SEASON 3 EPISODE 11
A CHRISTMAS CAROL, REDUX
Thanksgiving was over.
For some reason, my sports watch alarm went off at midnight, waking me from a strange dream. In the nightmare, I had been unable to run from a creature molded from leftover stuffing and mashed potatoes with gravy dripping from its outstretched arms, due to the weight of my own enormous thighs.
I started to drift off again, when a form suddenly appeared at the foot of my bed. She wore a floor-length, polyester, red-and-green-plaid skirt, a white ruffled blouse with a huge tab collar, a crocheted vest, and a Christmas tree pin.
“Hi, like, I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I’m here to take you on, like, a pretty decent trip back to the seventies,” the apparition said while twirling a segment of her long hair. No sooner did I grasp the ghost’s braided macramé belt than we were whisked on metal roller skates to the home of my youth.
It was two weeks before Christmas 1974, and Maz was preparing her shopping list while Tray and I decorated the Christmas tree with silver tinsel, careful not to rest the tiny plastic strips on the blazing hot bubble lights.
Maz’s list included the names of our little family, along with aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. She had saved enough in her Christmas account to buy fruitcake, tea towels, Avon perfume, Barbies, Tonka trucks, and decorative tins of ribbon candies.
Although Tray and I loved to go downtown to see shops decorated with lights and mechanical elves, that night we begged to stay home so we would not miss the new Rankin Bass special, The Year Without a Santa Claus, which our console television might pick up if the antenna was turned just right.
Maz agreed to put off shopping one more day. Instead, she wrote out her twelve Christmas cards and served us cocoa in Santa mugs with cookies, which we were disappointed to find contained prunes, raisins, molasses, mincemeat, anise, or some other objectionable ingredient. Nevertheless, we lay contentedly on the green shag rug listening to a Burl Ives record, gazing up at our tree and its Styrofoam egg-carton star.
I reached out toward this vision of my youth, but was wrenched from my trance when a bubble light scorched my arm. “Ouch!” I exclaimed, and was abruptly dumped back into my own bed, surrounded by nothing but the dark night and a faint tapping sound.
I soon found the source of the tapping. Seated on the end of the bed, her thumbs poking away at an iPhone, was the second apparition. She glanced at me and said, “Hey, how’s it going? I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present, but hold on a sec, I have to answer this.”
Finally, the specter finished texting and proclaimed, “Alrighty, touch my yoga pants and let’s do this thing, because I’ve got carpool duty in a couple hours.” I grabbed her spandex waistband and was transported to scenes of unimaginable Christmas chaos.
First, we saw the three-page Christmas list I’d made right after Halloween, which included gifts for the school lunch ladies, Anna’s ukulele instructor, the seven neighbors we like, and the three we don’t but can’t leave off the list for fear of inciting neighborhood conflict.
Next, we joined a stampede of Black Friday shoppers, all poised to pepper spray each other over the last Play Station game console at Walmart. Then the Spirit took me to Starbucks, where we paid five dollars for a mocha peppermint chai tea and three hundred dollars for gift cards for the kids’ teachers. Then we dashed home to type, print, and mail out 150 copies of the annual family Christmas letter, replete with exaggerated superlatives about the kids and the daily activities of our dog.
Then we ate, and ate, and ate. Everything from gallons of hot dip to platters of cookies packed with peanut butter chips, candy chunks, marshmallows, and M&Ms. We washed it all down with cartons of eggnog which, according to the sell-by date, would still be potable come Valentine’s Day.
Finally, the Ghost of Christmas Present dropped me in front of our HDTV virtual fireplace glowing beside our artificial tree with its economical LED lights. Exhausted and embarrassed by the modern-day holiday delirium, I pleaded, “Have mercy, Spirit! Haunt me no more!”
Just then, a figure approached from the shadows, cloaked in a black hooded garment. “Are you the Ghost of Christmases Yet to Come?!” I yelped in fear. The apparition nodded silently and handed me a small high-tech device. With a swipe, I activated a life-sized holographic Christmas tree. A second click started microwaving a frozen Tofurky dinner with vegan trimmings. In mere nanoseconds, I sent warmly personalized holiday video messages to friends of friends of friends on Facebook.
