I hadn't truly acknowledged, celebrated, or enjoyed a Christmas for the past several years. This wasn't a conscious decision, or due to any unpleasant feelings toward Christmas, or bad associations. I guess I can only attribute my lack of participation to laziness, and not really having my whole family around. My family is rather loose when it comes to traditions, and if my mother was working a shift at the hospital, Dad and I would be equally content to stay at our separate homes by ourselves, eat whatever, maybe watch a movie... just relax and enjoy an extra day off. In 2009, I had just moved up here to Seattle 4 days before Christmas, so I had a legitimate excuse to ignore the holiday that time. I hadn't unpacked my Christmas decor, nor did I know anyone at all in my new town with whom I could acknowledge Christmas. I did cook myself a nice meal, though.
Anyway, this all changed in 2010, and I embraced the Winter holiday in full force (albeit at the very last minute!). Again, I had just moved, this time into my boyfriend's house, and just one month before Christmas. We were still in the throes of creating order and space in a house that was now bulging at the seams with our combined "necessities." Putting some festive lights in the windows was easy enough, and about a week before Christmas, we finally got a tree, decorated it, and hung our stockings by the 50" plasma with care. With my boyfriend's family being local, and my own brother and sister-in-law now living in town, there was no escaping the standard flurry of traditions, meals, gift-giving, drinking, more meals, carol-singing, more gifts, and so on. Game on, Christmas! I was ready to re-enter the world of Jack Frost and sleigh bells after my long hiatus.
Christmas Eve was a fun day of festivities with my boyfriend's family, and after a mandatory gift exchange with that group on Christmas day, we rushed home to prepare for a dinner at our house with my brother and his wife. The meal was great, and the wine was flowing as we talked and laughed into the evening. At some point, we were discussing a next door neighbor, and decided we should invite her over. We called, and a house-sitter answered the phone. In the spirit of Christmas, we invited this complete stranger to come on over for a glass of wine, and to our surprise, 3 complete strangers were at our door within moments. They proved to be very pleasant company, and jumped right into conversations and more laughter with us.
Then it happened. The cat decided to walk across the short wall overlooking our stairwell, and rather than completing its journey, he stopped, and sat.
On a candle. A lit candle. Seriously... the cat sat right on the flame of a lit candle, but I was the only one in the room to observe this action. Lost for words, I started stuttering incoherent syllables and waving my hands around in panic. Finally, my brother who was standing nearest the cat became aware of the smoke rising from the creature, and sort of ushered him off the candle-filled perch, and patted him down a bit, somehow putting out the smoldering fur.
Then the smell hit. It filled the room with a choking offensiveness, eliciting scrunched up facial expressions of horror, and unadulterated groans of displeasure. In short order, the cat was toweled off to remove the singed fur (he turned out to be completely unharmed, aside from the loss of fur on his hind-quarters and tail), the room was sprayed with air freshener, and scented candles were lit. Before long, everything was back to normal, and eventually the guests made their exit, and Christmas was over.
This past Christmas of 2010, while filled with many fond and lasting memories, will certainly be remembered most for one particular event. This was The Christmas When The Cat Caught On Fire.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Kidnapped by a Carnie
I don't go on Ferris wheels anymore.
Innocently, one would not think about how much trust they are putting in another person when they climb aboard this ever-popular carnival ride. There is only one person who decides whether you ever get off of the Ferris wheel, and this is the Ferris wheel operator; a "carnie."
Based on my particular experience, allow me to paint a picture for you of the typical grocery-store parking lot weekend carnival set-up: Maybe ten or so over-priced rides (which were in hundreds of pieces on semi trucks just hours before you trusted them with your life), flanked on either side by two short midways of games, undoubtedly rigged with the odds stacked against you winning a fifty-cent stuffed giraffe, even though you paid $4 to throw three balls. Peppered in between all this stimulating attraction are the standard vendors of fare that can only be considered edible when attending a carnival: tall sticks swathed in pastel-hued cotton candy, deep-fried doughy objects bigger than your head and coated in sugar, deep-fried cheese, Twinkies, candy bars... anything you can imagine has been dipped in batter and deep-fried until unrecognizable, greasy, and gooey. For some reason, this generates an all-encompassing odor spreading across 4 city blocks, which makes us think we should go to the carnival in the first place.
My friend and I (we'll call her Sara), had finished a satisfying sushi dinner at a local restaurant, and eyed the parking lot carnival upon leaving. It was decided that we should relive one of those magical moments of childhood, and go waste some money. Sara and I rode a couple of rides, thoroughly unimpressed as adults with what would have certainly blown our little minds as children. We meandered through the midways, maybe we played a game or two, but failed to take home a goldfish. We knew we were saving the best for last. Before we left, we wanted to ride the Ferris wheel, and gaze upon our modest city and the bright carnival lights from up high in a rickety, rusty basket-of-doom. Tickets were bought, and we waited patiently in line until it was our turn. The carnie running the Ferris wheel was exactly what you would expect in this environment; old and unkempt, missing several teeth, a stained and worn-out shirt unbuttoned over an equally weathered undershirt, and taking an occasional nip from a plastic cup he kept indiscreetly "hidden" at the base of his control stand. He welcomed us aboard with a suspicious chuckle.
