A Different Kind of Nativity Story

“Watch this,” my sister nodded toward her daughters, then age 6 and 4, playing in the living room. Rachael, the older of the two, rolled the Fisher Price school bus up to the nativity set my sister had set out on the hearth of the unused fireplace in preparation for Christmas. I had noticed that the figurines were askew when I came in, but didn’t say anything; I figured that they were a casualty of having little ones in the house.

Rachael piled the three wise men, and whoever else was present at the birth of Jesus, into the bus. “OK, let’s go,” she called cheerfully to them. She drove the bus in a loopy pattern across the off-white berber carpet, all the while chattering to her bus full of biblical vagabonds. The bus stopped at some unseen wonder on the far end of the couch, in front of the end table.

“OK everyone, five minutes,” she instructed the wise men. With the help of Rachael, the passengers filed out and stood facing some unseen wonder on that side of the room. It must have been one of the wonders of the world, as that bus had to traverse the entire living room for them all to see it. I wondered whether they were viewing the Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore, on the far side of the sofa that day. I wonder what Rachael imagined they were looking at.

“Time to go back, we're going to be late” she warned her passengers. They filed into the bus and stood on the seats. Their heads stood out of the sun roof, which I am sure must have been a chilly ride back to a manger in a barn at the end of December. She helped the “wise guys” and friends out of the bus and carefully arranged them around the manger.

She held up one of the wise men and examined the figurine carefully. “Hey,” she pointed to it, “Why isn’t he wearing shoes? Mom says I can’t wear sandals in the winter. It’s too cold.”

Free Associating on Christmas

--I will always cry when I hear “Feed the World” by Band-Aid on the radio. I don’t know why, I just do.

--I hate to write Christmas gift wish lists. It makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel like a demanding bitch. Don’t ask me what I want. Surprise me. Or don’t. It’s all good.

--There’s nothing I want for Christmas. I have everything I could possibly need or possibly want. I love my life, my husband, my home and my dogs. What more could a girl need? (Well, I do need that awful orange paint to disappear from the guest bedroom, and that tacky mirror mosaic swirly pattern on the wall to vaporize…. OK, that’s my list.)

--I don’t really like Christmas music that much, with the exception of “Feed the World,” and last year I was digging on that a capella song by Straight No Chaser. However, that stupid “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time” by Paul McCartney makes my teeth itch. How is it that the man who wrote many of the songs for The Beatles wrote this piece of crap? And more importantly, why is it still played every other minute of every day from Thanksgiving through Christmas? I once read somewhere that the guy who owns Clear Channel banned certain songs from being played on his stations. Why can’t this song be on his list?

--When I was a kid, we celebrated Christmas Eve with my Mom’s side of the family. I grew up with this tight network of aunts, uncles and cousins. It was like “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” but only with a bunch of Pollacks. Every year my cousins and I had to sing for our presents, per my Aunt Halina’s request. We always sang “Silent Night” and a Polish carol, the title of which roughly translates to “Today in Bethlehem.” And every year when we’d sing the Polish one, all of us cousins would start out strong in the first few lines or so. Then one by one the voices would drop out until the few cousins who knew all the words were left singing, and the rest of us were just mouthing along. To this day, I still do not know all the words to “Today in Bethlehem,” but I think my brother Kaz does. And I know a few of my cousins do.

--My nieces and nephews are getting older, and harder to buy for. It used to be that I could roll into “Discovery Kids” and come up with some very cool yet educational gifts for $20-25 a piece. With 12 nieces and nephews, that adds up fast. But now they are teens and pre-teens, and it’s harder to come up with cool gifts without draining the bank account.

--It’s a good thing that Todd won all that money at the casino last week. Our nieces and nephews will likely have a better Christmas this year.

--I love getting that “Feliz Navidad” song stuck in Todd’s head. His brain is like fly paper and it catches all the annoying songs that fly by. It’s fun to catch him absently whistling “Feliz Navidad” moments after hearing it on the radio.

