Category Archives: Holidays

Mar31

The Easter Spider

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The Easter Spider

I’m pretty blind, even with my glasses on.  I keep meaning to go get an eye exam done so my prescription can be updated, but I’ve managed to put that off for the last 3 years or so.  *shrugs*

That’s why this morning, I thought Pickle was playing with (i.e., getting ready to eat) a moth.  She’s really taken to catching insects like moths and flies.  It’s a little gross, but much better than catching things like squirrels and birds, so I try not to judge.

I casually said to my husband, who was much closer to her, “That’s a pretty big moth Pickle’s got cornered.”  My sweet husband looked over from his recliner, raised his eyebrows, and calmly said, “That’s not a big moth,  it’s a big spider.”

He might as well have said, “Honey, there’s an axe murderer at the door”  because adrenaline launched me off the couch like an Olympian.

I am an arachnophobe.  No matter how much I try to “live and let live”, spiders are my exception.  Yes, I know they’re beneficial, and they mean no harm, yada yada nature, yada yada ecosystem, yada yada whatever.  I don’t care.  They creep me out.

So, I’m moving towards the object of Pickle’s interest while yelling “Kill it, kill it, kill it, kill it”…..I’m not sure if I was talking to Pickle or my husband, but I wanted that spider dead.

They’re quick, those spiders.  Its dash to the baseboard and behind the sofa table (which had my SHOES tucked underneath it) made for great escape.  Pickle finally lost interest and went off to find something else to play with, and my husband shrugged his shoulders and returned to his recliner.

You’d think that a man who’s lived with me for nearly 15 years would instinctively know that there is no returning to a recliner when there is a big friggin’ spider AT LARGE IN THE LIVING ROOM!   Though I’m wondering what exactly he thought “for better or worse” implied if not for insect duties, it’s Easter Sunday, we’re expecting 15 people within an hour, and I’m going to have to be a spider hunter.

20 minutes later I see hairy spider legs and alert my husband by running in place, flapping my arms, and saying “Oooooohh ewwwww ewwww ewwww  yuuuuuuuggggg!” which every husband understands to mean “I found the spider.”

Husband joins me and “oohs and aaahs” over the spider’s impressive size.  Honestly, this man is just missing the mark on appropriate responses today.  He takes a photo, then goes off to find something with which to TRANSPORT the spider out of doors, rather than kill it.  Again, I’m alone guarding the prisoner.

This is the payback I deserve for torturing one of my best friends, a fellow arachnophobe, with photos of spiders.  Though I can empathize with his irrational fears, I’m unaffected by visual images so it’s amusing for me to terrorize him with pictures on his Facebook page or in his email.

Karma gets ya for doing things like that.  I’m staring at my comeuppance.  Happy Easter to me.  Easter SpideyOh, and happy Easter to you, Brian.  Here’s a picture.  🙂

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dec18

Well, aren’t you special?

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Well, aren’t you special?

This post is directed specifically to the driver of the 1973 Plymouth Duster that I saw several times this past weekend. (Everyone else is welcome to read it, though, this being a semi-public blog.)

Dear Sir,

I can only imagine how proud you must be of your vehicle.  It’s certainly well maintained, and your impeccable care is evidenced by your choice of “Classic Car” license plate and blinding wax job.  You’ve likely invested much time and money into it.  It’s cool, I get it.

I’d like to comment on your choice to park your vehicle across 3 parking spaces in already crowded parking lots during the last shopping weekend before Christmas.  I’m a pretty calm lady, not prone to tantrums or ugliness at all; yet that parking job that loudly pronounced to all who passed it that YOUR VEHICLE is somehow more valuable than any other in the area made my mild mannered self want to key the whole side of that shiny paint.  Seriously.

What about the single parent who spent 2 years saving money to buy that 2001 Jeep that I saw in the parking lot?  Do you think your car is more important than that one?  More worthy of a parking spot that will protect it against dings and scratches?

Your car is no more special than anyone else’s.  If you want to keep it in its pristine condition, keep it in your garage.  If you want to take it from store to store to store during the 3rd week of December, then park between the lines like everyone else, and (like everyone else) hope no one dings your door, shoves a shopping cart into it, or breaks in to steal the $5.27 worth of change in the console.

You, Sir, are a pompous ass.

p.s., if your car got keyed, it wasn’t me.  While I really did have the urge, I also practice great impulse control.  Besides, I was too busy looking for a parking spot.

 

 

Nov12

Channelling June Cleaver

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Channelling June Cleaver

November 12.

Less than 2 weeks until Thanksgiving, which doubles as the starting gun to the Christmas Season.

I’m a little obsessive over the winter holidays.  My sister once said that she is never “done” preparing for Christmas; she simply admits defeat at some point on Christmas Eve and begins preparing for next year.  I completely relate.

There are 2 reasons that the holiday celebrations are so important to me.   The first is that Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas were the happiest days I remember from my childhood.  A busy kitchen making holiday food, parades and decorations and new dresses, records on the stereo and pictures taken.  They were SPECIAL days.  At least until someone got drunk and started a feud that would rage loud and long, which was as much a holiday tradition as the turkey.  Hey, our family wasn’t perfect, but it was always entertaining.

I want to recreate SPECIAL days for my family; ones that are remembered long after I’m gone.  I want the pictures to bring back memories and stories and laughter.

Like many women of my generation, wonderful holidays are a way to express devotion to my family.  My children haven’t had what you’d call a traditional upbringing.  They didn’t have extended family around; they’ve dealt with divorce; adjusted to relocations; transitioned the family dynamic as step-parents came into the picture.  They have a Mom who would be described as harsh on even her best day, more so now that they’re adults than when they were kids.  I travel a lot, give much of my energy to my job, and am not always there to offer a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen.  The holidays are my way of saying “You’re still the most important thing to me.”

The second reason is that I’m just weird.

So, my Thanksgiving menu has been prepared and tweaked and the grocery list double checked.  My calendar is out.  I’m sketching out schedules for wreath making, and tree trimming, and baking, and hanging the giant Santa picture.  I’m researching Thanksgiving centerpieces and table-scapes.

A real life Norman Rockwell scene?  Not quite.  While I’ve broken the drunken rage traditions, there is no lack of bickering and sniping and hurt feelings at our holiday gatherings.  This year will be no different.  There are already bets being made about whether or not one of my daughters will show up; my son-in-law will be wound tight as a spring and speak less than 10 words throughout the day, a result of a very shaky relationship with “our side” of the family; I will over analyze every word that’s said, resulting in more than one snarky comment.

It’s not perfect, but it’s what we’ve got.  I hope that years from now, the food, the laughter, and hopefully this year’s FABULOUS centerpiece will come up in the “remember when” conversations more than the malfunctions of the day.  I hope they look back and realize that no matter what didn’t get done, what pies got burned, what verbal venom got unleashed over the green bean casserole, that what I was really trying to do was say “You’re still the most important thing, and I love you.”