My Christmas List

My son has been asking me for my Christmas list for two weeks now.  He wants to be finished shopping by Thanksgiving this year. I finally sent the list by e-mail to all three children and my husband this morning, and already I’m feeling anxious  thinking about all the things I forgot to include.  Now what?

It’s cute when a child says they forgot to put something on their Christmas list and you tell them:   Don’t worry, honey, Santa knows everything that you want.

It’s not so cute when an adult sends an e-mail attachment every few days and the subject line reads, addendum to my Christmas list - hope you haven’t gone shopping yet!

I don’t like making a Christmas list at my age.  I stopped making Christmas lists at age seven, after Santa disappointed me two years in a row and failed to bring me a Barbie doll.

I thought my husband was kidding, during our first year of marriage, and laughed him off when he asked for my Christmas list.

“Christmas lists are for kids,” I told him.

“Make me a list anyway,” he insisted.  “Everyone in my family makes a Christmas list.  My parents need a list from you, too.  They don’t know what to get you.”

I worked on the list for days, wondering, am I asking for too much?  Not enough?  Can I include clothing on this list?  Boots? Housewares?  Am I forgetting anything? I needed so much in those early years when all we could afford were the weekly groceries and a small bag of M&M’s for a weekend treat.

“Are you kidding me?!” my husband laughed when I finally handed him my Christmas list on an 8x10 sheet of loose leaf paper, filled front to back. He didn’t know I was holding page two behind my back. “Do you really think you’re going to get all this stuff?”

“What?” I asked.  “Did I ask for too much?  I wanted to give them choices, in case they couldn’t find some things.”

What did I know from Christmas lists anyway?  Was there an etiquette to submitting a Christmas list?   If the list is too long, does that mean you’re presumptuous and demanding?  If it’s too short are you insecure, lacking self confidence? What was the proper length for my first Christmas list to my new in-laws?

“That’s my list,” I told him.  “I’m not doing it over. Just pay close attention to everything that has a star next to it.  Those are the things I really want.”

“Do you want my list?” he asked, handing me a short piece of paper with about four items on it.

“Nope,” I answered, holding my hand up to the list.  “I already bought you something.”

Of course, I hadn’t, but I just had to get back at him for making fun of my long list.  And the look on his face was worth all the items on my list put together.

Colonoscopy Prep: Do’s and Don’ts

I had a colonoscopy on Monday afternoon, so you know what I was doing all day Sunday.  It wasn’t so bad, though.  This time I did things right.


I had my first colonoscopy in 2000.  What did I know back then?  They sent me home with the instruction sheet and the directions said, “eat a normal breakfast and a light lunch and begin drinking the prepared liquid at 3:00 PM.”  So what did I do?  I ate a large breakfast like it was Fat Tuesday and a lunch the size of the Last Supper.

While I was scoffing up a plate of spaghetti and meatballs for lunch my husband was shaking his head in disbelief.  “You’ll be sorry,” he said.

“Why?” I asked flippantly, while buttering another slice of Italian bread. “If I’m going to lose it all anyway, I might as well enjoy it going down. Besides, I won’t be able to eat again for 24 hours...I’ll need my strength.”

I spent the rest of the evening gagging over the kitchen sink trying to shove down another glass of golytely (that godawful drink that tastes like slimy salt water) on top of my already pasta filled stomach.  I didn’t sleep all night - for obvious reasons.  My stomach was blowing up like I was 9 months pregnant as I cursed every crumb, every bite, every piece of food that had to push through my gastrointestinal tract.  I even got mad at my husband - the sound of him snoring in a deep sleep, while I was suffering.

This time I did it right.  I was prepared and wizened to the do’s and don’ts of the colonoscopy prep.  I tried to have a positive attitude about the whole process.  I bought some lemon jello, white grape juice, chicken broth, blue Gatorade. I tried some reverse psychology with everyone, saying, “These are my special foods for tomorrow and you can’t have any.”  But they just laughed me off  - sure, mom, no problem.  

The night before, I hummed a happy tune while stirring the jello, I admired the beautiful blue of the Gatorade, I lined up a book to read and began thinking of the one good thing about a colonoscopy:  those few moments before you drift off into that happy sleep.  It’s the only time I don’t mind a doctor coming at me with a needle in hand.

