cherie’s remix

Tom and I got married on New Year’s Eve in my mom’s living room in the middle of a crazy ass blizzard in 1978.

I don’t remember ever wanting a big, fancy wedding.  In fact, I don’t remember wanting a wedding at all.  I’m even a little fuzzy on whether or not I wanted to be married.  What I do remember is being tired of the up and down roller coaster of break ups and make ups with assorted boyfriends.  Sighing deeply on Monday mornings and Friday afternoons and thinking how nice it would be to be done with the whole “looking for The One” thing.

After just 2 weeks of dating Tom…I flashed on the thought that if I ever got married, it wouldn’t be totally horrible to be married to him.  It was a completely novel thought and about as close to believing in Happily Ever After as I’d ever felt.    

I’ve been accused of a lot of things in my life, but being a romantic isn’t one of them.  In fact, cynical and jaded were the words my girlfriends used most often to describe me when it came to my love life.  So, this new idea of marriage as not completely horrible may sound like a pretty pathetic set of expectations, but it was, in fact, WAY over-the-top-romantic for me. 

I was totally crazy about Tom in a way that, maybe for the first time in my life, wasn’t just totally crazy.  I saw things in him that mattered in personalities and partnerships…like the fact that he cared about people…especially babies and old ladies and dogs (dogs are people to Tom).  He was polite to waitresses.  Really, truly loved his kids and his momma.  Wanted to hear what I had to say about stuff.  Waited for me to walk through doors before him…and actually held them open long enough to get through.  Helped me on with my coat.  Didn’t try to jokey pull my chair out at the table so I would fall flat on my rear on the floor. Had a steady job and a station wagon.  All the marks of a potentially good husband.

So, when he called me one Sunday afternoon from the Atlanta airport and asked if I would marry him, I really meant it when I said I would think about it.

Mom did all the wedding and reception planning and execution.  Her bff, Betty, came over and helped her decorate the house. I’m pretty sure she even cooked the brisket and ham.  I let her do whatever she wanted since I was living in South Carolina and not giving it much thought beyond something I had to get through before we could PARTY.  The only thing Mom and I disagreed on was who was going to perform the ceremony.  I wanted a civil ceremony with a justice of the peace (I was still flapping my Agnostic Me crap)…but Momma wanted a Baptist preacher to make it legit.

Tom and I had one pre-marital meeting with him…Rev. Somebody Something (can’t remember) from the Red Bridge Baptist Church.  At the end of the meeting (I seem to remember giggling a lot and trying to climb on Tom’s lap a couple of times), the Rev. sort of sighed and said he figured we’d probably do ok.  He’d seen worse. 

My wedding dress was a very dark hunter green.  A designer original with a Peter Pan collar and filmy sleeves.  Street length with disco slits on each side of the skirt.  I bought it because it actually fit me in a size 7.  It looks pretty much black in all the pictures.   Tom wore his one and only suit.  The one he bought for his interview when he got his job at 3M.  It was also dark green and had a matching vest.  Three piece suits were very big back then.

I’m not sure who took our wedding pictures, but we ended up with some nice 8 x 10’s.  Maybe Momma did that, too.  I wouldn’t doubt it.  Tom and I both looked very, very good.  He had hair and I was skinny…as he likes to remind anyone and everyone who might believe it.

The only thing I cared about in the wedding planning department was the wedding reception aka a big rockin’ New Year’s Eve Party.  And since my mom and stepdad were the house party pros of their generation, getting married on New Year’s Eve made perfect sense to all of us.  Tom and I would get married…whatever…and then we’d have this great big party. Mom and Dad had pretty much perfected the art of the basement house party.  It was the stuff of legend on 113^th St.

To Be Continued…

I love this YouTube, so I’m posting it today as I finally have time to take 2 breaths in a row and think about what this holiday really means.  It does get a little strange at the end, but the first part is so compelling, just wanted to pass it along.

“The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel – which means, ‘God with us.’”

God is with us.

