What I Really Want for Christmas

 Dear Santa, 

I've been a very good girl. I really have, but what I got for Christmas was far worse than a piece of coal. It was worse that being given a dress by your mother-in-law that doesn't fit. It made a gift of a vaccum cleaner look like child's play. It made the worse imaginable gift in a Dirty Santa/White Elephant game look like the Crown Jewels. 

Because Santa, all I want for Christmas (or the day after) is to be able to flush a toilet, or take a shower, or do my laundry, or run the dishwasher. 

Santa, you could fry an egg on my greasy head. 

You can probably smell me from the North Pole. 

My overflowing laundry hampers can be seen from outer space. 

And the toilet situation, Santa, I can't even go there...

A friend offered me access to her potty, but when ya gotta go, ya gotta go. 

Another friend offered to dig me a cat hole (if you know, you know) which after 48 hours is sounding like a better and better idea.

It was Christmas Eve morning. My plans were to put a few finishing touches on my preparations for the big day, filled with gratitude for not having lost power during the cold snap. I bustled around wrapping last minute gifts, humming Christmas carols, tidying up, and getting Mom going. I even washed a load of clothes. But then one of the toilets gave off an ominous gurgle.  After  husband and I consulted, I felt the first burst of terror. My trip to our crawlspace confirmed there was nothing amiss with those pipes, no cold spots, or moisture condensation. It was then, after I came out and headed back to the front of the house that we spotted a steady trickle of water escaping the sewer line cleanout. 

Our sewer pipes were frozen! 

Husband got on the phone and called our usual plumbing folks. I overheard via speakerphone the words "Monday Morning" and "standby." That's 48 hours with no toilet! In a household with a 97 year old! Horror. But what could we even do? 

Our neighborhood keeps a well-curated spreadsheet of home repair professionals and I tried each and every plumber. An independant plumber actually answered the phone and stepped through the symptoms with me. He kindly confirmed our theory, yet directed us towards an outfit with a rooter, as he did not do that work. So again I worked the phones. Christmas Eve. Trying to find a plumber. Impossible. 

My friend, Geri, had jokingly suggested a porta-potty and soon that seemed a good idea. A number of local folks offered "24/7 emergency" rental. Again, I worked the phone, leaving messages here and there. Unsurprisingly, I didn't even get a callback. 

At last I gave in.I reached deep for a can-do attitude. 48 hours was nothing. Our ancesters came to the New World on a ship. They didn't have flush toilets. The Pioneers crossed the plains, without a shower.  Did the female astronaut who drove 900 miles in a maximum absorbancy garment need a bathroom? OF COURSE NOT!  We COULD do this! 

Santa, while most of the kiddos on your list dreamt of suger plums, I dreamt of toilets. 

Christmas morning we alerted our sons and their spouses. I said they could just open gifts and scoot, but they gamely insisited on arriving at 9:30 am for brunch as planned. I offered an imodium  appetizer at the door. 

Santa, the spirt of  Chistmas did give us a lovely day. A good time was had by all and we headed to bed in a warm, happy state  of mind, despite our situation. I had been counting the hours and they were dwindling. Relief was in sight!

So this morning, I call our plumbing folks to verify our placement on the schedule. AND. WE. WERE. NOT. ON. THE. SCHEDULE. 

Not cool, Santa, not cool. 

But the dispatcher said they'd put us on standby. They said someone would come out today but they couldn't give us a time. I fear that means we will get a call at 5:00 pm that says they will get to us tomorrow. 

Another day without plumbing, Mr. Claus, feels like an eon. As I get greasier, and smellier, I’m asking one last time. 

Santa, please, bring me a plumber for the day after Christmas! 

PS, Santa. I have no actual preference as to age, color, shape, gender, etc. I just need a good one. 

PPS, Santa, hope you were good to ALL the plumbers on your list.They deserve it!

The Dag-Gum Turkey Plates

Let me start with a disclaimer. 

I generally took everything my mother-in-law said the wrong way.   

