Ms. Rachow’s bucket list includes a romantic trip to the Grecian Isles. It does not include skydiving, bungee jumping or getting a Brazilian.
My pal Cricket and I are at lunch, and she says, “Wanna go get pedicures?”
Truth is, my toes have never been inside a nail salon. I’m from Nebraska, and while we might dance there until the Herefords come home, the only reason we’d consult a professional in regard to toes would be if an actual cow had stepped on someone’s foot and an x-ray was needed to see if any bones were broken.
However, I am a girl, and I do like colorful toenails. When sandal season looms, I buy a bottle of polish and have a do-it-yourself pedicure. At age eleven this was no big deal. Now, just a few decades later, it requires level-three yoga to get down there, but I can still do it.
Only problem is, every year it’s harder to stay within the lines. I know the cardinal rule is that the red is supposed to evenly cover the entire nail but not sneak onto the skin around it. Steady as my hand might be, I always manage to get some polish over the edge. It takes sixty seconds to paint it on and the whole rest of the week for the excess to wear off my skin.
Maybe Cricket and millions of other women have the right idea about hiring experts to do their nails. Now that getting a real pedicure is on today’s schedule my toes tingle with excitement.
Luckily there’s a nail salon just a block away. These places have been sprouting like Starbucks in recent years, probably due to the growing number of baby boomers who can no longer reach their own toes.
Inside, the first thing I notice is the aroma. I expect it to smell like chemicals, but I’m surprised that it also seems sort of yummy.
Cricket points at the menu board, indicating that I need to choose a flavor. Here the pedicures can be had in coconut, chocolate and peach. Chocolate might be the obvious choice, but we are not the kind of women who do what is expected. We both go for coconut.
I notice a sign that says “Pedi/Brazilian Combo, $55.” I know that “pedi” is short for pedicure, but have no idea what “Brazilian” might be. So as not to publicly reveal my ignorance, I make a mental note to ask Cricket later.
Now it’s time to pick our polish. The names of the O.P.I. colors are quite fruity: “Catherine the Grape,” “Going Ape-ricot,” and “Hey! Get in Lime.”
We’re directed to climb to our pedi-perches, roughly equivalent to climbing Mount Olympus. Our feet dip into fancy basins of warm water, and our toes are at the perfect level for the pedicurists to work their magic. However this is an awkward arrangement for the intimate conversation one has with a hairstylist.
We get soaked, scrubbed, sanded, massaged, trimmed, and polished. In the time it normally takes me to touch my toes, I have nails aglow with a color between cantaloupe and a Mediterranean sunset. I see why they call this “Melon of Troy.”
After allowing time for drying, the miracle worker below helps me on with my sandals. I empty my wallet, hoping the tip is adequate to express my appreciation for this transformation, and I bid my pedi-buddy, Cricket, adieu. While I attend to the rest of the day’s errands, I imagine all eyes are on my twinkling toes.
Since my feet are gorgeous, I figure the rest of me deserves some attention. I head for the gym. Today I dance through the lunges, squats and planks as if I have the feet of a goddess.
It’s not until I get home and change clothes that I realize gym shoes should never go anywhere near fresh polish. Nine nails have made it through unscathed, but one big toe looks as if I stuck it in melting orange sherbet.
I know I should march back to the nail salon for do-overs. This is exactly what Cricket would do. However I’m from Nebraska, the do-it-yourself capital of the world. So I buy a bottle of matching color and repaint the schmushed nail myself.
While I relax, waiting for the repair polish to dry, I remember I forgot to ask Cricket to explain “Brazilian.” So I query Google.
Probably I’m the last person living in coastal California who doesn’t know about this “revealing” procedure. Suffice it to say that if you wear board shorts and a tee to the beach, you don’t need it.
First published in the Montecito Journal April 23, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Can You Dig It?
Ms. Rachow’s extended play list now includes “Big Yellow Taxi,” Joni Mitchell’s song with the famous line: “Pave paradise and then dig it up.”
The month of March didn’t come in like a lion this year. Rather it arrived via notice that the water main under our street was being replaced.