I’ll be taking a few days off for Christmas.

 Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

So…yesterday, I finally undid the Bad Mojo that has been following me ever since the deal with Evelyn, (<- click hyperlink) of Kmart Customer Service fame.  I called Kmart – even though I knew it was going to one big, fat, stinking ordeal to get it all straightened out – to tell them I had $15 of theirs.

It has been a heckuva two weeks. 

First, losing my purse…$$$$, MasterCard, driver’s license, 2 cough drops, my favorite hand-me-down lip gloss.  Not to mention a cute little black clutch I overspent on. (ignore that preposition)

Then, a practically new pair of gloves that match my red coat. 

Then, my favorite cheap Bic fine-point pen which, honest to God, disappeared right in front of my eyes in the bedroom linen department at Kohl’s. 

Then, I almost lost my brand new $9 hat at Barnes and Noble.  I had to retrace my steps all over the store until I finally found it stuffed into the stacks in the WWII section. 

Not to mention the fact that I’m a fugitive now, driving without a driver’s license. 

And have been crabbing majorly every time I have to use a stinking debit card instead of getting flyer miles on my MasterCard…and the fact that the replacement finally arrived 2 days LATER than promised.  Which, again…unheard of in the world of Christmas shopping and credit cards.

Then, I’m on the phone and happen to see Kitty outside bouncing around in the snow behind the house.  Kitty never goes out unless I say so.  And I had NOT given Kitty permission to do anything physical outdoors that day.  I’m barefoot and still in my nightgown and Tom’s robe (I dress for the job I want), so I’m yelling for Tom to come get Kitty. 

“Huh?”

“Come get Kitty!”

“Huh?”

“Come get Kitty!!”

“What??”

“Kitty is outside!!!”  (distorted demon voice)

He comes out of his office, wild-eyed and jangled.  (Kitty’s a runner…you gotta get to her fast or it’s at least an hour of running house to house playing Kittycat Hide and Seek all over the neighborhood. Though, I’m thinking now that she’ll probably be a lot easier to track in the snow.)

He fumbles around and finds his shoes, starts to sit on the couch to put them on and almost drops down right on top of Kitty.

Thanks to Evelyn, Kitty now has a doppelganger.

I find Kmart’s phone number (after resisting the urge to send an anonymous email from a temporary email address) and call.  Leave a message via a perky assistant manager for the business office that I have a problem with a refund on an internet purchase returned to the store.  Get a call back the next day.  Very nice.  Very polite.  She’s sorry, but it’s just so complicated in so many ways to try to change a refund from an internet purchase. But thanks for calling and just consider that $15 a Merry Christmas from Kmart.

Very funny, God.  You crack me up.

dttf, g

The other day I was reading up on entropy on the Internet.  You have to be careful with online info, of course, because people can write that entropy is monkey lipstick and 10,000 people pick it up and put it on their websites and the next thing you know, it’s in Wikipedia.  Or used in a quote by Abraham Lincoln.

Anyway.  

In case you’ve forgotten your high school science class, entropy is an actual law of physics and everything…Number 2, to be exact.  To put it simply, entropy means that an organized system will decay into disorganization (lose energy and structure) if energy (which has to do with the First Law of Physics) is not continuously applied. 

(Though, apparently the law of entropy is being re-written, or at least amended, to make room for evolution theory, which assumes that matter and energy are getting more organized all the time.  FYI.  Rewriting physics to support a theory.  Knew you wanted to know that.)

Entropy sort of rests on the assumption that matter and energy got organized a long time ago and is now falling apart (Big Bang…expanding universe).  Winding down. Slowly losing energy and organization. 

Let there be light…and there was light.

This is important information…in case you’re thinking Not So Much. 

Well, actually, not so much important if you’re trying to use it to prove the existence of God.  Which smarter people than you and me have tried to do.  It’s actually much more important than that.  It finally explains why I have started (and continue) to lag in the organization department.  It’s a freaking physical law of the universe!  It’s all making sense.  I’m running down. 

