'twas the Night Before Christmas

Originally published in 2010, but still holds true. . .

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Enzo was tearing up Paige’s stuffed mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
Until Enzo decided to rip down a pair;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
With visions of Enzo attacking their heads;
And Gracie in her collar, and I with no chap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When down in the living room there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Down each stair I flew like a flash,
Until I tripped on a toy, and received a great gash.

The moon wasn’t shining and the sky did not snow
I was greeted with discomfort from the havoc below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a fallen Christmas Tree and Enzo, my dear,

He ran from my reach, so lively and quick,
I spun in place and gave a high kick.
More rapid than eagles his legs they came,
And I whistled, and shouted, and called him a name;
"Now, Bastard! now, Moron! now, Enzo, you chicken!
I’ll send you to the pound with Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the couch! to the top of the wall!
He dashed away! dashed away! dashed away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When he met with an obstacle, I said, “Oh my!”,
Over the tree, he leapt and he flew,
He stomped on the toys and the ornaments too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard his big bark
He pranced and he pawed his way through the dark.
As I flipped on a switch, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur; Enzo got a hold on his foot,
And he fell on his back in the ashes and soot;
The bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
Flew around the room as Enzo attacked.

His teeth -- how they nibbled! his paws how they buried
Santa’s cheeks were like bonies, his nose like a cherry!
Enzo’s droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And on the beard of Santa’s chin Enzo had a great hold;
The stump of a pipe was chomped by his teeth,
And the paws of this Doberman encircled Santa’s head like a wreath;

Santa pushed Enzo off his little round belly,
They tussled and shook like a bowlful of jelly.
Pawing and pushing, right jolly old elves,
And I laughed when I saw them, in spite of myself;

A push on his snout, a paw on his head,
They played and they laughed on Enzo’s big bed;

When Enzo got tired, Santa went straight to his work,
Laughing while calling the dog a big jerk,
And laying his finger aside of Enzo’s nose,
And giving a shove, Enzo whined as he rose;

He sprang to his feet when Santa gave a whistle,
And flew to his crate like the down of a thistle.

I heard Santa exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to Enzo, and to Enzo good-night."

The White Board

So, the kids and I have taken to writing notes to each other on the white board.  Every day, I'll walk by and see a note from either Paige or Tony.  "Hi Mom, I love you, and Gracie, and Enzo and Jack-o-lantern (the pet caterpillar). . . just thought I'd let you know.  Love, Paige.  Or Tony will draw a picture of poop, and with an arrow, label it "Paige". 

The other day it was my turn.  I wrote, "My Dear Paige and Tony.  I ADORE you both.  I think you're AMAZING and AWESOME, and I am so thankful you're in my life.  ALWAYS.  Love, Mommy"

Last night, I tucked the kids in, and I walked by the white board.  Tony had mentioned that he wrote me a note after he came down from his shower, but I didn't have a chance to read it before then.  It read:

My Dear                      Tony,

I ADORE you                 .  I think Tony is AMAZING and AWESOME, and I am so thankful HE is in my life.  ALWAYS.  Love, Mommy.   P.S. Tony is my faverit.  Sorry Paige, but he is the BEST.

I fell into a sound sleep, giggling.  I can only imagine what Paige's response will be. . .

S.A.D.

Into yet another December, and last year I felt lousy, the year before I felt lousy and the three years prior to that I felt lousy.  I blamed it on the divorce, and then the deaths. 

Last year, I had been going through a health scare early in December, that carried into January.  And so, I had another thing to add to the misery of the month. 

Yet, as I look back on 2012, it wasn't as bad of a year as the last five or six.  I am employed at a company that I actually like, working with people I actually like, doing work I actually like.  I've been dating someone for the majority of the year, and although it's not the ideal dating arrangement (long-distance), it's working.  My kids are both exceling at school, and they make me giggle on a daily basis .

I'm tired, but I've been tired since I started working at the age of 14.  (It happens to people who never stop working -  ever - [ask any of my siblings]), so that doesn't explain the lousy feeling that this year is bringing.

A couple people close to me suggested that I might have that seasonal disorder, SAD.  (Seasonal A-something, D-something). Quite possible.

I mean, does this disorder/disease/disfunction/discombobulation allow people to dwell on the losses?  I guess that's what I've been doing lately, and it's all been subconscious. 

I think about my sister's 50th birthday coming up this week, and I reach for my cell phone to call Jeff to talk to him about the celebration. 

I walk into a restaurant (yesterday) and Frank Sinatra is singing a song (You and Me), and I immediately think of the time when I was about 13 and I played the song on the jukebox at Speedy's (a hometown hangout that used to be), while my dad was working in California and I recall the tears that ran down my mother's face as she stared at the jukebox and missed my dad. . . and I actually reached for my phone to call my dad to tell him of the memory.

