Tag Archives: Humor

December 19, 2013 · 0:00

Both Sides Now

“The Season” makes me crabby. Grumpy. Irritable. I’ve come to hate it. Everything about it. I hate the music, the crowded stores, the decorations. I especially hate the decorations.

Last year a friend stopped by our house in the middle of December. “God, it’s December 15^th,” I said to her, “and the only decoration I have up is the wreath on the door!”

“I don’t think that counts, Lease,” responded my husband John. “You didn’t take that down from last year.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Tonight, I’m looking around at my undecorated house thinking, “uggggh,” not “Ho ho ho!”

It wasn’t always true, though. I used to be one of them. I was a veritable Christmas Elf. I baked, I decorated. I embroidered Christmas stockings for the whole family. My son Jacob and I built gingerbread houses that did not come from a mix or a box and were actually made of gingerbread stuck together in the shape of a house! My friends got a bottle of homemade Irish Cream liqueur. Some used it to get their kids to bed on Christmas Eve.

But mostly, I sang. The records, tapes and CDs came out on Thanksgiving. From the moment I woke up the day after Thanksgiving, until New Years, I would trill away. “White Christmas,” “Do You Hear What I Hear?” “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.” I belted “Mele Kalikimaka” when I had an established escape route to avoid people trying to punch me. I know the words to all 18,423 verses of Frosty the Snowman. I would start singing in the shower and keep going until John tackled me and put duct tape across my mouth, usually at about 8:30 a.m. Regardless, I’d start up again the next morning.

If the current, Crabby Christmas Me got a hold of the old Merry Christmas Me, I would slap myself silly.

So you see, I do understand the Christmas-sy part of Christmas. The love, the joy, the traditions.

But now I see the other side. And it’s that “tradition” part that is to blame.

You see, my family’s always been fairly competitive. My mother and her sister Ruth were particularly so. They’d argue at each shared Sunday dinner over a million things: whose gravy was better (my mother’s), who cracked the best one-liner (always Aunt Ruth – she was a hoot), and most traumatically for me, whose young daughter was taller. (Duh, Maureen was almost a year older than me – of course she won every time. But you’re not taller now, are you? And you’re still older, Maur. You’re still older. How do you like it??) Darn, I wish I’d missed the competitive gene.

When I was a kid, Aunt Ruth was high on the list of my favorite relatives. Now she’s tops on an altogether different list. And it ain’t Santa’s list, neither.

Because Aunt Ruth started a family tradition. A competition. But it’s not a family tradition I recommend, especially during the Christmas season. In fact, it should have a warning, although I’m not sure where you’d put it: Don’t try this at home.

You see, Aunt Ruth started the tradition of kicking the bucket on a major holiday. What fun! Great idea! Not many families do that! Hey, we are DIFFERENT!

Knowing Aunt Ruth, I’m sure her last thought was “Doris, you’ll never top this one! I’m dying on Thanksgiving!!!!” She was no doubt a bit miffed when my mother joined her a couple of years later. Because, not to be outdone, Mom arrived in the afterlife on Easter Sunday.

Their party really got going when we reached Y2K, and my sister Judy died unexpectedly on my birthday in January. Now, you might argue that my birthday is not, technically speaking, a holiday. Not a paid day off for most folks. But hey, in my book, this qualifies. So there.

As time went on, there were fewer and fewer holidays I could celebrate. The only big one left was Christmas.

Guess what happened on Christmas, 2000! Yup, Dad reclaimed his spot at the head of the table with Mom, Judy and Aunt Ruth. Dad trumped them all. Or because it was Christmas, perhaps he trumpeted them all. Maybe both.

I must say I am rather ticked off about it all. Sort of changes the tone of the Holidays, you see. I plan to have words with all four of them, next time I see them. And I will not be nice.

In the meantime, celebrating holidays, well, it just seems so odd to me. Especially Christmas, because Christmas is so stuff-oriented, and most of my Christmas stuff is from them. It takes a bit of the fun out of decorating.

For a while, I considered joining the Eastern Orthodox Church. That way I could celebrate the same holidays, just on different days. I could keep all my Christmas crap! I could decorate! I could bake! I could sing! But then I realized that the change would just give us all additional high priority target dates, and I don’t have enough family members left to meet the challenge. So Eastern Orthodox is out.

