Dreaming of Havel

Today Vaclav Havel died.

It's strange, isn't it, to feel bereft when a stranger has died? I never met Havel; I know very little about his personal life, his likes and dislikes, his quirks and complaints, what he loved and what he loathed on a quotidien level. But I do know what he loved and what he loathed in the cosmic sense. I know about his decades of resistance under the communist regime in Czechoslovakia; I know his published work; I know his political career and his commitment to individual freedom; most of all, I know that when it mattered, this ironic, Frank Zappa-loving playwright did the right thing. Again and again and again.

So, I won't apologize for the fact that I, now and again, have erotic dreams about Vaclav Havel. He was one extraordinarily sexy guy. I imagine he'll keep appearing in my dreams. Damn, I hope so.

Christmas cards

So here's my recipe for a perfect Christmas card writing evening:
Mix together til nicely blended:
1 husband out with buddy to basketball game,
1 16-year-old out doing whatever he does that I'm sure is perfectly legal and safe and will look great on his college applications,
1 bowl of lentil soup on the boil,
1 bottle of white wine nicely chilled,
1 really bad but in a good way movie on tv (in this case "What a Girl Wants" with Colin Firth).
Add
a heaping spoonful of My Grades Are In and I'm ignoring everything else that's way overdue.
Sprinkle in lots of Good Golly It's the Weekend
and
Thank You God It's Finally Gotten Cold Outside, to taste.
Pour into Really Cute but in an Ironic Way Winnie the Pooh Christmas Cards.
Garnish with one totally amazing family Christmas newsletter.
Really.

Tho' it's best not to drink the whole bottle of wine. The addresses get a tad sloppy; the messages rather more so. Just sayin'.

Nativity Sets

I am sick. Massive quantities of phlegm sliding down the back of my throat, a downright impressive chesty cough, a sore throat, an ear ache. . . yeah, the whole shebang except, dammit, no fever. And without a fever, one is not truly sick and one cannot really take time off without feeling that one is a total slacker. So one pretends to work while feeling really shitty and put-upon.

Rather than continuing to whine in this annoying way, I will, instead, turn y'all over to another blogger, who has posted the 27 Worst Nativity Sets of All Time. These are truly wonderful. Enjoy and be blessed:
http://whyismarko.com/2011/27-worst-nativity-sets-the-annual-growing-list/

Road Trip

I have survived 14 1/2 continuous hours  in an aged Honda Civic with my 16-year-old son. Sounds like a reality show, but no, no show, just reality. The secrets to my survival? A constant stream of junk food, an iPad, and headphones. For him, that is, not for me: Numb the hulk with electronic stimuli, stopper his mouth with copious quantities of saturated fat and an alarming abundance of sodium, and all  is well.

I used to aspire to be a Good Mom. Now I just hope to make it through til morning.

Mold Removal

Thanksgiving Eve Day. A beautiful cold Chicago morning, with a pale blue cloudless sky. I love cold. I love trees stripped of leaves and lawns turning brown and flower beds dug up and hunkered down, waiting for snow. I love chunky sweaters and thick socks and lined boots and puffy ski jackets.

It was 80 degrees in Baton Rouge when we drove away. I should never come north during the winter. Denied long enough, my winter soul ices over, settles down in a hard lump, kicked into a forgotten corner of Me. But back up here, that lump expands and explodes; icycles sliver through and shred all the bits of southernness that stick and cling, like mold, building up over time and distorting the shape of Me.

It hurts.

And what's the use of getting Me all clear and uncovered, when we're heading back south on Sunday? Easier and less painful to stay moldy.

Vibrators et. al.

I like to think, despite having hit the Big 50, that I'm not totally out of it. But maybe I'm deluded. I subscribe to fab.com: daily email alerts to specials on groovy independent design items. Mostly funky kitchen stuff, tee shirts, jewelry, furnishings. But yesterday's selection included a firm specializing in beautiful vibrators. Okey dokey. No problem. Except there was this vibrator that I just did not get. Meaning, no, I didn't buy it, but also, I just didn't understand it. It was shaped like the profile of a hand flashing the peace sign. So, umm, two fingers. . . I dunno. . . I"m so confused.