But then, the Spirit pointed a long finger at the futuristic device. On the screen appeared countless images of pale people sitting alone in the dark, without family and friends, without fresh pine and twinkle lights, without hot cocoa and old movies, without music and laughter. They sat alone, clicking buttons on Christmas.
“No, Spirit!” I cried, repeating over and over, “I promise I will heed these lessons and honor Christmas in my heart!”
As if it had all been a dream, I awoke in my own bed and rushed excitedly down the stairs, shouting to my daughter, “Turn off that virtual fireplace this minute, Lillian Molinari!”
“Anna!” I bellowed, “Preheat the oven! We have cookies to bake!”
“Come and witness this glorious morning, young man!” I called up to Hayden, who was still slumbering soundly.
To Francis I demanded, “Off with you, my good man, to the Winn-Dixie for the fattest turkey in the freezer case!”
I ripped up my three-page shopping list. I tied a big red bow on the dog’s collar. I rifled through the pantry for cocoa and mini marshmallows. I blasted my favorite Sinatra holiday CD and danced silly circles around our kitchen.
God bless us, every one, I thought with a full heart. Bless us, every one—not virtually, but truly.
SEASON 3 EPISODE 12
WORKING OUT A TIME TO WORK OUT
Did this thing shrink? I wondered, while stuffing the relevant bits and pieces into my sports bra. I had resolved to drop a few excess pounds after the holidays, and putting on workout clothes was half the battle.
“Now I have to exercise today,” I mumbled before trudging to the kitchen for coffee.
After driving the kids to school in our dirty white minivan, I headed home, fully intending to jog directly to the base gym and lift weights. Pulling into my driveway, I noticed the messy interior of the van and decided I had to vacuum the van before my run.
There’s something about Shop-Vacs, leaf blowers, and power washers. Once I get the tool going, I can’t seem to put the thing down. It’s exhilarating to cleanse one’s life of debris and clutter, and I never want that feeling to end.
Two hours later, I had not only vacuumed the van, I had also sucked the cobwebs out of the garage, the sand off the screened porch, the dog hair off the living room floor, the peanuts from under the couch cushions, and the crumbs out of the utensil drawers.
I breathed a huge sigh of cleansed relief, and then noticed the time. “Criminy!” I blurted, “I need to get on that jog!” I decided to save the weight lifting for the following day, and just get the run in. But before I go, I thought, I’d better hit the bathroom.
My middle-aged bladder no longer cooperates. I was always one of those girls who could hold it forever like some kind of Arabian camel. But once I hit age forty, my bladder got fed up and took my urethra hostage. Essentially, when the urge strikes, I’d better find the bathroom pronto, or my bladder will open the release valve on my own little Hoover Dam.
While doing my business, I noticed an interesting article on space exploration in the latest National Geographic.
Amidst a resounding flush, I emerged from the bathroom with an empty bladder and a brain full of newfound information on space exploration, scatology, airborne microbes, and Ecuadorian parakeets.
“Fascinating,” I muttered while tying up the string on my workout pants.
It was on the early side of lunchtime according to the clock. I couldn’t go on a run with an empty stomac
h, of course. Ever a multitasker, I ate lunch at the computer while checking emails.
Computers can be evil. Just like I can’t just buy one thing at Target, I find it nearly impossible to just “check email.” Somehow, tabs get opened, links get clicked, and next thing you know, I’ve told someone what I ate for lunch on Facebook, bid on a set of vintage Pyrex nesting bowls on eBay, and watched three YouTube videos of babies laughing.
Suddenly my watch alarm beeped, signaling it was time to get back in the minivan to pick up the kids from school. “Well, darn it,” I huffed, “I guess I’ll have to power walk later this afternoon.”
A couple of hours later, I was ready for that walk, but first decided I’d better fluff and fold the laundry real quick so Francis’s uniforms wouldn’t wrinkle. Since folding laundry is about as fun as watching paint dry, I flipped on the TV.
