my reading passion with such a tricky trick!

I took "Holidays" and put it to the test. Not once could I get it to open to something other than the front or back cover. It would just flop over dead like a guy with a tv remote. Finally I examined the spine to see if it was perhaps tweaked to one particular page. It did indeed bend a bit on page twenty-two. I read eagerly, as if it was a fortune cookie divulging my wildest dreams, unknown even to me until now. It was the part where Sedaris works as an elf in a department store, helping Santa process all the Christmas rugrat requests. A mother places her daughter, dressed in pink lace and pigtails, on Santa’s lap. The daughter whispers giddily what she wants in Santa’s ear, but the poor man is struggling because, well, because the daughter is forty.

Things would get interesting when "Beau", as directed by the column, would emulate my alleged favorite passage by growing a grey beard and packing on an extra seventy pounds. Or maybe he’d dress in elfin garb and bring in a fat old guy for a menage-a-yuk. Put your mistletoe back in your pants, I’m not sitting on anyone’s knee. Bye-bye, Beau.

My favorite passage from a romance novel? The one I made from being a put-upon working wife to owner-operator of my own life. It’s still being written. And yes, that’s a whole ‘nother story.

It’s Ok – He's With God

Holy hall pass - I watched the minivan careen through traffic on borrowed time. “Powered by Jesus” honked its bumper sticker. Weaving and swerving, it was all the Moses bobblehead on his dashboard could do to stay upright.

A few drivers were trying to get his attention by waving and yelling “Jesus!” at him, but to no avail. Perhaps the saintly driver was chatting on his cell phone with God. It was obvious he was in a bigger hurry than the rest of us because he was on the way to do God's work. All I knew was that if he kissed bumpers with the semi in the next lane, he would need more than Mapquest to find Saint Peter.

How would the Saints drive? St. Francis would probably be the worst. Run up a whole bunch of speeding tickets, then, just as they were going to take his license away, he would repent. God would give him his ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, and off he’d go, all smuglike in his trendy hairshirt, rattling the keys to his Porsche like a spoiled teenager. St. John the Baptist would sport about in either an old VW bus or an economically friendly electric car, depending on how well his stir-fried grasshoppers were selling. St. Paul would have road rage issues. Mary Magdalene’s convertible would have a St. Jude medal hanging from the rearview. St. Mary would probably have a “Jesus on Board” sign in the back window. And of course, St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers, would be stuck in traffic on the 405. A few choice words of frustration and bam!- he's bumped from saint to sargeant.

It was easier, in the good ol’ holy days, to be serene. No traffic jams, spam email, or commercials. The complete lack of telephone solicitors alone would be worth at least minor sainthood. Maybe we needed a modern day St. Patrick to rid the world of phone salesmen. I would definitely vote him into the Saints’ Hall of Fame.

As the "Powered by Jesus" minivan floated through another amber light, I wondered if, for everyone's sake, the world would be a better place if the zealots had their own lane. They were obviously more important than us, destined for greatness by the sheer aura of their bumper stickers. It could be like the caste system in India, the great unwashed unwelcome, a golden halo logo stamped on the street for members only, reserved for his chosen people - the promised "holy lane."

The only issue would be when two saintly commuters collided. If both are without sin, who is at fault? Maybe the devil made them do it. Regardless, one quick trip to the confessional and, erase, erase, off they would go again, ready to share God's word with the next poor soul they bump into.

Miss Annie and the Psycho Sexual

Crawling around on the hairy underbelly of the Internet were some rather interesting characters. No one I wanted to get to know too well, but there’s the upside. On the web, nobody needs a rabies shot. I was just there to monitor the class, or lack thereof.

It was late. It was always late. I’m not making excuses, but things happen. I was traversing part of that vast waistland of girlie diets and pipe-dream he-man hubbies, looking for the key to finer abs and learning how to meet Mr. Right in the liquor aisle, when I bumped square into a "famed pyscho sexual." "Increase Your Sex Appeal," the title teased, followed by a photo I assumed was the "before" shot. Turtleneck, short, blahnde hair, blander smile –basically someone’s mom in dire need of a makeover before making out.

Nooo – it was a headshot of our sex hostess, ever ready to offer tips on how to be irresistible to men. The whiplash of the soccer mom’s wan smirk poised next to the words "Sex Appeal" made me more likely to ask her for advice on how to be psycho than sexy. Nutso, I suspected, was one topic for which she was certified. I clicked on her double chin, following the link to where her bio should have been. But it morphed into another "sexpert’s" headshot – this one vertically stretched to make the vamp in it appear thinner. "Lou" could have been the "after" shot in the voyage to Kamp Kissy, but only if it were a transsexual horror flick.

By now I had to take her quiz, "How Sexy Are You?", so off I went. After passing with flying colors, I couldn’t resist checking out what advice the losers needed to bone up on. One of the first things she mentioned is to take a good look in the mirror. Golly. Did you know you could hire this person to advise you, pay her real cash to be told gems like this? Her second nugget was to learn to love yourself. I’m guessing she has personal experience on this one, and that’s as far as I want to go down that cul-de-sac.

Wardrobe was next – find clothes that make you feel "sexy yet sober." Judging from the photo example, this meant a turtleneck paired with a "come wither" look. Mirror, mirror, on the walleye - the only turtleneck I recall in the Playboy mansion belongs to Hugh Hefner. I guess once you hit eighty, the skin on your neck just naturally surrenders to gravity, so he’s got an excuse. But what’s hers? We’re then told to wear clothes that feel good – guess I’ll have to toss that straitjacket in the trash. A shame, too, since it’s such a great color on me.

Granted, I’m glad she didn’t post some silicone bimbo shot – there’s obviously more to sexy than that. But I’m paying nearly twenty bucks a month to surf the Internet, so I deserve a decent bang for my buck. Is that too much to ask? It’s not even the money – isn’t my time worth more?

Perhaps not. I was home alone, dateless, on a Saturday night, unwilling to pay extra for a digital line. The epitome of pathetic, and desperately needing to learn how not to let that happen again. Mrs. "Sexpert" Turtleneck promised to change all that, and I bit, only to find she was using phony bait. I even suspected she posted really feeble tidbits just on Saturday nights for the superlosers. Whether that was generous or cruel, I hadn’t a clue.

So that’s it? There’s no secret, magic way to that happily-ever-afterglow? To admit that whopper meant giving up hope, giving up the dream that someone would someday sweep me off my feet, even if he threw his back out in the process. I wasn’t that dismal yet.

Maybe I had been a little hard on Mrs. Turtleneck. After all, she was published, someone had to think she was worth paying to post. And here I was, a jealous imp, picking on her stuff.  Did I need to lower my standards, both on men and mentors?