Decorating for Christmas

As a second child I learned quickly that there’s simply no point in competing.  My elder sibling would always be faster, stronger, bigger, more coordinated.  I’m not complaining—it was one of life’s trade-offs.  While Resi might have been better at pretty much everything, because she was the first child she drew the unceasing critical scrutiny of our parents, which allowed me a freedom to evolve that she never had.  Sorry about that, sister. 

Flash forward years and years.  In Sugar Land it was a tradition in our neighborhood to have a progressive holiday dinner.  As it was our first year there I wasn’t expected to act as one of the hostesses.  I probably took something like a side or a dessert—not important.  What’s relevant is that my spirit of competition, which had died an early death, was, as a result of this first progressive dinner in our new location, reborn. 

The homes were lovely, and most people had similar good taste (in fact, so homogenous were the People of the Cul de Sac that it took me years to tell one neighbor from another).  As David and I walked into our neighbors’ Christmas homes, I was impressed, amazed, awed, by the abundance of Christmas decorations.  These women had gone crazy with their bows and beads.  Not one surface was bare.  Garland and glitter covered every countertop, every table.  Candles and candy canes, Santas and snowmen, poinsettias and pinecones.  I could alliterate Christmas nouns all day.  One woman collected nativity dioramas—she had at least thirty of them; a couple were as large as furniture; several were small enough to fit into the palm of a hand.  One home had a fully decorated Christmas tree in every room. 

In the future, I would be expected to host one of the courses.  People would judge my Christmas home next year the same way I was judging their Christmas homes this year.  The wives would share critical observations with their husbands.  And the next day the women, and also the men, would meet their neighbors at the mailboxes, and they’d trade comments on my dedication to the season as demonstrated by my display of holiday decorations.

This wasn’t about the spirit of the season.  This wasn’t about the birth of Christ.  Christmas in Sugar Land was all about the stuff. 

I could not, must not, be found lacking. 

A fanatic was born.  I, a person who has no patience with collections and no affinity with collectors, became obsessed with having as much of one thing as possible.  Antique shops, fairs, flea markets and, of course, Michaels—all have happily taken my money in exchange for tree ornaments, snow globes, themed music boxes, Spode, and red plaid draping fabric.  And every year, on one of the days between Thanksgiving and the end of the weekend, David and I haul out the boxes and boxes and boxes full of all the paraphernalia I’ve accumulated over the years, a ludicrous amount of fake greenery, shiny balls, flickering lights, fat red candles, mangers, stars, and Santa Clauses; and we turn on the Christmas music—the station that plays Bing Crosby and Doris Day and Burl Ives—and commit to as much time as it takes to achieve the perfect artful arrangement in built-in shelves and atop chests of more colorful Christmas stuff than a sane person would want to see in a single lifetime. 

And in five weeks we’ll start talking about how it’s time to take it all down and put it away.  We’ll dread the work.  Changing back is never as fun as changing to.   

Look at the Santas--and this isn't even all of them.  The smaller ones are from the 1940's and represent Santas from all over the world at that time.   

This is one of my favorites--the Santa in the pocket watch is looking at his pocket watch.  

The carolers and kissing angels are very old.  They belonged to my mother's second husband's first wife.  . 

The buffet in the dining room.  I'm not exaggerating--there's stuff on every surface except where we eat.  

Oh Boy, A New Fuse Box!

Having recently joined Angie’s List, David was determined to get his money’s worth out of the yearly fee.  To that end, he decided to take advantage of one of their special offers, a new fuse box.  What was wrong with the one we had?  Apparently it was old, which makes me worry about my future.  David said the benefit was safety, and there’s no arguing with that, although I can think of better things to do with eleven hundred dollars.  And the sure knowledge of what I was going to have to endure to get this done—phone menus, permits, the invasion of my home by a sloppy electrician.  Was this really necessary? 

And this question led me to think about some of the items I regard as necessity that simply aren’t.  Conditioner, Bounce sheets, paper towels, vitamin water—none of these things are vital.  This line of thought caused me to consider products that delivered on their promises and products that didn’t.  Here’s an example of one that didn’t: 

Several months ago I was walking through a Japanese department store in Singapore when I came across an intriguing box labeled “Detox Foot Patch”.  The big-letter claim was that it would “Relieve pressures and pain on joints, neck, shoulders, wrists and legs, especially for long hours working and standing people.”  The patches contained “Incredible bamboo acid quintessence,” and the small-letter claim was that they would “clear out body toxins, activate cells, maintain a good complexion, and relieve fatigue.”  This was about the stupidest product I’d ever seen anywhere, but at twelve Sing dollars for eight patches, who could resist?  That night I followed the simple instructions, sticking the gluey side of the patches across the soles of my feet.  I was told that in the morning the patches would have changed color due to all the body toxins they’d absorbed during the night.  What they did was make a stinky oozing dark mess on my sheets.  It was a silly experiment.  When I mentioned to a friend that I’d tried the patches, she was enthusiastic.  “I love those things!” she said.  “They really work.  I use them at least once a week.”  Odd; she seemed so normal. 

