Mumbling Madly

I was told the best thing about international airlines is their freedom with alcohol. Folks made it sound like there would be champaign fountains and four course meals. My Air France flight began at 2pm on Sunday and ended 9 hours later at 9am, Monday, France time. I was terribly nervous, as I’ve mentioned before, since the longest flight I’d endured to date was a 6 hour return trip from NYC–6 hrs is a long time, but 9? Would 9 be the breaking point? I packed my old college backpack heavy with stuff to entertain me on the off chance I would be twiddling my thumbs and, oh, not sleeping.

I arrived two hours early and it took me only 20 minutes to check my bag and go through security. Wow. I messed around in the Duty Free Store, sampled lip gloss, and admired the new international wing of the airport I’d never been in before. A woman and her adult daughter were doing yoga at the gate; ‘what a good idea,’ I thought to myself. I started doing a few stretches myself until I realized the entire French flight crew were sitting in a corner snickering. Or at least, I think they were…it was hard to tell with their hoity toity French. I noticed how well-coiffed the entire staff was, the women wearing tasteful make-up and their hair in chignons. The announcements about our flight were made in French and then English.

I sat in my little aisle seat for a long time with the hope that maybe no one would sit next to me. Then a short little man showed up with a dog carrier. I peeked inside and saw a shivering little chihuahua. Oh God. Now, I’ll be totally honest: I hate chihuahuas. I don’t think they’re cute, I think they’re disturbing with their buggy little eyes, mean little yaps, and celebrity appeal. I’ve been influenced largely by the nasty pair that bark at me every time I step into my backyard and into my car. What are the odds that I would spend my first international flight next to one? The owner squeezed into the window seat only to realize an odd little black box attached to the bottom of the seat was causing a shortage of leg room. His dog cage wouldn’t fit so he asked if we could trade. Now, most people prefer the window seat, but I really like the aisle for one main reason: easy bathroom access. With a 9 hour flight impending my bladder immediately seized at the thought of tapping this man on the shoulder every time I need to use the can. It didn’t help that when the stewards weren’t looking he pulled his dog out of its cage and sat her on his lap.

The chihuahua’s name was Flavia (Flah-via) and she was a seasoned traveler. She and her owner (I never got his name) were headed to Barcelona. The man had an unplaceable accent, stunk of stale cigarettes, and had unusual scars on his tanned face. “I would never travel with her if she was difficult,” he assured me. “She is wildly obsessed with me, we go everywhere together.” He showed me a little black dog dress with a black and white gingham collar that he had stuffed in the pocket of the airline seat. “How very Audrey Hepburn,” I heard myself saying. I asked a few polite questions and received one piece of valuable information: “In a few hours the sun will disappear and they will put us to sleep. A few hours before our flight lands they will wake us up and serve breakfast. The flight will go fast.”

I was so nervous that I couldn’t take advantage of the free drinks–mimosas, red or white wine, mixed drinks, they had it all. This made up for Air France’s shoddiness: my tray jiggled, our seats were worn, and my cup holder was broken. But there were neat little TV screens embedded in each seat with several movies running on loops, (I watched “Enchanted” and “Juno”). I took Pamela’s advice and knocked back some Advil pm after our meal in the hopes of passing out and waking up when we landed. I had no such luck. Sure, it was more comfortable leaning my head against the side of the plane, but I felt like I was at some sort of bizarre slumber party. All around me people were shifting under their airline blankets, snoring lightly, and wearing the complimentary Air France eye masks. My seat mate’s cigarette breath seemed to waft into my nostrils and rouse me every few minutes. I could hear Flavia shuffling in her owner’s lap, nestled under her special blanket with the dog bones printed on it. At one point she put her snout on my arm and made me jump. All my extra effort to not to touch or smell my neighbor made any real sleep very difficult. After two hours I gave up and rewatched “Enchanted” while the night sky slowly lightened.

