Happy New Year! Happy New Year? Happy New Year.

QUESTION: Am I old?
ANSWER: Yes, yes I am.

For my New Year's celebration, I'm going to take a nice, long, UNinterrupted bubble bath. Then, when I'm warm and cozy in my PJ's I'm going to cuddle up on the couch with a fuzzy blanket and watch my favorite episodes of The Office on DVD. I will hopefully doze off, chuckling myself to sleep. I don't need champagne or loud parties or resolute, life altering plans. Just Dwight K. Schrute.


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"That's the American Dream. You can go to sleep and start new the next day." -Michael Scott

Paris: Heiress or Hairless?

It's a good thing Paris has a therapist, a backup therapist and back up to the back up therapist. Can you imagine the coping mechanisms she's going to employ to deal with this news? Her inheritance has been sliced from $100 million to a paltry $5 million.

I do like Barron Hilton, aka grandpa, who has bequeathed 97 percent of the family fortune to charity. He also has a cool name. Of course, this comes at a cost to us, the American consumer.

In order to make up for the lost money, she'll be forced to hawk more wares (because her CD was a huge hit) like perfume-Ode de DUI, armpit enhancement, her self help book, "How to get out of the Klink in a Blink," the Rail-N-Jail rice and seltzer water diet, educational games PhD (Paris Hilton, Duh!), Paris Hilton text language (lots of hearts), her name copyrighted as a verb (as in...she stole her boyfriend. She got Parissssed), electronic ankle monitors in the season's brightest colors like jumpsuit orange and temper tantrum teal, her own rival hotel chain: The Hotel California, and a helpful hint to parents everywhere, the must have video series "What Not to Put on YouTube."

In the name of charity and for the greater good, we, as a people must tolerate the onslaught of Paris Paraphernalia. The girl has a right to eek out a living, you know.

I can tolerate almost anything if I know the would be hair extension money is now providing for the homeless. That's money well spent.

December 27, 2007

Wow, such sad news today. I didn't hear until this afternoon that former prime minister of Pakistan, Benazir Bhutto, has been assassinated.

No, I'm not Pakistani, or any sort of middle east political pundit, but I remember years ago being enamored with her. She was striking in appearance. I can recall sitting in a little office cubicle poring over newspaper articles about her strength and her political family. Her father, also a prime minister, was hanged in 1979. Both of her brothers were assassinated, one possibly by her husband.

In 1988, at age 35, she became the first female prime minister of a modern Muslim country. She survived several political coups, eight years in exile, corruption charges and several attacks on her life. For a brief history on the life of Benazir Bhutto, read next month's issue of Parade magazine.

In the upcoming January elections Bhutto promised to help restore democracy. Now the choices seem to be the lesser of two evils.

Assassinations and death threats come with the job description of 'world leader.' But today's events are especially ugly. Is it because she's a woman? A mother? Or is it because she's a stable mind in a country ripe with nuclear weapons?

***********

For a happier story, check out this US soldier who adopted an Iraqi boy.

A Conflicted Christmas Message

All seven of us were sitting around the dinner table for once this week. Yes, I even cooked. Sensing the opportunity to do some 'meaningful' teaching, I asked the kids the mother of all leading questions: "What is your favorite part of Christmas?" Duh.

"Gifts! Presents!" shouts Ethan, 6. Just as quickly he gasps and squishes up his face and yells "God! It's Jesus' birth." He spits it out as if he's answering the final Jeopardy question and wants to quickly answer before the theme music stops and he is disqualified.

His reaction reminded me of my conflicting attitude toward God, like the odd, young boy, Ruller, in The Turkey. In Flannery O'Connor's short story the anti-hero is a young boy who, not one to taste success, finds a turkey in the woods. Sensing the blessing of God he proudly marches through town like a war hero, wondering who he might in turn, bless with his own generosity. When Ruller is stopped by some country boys and the turkey is stolen his own low self image is verified and he again slinks back into the sorrowful existence that began both his day and his life.

Ruller stands and watches the boys take his turkey until he suddenly realizes that it's now dark and he begins to run toward home. O'Connor ends the story with these words, "He ran faster and faster and as he turned up the road to his house, his heart was running as fast as his legs and he was certain that Something Awful was tearing behind him with its arms rigid and its fingers ready to clutch."

What a weird perception of God-that he is fickle, unpredictable and will take away as quickly as he gives. This perception seems to be compounded around the holidays. If you have a lot of loot; God likes you. If you don't, you've done something wrong. It's kinda like God is a year-round Santa Claus with an everlasting naughty and nice list.

In Abbas Child by Brennan Manning he writes "...Our God, it seems, is One who benevolently gives turkeys and capriciously takes them away. When He gives them, it signals His interest in and pleasure with us...When He takes them away, it signals His displeasure and rejection."