At the same time, I also realized that, when Dad hit the Holiday Lottery, the whole tradition had to stop. Because I’m pretty sure that biting the dust on, say, Columbus Day, just wouldn’t cut it. So why bother?

Nevertheless, this whole thing has made me decidedly anti-Holiday.

There is one holiday I still look forward to, though. Groundhog Day. I just can’t figure out what sort of decorations to put up.




* * *
When I first posted this piece two years ago, my blogging buddies didn’t know whether it was safe to laugh at it. It is.

This is a reprise — it’s one of the most healing pieces of writing I’ve ever done. I re-posted it for the two new followers I have and the 1,242 robots who have started following me since I first put my blogging buddies in the awkward position of not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

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Filed under Childhood Traumas, Christmas Stories, Dad, Family, History, Holidays, Huh?, Humor, Mental Health, Mom, Music

Tagged as Bad days, Crying, Dying on holidays, Family, Health, Holidays, Humor, Loss

December 17, 2013 · 0:00

I’m Late — Peter O’Toole

Peter O’Toole was one of my first crushes. And in fact, I am pretty sure he must have established “my type” in men. My husband is also tall, blond, has brilliant blue eyes and is also quite quite handsome.

But that wasn’t really the reason I had such a crush on the man. Nope. I loved him because he was a bit nuts.

Just last week, I recounted this story to Darla of She’s a Maniac, but we had nothing to do with Peter’s death. Really. We both loved him. Anyway, I think I got it wrong in the telling when I mentioned it to Darla. So for Darla and the one person who read my story in Darla’s comments, sorry. I think I’m now telling the correct version. But for anybody who loved Peter O’Toole, whether for his incredible acting ability, his incredible beauty, or his nuttiness, I thought I’d pass along the story as told to me by Omar Sharif. Sadly, it was an interview on TV that I saw many years ago, and not in person.

“I was sitting there on the set of Lawrence,” said Omar of his first meeting with co-star and newbie, Peter O’Toole. And this tall blond man I’d never seen before walked up to me and introduced himself.”

“‘I’m Peter, Peter O’Toole,’ he told me.

“I’m Omar Sharif,” I responded reaching out to shake his hand.

And then Peter responded, with an impish, Irish grin on his face:

“‘Nobody is named ‘Omar.’ I shall call you ‘Fred.'”

And with a toss of his head and a resounding laugh, Fred Sharif concluded: “and he did!”

Photo Credit: The Irish Times

* * *

As the daughter, sister and granddaughter of Freds, I gotta love the man.

And by the way, apropos of nothing, my father grew up in a house where lived a strange trio: Fred, Fred and Ed. I’m pretty sure that’s why my Dad had such a nutty sense of humor, too.

50 Comments

Filed under Bloggin' Buddies, Dad, Huh?, Humor

Tagged as Crazy people, Fred, Humor, Omar Sharif, Peter O'Toole

December 15, 2013 · 0:00

Christmas Tree Bargains

This weekend when we got our Christmas tree, I became a poor imitation of my father. It happens every year. I don’t bargain the way Dad did. I don’t cajole. I don’t convince.

Nope. I pay through the nose.

Still, I always feel him standing with me, laughing, telling his favorite Christmas story one more time.

You see, unlike me, Dad never paid too much, or even very much, for our Christmas tree. Never.

Dad had a wife and five children, not to mention the other relatives who were still around for Christmas. Dad also worked three jobs when I was really little, while studying to get his insurance license so he could start his own business (he did).

There wasn’t a lot of spare cash to go around. But a wife and five kids needed a Christmas tree to celebrate properly. And Dad, well, Dad was actually a total sucker for Christmas. He tried to hide it, but Christmas was always special to him.

We lived in the city of Bridgeport, Connecticut, when I was very young. It seemed like each corner sported a guy selling cut Christmas trees that had been brought in from more rural areas. Mostly, the guy selling them was the same guy who cut them and who owned the land they grew on. Dad had been seeing these same men every year for a decade.

As kids, we all knew that when they started appearing in the neighborhood, it meant that Christmas really was coming.