Vibrators in general confuse me. Does that make me a Bad Person? A Failed Sexual Being? Uptight? Clueless? See, a mechanical thing is, well, mechanical. Uniform. Constant. These qualities do not seem to me to be the best suited for physical pleasure. Maybe I'm weird, but the thing is. . . . I vary. Sometimes a slow gentle touch, sometimes a vigorous  approach .  . . the days change, the moods change, the needs change. So . . . a responsive human finger seems much more efficient.

All of which has gotten me to thinking about masturbation. Would I be a different person had my mother not assured me that masturbation was sinful and that God frowned on it? If I hadn't sat in church and when Rev. Witte said that on Judgment Day all our secret sins would exposed--like a movie running in front of the world--I just died inside, thinking of me and my pillow, on this giant global screen?

I was determined not to do that to my kids. When Owen was little, he liked to wear these colored long underwear sets that I got from some organic kids catalog (when you called to place an order, there'd be all these babies crying and half the time the woman taking the info--yes, yes, this was Way Back Then Before Online Shopping--would say, "oh wait a sec, have to switch to the other breast;" it was a Very organic baby catalog company). Owen liked these sets because they were soft and comfy, no itchy seams or tags, and he could pull them on himself and, best of all, he could be Robin Hood in green, the Red Power Ranger in red, a Ninja in black, etc etc etc.

All of which was fine and fairly cheap and Owen was adorable; the only problem was that the long underwear did allow him very easy access to Down There. And goodness, he enjoyed getting to know Down There. So I developed this mantra: "That is a Bed and Bathroom Activity." See? No judgment, but also doing my job to socialize my kid: Look, baby, you can't be doing this in public.

And on the whole, it worked. Owen's all grown up and he does not pleasure himself in public. But there was this one day . . . my then 16-year-old niece Anne was living with us for the summer and serving as our summertime nanny. She had taken Owen to the video store (remember those? before Netflix? you'd wander around and around and around, and there's be all these movies, and you couldn't find anything you hadn't seen or he hadn't seen or that you both wanted to see?). There they were, little Owen, teenaged Anne,  in line. Anne looks up and the two guys about Anne's age at the cash register are giggling and snorting. Nothing too unusual in that, but then one of the boys looks right at Owen and say, "Go for it, man!" Anne looks down and there's Owen with his hands in his pants. Without missing a beat, she says in a loud, firm, loving voice, "Owen, that is a Bed and Bathroom Activity!" At which point the boys behind the counter practically pass out with laughter and Anne turns brilliant red and wonders how many different ways she can make me suffer.

Big Foot

I read once that the only two body parts that keep growing throughout one's entire life (apart from parts that grow due to weight gain, that is) are the nose and the feet. Could this be true? Surely not. Wouldn't all old people have humongous noses and gargantuan feet? And yet. . . I swear my nose is expanding at an exponential rate. And my feet. . . well, I used to be a 6 1/2 or a 7, depending on the style and brand. Then I moved into a 7 1/2. OK, I thought, sizes shift. I mean, I used to be a 6  in clothes but now I'm a 4, even tho' I'm almost 20 pounds heavier, so umm, maybe shoe sizes went the opposite direction. Could be. It's possible. But yesterday $500 worth of Zappo's boots arrived at my door. How I love Zappo's. You go click click click on your laptop, and a couple of days later, there it is, this enormous box filled with gorgeous boots. Except in this case, the box bore a bounty of absolutely gorgeous boots sized 7 1/2  that are all too damned small.

Maybe sizes shifted downward again.

Or maybe I'm suffering from some sort of menopausal or seasonal foot swelling disorder thing.

Or maybe it really is true. One's feet do keep growing. One will soon have to walk like a clown, flipping and flopping in one's boat-like feet.

Better order a bunch of size 8 boots and enjoy normal (ish)-sized feet while I can.