We have a lot of fun picking out our Christmas tree. We’ve fallen into something of a tradition, going with friends and making an outing of it; we’ve been known to drive well across county lines but this year we managed to find a cut-your-own lot tucked away in the middle of an urban neighborhood just a few minutes away, conveniently located not far from a great pizza joint.

Megan is our tree-picker-outter; our only parameter is that she has to be able to reach the highest branches (not the top).

Kira liked this one

In my ongoing recovery from Grinchdom I’ve amassed a number, though not a huge one, of ornaments. For some years the MPM and I bought ornaments for each other; often wooden, always meaningful. Now I buy sweet personalized ones for the girls each year, petite Lenox, small silver bells, that sort of thing.

Of course the ones closest to my heart are the kid-made variety; we are slowly amassing those as well, and I can hardly wait to give them to the girls to hang on their own trees in a few decades.  But other than that it’s obvious to anyone observing that I favor a “simple/natural” concept, e.g.:

handmade, handmade, nature-made (hand-dipped)

This would be my tree. Small, simple, natural, meaningful. Non-commercial, to the greatest degree possible.

Now, however, the girls get ornaments each year from my MIL. I’ve maybe mentioned before that our tastes are… divergent from one another?

I give you:

(wooden "joy" for scale)

Taste in these things is personal.  I truly say this without judgment; there’s no real involvement of ethics in the matter and it’s not my intention to malign Precious Moments/Hallmark et al. They gladden many hearts; you may love them and I’m entirely supportive of that.

But they aren’t me, and yet they will appear forevermore on my tree. I can’t bring myself to do them actual harm — just look at those eyes on the PM girls! — but I must confess to a certain lack of the proper spirit when they come out of the ornament box.

You know how sometimes you put something in a special place so you’ll remember where it is?  And then you forget and can’t find it?

I did that with some Ghirardelli chocolate the MPM brought me from San Francisco a few months ago, and I think that’s what must have happened with this blog too, cos I didn’t run across it for AGES.

But hey, here it is, still edible and everything. Just a little dusty.

Anyway.  I do this thing where, at a point in my life when I have what to external eyes might be deemed a sufficiency — nay, a surfeit — of tasks at hand, I decide it’s the exact moment to take on a painting project.

I did this the week before my wedding.

I did it three days before Kira’s due date.

And I did it last week, as the holiday prep season ramped up.  Shopping, baking, cooking, programs, parties, teacher gifts.  Decorating, such as I do. And… painting the living room.

Insane?  Of course.  But I am so glad.  Because I waffled endlessly about color, which is something else I do, and so I had multi-colored splotches all around the room, against the singularly bleh color (flat finish no less) to be covered.  For a month I had that.  (Yes, I should have taken a picture, but I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to see it again, so I didn’t.) And frankly all that jarring contrast was starting to wear on me as I came down the stairs each day in the dawn’s early light.

And now?  Well, as of late this morning I have a weighty list of still-undone holiday prep, but I also have this:

Over there in the entryway you can see a tiny corner of the beigey taupey bleh color. I think it’s called “House Flip.” Focus on it for a minute, and now visualize a whole room of that.  Are you feeling ennui sweep over you?  Struggling against the creeping fingers of lethargy, the vise of depression?

Exactly.

And now imagine an entire house of that, which is what we moved into.  Yes, it’s something of a wonder I didn’t fall asleep one of those early days and just never bother to wake up.

6 rooms down, 2 to go.  Maybe I’ll go back to school one of these days, just so I can get to those last two rooms when my senior project looms.

Kira’s class is preparing for their annual holiday program. Since it’s a preschool housed in a Presbyterian church, it is in fact referred to as a “Christmas Program,” but Yellow Springs was far ahead of the PC curve and so I have decades of personal programming that won’t allow me to do the same.

In any event, she’s been coming home singing quite a litany of the good old Christmas carols. Despite my unchurched upbringing and general skepticism re: virgin birth, I have a deep attachment to all the standard carols, and hearing her sing them, or at least parts of them, makes my heart happy.

And as of today, I have a new favorite:

“I wish you were Merry Christmas, I wish you were Merry Christmas, I wish you were Merry Christmas… and a jolly New Year!”

Have you noticed how every time you turn around, there’s something else that’s been deemed a health hazard, or at least potentially so?

Yeah, us too.

After perusing a couple of informative and uplifting articles this evening about various dangers lurking in the corners of our lives, the MPM, canned tomatoes in hand, strode to his desk.

