Doubting Thomas

While driving home from work today, I checked out which Christmas carol was playing on the All-Christmas-Songs-All-The-Time-We-Don’t-Care-That-It’s-Only-November station. It was “Silent Night” and I was reminded of some lyrics I’ve gotten wrong since I was a little girl: “ ‘Round yon Virgin Mother and child”. I always thought that line was calling the Virgin Mary fat, as in round (not ‘round). Seriously, cut her some slack! She just gave birth, and in a BARN! Growing up Catholic posed a problem for your basic inquisitive child (me). We were taught stories, doctrine, rules, etc. and were expected not to ask questions. I believe the objective is called Blind Faith. My mother called me a Doubting Thomas more than once. I really had a hard time ignoring questions and just carrying on. In fact, ask anyone who knows me... I NEVER seem to run out of questions. So the whole Virgin birth in the Christmas story kind of threw me. Well, actually, as a child I was OK with it because I had no idea what a virgin was. I got the impression that it was something really special and out-of-the ordinary. Why else would Mary be the only one known by that title? Nobody ever explained it to us. How could they without mentioning S-E-X? Joseph always seemed like a sad, lonely little man. Here he was with his fiance who tells him she is pregnant, but still a virgin. Say what? Somehow he went along with this... a truly trusting soul... after an angel appeared to him. OK here I go again, getting all Doubting Thomasy again. I just can’t wrap my head around this part of the story. I guess it’s good I wasn’t ‘round yon virgin way back then. I probably would have been stoned for mouthing off, or asking too many questions. I think I’ll stay away from the Christmas radio station. Don’t get me started on the Little Drummer Boy. That kid needs a time out, and his drum sticks fed to a goat. Parumpapumpum me not.

Poltergeists & Gremlins

I was doing last minute cleaning in the basement the night before we moved into our house 19 years ago. My son’s bedroom smelled really weird. I got upset because Ben was only 7 years old and would be sleeping downstairs alone. By daylight the next day, the house seemed less creepy and we moved in without incident. Over the next few years, Ben had some weird experiences getting locked inside things. I called home from work one night to find that my husband was in the process of bashing down the bathroom door. It had locked with Ben inside, and he couldn’t get the door open. After that night, Ben got locked inside a locker during a Cub Scout function at a community center. Another day, he got locked in the bathroom at a Starbucks. Writing about it now, these occurrences seem pretty strange. At the time, though, we thought they were kind of amusing (I doubt Ben was amused). The last time this happened, Ben got locked in his bedroom. We took the doorknob off, but the tongue part was stuck inside the doorjamb. It was weird to see and talk to Ben through the doorknob hole and still not be able to open the door. Rick had to break yet another door to rescue Ben. My sister said maybe a playful spirit was at work, which only served to creep Ben out. It would be years before he would sleep in his room. Nowadays, the only inexplicable occurrences in our house involve missing accessories. I’m convinced I have a jewelry gremlin who has recently graduated to swiping my eye glasses. It eventually releases my missing stuff, and fortunately has never locked me in a room. Maybe all those years ago Ben should have offered up a bracelet or earrings. Who knows? It might have saved us a couple of doors.

I'm Not Gaga

I was standing at the counter of my mechanic’s shop the other day. A song was playing on the radio, and then it hit me... I am SO glad I’m not Lady Gaga. Seriously, it must be exhausting being her. Can she ever let her hair down and just chill with her bad self? I seriously doubt it. I’ll bet it’s been years since she woke up on a Saturday morning and decided to hang out in her sweats, or dig in the garden. She always has to be “On”. I can’t imagine constantly having to outdo my own last outfit or creation. When she walks with her entourage, she is in her weird celebrity persona. A lot of the time, she is holding something - glass, wires, some kind of sculpture. Man, I’m getting tired just writing about it. Unlike most people, I don’t think I’ve ever actually wanted to be famous. Rich? Oh ya, I could totally handle that (or would love to try). I can’t imagine having fans, or paparazzi following my every move. Guys hiding in the bushes, telephoto lenses focused on me. Might as well be an animal in the zoo. Maybe that’s why I have always been bothered by zoos. The animals have no privacy, and are constantly on display. I was totally amused the first time I witnessed monkeys at the zoo throwing pooh at people. The monkeys were the ones who were totally in control. They had the crowd in the palms of their hairy little hands. I realized that day who the real dumb animals at the zoo were. The monkeys were the rock stars, and seemed to enjoy it. So, maybe I’m an anomaly. You all can go out and be as famous as you want. I’ll stay behind the scenes and watch your money... in my sweats.

Gobble Gobble

It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and I’m frantically trying to get the smell of yesterday’s turkey dinner out of my house. It’s a good smell at dinner time, but in the morning? Not so much. I’m not a big fan of turkey, or any meat for that matter. I don’t crave it. If I could, I would live on pastries and vanilla lattes. I would also weigh 500 pounds and be unable to get off my couch. Every Thanksgiving, I get out my cookbooks and tried-and-true recipes. None of the process seems familiar. I struggle every year to complete an edible thousand course meal in a timely manner. I still haven’t figured out how to get so many items cooked at different temperatures using one oven. Do the math... it doesn’t add up. The pressure on me is enormous, and I’m not sure why. It’s not like the future of the free world rests on my culinary skills (even though that’s what it feels like). So far, nobody has died after eating at my table. Last night’s dinner turned out fine. I know I will do the same thing next year, with the same level of angst. I have a friend who never eats turkey on Thursdays. I’m not sure why but I find it interesting. Earlier in the week I saw a TV interview with a turkey farmer. There was a huge building with what seemed like miles and miles of turkeys milling around inside. All the turkeys were white and ugly as hell. They looked nothing like the black and gray ones with red heads that you think of when someone says “turkey”. Does this mean the white, plain turkeys at the farm were females? I know little about birds, but I believe the females are usually plain while the males are the fancy ones. Take peacocks, for instance. They are male and flamboyant. The peahens are plain Janes and probably never got asked to dance at high school sock hops. Roosters have that awesome red comb and strut and crow all over the place. Hens just hang out back in the henhouse, blending into the background. Maybe next year I will opt for an all pastry Thanksgiving feast, and give the turkeys a break. At least one turkey girl could go on to live another homely day. It would be my good deed for the holiday season... delicious too!