"Dominick the Donkey" or "Lazy Mary" come up on my iPod and I am in my parents' basement watching my father sing the Italian words without a hitch, and seeing Jeff spinning Rocco around in his arms. . .

Does this SAD thingy do that?

So I suppose it's not the misery of the actual year (2012) that causes the sadness.  It's the misery of this life.  And maybe the SAD thingy just happens to coincide with the time of the year.  Maybe we should propose celebrating Christmas at a different time, or maybe we should say SAD is a bunch of nonsense. . .

We all bring baggage into the holidays, and I certainly wish the baggage I was carrying was whether Grandma's feelings would be hurt because nobody ate her god-awful fruitcake, or the drama came from my mother making up names of author's while we played board games; or even the over-indulgence of alcohol by one of my brothers or my father or all of us. 

I wish the baggage came from the drama of one of the couples in the family fighting.  I wish the drama came from the fact that I washed all the dishes, and somebody else sat on their ass.  I wish the drama came from my father screaming at the grandchildren to calm down.  I wish the drama came from my brothers fighting and one of them going through the two-plated window.  I wish, I wish, I wish. . .

I might have this SAD thingy, and I could shoot Vitamin D into my veins like an addict, but I very much doubt it would work. . .

Perhaps Tracy Chapman summed it up best when, in one of her down times (maybe she has SAD?), she wrote:  "For Christmas and for New Year's, I wish and I resolve. . . but I'm disappointed by myself, Jesus and Santa Claus. . ."

What Do You Love?

I cannot answer for all, but I know what I know:

*  I love the way the sky is sometimes pink and blue, sometimes purple, and sometimes new.

* I love the heart, the way it beats so kind, and though sometimes tender, it beats in rhyme.

(It beats in rhyme).

* I love that love can bring greatness forth and true, I love that I love everything it can do.

*  I love great spirits that interrupt my dreams; and I love my father, who has a way, it seems.

* I love that I wear jeans when I can, and when they're loose. . . it seems a great part of the plan.

* I love the idea that miracles are made, but I love even more that they happen every day.

(Every day).

* I love great writers, like my brother and some, who use big words, or nothing or none.

* I love the great stories of marriages bound, no divorces, no hurt, only happiness found.

* I love ampleness of love, to that be sure; but sometimes, I worry, that loneliness hurts.

* I love that I know that loneliness hurts, but am happy to know the loneliness cure.

(Love).

* I love that I love to write, no matter what.

* I love that I can, everyday or not.

* I love that I tried, and you read it all through; I love that I truly, honestly, love you!

(I do).

Pick a Topic

So, recognizing that it is fun to write, just to write, I sat down with the kids while they slurped and spooned rootbeer floats into their mouths, and asked, "What should I write about tonight?"  Paige piped up, "Oooh, write about how we're learning words every week!  Like, malev, uh, malevo, um, malevolent!"

I smiled, "Already wrote about that."  We all slumped, and thought.

"Oh, I know," Tony said, "you can write about how big my head is!"  That got a laugh, and I said, "Nope, already covered that topic too."  They both giggled.

"I could write about how poor Jack-o-Lantern (their pet caterpillar who refuses to make a cocoon!) is constantly ignored by his parents, and how your mom always has to take care of him. . ."  We all looked over at Jack-o-Lantern's habitat.  Then Paige grabbed the flashlight and ran outside to get him some fresh grass and leaves. 

When she got back in, she exclaimed, "Oh, you can write about how your bed doesn't squeak anymore!"

Back story:  my bed is a piece of crap.  I bought it cheap, shortly after the divorce, had two hoodlums from the furniture store put it together, and it has squeaked since I purchased it.  I got to the point, a couple months ago, where Gracie's fat ass tossing and turning some nights would make me think I was being attacked by a pack of machete-wielding mice, and so, on a Sunday afternoon, I grabbed all the spare screws I had lying around the house, plugged in my electric screw driver and screwed away. . . (not as fun as it sounds).  After a grueling couple of hours, I replaced the mattress, and had the kids test the squeaks.  They jumped on it, nothing.  So I invited Gracie up there and got her riled up.  No squeaks!  Awesome.  Right?  Yes, for a few weeks, even.  Then I decided to rearrange the bedroom, and in so doing, I loosened the thousands of screws, and though Gracie doesn't sleep on my bed too often, she did last night.  She shook her fat ass to get comfortable and the machete-wielding mice were back.

So, no, I couldn't write about that.

We sat and thought.  Thought and sat.

"How about. . . um, no." One of us would proffer, "Or maybe. . . nah."