“I’m going to log on to my cancer-causing laptop computer now, to see if my organic tomatoes are giving me cancer. [pause]. At least I don’t live in the wild and have to worry about getting eaten by bears.“

It’s not a great choice, but living in the wild would mean doing without all my favorite mod cons. BPAs it is.

But maybe I’ll ditch the microwave popcorn.

[sigh]

Today being holiday portrait day, yesterday was deemed haircut day for Megan.  I’d cut her hair some months ago and been pleased with the result, having taken pains with the sectioning and snipping.  Just a standard bob, but shorter in the back so it had nice swing.  I went and found a YouTube video that gave some instructions to achieve the look. They called it an Elevated Bob.

Then a month or so ago, Megan got very interested in cutting hair, and she asked if she could cut her own.  Thinking it was about time for a trim anyway, and I could remedy whatever damage she inflicted, I said Sure, but howzabout don’t cut too much. 

She snicked off about an inch and a half on either side, back to about her ear.  And then decided she liked that look, and declined to have me even it off for her.  Whatever. You’ve seen the outfits she picks; I should worry about the hair?

But knowing pictures were in the offing, she was all for getting it cut yesterday, especially when I said she could go to a salon.  We’ve done that a few other times, never with particularly stellar results in my opinion, which is why we usually end up back at Amy’s Hair Shack:   similar outcome, better price, agreeable hours and handy location.

I decided that this time I’d try an unnamed National Chain Discount Salon.  It’s conveniently located, no appointment necessary, and I figured it would at least be cheap.  And I could maybe pop the few doors down to Kroger with Kira and pick up a handful of things I needed while Megs was in the chair.

Off we set.  Megan’s way excited.  I ask if they would wash her hair, thinking it might lead to a better cut.  “Sure, we can do that.”  She comes back towel-damp and I say, Chin-length elevated bob please, shorter in the back y’know.  And off I go to Kroger, Megs draped and smiling.

And come back to find her undraped, still smiling… with a cut I believe is known as a STACKED bob.  Whereas I was hoping for hair cut bluntly (“bobbed”) all around, falling from a high (“elevated”) point on the nape of the neck, what we have is a cut that is long at the nape with shorter layers shingled up the back. And poorly executed to boot. I swear it looks as if someone took none-too-sharp scissors to the back of her head and hacked away at it.

You could argue whether that would ever be a good look for a 7-year-old — I prefer little-girl cuts myself — but I can assure you that with Megan’s hair type, whatever her age the answer would be a resounding NO.  Plus, as I looked at her over the course of the evening, one side is longer than the other.  Not as in the Victoria Beckham asymmetric look; as in the centimeter-off bad-haircut look.  Fuck.

And, somewhat astonishingly to me — upcharge for the shampoo I guess — I paid $17.95 for this atrocity.  $20 with tip.  Because I had Kira in tow, because I was short on time, but mostly because Megan looked so thrilled and I didn’t want her to think I didn’t love her new ‘do.

And also I suppose because initially I felt that since I hadn’t even stayed in the salon to oversee, I didn’t have much room to complain. But as I thought on it I realized that even if I’d skipped the Kroger run, I would have been in the waiting area with Kira, and not micromanaging. I mean, these are trained, licensed folk; right?

So, what would you have done? I mean, other than avoiding a cut-rate salon in the first place?

I came across a thought-provoking article yesterday in the NYTimes about Valerie Boyer, a mother and member of French parliament who has introduced legislation requiring photos used in advertising that have been digitally altered to be labeled as retouched. (Find a link to the full article here).

Though overall I think I’d be in favor of that injection of reality into the increasingly implausible images used in marketing, I’ve got some chewing to do on various points before I make up my mind where I come down on the idea of legislation on the issue.

But I know exactly how I feel about something else the article brought to my attention. Oh, I live in a sheltered world, I really do. I am largely divorced from most media; by choice and circumstance I ignore a great deal of popular culture. So maybe you know all about this already, and consider it old news, like the last decade’s incredible proliferation of oral sex among the pre- and young-teen population, which I gather I need to start talking to my seven-year-old about in just a few years. Gah.

Where was I? Oh. Digressing, obviously. Maybe because I’d almost rather think about oral sex in middle school than about what the Times piece has made me aware of: the existence of a huge internet community that goes by the term “Pro-Ana.”

Wikipedia defines it as “the promotion of anorexia nervosa as a lifestyle choice”; a blog subtitled “Dying To Be Thin” was my top Google hit for blogs on the topic. Stop by and see what happens to your stomach, pardon the tasteless though unintentional pun.

