Greetings from the Christmas Tchotchke Shop (with trigger warnings, see below!)*

First of all, let me clear things up regarding my post from yesterday. I failed miserably at conveying what I meant, and that was made clear by many of your thoughtful comments. I was struck by the T.C. Boyle quote that I used to open the post because it spoke to me about paradox, about holding opposing thoughts at the same time. I've written about that ad nauseum on this blog and elsewhere. Yesterday morning, as Henry struggled to get Sophie's wheelchair folded up and into my sexy, white Mazda, I remarked how strong he is and how lifting that thing would surely help to further build his muscles. I said it in the lame way that mothers do when they know what they're saying is cheerful bullshit. At least to me it's bullshit, because, frankly, having to lift a wheelchair into the back of the car for your handicapped sister and weaker mother is a pain in the ass. I have long mulled over the spin that we use to justify our situations or make them more tolerable or better. As a writer, I'm prone to flights of fancy and imagination. Sometimes it feels like I'm making the whole world up as I go. The things people say about Sophie or my boys, the things I say or think about Sophie or my boys or our situation -- I didn't mean to judge them.  It is what it is, as the moral relativists like to say. So, don't feel guilty if you've had those thoughts or said those things. Don't we all make stuff up to make ourselves feel better or to cope? And there is truth to all of them, anyway. Good truth and uncomfortable truth.






Now let's move on for a visit to the Tchotchke Shop. Despite my intentions to not bring down all the Christmas crap from the attic, I was over-ruled by the The Brothers who were aghast that I would even think about holding out on the annual extravaganza. Of course when it came time to actually decorate, I was the one doing it all.











I tried to remain Christmas Stepford Momish last night when it was looking like no one was going to help me put the lights and ornaments on the tree, but eventually I had to raise my voice to a moderate Christmasy decibel and insist that you need to get off those dang devices and get in here and decorate the tree! Then I forced Oliver to choose between decorating and sitting on the couch with Sophie. He chose Sophie until her head bangs forced him to do the job with Henry, and I sat on the couch with Sophie while simultaneously and sweetly ordering the both of them around.

We watched about five minutes of White Christmas until The Brothers' constant mocking (oh my god! Look at how fake it is! This is so stupid! WHAT IS THIS?) destroyed the shreds of Christmas cheer I was so valiantly trying to maintain. I gave the boys and Sophie their annual new ornament and gazed, again, at the one I bought myself.

Have you seen anything more fabulous than that today? I might have to craft a new blog header, right? How about this?

That brings me to the trigger warnings for this post:

  * Lots of scary tchotchkes that might bother those of you who get agita at Christmas
** Lots of wonderful tchotchkes that might possibly throw your panties into a wad if you believe in the war on Christmas. Happy Holidays to you!

The Yuletide Season Pleasure Sampler

There are many things making me feel like I'm running off the rails this December. There are also many things that are giving me pleasure. Here are some:

1. Those Janis Joplin stamps. The package looks like a single record, and on the other side is a great big photo of Janis. They have Jimi Hendrix ones, too.

2. I heard this song on the radio yesterday, and it made me happy. It makes me cry a little, too.




3. This list of NPR's Maureen Corrigan's favorite books of 2014 gave me that overly-stimulated feeling that I still get when I go into a library or a bookstore and realize how many books there are to read. It's the good kind of over-stimulation, not the frantic one laced with anxiety that I get when I realize how much money shitty movies make during the holidays.

Sometimes You Can't Pick Just 10: Maureen Corrigan's Favorite Books of 2014


4. Yes, my house looks like one of those obnoxious Christmas shops in a tourist town, but I have several tableaus (if you will) that give me pleasure. Here's one:

Here's a close-up of the bowl and the weird baby that creeps some out but gives me pleasure:

5. I listened rapturously to the last episode of Serial, the podcast from This American Life. It was really pretty fantastic and highly addictive. It also saved my sanity in the car the last few weeks.