"I could write about how yellow Tony's teeth are because he refuses to brush them unless I scream. . ." I offered.  Tony ran into the bathroom and started brushing.

"Or I could write about how it is 7 o'clock and neither of you are in your PJs, and settled for the tv show yet."  They both ran upstairs and got in their PJs.

Then my phone beeped, and a message came up:  "Cliff F. just played SongPop".

We all looked at the phone, took the turn, Paige screaming in my ear the answer she thought it was and Tony pushing whatever button he could as I glared at him.  After the loss, Paige said, "You could write about how you kicked Uncle Cliffy's butt on SongPop!"  I looked at her and said, "Yes, but I didn't.  He kicked mine."

"So?"  Then both of them giggled.

So, here I am still thinking about a topic to write about. . .  Any ideas?

You Never Know What You're Gonna Get

Sometimes, my brain hurts.  It's not a physical sensation at all.  It just gets muddled, and my thoughts move like ping-pong balls served and returned by Forrest Gump in the world ping-pong championship; and by the end of a day at work, after lobbing thoughts and ideas and answers back and forth, I just want to close my eyes and let my brain stop pulsating, bend at the waist, and breathe.  Breathe.

"Life is a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get."  There are days when I get the white, sugary kind, that taste like stale Reeboks, and then there are other days, I get a piece that tastes like filet mignon and mashed potatoes (I'm not much of a chocolate eater. . .  but oh, if there was chocolate that tasted like filet mignon and mashed potatoes, I sure would be).

Good days, bad days, happy days, sad days. . . 'tis the season, I suppose.

Last week, I was without the kids for the entire Thanksgiving break.  It ended up being six full days of no blankets left on the kitchen floor, no stacks of books left on the bathroom floor, no strewn clothes thrown on every floor, no name-calling, no popcorn throwing at Enzo, no giggles, no cuddles, no softness, no kisses. . . and it was sad.  And I was lonesome without the blankets, and books, and clothes, and insults, and popcorn, and giggles and cuddles and softness and kisses.

And I thought, - - - every time my phone rang, throughout every single one of those days, with a FaceTime call from Paige and Tony - - - "I'm taking this call."  It didn't matter if I had just gotten out of bed, out of the shower, was blow-drying my hair, was reviewing a contract at work, was in the middle of a meeting at work, I answered.  We would talk about crazy things like words or the weather, or the dogs, or the sky when it was pink or blue or purple. 

I was eating the stale Reeboks that, at times, tasted like filet mignon and mashed potatoes.

It seems that there are moments in every day, after my brain stops hurting, where I can see the pink or blue or purple. . . and it seems that there are moments in every day where I can see the clothes strewn about the house as well.

And I realize that Forrest Gump was not only a good ping-pong player, he was also wise.

Tomorrow, I just might get a piece of chocolate that tastes like a meatball.

Why Haven't I Written?

For the past two months, I've gotten emails or texts, or a phone call that asks me why I haven't written - - - from various people that span across seasons of my life.  All great.

And I've asked myself the same question nearly every day for a month.  Why haven't I written?

Too much time spending the millions of dollars I have beneath my mattress?
Too many days of vacationing in the sun?
Kids?
Work?
Dogs?
Boredom?
Self-abuse?

I don't entirely know why I haven't written.  Sometimes I think it's because I am afraid of what I will learn about myself if I do write. A lot of times I think it's because I am tired of digging deep and I just want to skate for awhile, along the avenues of mediocrity and ease.

Quite honestly, I am just tired.  Work, kids, dogs, boredom, self-abuse. . . they all take their turns at emptying the tank.  I think I might just need a few too many days of vacationing with the millions of dollars I have stashed beneath my mattress.

Yet, when I put pen to paper (which I've been doing instead of typing for all the world to see), I find happiness in words.

Paige and I have a thing going now. . .  when she acts up - - - talks smack, calls her brother a name, whines - - - I give her the "that is very unbecoming of a little girl. . . for your punishment, you must correctly spell the word pseudonym, define it and use it correctly in a sentence.  You have until Friday."  She did well on the first go 'round, I am now waiting for the word "malevolent" from her. 

She stumped me though.  We were at church and she looked down at a word in the song, oblation, and whispered, "What does that mean?"  I read it in the context of the song, and had no idea.  I shrugged.  "Looks like you have a word for Friday," she said.  "Looks like I do," I whispered back.

Oblation:  A solemn offering or presentation to God or a deity.  The oblations I make seem insufficient. . .

Why do I write?

I love words.

Thanks to my readers who have asked why I haven't written. . .  still don't know why, for certain, but will keep pushing. 

After a nap. . . ?