All I Want For Christmas...Is For Someone Else to do my Christmas Shopping...

As THE Holiday draws nearer, I find myself in a panic (I find myself in this state more and more, these days) trying to figure out what to buy for everybody in my family.

For instance: What do you purchase for a mother-in-law, who is about as close to being a living saint as someone can get? To give you an idea of her worthiness of sainthood, let me tell you about the time that she won the baking contest for me. Not just "won the baking contest", but "won the baking contest for me".

I am a horrible cook. Really. I'm not fishing for compliments or trying to prompt you to say "no you're not" or "oh, you do just fine": I have no skill in the kitchen, whatsoever. Just ask poor MacG what he had for dinner last night. To make it worse, my sister-in-law is a professional chef. A really good chef, too!

I acknowledge my lack of kitchen mojo with equal parts shame and exasperation - with myself. So, when my Mother's Group was having a baking contest I panicked ( I told you!). I decided to ask my mother-in-law to teach me how to make her failsafe, delicious, (excuse the pun here) cannot fudge up recipe for fudge.

Let's just say that I can fail even the failsafe recipe, when it comes to standing anywhere in the vicinity of stove or oven. Or a spatula. I have some success with the microwave, but even that isn't always a given. The first batch was gritty and inedible. So, looking at me with pity (because I was perhaps the only person she had ever seen who screwed up the fudge recipe - or maybe it was all in my imagination. I doubt it) my MIL offered to help me with another batch.

We both looked skeptically at batch #2 and decided to let it sit overnight, as if the Fudge Fairy was planning on making an appearance and BAM! turning the lumpy, bumpy, mass of chocolate into something fabulous.



I did not hear from my baking tutor the next morning. The baking contest was scheduled for just after dinner. At around three in the afternoon, the doorbell rang and who did I find on my porch? Why, it was Saint MIL: holding a large tray of the most beautiful Peanut Butter Blossoms that you've ever seen. You know: the cookies with the Hershey's Kiss pressed artfully into the center?

I won the baking contest with those cookies. It was a contest where you put in $5 and get to take the pot if your dessert is selected as the King of Desserts - so I made around $50.

I felt guilty afterwards and told them that I was not the artist who created the beautiful blossoms. In all honesty, they knew me, so they should have realized that such a fantastic creation couldn't have emerged from my impossibly unskilled fingers. They were forgiving and sweet and told me to take Saint MIL out to lunch. I think I did, I can't remember.

I sure hope I did.

SEE? How do you find a Christmas gift for someone like that?

One year, I was so stumped about what to get my grandfather that I got him a rock.

Yep, a rock.

It wasn't just any rock, though. I actually had to get military clearance to remove this rock from a U.S. Army Base.

My grandfather found The Rock when he was stationed as a Major on the base, in the 1960's. He found it at a nearby rocky mountain just had to have it, so he and one of his fellow army dudes loaded it onto their jeep and dumped in in a field near the officer's quarters. He loved the darn thing, because it had a white circle on the top of it, with a little river of white spilling down the side.

He thought it looked like God, Himself, had set a big white paint can on it while painting the clouds.

Fast forward 40 years and The Rock was still where he had left it, but was now a part of the landscaping in the parking lot for the base Post Exchange.

My grandfather used to take us to visit The Rock. He would make us salute it.

I'm not joking.

I managed to get clearance from the Commanding Officer of the base (wow, did I feel rad and all Army-like writing that!) through a long string of emails and phone calls, to remove The Rock. However, it literally weighed a ton and had been sinking into the dirt for four decades.

The Commanding Officer arranged for us to have a tractor and a tractor driver, too. They met Me, MacG and Sis on sunrise, three days before Christmas - and pulled our gift out of the PX parking lot island. It dropped into the bed of MacG's truck and almost blew a hole right through it.

On Christmas Eve, my brother met us at grandfather's house and we snuck (as much as people can sneak a monolith through the bushes at midnight) it into the front yard, using brute strength and a wheel dolly. Thus completed Operation Rock Rescue.

You have never seen a reaction like his, when we led our grandfather out the front door in the morning. Tears streaming down his well worn face, he yelled "My ROCK! My ROCK!" He wrote a song about it later. He also wrote a poem.

And that, my friends, was the perfect gift for a man who already had everything...



So, uh, what am I supposed to get everyone this year?

The Day That No One In The Family Is Supposed To Mention, But They Always Do

I was recently sharing a conversation with a stranger at an amusement park (yeah, I like to talk to everyone, so what?), who informed me that he wished to forget his twenties. He felt like a "real adult" now, and some of the foolish and embarrassing things that he had done or said weighed heavily on his shoulders. I half-heartedly agreed with him, caught up in the moment.

Later that day, I started questioning the wisdom of eradicating an entire decade from memory.

If I removed my twenties from my brain, I wouldn't be able to remember my wedding or the birth of my children: The two most important things that have ever happened to me, except for maybe my own birth - but you know what I'm trying to say.

Sure, there were some awkward moments, but I think I want to keep those, too.