The first day, workers (graffiti artists) marked where the cable, gas and water lines lay buried. Bright paint against black asphalt made it seem these guys knew what they were doing.
Temporary “no parking” signs went up, and kids on skateboards got busy knocking them down. They’d invented this sport a few months earlier when our street was resurfaced. The flawless boulevard was a sight to behold. One couldn’t help but hum “What a Wonderful World.”
Lowly peon that I am, I dared not entertain the thought that it might’ve been wiser to replace the water main first and then repave. My job as a good citizen was to get into the spirit of living on the movie set of Apocalypse Now.
The high-pitched whine of the asphalt saw heralded the next sunrise. Then, behind it came a yellow digging machine whose dinosaur head stood taller than our house. Kerchunk-kerchunk. It grabbed bites of asphalt and hard-packed soil as easily if it were chomping into a giant sheet cake and then dumped it all into the truck that rumbled alongside.
Given the chorus of bangs and beeps, I figured my dogs would go crazy. But they were blasé about the din. The floor shaking seemed to comfort them. Or maybe they’d perfected the art of astral travel and were really at the beach while appearing to sleep on the sofa.
Since I couldn’t concentrate on anything more complicated than reading my horoscope (Expect big change in your life today!) I decided to stand out front and watch. One workman stood within inches of T-Rex’s head, calmly shoveling up crumbs the big boy had missed.
When the crew took a lunch break, I ventured farther to peer into a trench deep enough to make me woozy, but there was still no sign of a water main. However, I spotted the Cox cable and wondered if the gash in the conduit would have any effect on reception.
Yes, folks, they’d severed the cable line. Not that a person really needs TV and Internet service. Still, I figured it’d be a good idea to call it in.
A fleet of Cox trucks joined the construction crew. I wondered if there’d be a fight in the street, but a smiling cable guy assured me, “Cables get cut all the time.” (Translation: job security.)
The digger kept chomping, and the machines cut and pulled up a giant anaconda of iron pipe that had to weigh tons. Then they laid beautiful, blue, indestructible plastic pipe in its place.
The machines rumbled on, beeping and filling the trench with fresh soil. I heard a sound like a news helicopter flying overhead and wondered if our street project had made CNN. Turns out it was just the earth tamping machine whop-whop-whopping away. They covered the compacted dirt with heavy steel plates until it could be paved.
Five AM the next morning I went out with a flashlight to see if the newspaper had come. I saw the mighty Mississippi rushing down our street. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the water main had broken above where they’d begun digging, and this project had just expanded.
The roar of the water under the steel plates was impressive, and the fresh dirt from the trench had already been deposited on the once beautifully landscaped yard down at the corner.
For a moment I enjoyed the idea of waterfront property. Then I dialed 911. The operator who answered wasn’t overly impressed with a “city works” call but said she’d let the department know.
Next time I call 911, I’ll be a bit more dramatic: “Tsunami…possible drowning victims…open trench the size of the Grand Canyon!”
Soon city works engineers joined the construction crew and cable guys. They shouted about needing female adaptors and male adaptors, and considering how these guys were all pretty cute, I found this talk very entertaining.
There were more days of whirring, whining, rumbling, beeping and kerchunking. Everything that broke got fixed. The new main was connected. All the remaining holes were filled, and the final paving job began. I knew things were winding down when the driver of the asphalt truck was able to get a lunch-hour nap.
The job ended a week early, and now the silence is deafening. True to tradition, March goes out like a lamb.
First published in the Montecito Journal March 26, 2009
The month of March didn’t come in like a lion this year. Rather it arrived via notice that the water main under our street was being replaced.
The first day, workers (graffiti artists) marked where the cable, gas and water lines lay buried. Bright paint against black asphalt made it seem these guys knew what they were doing.
Temporary “no parking” signs went up, and kids on skateboards got busy knocking them down. They’d invented this sport a few months earlier when our street was resurfaced. The flawless boulevard was a sight to behold. One couldn’t help but hum “What a Wonderful World.”
Lowly peon that I am, I dared not entertain the thought that it might’ve been wiser to replace the water main first and then repave. My job as a good citizen was to get into the spirit of living on the movie set of Apocalypse Now.
