Patience.....

Some resolutions are keepers.  And so, once again, I will examine the concept of patience.

It is too much to ask that I resolve to become more patient.  Resolutions should target the possible, as TBG phrased it when constructing the sentence was more than I could manage.  Target the possible, not ask for the impossible.  I know myself all too well - becoming more patient would be frustrating and impossible.

I have held this resolution for over a decade; it comes into play most often in check out lines.  I stand behind women (and it's always women) who take each item out of the cart separately, placing each item with care and concern on the conveyor belt, watching each item as it is rung up and flung into a plastic sack (because she never ever ever carries a reusable bag of her own), and then, when the cashier smiles and tells her the total, she takes her purse off her shoulder and begins to look for her checkbook (and it's always a checkbook).  And I wait.  And I wait.  And I wait.

Can you feel the fury rising as I type?  Asking me to become patient is patently absurd.  It's not in me.

But what is in me is the power to rise above it.  I know this is true because there have been moments over the last ten years when I found myself smiling at a situation which normally would send me into a tizzy.  Those moments don't happen often, but when they do, they remind me that I am capable of change, that I ought to try harder, that feeling happy is better than being aggravated.

I can make myself happy by imagining a beautiful scene.  I listened to a podcast with Esther Sternberg, an immunologist who's done work on the interactions between healing and one's immediate environment.  Citing research showing quicker, happier healing when facing a wooded area rather than a brick wall, she wonders why the word placebo is always qualified with just.  If it works, why denigrate it?  And why can't it be more than a placebo?  Why can't it have actual, psychological and physiological effects?  Her work on this is fascinating and translational; it goes from the laboratory to the mainstream with little effort.

And so, today, when some fool needed to pull out of the parking lot, cross two lanes of traffic, and end up going ten miles below the speed limit after cutting me off, I pictured the native grasses along Rte 79, with the sun fading and the light glowing in what Little Cuter, in her professional photographer mode, calls the golden hour.  I was still furious, but I was smiling through my rage.

This is a resolution worth renewing.

Guns....

To get them out of the way, first.

I never thought about them very much before one catapulted me into the limelight.  After all, short Jewish girls from New York don't get shot..... do they? Until my body intersected with bullets, I knew no one who had ever been shot.  Since my perforation, though, my world is peopled with such individuals.

We are old and young and every color of the rainbow and every variation of belief system and we all believe the same thing - some people should not be wielding weaponry.

We come to that conclusion from a variety of political perspectives.  There are liberal Jews and Conservative Christians who agree that being excluded from the military for mental health reasons should be sufficient evidence that one's right to bear arms should be abridged.  After all, if an organization created to use weapons of death decides that you should not be around those weapons, even within the confines of their institution, why should the rest of us allow you to walk around, armed to the teeth?

Yes, I know that making and creating that list raises the hackles of many, but the same kinds of lists exist for drivers' licenses and marriage licenses and pet ownership and, somehow, the world manages to revolve on its axis, skewed neither left nor right by the maintenance of a registry of those who live in connubial bliss or drive atop our (crumbling) infrastructure or take Pooch to the park.

If Second Amendment supporters cannot agree that the military knows more about weapon safety than they do, there is truly no arguing the point.  It seems pretty straight forward to me - if the Army doesn't want you, Cabella's should sell you a gun.

There are lists and registries and procedures in place, but the funding is lacking, the reporting sporadic, and so shooters like ours stroll into and out of the gun sellers with impunity.  Ours, like so many others, was a preventable crime, if only the existing rules had been followed.

That fact alone makes me crazy.

I don't believe that our shooter had the mental capacity or social skills to acquire an illegal weapon; he was barely able to manage his activities of daily living. And then, there were the bullets.  There were two, legally mandated, opportunities to thwart his rampage; the system failed and Christina-Taylor died.

Are we really that much safer in the ten years since the assault weapons ban was not renewed?

Extended magazines give bad guys more bullets than law enforcement; where is the logic in that?

If the Marines start marching down your street, do you honestly believe that you and your stockpile of weapons can stop them?

I signed up for a monthly donation to Gabby and Mark's Americans for Responsible Solutions, because their strategy works.  I will create an easy to find list of my representatives on the state and local levels, on paper and on-line.  I am wearing my orange American flag pin on my sweater today, and I will wear it every day from now on.  I am conquering my fear and making a stand.

What will you do?

What Happened

It was really really really cold.

Big Cuter and I covered the plants on Christmas night, and the sheets were still there tonight, Sunday, as TBG and I took out the recycling and the trash.  I love my sweaters, the few which have survived years of closet purging, and that's a good thing.  I had many opportunities to wear them this week.

