The time of year is upon me which maximizes guilt, corrodes my sense of self-worth, and convinces me that I am actually sub-human. While flailing about in this morass, I figured out that there are things I should never do as I approach Christmas. Which did not keep me from making lists and attempting them. Warning: Do NOT try these at home.
1/ Go on a diet and join Weight Watchers. I was full of fine resolutions, set to take off the 6-7 lbs. I'd put on when my torn meniscus kept me from exercising my ass off. I won't mention that I went to my favorite Italian restaurant each week for awhile and ate Tiramisu for dessert. Clearly, that had nothing to do with the weight gain. When I went for the weekly weigh-in shortly after Thanksgiving I was shocked. Shocked. I had put on weight instead of taking it off!
2/ Give up drinking wine. When I realized that the case of fabulous Sauvignon Blanc, Wither Hills from New Zealand my husband gave me was just about gone after only 6 weeks, I thought, "Hmmm, I should probably cut back on my wine consumption. This will be good for me." I'll let you know how she does with this. Like Dick Nixon, it is a sign of my fragile mental health that I refer to myself in the 3rd person.
3/ Acknowledge that your life is self-indulgent, and it is way past time to start pulling in the reins. Give up so much consumption. Forget about the 1-click ordering from Amazon.com, even if the book you want is some hefty theological tome by N.T. Wright or C.S. Lewis.
4/ Resolve, after grabbing a cup of strong coffee and a biscotti or two, that the money you will save from buying less, skipping Amazon.com for a month, and reducing wine consumption can be given to the Survival Center. This is a good idea, right? It is truly something I want to do--to take in less and give out more. But somehow, this feels like having a blister lanced on the bottom of my foot or perhaps a rectal exam...
I wish charity were easier and didn't require so much sacrifice.
5/ Exercise more. This is a wonderful idea, particularly when you live on an icy hill that is over 1200 feet in elevation, your driveway is as steep as a foothill in the Alps, and your torn meniscus is still screaming, "Sit down, you dizzy broad!"
6/ Decide to make home made gifts for everyone on your gift list. This is what I seriously wrote down: "Make apple butter and pack in sterile jars for friends. Label with pretty red and green Christmas labels." Really? Then I had written down, "Make Grandma Warren's spicy cinnamon walnuts to give away. Pack in festive bags from Michael's." Do not pass Go; do not collect $200. In fact, while you are about it, just go to jail. You are locked into your delusional need to over-achieve and try to please everyone.
7/ Resolve that your dog needs to be better cared for, groomed, and cleaned before Christmas and before your daughter returns from college. This entails: clipping toenails. Wait, that doesn't work with Jacks. Brush daily. Not a good idea. Dog insanely circles around trying to bite the brush. Brush her teeth. While you are at it, wipe her tush and make sure she is truly clean. Really?
8/ Make a home made wreath using stiff grape vines from the land and weave in clippings of hemlock and white pine. Decorate with fragile little nodules of grass and dried thingys from the garden. Two hours later, a glass of Sauvignon Blank is a necessity and completely blows #2.
9/ Join a choir. Anywhere, any church, any faith that has singing. Just join. And sing your little heart out whether you actually like Christmas music or not. Failing this, link up with a hearty band of middle-aged carolers in town to sing Christmas songs in sub-zero weather to people who are watching reruns of Dr. Who. This will also blow #2.
10/ Decide to knit your husband a pair of socks at the last minute, never mind that there are only seven more days until Christmas. This would necessitate staying up until midnight instead of doing what I really want to do which is: collapse on couch, a glass of wine nearby, read some books I surreptitiously ordered on my Kindle, and hide the beginnings of a supremely drab gray sock under the couch.
Instead of numbers 1-10, here's an idea for all of us: Accept yourself as you are, with all of your imperfections and odd little deposits of fat in places you didn't even realize could get fat, like the roof of your mouth. Maybe cut down from 2 glasses of wine to 1, but by God enjoy it! Burn the half-completed wreath in the fireplace. It makes festive flames. Send e-cards to people because they are so, so much easier. Forget the apple butter and Christmas walnuts. Buy something from your local HBA and wrap it in beautiful paper. Put on a CD of Christmas Carols and get into the holiday spirit without getting hypothermia. Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
GOOD OLD NOSTALGIA
Would it shock you to discover that I am nostalgic for bed jackets? Barielle products? Tangine lipstick? Evening in Paris? Stockings with seams on the back? Handwritten letters? Typewriters that don't plug in? Phones that weigh at least 5 pounds with no capacity to record messages, interrupt conversations, or do anything more strenuous that carry two human voices? (Although there were those old party lines which I remember at my Aunt's house up in New Hampshire.)
