Oh, Unholy Night

There was a day when Thanksgiving was Thanksgiving. We'd be up with the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade running in the background - only to stop and watch when they pulled out the cast of the latest Broadway musical to perform on the streets of New York. We welcomed the season by listening to Christmas music for the first time in a year. Bob cooked all day, we all sat round the well dressed table, said a heartfelt grace, ate like we would never eat again, and then I would do a mountain's worth of dishes. There would be some talk about "a walk", but it was never managed. By 10:00 p.m. we would all pass out. We slept the next day till at least 9:00 or 9:30. Those were our traditions, and they were beautiful.

With the chaos of today's economy, those traditions have been upset dramatically over the past three Thanksgivings (including yesterday) with the new un-holy tradition of "Black Friday", wherein I obsess over sales all day Thursday and ruin my sleep Thanksgiving night to join the few other sanity-challenged individuals looking to save "UP TO 80%!!" at 4:00 in the morning.

This year, the retail industry ramped it up a bit by announcing "Midnight Madness" had come. Some of the stores would be open at midnight. In truth, the idea of lining up outside the mall doors before Thanksgiving day has actually ended is really offensive to me. I thought of boycotting in protest for those staff who had to be there through the night whether they liked it or not. I hoped that their employers made it worth it for them. They do not. But I decided in favor anyway, figuring I would get in and out quickly and return to bed by 2:00 a.m. to dream of Sugar Plum Fairies and such. So at 11:45 I got in the car with Bob and headed to the mall. Once there, I saw that the mall had been transformed. It was now hell.

As we were getting off the freeway, we could see from the off ramp that shopping at midnight was much more appealing than at 4:00 - the parking lots looked entirely full. Bob and I thought about turing around at that point but Christine and Grace were already there having gone to see a late movie timed to get out as stores opened. We drove straight to the top level of the parking structure and became part of the masses that made their way through the doors. Before I could take anything in, I went straight to the sleep wear department of Macy's to buy the traditional Christmas Eve gift of pajamas. Score! I got a tremendous price. Further, there weren't that many people in the sleep wear department. It went quickly and orderly. I felt good about that. But riding down the escalator to the first floor I saw what was really happening. I began to hear the thump, thump, thumping of a bass blaring dancing rythyms and I saw, in addition to a much larger group of people my age, a staggering sea of teenagers dressed primarily in pajamas - some of them wearing blankets around themselves. Noted as well was that in spite of their nocturnal attire, makeup had been freshly applied and hair was done. This of course, because "Midnight Madness" provided a new excuse for a late-night-date-night to anyone old enough to have passed their driver's test. In total, the crowds rivaled any Cecil B. DeMille could cast. (And if you are old enough to know who Cecil B. De Mille is, you have no business being at "Midnight Madness".)

Immediately I felt my blood pressure rise. I forged ahead to my next destination watching boys and girls running around as though they had just discovered the mall for the very first time. Central to the inside portion of the mall was a DJ (a DJ?!?!?) blaring - at that moment - Cee Lo Green's "Forget You".

Ah yes - I could practically smell the chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

In front of Holisters were two barefoot young men, dressed only in board shorts, sporting six-packs for the sole purpose - apparently - of allowing giggling girls to take turns having photos taken with them using their own cell phones. Kind of like Santa. Only without the red suit. Or the beard. Or the candy cane. Or the Christmas.

Moving outside to the outdoor end of the mall, in addition to frosty weather we were treated to another DJ - this one blaring Michael Jackson' "Billie Jean"

Billie Jean is not my lover.

She's just a girl who says that I am the one.

But the kid is not my son.

Yes indeed. Missing only was the mistletoe.

And the checkout lines in the stores? Two hours. No kidding. No sale is worth that so we skipped the stores I had planned and went to the smaller stores in hopes of finding some sort of workable alternative. Bob and Grace left by 2:00 a.m. but Christine and I braved it for no other reason than that we were already there. But store after store offered nothing but looked-over summer items for deep discounts and only moderate sale prices on new merchandise. I could easily do as well online. Or on Wednesday.

We stopped for coffee - mostly because our feet needed a break. Even though we were in athletic shoes it started to feel as though we were walking on wooden balls. Finally to JC Penny at 4:00 where I buy all my husband's clothes because he treats expensive clothes no better than economy brands so I give up. And I got really good deals there. But no real sense of accomplishment.

And then - try to find a place to sit for a moment. Every chair and couch in the mall is taken by teenage pairings: girlfriends nestled in boyfriends' laps - sleeping. Ahhhhh, how sweetly and completely...annoying. I fought the impulse to slap them.