--Because we are dog dorks, we tend to work the word “beagle” when we’re goofing around and listening to the radio. Just last week I sang “The beagle-y dog” instead of “Feliz Navidad.” It totally worked. Try it.

And now it’s stuck in your head too, isn’t it?

My work is done.

Happy Holidays.

Feed the World

When I was a kid, my Uncle George (the only uncle I have whom I’ve ever addressed with his English name) had the best record collection. He had a stereo in the basement, where my brothers, sisters and cousins would all hang out when we were visiting the great old Victorian that they lived in.

The basement was fully furnished. One side, if you turned left at the bottom of the stairs, was set up with a bar, and he had lighted Tuborg beer signs on the light wood paneled walls. Bench seats were built into both sides along the walls, and the center of the room was left empty—plenty of room for a bunch of kids to bounce around as they danced to George’s Rolling Stones and Beatles records.

The other room, a right from the bottom of the stairs, was the stuff of imagination. The only source of light in the room was recessed into the walls, to illuminate whatever he had displayed on insets in the walls. There was a huge drafting table on the far wall, and that’s where the stereo and the records were stored. We had to stand on a chair to reach the record player to change the record, or to move the needle back so that we could play the same song over and over again.

To the right, just as you walked into the room was a small work bench with shelves above it. On the shelves were numerous beakers, a Bunsen burner lighter (you know, one of those squeeze-y things with the flint in the metal cup), test tubes, and a vial with litmus papers in it. I still have no idea what Uncle George was doing with all this stuff; I suspect that these items were just a part of his eclectic collection. At the time I pictured Uncle George wearing a lab coat and swirling some unknown liquid in a beaker on the days when we weren’t visiting. He’d take the rubber stopper off a test tube and sniff the contents of the test tube, then dip a piece of litmus paper in it and examine the paper under the short fluorescent light that hung over the bench. Then he’d frustratedly pour something else into the beaker and swirl it around again. Then, disgusted, he’d put it all away and go upstairs for dinner.

He also had old army stuff on display in the room—old helmets, a gas mask, and a huge military radio system in the middle of the room about which we used to fight over who got to be Radar when we were playing M*A*S*H. Next to George’s vinyl collection, the military radio--complete with headphones, and numerous cords, switches, and plugs—was the coolest thing in the basement.

But his record collection still held the number 1 spot for coolest thing in Uncle George’s basement. On one visit Uncle George held up a record for me and explained that all the better songs were on side A, while all the other songs that the band didn’t like as much were on side B. I recited all the Rolling Stones songs that I liked, and he concurred with me on most them. He wasn’t entirely convinced that “Ruby Tuesday” was the world’s best song, but said he understood why I thought so.

When I was 10, I saw the video to Band Aid’s “Feed the World” which was the British pop singers equivalent to the “We Are the World” that the American pop stars put out sometime around 1984-1985. I declared “Feed the World” way cooler than “We Are the World,” and found vindication when the record showed up in George’s collection. I was visiting one afternoon when my cousin Joanna put the song on. Then we listened to it a dozen times more, and tried to identify the names of the singers. We easily picked out Boy George and Simon LeBon, and we tolerated Bono as he sang. (I wonder if now Joanna, just like me, tolerates Boy George and Simon LeBon and smiles when she hears Bono’s voice.)

Every year I look forward to hearing “Feed the World” on the radio at Christmas time. It brings back the excitement when I saw it in Uncle George’s collection and the afternoon I spent with Joanna listening to the song. But it also makes me a bit sad every time I hear it. The song is actually quite a sad song, designed to make the listener feel guilty and donate to the cause of feeding the world. The first time I hear the song every year, without fail, I start to cry. I call myself a big dork, and laugh as I brush the tears off my cheeks.

Today I was in my car doing the last bits of Christmas shopping. I endlessly pressed the scan button, looking for “Feed the World.” I lamented hearing the “War is Over” John Lennon Christmas song, I rolled my eyes at “Santa Baby” and I gritted my teeth against that piece of crap “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time” and once again wonder how nobody has yet gotten around to destroying every copy of that song in circulation.