The high-pitched whine of the asphalt saw heralded the next sunrise. Then, behind it came a yellow digging machine whose dinosaur head stood taller than our house. Kerchunk-kerchunk. It grabbed bites of asphalt and hard-packed soil as easily if it were chomping into a giant sheet cake and then dumped it all into the truck that rumbled alongside.
Given the chorus of bangs and beeps, I figured my dogs would go crazy. But they were blasé about the din. The floor shaking seemed to comfort them. Or maybe they’d perfected the art of astral travel and were really at the beach while appearing to sleep on the sofa.
Since I couldn’t concentrate on anything more complicated than reading my horoscope (Expect big change in your life today!) I decided to stand out front and watch. One workman stood within inches of T-Rex’s head, calmly shoveling up crumbs the big boy had missed.
When the crew took a lunch break, I ventured farther to peer into a trench deep enough to make me woozy, but there was still no sign of a water main. However, I spotted the Cox cable and wondered if the gash in the conduit would have any effect on reception.
Yes, folks, they’d severed the cable line. Not that a person really needs TV and Internet service. Still, I figured it’d be a good idea to call it in.
A fleet of Cox trucks joined the construction crew. I wondered if there’d be a fight in the street, but a smiling cable guy assured me, “Cables get cut all the time.” (Translation: job security.)
The digger kept chomping, and the machines cut and pulled up a giant anaconda of iron pipe that had to weigh tons. Then they laid beautiful, blue, indestructible plastic pipe in its place.
The machines rumbled on, beeping and filling the trench with fresh soil. I heard a sound like a news helicopter flying overhead and wondered if our street project had made CNN. Turns out it was just the earth tamping machine whop-whop-whopping away. They covered the compacted dirt with heavy steel plates until it could be paved.
Five AM the next morning I went out with a flashlight to see if the newspaper had come. I saw the mighty Mississippi rushing down our street. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the water main had broken above where they’d begun digging, and this project had just expanded.
The roar of the water under the steel plates was impressive, and the fresh dirt from the trench had already been deposited on the once beautifully landscaped yard down at the corner.
For a moment I enjoyed the idea of waterfront property. Then I dialed 911. The operator who answered wasn’t overly impressed with a “city works” call but said she’d let the department know.
Next time I call 911, I’ll be a bit more dramatic: “Tsunami…possible drowning victims…open trench the size of the Grand Canyon!”
Soon city works engineers joined the construction crew and cable guys. They shouted about needing female adaptors and male adaptors, and considering how these guys were all pretty cute, I found this talk very entertaining.
There were more days of whirring, whining, rumbling, beeping and kerchunking. Everything that broke got fixed. The new main was connected. All the remaining holes were filled, and the final paving job began. I knew things were winding down when the driver of the asphalt truck was able to get a lunch-hour nap.
The job ended a week early, and now the silence is deafening. True to tradition, March goes out like a lamb.
First published in the Montecito Journal March 26, 2009
Love is Strange
Ms. Rachow’s play list includes “Love Me Do,” “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” and “All We Need is Love.”
My watch is older than Brad Pitt, so when the battery dies, I decide it’s time to go shopping. A new timepiece and a few other strategic purchases might help our economy get out of the tank. Seems to me it’s my patriotic duty to go out there and do what I can.
My husband, who’s also older than Brad Pitt, says, “I want to come along.”
I suspect he’s been feeling a little guilty about skipping the all the Valentine’s Day falderal this year. Or maybe he’s noticed I’ve been mentioning Brad Pitt quite a lot lately.
Perhaps it’s another one of those pitfalls of a sagging economy, but I’ve heard from several other women that their sweethearts also skipped the flowers this year. Not that we women need to be showered with gifts. The truth is a scribbled “Roses are Red” poem would do it for most of us.
In the car, I share these women’s stories with my spouse, so he won’t feel he’s the only man on earth who wishes Hallmark’s powerful tail didn’t try so hard to wag love’s dog.
He listens in silence, so I say, “What do you think a guy should do for his sweetheart on Valentine’s?”
“Is that a trick question?” he asks.
“No,” I lie.