It’s only a few seconds, between the time the anaesthesiologist says, “you might feel a little dizzy, a little tingly,” and the time you are totally knocked out.  But in those few seconds,  there is a bliss that comes over you - a tingling around the forehead, the relaxation of all tension, a warmth flowing through the body.  It’s the best feeling - that twilight moment before the dead sleep and no feeling at all.

So, how pitiful is my life, you must be thinking, that I have to look forward to feeling high from anaesthesia?  The truth is, I can’t drink alcohol; it makes me overheat with just one sip. I don’t smoke pot. I get hot flashes and itchy skin when I drink wine.  So I found the one bright moment in a colonoscopy - when I can get high and enjoy it.

Call me weird, but I had to find something to look forward to in this whole process, or I would never schedule another one again.

School Bus Rant

I got stuck behind a school bus today.  I forgot how annoying that is.  It seems like you wait forever for the kids to saunter on and off the bus.  Kids don’t run anymore, do they?  They take their sweet time. I swear they do it just to annoy all the drivers sitting in their cars behind the bus. 

And whatever happened to bus stops?  The bus I was trailing stopped at individual houses, put out the big STOP sign off the side of the bus, opened the door and patiently waited for the kids to finish their toast and brush their teeth. Take your time!  I’ve got all day here!

Worse than the kids, though, are the mothers who stand there in the morning gabbing with the bus driver.  They usually have a cup of coffee in their hand, pajama pants under a raincoat, hair all messy, no makeup.  They’re in no hurry.  They're going back to bed once all the little kiddies are safely on the bus. They don’t care that there are five cars idling behind the bus with very anxious drivers who are probably already late for work.

I’m sitting there this morning watching the clock on my dashboard turn over another minute, wishing I could blast my horn at the back of the bus, but really wishing I could run over the mother gabbing and laughing it up with the bus driver.  When they finally finish the conversation, the doors of the bus close and the mothers stand there frantically waving and blowing kisses to their little darlings.  Knock it off!  I wanted to yell out my window.  They’re coming back in six hours!

How I Blew My Father's Retirement Fund

I got on the internet today out of curiosity.  I wanted to see the value of a Kennedy half dollar.  I found a 1964 coin with 90% silver content valued at $129.95.  A 1965 half dollar  in perfect condition was valued at $299.95.  I almost cried.

My dad started a collection of Kennedy half dollars back in the sixties.  I guess he figured he was going to retire on their future value someday, since he had no retirement plan to speak of.  My dad was a mechanic.  He worked with his hands and got paid in cash for his labor.  Yes, back in the sixties people paid with real cash.  

I never had an allowance as a kid. I sold lemonade on the side of the road for 2 cents a cup in the summer.  And then there was the occasional happy accident.  A penny in the street, a nickel between the sofa cushions, a dime on the floor!  It was my only source of income back then. 

I would hop on my bike with my pennies in my sweaty hand and ride down to Tony’s Deli to buy some junky candy:  sugary liquid in colored waxy bottles, artificially colored hard sugar dots on strips of white paper, jaw breakers, gum. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was sweet and cost under ten cents. 

Getting a dime under my pillow when I lost a tooth was like Christmas for me.  It meant I could buy a chocolate bar the next day and still have change left over. Yes, a dime went a long way back then and a fifty cent piece went even further.

I don’t recall why I was in that particular kitchen cabinet that particular summer day, but I remember reaching way back behind the pots for something.  It was dark back there, I was kneeling on my knees and my hand fell onto an open can. I couldn’t see inside the can so I stuck my hand down into it and I felt coins - cool, large and heavier than any penny, nickel or dime I had ever held.  I shoved my hand way down into the can and heard a ching-ching  sound and I knew I had found treasure!

I grabbed a handful and brought them into the light and gasped. I had never seen anything like them before. They were so shiny and cool in my hand, I couldn’t stop rubbing them between my fingers. I had a feeling of fear and excitement all balled up in my throat. I felt an ecstatic scream coming on, but had the good sense to stifle it before it erupted. Something told me I wasn’t supposed to know about this secret treasure.

I put them all back except one.  I had to keep just one to look at it later.  A few days passed and all I could think about were the coins in the kitchen cabinet.  When no one was around, I would check to see that they were still there, running my hand through the can and listening to the ching-ching music I had come to love.