Recently, I have discovered a lamentable tendency to dream about older times and things I loved. (Forgetting the horror of petticoats bunching in my behind on hot days, waiting to be asked to dance, spit mascara and more...) Perhaps this is related to my being 67. Could it be? At any rate, I find that sitting with a cup of hot tea (cream and 2 sugars) and flipping through The Vermont Country Store is tantamount to some people ingesting hydrocone. (I know this from having a total hip replacement 5 years ago.) I immediately feel a sense of relaxation and calm sweeping over me, a lifting of the mood, a sweetness tinged with nostalgia.
And this all came about because I was reading a book in the "Aunt Dimity" series (Nancy Atherton) which is about as cozy as you can get without actually melting into brown sugar and frightening the children. An elderly lady in the book was in bed wearing a bed jacket, of course, padded and satin with a bit of lace at the wrists. This reminded me of my beloved maternal grandmother Henrietta Gray, who also wore bed jackets when in bed. I believe they were pink. Somehow they conveyed to me an aura of security, not of sickness at all. It's what one wore when in bed. To keep warm. To show that you were cared for and relatively secure. I actually went online to the Vermont Country Store to look at them this morning and was sorely tempted to order a purple velveteen quilted version that just looked--cozy. My husband, who usually supports most of my purchases, was happy that I hadn't fallen prey to this one. "Bed jackets!" he moaned, as if I had suggested I was about to become a pole dancer.
But just think. Online I could have ordered one of those cool blue glass bottles of "Evening in Paris," which I remember Mom's cleaning lady giving to her for Christmas. At the time, we did not consider it the most wonderful perfume in the world (ah, the nostalgia of judgment!), but I'd give anything to have one of those bottles resting on my dresser now. It doesn't matter if you like the smell or not, it's what it represents.
And what about Tangee lipstick while were at it? Remember that violent orange color, sort of like the backs of certain poisonous lizards which would kill you if you so much as tapped their backs? You'd put it on (I did use it when 14 years-old) and by God, it would never come off. You'd go to bed with these day-glow lips shining in the dark, and when you woke up and went in to brush your teeth, there they were again, like rubber clowns' lips that you couldn't take off. I feel a certain nostalgia for Tangee lipstick.
Must I remind us of dusters or house dresses as my grandmother called them? You can order these, too, from my favorite Vermont Country Store. I'm not quite sure how the current owners envision their customers using these "Dusters." Is it a more complete form of lounge wear, after you've cast off the bed jacket and propelled yourself out of bed? Or is it more how I remember my grandmother changing out of her good clothes to pull on a housedress for dusting (see, "Dusters"!), or puttering around, putting her beloved flowers into vases or watering her vast collection of sprawling green plants. It meant you were up for business. In a sort of cozy Victorian way. I just loved the comfort those dresses implied. But what did I know back then?
Any more nostalgia floating about? Oh, yes. Typewriters that just type and don't have to be plugged in. I had one of those once. A Smith-Corona which took me through college and my first early attempts at writing. It made a satisfying clacking sound which assured me that I was, in fact, busy; that I was accomplishing something; that perhaps someday I might even be a writer. And if the power went out during a thunderstorm, no problem! You could keep writing. Perhaps you're thinking, "What about a pen and paper, woman?" Well, I used to do that about two decades ago, but my handwriting is getting a bit slip-shod these days. Maybe a sign of age? Or maybe a sign that I simply don't write much by hand any more.
My first editor at Harper & Row, Charlotte Zolotow, used to say that she could always tell when her authors switched from writing by hand to computers. The writing was not as sharp, she told me, not as clearly thought-out. I don't think I'd agree with that, but it was her own form of nostalgia.
So, as I used to do when writing pictures books for children, circling around at the end, while we're talking about nostalgia here's some memories: Thunderstorms crackling over the dry-board porch at my grandparent's summer home; ice cream made in a hand-cranked tub; lemonade made with real lemons, sugar and lots of ice; playing kick-the-can in the lawn with my brothers as the dark descended and the fireflies came out. It was a good life. For some of us.
