MY Personal Holiday

I love Black Friday. LOVE IT.

I love it with a ferocity that most people would think is weird.

I've found that Americans can generally be divided into two camps when it comes to Black Friday:

Those who LIVE for it, and those who loathe it.

Not only do I belong to the first camp ... I am like, the captain.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not out there smashing things or stampeding over the elderly or smacking people in the faces with Hickory Farms Sausages ... but I'm tempted. reeeeeeeally tempted.

This year ... I batted a thousand. I got everything on my list for the price I was after ... and saved almost 400 dollars!

I had one tiny bout of anxiety when I thought the last Cozy Coupe was gone ... but I swooped in like a mighty falcon and grabbed the very. last. one. in my talons and arose VICTORIOUS over those lesser shoppers. (who were offering me money to give it up) But I was like ... no way, dude. THIS is part of the game. It is natural selection in its truest form ... and so far, I am the fittest. So what if this last box has somebody's nasty ABC (Already Been Chewed) gum smeared all over it ... it's MINE. I was here first and perhaps you shouldn't have been a slacker--all moseying up in here at 4:15 am. What do you expect? It's the early bird who gets the Cozy Coupe. The earliest bird. The swooping falcon!

For 14 hours my mom, sister and I raced all over town chasing sale after sale after sale.

The fact that I've been in a near coma for the past few days, is irrelevant.

In the Spirit of Thankfulness

I was putting away groceries, yesterday. And I was putting the bananas on the counter, when I realized there were a LOT of bananas on the bunch and that they'd probably go bad before they get eaten. (which is the way with lots of our produce, I hate to say.)

So I immediately thought "banana pudding." Because that is the way with everything. All roads lead to dessert.

And then I got to thinking of the first time I made banana pudding. It was Thanksgiving. And it was to be the first thing I'd ever contributed to that feast of feasts.

And I scorched the pudding. So the whole thing was ruined.

Of course, I didn't know it, and set it out for everyone to scoop giant sized helpings onto their plates. And after a single bite, we all started gagging melodramatically and lining up at the garbage can.

Everyone except my Pappaw.

Who ate it anyway.

And even asked for seconds.

He died the Sunday before the next Thanksgiving. Which means each year, this season carries with it just a little bit of sadness. And a whole lot of thankfulness for being gifted with someone like him.

conversation

Michael: "Mommy, what superpowers does Jesus have?"

Me: "Well, He has all the superpowers."

Michael: "Ahhh ... He's just so cool."

I mean, come on. Is it any wonder I blog?

Because we Don't Believe in Waste

PUMPKIN:

We carve it, toast the seeds and freeze the guts ...

But we have to find something to do with that left over rind.

So naturally:

niceties

One of my favorite things in the world is to watch my kids interact with each other when they're being sweet. There's nothing like witnessing the little people you created out of nowhere, develop a love for each other.

It just makes me happy as a tick on a fat dog.

Now, my son has gone totally rogue this past week, but he had a super week last week and so I'm going to try to take my mind off the fact that he is totally trying me this week by telling a sweet story from last week. (could I say "week" just one more time?)

So, my daughter calls the remote the "camote." (Which sounds ridiculously close to "commode" which just happens to be the funniest word, ever. And, now I'm thinking maybe I should summon that word every time I get mad and just scream it out, like when the kitchen's a disaster three seconds after I spend hours cleaning it I'll just yell "COMMODE!" and then I'll giggle and my troubles will melt away.) No, but, really, it IS a word I certainly don't use when referring to the toilet, because I prefer to sound swanky and therefore I call it the WC ... in French ... which is pronounced "doobli vey cey." (kidding.) We say we're "hit'n the head."

hahahahaha ... no we don't. I swear. But we definitely DON'T say "COMMODE!"

Back on track please ...

So Madeline calls the remote the "camote."

And one day, my daughter asked to hold the "camote" and Michael ... in his doting, big brother charm, just grinned big and said "he he, I just WUV how she says that."

Like he's all adoring and sophisticated and mature ... and she's this little struggling and developing person he's grooming and raising himself.

Now isn't that, like, ADORABLE?!?!?!