I groggily ate my breakfast of yogurt and a baguette (a substantial improvement over the dark meat drowned in butter they served for dinner). I accepted coffee and juice. I even petted Flavia a little bit. We flew through the dark rain clouds of France and when we pushed through I gasped at my first sight of a foreign land. Tiny little cars criss-crossed the highway–and by tiny I mean they were almost all Smart Cars. My mind lapsed back to an NPR special: “Conservatives will do anything to avoid living like Europeans: $7.00 gas, tolls to enter cities, and driving tiny cars.” I sucked in the view, everything French, on the other side of the world, wow! In my excitement I found myself enthusiastically scratching Flavia behind the ears.

I made my way to baggage claim, which was odd and didn’t look like it was suppose to. The bags came out of a hole in the wall and the conveyor belt moved along the wall’s perimeter until disappearing into another hole. Luckily, my bag came right away. I found a pay phone, called Airport Express shuttle’s toll free number, stumbled when the man answered in French. “Hello?” I asked uncertainly. He switched to English immediately, “Go to Exit 8 for the shuttle.” After consulting a map for a long time I found Exit 8. I saw no signs for Airport Express just a lot of people smoking (France’s indoor smoking ban went into effect only in January). Was I in the right place? It was freezing and I was wearing this dorky rain coat I picked up at the Rack for too much money (I’m returning it today). I went back inside. I asked someone at the Security desk, “Parlevous Anglais?” She looked annoyed and said “a little” in French. I said, “Airport Express?” She gave me a blank stare. I pointed at my itinerary. She took my paper and looked it over. I had written Exit 8 on it hastily; she pointed at Exit 8 on the paper and then at the exit. “I know, but it’s not out there,” I struggled to explain. She gestured wildly. “It’s on the other side?” I ventured. She nodded, but I think she just wanted to get rid of me. I tried hard not to lose it. I called from another pay phone. “Go back outside, we’ll get you in five minutes.”

This time, a shuttle pulled up and the driver picked me out immediately from the crowd. My nervous voice on the phone must have matched me physically. I was relieved and slid into the backseat. A well dressed woman in her 40’s said, “Another American? Where are you from?!” I said ‘Seattle’ and she said ‘LA.’ She tried talking to me but I was so tired I just wanted to zone out. A group of loud South Africans joined us in the backseat. “BONJOUR,” they shouted at us before launching into a huge conversation in a language I couldn’t understand; their hands waving around, two women and one man. I’m sure they weren’t all that obnoxious but it felt really jarring in my jet-lagged state.

We hit the highway: cargo trucks and a million Smart Cars lined up for miles as we approached Paris’ rush hour. I recognized the outskirts of the city, the less attractive parts with its huge subsidized housing complexes and exotic French graffiti. The South Africans droned on and on, my stomach doing little flip flops, and the woman from LA kept trying to engage me in conversation (“Do you keep up with politics?” “Hillary or Obama?” “Do you agree the Americans have screwed themselves because of their terrible war?” I wanted to say, “Look lady, you may live in France but you claim you’re an American citizen: it’s your goddam war too.”). We reached the city and a huge round-about introduced me to my first glimpse of French sculpture, elegant pedestrians, and several near accidents in our shuttle.

I had arrived.

More tasty pictures are up on my Flickr page.

While driving to a Travel Store in Wallingford I listened to an NPR special on autism. Felt scared…worried I might have a son and if I do he has a 1 in 70 chance of having autism. Decide I won’t have sons; instead I resign to having hysterical girls I can dress up in cute clothes. Then I feel shallow, so I decide that if I DO have a kid with autism, my teaching experience with children who have had autism will lend itself to the situation. Then I look up to see if a thunderbolt from God will come crashing down on me for having such negative thoughts.

