Caloden

Lately I have been writing alot of posts about cancer and cardio issues. Everyday I have been immersed in articles about all the horrible things that can, and likely will, happen to my body either tomorrow or any day until I die. So it is really no surprise that last night I decided I was succumbing to eyelid cancer. Not normally a hypochondriac, I mulled it over for awhile before determining that I did indeed have eyelid cancer. Now I have not yet encountered any eyelid cancer artilces in my daily google searches, but I am sure they are out there. And last night I was sure my face would be plastered right there, with a big ole tumor under on the bottom eyelid, next to my little blog blurb about the trials and tribulations of living with eyelid cancer. However, when I shoved my face up against the mirror for a closer inspection with a flashlight and huge magnifying glass, I discovered that in the middle of my tumor was a stubby eyelash. Doh! Ingrown hair syndrome, not eyelid tumor.

I hope I don’t get cancer again today.

Today I went to Loren’s school and helped out with the decorating for the upcoming winter event, the Winterfaire. When I went to help I did not realize that I had somehow been elected as The Offical Decorator for the whole shebang, but one of The Other Mothers was so sweet as to sign me up for that position. Thank you. Because I don’t already have enough to do, I am now roped into hauling Devon with me for a good part of the week as we go to ridiculous lengths to hang garland, lights and doo-da’s so that our children can go on Saturday and make felt angels for us to hang on our trees. At this point in our Waldorf schooling career I have enough felt angels to decorate two trees. Now I know that this is a fundraiser for the school and everything needs to look nice. In fact, I deeply understand because one year I was actually the Winter Faire Queen and in charge of the whole freaking affair. But this year the reigning Queen is out of hand. She has changed the menu and specified that the homemade items be made with ONLY organic ingrediants, each family has to make 10 items to donate for the children’s store (these items can be knitted or we can purchase kits to make them), she is strongly encouraging parents to dress up in Renessance garb so that the children can get a better feel for a Victorian Christmas. Ugh. Whatever. When she walks by, the Other Mothers roll their eyes and look knowingly at each other. I have heard the outrageous stories of their weekly meetings over the past months and have always snickered to myself because I was far too smart to get involved this year. But now here I am, The Official Decorator. Fuck.

I do have a few smarts, I made sure that there is a take down/clean up committee and that my name is not on it.

Last night I came to the realization that I would make a lousy celebrity. As I went downstairs to do the final sweep: stove off, no open windows, clutter shoved under the couch…both Loren and Cassidy descended upon me from out of nowhere. They were like a paparazzi blitz in a Lindsay Lohan feeding frenzy. Cassidy was trotting along side of me yapping up questions and complaints while needing answers to her find-a-word puzzle book. Loren was on the other side firing questions into my ear, as he is now at ear height, about snow conditions for snowboarding, the location of his wool socks, the status on his wet gloves etc. No matter where I went or how fast I walked, they dogged me until I thought I might entirely lose it one final and glorious time for the day.

Now aside from my ever growing popularity as I quest for my Mother of the Year award, I have no real crowd appeal. I shouldn’t sing out loud, I don’t act, my Playboy centerfold days are long behind me so I guess I really needn’t worry about my realization. Celebrityhood just isn’t in the cards for me. But I still am wildly popular when the kids need something and someday I will fondly look back at their annoying stalker ways and miss them deeply.

Today I had to work. I mean seriously work, not hang a few Christmas lights on fancy walls and chit chat with my friend work. I had to watch a room full of one year olds. For seven and a half hours. Holy shit, I hurt everywhere. I don’t even really like children. Well, I like mine and a select few others. But for the most part they are loud, unruly, random and stinky.

Tonight all three children and I trooped to my parent’s house so that I could finish decorating my mother’s windows. It is my appointed family task that I perform on an annual basis. Every year about a week before Thanksgiving my mother hauls boxes of garland, lights and doo-das from her basement and then I spend hours and hours determining which windows will have which theme, how many strands of new lights we need etc. As I have mentioned before, my faith in most things is not deep, and this extends to Christmas. But I do feel strongly about color schemes, and so I cannot bear it for a year to pass and my mother’s windows to be tacky. And Christmas truly can be horrifically tacky. The blinking lights, or lights that both blink and play music, Disney themed ornaments…they all wear on me this time of year. In fact my family still discusses, after a few drinks, ghosts of Christmases past when I walked out on the tree decorating because my brother put both white and colored lights on the tree -at the same time.

Earlier this afternoon my mother had the task of purchasing more white lights so that I could finish my job, which has now stretched on to nearly a week. When she came home and I opened the bag I found nothing but pain. I was met with twinkling lights, not blinking but still awful. And one strand had white chord while the other strand a black chord. I hung them all up and set them on the super blinker setting just to punish her. Needless to say that Friday morning she has her marching orders to trudge on out and fight for the correct lights, lest she rot in tacky Christmas hell for the next five weeks.

On another note, it appears that Cassidy has The Eye. She knew right away what a blunder my mother had committed. I think she may be a Christmas Decorating Nazi. It makes me proud to know I might actually be doing something right.

