Countdown to Midnight

This is a strange night. Today is my mother's birthday. And the first where I can't call her with birthday wishes. It was always so easy to buy her a present, even though we're just a week past Christmas. A new jigsaw puzzle or a calendar, most likely with a Maxine theme. It's also my friend Deanna's birthday. I hope she is up to all kinds of fun tonight. It's cold here, and snowy. I've already been out to eat with my favorite dinner date, my 18yo son. I can't believe I'm contemplating going out again to have a New Year toast with friends. Michael and Liz have already rung in 2011 in Belgium. So has Lloyd, Australia is probably first with celebrating, Sydney harbor was all lit up with fireworks hours ago. And what about me, you ask? I'm just happy to be here. Welcome, 2011. Let's make this a most remarkable year.

Mixing My Conifors

In honor of the local current outdoor conditions, I prepared a lunch of mostly white food. Milk, 1%. Roasted chicken on white buns, with Swiss cheese and just a schmere of mayo. I do admit that the potato chips are more yellow than white, but I read on the package that they are made from russet potatoes. And as we all know, once that pesky, russety peel is removed, the inner flesh of the potato is essentially white. Unless you leave it sitting exposed to the air too long, it then becomes a very unappetizing grayish brown. And while the snow on the prop tree is fake, a much, much larger live version of the tree just outside my patio door is indeed laden with the real stuff. Ah, winter.

New Year, Anyone?

When I think about it, I don't believe I've ever actually had a date for New Years Eve. Okay, I was married for twenty years and fell asleep on the couch with my husband on numerous December thirtyones only to wake up to the new year. This is not a date, merely another night. We did attend a few parties on this night in question given by friends, and I remember going out to a lovely dinner a time or two, so maybe those count as dates. For me personally, to qualify as a date, there must be a phone call at least a day ahead, where plans are made involving various forms of entertainment, clothing choices are agonized over, and iffy hair choices are destined to be memorialized in photographs. In my dating years prior to marriage, I recall having a steady beau on perhaps two of the ringing in the year eves. One of those perhaps qualifies as a date even though details escape my memory, but the other consisted of attending a party where he overindulged. We were in the midst of a long drawn out breakup process, and I ended up holding the bucket that he was heaving the contents of his entire, I mean entire digestive system into, as the new year arrived. My fondness for him was fading at this time anyway, and I suppose I could have left him passed out in his running vehicle in the sub zero winter night, but I'm just not that kind of girl. Leaving a number of New Years Eve pasts open for possibilities that never materialized. As for the one four days from now, I'll most likely end up taking the younger son out for dinner. Or getting him a pizza and going out alone. It would be fun if I were contemplating the whole package...Plan A would involve a date, a dress, and a dinner destination. Dare I add dancing? But somehow, warm fuzzy jammies, a movie or two, and my own personal bottle of bubbly sound like a good Plan B should Plan A fail to come calling. One thing is certain, 2011 will show up whether I celebrate or not. And this girl is looking forward to a year worth celebrating.

Christmas Past

Feeling thoughtful. And a little sad. It's been years since I celebrated Christmas under the same roof as my mother, but this is the first Christmas without her among the living. She loved Christmas. I mean loved Christmas. She agonized over the gifts, the food, the decorating. And loved every minute of it. It was as though a perfect and happy holiday could and should make up for any and every shortcoming and disappointment of the previous year. She believed in the magic. In the days of broadcast television when there was just one opportunity, complete with commercial interruption, to catch Charlie Brown and the Grinch, she sat down and relished every moment of those cartoons along with us kids. She made fudge and caramels and delectible tiny butter spritz cookies. She baked yulekakke, a Norwegian sweet bread with raisins that was heavenly when toasted and spread with butter. When we decorated the tree, the four of us kids took turns placing the ornaments on the branches, saving a tiny plastic Santa for last. After that, only she had the patience to drape each individual strand of tinsel in its own special spot. Tomorrow night I'll attempt to make sweet and sour spareribs just like Mom did for Christmas Eve dinner. It will be just me and my younger son at the table, but the spirit of Christmases past will be there, too. Thanks, Mom, for passing your love of this holiday on to me. For the magic. And the memories.

Box of Chocolates

Physical therapy is working! In only six sessions my flexibility and range of motion have improved and the hypersensitivity around the incision is much better. My physical therapist is located in a clinic where a number of doctors practice. On my way back to the PT dept I walk through a couple of other waiting rooms where patients are, well, waiting. How patiently I'm not sure. I also see other patients in the main hallway and waiting to check in or to make future appointments. And it strikes me as somewhat odd when I pass or meet these people who are variously wearing masks, in wheelchairs, or tending to sad or crying tots, that I actually feel pretty darn good! What am I doing here, with a spring in my step and smiling, when all these others are miserable? With the exception of the tedinitis in my hands and wrists that is currently being treated, I am in excellent health. For which I am grateful, particularly when I encounter those who are obviously suffering. My affliction is annoying and limits what I can do, but it isn't life threatening. And with time and effort, I expect to recover completely. I feel a bit like Forrest Gump, who got out of his tour of duty in Viet Nam with a wound to his butt. Certainly not pleasant, but as a ticket out, much less costly than, say, the loss of a limb or an eye. A million dollar wound, I think they called it. It still seems weird to me that I've been off work since the middle of August. Perhaps in the Work Comp world, where I currently reside, tendinitis is the combat equivalent of a bullet wound in the buttocks. Which leaves me to wonder what is in store inside that next chocolate I bite into.

A Trifle of a Flop

Parties are like cakes. Most of the time they are a grand success, but once in a while you have a flop. When a cake is a flop, you make a trifle. When a party is a flop, it really isn't, at least not for the people who show up. And this time of year when most of us are overscheduled on events and underfunded on hours, a low guest turnout is a predictable factor. So. Thanks to the neighbors who trudged over from next door with adorable daughters and still-warm-from-the-oven banana bread in tow. And to Emma who was so enticed by my party food menu on facebook that she dropped by on her dinner break from work. If I'd had door prizes, though, the biggest and best would go to Dan, who showed up with chocolate vodka, enthusiam, and a hearty appetite. For any of you who might be interested, the spinach dip and olive spread are still reasonably fresh, the tiny cupcakes are tasty while they last, and the Christmas colored nachos are festive and tasty as ever. Now, if only the clouds would clear so tonight's lunar eclipse will be visible! I'll be waiting up. And maybe if you come over, you just might catch me licking the bottom of the spinach dip bowl.

Paper Paper

When I opened my Argus Leader this morning, a holiday greeting card tumbled out. It was from my newspaper route carrier. Nice. But in the same manner in which I will sometimes forget an item I need with me when I leave the house, she left out the tab section. On Thursday the tab is called Link, and contains entertainment news in the area for the upcoming weekend. Not to mention the crossword! I hope she didn't think the card was an adequate stand-in for the missing section. I do appreciate the thought, but I'd rather have a complete paper. When I called the customer service number, the very courteous fellow on the other end sent me a link to the full on-line electronic version of today's edition. My account was also credited for one day's delivery. I did enjoy having the electronic substitute, but it paled in comparison to the actual, physical article. As something of a left-wing, liberal, eco-friendly, recycling fanatic tree hugger, wanting a paper paper delivered every day runs counter to my nature. Part of a tree will bite the dust anyway since I printed out the crossword as well as the Jumble puzzle. I reserve the right to cling to this particular indicator of my approaching old fogeyness. For me, it's right up there with holding up the line in a store by producing my coin purse and counting out the correct change. Some of this old(er) lady stuff is fun. And fun is good.