AND THEN ...

They had played together so well that day, they hadn't had enough of each other by bedtime and they asked to have a sleepover. Which means Michael sleeps in Madeline's room or Madeline sleeps in Michael's room.

They asked me to lay down with them and tell them a story, and so I did. But believe you me I am a terrible story-maker-upper and so they usually consist of the same three characters: Queen Mommy, Princess Madeline and Samus-with-the-Phazon-Suit. (Because Samus in the video game, Metroid, is really a girl but Michael just can't stand it cuz she is just WAY too cool of a Prime to be a girl, so he pretends when she has the Phazon suit she is really boy, and he wants to be that boy more than anything in the world.) So ... the story is usually just a retelling of whatever we did that day. Like, "The Queen Mum, The Princess Madeline and Samus-with-the-Phazon-Suit went to the grocery store. The end." And they pretend to love it and then ask Matt for a story because his stories are chock full of awesomeness.

Well, I finished my utterly boring story, said prayers, gave kisses and got up. And I heard Madeline say "Hey, Michael, will you lay next to me tonight?" And I heard him say "Sure, Sissy! I'd do anything for ya!" And then he followed that sugary little remark with a big ol' bear hug that nearly choked her.

And I felt like the Grinch probably felt when his little, old, nasty, shriveled up, raisin-y, gross and plum pitiful heart "grew three sizes that day"... only since my heart is probably right around normal size (I mean, not to brag, but ... I'm just say'n ) it REALLY felt swollen because that's just an awful lot of heart to fit inside one chest cavity.

I mean, does life get any better than that?

And now that I've told that story, it sort of takes the edge off the fact that he totally hauled off and WALLOPED that little girl in the face with a transformer an hour ago, or that Madeline took a blue crayon to just about every thing standing still in her bedroom.

aaaaah ... "COMMODE!!"

The Season of Change ... or the Changing of the Season?

I am a spastic blogger. The chaos in my life just throws me way off my game.

And, sadly, just about anything qualifies as chaos. (I am solely responsible for brushing 4 sets of teeth, ergo brushing teeth is chaos. Throw some runny noses in the mix and picture me aimlessly walking around my house, catatonic, cross-eyed and blowing raspberries with my lips, and you'll understand why I've taken a break. )

*sigh*

anyhoo. Catching up.

October came and went, and I woke up November 1st, sweating.

Fall--being true to form--has been all about change: changing leaves, changing weather (or so I'm told--in Florida our Palm trees are still green and our weather is still breaking through 90) ... but, the switching of gears from the laziness of summer to the hustle and bustle of sports and all the holidays is pretty much universal.

So that's where we're been. Changing.

Lately, though, I've been thinking about how Fall, itself ... has changed.

Somewhere on that squiggly line of time between the two points of past and present ... the pop culture train must have strapped on a jet engine pack and traveled mach speed to a world that seems profoundly different.

I mean, when did PURPLE officially become a Halloween color?

Or take this for instance:

That is our trip to the pumpkin patch.

Notice the children in their coordinating outfits? In the world of Facebook, do you even know how lame it would be for me NOT to have taken this trip ... to this farm, in these outfits to take these pictures?

Lame-o.

Or as Michael says, "wame."

I mean, when I was a kid, the pumpkin came home with the groceries. And the only "patch" I'd ever seen was animated ... and Charlie Brown was hiding out in it.

Consider Pumpkin Carving.

(Notice how I call it "Pumpkin Carving?" Like it's an acquired skill? Like "Basket Weaving" or "Snow Skiing" or "Brain Surgery-ing.")

When I was a kid, pumpkins were all the same. They all looked like this:

(Hey kids, that is a jack-o'lantern. It is supposed to look like that.)

And now ... well, it's all stencils, and special tools, and moms and dads gritting their teeth and losing fingers, under the crushing pressure to make a pumpkin look like a masterpiece worthy of its own exhibit.

So our pumpkin looks like this:

Which is still quite simplistic compared to some of the sculpted squash out there.

The costumes?

Today, all the costumes look like they came right off the movie set of the character these kids are "pretending" to be.

I give you Belle and Optimus Prime.