One day, I decided to spend my fifty cent piece at Tony’s deli.  I couldn’t even carry all the candy that coin bought.  When I realized my father didn’t notice a few coins missing, I became greedy and would snatch a coin every other day, running down to Tony’s deli for more upscale foods like potato chips and ice cream.  

Finally, one day, Tony asked me, “Hey kid, where you getting all these coins?”

“My father.”

“Oh, yea?  Well, bring me some more,” he said.

And I did.  Until, I got sloppy, and in my brazen wanton lust, I was caught one day by my younger brother.  To keep him from tattling on me, I had to share my secret, which meant the pile of coins was being depleted now by two.

My father kept dropping coins into the can at night and we would empty it by day.  At some point he must have realized that something wasn’t right.  Who knows?  Maybe the ching-ching sound got too hollow or maybe he reached in one day to see how high his retirement pile was growing, but that was the day my high life at Tony’s deli stopped.

“Who’s been stealing my Kennedy half dollars?!”  my father bellowed through the house.  “When I catch whoever’s been stealing my Kennedy half dollars I’m gonna kill ‘em!”

I was practicing for my piano lesson when the hollering started.  I tried to play through it, but my fingers started shaking and sweating and I had to stop when he stormed into the room.

“Have you been taking my Kennedy half dollars?!” 

“Me? No,” I said in my meekest voice. “Maybe Freddy took them.” 

It was as simple as that.  I sold my little brother down the river.  I’m not proud of that moment in my life, but that’s just how it was.  When you have a younger sibling that you can blame things on you do what you can to save your own neck.

I got my own bad karma right back at me in the next few months while I was sitting in the dentist’s chair having the cavities drilled out from all that candy I ate all summer.

Come to think of it, the only one who made out was Tony.  He got most of my father’s Kennedy half dollars - the real silver ones. I wonder where he retired to.

Weekend Pirates

My sons are playing pirate this weekend.  The three of them left on our sailboat this morning with food and drink for two days.  While loading the boat, one of them asked if the pillows were on board yet and the other two laughed at him.

“We’re not bringing pillows on this trip.  We’re roughing it,” said my oldest boy.  But when the youngest one came out with his fluffy pillow under his arm, the other two reluctantly  called out, “Oh, alright; get ours too!”

I stood on the dock going through a mental checklist asking, “Do you have the bug spray?- yes -  Do you have the sunblock? -yes -  Water? -yes - Matches?”

“Mom, we know what we’re doing.  You don’t have to ask us if we packed everything.”

It’s true.  I don’t have to do that every time my boys go off somewhere, but I can’t help myself.  Besides, I can’t tell you how many times I asked an obvious question like, “Do you have your dorm room key? your wallet? your license?" and got a blank stare as an answer, followed by the boy running off to his room for the missing object.

As the boat pulled away from the dock, I cupped my hands around my mouth to make a bullhorn and yelled, “Where are your hats and sunglasses?!”

They looked at each other with that blank stare and turned the boat around. My husband ran inside to get three baseball caps, and as I threw a line out for them to grab, I asked, again, “Are you sure you have the sunblock?”

“Yes, mom!” my son said, rolling his eyes, “it’s on the boat already.”

“You really have to stop doing that,” my husband told me as we watched the boat take off again.  “They are grown men.”

“Grown men who forget their hats,” I replied.

As the temperature reached into the 90's, I found myself wondering if they were applying sunblock regularly, or if they remembered to put it on at all. I knew they wouldn’t be spreading sunblock on each other’s backs.  Pirates don’t do those things.

 One of my sons was on a medication this week that required him to remain out of the sun.  How would that be possible on a bright hot summer’s day at the beach?  Was he going to stay down in the cabin all day?  They forgot to pack an umbrella.  But then, again, pirates don’t pack umbrellas.

I worried about the rip tides we were having this weekend.  I warned them to beware, but would that be enough?  Pirates don’t listen to their mothers.  They swig rum and dare each other to walk the plank, or some such thing.

At 3:00 PM the phone rang.  It was my youngest son calling to see if we would be coming down to the beach to join them. Odd, I thought.  Pirates calling for parental companionship? I was perfectly content under our shady tree, reading a book, so I told my husband to go ahead without me.

“I’ll just be there a little while,” he told me.  “I have to bring them some things.”

“Oh? What things?”

