December Metamorphosis

I was an equal opportunity Scrooge. For several years, I banned Jesus, Santa, snowmen, trees, lights, blow-up polar bears, snowglobes, ugly sweaters and "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." The year MY grandmother died, I thought, "Keep it." Keep the absence. Keep the sadness. Keep away the rift that developed in the remaining family members. Keep the loneliness. Keep it all.

But THIS Christmas is different. I feel a bit of a buzz. A high. I feel light-hearted and smiley and able to propel myself through crowds I'd normally shun. I dig deep in my pockets for change to give the Salvation Army bell ringer. I open doors for people whose arms are filled with consumerism. I don't automatically change the channel if I catch a whiff of Charlie Brown and his sad little tree or a little boy wanting a bb gun or some little twit talking about angels getting their wings.

It's the sort of thing that makes me want to wrap cardboard boxes with Christmas wrap and then fill those boxes with loads of homemade baked goods a la my grandmother's tradition. I won't go so far as to say that sugarplums are dancing in my head, but I'm teaching and grading and buried in paperwork, yet also salivating over the idea of peanut brittle and peanut butter fudge and pillowy clouds of divinity and sugar cookies and, and, and...hoping the notes I'm writing on students' papers won't look like recipes.

It's the sort of thing that makes me want to shop. It's the sort of thing that's making me MAKE my own goddamned wrapping paper. I bought a stocking for the cat, and I'm SEWING his stocking out of old jeans. A few times I've caught myself humming the normally annoying soundtrack to the season.

And when My Guy returned from his trip back East and admitted that he kind of hoped that I would have surprised him by decorating his apartment for the upcoming holiday, I realized I was a true Christmas sap because I had considered doing so, despite his self-labeled Atheist.

Don't judge. Atheists can have other reasons for the season. Perhaps he misses family Christmas. Or perhaps it's just another step in this thing called US. And I'm down with that. So there I was digging through my storage unit for a faux tree and decorations. Eventually, I found it: box warped with age, broken open at the bottom, cobwebby. Perfect.

And this is how Christmas threw up at Mike's (cue sitcom laugh track):

He held the cat (currently an escape artist because she's randy--due to be spayed and thus wanting to get out and get some tail--or get her tail gotten, I guess) while I maneuvered a 3 foot long box with its contents spilling out...inside his small apartment. And then it turned out that 2 of the 3 feet on the tree were missing. Apparently, they'd dropped somewhere between the storage unit and Moscow.

We had discussed the idea of a real tree but had "exnayed" the idea for two reasons: 1) I'm a semi-serious tree hugger who likes the smell of a real tree when the tree is planted in a forest but not the idea of killing and wasting a tree for a month of our own satisfaction and 2) we feared the aforementioned escape artist, crazy-with-sexual-energy kitty would climb it, chew it, topple it, etc.

So with no option to go out and buy a real tree and with being too stubborn to consider my faux tree crippled with one of three legs, I went into engineering, make-do mode. I brought out My Guy's mop bucket, tossed in the tree, some books I'd gotten from the recycling bin to weight the tree down, and filled in the other areas with bubble wrap. I then covered the non-festive bucket with festive tablecloths.

Did I mention we decided to put the tree on the kitchen table? (SEE hormone-crazed cat section above)

Did I also mention that the faux tree is comprised of 3 sections, but we were only able to use 2 sections before the tip of the tree hit the ceiling?

Did I mention that tree section A didn't fit properly into tree section C and thus required some sort of security measure for which My Guy offered up SCOTCH TAPE? He did. And of course I had to tease my football-watching, chest pounding, macho man club member for not having any MAN TAPE i.e. duct tape. [Epilogue: he came home the next day with man tape, as I had immasculated him with my joking.]!

Did I mention that I have apparently entered into a new writing phase in which I (sometimes randomly) emphasize certain words by typing them all in uppercase letters? IT'S THE EQUIVALENT TO YELLING, YOU KNOW!