And this is after Michael ditched the "arm cannon" and Madeline ripped off the ornate tiara and incredible hair extensions.

When I was growing up, costumes looked like this:

That is a Strawberry Shortcake mask ... and a vinyl apron-thingy with a scene from the cartoon printed on it. You tied that on over your play clothes and VOILA! Strawberry Shortcake. Then you went bumbling around the neighborhood strutting that gangly walk that is so unique to kids, wearing your old dirty tennis shoes ... thinking you looked just like the real thing.

Or the costumes were homemade.

Case in point: I was a fairy one year. My dad made my wings out of cardboard and then covered them in tin foil. And in my mind ... they were beautiful! And then there was the year I was a princess! I wore my Easter dress, and distinctly remember my dad taking tin foil, yet again, and covering a toilet plunger with it. That was my scepter.

I'll just let that sink in.

A. Plunger.

Covered in tin foil.

(And suddenly I'm seeing my dad as that dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding squirting everything with Windex ... only my dad's "Windex" is tin foil. "Ah ... you've got a zit? Just rub some tin foil on it. Ah, your arm fell off? Just mold a new one out of tin foil! Ah? You need a scepter? Just cover that plunger in tin foil!")

Can't you see that? A little girl, waving a plunger around, all "oh I'm a princess!"

The reason I am DYING laughing over that is because my daughter's scepter looks like THIS. All bedazzled and cute and it lights up.

And so it has dawned on me. This will be my "walking in the snow, barefoot, uphill both ways" story.

Only it will go ...

"You know, Madeline, back in my day, I used a toilet plunger and just pretended it was a scepter." And she'll give me the same cockeyed look I give my Grammy when she talks about catching the rain water to do the wash.

(insert commentary by the generation before us:)

"You mean you got a plunger?!?!?! Whoah. Fancy. I had a bed sheet with holes in it and went as a ghost. All the kids were ghosts, back then. Or hobos."

(... and the generation before that ... )

"You got a bed sheet? All I got was a paper sack ... I just put it over my head and went as the ugly kid ... and candy? What candy? We were trick-or-treating for gas stamps and sugar rations."

Whiiiiich brings me to the candy.

Yep, there was a time when kids actually worked for that candy because candy was SPECIAL. Even if it was just a tootsie roll. We clambered about, all lanky, and goofy and would bust out into a dead sprint if we found out any one house was giving away the "good stuff" ... like nerds or runts or Everlasting Gobstoppers. Conversely, we learned which houses to (ahem) skip. For instance, there was this one house that handed out Bible Tracks. Now don't get me wrong. I love Jesus. But, um ... SKIP. Attach a candy bar to that thing, and we'll be back next year.

And then there was the lady who gave out 10 pennies in a baggie. to. every. kid.

Talk about things that make you go "hmmmm ..." We'll pause for a moment so we can all meditate on that one.

How much money was that over the years?

How long did it take her to count out all those pennies?

Did she go to the bank and buy them in rolls or did she save them up all year?

Is she doing that to this day, and if so has she adjusted for inflation?

So there we were. Running and darting in and out of yards, with little plastic pumpkins, or sacks or, in some cases, pillow cases collecting the spoils of Halloween. And when the very last house had handed out the very last treat ... we scrambled home, and dumped our loot out onto the floor in a colorful heap. We would eagerly sort it into categories of "goodness" as our parents checked it for "poison" and collected their taxes. (Which for my dad was always the Butterfingers and for my mom, always the Good n Plenty) and I remember feeling sort of proud to give it to them. Like I had really gone out and earned something I could give to them.

I don't know. Is it better?

I remember being unabashedly, embarrassingly excited over halloween ("... Three days 'til Halloween! ... Two days 'til Halloween! ... One day 'til Halloween! ... HOLY COOOOOOWWWWWW IT'S HALLOWEEEEEEEENNNNNN!!!!)

... and I carried a plunger.

It's so glamorous and sparkly and manufactured now. It's almost like the magic of imagining is gone.

I guess maybe I am just sounding older every day.

It's only a matter of time before I begin every sentence with "back in my day ... the answer was tin foil."