Reader, what's making you happy or giving you pleasure or helping to save your sanity during the Yuletide Season?

Day Five of Slogging Out the Gratitude

So, the jack hammer is still going, Sophie had a super ugly big seizure this morning that caused some tension among the members of our tribe, and my house looks so much like a Christmas store that I've decided to put on my Santa apron instead of clothes and surrender. Despite these problems, though -- and with the exception of the seizure, they are first world problems which is a problem unto itself -- I'm slogging out the gratitude alongside my friend Jeneva, and today I'm grateful to live in Los Angeles and down the street from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA). I put Sophie in her wheelchair and walked there this afternoon, strolled around the magnificent Alexander Calder exhibit and then stood and gazed quietly at some of the most beautiful photography one could possibly imagine from every era in the history of photography. I'm grateful for art, much of which I don't understand or have little knowledge, but speaks to me just the same, invigorates my eye and calms my soul.

• I'm grateful for my strong and healthy constitution.

• I'm grateful for the card that Ms. Moon sent me of the Airstream trailer on the beach that now graces my blog and that is testament to our friendship.
• I'm grateful for the opportunity to go to the movies on a Saturday afternoon, especially when it's a perfect movie about love, longing, regret and is directed by and stars Ralph Fiennes.
• I'm grateful for my perfect score of loving bloggers in person as well as on the page and for getting to personally meet one of my favorites today, Brittany Tuttle.
• I'm grateful to live in Los Angeles and down the street from LACMA, and I'm grateful for art that invigorates my eye and calms my soul.

Report from Santa-Land

Aside from getting an estimate this morning from The Plumber Guy that surpassed the initial estimate by several thousand dollars, the one that provoked my stripping naked and running down the street screaming, today proved to be better than yesterday. A very close friend brought his Guy over to take a look at the Plumbing Troubles, and he will be able to do the job for far less money. We might even consider having The Brothers help to dig the trenches around the house over Christmas vacation. I'll wield a camera and take some photos in the Selgado vein.

We shall see.

That aside, I needed to get busy for a small party that we're having tomorrow night. I considered cancelling in the throes of despair last night, but The Husband told me that I was insane (even though I am already insane as he will not even be at the party), so I spent today baking and preparing for the festivities. Here are some Chocolate Rye Cookies with Maldon Sea Salt. I'm also making Pecan Puffs, Chocolaty Chip Cookies and Rolled Sugar Cookies. There will be soup, bread, cheese and olives. We will carol in our snowy Los Angeles neighborhood, bundled up against the 52 degree chill.

Here are some cheerful shots of our house which over the years has grown to resemble one of those Christmas stores that you see on resort islands (the resort islands that I regularly visit). It all sort of makes me nauseous and happy -- and you know me: very, very capable of holding those paradoxical feelings at once!

Here's the Owl ornament that I've had since 1972. Reader, I've been collecting owls for longer than some of you have been alive and certainly well before they became a thing. Have I ever told you about my owl shag rug that I hooked myself?

There's an Elf that I've had for far longer -- maybe the 1960s? It's the genuine article -- not that horrid little Elf on a Shelf business.

Here's our tree, and I have no idea what the sparkly lights are doing. I suppose it's another Christmas miracle, making up for the Plumbing Troubles.

Oh, and here's the life-sized Santa, because every tiny California bungalow should have at least one.

And then there's me, looking wan with freshly waxed eyebrows:

What are ya'll doing?

This happened

That's the Barbie bathroom where the hole in the ceiling leads to an unfinished attic. Now that The Brothers are older, they've taken on the job of  climbing a ladder, hoisting themselves up through the square and getting whatever we need that's been stored up there. This year, they invented a pulley system which took a bit longer but entailed zero help from The Long Suffering Mother. The Christmas decorations are down, and now, in addition to the life-size bilingual Santa, we have boxes filled with Christmas cheer to distribute throughout our mansion.

I know you can't wait.

(I promise that I will have some more in-depth reportage and musings or mullings, along with scintillating poetry one of these days --)