Fluid Pudding

This morning I attended an orchestra/band assembly at the elementary school.

It’s no secret that I tend to cry when kids sing, but I figured I was safe at a band concert. Just music. NO WORDS!

HYPOTHESIS: If I attend an instrumental holiday concert, I will not experience water dripping off of my chin (from my eyes, obviously. I’ve got the drooling thing under control. Mostly.).

TESTING: The first few songs were totally safe. Choral of the Bells with the fifth grade violinists and the eighth grade string orchestra. Some sort of boogie thing that was nice and short. Something Scottish. I was strong and smiley and was actually one of the (very) few parents who enjoyed the show without holding a phone or tablet out toward the performers. (How many of these people will actually watch the concert again? Any of them? How ridiculous do we all look because we can no longer just enjoy something without feeling the need to somehow archive it? I am not free of guilt when it comes to feeling the need to prove that I attended an event or ate at a restaurant. It’s all so weird, isn’t it?)

The string orchestra finished up and the audience shifted focus toward the other side of the gym where the eighth grade band had set up. After a quick introduction of the instruments, the show kicked off with a medley from The Polar Express. I looked up toward the stage and made eye contact with Meredith. She opened her eyes and gave me an “Oh No!” gulp before whispering something to her friend. (What did she whisper to her friend? I’m guessing she whispered, “My mom has no spine and will probably start beating on her legs very soon.”)

It wasn’t long before I detected a musical segue into the  When Christmas Comes to Town portion of the medley. I hate When Christmas Comes to Town. HATE it. Sadly, if I’m unable to turn it off and I hear more than 15 seconds of it, I have to start blinking like a frequent blinker and patting my hands on my legs and contemplating Whitey Herzog in order to fight off the tears. BUT: NO WORDS. This is  just an instrumental! You can’t stop the band from playing, so you may as well just enjoy and DON’T THINK ABOUT THE LYRICS! I need to get coconut milk and avocados at the store. I should probably switch to a different moisturizer during the winter months. I really need to think more about doing unto others the way I want them to do unto me. AND, now we’ve arrived at the part about “Presents for the children, wrapped in red and green. All the things I’ve heard about but never really seen.” (Why do I even KNOW the lyrics?! I can never remember who provides our health insurance, yet I retain this sort of crap.) Damnit. Damnit. It’s happening, and no one will stop the song, AND: Tears jumping out of my eye holes, and me without waterproof mascara. WHITEY HERZOG! WHITEY HERZOG! (Here’s an actual photo of me taken after the assembly by one of the iPad moms.)

ANALYSIS: It doesn’t take much to destroy me, does it? AND, apparently it doesn’t even take the voice of a child to make me squirrely. Further experimentation will need to take place in order to figure out the source of the emotion. Am I stirred by all songs featured in motion capture computer animated fantasy films based on books written for children? Does a holiday song written in the key of E-flat affect me more than one written in the key of C? Do I have seasonal affective disorder? Epiphora caused by upper lacrimal drainage system problems?

RESULT: HYPOTHESIS REJECTED. Can someone please bring me a fluffy blanket and an avocado sandwich?

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During the summer months of my college years, I worked at a place that helped companies fight paying unemployment benefits to former employees. My job as a claims representative involved things like calling the manager of Denny’s to find out why Todd Greenhorn was no longer employed. Many of the calls were easily coded as Poor Performance/No Misconduct. BUT, sometimes they were a little more hairy. “He peed on the floor in the break room and then told me to go to hell before walking off the job in the middle of his shift.” “I caught her having sex in the bathroom. She had already received a verbal warning and a written warning for having sex in the bathroom.”

Although it paid fairly well, I knew that the job wasn’t a good fit for me.

During my first week there, one of the managers called me into her office.

Manager: So, how are you liking it here so far?

Me (feeling cocky and wondering if she was going to promote me during my very first week): Things are going great!

Manager: Have you had time to read the dress code?

Me (not so sure I knew there was a dress code): I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there was a dress code.