It's true. A big part of that was  my insecurity. After all, Earle's father was the head of the New York Coffee and Sugar Exchange and my mother-in-law, Eileen, lived within sight of New York City and traveled with him all over the world on his business trips.  In addition, she was trim and tasteful. She defined fashion in her time, studying at the French Fashion Academy and even publishing in Women's Wear Daily. She preferred the classics: cashmere, camel hair, houndstooth, and Ferragamos. She entertained, she wined and dined, she country-clubbed. 

In contrast, I was the daughter of a farmer from a town with less than 600 people, pets and farm animals included.

Of course, the other part of why I took things the wrong way were, ahem, clears throat, the actual things themselves.  The best example of this was 

"You shouldn't feel self conscious on the beach! There are plenty of women out here fatter than you are." 

Ah, you see the dilemma. 

So there was a big piece of me that felt like I just wasn't "good enough" in her books. She was constantly buying things she thought we needed, often when we had deliberately chosen otherwise. When I married I opted not to pick out a fine china patterns as I didn't want my guests to incur unncessary expense when gifting. Nor did I want the chore of handwashing or storing china or the risk of breakage! Keep It Simple, Sweetheart. Right? 

So Eileen gave me a full set of  elegant china. It looks lovely in my purchased-for-the-sole-reason-of-storing-that-china china cabinet and to this day it has never been used. 

And that's how it went. Over the years, the parade of (very generous!) gifts included crystal, pots and pans, towels, bedding, tableclothes, linen napkins, kitchen appliances, kitchen appliances, kitchen appliances. And as I thanked her for each and every gift with a smile and a hug a piece of me said "Am I not enough?" "Is our home not enough?" 

One year, Mom was so proud to give us TWO FULL SETS OF TURKEY DISHES. Yes, 12 place settings, bowls, gravy bowl, etc. Boxes upon boxes upon boxes to open, transport, store, wash, use, and lug up and down our stairs to a bin under the eves. And I dutifully drug them out, year after year, armloads and armloads, to be wrestled into the dishwasher in preparation for their use at one meal a year. 

I did not do this task with grace. 

I am ashamed to remember the very indignity of my attitude about these plates.They felt so excessive, so cumbersome, so, well, just kind of, ridiculous. Dishes for a single meal?And my slavish devotion to using them to please my mother-in-law was also part of my teeth gnashing irritation. 

But then, last January, we unexpectedly lost Eileen. The following Thanksgiving, for once. I chose to use my Fiestaware, selecting the orange, red and yellow pieces to lend an autumn flair to my dining room table. It was undoubtedly easier and just much more my style. Keep it Simple. Spend time on people, not things. 

But now, a year and what feels like a lifetime later, I see those plates for what they actually were to my mother-in-law: a way to celebrate family, to honor and elevate  Thanksgiving traditions, to have something her own family could not have afforded in her youth. They are the holders  of warm, nourshing food over which even warmer words are spoken. They help make our house our home, which, whether intentionally or unintentionally, is colored by our prior generations. And which in turn will color the homes of our own children. 

Even if, upon my demise, the turkey dishes one day go to the thrift store for a second chance at life. 

So this Thanksgiving, Eileen, I'm thankful for you.  For your attention to detail, your generosity, your elegance, your taste and your style. And for your efforts, all of them, to turn me into a better hostess and homemaker. Which though it sounds painfully anti-feminist it is instead, a way to say that you hoped to help me establish a warm and welcoming home. And that is, Eileen, a noble goal indeed. 

                                            

The Sixth Love Language

Unless you live under a particularly remote rock, you will have heard of the book (or at least the concept) The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman. By reading this book, (or taking this quiz) you will learn which of the "love languages" you use to show your love to your partner. Your partner in turn takes the quiz as well. The idea is that you can strengthen your relationship by understanding your partner's perferred way to receive affection, and vice versa. The five languages are words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch, acts of service and receiving gifts. As for me I'm satisfied with any/all of them, especially when Earle does an "act of service" and cooks me breakfast in bed both mornings every weekend. 

I had a front row seat to observe a happy marriage between two people who didn't need to read a relationship book. Jack and Mary Frances Draper were 37 and 35 respectively when I was born. In  my early days, their relationship occasionally had rough edges.  Raising childrn, caring for eldrely parents, Dad's job, the farm. Sometimes two smart, self-directed people had reason to disagree.  But when it did happen, I always saw the resolution to any moments of unrest: murmured words of apology, hugs, affirmation, simple kindnesses that always paved a loving way forward.  