I arrive at the over priced Travel store and buy a money belt–what the hell right? It’s made out of silk. I buy the floor sample so they give me 10% off. Bought a travel pillow that deflates for easy storage. I opt for the larger travel pillow–the one with a picture of a man on the front instead of a woman–with the thought that I should ‘go for it.’ I meander around the store looking at ridiculously commercialized travel products: like a Rick Steve’s hand towel and an overpriced 2 ounce bottle of Travel Hand Sanitizer for 4.99 (I bought the same thing at Rite Aid for 1.50). I start getting nervous so I leave the travel store.

Then I look for shoes in the U District…sneakers, or something that I can walk for hours in, stare at paintings at the Louvre, and wear while hiking to the Eiffel tower. In my mind, I’m looking for green fashion sneakers…preferably New Balance and women’s sized instead of men’s. I find nothing like this. I do find an incredibly cheap pair of Tsubo mary janes that I would normally be all over but they’re not supportive enough for the trip. I’m trying to be really good and not blow tons of money on pre-trip supplies–opting to blow tons of money in euros in Paris instead. I decide against these hideous green and mustard yellow sneakers that are so ugly they’re almost cool. I entertain the idea of black sneakers, but can’t let go of my hope for green ones. I browse through a sporting goods store at regular sneakers that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing with jeans. The Birkenstock Store has perfect shoes–40% off too–but nothing close to my size. I’m heart broken and exhausted.

I take a break from shoe shopping and go into the U Book store where I buy the paperback “Snow Flower and the Secret Fan” by Lisa See. This is the book my new book group has chosen and I decide it will be perfect reading for the plane. I also buy a cheap knock off moleskin journal for all my private thoughts. The journal is bright red and about half the cost of the moleskin brand. I decide I can skimp on the journal-I’m only going for 8 days. (I visualize my first journal entry: At the airport waiting for the plane, how am I going to sit still for 9 hours? )

Then I meet up with A at her adorable Eastlake apartment and we spend three hours choreographing for “Lady” by Styx. It’s a revolutionary time as we roll (literally) all over her hardwood floor. We take a break from dancing and she buys me a soda at the corner store and then we pick up her dry cleaning at the place next door. I tell her everything and she shares in return. I like having a new lady friend. It distracts me from my impending trip, my soon-to-be bravery, flying to a country all alone without the cush of my husband as a travel partner.

When I get home I dump all my travel purchases out onto the kitchen table for Josh to look at. He thinks the money belt is cute–even though it’s the same size and shape as a sanitary napkin. We go on a walk in our neighborhood at dusk–exercise to make up for the ballet class I skipped out on. Despite the crisp clear sunshine during the day the sun is down by the time we walk and the air is frigid. My husband and I make obscene jokes–well, actually it’s all me–and I quiz him on what BBC really stands for. I tease him about his upcoming 8 days of bachelorhood–although secretly I’m worried about what he’s going to eat. Visions of him eating nothing but cold cereal dances in my head. I can see him eating three squares a day: Cheerios for breakfast, Wheat Flakes for Lunch, and Peanut Butter Puffins for dinner.

We get home and our cat, as if on cue, starts wildly dancing in the kitchen. It’s after dark and she knows the rule: wet cat food only at night. She prances all over the place, screaming at the top of her lungs, until finally Josh slathers some wet food on a plate. I make him dust it with this special anti-plaque stuff I bought for her teeth–it supposedly tastes like cheese and cats love it. My cat hates the dust, but puts up it with merely for the pleasure of wet cat food.

We watch Oprah at 9pm while eating a Trader Joe’s pizza. I’m highly disturbed by the fact that Billy Joel is 56 and his new wife is 23. I’m REALLY disturbed, actually, and can’t shut up about it. I feel intense cynicism about their marriage’s longevity. My husband leaves to go play Xbox and I start watching a paparazzi style show. The edits are so fast I feel my brain zinging all over trying to catch up. I decide that this isn’t good ‘before bedtime’ tv material. I go to bed and curl up with my new favorite book: “The Year of Living Biblically” (which I HIGHLY recommend). I fall asleep with Hobbes slowly kneading my kneecaps–her desire for more wet cat food subtly being communicated through my covers.