Manager: I have a copy right here of the form you signed stating that you read the company handbook. The dress code is in that handbook, and it clearly says that you are required to wear socks or nylons every day. No bare ankles.

Me (wearing khaki pants and flats with no socks or nylons): Oh. I’m really sorry.

Manager: Be sure you’re wearing socks or nylons tomorrow.

I walked back to my desk feeling deflated and silly. Luckily, a co-worker named Joan had heard the whole thing.

Joan: I heard the whole thing.

Me: I feel pretty stupid.

Joan: Don’t. It’s bullshit. Let’s go get Chinese food.

That was how my friendship with Joan started, and from that day forward I had lunch with her every single day during the summer months. When I went back to school we corresponded with letters, and when I came home for the summer we would make a not-so-great job bearable by turning everything into a joke in the cafeteria. She introduced me to Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley. She has a son my age who liked the same music as me, so we would occasionally exchange mix tapes. On the night before my wedding, she decorated the site of our rehearsal dinner with crazy fun gourds that were filled with flowers and candles.

She could take a dozen bandannas and turn them into amazing curtains. She could find a piece of junk at a garage sale and transform it into a treasure. She once spilled a huge pot of chili in her car on Chili Cook-Off Day. As I sat at my desk getting ready to sort through my calls, she walked up covered in sauce and said, “I just dumped my fucking chili.” We spent the next thirty minutes sopping up chili in her car and laughing until we could barely speak. (When I told her that I brought in white chicken chili, she asked what I named it. She later removed the index card that said “White Chicken Chili” and replaced it with one on which she had written “Mr. Magic’s Albino Chili”.)

She once called to tell me that I had to get a copy of Le Nozze di Figaro because she just heard the most beautiful song and she needed me to hear it, too.

A few years back, she called me out of the blue to talk politics.

Joan: Well, I just heard from a few friends that if Obama is elected, he’s going to make me kill myself.

Me: You’re right. How will you handle that?

Joan: I have no idea. I’ll think about it next week. Right now I need to worry about losing 80 pounds for the Halloween party I’m going to on Saturday.

Me: Are you dressing up?

Joan: I’m going as Suze Orman. How much do you want to bet that nobody understands why I’m wearing a suit and talking about money?

I last spoke to Joan on May 15th. She sent an e-mail to let me know that her mom had died, that they were having coffee when it happened, and that she was now crying every hour instead of every ten minutes. I expressed my condolences and asked if we could have sushi when we returned from our vacation. We both got busy and we never scheduled that sushi dinner, and this afternoon I picked up a message from Joan’s son. As soon as I heard his voice on the answering machine, I knew. When I returned his call, he verified the terrible news. It was her heart.

There is a new member of the Vicious Circle today. I feel fully confident that Joan is kicking back with Dorothy Parker (Her favorite short story was Big Blonde.), and it’s only a matter of time before Robert Benchley has some quirky bandanna curtains.

Joan will be missed. In fact, she already is. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

As you know, Pope Francis is TIME Magazine’s Person of the Year. I’m pleased to report that I voted for him last week when I heard that Miley Cyrus was winning. (Not that Miley doesn’t deserve to win. I talked about her more this past year than I talked about, say, Henry Winkler or Joey Fatone. BUT, that doesn’t mean she’s worthy of a magazine cover beyond maybe Cosmopolitan or Why Won’t People Just Let Her Do Her (Admittedly, Sometimes Strange) Thing?) Anyway, I always feel a bit of a thrill when the person I voted for wins.

The Only Time I Didn’t Feel So Good About Voting for The Winner: When I was in the fifth grade, we had a weird family fun night event during which every classroom voted for a girl and a boy to represent them at the King and Queen ceremony. (Welcome to 1980. I still have no idea what was happening.) Anyway, I somehow ended up winning my classroom queen rep position, and when all of the fifth graders then voted for their overall queen rep, I once again won. I did NOT vote for myself for the classroom queen position, but I *did* vote for myself during the fifth grade overall queen gig. (I was really itching to wear a long dress. You know how it goes.) Anyway, even though it was a secret ballot, my teacher figured out that I voted for myself, and she announced the fact to the class more than once. 33 years have passed, and I still feel weird.