Please Pass The Fire Extinguisher

When I got married, I knew how to cook one item - cheese cake. Back in high school, I had stumbled across the recipe during Home Economics. Eight years later, my culinary repertoire hadn’t grown much larger. Our first Thanksgiving dinner as a married couple went amazingly well. Everything was tasty, and nobody got food poisoning. I call that a booming success. Or maybe it was beginner’s luck, due to the fact that the next Thanksgiving dinner was a disaster. The night before this second Thanksgiving, I decided to clean my oven. Go figure. The next day, the cooking marathon was on. At some point, I needed to check on my homemade pumpkin pie. I pulled the oven rack out and let it go for a second. Apparently, I had not put the rack back in correctly after cleaning my oven. When I let go of the rack, it tilted, and my partially-cooked pumpkin pie went careening south. The pie hit the oven door, the contents flew out and went splat across my kitchen. It was a special moment. I believe my primal scream caused Rick to think I was being disemboweled. A short time after we cleaned up the mess, I detected a wonderful campfire smell wafting in from the kitchen. On closer inspection, I discovered the source of the lovely odor - My sweet potato and marshmallow casserole was on fire in the toaster oven. Too bad there weren’t still blobs of pie to dowse the flames. I can’t remember what the rest of the dinner tasted like. I do know we were forced out into the neighborhood to forage for dessert. We found a seedy little convenience store with bars on the door, and bought ice cream sandwiches. Seriously...turkey and ice cream sandwiches. I’ve always wondered why I had never noticed that store before, or why it was open on a holiday. Possibly a Thanksgiving miracle? Actually, I think the successful dinner from the year before was the Thanksgiving miracle. The disastrous second year Thanksgiving was saved by the magic Ice Cream Sandwich Fairy. Nothing else could explain it.

Best In Show

Every Thanksgiving I watch the National Dog Show while I’m working on dinner. A few years ago, the dumbass Standard Poodle won Best In Show. It was a white male with an enormous ‘fro, whose body had been shaved except for a bunch of pom poms festooning his butt, tail and legs. I’m surprised he could haul himself out of his kennel every day to face hours of grooming, shaving, and extreme emasculation. He was probably depressed, and would most likely opt for rolling in something disgusting rather than winning another trophy. It seemed to me that this dog won the big prize due to his hairdo. That’s the only explanation I could come up with, and I wanted to give the judge a sharp rap on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. One question that always pops into my brain while watching the dogs run with their trainers... Why are the female trainers generally chunky girls? You’d think all the running around would cause them to shed a pound or two. Does that job not attract any slender types? Perhaps the outfits they wear with their sensible shoes make them appear much dowdier than they really are. There’s probably a dress code, which brings up another question... Did an attractive female trainer in stiletto heels take a header and cause the demise of fashion at the dog shows? Maybe nobody wants the dogs to be outshined by the people leading them. Imagine a bleached blonde with big fake boobs running around the stage. I doubt anyone would notice whether she was leading a dog or pulling a wagon full of manure. I’ve always thought beauty pageants were the human equivalent of dog shows, minus the genital squeeze. Walking down the runway in an evening gown is pretty much the same as dog show contestants trotting in front of the judge. Thankfully, they don’t make the dogs bark their formula for world peace or howl an aria from La Boheme. This year I will really try not to be a hater if the poodle wins. Also, I will be thankful I’m not running with the dogs in front of millions of critical people (like me).

Hey Hey You You Get Off Of My Bus

I saw something thrilling today. As I sat at a stop light, I noticed a Metro bus with lots of writing on it. The graphics were announcing the “new Metro” with new rules. Listed among the newness was something like “Pay on entering. Exit at the rear”. Ooohhh, I like the sound of that! I rarely ride on Metro, and am apprehensive when I do because I got yelled at the first time I rode a Seattle bus. Twenty-two years ago when we first moved here, I took my kids downtown on the bus. I put my money in the slot as we got on the bus, and was scolded by the driver. I didn’t know it, but the direction the bus was going determined whether you paid when you got on or paid when you got off. Huh??? What kind of goofy system was THAT? Being chastised loudly by the driver was embarrassing, even though some of the other riders seemed a little off. (I’m talking about you, dirty-man-with-sacks-full-of-soft drink-cans-having-a-loud-conversation-with-yourself-or-possibly-the-cans). I lived in San Francisco for 8 years and rode the bus quite a bit. Now THAT was a trip, and not in a good way. Electric buses were jerky and not fun for someone (me) who suffered from motion sickness. I learned the hard way what an express bus was on the first day of a new job. I dinged the bell to get off at my stop, but the bus accelerated and zoomed past it. I crazily rang the bell even more and yelled “Hey STOP!!!”. Finally somebody sighed and told me I was on an express bus, which meant the bus made fewer stops. I got off at the first opportunity, and had to run to make it to my new job on time. Out of breath and sweaty is not the way to greet a new employer. These days it’s my son who is the bus rider in the family. I’m sure he does just fine, and has probably not paid the wrong way and gotten yelled at. Who knows? By the time he has kids there may be a new set of rules... for flying buses.