Just as I got back into my car, I heard the familiar chimes . I squealed in delight and cranked the volume up, and was instantly transported to Uncle George’s basement.

A Conundrum, A Dilemma, and a Wow

Can anyone explain this to me?

Last Thursday I mailed 2 packages from the East Greenwich, RI post office. They were both addressed to my sister and niece, in a Los Angeles, CA suburb. I spoke to my sister last night, and she said that the one addressed to my niece arrived on Saturday. The one addressed to my sister, however has not. I just checked the tracking number and see that it’s now in Nashua, New Hampshire.

Why on earth would a package from Rhode Island, bound for California, be in New Hampshire? Why didn’t it go on the same path as the other package with the same address? This makes no sense to me. At all. You’d think it would be somewhere like Chicago. But no. It’s in New Hampshire. Maybe it needs to go to Nova Scotia first?

:::

I have not finished my Christmas shopping. Not even close. I have approximately 13 people left to shop for. And I also have 4 dogs to shop for. Heaven help me. Most of those 13 people are nieces and nephews. I have 12 nieces and nephews, and now they are all getting older. The oldest of the bunch is 14, and the youngest is 3. The ones under the age of 10 are easy to shop for, as all I need to get them is any toy. The older ones are a bit harder. Every year I agonize over what to get them. I want each present to be memorable, and I don’t want to insult their intelligence by getting them something that’s too young for them either. I don’t want to sell out and get them clothes either. I want them to open something fun on Christmas. Fun presents for teenagers ends up being a bit more expensive. But they all have iPods now, and the like. Teenagers tend to like the bigger ticket items when it comes to toys, and I am out of ideas. I don’t want to spend the entire evening tonight taking items off shelves, putting them back again, just to pick them up again in a fit of indecision. Any suggestions?

My nieces and nephews have restored my love for Christmas. When they were all small, I loved sitting back and watching them squeal with delight after Christmas Eve dinner as they tear through the wrapping paper. It would warm me from inside out when they would latch onto the toy that I bought for them, above all other presents under the tree. This is the reaction I want to have every year with them. I think I am putting too much pressure on myself.

:::

And finally a mind blowing thought for today. What exactly is the difference between a million and a billion?

1 million seconds is equivalent to 11 days, 20 hours, 4 min and 4 sec. 1 billion seconds is equivalent to 31 years, 251 days, 13 hours, 34 minutes, and 26 seconds.

I’ve been alive approximately 1,097,539,200 seconds, as I am 34 years, 9 months and 18 days old. So, I’ve been around for a billon and change seconds.

My dad, who is 70 years, 10 months and 12 days old has been alive for approximately 2,234,822,400 seconds. Dad, whom I often call “older than dirt” is more than 2 billion seconds old.

My cousin’s 3 month old baby is 102 days old. She’s been alive for approximately 8,812,800 seconds. An infant is only 8.8 MILLION seconds old.

I am ruined for the rest of the day. My mind is completely blown.

Swanson The Christmas Tree

Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for my man, or tree, Swanson. Just to give you some perspective, I am 5'8". Swanson is almost twice my height.

I love Swanson.

This is our feeble attempt at a family portrait. Normally the dogs are very photogenic, but Nemo couldn't seem to stay still.

This is an ornament that Carol from Not Exactly the Brady Bunch gave to me a few years ago. It's a copper piece shaped like the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I love its simplicity, yet it's such an original looking ornament that adds so much to our eclectic collection of ornaments. Thank you, Carol.

When Todd and I moved in together in 1998, we lived in this bitchen apartment in Brighton, Massachusetts, just outside of Boston. We didn't go and cut our own tree, we went down to the corner, as we lived in the city. I bought him a set of 4 ship in a bottle ornamentsthese ornaments for his birthday and started the tradition of buying an ornament for each other each Christmas. Which reminds me, I need to do that for this year.

I bought this one for him the year we bought the dive shop.

This was the one that Todd bought for me last year. Yes, he bought me an ornament that resembles a food I hate.