I did make a stop at "the scary store". "Hot Topic". I was looking for one item in particular and felt this was the likeliest place to have it. I was aware of making a conscience effort to look directly at the sales girl who had black and cobalt blue spiked hair, tattoos up both arms and neck, piercings in her ears, lips, tongue, nose, and eyebrows and act as if she looked as normal as Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Christine wanted to stop by "The Gap". She was a braver girl than I, and so I found a chair near Nordstrom (politely waiting until 10:00 a.m. to open) to wait for her. Many people had left by then but the music was still catering to the kids. Some rapper rapping lyrics I cannot understand. And thank God.

All around me, the ornamentation of Christmas - huge trees, boughs of holly, the window of "The Gap" reading - in big giant letters: "JOY". But there was none of that here. In fairness, one should never expect to find joy or Christmas at the mall on Black Friday. Or the mall at all. But I do remember being a young girl when the day after Thanksgiving was the first day you ever saw signs of the holidays. And the stores were brimming with festivity and excitement. And the music made your heart feel light and magical. Looking out the big glass windows at 5:45 a.m. seeing the first evidence of light - what I would have given to hear a bit of Bing Crosby dreaming of a White Christmas. For all the effort, you'd think they would have thrown this old dog a bone.

After all was said and done, I believe I can safely cross Black Friday off my list of things "to do". Forever. At 6:00 a.m. Christine and I decided to call it a nightmare and go home.

Mommy Lessons

Yesterday, for the second time, I spent the day at my friend Priscilla's house making cookies. The first thing you need to know is: I don't make cookies. Or anything really. I am a bad cook and a terrible baker. I don't think Priscilla knew that. But she took pity and asked me back.

The second thing you need to know is that the purpose of this "bake-a-thon" (this time with a couple of her other, more talented friends) was to make goodie boxes to send to our children away at college. And I don't do that either.

For my part, I brought the ingredients for oatmeal cookies. Now it is important to note that I didn't even bring Quaker Oats. I brought the generic Safeway brand and so the recipe on the box, it turns out, was inferior. Add to that the fact that I did not know my way around Priscilla's wonderful (and expensive!) KitchenAid mixer and it can be said with some certainly that I was a calamity. (I didn't secure the bowl into the base properly so when I turned it on, the beater and the base started taking a beating. In my haste to turn it off quickly, I turned the switch the wrong way - making the speed go faster still, creating all sorts of very noisy, scary sounding racket. I have never been so close to a heart attack. I know how well Priscilla takes care of her things and I certainly am not in a position to replace a $250.00 mixer right now! Tender mercies - no damage.)

As I mentioned earlier, I had had this play date once before, about a month ago when Priscilla did most everything and made her delicious Snicker Doodles. This time I was a more active, if not more reluctant, participant. Watching these other three women, comfortably maneuvering the kitchen was a little intimidating. I must say that Priscilla has a truly, truly spectacular kitchen. She has a tool for absolutely everything and everything has a well designed and organized place to live. Her home is of the gorgeous variety and her massive kitchen and breakfast room look out upon a beautiful and peaceful park-like yard. I found myself looking out that window a lot - taking in the tranquility and trying to apply it to the tasks at hand. With only fair results.

The first thing I noticed was that these three very charming ladies were fully capable of measuring, mixing, rolling and spooning - all while talking! I could not manage both those tasks at once. I could either talk or carefully follow recipe instructions. I watched as they measured vanilla by sight rather than teaspoon. I watched as they made expert cookie balls with a small scoop and laid them perfectly spaced - like little soldiers - on cookie trays. I watched as they "eyeballed" whether or not they were done in the oven. I watched as they used cookie cutters on sticky Rice Krispy Treats and pulled them off with the shapes clear and intact. I can't even do that with cookie dough. And, amazingly, nothing got dirty. Except for my work space - although I kept after it quickly. (I kept washing utensils and pans and bowls, only to find that they were still in use!)

Next while Priscilla has known these women for a few years, I noticed that her friends knew their way around her kitchen as if it were their own. They noticed her new, enviable refrigerator. They knew where all her supplies were. They could help me find things. I imagined that they knew each other well - but to know her kitchen so intimately? Why? Well, it turns out, they get together to do this about 5 times a year. For Back to School. For Halloween. For holiday. For Valentine's Day. And for end of school year. It is something of a tradition with them. Imagine that.

We made Peanut Butter Cookies, Peanut Butter Chocolate-Chip Cookies, Oatmeal Raisin Cookies, Oatmeal Raising Chocolate-Chip Cookies, Snicker Doodles, and Rice Krispy Treats and by my count we made about 250+ cookies that were distributed into 10 different care packages.