“Well, a man ought to buy his love roses, jewelry, chocolate, lingerie, a romantic card, and then take her out to fabulous dinner.”
“So what’s a woman supposed to do for her guy?” I ask.
“She should plan to make him a great dinner that will be ruined by his invitation to take her out. And then over dinner she needs to find some fault with each of his gifts for her. You know, the chocolate should have been dark, the lingerie should have been red, and so on.”
“Hmmm…I think I’m beginning to understand why you guys hate V-Day so much.”
We could dig deeper into why the violets are so blue, but we’ve arrived at the store. What marketing genius decided to put the watch display smack dab in the middle of the perfume department? The wallop of fragrance that hits us as we enter is like trying to shop while hugging my aunts Millie and Maude.
We can only hold our breath for so long. That might be plenty of time to pick a watch, however it isn’t nearly long enough to find a clerk. Apparently the way the store pays for these gigantic markdowns is by skipping the sales staff.
Between sneezes my husband says, “Let’s go upstairs. Maybe they have oxygen up there.”
I nod, and we head for the escalator. It’s been months since I shopped for clothes, and last time was a disaster. Then all the tops looked like maternity wear, and I wasn’t yet used to everyone walking around looking like an Octomom.
As I scan the racks, sizing up the possibilities, I pray the designers have finally come to their senses. I try to stay calm and think if I don’t expect much, I won’t be disappointed.
“Is it my imagination or is every other garment apple green?” I hold up a chunky jacket the color of a Granny Smith. “What do they expect us to do with this?” I don’t care who hears me.
“Darling, you’re making a scene.”
“Scene, schmene. Somebody has to stand up for good taste.”
“Let’s head over to the linens department,” he says in his most soothing voice. “I seem to remember our bath towels are getting a bit raggedy.” He nudges me toward house wares, and there we began the hunt for the perfect towels.
They say April’s the cruelest month, but I say it’s February. And not just because it begins with dragging that poor groundhog out of his cozy burrow. And not just because mid-February is fraught with high hopes of romance that are so often dashed when life doesn’t turn out to be the picture book we long for. The genuinely cruel part of February comes after all that, when we swim the murky waters of true love without a greeting card to show us the way.
We search high and low, but the right towel doesn’t come in the right color, and the one that is the right color isn’t the right towel.
“How can you tell the difference?” he asks.
“I can tell,” I say.
“And that’s exactly why I love you,” he says.
Love is strange, but it’s still a many splendored thing.
First published in the Montecito Journal February 26, 2009
My watch is older than Brad Pitt, so when the battery dies, I decide it’s time to go shopping. A new timepiece and a few other strategic purchases might help our economy get out of the tank. Seems to me it’s my patriotic duty to go out there and do what I can.
My husband, who’s also older than Brad Pitt, says, “I want to come along.”
I suspect he’s been feeling a little guilty about skipping the all the Valentine’s Day falderal this year. Or maybe he’s noticed I’ve been mentioning Brad Pitt quite a lot lately.
Perhaps it’s another one of those pitfalls of a sagging economy, but I’ve heard from several other women that their sweethearts also skipped the flowers this year. Not that we women need to be showered with gifts. The truth is a scribbled “Roses are Red” poem would do it for most of us.
In the car, I share these women’s stories with my spouse, so he won’t feel he’s the only man on earth who wishes Hallmark’s powerful tail didn’t try so hard to wag love’s dog.
He listens in silence, so I say, “What do you think a guy should do for his sweetheart on Valentine’s?”
“Is that a trick question?” he asks.
“No,” I lie.
“Well, a man ought to buy his love roses, jewelry, chocolate, lingerie, a romantic card, and then take her out to fabulous dinner.”
“So what’s a woman supposed to do for her guy?” I ask.
“She should plan to make him a great dinner that will be ruined by his invitation to take her out. And then over dinner she needs to find some fault with each of his gifts for her. You know, the chocolate should have been dark, the lingerie should have been red, and so on.”
“Hmmm…I think I’m beginning to understand why you guys hate V-Day so much.”