Here’s something that everyone needs to know. If I’m unable to use Oreos as a fallback option, I’m unable to participate in your bake sale or cookie drive or pot luck or whatever it is that you’re doing. There is a good chance that I will want to jump in and bake something amazing, but knowing that I can’t cover up any potential catastrophes with Oreos counts me out. This will never not be true.

Here’s something else that you need to know: I’m cranky. Like, SUPER much so. I like working from a list and right now I’m slammed with things that are spontaneous and not on the list. I know everyone is going through this and everyone is super busy. I do! I wish I handled it better, because when I’m feeling ruffled it feels like I can’t really accomplish anything correctly. (I send lots of e-mails with attachments that aren’t attached. I underbake cookies and then have to throw them away. I take weird opportunities to raise my voice about classroom parties and silly things that Really Don’t Matter and I make myself look and feel like a jerk. I schedule a trip to pick up an ornament immediately after I drop my kids off at school, and then I discover that the store doesn’t open for another hour and I’ve already been driving for thirty minutes, so damnit. All of this happened today along with some freelance, some dog drama, and a fork that is wedged in a weird place and it’s Harper’s favorite fork and I’m already regretting starting this sentence and so are you. The good thing about today? A friend I hadn’t seen in several months met me for lunch at an Indian place and we were able to catch up. Always Good: Friends and Indian Food.)

I have milk boiling on the stove for pies. We have an orchestra concert in 90 minutes. Tomorrow is a half day at school, and then we have a piano recital, and Henry will be groomed on Saturday morning right before a three hour Christmas pageant rehearsal at church.

On Sunday, I get to stand in front of the congregation and say, “I’m naked.” (Maybe someday I’ll tell you about the time I may have lost a job by muttering those exact words.)

Last year I volunteered to read the verse about not being a virgin.

It’s always good to test yourself. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It’s once again time for the first quarter moon, and I’m not exactly sure what that means, so I’ve decided to take it as: Time to bake cookies and spend a few minutes trying to figure out why my friends are so divided on the minimum wage issue.

This is what I know: My first job was a part-time gig at an ice cream dump when I was 16 years old. The owner hired girls only, and although the minimum wage at that time was $3.35, I made $3.05 per hour. (I know.) After arriving on time and working pretty hard for over a year (I was one of the few employees who were allowed to write on ice cream cakes and make icing roses), I joined the ranks of folks who were making $3.10 per hour. With that came a key to the ice cream dump! The world was my oyster! Every two weeks I was handed a paycheck for around $40. I would take $10 for gas money and save the rest to purchase a zoom lens for my camera. (Confession: I sometimes blew a little bit of cash at Fashion Gal. They had fun sweaters, and I felt an intense need to try and look cute. I mostly failed at this mission.) I had no bills to pay. I had no kids. Essentially, I had no worries. (The owner once called me at home and threatened to fire me because I put too many almonds on a fudge round cake. Luckily, a few days after that happened, a customer told me that she really liked my pink eye shadow. In other words, everything evened out in the end.)

I know there are lazy people in the world. I’ve been accused of being lazy by both my grandmother and my neighbor. It doesn’t feel good to be called lazy.

I know that not everyone has the luxury of being able to avoid crappy jobs. Not everyone has the luxury of boycotting Walmart. Not everyone can afford to never eat fast food. (I can feed my entire family for $8 and two minutes in a drive-thru at Taco Bell. Sometimes I don’t have more than two minutes. I’ve made casseroles that cost more than $10 to put together. I’m just typing out loud over here.)