A short video of a brief moment in the mountains of CO (featuring yours truly):

Everyone knows about Vail…its big brother, Aspen, manages to stay just as well known but is largely associated with elitism and unattainability. Its beefy Colorado step-brothers (Breckenridge and Keystone), kid sisters (A-Basin and Loveland Pass), and secret love child (Copper) don’t hold a candle to Vail. As far as I’m concerned, Vail remains the most widely known mountain resort of the US (never mind its competition with Whistler as the Big Daddy of North America). It also recently received the title of Most Expensive Resort (take that Aspen!) and is swamped year round with tourists. When people asked where I was going on vacation I said ‘Vail’ (easily identifiable) but I was hoping to go elsewhere. While there is a certain amount of cache one has by saying, “I went snowboarding in Vail,” the reality is that Vail makes me cry. I’ve never had a successful time there, maybe it’s the mounds of skiers, rude international travelers, and the fact that one time I got tangled up in one of their shoddy, orange, plastic fences.

This is where our wonderful CO connections kicked in, specifically: Jodi. She and Josh met in 1999 at an SOS meeting (SOS is an organization that helps at-risk youth learn to snowboard) and have been friends every since. We’ve all been friends, truth be told, but I missed out on many of their earlier ‘weekend warrior’ trips from Fort Collins to the mountains in the early years. They slept in cars, parking lots, old cabins, all for the sake of snowboarding and teaching kids how to ride. Jodi is also an entrepreneur, a real business woman, currently heading Activity Sitters, a high end baby-sitting service she founded a few years ago. Having grown up in Vail, (not as a rich kid but actually a poor kid living in the mountains), she returned after college to have a go at making a living. The town home she co-owns with her bf and roommates is nestled in Avon, which also houses the Beaver Creek Resort.

The Vail Valley is filled with two types of people: The extremely wealthy and everyone who is making money off the extremely wealthy. The disparity is far greater then when we lived next door in Summit County. With rent, food, gas etc. at astronomical levels, cost of living is very high, but the pay off is that you get to live in the wonderful abyss: Far from highways, 9,000 feet above sea level, the terrain rocky and covered with snow peeks. The isolation is huge, as if you are squirreled away from all humanity with nothing but the mountain for entertainment. Going back up to the mountains was a test: are we really in the right place? Sometimes when I’ve returned from a long day of rush hour traffic I crave nothing more then the blinding sunlight at the top of a mountain. Sure, there’s no Nordstrom Rack, limited places to go out to eat, and a small pool of people to hang out with. However, your mind is practically forced to slow down as the demands on your time become very basic and simple. I can see why this is the lifestyle I chased after leaving high paced Seattle in the late 90’s.

I’ve never been to Beaver Creek, but because it was five minutes away from Jodi’s place it became not only convenient but a lot of fun. We enjoyed two bluebird days, filled with sun and decent groomed snow. I was clipped twice, first by a skier and the second time by an out-of-control female snowboarder. I’d forgotten the recklessness one experiences when you throw a bunch of tourists on the same mountain over a holiday weekend. I also marveled at the array of accents you find when your town is a melting pot, specifically from Jodi’s roommates who were from Milwaukee and had a very pronounced way of speaking.

Jodi’s two teenage cats, Tosh and Leo, provided endless entertainment as they galloped and chased each other all over the place.
Josh and I had forgotten the vitality that young cats have and marveled at their ability to PLAY (something Hobbes gave up long ago). Here is Josh and Leo spending some quiet time on the couch:

Suddenly our toothless, chubby, old cat seemed pale in comparison to the sheer entertainment of Tosh and Leo. That is, of course, until I opened the door to our room in the middle of the night for some air. The kitties ran in and proceeded to chase each other in mad circles at the foot of the mattress. ‘They’ll settle down eventually,’ I rationalized, trying very hard to fall asleep. The pair did not settle down, in fact, I realized that they had isolated their chase to a single solitary circle that would not let up. I closed the door and opted for less air in the room.