Me, I’m standing here, sickened, stunned, and most of all saddened by just the few posts I read on a couple of the blogs. The authors and their followers would not appreciate my sentiment, I’m sure, but that’s where I am.

Are there websites and blogs out there devoted to promoting (read: encouraging and glamorizing) snorting heroin, mainlining meth and smoking crack, too? All just lifestyle choices, right? “Take a minute to show your love to CrankChick [link here], who had her first 3-gram day yesterday!”

Heaven help us. I’m not gonna Google it, because really? I don’t want to know.

May your day be guided by the desire for health and vitality, dear readers.

Thanks to all for the much-appreciated advice. Such sage, not to mention witty, readers I have!

In the end, along with the fact that a) it was distinctly likely that I might not secure one of the 210 available seats, and b) I was operating on something shy of four hours of sleep on which to drive 250 miles, half of it in the dark, I came to feel that not only was it iffy and inconvenient, but (as I responded to Steve’s comment), perhaps somewhat incongruent, maybe even wrongheaded, to drive 5 hours to see a man speak when that man often chooses to write by daylight and with a pad and pen to conserve natural resources.

There. Was that sentence Faulknerianly convoluted enough for you? Good. Because I’m not reworking it.

Long sentence short, I chose podcast and attendance at the fabulous Tacky Sweater party, though I chickened out on the leggings and went with what the MPM refers to as my Investment Jeans, and boots.

I did not per se CHOOSE attempting to remove a half-quart of latex paint, Rice Grain in shade, from the rear floorboard of my car shortly prior to said party, but I got to do that too.

And now I’m off to bed. Toodle-oo, and thanks again for your invaluable advice. Much appreciated!

When flummoxed, turn to the Internet. Google won’t help me here, but maybe you can…

One of my favorite authors of all time is Wendell Berry. I won’t go into the reasons, but will just state it as fact. I have a tremendous respect for him as a writer and as a thinker; he is 75 years old, exactly one day older than my daddy, and seldom accepts public engagements, but he is crackerjack sharp and just published another poetry collection, titled Leavings.

Enter my dilemma. Tomorrow he is speaking, on topics near and dear to my heart, at the University of Virginia, something over two hours’ drive from here. Add in parking and getting lost as I wend my unfamiliar way around the campus, and I should allow 2:30 minimum for travel.

I will need to leave at 2p.m., which means I have put into place a towering scaffold of child care/activity dropoff. Pessimistically it could be called a teetering house of cards of child care, given that it hinges largely on how well my FIL is feeling that day, but I am more of a glass-half-full-karmic-kinda gal.

It is going to be an intimate venue, seating only 210. This is a plus on the “feel” aspect, but a minus on the first-come-first-seated aspect. Because I really can’t devote any more of my day to getting there long before the doors open at 4:30 (for a 5:30 speaking).

The crux of the problem lies in the uncertainty of obtaining a seat even if I arrive at 4:30. Mr. Berry is, to put it mildly, well known, and UVa has a large and highly esteemed English department, which I believe just recently offered an entire course on his work. And I know of another class that is reading his fabulous “Jayber Crow” this semester.

So. Knowing that his speech will be available as a podcast a day later, do I invest 5+ hours of driving time in the possibility of seeing my favorite living author speak, with a net time investment of 7+ hours? Or do I stay home, write some holiday cards, and at 7p.m. attend a sure-to-be-loads-of-fun ladies’ party for which I scored this rather specTACKular sweater?

Yes, it arrived complete with the clashing t-neck, a cotton/poly blend that I’m planning on ditching in favor of a white shell. And it’s large enough — despite a tag stating “Med” (for Medically Obese maybe?) — that I’m wondering if I should plan to wear it with leggings.

So there you have it; all the facts. I’ve made up my mind and then changed it umpteen times already in the last 24 hours, which so isn’t like me. Since I can’t seem to settle on a decision, please, won’t you weigh in?  On Wendell, on the leggings, whatever… I obviously need help.

We are not so popular as to find ourselves adrift in such a heavy sea of holiday invitations that our social calendar becomes burdensome. That’s a fate I sometimes overhear sighing complaint of, though come to think, I’m not sure how I feel about people who bemoan their popularity. Not least because it’s pretty easy, this time of year especially, to simply say “Thank you SO MUCH for thinking of us — we would just love to but find ourselves otherwise obligated.”

Even if the obligation is only to one’s pajamas, or a good book.