We could dig deeper into why the violets are so blue, but we’ve arrived at the store. What marketing genius decided to put the watch display smack dab in the middle of the perfume department? The wallop of fragrance that hits us as we enter is like trying to shop while hugging my aunts Millie and Maude.
We can only hold our breath for so long. That might be plenty of time to pick a watch, however it isn’t nearly long enough to find a clerk. Apparently the way the store pays for these gigantic markdowns is by skipping the sales staff.
Between sneezes my husband says, “Let’s go upstairs. Maybe they have oxygen up there.”
I nod, and we head for the escalator. It’s been months since I shopped for clothes, and last time was a disaster. Then all the tops looked like maternity wear, and I wasn’t yet used to everyone walking around looking like an Octomom.
As I scan the racks, sizing up the possibilities, I pray the designers have finally come to their senses. I try to stay calm and think if I don’t expect much, I won’t be disappointed.
“Is it my imagination or is every other garment apple green?” I hold up a chunky jacket the color of a Granny Smith. “What do they expect us to do with this?” I don’t care who hears me.
“Darling, you’re making a scene.”
“Scene, schmene. Somebody has to stand up for good taste.”
“Let’s head over to the linens department,” he says in his most soothing voice. “I seem to remember our bath towels are getting a bit raggedy.” He nudges me toward house wares, and there we began the hunt for the perfect towels.
They say April’s the cruelest month, but I say it’s February. And not just because it begins with dragging that poor groundhog out of his cozy burrow. And not just because mid-February is fraught with high hopes of romance that are so often dashed when life doesn’t turn out to be the picture book we long for. The genuinely cruel part of February comes after all that, when we swim the murky waters of true love without a greeting card to show us the way.
We search high and low, but the right towel doesn’t come in the right color, and the one that is the right color isn’t the right towel.
“How can you tell the difference?” he asks.
“I can tell,” I say.
“And that’s exactly why I love you,” he says.
Love is strange, but it’s still a many splendored thing.
First published in the Montecito Journal February 26, 2009
Beach Pebble Blues
Ms. Rachow, a bona fide member of the Rock ’n’ Roll Generation, has been rolling rocks her whole life.
When my husband and I bought our current home, we inherited a landscape featuring a few tons of beach pebbles.
I soon discovered these handsome rocks were challenging to walk on, so they’re idiotic for paths. Weeds love to grow in them, so they’re rotten for groundcover. Leaves tend to stick to them and can’t be raked away, so they become an eyesore around the base of trees.
The only thing I could figure to do was scoop them up into pots. Sisyphus rolled his rock up the mountain for eternity. I picked up my pebbles. Over the next several years I collected many stones, 9,500 pounds worth. Now what the heck was I supposed to do with a pile of rocks the size of a rhino?
“Call the trash company,” my husband suggested.
“I can’t just throw away my rocks,” I said.
“Well, then, call a shrink, because you have a serious attachment disorder.”
Maybe he was right. But surely there was something good we could do with all those beautiful stones.
I googled “beach pebbles” to see what they were worth.
“Holy schmoly. If we were to buy these rocks today from a discount supplier with free delivery, the bill would come to over $5000.”
“Let’s use the money-back gun,” my helpful husband said.
“The what?”
He shaped his hand into a pistol, pointed at the rocks and went POW. “The pebbles are supposed to disappear, and be replaced by a stack of cash.”
At that very moment, I had a vision of what to do with the rocks. “Remember when I wanted a fish pond and you said it was too much maintenance? What if we made a pond of pebbles instead?”
His expression was priceless, and I could read his every thought:
1. My wife has rocks for brains.
2. Divorce is expensive, but maybe easier than digging a lakebed.
3. What great guys’ toy I can get away with buying to make up for cooperating with yet another harebrained scheme?
So what if he thought I was loco? The important question was how big a hole did we need for a million rocks. It was a reverse game of guess the number of jellybeans in the giant jar.
I staked out an oval that was approximately 20 by 30 feet, because it looked right.
“The lakebed needs to be 6 inches deep,” I said.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“Calculus,” I lied.
I dug, and he hauled away tons of dirt and enough roots to make Alex Haley rise from the dead and make another mini-series.