When it's warmer in Illinois than it is in Arizona, it's time to consider that global climate change may just be a reality.
*****
New thoughts were considered.

Big Cuter brought us Slate's notion that a chubby, white, bearded man as the icon of the season excludes most of the population.  Why should Santa be another instance of reinforcing I'm different?

Of course, the article suggests replacing the fellow in red with a penguin...... and I'm sorry, but that just doesn't work for me.
*****
Social justice made an appearance.

Let Santa give your kids the modest gifts; tag the expensive ones From Mom and Dad. Not every family can afford new iPads; don't add a layer of confusion to a poor child's Christmas morning as he wonders why Santa dropped a big screen tv off at Richie Rich's house while he got a bag of M&M's.

I don't remember where I heard it, but it stopped me in my tracks.  It's a simple fix, requiring little if any mental gymnastics.  It's something that's obvious, once it's mentioned.  It's kind of embarrassing that I didn't think of it years ago.
*****
Old friends made a surprise appearance.

TBG and I have spent many Christmases with the Golden Gopher.  We walked to the Episcopal church just down Fullerton, in the snow, caroling with TBG's parents, one Christmas Eve in the 1970's, and we welcomed him and Mrs. Gopher this year for dinner with our son.  The Gophers were on vacation in Tucson, and we all agreed that the best gift we could share was being together.

There's something beyond wonderful about 40 plus years of holiday memories.
*****
Big issues were discussed.

The Golden Gopher took on Governor Ice Cream over his knee-jerk reaction to the resettlement of refugees..... in a newspaper interview.  The kerfuffle was meaningless - it was all bluster and no action - but noses were put out of joint and ripples were felt.

We all agreed that one of the best parts of getting older is the opportunity to retire.
*****
Much love was shared.

Friends and neighbors and teachers and family..... brownies were given and hugs were taken and there's still more joy to come.  I'm in a retrospective mood, considering the past, looking at how it will impact my future. Listen in over this week as I make a plan.

Merry Merry Happy Happy

By now, this is an annual tradition.
Sing well, denizens, and keep shining your light.

I give you, today, my all-time favorite Xmas carol, 
courtesy of Walt Kelly and Pogo. 
Sing loudly and lustily to the tune of Deck the Halls.....

Deck us all with Boston Charlie,
Walla Walla, Wash., an' Kalamazoo!
Nora's freezin' on the trolley,
Swaller dollar cauliflower alley-garoo!

Don't we know archaic barrel
Lullaby Lilla Boy, Louisville Lou?
Trolley Molly don't love Harold,
Boola boola Pensacoola hullabaloo!

Bark us all bow-wows of folly,
Polly wolly cracker 'n' too-da-loo!
Donkey Bonny brays a carol,
Antelope Cantaloupe, 'lope with you!

Hunky Dory's pop is lolly gaggin' on the wagon,
Willy, folly go through!
Chollie's collie barks at Barrow,
Harum scarum five alarm bung-a-loo!

Dunk us all in bowls of barley,
Hinky dinky dink an' polly voo!
Chilly Filly's name is Chollie,
Chollie Filly's jolly chilly view halloo!

Bark us all bow-wows of folly,
Double-bubble, toyland trouble! Woof, woof, woof!
Tizzy seas on melon collie!
Dibble-dabble, scribble-scrabble! Goof, goof, goof

(Picture is from Robert Sabuda's The Night Before Christmas Pop-Up Book)

It's Christmas Eve

And I am up at 6:20am to go to the eye doctor.
Sometimes, being a Jewish girl helps on Christmas Eve.  I have no childhood memories of my own to honor.
So I go to have dilated pupils, see Star Wars, and play with Amster and the kids and my big kid.
Happy Happy.
Merry Merry.

Three Days and I'm Boring Myself

Hillary's looking motherly.  Trump is looking angry.  Ted Cruz is looking creepy.

My tree is looking lovely.  My son on the couch is a delightful sight.  My husband's smile as he watches me elf-ing warms the cockles of my heart.

And so, with my last gift wrapped and delivered, I'm taking the night off.

Have a lovely day, denizens.  Keep searching for the light; I do believe it is all around us.
*****
If you want to read some more, click on over to where Big Cuter and I were, 5 years ago yesterday, listening to the Tuvan Throat Singers.

Four Days to Christmas - Consolidating My Gains

I drove up to Mesa/Gateway Airport this morning, picking up Big Cuter and meeting TBG at the Premium Outlet Mall near home for lunch four hours later.  It was peaceful in the car, listening to Pandora's Holiday Jazz channel and cruise controlling along at 6 miles above the speed limit.