Anyway, some of the people I love most in this world are like, “Ggggrrrr! Lazy jerks need to work harder and do better and be stronger and STOP BEING LAZY JERKS!” And, yes. The world is peppered with lazy jerks. Some of the other people I love most in this world are like, “Living wage and share your wealth and higher taxes for higher incomes!” I understand why feathers are being ruffled.

(Side note: I made the mistake of tuning in for a local radio show last week where the guest was all, “Why not raise the minimum wage to TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS PER HOUR?!?! HA HA HA HA HA!!!” and isn’t it easy to sit in a heated radio studio drinking your fancy pants coffee and wearing your Eddie Bauer shirt and going all Haves and Have Nots over the airwaves? It made my stomach turn.)

I tend to repeat myself, and I know I’ve said this MANY times, but: I really do feel like most people are doing their best. Some people need more resources. Some people need tools to manage their money and time. Not everyone is trying to work the system. (I know some people are trying to work the system. There will ALWAYS be those people. Just yesterday I tried to stack some coupons at a soap store, but I was quickly shot down. I retaliated by performing two separate transactions. I worked the system. Kind of. Not really. Anyway, a few people are going to smell very good in about three weeks because I had two coupons.) We will never be able to set up a peer review system where we can decide who is a lazy jerk and who is trying their hardest to raise kids and put food on the table. And some people are like, “OBAMA!” and some people are like, “No! BUSH!!!”

Christmas is coming. Bake cookies for someone who might like cookies. Don’t donate to the Salvation Army if you don’t like their gig, but consider donating to someone if you are able. Say Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays or whatever you want to say, but say it with a kind heart. Don’t say it to make a point. We’re all in this together. AND, to paraphrase the guy leading music at our church service this morning, “As soon as we start figuring things out, we die.” (We also had an AMAZING jazz combo playing during the service, so everything evened out. Like almonds and eye shadow.)

I’m going to turn off comments and let you listen to this. It’s one of my favorites.

You know me. I do this sort of thing every December. Thanks for your patience.

Also, we finished our tree this afternoon. Enjoy.

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I felt a semi-urgent need to post today, because I just discovered that yesterday’s post was my 666th on this particular platform, and it’s THE CHRISTMAS SEASON! The last thing I need to do is sit around eating Indian nachos and humming The First Noel with a big mark of the beast hanging around on my website. Am I right? (I am.)

We ventured out a few hours back (with our Ventura filter on) and chose our Christmas tree.

I would give you all of the details, but I have a problem with the organization from whom we purchased this year’s Scotch pine. They are slowly making strides in the right direction, but still. (Please know that Mitt Romney and I actually agree on this particular issue, so don’t think I’m just sitting around eating Indian nachos and being a big liberal jerk with a spooky mark of the beast hanging around on my website and The First Noel ringing in my head. I’d like to build the world a home and furnish it with love. Grow apple trees and honey bees and snow white turtle doves.)

This guy sawed the butt off of our tree, and he let Harper keep it. (The butt. Also, the tree.) After counting the rings, we’ve determined that Harper is the same exact age as the tree. With that said, we really don’t know what we’re doing, although Jeff was a Boy Scout. Was. WAS.

The tree is currently hanging out in the corner soaking up some water and letting her branches rest a bit. I’ll be lighting her tomorrow while the kids are at school (My mother taught me to be VERY particular about how to place lights upon (and into) a tree. It’s a job that’s best accomplished with no other humans in the house, as I tend to get pricked and then I tend to swell because I’m allergic to trees and then I tend to say The S Word.).

Speaking of my mother, she made this wreath for us a few years back, and it’s always the first thing we hang when the holiday season rolls around. And to the Earth it gave great light and so it continued both day and night. It’s happening.
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Do you remember a few years back when I explained the whole mammogram thing to you? In a nutshell (in a nutshell?), you go to a place like Metro Imaging, you fill out some paperwork, you take off your shirt, you get smooshed four times, and then five minutes later you’re walking out the door with a smile on your face and a certificate that says, “Clear!”