But I also had the benefit of watching that love grow old, to see the edges worn soft by age. The apprection, love, and respect that flowed between my parents was thoughful and tender. 

But my Dad, who was an engineer by training and temperament, did a remarkable job of creating a Sixth Love Language. 

His perferred Love Language was Projects. 

And the best illustration I know involves sewing. 

My parents had no central air conditioning in their brick two story home in Seaboard, North Carolina. They relied on a attic fan which generated a major whoosh of a breeze, especially in the staircase. However, it didn't solve the problem, especially when life in the country included working in the garden, hanging clothes on the line, canning pickles and peaches, and blanching butterbeans for freezing, working in the yard, and farming. It was hot. And they sweated. And sweated. And sweated some more. 

After my dad retired, my mom decided that at her age it no longer mattered if she wore a sleeveless dress and every one saw her "fat" arms. She found a sleeveless shift (no pants, please!) and gave it a try. She loved it! Wash and wear and a whole lot cooler than the shirtwaist dress she usally adopted. Despite being  very fiscally responsible, ("tight as Dick's hatband" as she used to say,) she decided she needed a few more. A shopping jaunt to Roanoke Rapids was arranged to buy more. 

But she struck out. 

Mom just couldn't find more of what she was looking for. Not a single sleeveless shift. She was quite disappointed. 

But Dad saw her disappointment. Mom was a woman who "made do" and didn't complain but sleeveless dresses promised cooler days, and Dad could see the benefit of it. 

So, he began a Project. 

He took her sleeveless dress and spread it out on a long table and used it to fashion a dress pattern. He made allowances for darts and pockets. Then came a trip to seek out fabric, zippers, and edging. And then my Dad holed up in our guest room in front of his Sears sewing machine. 

Yes, his. Mom didn't sew a lick. Nor did I. But Dad's mom, Mabel Draper, was a seamstress without equal. There must be a sewing gene and in our home Dad had it. The same man who could often be found on a tractor or elbow deep in a motor. 

And he sewed, and he sewed, and he sewed. And much to my mom's delight, she found she had a whole wardrode of sleeveless dresses. More than a week's worth, maybe 12 or so. They were plaid and calico, and every color. And one even had the cutest little frogs. (We still have that one!) 

She lived in those dresses, for years.

And whenever we were out and about folks would ask Mom if she made her dress. 

And she would smile and puff herself up with pride and reply "No, Jack did." 

And that's love. Which has a language with a vast vocabulary all its own.  

The Corridor

In a long concourse, 

In a big hospital,

I spied a man pushing an

Empty gurney. 

As I came closer I saw  it carried a small clump of  brown fabric

Which suddenly moved!

A tiny soul nested in a soft blanket

On the expanse of pure white sheet, 

Kicking small legs and cooing small coos from tiny pursed lips. 

How carefully the attendant stepped to safeguard his precious load.

And behind him, a woman pushed a bulging carriage,

Completing the makeshift entourage. 

And Then, 

Approaching us down the sunlit hall,

Appeared an aged Nubian Queen being borne upon a liter.  

She was a bright jewel, her hair tucked into a many-hued headwrap,

Her robe glowing carmine and blue. 

She sat regally as if in a palanquin,

So surrounded by her Tribe that it was 

Impossible to see the means of her transport. 

She hovered, 

As if on a cloud of white. 

She cast her gaze upon the wriggling infant 

And saw the genesis of life. 

Her eyes softened and her round wizened face broke into a gentle smile

As she nodded a silent blessing from the old to the new

As they both traversed the

Fragile Intersection of  

The Corridors of

Life 

and 

Death. 

Return to Pants Mountain

 When my sons were tweens, and then teens, they hated shopping for clothes with a distain equal only to that held for having to sit through weddings, funerals, recitals, band performances, or god forbid, eating out. For years, I made a valiant effort to spare them the intense trauma of visiting a department store  by schlepping  home  multiple sizes of shirts, pants, and shoes, cajoling them into trying them on, then apologetically returning those that didn't fit. Even then, the "trying on" phase was a parental nightmare of demonic dimensions. 