The three cars racing one another outside Casa Grande were sitting sheepishly on the side of the road several miles after they zoomed past me.  The cavalcade of motorcycles flying giant American flags, flashing lights, accompanying a big white hearse and official cars with blinking Mars Bars on their roofs speeding by us in the other direction caused all of us to slow down, just a touch.

With those two exceptions, everyone was staying to the right, passing on the left, obeying the somewhat-expanded speed limit.  The sun was overhead, there was no breeze to speak of, and my boy was behind the wheel.

It was a lovely, lovely, morning.

We shopped for TBG, I did some last minute gift grabbing, and I came home to five packages awaiting.  This year's White House ornament (Calvin Coolidge's tree) along with snacks and treats and boxes for under our tree, taped and wrapped and filled with love.

Now Big Cuter is out with a friend, TBG is watching Monday Night Football, and I am eyeing the last few presents in need of wrapping.  I have four books to read, no more brownies to bake, and sunshine in the forecast.

Life is good.

Five Days Before Christmas

These ornaments need hangers.

I could unfurl paperclips 

(in homage to Daddooooo's ingenuity)

and, perhaps, I will.

For now, I am dealing with this:

The remnants of my elfing to date.  

I am finished, having done as much as I can do.

I will pack up the Hanukkah stuff,

but I will leave the rest for any elves who might wander through between now and Thursday night.

I will take TBG to the outlet stores tomorrow; 

he will choose athletic wear which I will then purchase and wrap.

He'll lift and spin in perfect comfort, having chosen exactly what he wanted.

He'll do the same for me at my favorite local boutique,

sitting in the same comfy chair he occupies each year, 

selecting an I'd-never-buy-it-for-myself-sweater 

that I surprise myself by wearing everywhere for the next year.

There's not a lot of surprise,

and that's just fine with us.

*****

For Megan:

This is the 27 year old paper plate angel made by Little Cuter.

I never looked at it without remembering our friends' basement,

the kids at little tables and big tables,

glue and glitter and sparkly paper everywhere.

The grown ups were upstairs,

but the fun and the really good snacks were in the basement.

Deadline is Today for 4 Free Disney Passes

If you go to the Jean Knows Cars Facebook page, you'll see that she is offering four one-day Disney Park passes to the winner of the Tell Me A Road Trip story contest.

I know Jean.  This is not a scam.

There are a couple of interesting stories already written; why not add yours?

The deadline is MONDAY DEC 21.

9 Days Before Christmas - The Tree

Megan asked for pictures, 

and so pictures she shall have.

There are still ornaments to be placed.

Each has a story, 

from the California Colleagues who keep us up-to-date on the White House collection,

to the couple who were married Christmas weekend, several decades ago.

We've lost track of them, but their gift-to-guests ornament reminds me of a lovely Chicago winter evening at the Three Arts Club in Chicago. 

The boxes are back in the garage and the floor is swept.

I'm taking a minimalist approach to the back of the tree this year.

It received lights but no ornaments.  

I only see three-quarters of the decor, and I don't store anything I don't want to see.

I put up everything I have, each one with a memory.

They made me replace Little Cuter's paper plate angel tree topper after 27 years of service. 

Santa's more where I am right now, I think.

There's a definite dearth of wise men following any star I can find.

Ten Days and Counting

There's one last round of brownies to be mailed. There will be several trips around town to distribute the love locally. I'm making small bags to hand out to the pool guys and the mail carriers and the FedEx and UPS people. Everything I own smells of chocolate.

There are worse fates.

It was chilly as I went around town yesterday afternoon. The sun came out (finally) and it stopped raining (finally) and it was time to buy my tree (finally).

I stopped in at WallyWorld first, because they always have the best prices on Christmas trees. They were sold out. Apparently, last year they were stuck with too many trees on December 26^th, so this year the manager ordered only 140 of them. They were gone on Tuesday. I had a small grinch attack, laughing with the salesman at myself.

I went to the locally owned family farm tree lot, which, it turns out, isn't exactly local. The trees and the salesman were from Oregon. This company has lots all over town, all of them advertising themselves as Tucsonans, or, at least, Arizonans. Oregon is not local, and the prices matched the sign – outrageous. I wanted a 5-6 foot Douglas fir; the taller-than-TBG seller unfurled one towering over his head as he insisted it was just a bit over five feet. Sorry, sir. I am a bit over 5' (just a little bit, but still, a bit) and that tree was going on double my size. I don't want pressure when I'm tree shopping. I want love. I left.