I must say, those shows about hoarders are riveting. Like a train wreck, they’re awful and tragic, but you can’t stop watching.
An hour later, I had to defrost the chicken; I had to take Lilly to her tennis lesson; I had to load the dishwasher; I had to scratch the dog’s belly; I had to watch that new episode of Modern Family.
At 10:00 p.m., Francis woke me on the couch to lead me to bed. My workout clothes were quite cozy, so in a Flashdance-inspired move, I took off my sports bra and climbed right into bed.
My workout clothes will already be on when I wake up in the morning, I thought to myself before dropping off to sleep, so I’ll have to exercise tomorrow, for sure.
SEASON 3 EPISODE 13
ONE OF THOSE DAYS
I always believed I’d be able to manage our family life without compromising my standards. Apparently, I was wrong, because there I was crying like a baby while careening down the expressway in my dingy minivan. Wearing my standard black workout pants, ratty tennis shoes, and a fleece jacket adorned with dog hair, I struggled to see through my tears and the bug guts still on the windshield from our spring break trip. All three kids sat in their seats, unfazed. They’d seen this kind of crazed display before.
It had been one of those days. This time, the breaking point occurred during an after-school conference with Hayden’s English teacher. News of our son’s academic transgressions, coupled with the normal events of everyday life—work deadlines, dirty laundry, the price of gas, dust bunnies, hormones—was just enough to bring me to the brink.
And I used to be so sure of myself. …
One dreary winter before Lilly was born, Francis and I traveled to Boston to visit his old college roommate who, like Francis, was married with kids, a job, and a mortgage. They were a few years ahead of our life schedule, so visiting them was like looking into our future.
While our husbands snuck off to drink beer somewhere, I hung out with the other wife as she went about her day as a stay-at-home mom to three kids.
Riding in her dingy minivan to school, I felt a subtle twinge of anxiety. My counterpart was somewhat tensely gripping the wheel, wearing her husband’s jacket, workout pants marred with a blob of dried schmutz, slippers, and a pair of broken sunglasses that sat crooked on her face. The floor of the van was strewn with debris—discarded kids’ meal toys, juice boxes, crumpled wrappers, and tidbits of food.
As she chatted about leaving her career as an attorney to raise the kids, my mind wandered. What is that stuff on her pants? Can’t she scrape it off with her thumbnail? With those glasses cocked sideways, she looks like she might suddenly run us all off a cliff. At least if we are stranded in a ravine, we could survive a few days on the old french fries and Skittles under the seats.
Back at her house, she washed out two dirty cups, served us some coffee and slumped into a scratched kitchen chair with the newspaper. I could tell that skimming the newspaper over coffee each day was her one indulgence and depriving her of this little break from her chaotic routine might just sever her precarious hold on sanity.
I puttered to allow her time to read.
“Hey, listen to this,” she suddenly commanded. “A man filed a missing persons report because his wife and mother of their children disappeared last week. Don’t you know, they found her, happily living in a newly rented apartment. Apparently, she loved her family dearly but desperately needed a break, so she ran away.”
My crazed hostess lifted her head from her paper and stared out the window for a few seconds before mumbling, “She … just … ran away.”
“I need to go freshen up a bit,” I lied, and hid in the bathroom in hopes she would find solace and not a loaded weapon.
On the plane ride home, I thought of how the woman seemed to be hanging on by a thread and told myself I would never lead such a cluttered, disorganized, chaotic life.
And yet, fourteen years later, there I was in my own dingy minivan, wearing my own schmutzy pants, crying my eyes out over my own chaotic life. As I said, the kids had seen it all before. They knew I’d soon be back to “normal,” which for me was a mental state that vacillated between Supermom and somewhat unstable.
But, I did not drive our minivan off a cliff or run away to find a new life for myself. No, much like the old college roommate’s wife in Boston, I maintained my grip on that invisible thread from which we moms hang and did what I needed to do to survive the chaos.