I have Entropy.  (Don’t be surprised when you see commercials for medications to treat Acute Entropy Disorder.  You can thank me later.)

Finally.  It has a name.

You know what?  Here’s something else about me you may not know or care about.  I love, Love, LOVE 17^th and 18^th century British literature.  I got totally hooked on it because one of the underlying assumptions (by the writers of that time) is that creation came about when God brought order out of chaos. 

There was chaos – the dark and void – and then God reconfigured matter and energy into Creation.  Which is actually very scriptural, if you know Hebrew.  According to old Brit writers, we are most like God when we are creatively separating things into organized patterns.  Which is also one definition of art.

17^th century writers and artists were all about putting things in their proper place. 

I am totally on board with that (in theory).  But…it’s an ideal I support a lot more when I’m feeling more organized and/or artistic.

Apparently, according to the Laws of Physics, we have to apply energy in order to keep things organized.  My problem, it seems, is that I’ve been using all my energy to blog and work out and search the internet for the perfect cheap bar stool and the meaning of entropy and fast forwarding through the commercials on Top Chef.

No wonder I’m cranking out so much cosmic clutter. 

Baby, it’s cold outside.

Still -2º as I write this with -28 wind chill.  High temp supposed to be 3º. Winter snow watch for tomorrow.  4 – 8” of snow.   

Ow.  Ouch.  Ouweeee!!!!!!!

I’ve turned into that old lady who wears long underwear under her jeans.  So far no elastic waist, though.  Thank God for that.  But I am shopping online for a fleece camisole.

I have to head downtown for a doc appt in this crappy cold.  Been having problems with numbness in one of my feet.  Had an MRI that showed slightly bulging discs and arthritis in my back.  Nice.

Then, last Thursday, in a procedure that could have been ripped from the pages of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, a neurological test called an EMG that involved electric shock and needles and me.  The test would have been fine if somebody (anybody) would have taken my advice and have left ME out of it.

Today, I find out the results.  I’d be fine with a fax.

Unless, of course, running through parking lots in bone-chilling, life-threatening cold cures foot numbness.  

Being a mom is one thing I didn’t imagine for myself as a girl growing up.  Never had the “ah…isn’t that a cute baby?” thing.  I had the “whoa…that is one ugly little kid!”  thing.  Babies looked like weird, miniature space aliens to me.  Interesting in a looking-at-a-bug-under-a-microscope way, but that was about it.  I’d never had a decent conversation with one.  They didn’t seem to have much of interest to contribute.  In fact, what they DID contribute, was the exact opposite of interesting.

It’s spring of 1980.  We’ve been married a little over a year.  Tom has come to pick me up from work to take me to lunch.  Out of nowhere, he asks to see my birth control pills.  I pull them out of my purse and innocently hand them over.  He puts them in his pocket. 

I’m confused.  “What’s going on?”

“We want a baby.”  he answers.

“A bay-bee?  What’s a bay-bee?”

“No.  Not a bay-bee.  A baby.  You know.”

I’m staring at him.  Trying to connect the word to an image.

“A baby. Baby.  BABY!  They cry.  They wet.  They eat from a bottle.  You burp them.  Change their diapers.” 

“We want one of those?” I ask.

“Yeah. (long pause) I think we’re ready.”  He’s frowning now, staring at nothing over my left shoulder.  I see him sneaky slip his hand into his pocket, obviously thinking about giving my pills back.  Decides against it.

Fast forward a year or so. 

I know now what a baby is in theory, because I’m pregnant.  I’ve read a lot of books on babies and child rearing.  I’ve made notes and highlighted the “important” parts.  Taken Lamaze classes.  Contacted La Leche League.   I’m serene with all the infomation tucked into my head and my little bundle of joy all wrapped up in my tummy.  No noise.  No mess.  No problem.