I knew we were getting somewhere when a great blue heron flew over to check on what we were doing. The bird must’ve thought we were building a koi pond.
After digging our way through 11 weekends, the hole was done.
“Can we start putting in pebbles?” my husband asked.
“Sure, as soon as we clean the dirt off them.”
After several years of sitting, each bucket of rocks had acquired leaves and mud, a whole ecosystem that included plenty of spiders. How could we just dump the whole kit and caboodle into our “pond” without tidying the rocks up?
My spouse had that look on his face again. Even if he hadn’t spoken, I’d have known what he was thinking.
“You wash the rocks,” he said. “I’m going for a long hike in the mountains.”
The secret to a happy marriage is knowing when it’s time to say, “See you later.”
And so it was that I discovered a whole new meaning for stonewashed jeans. No matter that I got soaking wet and splattered with mud. No matter that I wore my fingernails down to nubs. No matter if eensy-weensy spiders climbed up my waterspout. I had the fun of doing something that absolutely no other human on the planet would be crazy enough to do.
Three more weekends later (and with quite a bit more help from the man who surely will be nominated for sainthood) we not only had a beautiful pebble pond, but we’d reclaimed the space where all those old buckets of rocks had been.
“Looks great,” he said.
“So what’s next?” I asked.
Out of his pocket came a full-page sale ad for the big screens. The TV he’d circled was the size of a rhino.
The secret to a long marriage is to know when it’s time to rock ’n’ roll and when it’s time to go with the flow.
First published in the Montecito Journal January 29, 2009
When my husband and I bought our current home, we inherited a landscape featuring a few tons of beach pebbles.
I soon discovered these handsome rocks were challenging to walk on, so they’re idiotic for paths. Weeds love to grow in them, so they’re rotten for groundcover. Leaves tend to stick to them and can’t be raked away, so they become an eyesore around the base of trees.
The only thing I could figure to do was scoop them up into pots. Sisyphus rolled his rock up the mountain for eternity. I picked up my pebbles. Over the next several years I collected many stones, 9,500 pounds worth. Now what the heck was I supposed to do with a pile of rocks the size of a rhino?
“Call the trash company,” my husband suggested.
“I can’t just throw away my rocks,” I said.
“Well, then, call a shrink, because you have a serious attachment disorder.”
Maybe he was right. But surely there was something good we could do with all those beautiful stones.
I googled “beach pebbles” to see what they were worth.
“Holy schmoly. If we were to buy these rocks today from a discount supplier with free delivery, the bill would come to over $5000.”
“Let’s use the money-back gun,” my helpful husband said.
“The what?”
He shaped his hand into a pistol, pointed at the rocks and went POW. “The pebbles are supposed to disappear, and be replaced by a stack of cash.”
At that very moment, I had a vision of what to do with the rocks. “Remember when I wanted a fish pond and you said it was too much maintenance? What if we made a pond of pebbles instead?”
His expression was priceless, and I could read his every thought:
1. My wife has rocks for brains.
2. Divorce is expensive, but maybe easier than digging a lakebed.
3. What great guys’ toy I can get away with buying to make up for cooperating with yet another harebrained scheme?
So what if he thought I was loco? The important question was how big a hole did we need for a million rocks. It was a reverse game of guess the number of jellybeans in the giant jar.
I staked out an oval that was approximately 20 by 30 feet, because it looked right.
“The lakebed needs to be 6 inches deep,” I said.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“Calculus,” I lied.
I dug, and he hauled away tons of dirt and enough roots to make Alex Haley rise from the dead and make another mini-series.
I knew we were getting somewhere when a great blue heron flew over to check on what we were doing. The bird must’ve thought we were building a koi pond.
After digging our way through 11 weekends, the hole was done.
“Can we start putting in pebbles?” my husband asked.
“Sure, as soon as we clean the dirt off them.”
After several years of sitting, each bucket of rocks had acquired leaves and mud, a whole ecosystem that included plenty of spiders. How could we just dump the whole kit and caboodle into our “pond” without tidying the rocks up?
My spouse had that look on his face again. Even if he hadn’t spoken, I’d have known what he was thinking.