We were extremely lucky to be on the receiving end of such generosity. Jodi’s bf is a sommelier (read: fancy wine expert) and uncorked multiple bottles of fancy wine for us to sample. Despite the altitude playing havoc on my system, I graciously drank some excellent wine. I also made a big meatball dinner for Jodi and friends as thanks for the hospitality:

While driving back down the long winding highway away from the mountains I was reminded about CO drivers: no signals, tailgating, wandering over to our lane, high speeds, everyone owns a truck our an SUV. We sighed as we left the Vail Valley, certain we would have to visit again. We spent one last lingering night in Golden before heading out on Wednesday, my body immediately rewarding me with a Big Cold the second I stepped on the plane.

CO I miss you!

“TEXAS license plates? No way, we need a different car,” it was Saturday, Josh and I had been up since 5am and we were standing in the Alamo rental car parking lot. The sun was beautiful, blinding in its strength at 5,000 feet above sea level. Josh had waded through line after line, finally getting us a crappy American mid-size sedan for our Colorado trip. We had pre-paid for our rental car (the most expensive part of our trip besides the plane tix) through priceline but had forgotten that it was President’s Day weekend. EVERYONE had the same idea: let’s run away to Colorado where it’s sunny and there’s tons of snow in the mountains. The SUV’s were snatched up by eager New Yorkers, desperate for a slice of Rocky Mountain living–and driving. The forecast called for spotty snow but mostly sunny weather. Our sedan would be fine for the trip, but the Texas license plates offended me.

“We’re not trading,” Josh informed me. “This car is fine…let’s get out of here.” He was right, normally stuff like license plates don’t bother me, but I was super tired and hungry. I conceded, “Fine then, I’m going to have to find some super liberal bumper sticker for the back window…something really over the top, like: ‘Abortions For All’” (quote the space aliens from The Simpsons). Josh reminded me that we would have to go to Boulder to find something remotely liberal (and that was not in our trip plans). While waiting for Josh to get the rental car (guarding our heavily packed bags filled with snowboarding gear) I had made small talk with a couple from Belltown. They were equally shocked by the sunshine and we talked about the usual Seattle related things: the housing market, the cost of living, renting versus buying in the city, and the weather (specifically: the rain). The couple abruptly left me to pile into a very nice rented Range Rover while I half expected Josh to pull up in a car the size of a jelly bean. Turns out it was a nice size, our snowboards fit and that was all that mattered–who cares if Coloradoans think we’re from Texas on this trip.

The sun served as a salve as we began our first trip on the old familiar highway. It was as if the coldest parts of us were warmed, the soaking wet cold from the Seattle winter was temporarily dried. We were breathless, largely from the change in altitude, but also from the flat expanse of land and endless sky. My nose immediately started whistling and my lips automatically needed chapstick. Josh and I went to a sketchy 7 eleven where the cashier neglected to ring up Josh’s cheap sunglasses while bitching to her friend, “I don’t know why she doesn’t come to work, I mean what’s up with that shit?” While traveling in the car I ate some of the worst cheese I’ve ever had (the texture was chunky) and began my love affair with water.

My aunt and uncle always lived outside NYC when I was growing up so the fact that they now live in CO is still new to me. I felt very lucky to be a guest in their lovely home and was thrilled when we busted out the spaghetti press and made noodles.