And then there were the care packages.

Once the cookies had cooled, Priscilla (organizational wizard, she) left the room and reentered carrying boxes of ribbons and bows and little cellophane bags and various colorful tissue paper. We sat down at the table and bagged small numbers of cookies in the bags, and chose ribbon that offered, hopefully, some autumn color (for the season) to tie them with. We selected not one but two or three ribbons or raffia to put together for each bag, adding color and texture. I watched as Jan (one of the other ladies) expertly cut and tied her packages. I know I am hopelessly creatively impaired, but seriously, how did she make such perfect knots with the right side of the ribbon always showing?

Again Priscilla disappeared for a moment only to return with a full stack of Priority Mail Flat Rate boxes. I mean who has those on hand?!?! I'll tell you who. Priscilla. AND she had a bag of packing peanuts. And she filled the bottom of each of the 10 boxes with them. Then the boxes were lined with pretty autumn colored tissue paper. Next several adorned bags of cookies were gingerly placed inside each of the boxes and topped with bubble wrap. But they were not sealed until we had been given stationery to write little notes to put inside.

This was an all-day event and I observed (like a duck out of water) for the most part what can only be called a labor of love. Generally, I don't do this kind of thing. But I was moved by this effort - an effort Priscilla and her friends didn't think twice about - hours of baking and preparing a cheerful package to send off to their kids in college. There is no doubt that the recipients are delighted by the sweet treats every time they arrive in the mail, but it's possible that it might be many years before they fully understand just how much love gets sealed up along with them. For that, the image of friends in a big kitchen making hundreds of cookies will stay with me.

As for my contribution - as I said, it was an inferior recipe. Calling for only brown sugar and no white, they taste more like health food cookies than your traditional oatmeal cookies. Add to that the fact that I let a couple of batches sit in the oven too long. Some have a slightly charcoal taste to them. So, to the kids of Priscilla, Mary, and Jan - my apologies. Your mothers let a novice into the kitchen with them. To my kids, there will be no question as to which ones I made. They may be hard to swallow but that strange, dry, burnt taste you can't quite recognize is the love.

Eternal Flame

Funny, the power of a song.

But first, after all the buildup from a clearly over-enthusiastic casting director, we didn't get the call back. No commercial for the family after all. Go figure. We live to see another bubble burst.

I continue to look for a job, and there is one in particular I am cautiously excited about. It seems tailor-made to my skills and interests and I have a 3rd interview scheduled. Meanwhile I continue to look because I am surely not alone in wanting this job. Like maybe there are a hundred other applicants. Or a million.

There is no doubt, this is a whole new world we live in. Nothing is secure; no future is known. Making plans, doing what you know you should be doing, following the steps, will not necessarily yield the results you set your eye on anymore. With the economy capsized and still sinking, unemployment sustained at unbelievably high rates and a pervasive feeling across the country of distrust and anger, it is impossible to not feel the stress of it. And it has become natural - so much so, that we forget what "normal" feels like. It is a challenge to remember what it felt like just to walk around in life 5, 10, 20 years ago.

But.

Today was a glorious day - perfect weather. Warm and sunny and the leaves are turning. I was preoccupied with the lists of concerns and needs and projects that I have been collecting. And then,

driving to get Grace from school, I heard The Bangle's "Eternal Flame" come on the radio. Immediately I was in the 80's - big hair, big jewelry, big shoulders, big make-up. This is a photo of me the year that song came out. I could practically smell and touch it - I remembered it well. And I felt - well - different. I liked it. (..."I don't want to lose this feeling, oh"...) It was a good feeling, floating with the song and I tried to think - what is it? What am I feeling? I remember this feeling but what is it? (..."do you feel the same or am I only dreaming?"...) Is it that I am not stressing about something? Is it that I am not worrying about every sneeze? money? kids? What is this that I am feeling??? And then it suddenly occurred to me. I was feeling joy. (..."I believe it was meant to be"...)

So thank you God, for that moment of grace. It was awesome. We could all use a little more of it.

In the meantime, "is this burning an eternal flame?" Indeed it is. Clouds may be looming but God is in our yesterdays, todays and tomorrows - and we're gonna be alright, folks.

When Fat Pays Off, Maybe...

Last night we were at a wonderful and memorable dinner party - it was sort of a dreamy "gosh-why-can't-life-always-be-like-this" evening.