“They forgot the wood for the fire, and I’ll bring an umbrella so Paul can get out of the sun… And the sunblock," he mumbled. "They forgot the sunblock.”

The Lawnmower

I went for a walk this morning at the John Burns Park in Massapequa. That's where I saw five men - employees of the park -  hovering over a lawn mower.  One was poking it, touching and prodding like a doctor would do to a patient on his examining table.  One was kneeling next to the lawn mower, hand on the base.  And the other three were standing in a circle around the lawnmower, just observing.

A walk around the park is marked in tenths of a mile, for a total of one half mile total.  It takes me about ten minutes to walk a complete round.  My first round brought me back to the starting point and the five men, still hovering over the lawnmower...ten minutes.

As I approached the completion of my second round, there were now four men standing around the machine, arms crossed, as the fifth man hopped into a golf cart type vehicle to fly off somewhere.  Was he going for help?  One guy shuffled around and kicked some stones into the path.  They were obviously very concerned about the lawnmower.  No one wanted to leave it alone for a moment.  One man kept his hand firmly on the handle offering comfort to the ailing mower.

I was listening to a great song on my iphone so I contemplated another walk around, another ten minutes.  Nah, I thought, better get home and get ready for work.  Besides, my legs were starting to get tired and I was starting to sweat.  I hate sweat.

I did some stretches to stall for a few moments so I could finish the song.  The guy on the golf cart cruised back weaving the cart in a playful pattern over the roadway, then parked up on the sidewalk next to the lawnmower.  He remained seated under the cart's awning, out of the sun, observing the other four meandering listlessly around the lawnmower.

I couldn't wait any longer.  I had to leave.  But I'm wondering how the lawnmower is doing.  It must be pretty serious - to have five grown men so concerned.  I wonder if they are all still standing there trying to figure out what to do.

Giving Up Coffee - The End?

It has been a difficult journey.  Coffee is everywhere.  People are either drinking coffee or offering you a cup of coffee. It is the social drink of choice and to refuse a friendly offer of a cup of coffee seems to suggest that one's social skills need polishing. "I would love a glass of ice water," just doesn't cut it.

I remember a Valentine card I once bought for my husband.  The illustration on the card was of two steaming cups of coffee on a cozy kitchen table.  I can't imagine the same illustration with one steaming cup of coffee and a tall glass of ice water.  What would the message say inside? "You're hot; I'm cold.  Be my valentine"  I don't think so.

It's funny how we link associations to a cup of coffee. Coffee is a friendly drink.  It bonds people. It makes us warm and cozy. Just the smell of coffee makes people perk up and smile with anticipated pleasure.  How many times, I remember, enduring a bad cup of coffee, and when I was done saying something like, "Ah!  That hit the spot."  I believed that, even if it tasted like tar infused engine oil, coffee just made me feel better. It's what I went for when I was tired, depressed, bored,  relaxing, or making a pit stop on a long road trip. I drank it to wake up, wind down, warm up or calm down.

I just finished reading the three books by Stieg Larsson:  The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played With Fire and The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest.  What amazed me, while reading those books, was how often the characters were drinking coffee.  In almost every scene - except the ones where someone was being chased on foot - someone was either offering coffee, brewing a pot of coffee, or sitting in a cafe drinking coffee.  Coffee, coffee, coffee!  I think that's what helped me commit to giving up the stuff.  I would find myself sighing with impatience every time a character would start brewing another pot of coffee.  Why were they sitting around drinking coffee when they should have been chasing the bad guys? Why, he probably could have condensed all three books into one if there weren't so many coffee breaks in between the action.

So how do I go from the person I was when I wrote my blog, The Coffee Party on March 29th of this year to the decaffeinated dud that I am now?  Not by choice, I can tell you that.  I loved coffee.  Coffee was my friend.  But like anything that doesn't agree with you anymore, or a friend that turns out to be a jerk, you have to painfully admit that it is time to end the relationship. 

Sure, I still have fond memories and I still have weak moments when I think about my old friend and contemplate a brief encounter.  Who would know?  I could sneak into any one of the thousand Starbucks on every street corner.  I would blend in with the crowd and no one would know that I was cheating.  I could make a 12-cup pot at home, when I'm alone, and spend the afternoon dancing on the tables and singing opera at the top of my lungs (with the windows shut, of course).  Who would know?

Who would know?