How could I live without recalling the night when my kid sister wandered into my room, deep into an episode of sleep walking - thinking that my beloved trunk was a toilet? I was around twenty and she was six-ish. She stumbled in, dropped trou, opened the lid of the trunk and sat down. Luckily, I was able to quickly lead her to the real bathroom in time. What if I couldn't tease Sis about that? I wouldn't have been able to tell the story to her entire group of friends on her own 21st birthday! What a travesty that would have been, missing that opportunity!

My mother had me before she turned twenty, so the following ten years were pretty busy for her. She didn't get to be carefree, just out of her teens. She was busy raising me and my brother.

Which is why I feel that I owe her the memory of one of the most horrifying events of my life, which happened when I was 22 or 23. Something truly awful happened to me, but it was gratifying for my mom - and I can't begrudge her her happiness.

We were at a shoe store together, looking for our next great bargain. I was ultracasual, that day; wearing dark sweatpants, a baggy Disneyland sweatshirt, a baseball cap and my glasses. I normally wore contact lenses, but I guess vanity went out the window that morning. I wore my dark hair in a short cut, so a couple mousy brown inches flipped out under my hat.

Now, my mother is not someone who usually chooses a grubby dress day. Also, her hair is platinum blonde and falls way past her shoulders. She's at least six inches shorter than me and almost always wears high heels. Although, I think she may have been wearing flip-flops on The Day That No One In The Family Is Supposed To Mention, But They Always Do.

She was sporting white denim short-shorts and a pink checkered tank-top. I will never forget that outfit, as long as I live.

Did I happen to mention that this was during the summer and she had a deep tan, somewhere in the color spectrum of the Hawaiian Tropic Girls? Well, she did.

Oh, wait - I think I might have a picture of Mom, around here somewhere:

Okay, I think you've got the idea, now.

On second thought, maybe I was adopted.

So anyway, I was over in the Giant Feet section and she was somewhere in the Tiny Delicate Feet section, when I hit the jackpot. I had found a pair of awesome penny loafers for under $10 and I wanted to share the good news.

"Mom!" I called across the store. No answer, so I grabbed the shoebox and stepped out of my isle.

"Mom, you've got to see what I found!"

She poked her head out from behind a stack of tiny shoes.

"What is it?" She asked.

I held up my find and she gave me a thumbs up.

Then it happened.

The guy behind the counter called out to us:

"Wait a minute, here! She's the mom? I thought for sure that you were the mom!"

He had believed that I was my mother's mom.

He thought that she. was. my. daughter.

That is one day of that decade which I would gladly chop out of my brain and donate to science. However, my mom really enjoys telling the story and gets so much enjoyment out of everyone's reaction, that I just let the memory sit there - waiting to attack: At family gatherings, luncheons, baby showers, and anywhere else that someone will listen.

She gave up a lot for me, so I guess I can suffer through endless recounting of that event.

Why couldn't he have at least thought that we were sisters?

***

October 23, 1985

When my mom had me I think the hardest thing she had to do for a job was changing diaper's, changing cloths , and feeding me. That--I think that would be very hard! I think I would like to have children, but all of that work! Oh, my, oh, my. but the hardest thing to do to raise children I think is to teach them the right things to do in life! Jeese! No, yes, don't do that do that! That's all I ever heard from my mom, but it's worth it so you won't do many mistakes. I wish I could say it simpler but, I bet raising children is hard!

Amen, Sister!

A Day to Remember

My baby sister is thirteen years younger than I am. When she was born, people used to think that I was her mother. They would whisper behind their hands, but I could hear what they were saying: They thought I was a very young teen mom.

When my daughter was born, Sis was a teenager. When we'd go out in public together, I would make her push the stroller and walk around with Peanut. Payback is so sweet: Strangers whispered behind their hands and raised their eyebrows.

Then I realized that people probably thought that I was the grandmother.

That's what happened to our mother. The women who ran the YWCA down the street would see her out walking in the evenings and yell "Hulloh, Grandma!" across traffic. She hated it with a passion.

Being so much younger than I, Sis missed a lot of my childhood. I'll tell a story and then add "buuut you weren't here, yet". I think it bugs her, but I so enjoy saying it. Although, it is really weird knowing that a big part of my life had already happened, before she arrived.

Such as, the time that I tried to marry my kid brother off to the girl who lived one house down. She was the sister of my BFF.

They were both six.

I remember it so clearly. The bride was stunning, in her white baptismal gown. The groom demonstrated his mastery of making fart noises with his armpits. We were all latchkey kids, so we had free reign of most of the backyards in our neighborhood. The reception was held in our yard. It was lovely. I wish that Sis had been there to share the momentous occasion with all of us...




September, 1985

My six year old brother and E's six year old sister decided to get married, so today, we're going to have big, beautyful wedding, exept they're going to be announced boyfriend and girlfriend, it's going to be so cute, we're going to have wedding music, and cookies, and juice! I'm going to make cards for them, and give them stickers for presents. Then we'll have a short reception. And they'lle have a honeymoon, by going to seven aleven and maybe, just maybe Nob Hill, and all those little stores there. I have to admit, they do make a cute couple!



I think Nob Hill is a fine store and 7-11 comes in handy for slurpees, I am grateful that my husband and I went to Mexico for our honeymoon...