Every flippin’ year I try not to be happy, not to kick up my heels with glee when the holidays are over, but I am. I’m frickin’ ecstatic and woman enough to admit it. Yes, I’m excited to bring Christmas out of hibernation after Thanksgiving, but with this comes the ominous knowledge of what’s to come. The endless shopping, cooking, cleaning, wrapping, working, reeling, talking, hiding, eating, preparing, driving, returning,
I’ve got my list and I’m checking it twice. Family, kids, neighbors, cousins . . . and, uh oh, clients. I’m a freelance copywriter and want to remain in good standing with my clients so I, like many other vendor/client relationships, plan on bribing them with extravagant gifts for the holidays. You see, lobbying isn’t restricted to Washington. We all do it, every holiday season. I know how it works. As
We did it! Twenty-six guests: kids, cousins, sisters, aunts, a boyfriend, uncles, buffers, the Reverend-Doctor, a couple in-laws, friends, grandparents, and even an estranged Great-Aunt Thanksgiving crasher and still, Thanksgiving was great! Kids connected, turkey was eaten, pies were baked, cards were played, memories mocked, photos taken, and it was all so blissfully calm and bright. I don’t mean to brag, but . . . No one threw dishes. No
There’s one less middle school student in my town today. One less Boy Scout, one less baseball player. One less swimmer. One less brother. One less son. A boy died and our hearts broke. Time stood still while moms, dads, neighbors, teachers, coaches, and friends tried to negotiate the traffic jam of gossip and rumors and finally, sadly, truth. Sometimes you can do everything right and still nothing is okay.
One evening, (okay, perhaps more than just one) after dinner when the kids neglected, yet again, to clear the table, I lost it. “What’s your deal?” I yelled at no one in particular. Ranting and raving I went off on the deal we had, Dad and I cook, they set and clear. Simple, right? Yet they didn’t follow through, again, so I explained how I ask them to do
The energy was palpable at 7:30 this morning when I cast my vote for Obama. No long lines, but a constant whirlwind of people coming in, going out. All exercising their voting right, all walking with a purpose, all driven. I heard that earlier, at 6:00 am, the line was wrapped around one school with people already waiting, but that had eased by the time I showed up. My sister
My kid rips open her first-ever paycheck and her jaw drops. “Where’s my money?” she demands. Apparently, she was expecting more. Her and me both. That’s the thing about R-Js. The real jobs deduct real taxes, something babysitting, mowing lawns, dog walking, tutoring, and the wrath of other teen beats fail to do. Her iTune purchasing power greatly diminished, and she has yet to realize the reality of mortgage payments,
Kid number 1 starts her first R-J today. Her first real job. I tend the think the $15/hour she got tax-free for math tutoring was an RJ, or the exorbitant amount of cash desperate parents force into her pockets each weekend — again, under the table — for an evening out is, perhaps not an RJ, but a great cash none-the-less. Today she starts checking and bagging groceries at the