“You wash the rocks,” he said. “I’m going for a long hike in the mountains.”
The secret to a happy marriage is knowing when it’s time to say, “See you later.”
And so it was that I discovered a whole new meaning for stonewashed jeans. No matter that I got soaking wet and splattered with mud. No matter that I wore my fingernails down to nubs. No matter if eensy-weensy spiders climbed up my waterspout. I had the fun of doing something that absolutely no other human on the planet would be crazy enough to do.
Three more weekends later (and with quite a bit more help from the man who surely will be nominated for sainthood) we not only had a beautiful pebble pond, but we’d reclaimed the space where all those old buckets of rocks had been.
“Looks great,” he said.
“So what’s next?” I asked.
Out of his pocket came a full-page sale ad for the big screens. The TV he’d circled was the size of a rhino.
The secret to a long marriage is to know when it’s time to rock ’n’ roll and when it’s time to go with the flow.
First published in the Montecito Journal January 29, 2009
'Tis the Season to be Jolly
Ms. Rachow has had a life-long addiction to holiday shopping, but this year she has a bet on that she can go cold turkey. So far, so good.
Jolly, schmolly. Let’s get down to the true reason for the season:
Shopping.
And it’s not even about buying gifts anymore. It’s all about finding a bargain. We give lip service to more noble meanings, but I’ve yet to hear of anyone trampling a Wal-Mart employee for peace on earth and good will toward man.
In the past I’ve done my best to be queen of holiday cheer, only to become the empress of stress. Sound familiar?
And that’s exactly the reason why no one’s seen me in the stores this year.
Sorry if I’m personally responsible for the national economic crisis, but I’m forgoing the stampede this time around and staying home to troll the ancient Yuletide carol.
No one knows what that really means, but for me it’s going to be relaxing with plenty of holiday blend coffee so my caffeine-buzzed imagination can send me down a holly-decked memory lane. If that’s not the oxymoron of the season, I don’t know what is.
Anyway, they say this time of year is for the kids, so I’m going back to when I was one to see if I can discover a gentler kind of holiday.
The first Christmas I remember I was two and a half. My grandparents, who lived somewhere far, far away, arrived on Christmas Eve. I didn’t yet know these people, but I’d heard reports they were pals with Santa. That was good enough for me.
We decorated a fragrant fir tree with fragile glass bulbs I was soon forbidden to touch. Geez, how was I supposed to know you couldn’t bounce them like a regular ball?
“Once the tree is up,” Grandma explained, “that signals to Santa we’re ready for him to put the gifts under it. And, of course, he can’t arrive until all little girls have gone to sleep.”
It was a tough job, but I got the message. If reindeer hooves were going to click-click-click on our roof, it was all up to me.
The next morning I sat at the breakfast table, staring at a plate of miserable, cold scrambled eggs. That day my normally kind mother invented the stupid rule that no one could open presents until everyone had finished eating. So it was entirely my fault that we all had to sit there like nutcrackers waiting for our cue.
After what seemed like several centuries, Grandma intervened.
“For crying out loud, let the child open presents,” she said.
My mother nodded, and I zoomed to the living room where Santa had left considerable Yuletide treasure.
I opened the biggest gift first. Inside was a teddy bear who’d definitely donned his gay apparel in the form of rainbow plaid satin trousers. He had a molded plastic nose and I sealed our coming comradeship by giving his schnoz a friendly bite.
The second gift was a doll with blue eyes that opened and closed with a tick. She had lovely blond curls that I’d later hack off while playing beauty shop.
My very favorite gift was a pink brush, comb and mirror set. With it was a tiny tube of lipstick that smelled of sweet berries. O the great luck to be born a girl.
We were out of flashbulbs, so there are no photos of the day. I remember very few other things except those three gifts. I can’t see the faces of the people around me even when I squint.
I won’t be too hard on myself, since I was only two and hadn’t yet been instructed on keeping precious memories. However, if the Ghost of Christmas Past could take me back, I’d focus more on my grandmother because I didn’t get the opportunity to do it later.
A few months into the new year she died unexpectedly. Yes, cue the violins, because I never got the chance to thank her for rescuing me from the eternity of the breakfast table.
