Happy Friggin Holidays

Christmas is one those grand times of year in which folks dress up like eskimos and eat too much and roast chestnuts and hang tinsel on a gaudy fake tree. I mean, I love the holiday myself. This is evidenced by that fact that the garland on my mantle has been appropriately arranged since the Saturday following Thanksgiving. My tree was likewise decorated and presents wrapped within 48 hours of the gluttonous feast. Black Friday is the holiday that follows that other one in which we're supposed to be thankful and such.

Part of the splendor that comes with the advent season is obviously the music. Whether it be carols or hymns or new Holiday creations, the music serves as a catalyst for warm, fuzzy feelings, baking cookies, and putting up lights... in some cases, more lights than necessary.

This season, I have become ensconced with the music... listening to it in my car, while I wash dishes, while I'm fixing breakfast, while I'm at the office. For the most part, holiday melodies do provide the warm fuzzies for my psyche.

However - comma - there are some songs that I have come to discover are less-than-jolly. Indeed, some are downright sinister, not by virtue of the song, but rather by virtue of the artist behind it. Allow me to elaborate.

Mariah Carey - in most every song she sings with the intent of merriment and joy, I rather find myself picturing demented elves dancing around with smiles too wide to comfortably fit their little faces. I find it to be full of noise and distraction and too much vibrato. Mariah Carey does not create for me a sense of cozy and happy. Rather, I grow withdrawn and scared. I wish to run home, grab my neatly placed stocking that has been hung by the chimney with care, and pull it over my head.

Amy Grant - oh Amy... "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" has become the most nauseating song of the season. I don't question her artistic ability to create music. But I do question her gag reflex and solarplexis when she covers this song. I am left with impression that she is on the verge of throwing up a little in her mouth when recalling that her loved ones are neeeeeaaaaarrrrr.

So this is Christmas. And what have YOU done? - well, I am going to change that channel temporarly. That's what I am going to do. This song is not conducive to wrapping up in a cozy snuggie and watching It's A Wonderful Life. Rather this song makes me feel guilty about that extra helping of mashed potatoes I had. I feel less-than-okay about not paying that extra dollar to the Make A Wish Foundation when checking out at Food Lion. I feel selfish for using 2 ply toilet paper and encouraging the further destruction of trees for a more enjoyable bathroom experience. I am reminded of the the starving kids Grandmother always told me about when I wouldn't finish all of my vegetables. No thanks. Blinders please. It's Christmas for crying out loud!

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time - not when this song is on. It's choppy and not fluid. This song stresses me out. I can't relax. I do not have a wonderful Christmas time when this is playing. It lies to me.

Give me some Nat King Cole and Michael Buble. Give me those instrumental classics and big band era feel-goods. Give me that good time feeling with images of utopia and good will. Allow me to dance in the oblivion that everyone is drinking cocoa and sledding and eating and sleeping in warm beds. Now that is a happy friggin holiday.

Calories Count

It would seem to me that calorie counting has worked in the past when I starved myself on less than 1200 calories a day. I have no idea where I got the discipline and the energy to adhere to such a strict regime. To couple it with weight lifting and vigorous exercise, I managed to drop every bit of 60 pounds. "You're too thin" some would say. It's true, I was thin... and toned... and really hot.

But somewhere along the line I lapsed... I ceased weight lifting after ripping apart my tendons. I lost the discipline to exercise as my energy turned towards other issues and anxieties. And due to the anxieties and issues I lost sight of all caloric discipline.

Calories count for something. Weight gain set aside, calories come in a variety of sugary-sweet and savory packages. Calories not only function as a digestable energy source for normal body functions. Calories also become a therapist of sorts... adhering to your very emotional needs of comfort and security. How interesting it is that when not looking, calories count and become bigger in number. Before you know it, it is the calories that you intake which become the bigger source of discomfort and insecurity.

Tis a constant struggle... eat this not that... have only one not two... burn more eat less. I jog. I watch what I eat. And I watch my weight fluctuate. I blame it on the thyroid while turning a blind eye to the extra cookie I'm cramming down my throat. But it's just SO good.

The Right Rev Rach...

... needs a hair cut and some color. I have split ends and the grays are popping out and sticking straight up when I blow dry. Someone should really be so lucky as to give me some style and sass. Who wants to be this lucky individual? I won't even charge you do it. Let me know. I can pencil you in today if need be. Otherwise, I'm open all day tomorrow. Monday's aren't good for me. Tuesday's and Wednesday's are fine however. Call me.

I have become...

... that neighbor.

You know the one that everyone peeks through their blinds at. The one that is the catalyst for head shaking and perhaps the occasional gawker. But I can't help it. I am forced into action.

And this morning, the rubber hit the pavement. With dog, plastic bag and rubber gloves in tow, I became the neighborhood trash collector. Being an avid walker/jogger in the area, I spend many mornings being in the environment. There is just something about candy wrappers, perfectly recyclable beer cans, and fast food wrappers that get my goat when the grass and flowers are attempting to be aesthetically pleasing.

Furthermore, I am sad. I am sad that there is such thoughtlessness behind the litter. I want to punch someone... or maybe give a speech... or maybe organize a team of folks to help pick up litter along the sidewalks and local roadways once a month.

No no no, I won't turn into the litter nazi. But it does hurt my heart a little... to see broken beer bottles and plastic bags just chilling in the ditch. Not only because it is ugly, but because it affects many things around it. We take up enough space just by developing our need for things and square footage... why continue to think that the world is our trash can?

Soap box set aside... I know I am not the only one who sort of likes green grass and clean spaces. Find your soap box too. Scrub away. Grab a plastic bag and start collecting.