I drove around the block to the Faith Community Church, where Mr. 10 and I had shopped for my fir many years ago. The same delightful children were the salesforce, raising money for their summer trip to Church Camp in Mesa. There was a fire pit to take the chill off, and a raft of beautiful trees standing, open and glorious, well watered and smelling of the season.

What kind of tree are you looking for, Ma'am?

A perfect tree.

Well, we have a few of those, I think.

That's what I was looking for. Someone to enter into the spirit of the spree. With no children by my side, I had to make my own fun. Pandora's myriad holiday channels had me humming and singing in the parking lot and the church kids' enthusiasm took the edge off WallyWorld and Not-Very-Local tree lots.

The Uuv is large enough to carry a tree inside, and the king size sheet we wrapped around the branches kept all but three or four needles neatly packaged. Of course, Perfect Patty had just finished mopping the floors when I arrived home with the tree, but the broom and the vacuum made short work of the mess we created as we dragged the Douglas fir from the garage to the living room.

It sat in the corner, relaxing into its new home, as TBG and I watched television and inhaled the aroma. The branches drooped. More needles fell. We admired the symmetry and the deep green color, TBG offering advice as I sat on the floor with the Felco pruners, trimming the straggling lowest branches. This morning I put on the lights, wondering as I do every year, if there were enough of them.

To my eye, there are never enough. To TBG, it always looks perfect.

The box of ornaments, the box of nutcrackers, the box of serving platters and napkins and fancy paper plates are open and emptying. He'll watch tv and offer compliments as I stroll down memory lane, trimming the tree with gifts from family and friends, collected over the 40 years of our marriage.

There will be more in this vein in tomorrow's post, unless I am distracted by Ben Carson's moment of silence, or by Donald Trump's refusal to answer questions, or by Jeb Bush's world's-most-boring-man imitation. We shall see.

Twelve... Eleven...Ten Days Before Christmas

We're in transition around here.

FlapJilly and her parents flew back to their lives in the much-warmer-than-it-was-here-in-the-desert-this-weekend northern climes.

Hanukkah's blue and white and silver decorations have been returned to their box in the garage.

The red and green candles came out.  A tree was purchased.  Eight pans of brownies were baked, packed and mailed.  

I need a moment to clear my head.  I need to decide whether to take on the Republicans.  I need to decide whether to discuss ground troops in a land war in the Middle East. I would like to revel in the season, as so many Facebook friends do, by avoiding the real world for a few days of peace and joy.

I'm entitled to some confusion, I think.  After all, the still-to-be-born baby Jesus and his parents were on their way to be counted - Oh, no! Big Government! - two thousand and some years ago right now.
I have to think that Mary and Joseph would rather have been nesting and anticipating their new arrival with joy than traveling by ass to an overcrowded metropolis.  It's a quandary, denizens, that has long standing roots.

I'm going to muck around in it for a while.  We'll see what the next ten days bring.

Is This What It's Come To?

The pro-gun forces have a new tactic - let's arm everyone.  Instead of decrying lists and bans and gun-free-zones, they are in favor of guns everywhere.  After all, you never know when the bullets might start flying; it's best to be prepared.

The fact is that the lone armed good guy when I was shot kept his sidearm holstered, choosing a plastic lawn chair as his weapon.  Afraid of being identified as a shooter by first responders, afraid of hitting an innocent, this well-trained, long time gun owner never fired a shot.

Yes, I saw the news clip from February, 2014, applauding the mother who repelled 3 young men, returning home invaders who had been terrorizing her neighborhood for months, by warning them and then firing her small assault weapon - a gift from her husband after the thugs first visit, two weeks earlier. They were captured soon after.  I'm glad she and her children are safe; I wonder why the police were so quick to nab the perpetrators after months of failure.... or were they even trying at all?  If the neighborhood had been under siege for all that time, I'd think the police chief would be apologizing for the fact that a mom had to do his officers' job, rather than complimenting her on "doing everything right."

People are fleeing Syria because the bullets are flying.  It's not that much different here, it seems.

I spent three wonderful days watching a little one grow.  She feels safe and secure (even more so when clinging to her mother) and so did I and now not so much and I'm just not certain that I can imagine her world, where small arms training is part of kindergarten.

This is not the way it was supposed to be.  There were so many of us, Baby Booming along, preaching peace and love and understanding.  Where has that energy gone?  Why are the loudest voices those espousing divisiveness and hatred?  George Wallace made a lot of noise, but so did Eugene McCarthy.  Is it that the Democrats don't have the drama and therefore the air time? Is it that Donald J Trump and the even scarier Ted Cruz make better tv?

Is this what it's come to?