I have recently begun reading The Language of Letting Go, by Melodie Beattie. Everday has a short narration followed by a brief prayer reflecting the high points. It is meant to be started on January 1, but I was feeling a bit optimistic and decided to give it a go in mid-November. I am usually a gem with the daily reading, but am having a little more difficulty with the praying aspects. I lack in quite a few areas of personal development, faith being high on the to do list -so praying is not usually my gig. But I am truly trying to let go of a bunch of personal crap and so am giving both the readings and prayers a valiant effort. Today’s narration discussed gratitude and acceptance. It states that if I am hitting a brick wall to try gratitude and acceptance. And tonight I am indeed nestled up against those bricks, they are gritty, scratching my face and none too comfortable. So here goes my gratitude and acceptance for today:

• Loren got to come with me to the fancy/famous home and spend the day swimming with his best friend. All day long their laughter could be heard from the patio.
• Cassidy has spent the evening trying her hardest to finish her optional Thanksgiving Break homework. Many of the problems are way beyond her grade level, but she is working so hard, and so enthusiatically, to complete it.
• Devon spent the day with my mother, Mia, and went the entire day with no fuss.
• I got to spend the day with my friend while we decorated, chatted, enjoyed the views and worked at an extremely leisurely pace.
• I am not necessarily where I want to be, but this is not a bad place and I am lucky to be surrounded by an abundance of beauty.

Some days I feel pretty good about the readings. Today’s is a bit puzzling. I recognize the good and the beauty but I still feel as if resistance is tugging at me, almost as if I have toilet paper trailing out of my panty hose and the other end is closed in the bathroom stall door. Maybe I will spend another day on this one.

The countdown to ski season has officially begun in our house. I grew up skiing most every weekend and my school had a weekday ski program. And while I still enjoy skiing and snowboarding, if I don’t make it out to the mountain until March (when it is warm) I am just fine. However, I am raising a bit of a fanatic in Loren and he is absolutely quivering at the thought of spending Thanksgiving Day on his snowboard. Yesterday he got out all his gear and was hopping about the living room, helmet, goggles, board and all. He saw this as completely normal until I pointed out that he was about to squish Devon with the metal edges of his board. Of course Devon was wildly amused by the whole spectacle and was dancing up and down as he giggled at his be-goggled idol.

As soon as Loren gets up he starts discussing exactly how he will spend Thursday and which runs he will board. After breakfast he models his new coat, once again explaining all the features and how they will benefit him on the slopes. By lunch I am so tired of listening I just want to haul him up the mountain and push him down the slopes just to shut him up. I am thrilled that he has a passion of this nature. He is actually a very good boarder and I love watching him on the mountain. And I know that sometime in the next few years I will not get the pleasure of hearing his exuberance in such a pure way. But dear God, that kid can talk. And talk and talk and talk…..

I have a friend who routinely jokes with me by asking, “So what is it that you are doing this week?” The implication being that since I resigned from my real job nearly three years ago, I have yet to buckle down and commit to anything lasting and meaningful -as far as my career is concerned. And it’s true. In the last three years I have posed as an executive secretary for a geriatric electromagnetic engineer, I have taught skiing to bratty, overprivileged children, I briefly answered phones for a controlling window dresser and have added the occasional helping hand to various friends as needed. But I think my most intriguing, and cushiest, job is my current gig of holiday decorator/go-and-get-it-girl to the rich and famous. A friend of mine is a caretaker to a fairly exclusive movie icon, and each year before and after the holidays I help her set up and then dismantle the fancy homes. I have never met her client, and would probably be a bumbling fool if I ever did, but I have had the honor of folding his linens, dusting his suites, hanging his children’s stockings and decorating his Christmas trees. But what I love most about this job is the art. This man has more art in his homes that most museums. I have gotten to touch Picasso’s sketches. The other day I dusted a Ming Dynasty horse statue. I have viewed myself in Napolean’s personal mirror, although I had to somewhat stoop to see myself. I have always been the type of person to secretly touch the museum paintings when nobody is looking, and so the opportunity to shamelessly fondle these objects d’art is beyond a dream for me. I’m not sure I would want to do this job all the time, but for the time being it’s a good set up and a chance to glimpse how the other 3% enjoy life.

Most mornings I run about the house in a random frenzy trying to get the kids ready for school while ensuring that they have proper clothing, sufficient lunches, all their homework and that they have eaten something semi healthy for breakfast. This morning, being no exception to the grind, I was muttering a steady stream of commands and complaints as I attempted to herd the three of them into some sort of productive effort towards the front door. I must have said something somewhat bitchy because Loren stopped cold in his tracks and looked at me like I was more nuts than normal.

“Geeze, you’re put out with him just for that?”, he said.

“Huh, oh that. Yes. Well, your father left before he put that away and then I just tripped over it. It’s frustrating when…” Blah, blah, blah.

“Man, it’s almost impossible to please women,” Loren sighed.

Seizing this as a Teachable Moment, I explained to him that, YES! It is! That he should stay away from women until he is at least thirty, and even then to take it SLOOOOOOOOOWWW. This was all entirely selfish on my part. Having become a mother at twenty-two there is the outside possibility that I could become a grandmother way too soon. So when almost any opportunity comes along and I can preach birth control in ANY form to the kids, I grab that bad boy by the horns, hop on my soap box and preach for all it’s worth.

Where is the pleasure in mouth full of boob? Sometimes I look down at Devon as he is alternately nursing and humming to himself and he is the happiest bit of twenty-two pounds in the whole world. He scrunches up his bottom leg and foists the other one over my shoulder while he uses his free hand to pull on my hair. And when he gets fully into it he wiggles his rump to and fro. Overall a fairly obnoxious process, but it makes him so damn happy that it warms my heart.