The weather shifted from sunny and warm to snowy. The following day we went to Thornton where my bestest friend in the world lives. I hadn’t seen Courtney in three years and we immediately fell into a well worn groove of communication, locked in from years and years of confiding, gossiping, and sharing. Her son is huge (at all of four years old) and very sweet. Her husband, Lyle, and Josh chatted about motorcycles, work, and skateboarding. We ate stew, went on a walk, and watched the beginning of Flashdance. There is no way I could ever convince Court to return to the northwest, so I must be happy in the meantime with occasional correspondence and precious visits. Sometimes when I am running all over Seattle in my new, urban, lifestyle I miss Courtney deeply. When you spend the majority of your formative years with one person (age 5-22) they become ingrained in your spirit and you always miss them on some level. When pulling out of her driveway I realized I had no idea when I’ll see Courtney again and I cried in the car on our way out of Thornton.

Stay tuned for Part 2 of Colorado (How I Love Thee). And check out my flickr page for more glorious photos.

While I don’t have quite the fan base that Josh has in Portland, I especially enjoy spending time with old friends. The highlight would be Ben’s annual cookie decorating party the night before Christmas Eve. Many folks from my high school days (people who I see regularly in Seattle and folks I haven’t seen in years) show up for sugar cookie decorating, stiff drinks, and good conversation. With the absence of the highly alcoholic “Christmas” drink in a mug, (Ben said the combination of wine and five different kinds of liquor heated over the stove was too intense for him this year) Kris made me a hot apple cider healthily spiked. Some guy who was in my class in high school and middle school was there with his wife and I grilled him saucily about his life. Where did he live? What does he do? If he’s always warm in body temperature does he wear shorts everyday? Three children? He’s been busy during the past twelve years. He was robust and round in a Hawaiian print shirt–a stark contrast to the kid I remember from middle school. Suddenly, I felt useless, what with the absence of my husband (Josh was at a slumber party in Portland with his own friends from high school), unimpressive job history, and non-procreation since graduation.

I found out another friend is pregnant, which adds to a total of three women I know who are all expecting sometime in the June/July range–a lovely time to have a child in my opinion. In a panic I suddenly feel ‘behind’ as if everyone is out there experiencing life to its fullest, having babies, and nestling down into the fabric of life. My performance career seems pale in comparison, a facade, a selfish hobby that I have in order to put off the inevitable pull of babyhood. My sister-in-law pawns off her crib, a decadent little piece of furniture that tears down into a delicate pile of baby representation and is stuffed in our backseat. Why turn down a free crib? I try and hide the fact that we’re taking this gift but end up telling everyone. The crib becomes a weird iconic object; a shaking of my clock so violently that I can’t wait to stash the thing into storage.

My family operated without my brother this Christmas Eve/Day for the first time in 27 years. As much as we wanted he and his wife to be with us the pull to her hometown was stronger. I tried to keep my sadness private, understanding that things change and traditions shift. Without him, our Christmas Eve mass seemed strangely serious: I missed the way he used to tickle my palm during the offering of Peace, jingle his car keys in place of bells, and turn to me very seriously and state, “It is right to give God thanks and praise.” When we were little it was my brother who was always up first–sometimes not sleeping at all–ready to open his presents at 5am (but waiting patiently until 6am when our parents finally gave in). As adults he is the last person to rise, only moving when placated with the smell of coffee, and me shouting at him to check his Christmas stocking, (which my father artfully fills every year). Typically, Sam will roll out of bed and then spend a frantic few minutes wrapping his presents before presenting them to us moments later. Lumpy and oddly shaped packages give way to some of the best gifts I’ve received…

My sister is usually absent, dutifully showing up for the actual holiday celebrations of Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Faux Christmas (Dec 22), but otherwise entrenched in the drama she left behind when she moved to Seattle. My parents and I jokingly resume the solitude we once had 29 years ago–before the addition of my younger siblings–although I doubt we went on as many stoic walks as we do in the present day. My Dad and I watch MST3K’s Manos: Hands of Fate, a documentary on Wolves, and listen to classical music on OPB while we drink cups of black coffee and read the NY Times Sunday edition. My Mom and I hike the nature trail outside of Burnt Bridge Creek, talk about contemporary literature, and eat chocolate constantly.