It's as if I have something good and fun and delightful, but look around the corner just to make sure God doesn't see me having fun. I know all the Sunday School answers. I was raised an evangelical poster child. I know flannel graph Jesus, the one who sticks to the board wearing the flowing robes and full beard.

Sometimes God seems just like that. Like he's either lurking, waiting for me to slip up so he can take away all the good things in life, or, like a pretend image that sticks to felt.

Songwriter Rich Mullins wrote a song called Hard to Get, which I relate to often. Sometimes God is hard to get.

<blockquote>You who live in heaven
Hear the prayers of those of us who live on earth
Who are afraid of being left by those we love
And who get hardened by the hurt

Do you remember when You lived down here where we all scrape
To find the faith to ask for daily bread
Did You forget about us after You had flown away
Well I memorized every word You said

Still I'm so scared, I'm holding my breath
While You're up there just playing hard to get

You who live in radiance
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in skin
We have a love that's not as patient as Yours was
Still we do love now and then

Did You ever know loneliness
Did You ever know need
Do You remember just how long a night can get?
When You were barely holding on
And Your friends fall asleep
And don't see the blood that's running in Your sweat

Will those who mourn be left uncomforted
While You're up there just playing hard to get?

And I know you bore our sorrows
And I know you feel our pain
And I know it would not hurt any less
Even if it could be explained

And I know that I am only lashing out
At the One who loves me most
And after I figured this, somehow
All I really need to know

Is if You who live in eternity
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in time
We can't see what's ahead
And we can not get free of what we've left behind
I'm reeling from these voices that keep screaming in my ears
All the words of shame and doubt, blame and regret

I can't see how You're leading me unless You've led me here
Where I'm lost enough to let myself be led
And so You've been here all along I guess
It's just Your ways and You are just plain hard to get.

Sometimes Christmas makes me think, why do we celebrate what we don't understand? Are we really happily celebrating the birth of a Savior or dutifully doing so to avoid 'Something Awful'?

Fourteenth century mystic Julian of Norwich wrote, "Our courteous Lord does not want his servants to despair because they fall often and grievously; for our falling doesn't not hinder him in loving us."

Somewhere in the layers of anxiety, self loathing, depression, narcissism and shame, my soul can hear the words from God:

"Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you, I have called your name, you are Mine. You are precious in My eyes because you are honored and I love you...the mountains may depart, the hills be shaken, but my love for you will never leave you and my covenant of peace with you will never be shaken." (Isaiah 43:1,4:54:10).

Perhaps we understand more than we think we do or even want to admit. And celebrating just the holiday without the holy day is an insult.

..."and he shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace." Isaiah 9:6

If you look closely, you can see Ethan's definition of Jesus is 'The Prince of Pees.'

I'm not sure why he's a duck.

December 24: Neighbors, Cookies and Anticipation

Merry Christmas Eve from the Farm!

We don't actually live on a farm but we live by lots of farms which qualifies me to say that. No, I didn't make these cookies, but my very nice neighbor did, the real farmer. She brought them over to us and I thought they were cute.

That's a great part of this season-cookies, neighbors and anticipation.

PS Yes, I know it's a camel, but it could be a horse with scoliosis.

Five minus One equals FOUR!

I always head count. 1,2,3,4,5. 1,2,3,4,5. 1,2,3,4,5. It's a reflex. It only occurs to women. There is no cure. This weekend, us Presbyterian churchgoers made a guest appearance at my sister's Pentecostal church for their Christmas program. As is usually the case, some sort of minor catastrophe forced us into plan B: Separate departures in separate vehicles.

Kevin and I drive separately so at least one of us can give the impression of being on time. Thankfully, they are Pentecostals so the starting time is a suggestion for 'whenever the Spirit moves.' So we walk in and there's still singing and movement and we can find a seat relatively undetected.

To make a long story more complicated, we don't really meet until after the service where we're reunited just in time to separate and depart for home, which we do. I take my EXACT same entourage. Kevin takes his riders, or so I assume.

I arrive home a few minutes before Kevin's trolley. When he walks into the house with one less family member than is expected, I immediately ask the obvious question, "Where's Dylan?" And with that complex inquiry the communication begins to break down.

"What do you mean where's Dylan?" he says.

I, thinking this is an elementary inquisition which should not confound, ask another obvious question, only much louder than the first.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'WHAT DO I MEAN?' That question may look like a grammatical quagmire but those who have argued extensively with a man know what I mean.

Kevin: "I thought YOU had Dylan." {said loudly}.

Me: "No, I thought YOU had Dylan." {said not only louder but also much s-l-o-w-e-r so as to enforce comprehension}.

This is the first time in 12 years we've left a kid somewhere unintentionally. It's really quite miraculous we don't do it more often. Anyway, Dylan lucked out and went out to lunch with my sister, who saw him wandering the church. My family got a little chuckle out of it and it will become a joke with no expiration date.