The act of childbirth itself is an unexpected and highly unpleasant disruption from my nice little stopover in 3rd-trimester endorphin-induced Nirvana.  I found it impossible to “relax through my contractions” like I promised I would at Lamaze class, even though Tom and I did all our hee hee and cleansing breath homework.

Toward the end, as I’m gasping and spitting and hyperventilating, Tom tells me to “get a-hold” of myself.  Which doesn’t set well with a woman in transition labor without drugs.  So, I yell at him to GET OVER HERE! so I can to get a-hold of the offending member that got me into this mess in the first place.

A couple more hours of grunting and pushing:  Ta Da!  It’s a 9 pound 2 ounce girl!  As the nurse lays her in my arms, I look down and say “Holy Crap.  I just gave birth to the Incredible Hulk.” 

Not gorgeous outda gate.  But…pretty hard to come outta that place looking like Missy America.  Not to mention all those “My, my, my…what an ugly baby!” comments I’d made over the years that were bound to come back and bite me.  Lucky for Kate (and Caleb), ugly babies usually make pretty kids.

Anyway.

What happened after that was nothing short of a miracle.  

I became a mom. 

Full-blown.  Fierce.  Over the top.  Obsessed.  Mama lion.  

I seriously didn’t know myself anymore.  I’d finally found someone more fascinating than me.  And I was interested in every detail.  Toes.  Fingers.  Pointy head. That icky belly button thingy.  Getting the right kind of diapers.  The right pacifier.  The right college.  Fretting and kvetching.  Swinging between cockiness and terror.  I tried to plan my work and work my plan.

I soon found out.  There is no plan.  Only work.

Caleb was a lot easier.  By that time, I didn’t have enough energy left to sustain such high levels of performance anxiety 24/7.  Kate got new foods introduced one tablespoon at a time per day, with charts and graphs to make sure she had no food allergies.  Caleb got spaghetti in the blender at 4 months.  I laughed a lot more with him.  Didn’t take things so seriously, since Kate had survived my late-blooming maternal instinct.  I figured this one would probably make it too.

There was nothing easy about it.  Nothing I would change either.  Well…except maybe drugs.  I would have found a nice ob-gyn who would have been liberal with the drugs when I was grunting out 9 and 10 pound babies. 

Here’s some funny momma humor a friend sent me…

I think she looks like me…BEFORE I had kids.

Hard time writing this morning.  Three hours in and nothing; and I mean nuthin’.

Woke up at 4:44; made coffee.  Farted around in the kitchen. Read a little more about crazy Illinois politics.  Played with the cat. And now here I am, trying to think of something…anything…to write today.

Nothing.

Enough of this.

Peace out, my sistahs.  (and bruthah)

Pretty scattered this morning. 

I overslept.  Forgot to set the alarm on my clock after a couple of power outages yesterday.  I reset the actual time, just forgot the alarm time, so it had reset itself for 12:00.   I’m used to waking up in dark.  Imagine my delight to see the sunny when I opened my eyes.

7:30!  Woo Hoo!

Today is get (a little more) organized, clean some stuff, shovel and de-ice, decorate, and test-a-recipe day. 

Paper clutter is OUT OF CONTROL.

Stacks on the buffet in the dining room where I don’t have to see it (much).  But it gives me attitude (and a couple of snotty cat calls) every time I walk through to open or close the blinds.

Flylady says get rid of 27 pieces of paper a day until the clutter is gone.  I’d forgotten that.  It’s very helpful.  Because once the pile weighs more than I do, it’s past daunting to tackle. 

Coupons are killing me. 

I never had this problem in Lowden.  I didn’t bother to keep coupons because I knew by the time I went to town, they would all have expired.

Here in the Big City, it’s a different matter.  Bed, Bath and Beyond.  Michael’s.  Younkers.  Penneys. Gordmans.  Kohls.  HyVee.  Fareway.  Dahls.  All a mere 10 minutes away. 