This was the one I bought for him last year. I also broke it this year when I dropped it on the hardwood floor. Todd managed to fix it with a tube of "Future Glue" that we bought at the truck stop. The concept of Future Glue cracks me up. I swear I could see three seconds into the future when Todd applied the glue, and in response I grabbed a fistful of paper towels to clean up the dripping glue.

Here's Swanson, all dolled up.

Here's Swanson, looking artistic. Or it's me taking bad pictures again.

Happy Holidays, Internet.

Tis The Season to Hoark Your Guts Out

Picture it. Christmas 1997.

Todd and I had been going out for six months. For the holiday I went home to Connecticut to see my family for Christmas Eve. During the day I babysat my niece Maggie (then three years old) and nephew Krystian (then 1.5 years old) during the day while my brother and sister-in-law ran a few last minute Christmas errands. They dropped off Maggie and Krys at my parents house and I watched them while Mom cooked the Christmas Eve dinner. I changed a few diapers on Krys in that time, wiped a nose or two, and of course hugged, kissed and cuddled the stuffing out of my niece and nephew. I was thrilled to be an aunt at Christmas. I was also thrilled to be going to Vermont the next morning to see my boyfriend for Christmas. The plan was to do Christmas day with his family, and then we’d ski for another day of the long weekend. Life was good.

I left for Vermont from my Uncle Joe’s house, where my insanely huge Polish family congregated for Christmas breakfast after church that morning. “Merry Christmas!” I called out as I put my jacket on before leaving Joe’s house. “I am going to Vermont to see my boyfriend now!” I cranked up the radio and headed north up interstate 91 as fast as the snowy conditions would allow. I arrived in Vermont, and was greeted with hugs, kisses, an “I really really missed you” and a beautiful ruby ring from my boyfriend. We sat down to a lovely Christmas dinner that his mom made. I was still a vegetarian then, and I sampled the non-meat options from the table. We sat around and spoke about what we are all thankful for, we toasted, and we began to dig in to dinner.

Then I felt it.

The quease in my stomach.

The sour taste in my mouth.

The sudden loss of appetite.

The need to just lie down flat for a moment.

I excused myself from the table with barely two words and made my way through the house to Todd’s old bedroom. Instead of the bedroom I stumbled into the bathroom, kicked the door shut, planted my face into the toilet and proceeded to get violently ill. I remained in the bathroom for the duration of Christmas dinner and I am sure that hearing me hoark my guts out completely killed everyone’s appetite at the table.

Puke Fest ‘97 continued well into the night. Of course the bathroom is right off the living room at my in-laws house. Of course they could hear every retch clear as day as they sat in the living room trying to watch a movie. Todd wiped my face and brushed the hair off my forehead. The room spun around me. I was sweaty and peeling off my clothes, only to shiver and blindly pull them back on again. I held onto the bathroom floor with all my remaining strength, praying that the house would stop moving for just a damn minute.

Around midnight Todd drove me to the emergency room. He patiently waited while I answered the barrage of questions from the nurse. Then I was checked into a small room and given something to settle my stomach, which I promptly threw up, so I was given it again, just to throw it up again. Finally I managed to feel the drowsy side effect of the drug. The nurses turned off the light in the room so I could rest. But then I’d deliriously scream Todd’s name. He came into the room and sat with me until I dozed off again, just to have to come in again when I started to scream his name again. My boyfriend sat in a pitch dark room for hours on end and held my hand as I slept. I have no recollection of any of this happening.

I was discharged from the hospital at an hour I can only describe as a million o’clock. Todd drove me home, and followed the doctor’s instructions to the letter. I was forbidden from drinking anything more than a sip of fluid, for fear that I would just throw it up again. I begged for the whole glass of water, but he only fed me a spoonful at a time. I swore at him, and probably called him a Nazi, yet he spoon fed me water despite my insults.

I managed to sleep, and to hold in more and more water. Todd ventured out the next day to rent a movie and to get me some Gatorade. He made some toast for me, and set me up on the couch. He left the toast on the ottoman. I dozed off without eating it. When Todd came home the toast was gone, and he asked me if I managed to keep it down. When I told him that I didn’t eat any of the toast, the dog began to lazily thump her tail on the floor.