Last year at this time Josh’s grandfather died and we spent most of the holiday apart, as Josh handled the very personal experience of losing a family member while surrounded by kin. We went to a wedding and then a funeral and then back home to our cat. Similar to this year our cat has been extremely restless upon our return. The first night she woke both of us successively every few hours with pitiful and insistent meowing. Part of it is Josh is sick and sleeping on the couch and I can tell Hobbes feels uncomfortable by our separation. I try everything to placate her, even allowing her to sneak under covers with me. She is restless and unsettled as she leaves me time and time again to go bother Josh in the living room. Josh threatens to throw her outside into the wind and cold rain, but I tell him ‘no, it’s the middle of the night.’ At 7am Josh returns to our bed, his coughing subsided in the meantime, and Hobbes falls asleep exhausted against my back.

Because we don’t have any serious tragedy, because we all relatively get along and we enjoy good food, because we like each other’s company and have a lot in common, my outlook on Christmas continues to be merry. The following is a look at the prerequisites to having a happy holiday (broken down into parts):

FOOD
Of course, let’s put the presents aside and remember how truly wonderful it is to sit, cramped and crowded around the dining room table, the tree bumped right up to the table as if a guest itself, wine and sparkling cider flowing the whole evening (not to mention dried fruit, chocolate, and other goodies). My parents busy themselves in the kitchen all night long, pulling out handmade pirogi, seafood pasta, and salad. We burn off our food walking around the neighborhood, my Dad showing off the house down the street with all its horrible blow up Santas, blinking lights, and tinny music playing from little speakers planted inside illuminated plastic trees.

On Christmas Eve my sister and I kicked both parents out and spent the entire day in the kitchen making lasagna. I also made a fig cake (my father loves figs). Gina decked her lasagna out with fake cheese and vegan ingredients while I went all out with the hot sausage, hard boiled egg, and ricotta. I’m always slightly nervous when I cook for my parents (they’re such great cooks) and I want to impress them (and not forget the onion like I once did with the meatballs). I cooked the cake in the morning and prepped the lasagna all afternoon. We wanted to be really busy all day because it was the first Christmas Eve without my brother EVER and Gina and I wanted to distract ourselves. Josh grated an entire block of mozarella cheese and assembled a baby lasagna with all the left over ingredients. It turned out really well…

It’s hard every year to put aside the feelings of guilt over eating piggishly for a week or so…I usually resolve to walk a few miles a day (which isn’t hard because my parents do this consistently) but inevitably I feel jiggly. I try the usual tricks: drinking lot’s of water, filling up on salad first, eating in moderation, avoiding sugary drinks (I’d rather have my sugar in a cookie versus a soda) and helping myself to everything in small portions. It’s inevitable that I’ll eat like a queen…and that’s just fine. There is always chocolate lying around all over the place, from Sees candy to the “chocolates around the world” my dad found at Costco. I drank black coffee in the morning and drank wine every night. I had blue cheese and salami sandwiches on homemade bread for lunch. I took a break from the Italian style holiday food and ate delicacies at my sister-in-law’s house we never had growing up: artichoke dip laden with cheese, french dip sandwiches, and Jello salad.

Every Christmas morning I have my traditional breakfast of chocolate and coffee…well, when I was younger I didn’t have the coffee. But Santa always brought Hershey kisses and I would nervously nibble on them while waiting for my turn to open presents. Many a cold, gray morning was spent waiting for my parents to wake up, waiting for my siblings to assemble under the tree for the doling of presents, and I would feast on my kisses as a way to steal a little holiday sweetness before the Big Day began. As an adult I absolutely love the combination of chocolate and coffee–it is my FAVORITE, and that’s over chocolate with almonds, chocolate with peanut butter, or chocolate with caramel. Who cares if it’s only 8:30 am? It’s never been too early for chocolate.