Not that I ever actually use coupons. I can  almost never find them when I want them.  Or if I do manage that, there’s always a nice, neat stack sitting primly on the kitchen counter when I get home.  Because getting them into my purse at the same time I’m actually going shopping is on my list of 100 things I want to accomplish before I die.

Restaurant two-fers seem almost immoral to throw away before they’ve expired.  I know I might have to spend money to save money, it’s still very seductive to fantasize about getting a free restaruant meal if I can trick find someone to buy one.   And even though I have a big drawer specifically for this stack that dates back to when we first moved here, they still show up in random places all over the house…bathrooms, linen closets, utility drawers, shoved down between the cushions in the couch.  Must be an old lady thing. 

Scary.

When I was young…Christmas was an extravaganza.  Momma, who scrimped all year, pulled out all the stops at Christmas.  It was a production that would make Cecil B. DeMille weep with envy.  Beautiful, over-the-top tree.  Gifts spilling out into the living room.  Delicious smells. Fudge.  Pumpkin bread. Peanut brittle. And one crazy year (when my step-dad helped with the candy making)…bourbon balls.

Maybe it was because she was dirt poor growing up; and that she had always wanted that magic Christmas she read about in books.  Momma loved Christmas.  She loved Christmas BIG.

We were poor too.  It wasn’t so noticeable back then, I think.  There wasn’t the crazy excess that you see now in children with their own cell phones and i-Pods and entertainment centers in their bedrooms.  There were a few rich kids in my class at school, but most of us were in the same lower middle class.  Dad worked (most of the time) and Mom made do with what was provided.  We ate a lot of hamburger casserole.  Took our own snacks when we went to the drive in…which wasn’t that often.  Most of the time, I didn’t ask for much because there wasn’t anything left over after the bills were paid and the food bought.

Christmas was different.  You could ask for ANYTHING for Christmas.  I don’t know how Momma did it – this was before the days of revolving credit and ATM’s –  but Momma spoiled us rotten on Christmas.

I remember one year when I had made an extraordinarily long (and detailed) list, she said, “This costs too much money!”  I said, “But it’s free!  It’s from Santa Claus!”  Mom said, “Well, Santa has to pay for it too.” 

Huh?  I thought, Who’s she trying to kid?

Late the next fall, on the advice of my 3^rd grade classmates, I asked Momma if there really, truly was a Santa Claus.  She told me matter-of-factly that, no, there was no Santa.  That she was…and always had been…Santa Claus.

What?  No free ride?  I was devastated. 

Christmas was over.  It took years to recover and realize that it’s also fun to give something for Christmas. 

Even in the lean years of raising the kids, I felt this irresistible urge to have the same kind of Christmas.  I overspent, overcooked, and overdid.  And loved (almost) every minute.

Fast forward to now.

The kids are (mostly) grown.  Making their way.  Learning how easy it is to spend money on what we want, sometimes forgetting that there are still things we need. 

Most of us know that place.

Caleb needs a winter coat.  I remind him every time I see his ratty old one.  He wants a Christmas stocking, which is usually the only thing he asks for.

Kate needs “a good, handheld can opener (not that cuts the tops off from the sides so you can’t squeeze the juice out of your mushrooms!)” 

Kris needs a new St. Louis Cardinal bobble head.

Tom needs a snowblower.  I decided that for him yesterday after spending 2 ½ hours chipping away at the 1” thick ice that covered most of driveway; caused from pulling the cars in and out of the garage over un-shoveled snow.  Nothing too big or heavy or unwieldy, since it’s mostly going to be me using it.

I need barstools.  And a dinette table and chairs.  Oh, and a matching bedroom set (before I die).  Which NO ONE can pick out for me or afford to (including me), so I’ll be happy with Mom coming to visit for Christmas, which is the best present ever.

Last Sunday, I joined Kate and Kris and a few of their friends at their church, Valley Church in West Des Moines for a kind of pre-Christmas music service.  Really fun.  Jazzy combos and a woman’s trio that made me cry.  A couple of guys from the church put together this video called Christmas List, Yo:

Cracks me up.