But whenever these guys would see Dad, they would purse their lips, remembering last year. And the year before. They didn’t remember Dad in a fond way. Still, Dad would greet each one of them with his incredible smile. His eyes would dance.

“Hey, Charlie,” Dad would say, “How’ve you been?” He’d say, shaking his hand.

“Fine Fred,” Charlie (or Joe, or Mac) would respond, as Dad would visit each of them. They’d chat for a minute and then Charlie would go into his sales pitch: “Got some nice trees here, this year. Wouldn’t that pretty daughter of yours like this big one? It would be hard to find an angel to put on top prettier than you are,” Charlie would say.

The pretty daughter Charlie (or Joe, or Mac) was talking about was Beth, my eldest sister. Beth was beautiful. Black Irish — dark wavy hair and startling gray/blue eyes.

Beth’d cringe inside and give Charlie or Joe or Mac what looked like a shy half-smile but that was, in fact, a grimace. She would rather have been anywhere else. She knew the routine though, and she played her part every year. Beth was the pretty daughter with the big blue eyes who never spoke; all the Christmas tree salesmen remembered her.

“I wanted to die,” Beth would laugh, recalling her childhood trauma. “Vanish. Dig that hole to the other side of the planet and crawl down to China. Every year he’d take me with him. I always tried to get out of it.” In fact, it became a series of fond memories for Beth. One of the times it was Beth and Dad against the world, or at least against Charlie and Joe and Mac.

They’d walk past the tree sellers for a couple of weeks, looking at the trees, with Beth picking out a beauty and looking hopefully towards Dad.

“No, Sweetie,” Dad would say. “Not yet.”

Beth would accept disappointment gracefully, and they would continue on their way.

On Christmas Eve in the middle of the afternoon, Dad would place his wallet on the table next to the door, take Beth by the hand and say,

“We’re going to get our tree now.”

“It’s about time,” Mom laugh. “Don’t let your Dad spend too much on it,” she’d say to Beth with a knowing wink. They all knew what was going to happen. Dad would just laugh as he and Beth would head to the nearest Christmas tree stand. Charlie’s.

“Merry Christmas, Charlie,” Dad would say with a smile, reaching out to shake Charlie’s hand. “Christmas just snuck up on me. How did it get to be Christmas Eve so fast?”

Charlie would frown and shake his head. He knew what was coming.

“I think that Beth and I would like to buy a Christmas tree,” Dad would say as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Which one should we get?”

Beth would look over the trees and pick out the biggest, nicest one.

“Sure thing,” Charlie would say without enthusiasm. “That’ll be $10.” (It was a long time ago!)

“I’ve only got two dollars,” Dad would say.

“That tree costs $10.”

Dad would look at his watch. “It’s 3:30 on Christmas Eve. I’ve got $2.” Then he’d look south down the street towards Joe’s Christmas tree stand.

Beth stood quietly, looking pitiful. Wanting to disappear.

“I’ll give it to you for $5.”

“I’ve got two,” Dad would say, looking north towards Mac’s Christmas tree stand.

Charlie would look at Dad, trying to stare him down. Dad would look right back, with a mischievous look in his eye. He’d hold up two single dollar bills. He’d rub the two together next to his ear. He’d rub them next to Beth’s ear.

After that, it was a staring contest. Beth remained silent, in her role as pitiful prop. Beth was dying of embarrassment and at the same time fascinated by the sport.

Charlie always took the two bucks, knowing that in a few more hours, that tree would be worth nothing.

“Merry Christmas, Charlie!” Dad would say as he and Beth walked away with the best tree. “See ya next year.”

“Merry Christmas, Fred.” Charlie would say, shaking his head and chuckling. “Next year, you’d better bring a fiver!”

I’ve got TWO bucks!

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Filed under Childhood Traumas, Christmas Stories, Dad, Family, Holidays, Humor

Tagged as Bargain Christmas Trees, Dad, Family, Humor

December 12, 2013 · 0:00

It’s the Thought That Counts

Mom was known for her gift giving skills. Yup, my Mom loved to lavish people with gifts. Unfortunately her lifestyle and her taste were anything but lavish, and you could tell.

Plus there was the fact that she really didn’t like to shop.