By the end of the day, I was able to form a more coherent thought. I called home to see if any of my other family members were sick. It turned out that a stomach bug plowed its way through my family. My brother Kaz and his family were driving to Rochester, NY and both kids ended up sick in the car on the way. My brother Walter’s infant twins got it too, first one and then the other.

And somehow, after our glorious first Christmas, Todd still wanted to spend another eleven Christmases with me.

Christmas Aftermath

This was the scene in my in-laws living room after Christmas. Every year there is a mountain of torn Christmas wrapping paper strewn all over the floor, which takes 4-5 trash bags to clean up.

As usual, I was completely spoiled by my husband. I am writing this entry on my brand spanking new IBM Thinkpad, and the above picture was taken with my brand spanking new Canon PowerShot. I have new perfume to wear, new sweaters, a new winter white wool coat, and so many other presents I am blessed with that I haven't even had the chance to sort through and put away.

I am a very lucky woman. But I have found more joy in the giving than the getting. I have been climbing the walls for weeks at the present I got for Todd--a dive mask by Aeris that has the dive computer wirelessly displayed in the corner of the mask. Now Todd won't have to check his console or his wrist to know how much air he has left, what his Nitrogen absorption is, what his dive time and depth are. They are all right there in the corner of the mask. (Though I have a feeling I am going to try this mask and instantly fall in love with it, and I'll own one soon as well.)

I have felt this way about many of the presents I have given this year. I bought my sister in law and mother in law clothing, and watched in anticipation as they opened each one. We bought my father in law a Ryobi One+ tool kit (if you don't one one yet, go and get some of these tools, they are GREAT) and climbed the walls until all the gifts were opened.

Christmas with a toddler is also such an excellent adventure. My own nieces and nephews have grown out of that stage, but our nephew on Todd's side is 2 this year. He's just starting to understand the concept of what it is to open presents. He opened a bin of toy dinosaurs that Todd and I had gotten for him and immediately took them all out and lined them up in front of the fridge in my in-laws kitchen. There they were, all in a row, staring up expectantly at the fridge as if they were waiting for something to come out of it.

Ode to my Brothers

I have 2 brothers, Walter (8 years older than me) and Kaz (4 years older than me.) There are qualities about my brothers that I really really like. Walter was always way more than tolerant than humanly possible when I needed someone to play with my stuffed animals with me when I was a little kid. And he, like all my other siblings, took me along with him to the mall, basketball games at the high school, etc., when he got his driver’s license. He didn’t seem to mind 8 year old me hanging on his 16-year-old arm when we Christmas shopped in the mall.

Kaz taught me how to shoot my first lay-up at the basketball hoop in the driveway of our childhood home. When we were kids we played endless hours of wiffle ball in the yard. We created a wiffle ball stadium complete with home run fence (the line of bushes on the edge of the yard) and a scoreboard we’d fashioned out of scrap wood and paint. Wouldn’t you just know that Kaz has constructed an ice hockey rink for his kids in his own yard? And he has painted lines on the cul-de-sac in front of his house for various sports to be played on.

Kaz is also an insanely great guitarist. He’s one of those annoying people who can play a song by ear almost instantaneously. He can play all of Ozzy Ozbourne’s "Crazy Train" note for note. I can’t hear an Iron Maiden or Pink Floyd song without thinking of Kaz. I used to accompany Kaz with an occasional harmonizing vocal, or a bass line tapped out on my Yamaha keyboard, until I learned to play guitar too. I can’t play by ear to save my life, which is why I write my own stuff.

I can rely on Kaz to quote a line from Caddyshack on a moment’s notice, and I know he’d quote lines from the Spinal Tap movie, if only he’d finally rent it and get it over with already. Kaz can make me laugh to the point where I have tears streaming down my face.

I had the pleasure of spending Christmas Eve with my brothers and my Dad this year. Christmas with my brothers is a lot of fun because they have 3 children each, and having children around at Christmas really makes the holiday fabulous. The suspense in their faces at present opening time, the ripping of the paper, the squeals of joy when the presents are opened—I love it!