Because we don’t have any serious tragedy, because we all relatively get along and we enjoy good food, because we like each other’s company and have a lot in common, my outlook on Christmas continues to be merry. The following is a look at the prerequisites to having a happy holiday (broken down into parts):

GIFTS
I was reading Dear Abby, or some equivalent, and it was discussing the whole concept of gift free Christmases. Josh had mentioned this previously in the week, a meandering thought that was received by me with a big fat ‘no.’ There is something really lovely about buying presents and then giving them away. How often do we really do this in real life? I know when someone buys me a cup of coffee it is always a thrill. Or when I find something really appropriate and funny (this happens when I’m shopping for my sister all the time) like a pair of metallic stretch pants that someone (my sister) has been wanting and waiting for but would never buy themselves. Isn’t that the neat part about it? Seeing what people buy with you in mind, coming up with what they think you’ll like and use? I would never have a calender in my kitchen if it weren’t for my family. I would also be short on socks and pajamas. These are things I like but don’t usually buy for myself. The same goes for the lovely Lush products my sister-in-law purchased as a belated birthday gift (and gave me 2 days before Christmas, score!).

Both my husband and my sister underestimated my size this year…each of them purchased tops for me in size small in the hope that somehow I might have shrunk. I certainly know what that’s like, as I too have tried to trick myself into being a size smaller. It is the nature of things to be cuter when they’re smaller. T-shirts and hoodies sell out in bigger sizes, leaving the funky patterns and neat prints plentiful in size small. While I’m flattered that they think I might even be a small, I know they mentally shrunk me down while Christmas shopping.

I read an article in the NY Times Magazine about how children are encouraged to hand make their cards and gifts. This saves the parents money (no need for the kid to pick out a Hallmark card when he can make his own) and encourages creativity and ingenuity. We lose this when we get older, the handmade aspect, as we grow busier and less patient. Suddenly, we find ourselves angrily walking around a suburban mall looking for yet another piece of plastic to wrap. Is it time we need and if so, is it worth it? I know I had this fantasy of making canvas bags this year but traded in the time for a stroll around the mall. I like the decorations and the hubbub of the holidays but I can only handle a few hours before I throw in the towel and find half of my gifts online. And sure, it’s hard to know exactly how much you should spend, if they’ll really like it, but most of the time it’s the thought that counts.

I also understand the exhaustion of gift giving. While Christmas Morning part one at my house is laid back and full of grown ups sipping coffee and unwrapping The Lord of the Ring trilogy, Christmas Morning part two at Josh’s sister’s house involves six children. The sheer madness, selfishness, irritability, coked up on sugar craziness is absolutely jarring in comparison. I hand a present to one niece, she opens it, finds a book (I know: boring), and asks me, “What else?” At the end of the event they’re complaining how bored they are, even while sitting in the middle of a mound of toys. I know that this is not fair; I’m sure I threw diva fits about fantastic gifts I never received (like the year my brother totally scored with a new bike AND a train set and I felt my presents weren’t comparable).

I realized that a big part of Christmas when you’re small IS the gifts…and later when you move away and start your adult life it becomes about being with family. The nostalgia of watching old Christmas tapes from 1988 when you had braces and funny hair but you were still you. The eager hopping around as you wait for your Mom to open this really super cool present you picked out for her. It’s a time to give back, give a nod, a heads up to the people in your life: thanks for still being around, man…here’s a sweater.

(or an octopus puppet)

Turbulence was so bad while rising to proper altitude that our plane took a monsterous dip, causing everyone on the plane to gasp–and one woman actually screamed. I can handle the bumps and shakes of a typical flight, but I have to admit my heart was racing when my body lifted off the seat momentarily (only to be pulled back down by the seatbelt). One old man joked, “People go to Disneyland and pay big bucks for this sort of thrill.” I thought my heart was going to fall out of my chest at that point. Luckily, the plane evened out and the rest of the trip was fairly uneventful.