On that particular afternoon, it only took a good cry, an entire can of Pringles, and two episodes of Dance Moms for me to make a full recovery. Ironically, I was proud of myself and mothers everywhere, who, despite it all, continue to muster the strength to face “one of those days.”
SEASON 3 EPISODE 14
BRACING FOR BANKRUPTCY
I was sitting in the orthodontist’s waiting room, again, all finished organizing the items in my purse, looking for something else to keep me occupied until Anna’s monthly adjustments were complete. I’d done it all: balanced my checkbook, applied concealer to the dark circles under my eyes, watched Toy Story, torn recipes out of magazines. I’d even discovered an old cough drop in the bottom of my purse, picked off the lint, and eaten it.
With three kids in braces, it seemed like I’d spent half my life in the orthodontist’s waiting room, and unfortunately, half our combined income too.
I’d never thought my kids’ teeth looked all that crooked in the first place, but somehow they all needed full orthodontic treatment including preparatory extractions, palate expanders, bands, brackets, adjustments, headgear, and retainers.
My intuition whispered this was nothing more than a widespread conspiracy between our dentist, oral surgeon, orthodontist, and insurance company to swindle me out of as much money as possible. They knew all they had to do was use big words, show me some murky x-rays, and put the fear of God in me that my kids’ mouths would soon become veritable train wrecks of snaggleteeth. They knew I would cave, and that’s exactly what I had done.
Sitting in the same gaudy upholstered waiting room chair I’d sat in a thousand times, I glanced up at the animated movie that was hypnotizing patients’ younger siblings into compliance.
The image of Snow White brought to mind memories of my own childhood, when the general attitude toward additional hardware such as orthodontics, glasses, orthopedic shoes, and back braces was that they were instant fodder for bullying and should be avoided if at all possible. I recalled the unfortunate experience of having braces when I was in the fifth grade. My orthodontist certainly didn’t have to use his powers of persuasion to convince my parents to pay. On the contrary, my parents were begging on bended knee, “Please, for the love of God, do something about her teeth!” which were spread so far apart, Tray had begun referring to me as “The Rake.”
I harrumphed out loud, remembering that my braces were not trendy modern appliances with inconspicuously glued brackets, colorful bands, and thin sparkling wire. No. Every tooth in my eleven-year-old head was cemented with gun-metal grey steel bands welded with cumbersome brackets connected by thick wire. Rather than enhancing my appearance, I went from looking like “The Rake” to resembling
Jaws from 007’s The Spy Who Loved Me.
And of course, how could I forget the dreaded headgear? “Here, pick one,” the orthodontist had offered me, pointing to a big bin of colorful neck straps to go with my new hardware. I chose the stylish faux denim option, a wholly inadequate consolation prize for the utter humiliation of wearing the slobber-producing device.
I heaved a sigh and chuckled inwardly at the awkward memories of those bygone braces.
With twenty minutes of waiting left to go and nothing to do but pick stuff out from under my fingernails, I tried to ignore the internal cynic who thought of all the money being automatically withdrawn from our dwindling checking account in the name of orthodontic perfection and middle-school fashion. Instead, I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least my purse had never been more organized.
SEASON 3 EPISODE 15
THE FAMILY MEETING
“C’mon guys!” I bellowed from the kitchen, “You’re late!” One by one, they appeared at our table, each carrying a heavy attitude.
Francis had always thought my family meetings were pure nonsense. All this nicey-nicey talking was a complete waste of his Sunday leisure time. When he grew up, you did what your parents told you to do, or you’d be wearing five faster than you could say “child protective services.”
However, Francis had left me in charge of the household on so many occasions during our marriage while he was deployed or traveling for his military job, he had decided it was best to go along with my parenting schemes, harebrained or not.
I’d been holding semi-annual family meetings since the kids were too young to read my typed agendas, and I believed these forced family events were necessary to maintain order and my sanity. I suppose I was afraid we’d turn our kids into axe murders, heroin junkies, or worst of all, adults with low self-esteem.
The Meat and Potatoes of Life Page 10