This morning I went in for my mammogram. I filled out the questionnaire, I pulled off my shirt, I got smooshed four times, and then the tech came back into the room and said, “The doctor wants me to take a few more shots. We’re seeing something on your right breast.”

Me: What are you seeing?

Tech: It’s a mass. If you want, I can show it to you on the screen.

So, I walked over (with shaky legs because I’m no superhero) and checked out my mass. It’s a big white thing that sort of looks like an embryonic foot.

She took four more x-rays, but this time with really crazy smooshing. Like, borderline painful smooshing. (Actually, take out the word Borderline in that last sentence.)

Tech: Go ahead and wait in here in case he needs more images.

I sat in the chair and thought to myself, “This is how it starts for people who are about to be told that they have cancer.”

I then thought about Virginia. I thought about Virginia a lot.

Pretty soon the doctor came in and shook my hand and told me that he doesn’t really like what he’s seeing, and was wondering if we could do two more shots. If he doesn’t like how they look, he would like me to have an ultrasound.

Doctor: Your breasts are very dense.

Me: That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day.

(I tend to ramble semi-inappropriately when I’m going through the whole rush of adrenaline thing. It’s either lift a Subaru Forester with one hand or ramble. There was no Forester in sight.)

So, they did the shots, and I was once again left in the room by myself.

That’s when I started thinking that we should probably make this Christmas really great because you never know what’s going to happen in the next year and I should probably write some letters to the girls to be opened on their prom nights and their graduation nights and their wedding nights and when/if they have babies. (I know. Do you have any idea how much of a fatalist I can be? I can definitely be a fatalist.)

The tech returned.

“He wants us to do the ultrasound.”

So, five minutes later found me lying on a table with gel squirted on my bare chest (cue the raunchy music) and I was all shaky and feeling sick and the ultrasound tech was young and pretty and wanted to talk about Black Friday.

Tech: Do you shop on Black Friday?

Me: I don’t really shop, but I like to drink coffee and watch the people. But I can’t really think about that right now.

Tech: Well, I know I won’t be going to Best Buy or any of those places where fights could break out and blah blah blah blah blah…

(I honestly couldn’t focus on a thing she was saying, because I was thinking about the knitting projects that I would like to finish and the books I need to read and the freelance chapters I want to turn in and the letters I should write and last April I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in 12 years and we’ve spent some time getting to know each other again and wondering why we’re back in each other’s lives now. Like, what is the meaning of this? Did our paths cross at that coffee place just because we were both craving cookies at the same time (I tend to not believe in coincidence), or is there a reason that goes a little bit deeper and is THIS the reason? Me on this table with ten bad x-rays and some sloppy goop on my chest and a not very positive attitude?)

((Please know that I know how DRAMATIC I am. I’m honestly the luckiest person I know, so when the system hiccups, I tend to fuhreak out. I may be charming from a distance. Close up? Beady-eyed and jittery. Think about a wet Chihuahua. That’s me, but bipedal. (Although, I run like a cheetah in my dreams.)))

Ten minutes after the ultrasound, the doctor came in.

Doctor: Are you tired of seeing me yet?

Me: Heh. Yes. No?

Doctor: I just wanted to tell you that it’s a cyst. Just a big fluid-filled cyst. Nothing to worry about.

Me: Nothing to worry about?

Doctor: Nope. Put your shirt on, and we’ll see you in a year.

I put my shirt on, walked out to my car, and numbly drove to Trader Joe’s where I purchased every single item in the store that has anything at all to do with stir frying vegetables. (Don’t ask questions. I don’t know the answers to your questions.) I also bought myself a tiny gift box of dark chocolate sea salted caramels, because my breasts are very dense and I’ll use just about anything as an excuse to treat myself to sea salted caramels.

I didn’t get the certificate this time around, and that’s okay. I have no space on my wall for certificates, and no more time to waste, and that sounds like a big profound statement, but I didn’t mean for it to be. I actually have a freelance deadline tomorrow, and my final spreadsheet is big and spooky. Like my breasts. I have no idea how to end this entry. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>