So I decorated the tree with a new set of LED lights, which My Guy pronounced as "trippy." And they are. They are piercing and annoying as the newer cars you meet on the highways who have the NEWER, BETTER headlights...the ones that blind you and make you sick to your stomach and trigger Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome (or treat PTSD) with their white hot lights. And then I hung the blue balls, the balls with harbingers of peace (a.k.a doves), bears with log legs and pine cones for feet, a football, a panda bear with a basketball, a snowman just chillin, African American angels. You know. Standard Christmas Decorations. And then the moment came when I placed the topper on. The topper sort of resembles a gingerbread cookie star. And the whole thing nearly toppled under the weight. So no gingerbread cookie star.

My Guy came home later with a lighter topper, which he ceremoniously placed atop the tree. He turned off the lights and commanded me to do the honors of plugging the topper in.

Nothing.

His brand-new topper didn't work. He said a Christmas curse, which is like a Christmas carol, only with a different sound than Fa-la-la-la-la-la. I took out and replaced every bulb in the topper and then plugged it in. And it shone with all the pomp and circumstance of the star of Bethlehem. And there was no manger, no crib for a bed, but there we were in My Guy's crib, chillin', looking at this little tree.

And at that very moment, I looked down and I swear there was a puddle beneath my feet. Hello metaphor! Yes, this man has taken December and warmed it. He had thawed this heart...Shut up!

I can say it. If Frank Capra can have It's a Wonderful Life, I can too.

Well, maybe a Decent Life.

A Pretty Good Life.

A Partly-Cloudy Life with a Chance of Wonderful.

Reasonable and Prudent

I can remember when Montana had a non-numeric "reasonable and prudent" speed limit. Montana Code Annotated (MCA) Section 61-8-303 said "A person . . . shall drive the vehicle . . . at a rate of speed no greater than is reasonable and proper under the conditions existing at the point of operation . . . so as not to unduly or unreasonably endanger the life, limb, property, or other rights of a person entitled to the use of the street or highway."

Of course, people wrung their hands with worry, assuming that no speed limit would mean unsafe roads and lots of accidents. I'm sure more than a few sighed in relief when the reasonable and prudent idea was challenged, and it was after a 50-year-old guy got stopped in midlife crisis in his Camaro doing 84 mph on Highway 200. He was given a ticket, which he appealed in supreme court. Basically, the court ruled that the limit was too vague and violated the Due Process Clause of the Montana Constitution. So by July of 1999, Montana roads had posted speed limits of 75. And I'm sure all the Nervous Nellie's emitted a sigh of collective relief. Whew! Thank God! We're safe! But you know what? The opposite was true. Research found that Montana roads were at their safest when there was no limits. Why would that be?

And you're also probably wondering, Wendy, why are you talking about something so boring?

I guess I think we all need to keep this "Reasonable and Prudent" idea in mind when walking down the street. No, I'm not talking about walking speed. I'm talking about living day to day. On a daily basis we have laws and rules to follow--rules issued by government, by work places, in schools, in our very homes, and most importantly, there are the rules that we self-impose and never question.

I'm not advocating a shrugging off of all rules. I'm not advocating anarchy. I'm advocating operating the human vehicle in a way that is the equivalent to the way things are currently stated in Montana law. Montana law still contains a section that says "a person shall operate a vehicle in a careful and prudent manner and at a reduced rate of speed no greater than is reasonable and prudent under the conditions existing at the point of operation, taking into account the amount and character of traffic, visibility, weather, and roadway conditions."

In other words, the way you operate day-to-day is very much a product of you being able to read and gauge what's going on around you. How's the mental traffic in your world? Is it mental rush hour? Bumper to bumper huh? Well, God damn it. It's your life. You've got choices. So maybe your first instinct is to get pissed, to pump your fist at the sky and curse your situation and those who seem to be responsible. Yeah, you can do that, but if there's one thing I've learned, cursing a traffic jam doesn't get it unjammed. So stay home. Or take a different route. Or meditate.