It seemed every time I turned around the guys were wearing high waders again and we finally hit the wall. They had to go try on pants. In a moment of attempted parental humor, Earle and I riffed on the idea of a Disney World-type theme park filled with all the things our sons hated. There might be a Homework Hullabaloo, an Immunization Station, or a Haircut Hall of Fame. But the worst of these imagined nightmares was PANTS MOUNTAIN, a massive pile of jeans, khakis and slacks, waiting to be tried on. 

This became part of our family lingo. Shopping was visiting Pants Mountain. Projects, visiting grandparents for Sunday lunch, or helping with household chores weren't fun, but at least they weren't Pants Mountain. 

Well now, the worm has turned. 

What goes around, comes around. 

Or in other words, 

Karma's a bitch. 

Yesterday, I had to dash to Kohls to return an Amazon dress purchase which definitely did not make me look like the model I saw online. This was bad enough, that is to say,  seeing my "jelly roll" accented in all it's adipose glory. But while I stood in line behind a gentleman that was having trouble navigating to the Amazon return menu on his smartphone, I thought to myself, in for a penny, in for a pound. 

I was already out, actually in a department store, and could spare a moment. I desperately needed new pants. This was the ideal time to pick up a few pair. 

For anyone who has struggled with the scales as I have over the years, you may have a variety of jeans in different sizes and styles lurking in your closet. There are the high-waisted "mom jeans" that practically come up to your bosoms. There are the "low riders" that show an indecent amount of old lady underpants. And there are the pants that have some give. 

If you are the woman of a certain age and a certain size you know what I mean. They are kind to you when you've been to the Indian buffet. They hug you forgivingly during the holiday season. They grown and shrink with you as the scales move up and then down. 

I bought two nice pair of said pants in 2019. At first they seemed great. But now, they just aren't. The give had gave out and by the end of the day, I literally found myself tugging them up every few feet I walked. And to my horror, when bending over, they eased down my hips exposing my ample posterior in what is commonly referred to as a "plumber's crack." Ain't nobody needs to see that. 

So I gathered my courage and headed towards the sportswear section of Kohls.  

I had two primary areas to choose from and speed was of the essence since my mom was home without me. So I zipped over to the store brand, Sonoma, and grabbed a few pair, then dashed to the Lee section grabbing black capris and khakis. And finished at the huge Lee WALL OF JEANS. 

The Wall of Jeans is somewhat misleading. From a distance it looks like an orderly display but in fact it is chaos. 6s and 10s live side by size with 16s and 18s. There is no rhyme or reason to the arrangment and all one can do, is search pair by pair, like participating in a fiendish Roadblock from the Amazing Race. And add in the fact that really, you need a SHORT, makes your task that much harder. And when you then realize that you need to bend over, in public, in the aforementioned jeans, well, ain't nobody needs to see that. 

At last I found the Holy Grail, the size, style, color, and length of jeans I was looking for, added it to my stack, and headed to the dressing room across the store. 

There were only a few folks around and for that I am grateful. The groans and sighs escaping from my stall were those of despair and desperation. I tried the Sonomas first. They were about half the price of the Lees and made of a soft supple denim. They zipped fine, but they had no give. And no support. My "prosperous" tummy looked especially wealthy. I tried the next pair, which looked the same except the denim was striated  in such a way that it looked like cat's whiskers sprouting from either side of the zipper. WHAT the WHAT? I kicked them off as if they were live rattlesnakes.  Horrible. 

Then on to the Lees. The black capris were fine because, well, they were black and the khakis were serviceable. 

But when I tried on the Holy Grail, the Lee Ultra Luxe Straight Leg Denim Jeans, the birds began to sing. The sun came out. The pants hugged me where I needed to be hugged yet managed to stay up in for all critical movements which I performed in front of an unforgiving three way mirror. Serendipity. Joy. Relief. 

After changing back into my very bland leggings, I carried all three pair tenderly to the cashier where I tendered a $10 birthday coupon and a  25% off coupon. Once they were purchased and bagged, I carried them triumphantly to my car. 

I hope and I pray that the Lees and I will live happily ever after. 

Now if I could only get a Tshirt that reads "I SURVIVED PANTS MOUNTAIN."