At least it was at church. There's a lot worse place to leave your kid. For instance, my sister was left at a funeral home. Can you imagine going to lunch with that company?

It's All in the Interpretation

Thanks to my cousin Holland for pointing out that if you misread the word 'long' in the below post and mistakenly interpret it as 'thong' it becomes a completely different story. I was not shopping for a thong with fringe for my mother.

Speaking of interpretations, I attended the kids' Christmas program at school last week. This has become, shall we say, a labor of love, to attend year after year. (No, I'm not the Grinch, I take pictures and applaude and smile but come ON).

This year we have a new elementary choir director and she didn't know the program was supposed to be 2 1/2 hours long. She thought it was supposed to be 45 minutes. The audience was visibly giddy when she announced the closing number a mere 110 minutes earlier than anticipated.


The children provided excellent, quality music, spiritual refreshment and unintentional entertainment. The highlight of my night was watching the adorable kindergartener in the front row with giant pink bows in her stubby, blonde pigtails. She clearly did not appreciate having to spend her Friday night singing Christmas carols.

She continued to sing, however, loudly and demonstrably, with her arms folded across her chest and her cute little face all cinched up into a scowl that lasted most of the night. It was kind of like an elastic drawstring. It started off fine but then someone pulled the string and everything tightened up into one giant scowl. It could not be undone without significant effort.


When it came time for "Go Tell it on the Mountain" she sang as loudly as her little mouth would open, keeping her eyebrows furrowed in the drawstring scowl, arms across chest, one on top of the other. She scowled to the right, scowled to the left and scowled at the audience. But she was still singing, doggone it.

When I looked at her and she was telling me to, "Go Tell it on the Mountain," I got the impression she had an entirely different interpretation.

Mother on Motorcycle (M.O.M)

During the holiday shopping rush I found myself browsing cautiously through racks of leather chaps and hair tubes. I was in a motorcycle shop called Iron Pony. Had I wandered too far from the mall? Was I delirious? High on white chocolate latte? Yah, but that's beside the point. Why Iron Pony? I was on a mission to find leather fringe-the long, dangling kind that bikers string from their chopper handlebars.

Again you ask why? I was Christmas shopping for my mother. MY MOTHER! My 55-year old mother went and got herself a motorcycle. And not just a little scooter. A big, roaring, fluorescent blue, Hell's-Angels-type beast. We used to talk about children and shopping and what we might cook if either of us knew how to cook. She now speaks a sub-culture language, peppering her conversations with words like 'pipes,' 'ride' and 'ape hangars.'

I really didn't think she'd follow through with her threat to become a motorcycle mama. But now here she is, tooling around town, draped in black leather, flashing a temporary tattoo. I am proud of her for passing her bike test and getting the license and all, I just wonder how long before I have to go break up bar fights with rival biker gangs.

What's next? A guest spot on Happy Days as Pinky Tuscadero? Perhaps a Biker Grandmother clothing line? I wasn't allowed to have so much as a moped, let alone a motorcycle. What's going on here? To top it off, some senior guys, who happened to see my mother at school one day, have designated my mother as a 'hottie.' Not disturbing. Not disturbing at all.

What happened to all the grandmas? A grandma should be in the kitchen wearing an apron that sits just below a saggy bosom, smelling like baked cookies and old people. Of course, my mother has never made homemade cookies in her life, but there's a first time for everything, right, Pinky?

24 Actor Becomes 48 Day Prisoner?

Jack Bauer is a good prisoner?! The Russians couldn't catch him, the terrorists can't touch him and the Chinese barely had him. But the LA County jail makes him serve chicken a la king. Hmph. How long before he snaps and makes someone eat their own finger or interrogates someone with a deadly Seszhuan sauce? How do you spell Sezchuan anyway?? Seshoowan.

I am mildly surprised Sutherland is expecting to serve his entire 48 day sentence for DUI. At least he's not pitching a Paris tantrum. That would be very unbecoming, Jack.

Go Elf Yourself.

Yes, you too can look this ridiculous.

www.elfyourself.com


Sudden the wee Elf
Smiled a wee smile,

Tugged till the toadstool
Toppled in two.
Holding it over him
Gaily he flew.

-Oliver Herford (1863–1935), poet. The Elf and the Dormouse (l. 15–20). . .

All I Want for Christmas is...another Christmas.

Hudson's Christmas wish list:

"A soccer ball
Hot Wheels
Light Sabre
Fake Credit Cards."

This kid's a genius. Why limit the possibilities? It's like when a genie appears and says you have three wishes. Why not wish for the power to grant wishes? That's my game plan for the moment when I happen to rub the right lamp.

In Hudson's six-year old mind, the fake credit cards are means to everyday Christmas.

Either that or I'm raising a future identity thief.