Sometimes the traffic isn't mental. Sometimes, it's literally those immovable clods around you or the ones who make poor decisions, the ones who ride your ass, the ones who leave their metaphorical blinkers on. You know the ones. There are all these people around you who don't do the right thing. Again, you've got choices. Are you going to road rage? Or can you see behind their windshield and know they've got their own things going on? Yes, they just sat for an hour at a green light. Yes, they waved for you to go at the 4-way stop when it's not your turn. Yes, they took up two parking spots. The point is, you've probably done some of those things yourself at one time or other. I'm not saying you have to be all nicey nicey or that the Golden Rule always works, but it's worth a shot.

I think the most important thing to keep track of is weather. It only makes sense to slow down in a blizzard. It makes sense to put the pedal to the metal when the sun shines. Some days the hazards won't be as obvious as a blizzard. Sometimes it's black ice. The black ice is a tough one. Of course you don't want to be too careful, too fearful because it might not be there at all. There are some risks. If we all drove every day according to what might happen, we'd be driving 5 miles per hour and in bubble-wrapped cars.

It recalls for me the scene last Thursday night as I drove my boyfriend home from the airport. It was raining hard. The rain made it impossible to see at times, and that was amplified by the steady serpentine of headlights coming in the other direction. Every time a car or truck would pass in the other direction, the windshield would be obscured for a brief and scary moment until the windshield wipers did their job. And perhaps scariest, the chances of hydroplaning were high because of the everyday condition of northwest roads. People use studded tires for traction in snow, and those tires leave deep ruts during other seasons--ruts that fill with rain. We drove home in silence, except for Mike pointing out my strategy: to keep up my speed by straddling those rain-filled ruts. He's a product of the East. He said he'd never thought of that. I don't think it's in any driver's ed manual; it's something I feel like I've grown up knowing. It the sort of reasonable and prudent decision that comes with age--it comes from driving the same roads all your life and knowing those curves by heart.

Of course the same roads you've driven all your life will look different on different days. And of course life dictates that we can't always take the roads we're familiar with. But the beauty of "reasonable and prudent" is that you deal with it as it comes. After all, you're the one in the driver's seat, the one with your foot on the gas. You're the one with so much potential, with so many places to go.

Curious

When I was younger, I was a detective searching for signs of a woman who'd disappeared, which was interesting, considering that the woman lived at my address. My mother hadn't disappeared in the conventional sense. Her face hadn't appeared on the back of a milk carton. This was before the days of Amber Alert, and she was too old for that sort of all-points bulletin anyway. She'd gone to the land of men, which meant that she was gone mentally to that place where women go when they are single mothers and miss the touch of a man. She'd gone to Randy Land, which was like CandyLand, only without the sweets.

He was a co-worker, a white polyester-clad worker bee like her at the local nursing home. I don't remember them dating. I don't remember courtship. I remember him moving in all at once, as if the date and the co-habitation occurred on the same day, and instead of bringing candy and chocolates, he seemed to come bearing a car load of belongings. His belongings intermixed with our own, and just as quickly, his need for her began its competition with a child's need for her mother. It seemed that every time I was hungry, he was more hungry. Every time, I had a story, he had a better story. When I was hurting from a skinned knee or some unseeable inner wound, she gave her attention to an unwounded man.

So I often found myself looking for her in the strangest places. When I knew she was downstairs, cuddled up on the couch with him, I searched the neighborhood. When they were at Smitty's Tavern, I looked for her in the apartment. I searched for her in her loopy handwritten notes. I searched for her in the refrigerator in the carton of eggs that became the fried egg sandwich dinners I'd become an expert making. I searched for her by picking up the phone and pretending that she was calling me to tell me she was coming home. I searched for her in her bedroom, which had been my wonderland and was now strictly off limits.