As we sat down to a great dinner on a spectacular night, I began a conversation with a friend, Mary, about a healthy eating lifestyle I had recently adopted and that I had heard she had been on for some time. It's from Dr. Joel Furman's "Eat to Live" book and it made tremendous sense to me in terms of acquiring superior health - but it also promised rapid and amazing weight loss for people like me - who had had poor eating habits and are overweight. I complained to Mary that in the weeks I have been on it, I have lost very little weight and told her of my disappointment. Mary, who looks amazing (but frankly, always has), encouraged me to stick with it. And I will.

About the same time, Bob's phone buzzed. He took a quick look and his mood was elevated further by learning that he had an audition for a commercial for some pharmaceutical product today. I too was excited but I have learned over the years to temper my excitement with a big dose of reality - the odds are against him. If he goes on 10 auditions, he will likely get 3 to 4 callbacks and MAYBE book one gig. He was recently up for the phone service commercial where the one guy doesn't get the call that the flash mob dance he was in was postponed and so he starts breaking into a freakish solo in the middle of a major train terminal. He was also one of two final candidates for a role in the latest commercial for Loews. It irks him no end when he doesn't book. He walks around for days and weeks depressed that he might not ever book again. Sometimes I would rather he not get the call at all.

Hang on. I'm getting to the point.

This morning as Bob was scurrying around to prepare for the audition and I was reading the latest Vanity Fair, he received another email from his agent. She learned that they were looking for families. Did he have pictures of all of us? When he told me this he had about 10 minutes before he had to leave so I flew to my computer to find something of all 6 of us that is flattering of all 6 of us (especially me). I found two photos that fit the bill (one is the photo above); all of us in a group with me strategically hiding behind everyone else (thankfully, I am the tallest by far). I thought about needing to reactivate my SAG card - how long would that take? And Amanda and Jennifer are in school up north, so could they get here for something like this? I shot a quick text message to everyone alerting them that there was a one in a million chance that this could happen and then I really let it go because, of course, we are NOT going to get it. We are not even going to be considered. And then I settled into the considerable task of cleaning up my office. Again.

Then the phone rang. It was Bob. I asked him how it went and he hesitated for a moment and then said: "Well actually, it went really well. And you were marvelous." I asked him what he was talking about and he said that during the audition he was asked if he had a family and he offered an enthusiastic "yes". They asked if he had a photo and he produced the two I had printed out for him. He said they talked to him a long while and filmed him holding up the photo. The casting director then told him that callbacks would be on Wednesday and that she would be very surprised if the client didn't call back the whole family (with the possible exception of Grace as she was outside of the age of the kids they were looking for). She stressed that were were exactly what they were looking for.

I began to freak out. I saw my slovenly appearance in the mirrored closet door next to my desk. Every pound was screaming at me. I had given flattering photos for Bob to take. I wasn't at all sure that those photos represented me accurately. I couldn't bear the idea of going to a callback only to be looked at quizzically as if to say "Who is she?" or "How old was that photo?", or worse "Wait a minute, we didn't ask for a fat lady!". Bob is the only one with an agent in our family but she would handle the contract for all of us and I so I said: "Bob, you need to call your agent right away to have her let the casting people know that I am overweight". He stopped me in mid sentence and said: "And here's the great part - when she saw you in the photo she said: 'Oh good! I'm so glad you're wife's not skinny. She is supposed to have diabetes in this commercial.'"

Oh. I didn't think I looked overweight in those pictures. I guess I am really deluded. So okay. There is no secret. I guess everyone knows.

But if we do get this callback, I think I'm still going to run out for a new Spanx. If someone actually wants me fat, I want to look my best fat possible.

My Kitchen, My Life

Earlier last week, Grace said she saw a cockroach in my kitchen. The thought of this stirred a repulsion so deep within me that I leaped into action. My kitchen needs lots of work, but one thing I have never seen in it is a roach. Spiders? Yes. Flies, mosquitoes, crickets? Sure. But never a roach.

When we lived in Van Nuys and the girls were just babies, we had an ant infestation that ended all others. They invaded our little home and would come like an army across the floor, onto the carpet and if you happened to be laying on the floor, they would just march like a stream over you. I am not kidding. I had never seen anything like it. Daily I would clean and vacuum and disinfect but nothing would stop them and so finally I called an exterminator and they came in and did the job. Ants gone. But in a matter of a month or two I noticed, for the very first time ever, cockroaches. And they were everywhere - EVERYWHERE - big and ugly and fast. I set bait, I cleaned, I scoured, I vacuumed. I swept, I poisoned and I prayed - and nothing, NOTHING would get rid of them. I had a friend who was a contractor and I asked him, "Tim, I'm going out of my mind. You build houses. You are well versed in home pests. How can I get rid of cockroaches?" His reply: "Get some ants."