From family stories I learned she’d been the jolly old elf responsible for my favorite gifts that Christmas. I learned she liked her toast burnt and drank her coffee black. At a time when ladies didn’t smoke, she sneaked off behind the barn to have a cigarette. And she had a wicked sense of humor. (Yes, I am my grandma’s girl.)
Thanks to the magic of imagination, I see the roses in her cheeks and the twinkle in her eye. If that’s not the truest meaning of Christmas, I don’t know anything at all.
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.
First published in the Montecito Journal December 25, 2008
Jolly, schmolly. Let’s get down to the true reason for the season:
Shopping.
And it’s not even about buying gifts anymore. It’s all about finding a bargain. We give lip service to more noble meanings, but I’ve yet to hear of anyone trampling a Wal-Mart employee for peace on earth and good will toward man.
In the past I’ve done my best to be queen of holiday cheer, only to become the empress of stress. Sound familiar?
And that’s exactly the reason why no one’s seen me in the stores this year.
Sorry if I’m personally responsible for the national economic crisis, but I’m forgoing the stampede this time around and staying home to troll the ancient Yuletide carol.
No one knows what that really means, but for me it’s going to be relaxing with plenty of holiday blend coffee so my caffeine-buzzed imagination can send me down a holly-decked memory lane. If that’s not the oxymoron of the season, I don’t know what is.
Anyway, they say this time of year is for the kids, so I’m going back to when I was one to see if I can discover a gentler kind of holiday.
The first Christmas I remember I was two and a half. My grandparents, who lived somewhere far, far away, arrived on Christmas Eve. I didn’t yet know these people, but I’d heard reports they were pals with Santa. That was good enough for me.
We decorated a fragrant fir tree with fragile glass bulbs I was soon forbidden to touch. Geez, how was I supposed to know you couldn’t bounce them like a regular ball?
“Once the tree is up,” Grandma explained, “that signals to Santa we’re ready for him to put the gifts under it. And, of course, he can’t arrive until all little girls have gone to sleep.”
It was a tough job, but I got the message. If reindeer hooves were going to click-click-click on our roof, it was all up to me.
The next morning I sat at the breakfast table, staring at a plate of miserable, cold scrambled eggs. That day my normally kind mother invented the stupid rule that no one could open presents until everyone had finished eating. So it was entirely my fault that we all had to sit there like nutcrackers waiting for our cue.
After what seemed like several centuries, Grandma intervened.
“For crying out loud, let the child open presents,” she said.
My mother nodded, and I zoomed to the living room where Santa had left considerable Yuletide treasure.
I opened the biggest gift first. Inside was a teddy bear who’d definitely donned his gay apparel in the form of rainbow plaid satin trousers. He had a molded plastic nose and I sealed our coming comradeship by giving his schnoz a friendly bite.
The second gift was a doll with blue eyes that opened and closed with a tick. She had lovely blond curls that I’d later hack off while playing beauty shop.
My very favorite gift was a pink brush, comb and mirror set. With it was a tiny tube of lipstick that smelled of sweet berries. O the great luck to be born a girl.
We were out of flashbulbs, so there are no photos of the day. I remember very few other things except those three gifts. I can’t see the faces of the people around me even when I squint.
I won’t be too hard on myself, since I was only two and hadn’t yet been instructed on keeping precious memories. However, if the Ghost of Christmas Past could take me back, I’d focus more on my grandmother because I didn’t get the opportunity to do it later.
A few months into the new year she died unexpectedly. Yes, cue the violins, because I never got the chance to thank her for rescuing me from the eternity of the breakfast table.
From family stories I learned she’d been the jolly old elf responsible for my favorite gifts that Christmas. I learned she liked her toast burnt and drank her coffee black. At a time when ladies didn’t smoke, she sneaked off behind the barn to have a cigarette. And she had a wicked sense of humor. (Yes, I am my grandma’s girl.)
Thanks to the magic of imagination, I see the roses in her cheeks and the twinkle in her eye. If that’s not the truest meaning of Christmas, I don’t know anything at all.
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.
First published in the Montecito Journal December 25, 2008
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