Historical documents refer to B.C. (before Christ), and my mind often went to the time period I dubbed B.R.--Before Randy. The Bedroom B.R.was a place to come running early in the morning. I'd climb into bed beside my mother and revel in all that was woman: silky nighties or bare skin--breasts I wondered at, in awe of dark aureoles and black bush. If she had been out the night before, she might still have the residue of night about her: mascara and eyeliner migrated below lashes, cheeks and lips semi-rouged, perfume whispering come hither half-heartedly. Before Randy, she wasn't adverse to me trying on clothes or standing before her dresser and scooping up handfuls of pearls and gold chains and baubles that reminded me of cartoons--pirates, wenches, chests full of treasure, and walking planks.

Sparkling more than any jewel was my mother's porcelain Elvis. When you turned the base, it plinked out "Love Me Tender." My mom loved Elvis, and when you are a little girl, you love what your mother loves. In coming years, I would not love Elvis. I would make fun of this puffy-haired, sparkly jumpsuited man. I would say he couldn't act. I would condemn him for his sneer and for his suggestive swiveling. I would laugh at the thought that anyone could worship a fat, sweaty side-burned Elvis whose scarf alone could bring a girl to her knees. In coming years, I wouldn't even be able to say for sure if I loved a mother who chose a man over me; I would not be sure if I could forgive her for being the reason I went, at the age of 7 to live with my grandmother.

But in those B.R. Days, when forgiveness wasn't a word yet invented, I begged my mom to tell me about the time she went to see him in concert. She told me they sold vials of his sweat. The thought of it made my nose scrunch. Still, I asked her questions I already knew the answers to: "Did YOU buy sweat?" and "Did YOU catch his scarf?" The answer was always no, but I liked to imagine it anyway: Elvis singing only to my mother. And he did, sort of, as long as we kept that figurine tightly wound. The notes would wrap us both in nostalgia, and she would sing. She knew all the words by heart. I wanted to hold Elvis in my hands and watch him twirl in perfect circles. I wanted to present him to her. I wanted her, for once, to have something she wanted and for what she wanted never to leave. She'd warn me to be careful. "Put it down," she'd say. "It's not a toy." Reverent, as if setting up some holy altar, I would set The King back on his throne.

But during one of those nights when I was investigating a missing person's report, I found myself where I was not supposed to be. After Randy, the room wasn't sacred anymore, anyway. The door was always closed now. On those mornings when I wanted to pad across the cold linoleum and crawl into my mom's bed, I couldn't now because he was there. I couldn't see them, but I could hear them. And it was a confusing sound. It was a needy sound, the type when pups still blind try to find their mother's milk. It almost sounded like pain, and there were many times when I wanted to fling open the door and clobber him, but even then, I think I knew that pain sounds sometimes like pleasure.

On one of the last nights I'd live beneath that roof and before anyone had a chance to call the three of us that terrible word--family--I twisted Elvis until he could twist no more. And he played and played and played. And I sang the song like I knew the words. My world was topsy-turvy, but Elvis would always be constant: perfect pompadour, his bee-stung bottom lip, the guitar literally glued to his hands. And then I could hear the sound of keys jangling in a lock, the sound of laughter, the sound of a man and a woman's voice outside the front door. I had to make it right. I had to make like everything was in its proper place. I was her good girl, so I was going to set the still-turning bisque crooner onto the dresser, but an edge caught. My hands weren't big enough.

The song fell to the floor and continued to play, though distorted among the wreckage. Solemn, I waited for them to find me. I waited for her to mete out my punishment. Surely, a spanking was in order. A grounding. Maybe she'd take away some toy I loved. She picked up the pieces--right guitar-playing hand in one of her hands and the rest in her other hand. She said something about super glue. She said something about tomorrow. She disappeared. She left me stinging with lack punishment. More stinging still: she hadn't even noticed the crime.