My friend and I enjoyed the ride, slow and easy, maybe rocking the basket illegally a few times in the warm Tucson night air. We took pictures and talked and laughed. After a few times around, the ride was over, and the carnie began systematically emptying the seats. Over and over, we rhythmically jerked to a stop as another basket was emptied, and then reloaded with freshly anticipatory children and the occasional romantic adults or drunken college students. Until it was our turn. With an evil laugh and a menacing wink, the carnie throttled right on past our exit window and moved on to the next basket. "Oh well," we laughed... we were on for another ride. For free! We went back to our same antics, and enjoyed another tour of the richly-scented parking lot air. By the time this round was over, we were bored of the Ferris wheel. The childhood magic was gone. It was time to go be adults again... see what our other friends were up to, crack open some good wine, and let the evening run its course. Carnie had other plans. Once again as our turn to dismount approached, he let that wheel chug on past again, leaving us helplessly on board for round 3. It wasn't fun anymore. My friend and I began discussing the reality that the only way off of a Ferris wheel is if the operator decides to let you off. This had never occurred to us before in life, never haven previously been given more "free rides" than desired on a Ferris wheel. What if he kept us captive until the carnival closed, and we were knocked out and dragged into a trailer, only to awaken on a road to nowhere, slaves to the traveling carnival?
Okay, that last part didn't happen. But it did cross our minds. After the third go-'round, we were finally released from our over-used seats on the wheel by a clearly intoxicated carnie who relished in his small victory and flirted as we scurried away fast. So that's the night I was kidnapped by a carnie, and that's why I don't ride Ferris wheels anymore.
Innocently, one would not think about how much trust they are putting in another person when they climb aboard this ever-popular carnival ride. There is only one person who decides whether you ever get off of the Ferris wheel, and this is the Ferris wheel operator; a "carnie."
Based on my particular experience, allow me to paint a picture for you of the typical grocery-store parking lot weekend carnival set-up: Maybe ten or so over-priced rides (which were in hundreds of pieces on semi trucks just hours before you trusted them with your life), flanked on either side by two short midways of games, undoubtedly rigged with the odds stacked against you winning a fifty-cent stuffed giraffe, even though you paid $4 to throw three balls. Peppered in between all this stimulating attraction are the standard vendors of fare that can only be considered edible when attending a carnival: tall sticks swathed in pastel-hued cotton candy, deep-fried doughy objects bigger than your head and coated in sugar, deep-fried cheese, Twinkies, candy bars... anything you can imagine has been dipped in batter and deep-fried until unrecognizable, greasy, and gooey. For some reason, this generates an all-encompassing odor spreading across 4 city blocks, which makes us think we should go to the carnival in the first place.
My friend and I (we'll call her Sara), had finished a satisfying sushi dinner at a local restaurant, and eyed the parking lot carnival upon leaving. It was decided that we should relive one of those magical moments of childhood, and go waste some money. Sara and I rode a couple of rides, thoroughly unimpressed as adults with what would have certainly blown our little minds as children. We meandered through the midways, maybe we played a game or two, but failed to take home a goldfish. We knew we were saving the best for last. Before we left, we wanted to ride the Ferris wheel, and gaze upon our modest city and the bright carnival lights from up high in a rickety, rusty basket-of-doom. Tickets were bought, and we waited patiently in line until it was our turn. The carnie running the Ferris wheel was exactly what you would expect in this environment; old and unkempt, missing several teeth, a stained and worn-out shirt unbuttoned over an equally weathered undershirt, and taking an occasional nip from a plastic cup he kept indiscreetly "hidden" at the base of his control stand. He welcomed us aboard with a suspicious chuckle.
Okay, that last part didn't happen. But it did cross our minds. After the third go-'round, we were finally released from our over-used seats on the wheel by a clearly intoxicated carnie who relished in his small victory and flirted as we scurried away fast. So that's the night I was kidnapped by a carnie, and that's why I don't ride Ferris wheels anymore.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
What Are Daisy Petals?
To state the obvious, they are the petals of the daisy flower; small, white, innocent, and delicate. Often used to answer life's more perplexing questions such as, "Does he/she love me?" or "Does he/she love me not?" But none of that is relevant to this blog.
In this instance, Daisy petals are the tiny, white dog hairs shed from the coat of my French Bulldog, Daisy. My boyfriend coined the phrase one day when he looked down at his once-black sweater, now coated in white fur, and said, "I'm covered in Daisy petals!" It was perfect, and it stuck. These petals, to me, symbolize tiny little pieces of happiness, as this small bowling ball of a dog fills me with more joy than often seems rational or reasonable.
In turn, this blog is my sharing of tiny little excerpts from my life. Stories from past and present that make me smile, and might make you smile as well.
In this instance, Daisy petals are the tiny, white dog hairs shed from the coat of my French Bulldog, Daisy. My boyfriend coined the phrase one day when he looked down at his once-black sweater, now coated in white fur, and said, "I'm covered in Daisy petals!" It was perfect, and it stuck. These petals, to me, symbolize tiny little pieces of happiness, as this small bowling ball of a dog fills me with more joy than often seems rational or reasonable.
In turn, this blog is my sharing of tiny little excerpts from my life. Stories from past and present that make me smile, and might make you smile as well.
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