Not only was Christmas fun because of the kids, but because the amount of laughing I got to do with my brothers. This Christmas Eve Kaz and I were singing Hall and Oates songs over the table to each other. The way Walter snickered when he came in from outside wearing a cowboy hat and I had said "Oh, hey Hoss" was just priceless. (But then we got into a discussion over who wore the black cowboy hat on whatever show that was, was it Little Joe or Hoss?) I mean, how great is that??

Walter got me an awesome gift this year. When I was in Kindergarten my Mom had bought me "Misha" the official mascot of the 1980 Olympics being held in Moscow that year. I promptly named the bear Jennifer, after my best friend in Kindergarten. Eventually, over the years I wore Jennifer out or grew out of her. I don’t know which came first, the wearing out or the growing out. This Christmas Eve I was opening a gift from Walter, wondering what it could be that he and his wife were so excited about giving me. Inside the box was Misha, or Jennifer, whatever her name was. They actually found me a new 1980 Olympic mascot. It’s in perfect condition, unlike Jennifer’s eventual sad state after being drug around everywhere 6 year old me went. (Misha now proudly sits on my desk at work, where nosy dogs won’t get it and rip it to shreds. With all the other random stuff on my desk: sea monkey tank, fruit lights strung about, fruit stickers on my monitor, a sign that says in Polish "Caution! Angry dog!" nobody here—at my Office Space-esque workplace--is surprised to see a bear on my desk. )

Thank you to my excellent brothers for an amazing Christmas. You guys rock, your kids rock.

Oh, and here's a picture of Misha.

We don't have a chimney...

The holidays have arrived once again. This time of year conjures up images of family by the fire, snowy days, good will, reflection on the year past, and recuperation. However for a vast majority of us, this time of year brings with it busy schedules, chaos, and stress.

Retail stores are consumed by shoppers. Employees are pushed to the edge of sanity by their managers and customers who have already lost theirs. Teachers and faculty are pushed to score tests, deliver grades, and wrap up the semester. Students are worried about passing exams and finding the dollars and transportation to make it home. The airlines, trains, hotels, and rental car agencies are beset by travelers desperate to make it home. Service businesses gear up for that last push before the official end of the fiscal year. CPA firms are drowned in a sea of tax projection paperwork. Food banks are stressed and searching for food. The homeless are trying to plan for the coming dark cold days of winter. Therapists are getting more calls from stressed out lonely people, and somewhere there is like 2000 elves that are 1.2 million toys behind in production with less than three weeks to go until the fat man flies.

People are cleaning, prepping, planning, cooking, coming, going, shopping, wrapping, writing cards, reading cards, trimming trees, hanging wreaths, and trying to find the time to keep the magic going for their kid who is just old enough to wonder how a reindeer could possibly be aerodynamic.

I am here to tell you that none of that means anything. The holidays are a celebration of all that has passed in the year before, and if that year wasn't so hot... it is a celebration of the fresh start that is just around the corner.

In the end, there are those that will feel the season and those that won't. You have to decide which one you want to be.



This is a birdo that we bought this season for our tree. I put him up top where he belongs.



Dangly legs look funny when our dogs tug at the lower branches of our tree.



Too many cookies!



My wifey got me this ship in an ornament for my birthday one year.



A Christmas penguin flotilla.



This was the first ornament that Beej and I got when we bought our first house!



This was the very first ornament we ever bought together.



Ya' gotta plan the route.


To feel the holiday you have to be a snowflake. You must be simple, unique, and you can't care about where you land (whether that is your living room or an office). Take the time to be silly. Trim a tree, sing the songs, make a snow angel, string some popcorn. If you can't leave your office... then turn the radio on and do a Christmas dance in your chair to the first holiday song you hear. Put lights around your cubicle and put tinsel in your briefcase.

I promise you, you will not regret it.




Happy Holidays from Todd, Beej, Griffen, Nemo, Neptune, & Sylvia Knapp