And if you're too embarrassed... wear sunglasses and a hat.

Why I love my job.

Excerpt from the Voice of Hospice newsletter:

In our darkest hour and heartbreaking loss, an Angel was sent to us and her name is Rachel Luck, Spiritual Care Coordinator. I will attempt to express what she did for us and how much we needed her and love her. Rachel is unique and has an ability to see and understand the shattering of lives with the loss of their loved one, she touches your heart and helped us find strength and love to move forward. We met with Rachel and instantly felt loving arms surround us. Rachel sat with us and let us talk about our Mom and helped us even laugh when we thought we would never smile or laugh again. She was the perfect fit to us. We asked Rachel to preside over our mother's memorial service and she never hesitated accepting this responsibility. It was extremely important to us our Mom's life be celebrated and the words at her service capture who our Mom was, how her love of family was her heart and soul, how she had instilled in each of us strength, courage and love of family as well as how she had touched so many people in her life's journey. Rachel's service was absolutely perfect, a tribute to a great woman and the essence of whom our Mom was to her family and friends. We have had many people who attended the service comment on how wonderful the service was and how meaningful Rachel's words were about Mom. Our family felt Mom's - Loving spirit in each and every word Rachel spoke. Mom's service was filled with light and joy and we owe that to Rachel. Our spirits were lifted and focused on the incredible gift each of us had during our Mom's life with us and not the overwhelming sadness her loss has brought. We cannot express adequately our feelings and deep gratitude to Rachel. She will forever be our Angel who gave us strength and light in our darkest hour.

Sincerely,

(Names respectfully withheld).

Poopstains and Perennials

I walk my dog most every morning. There is a little path that we like to frequent just by the library. I have a special bond to this place. It is non-discreetly tucked away between the parking lot and the drug store. I go there not because it is a place of respite or beauty or solitude. But for the sheer reason that I found 20 bucks on my first visit.

So each visit is somewhat made in vain... tossing over leaves and garbage left behind by passerby's with the hope of finding yet another president's face on paper. Sometimes the dog will do her business. And I have been shocked by the amount of steam dog poo can produce when it burrows into freshly fallen snow.

I made a mental list of the items I have discovered since. None of them are monetary. But there is great evidence that either bored teenagers, bored retirees or sufferers of midlife crises visit this place incognito. I have found my pick of MGD, Icehouse and Miller Lite bottles. Cigarette butts galore. Even denture cream and Zycam. There was an empty and faded box of Lemonheads. There was a cardboard advertisement for Chapstick. A shoe lace. Cough medicine. Fast food wrappers and a plethora of discarded cups. I noticed a broken lighter. Several plastic bags. A straw wrapper. And an empty box for an LED light.

And then I wondered how lazy one person can be when there is a trash can only yards away. I was almost happy the dog took a dump there. As a statement that WE think the parties responsible for making it a dump are despicable.

And then I walked away. Empty handed. Right passed the trash can.

20/20 Rear Vision

I give. Snow is everywhere. The fine folks 'round these parts have a bit of a learning curve when it comes to navigating ones automobile in it. I understand.

I understand you're in a hurry... need to get to work... need to hurry up so you can spare those few last minutes you tried to give yourself so as not to rush over the black ice.

But if you are going to brave the roads, and take the time to scrape your windshield and warm up your car please PLEASE do me this favor... there is a weapon atop your vehicle. It is flat and hardened and has a mind of its own when withstanding winds of 35 mph or greater.

It sends projectile missiles without warning. Sprays of unavoidable precipitation skew the visibility of others. At the very least, it startles and frightens the NPR listeners and classical music enthusiasts who are making a stride towards their own personal zen before a busy work day.

There is a special agenda for the SUV's and trucks who participate in their own 2ft or greater "mile high club". As if the momentum of going 5 over the posted speed limit isn't enough, the added height and gravity given to this potential frosty weapon of destruction is particularly disconcerting. Chunks of white debris fly at random toward the innocent folks in its wake.

If you would like to pay it forward, or simply look out for your neighbor, arguing about health care reform will do little when chucking 50 mph snow drifts at granny or little Susie.

So please, cease and desist. Dismantle the miniature frozen tundra atop your car/truck/SUV. Practice a little bit of the golden rule. Practice consideration.

Do this, and everyone's vision will be clear.

My Latest Love Affair

My stomach betrays me on a daily basis it seems. I think it has some sort of covert agreement-slash-understanding with the mass of cells and blood vessels that reside in my skull. I don't know which comes first... the thought, suggestion... or the antagonizing growl of my gut.

As of late, however, this powerful partnership of belly and brain have seduced me; taken me to some foreign land of human existence in which humanity does not suffer at the hands of obesity and over eating. This is a land that hosts beautiful flowing rivers of chocolate, mountains of garlic mashed potatoes and festively adorned chips and salsa.

In the colder climates you can experience the ice cream tundras.

Further to the south, where the sun dances closer to the surface (at approximately 350 degrees give or take), there are neighborhoods of delicious casseroles, chicken drenched in bbq sauces and savory baked confections.

Amidst the more lukewarm regions my senses steal me away to vast parks of individually wrapped hostess cakes, peanut butter by the heap-fulls, and the occasional whatever dipped in ranch dressing.

The cruelest portion on my proverbial plate, however, is the changing image of the person in the mirror. The brain-slash-belly love affair slaps me in the face with a "you're not included!" attached. Apparently my hips, thighs and upper arms are not allowed quite the same access to this consequence-free dream world.

I recall the days of freedom from this food oppression. I remember when I was able to look saturated fat right in the eye and denounce it. Ahhh... the belly betrays me daily. It lies.

And my hips are declaring war.