But, as I said, I seldom have reason to go all Emily Post; enough invitations roll in that we feel festive and friendly, but not overwhelmed. So I value and appreciate them all. But maybe, if I were forced — under threat of waterboarding perhaps, or a teetotalling holiday season — to pick a favorite, this one might rise just a smidge above. Not necessarily the event — too hard to gauge, plus I think Miss Manners would frown — but the invitation itself:

(I was going to scan it in, but the print is teeny-tiny and no one would thank me for the authenticity.)

“MERRY, HAPPY CHRISMAHKUHZAASTICE!

This year’s soiree is laden with festive significance. In addition to the major holiday observances that you’ve come to expect from the Chrismahkuhzaastice extravaganza, we’ll be celebrating Poinsetta Day, the Day of the Horse, and International Shareware Day. You’ll also find us transported by revels in observance of Human Rights Week as we prepare for the nascent goodness of Gluten-free Baking Week. Yes, it’s all part of the glory of December, or what most of you thing of as ‘National Tie Month.’ So join us, won’t you?”

We will indeed. Cos who could possibly have anything other than a fabulous time at such an event?? (Thanks, A&J, for the invite!)

In order to understand the utter gripping magnitude of what just transpired in my life, you might want to read this post before proceeding. It’s okay, I’ll wait right here. Or just blaze ahead, keeping in mind that in seven years of marriage I’ve never, ever, once won a bet with my husband.

Ohio-bound as we are virtually every Thanksgiving week, we were driving on Interstate 77, which becomes the West Virginia Turnpike as it passes through, well, West Virginia. We pick it up at Princeton and take it through Charleston and up a bit farther north until we bump into Route 35 which takes us over the Ohio and beyond.

There are three toll booths on 77. For like a decade the toll was $1.25 per booth, which meant we laid in a supply of change for the trip. In fact, “30 quarters” is an item on the official pre-departure checklist.

Yes, we have a checklist, because when you make the same trip multiple times every year, the second or third time you forget the freakin’ quarters, or whatever else, you start to get that wee bit annoyed with yourself. Or, more likely, your spouse. Who then prudently suggests, in a mild tone, that a list might be a good thing.

When we made the trek this summer, however, we discovered they’d raised the toll. So on Sunday, in pre-departure mode, with the MPM sorting quarters, the question came: What’d they raise that toll to? A buck fifty? No, I said, I think it’s more. Maybe one-seventy-five, then, he decided. So he ferreted out a few more and checked that task off and moved on to Adjust Thermostats and Empty Compost.

So. There we were, driving along 77, when the first toll reminder hove into view. Cars $2.00, it flashed at us.

Which led into a conversation between my beloved and me. Which led to a degree of certainty on my part, which then naturally culminated in the offer of a wager on my part, which led to some weighing of degrees of certitude on his part, which led to jibes on my part and general taunts of wussitude, which did not in any way influence or lead to but preceded acceptance of the wager on his part.

The nexus of the bet lay in determining whether we had paid that very amount previously, or if the toll had been incrementally stepped up to $2.00 and we’d paid less the last time through. I held the former point, and he the latter.

Yes, these are the crucial matters on which triumph can stand or fall.

So when we stopped at the third and final toll booth (the debate conversation having endured some 30 miles through the first and second), as I handed over my two bucks I asked when the fare had gone up.

August 1, was the reply.

Recollecting that we’d been in Ohio for the 4th of July, I had a moment of disbelief — tinged, however, with the dull resignation of long experience — that I’d managed YET AGAIN to fall victim to my own certainty.

But then, in a moment akin to watching a buzzer shot bounce off the top of the backboard before arcing impossibly through the net, I remembered that in fact we’d made a second, spur-of-the-moment trip home over the summer. In August.

And the crowd — of three: me, myself and I — went wild.

Had I not been driving, this would have been an occasion for inflicting lasting injury on my spine while attempting gymnastic feats during a victory dance. I settled for attempting to high-five myself whilst bouncing up and down in my seat. I don’t think I said the words YeahBaby out loud, but I might have.

And days later, I’m afraid I’m still prancing around in a most annoying manner, looking for any opportunity to tell the tale of my momentous victory.

As happened when we watched Lance’s 8th Tour De France victory slide away on the Alpine climbs this year, there is the opportunity to reflect on the passing of an era, the fall of a legend, an icon. Few people could achieve a seven-year streak; to hope for an eighth was, perhaps, too much.

Though I imagine the MPM will be staging a comeback in 2010. In fact, I’d say it’s a sure bet.