merry christmas December 26, 2009
Last night Mom and I went to the Christmas Eve service at the little country church where I was baptized. And I’m fairly certain I hadn’t stepped foot in the building since we left that church (for another) when I was in elementary school.
When I was very young I played an angel in the children’s Christmas program every year and was usually quite comfortable perched on the risers, belting out “Away in a Manger” to the congregation at large. However, Mom remembers one year I protested that I did *not* want to be an angel that year (beginning to “discover” my personality?), but like any good parent she disregarded my hesitation, straightened my wings and gave me a gentle shove. With one look out into the sea of staring adults I burst into tears, jumped down off the stage and ran straight into my parents’ laps, where I cowered, watching alllll the other sparkly little angels sing their parts. The pressure, just way too much!
Last night we saw an old friend whose now-grown daughter was also an angel with me. She said they found all those costumes packed away in a box just last year and finally threw them all out. Well, how ’bout that. No more halo to hang over me! Hallelujah! Though… without it I can’t go back and finish the show. And, really, if I think about it, that was kinda the fun part.
snowbirds December 24, 2009
Yes, my parents have pink flamingos in the front yard. No, they didn’t buy them. They came home one day from errands to find the pair upright in the middle of our professional landscaping. Thinking it must’ve been a familial joke, they called everyone with a like-minded sense of humor. However, no one claimed to be the brains behind the gesture but applauded it nontheless (which says so much about my family).
I’ve made clear my opinion on the [tacky, white trash] ornamentation, yet every time I come home they’re there to greet me… any hour of the day or night, in rain, sunshine, sleet or, most recently, a blizzard. They’re like feathered, one-legged mailmen. But the Moseleys uphold a neighborly open-door policy and, sadly, it doesn’t exclude abandoned plastic lawn art.
One of them is clearly hoping for a V8 or is thinking there’s something to that “south for the winter” thing after all. My money’s on the latter.
retro post December 17, 2009
For my birthday this year I organized a skydiving adventure for me and my best good friends. I hadn’t blogged about the experience yet because I kept it a secret from my family. This was weird in so many ways.
1) I don’t really keep anything from my family, Mom is pretty much my best friend. So, *that* was hard.
2) I opted to write them a “If you’re reading this unfortunately I died” letter and left it on my kitchen counter. Everyone should go through this literary journey at some point.
3) Deciding to tell them in person by premiering the video over Thanksgiving meant I had no one to call to say, “I survived!” Therefore I spiraled down to a “no one cares that I’m alive” emotion upon landing. It was completely unjustified and redonkulous, but it still kinda sucked.
All in all, selfishly saving the announcement for the shock value was worth it. Blank stares. Curious brows. Muted, then audible, surprise.
My father: “DID YOU JUMP OUT OF A PLAAAAAAAANE?!”
My mother: “Who is filming you? I can’t figure out who is taking your picture?!”
Pance: “Are you mad? Please don’t be mad I didn’t tell you. You would’ve worried way too much.”
My father: “I’d be mad if you died. But. You didn’t. So…. I’m not mad.”
And there you have it, folks. Experience of a death/lifetime. I’d like to say that jumping into thin air from 14,000 feet magically transformed me into a new person. That having a birds eye view of the orange, red and yellow painted Catskills changed my perspective on life. Alas, at the end of the day, I was still me. I wailed like a banshee and shook like a leaf. I kissed the ground, hugged my friends and chugged my beer. And it tasted damn good.
deck the malls December 15, 2009
Tonight my absolute fave Christmas special, “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” came on TV. My least favorite, because you were wondering, is Frosty. It’s freakin’ SAD people! He melts. And he keeps saying “Happy Birthday!” Which is the wrong salutation unless you’re addressing Jesus. Just thinking about it brings back ewwy childhood memories of watching it like a train wreck, unable to turn away. Maybe *this* year he won’t melt. Maybe *this* year the cute little blond girl (who looks like me!) won’t cry into her mittens. It’s like watching a bad horror movie. “FROSTY! No! Don’t go into the greenhouse!”
Sigh. Now I’m sad. I was all set to muse about the magic of NYC at Christmas. How we, like Charlie Brown wanted so badly, are forced to minimize decoration simply because we can’t fit much more than the basics. If we even get a tree, it’s usually just so we can throw a tree-trimming party and drink. Spiked egg nog. Mmmm.
Last week I brought out my own not-such-a-bad little tree. It’s just enough to make me smile when I come home (I *did* have presents under it, but some of you readers are recipients, so no peeking). I put on seasonal tunes, steep some “Sugar Cookie” tea and do the yay-I-don’t-live-in-a-mall-culture happy dance.
Now if only I could solve for a liquid Frosty… hmmm, maybe I’ll just ask Santa to tell to the TV execs to take Frosty off the air. But does no mall mean… no Santa?!?!