There I was, sitting at the computer having a video conference across Skype with a guy in Nicaragua. He’s the designer on the college magazine I edit, a former college professor who picked up and moved to Central America because the surfing’s good and it gets him farther away from me. We Skype a lot. If you don’t know, Skype isn’t a kind of fish, but a program that lets two people video chat across the Internet. It’s almost as good as being in the same room, only I can’t reach across the desk, grab his shirt and scream, “Where are my pages?” (I miss that part.) So there we were, chatting it up like I’ve done dozens of times before when the grandest of revelations occurred to me: “Holy time machines, I’m in the future!”
The Great Holiday Food Exorcism
It takes mental fortitude — steel in your boots, ice water in your veins, the courage of 18 lions — to do what I did. There was a half-eaten box of chocolate turtles sitting on the kitchen counter. It was like a drug pusher trying to lull me in every time I walked by: “Hey buddy, you looking for chocolate bliss? Why don’t you come over here. This’ll make you fly.” Oh, OK. Maybe just 14. When I caught myself in a staring contest with the box — tears running down my face as I begged for it to release its demonic hold — I finally realized what had to be done. An old fashioned exorcism.
Oh, For the Sake of ‘Tradition!’
“Tradition,” bellows Tevye like a summer thunderstorm in “Fiddler on the Roof.” “Tradition!” It’s been stuck in my head since I saw my sister Lauren’s high school production of it last month. She played Golde, and I must say she was quite good. Well, that is if you can get past this blonde teenage, very-American girl playing a Russian Jewish mother of five in turn-of-last-century peasant garb and heavy accent. Excuse me, but didn’t I just see you on a smart phone texting a friend? How peasant is that?!? Anyway, that song’s been bouncing around in my head ever since, which is maybe why Tevye called me the other day, his voice disguised as my mother’s.
Ruminating on Those Christmas Mysteries
On Christmas Eve — as the most magical, special and wondrous holiday pokes its nose ‘round the corner — I ponder for a moment the great Christmas mysteries. Those perplexing questions that weigh on our festive minds and make us stay up late at night scratching our heads and staring at walls. Big, complex, unexplainable mysteries … like why dogs and cats are drawn to the Christmas tree. No doubt your animal is, too. I watched a video the other day of a cat who climbed up into someone’s Christmas tree, and it reminded me of my cats when I was little. They toppled the tree one year. Another used to — how do I put this delicately? — “mark” the tree as his own (presents, too.)
An Illuminating Christmas Tradition
“You know what we’re doing tonight?” I asked the assembled at the dinner table … even an anxious dog. “We’re going to see CHRISTMAS LIGHTS!” And many merry “yees” and “yahoos” were heard all around (even from an anxious dog.) For nothing says Christmas like cruising neighborhoods in search of the spectacular, audacious, gaudy, inspiring, kilowatt-consuming Christmas light displays. It’s a serious and time-honored tradition in my house — one that goes back to my own childhood and similar adventures with my dad. What a joy to now share it with my daughter.
Holiday Gift Giving 101
Could you use a little gift-giving advice this time of year? I figured as much, so I thought I would share some of my time-honored tricks and traditions that are sure to help you this holiday season: • A couple years ago, my brother and I were sitting somewhere when we both turned to each other at the exact same moment and blurted out, “How about we stop giving each other Christmas presents … FOREVER!” It was probably during a drunken fight, but with a quick handshake we cemented the most brilliant holiday tradition ever imagined: the “brother I love you, but ain’t buying you nothing for Christmas” tradition. It’s a way of getting back to the reason for the season, and eliminating at least one person from the shopping list. It works for us and might just work for you.
As the Christmas Gift Sharks Circle
The gift sharks are circling. Hungry and anxious, their teeth snapping as they break the surface. Fins ominously cutting through the water, splashing, growing more impatient. Waiting for something to fall so they can snap it up. Their ghost-like cries of, “What does Amelie want for Christmas? Tell me what Amelie wants for Christmas!” Wait a minute … sharks don’t talk! But they do in my family. Do you have any gift sharks in your brood? We all do, especially when there are children around. In my family there is only one child, which means all attention turns to her come Christmas time. And that can be a little much. It’s like chum in the water and a full-on feeding frenzy.
The Only Trouble with Traveling? All that Packing!
There’s this scene in the 80s remake of “The Fly” where Jeff Goldblum — this quirky, eccentric scientist — explains he has five sets of the same outfit in his closet so he never has to expend brainpower deciding what to wear. When you’re a mad scientist, you need to spend all your heavy thinking on more noble causes, like how to accidentally turn yourself into a giant, dung-loving insect. Makes sense — the outfit part, at least. I think of that scene every time I get ready for a trip. Or more importantly, pack for a trip. Because in my mind there are few things worse in the world — maybe a beaver trimming my toenails — than packing. Mind you, I love to travel. You give me a chance to take a trip and I’m halfway through airport security before you can say, “if you want a seat with a seat belt, that’s an extra $25.”
Pondering the loss of brain cells thanks to the Internet
The Internet is making me dumb. I be dumb thanks to the Internet. Damn, you, Internet, damn you! Not it fault, I know. We’re to blame really. The Internet is just a … well … what the heck is it? Microchips and wires? Bits and bytes? A fancy box with endless photos of dogs dressed like Darth Vader and generic Viagra ads? Truth is, the Internet is a vast catalog of searchable information, 98 percent of which will turn your brain softer than the carved pumpkin dissolving into a puddle of goop on my front porch.
Dog Cone Misery … But Otherwise Fine
Forget that a cancerous tumor the size of a large grape was removed from her hind quarters. That it was big enough to cause her trouble going to bathroom. Forget that the vet’s incision to remove it wrapped around the base of her tail like a crescent moon or that she had a long line of blue stitches back there looking like miniature train tracks. Forget that she was supposed to be in pretty good discomfort — miserable even — for days. That she might lose her appetite. That she might have accidents all through the house. Struggle to go to the bathroom. Wouldn’t be able to take anything but short walks and would need to spend the better part of two weeks pretty much resting and not moving around. Forget all of that because … well … that’s just not my dog. Turns out there was only thing that bothered her after surgery to remove her tumor: the cone. Yes, the dreaded plastic cone that dogs must wear to keep them from licking their wounds and meticulously untying their stitches, which my critter nearly managed to do on the final day when we let her get some unsupervised cone-free time.