Ok, surprise ending: The N.Y.Times Science Section today has a piece on "Fond Remembrances," by John Tierney, about the uses and value of nostalgia! If you want to listen to nostalgia-inducing songs, go to: nytimes.com/science. Looks like fun.
Recently, I have discovered a lamentable tendency to dream about older times and things I loved. (Forgetting the horror of petticoats bunching in my behind on hot days, waiting to be asked to dance, spit mascara and more...) Perhaps this is related to my being 67. Could it be? At any rate, I find that sitting with a cup of hot tea (cream and 2 sugars) and flipping through The Vermont Country Store is tantamount to some people ingesting hydrocone. (I know this from having a total hip replacement 5 years ago.) I immediately feel a sense of relaxation and calm sweeping over me, a lifting of the mood, a sweetness tinged with nostalgia.
And this all came about because I was reading a book in the "Aunt Dimity" series (Nancy Atherton) which is about as cozy as you can get without actually melting into brown sugar and frightening the children. An elderly lady in the book was in bed wearing a bed jacket, of course, padded and satin with a bit of lace at the wrists. This reminded me of my beloved maternal grandmother Henrietta Gray, who also wore bed jackets when in bed. I believe they were pink. Somehow they conveyed to me an aura of security, not of sickness at all. It's what one wore when in bed. To keep warm. To show that you were cared for and relatively secure. I actually went online to the Vermont Country Store to look at them this morning and was sorely tempted to order a purple velveteen quilted version that just looked--cozy. My husband, who usually supports most of my purchases, was happy that I hadn't fallen prey to this one. "Bed jackets!" he moaned, as if I had suggested I was about to become a pole dancer.
But just think. Online I could have ordered one of those cool blue glass bottles of "Evening in Paris," which I remember Mom's cleaning lady giving to her for Christmas. At the time, we did not consider it the most wonderful perfume in the world (ah, the nostalgia of judgment!), but I'd give anything to have one of those bottles resting on my dresser now. It doesn't matter if you like the smell or not, it's what it represents.
And what about Tangee lipstick while were at it? Remember that violent orange color, sort of like the backs of certain poisonous lizards which would kill you if you so much as tapped their backs? You'd put it on (I did use it when 14 years-old) and by God, it would never come off. You'd go to bed with these day-glow lips shining in the dark, and when you woke up and went in to brush your teeth, there they were again, like rubber clowns' lips that you couldn't take off. I feel a certain nostalgia for Tangee lipstick.
Must I remind us of dusters or house dresses as my grandmother called them? You can order these, too, from my favorite Vermont Country Store. I'm not quite sure how the current owners envision their customers using these "Dusters." Is it a more complete form of lounge wear, after you've cast off the bed jacket and propelled yourself out of bed? Or is it more how I remember my grandmother changing out of her good clothes to pull on a housedress for dusting (see, "Dusters"!), or puttering around, putting her beloved flowers into vases or watering her vast collection of sprawling green plants. It meant you were up for business. In a sort of cozy Victorian way. I just loved the comfort those dresses implied. But what did I know back then?
Any more nostalgia floating about? Oh, yes. Typewriters that just type and don't have to be plugged in. I had one of those once. A Smith-Corona which took me through college and my first early attempts at writing. It made a satisfying clacking sound which assured me that I was, in fact, busy; that I was accomplishing something; that perhaps someday I might even be a writer. And if the power went out during a thunderstorm, no problem! You could keep writing. Perhaps you're thinking, "What about a pen and paper, woman?" Well, I used to do that about two decades ago, but my handwriting is getting a bit slip-shod these days. Maybe a sign of age? Or maybe a sign that I simply don't write much by hand any more.
My first editor at Harper & Row, Charlotte Zolotow, used to say that she could always tell when her authors switched from writing by hand to computers. The writing was not as sharp, she told me, not as clearly thought-out. I don't think I'd agree with that, but it was her own form of nostalgia.
So, as I used to do when writing pictures books for children, circling around at the end, while we're talking about nostalgia here's some memories: Thunderstorms crackling over the dry-board porch at my grandparent's summer home; ice cream made in a hand-cranked tub; lemonade made with real lemons, sugar and lots of ice; playing kick-the-can in the lawn with my brothers as the dark descended and the fireflies came out. It was a good life. For some of us.
Ok, surprise ending: The N.Y.Times Science Section today has a piece on "Fond Remembrances," by John Tierney, about the uses and value of nostalgia! If you want to listen to nostalgia-inducing songs, go to: nytimes.com/science. Looks like fun.
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