Here are a couple of items that actually do what they say they’ll do: 

Almay Get Up and Grow mascara.  I didn’t pay attention to what it was called; I just tossed a couple of tubes into the cart at the grocery store.  Six months later, I noticed that my eyelashes were thicker and longer than they’d ever been.  It wasn’t until that point that I noticed the name.  An improvement where I didn’t expect one.  How nice. 

City Cosmetics Pore Minimizing Primer.  Appalled that my nose pores had become enlarged—this due to a lifetime of allergies—I looked up consumer comments concerning pore reducers.  City Cosmetics had the highest rating.  Ordered online, not prohibitively expensive.  The reduction in pore size was noticeable after a single day.  I’m very happy with this product. 

Champion Sports Bras.  Mixed feelings.  In the fitting room, I was so thrilled with the comfort, lift, and non-jiggability of these bras that I bought six of them.  But the first time I actually wore one to yoga, the interior seam that ran between the cups and along the top turned out to be so aggressively rough that I felt like I was being poked with a thousand tiny needles.  No kidding.  There was blood.  Boob skin is tender.  What sadist designed these things? 

The agonizing bras led me to discover this wonder-product—Kodomo Baby Lotion Powder.  All the anti-chafing benefits of talc without the mess.  I got this in the baby section of a drugstore in Singapore, but haven’t been able to find it in Houston. 

So now we have a new fuse box.  But Bill, the electrician, used the wrong fuse for the air conditioner, so the new box didn’t pass the city inspection.  The inspector notified Bill of this a week ago, but Bill’s in no hurry to fix his error—and why should he be?  He’s been paid.  I should probably be proactive, call Bill and nag and complain until he takes care of it.  Also, I could write up a scathing review for Angie’s List.  But all that negativity is so tedious.  Meanwhile, we’re unapproved and noncompliant.  I wonder how long it’ll be before Reliant threatens to cut us off. 

The Old Fuse Box 

The New Fuse Box.   

Bill and his buddy.  Bill's the one on the right.  See his phone number?  You can call him and he'll come change out your fuse box.  

You've got to get yourself some of these.  

I love this stuff.

The thread in the Y seam is made of ground razor blades.  

Celebrate!

I’m not sentimental about birthdays.  A cake with candles, a wish, a song—these things are for babies.  But being alive is good, and so I tend to celebrate for all of November, which basically means I don’t say no to myself for the entire month.  If I want something, I buy it.  If I want to do something, I do it.  If I want fried food, I eat it.  A month of indulgence to celebrate the wonderfulness of being me and being born.

As always, David starts asking about my plans a month before the big day.  He knows, as I do not, that the ninth falls on a Sunday.  He wants to know what gift I’ve picked out for him to get me, whether I want a special meal, if I want to go to a movie or take an extra-long walk at one of my favorite parks or reserves.  Unlike me, David is sentimental.  He’d love it if I threw a party—and he’d especially love it if there was cake and he could sing. 

While it’s true that lately I’ve been overwhelmed by too many possessions (more carpets than floors, too much furniture, too much shelving; and don’t get me started on the out-of-date technology that fills the back walk-in closet), stuff is exactly what I want for my birthday.   

A Fit Bit.  My friend, Karen, wears one on her wrist that vibrates when she reaches ten thousand steps.  How cool is that?  I’ll be looking at it constantly.  I’ll become obsessed.  How many times have I walked up the stairs today?  How many calories have I burned?  I’ll always be competing against my yester-self.  This is definitely a November necessity. 

Also:  it’s been ages since I’ve lived in a cold climate.  My one coat is a trench coat from the eighties—shoulder pads!  Oddly, it’s a Teflon product, which renders it so novel that I can’t make myself get rid of it.  But I also can’t make myself wear it.  So, I need a new coat. 

In Singapore hosiery was non-existent.  It was hot and humid and women went bare-legged.  In a Houston winter, this simply isn’t an option.  So leg-wise, I’m starting from scratch.  I check out the other women to see what sort of leg-covering is prevalent.  Mostly I see black tights.  But I also see boots.  So I buy a pair.  They’re gorgeous.  Smooth leather with heels so high that they’re able to make even my chubby short legs look long and shapely.

Choice of meal—brunch at a trendy restaurant, Benjy’s, in Rice Village.  The parking lot is full.  Someone must vacate before we can park.  Outside the entrance a cluster of people stare at their phones.  It’s good that we have a reservation.  Anna and Curtis wait for us inside at a centrally located table.  Anna gives me a book, The Dinner, by Herman Koch, which she says is one of her favorites.  She hasn’t known me long, but she knows I’m a reader.  Curtis gives me a cork caddy in the shape of a chicken.  I’ll have that baby filled up in two weeks.  