Since then, I have been very careful with the balance of nature. If I see ants, I clean and make sure everything is dry and try to divert them. But I have little problem with ants. And up till now I have had no problem with roaches. So if it was true, if Grace did see one, I was going to beat it. To a pulp. Now.

Hence a 3-day gut clean of the kitchen. It started as a project that I planned to accomplish in a few hours. But it took hold of me and it became a HERCULEAN task. Ammonia, bleach, scrubbers, mops, sponges - lots of time on my hands and knees where I didn't just clean - I scrubbed to the bone and re-lined all the shelves with new paper - every cupboard, every door, every drawer, every knob, the pantry, the refrigerator, underneath the refrigerator, the floor, every wall, every baseboard, every inch. And I hand washed everything in each of the cupboards and drawers as well. And then I purged. I eliminated everything that wasn't absolutely essential. Even if it has cost me a lot of money initially. Even some things that we sentimental but lived in the back corner of a shelf - not looked at in years. And I found lots of stuff that had been missing. And in the end, between the paper towels, the thrown out food, Tupperware, broken dishes, appliances, and general crap - there were six full trash bags that went to the garbage. (By the way, through the entire process, I didn't find a single roach!) Then I took everything off the counters that we do not use every single day and put those items away. It is now clean, uncluttered, simple - even stark. And when it was all done, my mind went from room to room and I feel a month-long attack on the house coming on.

And while I was scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees, I began to see the whole process as a metaphor for my life too. I am living in a new world. One in which unemployment and insecurity have become the new standard for millions of people - including myself. And once again, I am feeling like a complete overhaul, a re-do, a gut clean is required to be able to see it through. Since beginning this blog I have been on so many interviews. And I have seen two jobs come my way, only to be unemployed again not because of my performance, but because of the economy. It is out of my hands in so many ways. But I need to start again. So a purse dumping is in order. Again.

In Honor of Bob's Birthday

I haven't gone this long without posting since I started this blog. To say that my life has been busy would be an extreme understatement. And with busyness comes lots of stuff to comment on but that will have to wait until the dust settles from everything I have finally completed doing.

In the meantime, in honor of Bob's 51st birthday - I thought I would share another memorable moment of hilarity - at his expense.

Among the many pieces of exercise equipment I have owned and never used was a fairly high-end treadmill. It had many settings and levels and lifts and and buttons and whistles - and it was a big, heavy-duty piece of equipment. Eventually it wound up in the garage, the graveyard for all things I feel badly for not using and too guilty to get rid of.

Bob spends a lot of time in the garage. He likes to play his guitar out there and practice his tap dancing. Generally it is a "Valri-free" zone; one in which he is not likely to hear me hollering for him to "knock it off". So the treadmill became his. And as Bob is a dancer, he is in fairly good shape which meant that he could set it on a pretty high speed and run (rather than walk) on it.

Good for him.

So one day, Bob - alone in the garage - got on his treadmill, set it on a fairly high speed and started to run. But as Bob is apt to do, he got distracted. Now it is important to note that the little belt that you attach to your clothing - the one that disconnects from the treadmill to automatically switch it off should you fall off - had long since disappeared. So Bob, unattached and distracted, began to run too close to the edge and finally shot off the edge. All within a matter of about 5 seconds, both legs flew back landing him on his knees. Reaching forward to catch his fall, his hands fell on the running belt which quickly carried both arms off the machine and back behind him - pinning his body into the "Dying Swan" position from "Swan Lake". With no hands for leverage, his forehead hit the running belt which immediately caused his head to shoot backward toward his body until his neck could not longer stretch.

And so, there was Bob, the crown of his bald head stuck on the fast-moving belt, being sanded like a piece of wood - on his knees with arms pinned back and no leverage to lift himself from this painful and humiliating situation. After a few, interminable, seconds, he finally threw his body sideways and escaped the treadmill that tried to eat him.

He was a bit battered and bruised and his head was scraped up pretty badly. But he lived to see another escapade - another story for another time.

And in spite of it all, and perhaps a little bit because of it, I love him.

And that looney photo above? Yeah, there's a story behind that too.

Happy Birthday Bob.

Did EVERYONE Miss the Typo?

Spelling is a thing with me. I don't always get it right but I do know the difference between "there", "their", "they're", "its", "it's" and in general most other words. So I was mortified to see that my last published blog said that Bob and I had gone to the "dessert". How that got by me for so long was embarrassing.