A Christmas Mosaic

So many things. None of them particularly well written nor stylish, but I show up anyway. I fully expect this post to veer between obtuse, informative, choppiness, and borderline angsty-random. Just so you know. (Also I’ve never explained my inner self as well as with those four-to-five adjectives.) Plus, I feel the need to just unload. In public I guess, which brings me to…

First things first. More and more people I *know* are reading this blog, which is…weird and embarrassing and cool and not. Because you know how you walk down the street? And you feel confident the people you pass don’t know what’s going on inside? That maybe no one will ever know? And you keep that unknowable part like a secret and a wish and a lament? You don’t have that when you write for public consumption. That is my choice, but still. A few weeks ago Booger’s preschool teacher called to set up a play date and greeted me with “Hi San Diego Momma!” Which led to my robust “Wha-?” Which led to the explanation that apparently Yahoo! lists your entire online social media presence every time you send an email (a feature that can be turned off, thankfully). After my shock de-registered, I found myself apologizing. Booger goes to a presbyterian preschool and her teacher is a godly woman. So I told the teacher: “But I swear! I’m impure! I listen to rock music!” And her reply? “God loves a sense of humor.” Which brings me to…

The progressive dinner my neighbors and I planned a few weeks ago. Let me just say that whoever thought up the progressive dinner idea is either a marathon runner or a dumbass. Why does one want to get all settled into a house with red pepper pesto tartlets and a nice glass of Cab and an hour later be told you have to leave? To go somewhere else? And then right when you’ve hit your stride with genteel conversation and a peppermint martini, be told you have to leave? Again. And so you walk from house to house to house. Appetizers at one place, dinner at another, and dessert at a third home. Can’t we all just park it? Those tartlets were good. And now I may never see them again.

And just so you know, despite my whiny whirlings that I can’t cook, my roast beef tenderloin turned out fabulous. I have to give you the recipe. There was carmelization and rubbing and stuffing and rolling. By the time I finished swiping my hands all about that meat, I found I couldn’t eat it. It’s like we were connected by a thick strand of psychic sinew. So the tasted fabulous part? All hearsay. Still, I think you want this recipe.

The day after the party, I couldn’t move. There was sniffling and weakness and general malaise. So I stayed in bed for two whole days, occasionally calling down to The Rock, “Can you bring me some mac ‘n cheese? A bite of toast? Twenty-five gourmet chocolates? In one fell, dramatic swoop, I abandoned all healthy eating at the door of Sick and Tired. And I haven’t turned around since. I don’t usually do New Year’s resolutions, but this time, I’ve got a running list topped most prominently by “No more hydrogenated things.” And also “Can we stop with the wine already?” Which brings me to…

On the second day of bedriddenness, I received an email from my dad that he was going to the hospital that very day for a colonoscopy. The tone of his message was nervous and melancholy. And see, my dad is my flight attendant. If he sounds nervous, there’s something to be nervous about. So I rolled out of that sick, chocolate-flecked bed, packed up the kids, and drove right up to Los Angeles. Turned out my dad was alright — four polyps — but I feel sure he was glad we were there. Also, I made pot roast. Meat is the ultimate healer! Two days later, I trucked it back to San Diego in an epic six-hour drive during which I saw Jesus. Or maybe it was the devil dressed in a Jesus costume. I don’t know. I was having fugues. Because that drive sucked bigtime shit turds. Which leads me to…

Don’t take shit for granted. Because yesterday I woke up not so much in the Christmas spirit. The house was messy, the lights were bright, the music was getting old. Pine needles littered the floor and so did plastic do-hickeys. I missed Chicago snow and money to buy things. I lost sight of the fact that you have a family you love, dammit, so ball up. And then at about 5PM, after several hours of preparing and cooking Christmas dinner, and after finally sitting down to taste the fruits of her labors, my mother-in-law said, “I feel dizzy.” And when I looked at her face I could tell this wasn’t just an “I feel dizzy” so I got her some water and after more of us gathered around her chair, she grew increasingly confused and incoherent and then passed out. The Rock called 911 and the paramedics took her to the hospital, and fortunately, it appears the episode was just that — an episode — not a stroke or a heart attack or any of the other things that can strike the people you love when you least expect it, so don’t take shit for granted. At which point, I come to…

The Rock bought me a Snuggie for Christmas.

P.S. Here is the recipe!