When the five of us were teenagers and lived at home, Mom gave up on picking out the perfect gift for us. She knew that we wanted cool clothes and that she would never be able to tell the difference between what was cool and what subject us to ridicule. High school is especially hard for kids whose mothers buy the wrong clothes.

But when we all grew up, Mom re-discovered Christmas gift giving.

She would start shopping in September or October, ordering this that and the other thing that she found interesting or fun or different. When she ordered something, she wouldn’t necessarily have someone in mind to receive it; she just liked it. And she just knew that someone else would too.

Generally she was wrong.

You see, in spite of the fact that she developed a new love of gift giving, Mom still hated to shop. So Mom ordered exclusively from the mini-catalogs she found in Parade Magazine.

Google Image

You know how most of the gifts you’ve received over the years recede in your memory? I’m guessing that the gifts from grandparents nearly always fell into that category. My niece and nephews, however, all remember what Grammy gave them. We still talk about them, every single year.

I’m not sure whether the most memorable gifts arrived in 1984 or 1986. It’s a close contest.

In 1984, I spent Christmas at my sister Judy’s house, with Jude and her three kids. There were three contenders for best Mom/Grammy gift that year:

At the age of 12, my nephew Matt got cereal bowls for his gift. Cereal bowls formed out of multicolored plastic cabbage leaves. In addition to the fact that it wasn’t exactly what Matt had been hoping for, there was something weird about the bowls themselves. While each of the 4 or 5 leaves that formed the bowls started wide and formed a perfectly usable bit at the bottom of the bowl, the leaves narrowed as they went up, separating about an inch and a half from the bottom. Therefore whatever started in the bowl didn’t stay inside of it for long.

Matt’s was not at all interesting or artsy. Just messy.
(Google image)

Nate, Matt’s younger brother got another “Grammy Special” that year. Nate was 7 and Mom sent him a package that read: “Twist Ties WITH CUT-TER.” And you know, it was a good thing it was clearly labeled. Because we would still be wondering what the hell that spool of green wire was for, even with the picture of the garroted tomato plant on the cardboard that the spool of Twist Ties was twist-tied to.

My sister Beth’s two boys, who were then 14 and 16, got the same presents. And they loved them just as much.

That same year Judy and I found two identical small packages from Mom. One for Judy and one for me.

“Good things come in small packages,” Judy said mischievously. “Let’s save them for last.”

Of course we did just that. But Judy was faster than I and got the wrapping off hers first. It was a little green plastic box that said “Judy” “Judy” “Judy” all over it. Inside was a pair of gold earrings in the shape of the letter “J.”

I unwrapped mine. It said “Elaine” “Elaine” “Elaine” all over the box. Inside were gold earrings in the shape of an “E.”

Yup. I still have them!

“Ummm, Mom?” I said to her later on the phone, “You forgot my name.”

“No I didn’t,” Mom said with a chuckle.

“Yes you did. You gave me Elaine’s earrings. My name’s Elyse. And you forgot it. My own mother forgot my name.”

“I DID NOT,” she responded, “But you know, they did have boxes at the store with just a plain old “E” on them, but I didn’t want to get that. It just seemed so boring!”

Mom was never boring when it came to gift giving.

Another memorable year for Mom gifts was 1986. You might recall that 1986 was the 100^th Anniversary of the year in which the French had given the United States the Statue of Liberty. It was also the year John and I got married. So Mom decided to celebrate all kinds of events with one special gift for her new son-in-law to welcome him to the family with the perfect gift for the new man in the family.

Mom gave my new husband John a “Statue of Liberty Commemorative Switchblade. A knife. One with a locking blade, so that if/when he stabbed something, the blade would lock in place. What better gift to give to a new family member?

“Is John supposed to use this on me, Mom?” I asked. She didn’t think I was funny.

Image from Ebay, because after all who wouldn't want one of these?

Image from Ebay
You know you want one

A Statue of Liberty 100th Anniversary

Commemorative Switchblade

* * *

In the years since Mom’s been gone, various family members (OK, just me) have tried to capture the spirit of the incredibly bizarre gifts Mom gave. But sometimes, mere mortals have to just accept that they can’t possibly compete.