First order of business, I request a bloody Mary to wash away my irritation over the music at church this morning.  Why is this such an issue for me?  For one thing, the range is prohibitive; no one in the congregation can sing as high as the women’s choir, so nobody except the choir sings, which is just wrong.  Also, the words are printed in the program, so there are no notes to follow—how do you know where to take your voice if there’s no written music?  Isn’t this what hymnals are for?  Where are the hymnals?  And every tempo moves from slow to slower.  Hymns should be brisk and joyful.  They should cause toe-tapping and afternoon humming, not dragging dirgy gloom. 

Benjy's prides itself on its innovative cuisine.  Oddly, the bloody Mary garnish is a Brussel sprout.  On the menu—unusual pairings.  Waffles and chicken.  Omelet and grilled zucchini.  French toast, roasted potatoes, and eggs covered in maple syrup.  I order the salmon omelet, which is delicious.  After lunch the four of us walk through Rice Village, enjoying the atmosphere.  One shop, British Isles, is dedicated to all things British—Portmeirion china, Crabtree and Evelyn soaps and lotions, Queen Elizabeth action figures.  The Spode display makes me want to buy more for my Christmas collection--no, Jenny, don't do it!  From there we’re lucky to come across a festive flea market.  The goods are craftsy—homemade soaps and jewelry and candles, stuff nobody needs, but it’s fun to look at and smell. The sky is clear and blue, not a cloud.  I can't imagine a more pleasant birthday afternoon.  

In the parking lot after brunch.  Aren't these great boots?  

David, Anna, and Curtis.  

Anna at Benjy's.  Nice smile, pretty teeth.  

All things British.  Look at that sky.  

Cork Caddy, a happy chicken.  So far, only one cork.  Thanks, Curtis!  

What Makes Yoga Silly

I walk into the room and roll out my mat.  Unable to tolerate crooked placement, I straighten the mat precisely, lining up the edges with the tape on the floor.  This is my second class at the new studio and I’m happy to be here.  I enjoyed yesterday’s class, though the instructor had an unlikely name—Starlight—and she called out instructions that made no sense:

“Shoot your electricity out of your fingertips.”

“Feel the force in your ears.”

“Empty the air from your eye sockets.”

A common thread in the classes at this studio seems to be “The Daily Intention.”  Yesterday’s theme, chosen by Starlight, was “Be Kind.”  We were instructed to think “Be Kind to Yourself” during the inhalation, and “Be Kind to Others” on the exhalation—a lot of hooey.  If I were any kinder to myself I’d be one spoiled woman.  And when am I not kind to others?  Also, who gives her the right to assign a mantra?  A person’s meditations should be private, not communal.  Does she think we’re too stupid to come up with our own thoughts?  Is this some absurd attempt at mind control?

This morning’s instructor, a man, arrives.  His every mincing step is an indication of his high self-regard.  His whole body is involved in his forward movement as he fondly strokes his abdomen and makes sweeping hand gestures.  He tells us how thrilled he is that we’re all here.  How serendipitous life is, he says, that we’ve all come together, in this place, at this time.  Serendipitous?  Not really.  I, for one, planned to be here.  We’re a subdued group, centered on our mats, ready to sweat.  Wanting our level of enthusiasm to match his, he declares a few moments (of our class time!) in which we’re to rise up and step from our mats, circle the room, and greet one another.

I contemplate sneaking out.

“Smile!” he orders.  Our smiles are pained.  “Make a new friend!”

When we’ve circled back to our mats, he still isn’t satisfied that we’re joyous enough, so he takes off around the room, giving hugs to each individual in turn.

I came here to exercise.

After hugging the woman in front of me—and she looks freaked out—he aims himself in my direction.  I make no effort to discipline my sour expression.  A typical extrovert, he thinks that, because I’m reserved, he has something to teach me, that there’s something I need to learn about joy and adventure.  What he really wants is for me to be like him.  He wants the whole world to be like him.

“Here’s someone who doesn’t like getting hugs from a stranger!” he tells everyone as he wraps his arms around me.  “I’m afraid I’ve scared her away!”

“Yeah,” I say.  “You won’t be seeing me in your class again.”

He laughs as though I’ve made a clever joke, then flitters on to the next victim. 

“He’s really a very good teacher,” the woman in front of me says, offering an apologetic shrug.

He begins the class by stating the daily intention.

“Today’s session is all about faith,” he says.  “Faith that you’re where you need to be!  Faith that I will not ask more of you than you can give!  Faith that everything that happens to you today will be truly amazing!”

What a silly man.  I tune him out, follow the flow, and think about my kitchen and bathroom counters at home, how they’re stacked with stuff that arrived two days ago in the shipment.  Sweat pours from my head, runs into my eyes.  Because of yoga I am flexible and strong.  Back at the house I have a trunk load to take to Goodwill—pots and pans, bedding, extra laundry baskets.  Towels.  How did we accumulate so many mismatched towels?  

“Have faith in yourself,” the instructor says.  “Have faith in the universe!”

I have faith, alright.  Faith that one of these days he’s going to hug the wrong person and end up with a broken jaw.    

Here's the yoga studio, at Bering and Woodway.  

My form's horrible, bur, like I said, I'm strong and flexible.