Christmas Scandal

We don’t put time and money into outdoor Christmas decorations, but Randy, our neighbor, goes all out with candy canes, Santa and his sleigh, reindeer, snowmen, gingerbread men, and Christmas trees. Every oak, shrub, and figure in his front yard is bedecked with twinkling lights. Every border is brightly marked and every inch of lawn is covered by some form of ornamentation. 

“We’re in a gated cul-de-sac,” I said to David the first Christmas after they moved in. “Who’s gonna see it? Who’s it even for?”

When we got to know them we enjoyed it more. They’re a kind-hearted couple and they like to think that they’re bringing joy to the few people who pass by—and they do. These days, though we’re a small population, we all merrily anticipate their display. 

Oh, here’s something interesting—this year the electric company is holding a Christmas light competition; and whoever wins gets a five-hundred-dollar credit on their bill.  

David texts Randy, sending him the link and writing: You should enter this competition.

The response: Not interested.

David’s reply: Is it okay if I send a picture in?

Randy’s answer: Knock yourself out. (For those who don’t speak Americana—knock yourself out means that’s fine with me.)

So David takes a couple of pictures and sends them in.

“You did what?” I ask, sticking my nose in, as is my tendency. 

“He told me he was okay with it.”

“Let me get this straight. You entered your name; and you entered our address as the location of the decorated house.”

“They asked for my name and address.”

“And Randy knows you’re entering his lights under your name?”

“He told me to knock myself out.”

“But by filling out the form, you’re implying that the lights are our lights and the house is our house.” I’m becoming a bit panicked. This sounds nefarious. 

“It’s not my fault if they assume that the person who sends in the pictures is the one who put up the lights and lives in the house.”

“By that account anybody driving around with a phone can enter a picture of somebody else’s house. I’m sure that wasn’t the company’s intention.”

“Who really knows what anybody else’s intention is?”

Well, he’s won that argument. If there’s one thing that’s always disturbed my inner peace it’s this question of intent. Who knows what drives other people? Who, other than the person himself, knows the motivations behind his actions? 

“So if Randy’s house wins, we get a five-hundred-dollar credit with the electric company?”

“I guess so,” he says with a shrug. 

I’m not sure what to think about this. The purpose of communication is to make things clear. Writing coherently and making murky concepts understood is how I spend a lot of my time. And there is definitely some faulty communication going on here. Did the electric company not consider the possibility that, under the rules as presented, anybody could send in pictures of somebody else’s front yard? Maybe the company plans to actually drive through the whole Lower Colorado River chain and verify each entry. 

Presumably Randy read the terms of the competition. How will he feel if we win five hundred dollars for his work? It’s not an amount that either household will agonize over, but money’s money; and credit should go to the one who did the work. On the other hand, he’s obviously not seeking any sort of kudos. 

Also, when it comes to a question of intention, what was David’s? Well, as we’ve been married for thirty-six years, I’m pretty sure I can accurately guess what he was thinking—and it wasn’t Gee, I think I’ll commit fraud today. His inspiration was his genuine belief that Randy should know that he’s appreciated. Also, David saw humor in the situation. This was never meant to be a moral burden to his beleaguered wife. He simply thought it would be fun and funny. 

And oh the horror—what if David’s pictures win and he’s asked to receive recognition in some sort of public ceremony? 

I’m not going to think about it anymore—I’ll simply hope that some other decorated house’s neighbor wins.

It’s a lot of light.

On a different topic, a mystery. David received this in the mail. It came in a small square envelope and the return address was a PO Box. The wire'’s so jagged that if you run your finger over it, it’ll cut you. His Habitat friends think it might be some sort of survivalist saw, but I think it’s a garrotte. Who would send us such a thing, and why?

Horrifying Nonsense

I recently received this in a text from a friend who’d seen it on Facebook, so it’s made the rounds and it’s possible you’ve read it. Have a gander:

Advice from a Singer Sewing Machine Manual from 1949 

Prepare yourself Mentally for Sewing. Think about what you are going to do. Never approach sewing with a sigh or lackadaisically. Good results are difficult when indifference dominates. Never try to sew with a sink full of dirty dishes or beds unmade.

When there are urgent housekeeping chores, do these first so that your mind is free to enjoy your sewing. When you sew, make yourself as attractive as possible. Put on a clean dress. Keep a little bag of French chalk near your sewing machine to dust your fingers at intervals. Have your hair in order, powder and lipstick put on. If you are constantly fearful that a visitor might drop in or your husband will come home, and you will not look neatly put together, you will not enjoy your sewing.

 What hooey. It’s both alarming and hilarious. It caught my attention because I sew. Sitting behind my machine and fitting pieces together is relaxing. I certainly don’t worry about what I look like while I’m doing it. Makeup and hair? A dress? Give me a break. As to worrying about David seeing me when I don’t look my best, the man’s seen me sweaty and he’s seen me fat; he’s seen me with baby barf in my hair and zits on my chin. He doesn’t care what I look like. He cares about what’s for dinner.

I don’t know what French chalk is and I certainly don’t know why I’d want to dust my fingers with it. Does it help with hangnails? Because dry cracked cuticles has always been a problem of mine.

Also, it would be enlightening to know whether a man or woman wrote it. Considering the time period and the condescension, I assume a man. 

The point here is that this is the crap my mother was taught in homemaking class when she was fourteen. No wonder she was neurotic and had self-esteem issues. That this drivel influenced an entire generation is tragic.   

I decide that the suggestions are so absurd that I must read them to David. 

“That sounds like great advice,” is what he says. “That comes from back when things were the way they should be.”

He’s teasing. He’s the least chauvinistic man I know. But I think the overall attitude of the thing represents the era Trump had in his hard little mind when he spoke of wanting to make America great again. 

 Seriously, this is what the women of my mother’s age group learned in school, what they were told to do and be. And it’s what they took with them into their adulthoods and lived out before their daughters. 

When I was a child my mother would put on her makeup and do her hair first thing every morning. She never left the house without lipstick and earrings. Timid and conforming, she did all the things stay-at-home moms did—room mother, girl scout leader, Sunday school teacher. She took no pleasure in these activities, mainly because they all involved cooperation with other housewives, who could be competitive and petty. She often came back from planning meetings in tears because someone had been rude to her or had gone out of their way to make her look foolish. Well, of course they were nasty. They’d been told that they must be perfect. When you’ve been set up to fail, the only thing to do is make others look more like a failure than you. And in light of her diffident soul, they were so much better at being mean than she was. 

But then came changing times for women. My mother went into the sixties as a Stepford wife and by the time the seventies were over she was divorced and independent and to hell with dressing up to sew. Though for the rest of her life she carried a fear of other women. 

I, too, have always been careful about the women I trust, likely because of her influence. Based on my admittedly limited experience, I’ve always believed that working alongside other women would be difficult. Women, myself included, can be judgmental, overly sensitive, sharp-tongued, and protective when it comes to their power. 

But when my sons became teenagers, and I came to know some of their friends who were girls—not necessarily girlfriends—I saw wondrous solidarity. These girls were loyal to one another. They encouraged instead of tore down. They gladly teamed up against the boys in most activities. They were clearly competitive when it came to grades. They weren’t shy about voicing their opinions or standing up for themselves. Where did all this confidence come from? 

Something wonderful had happened between my generation and theirs. Women gave up fighting with each other and started supporting one another. They’ve moved smoothly into the workplace and held their own. I have two daughter-in-laws, both of whom are strong and independent. One is a corporate lawyer who works hard and loves what she does. And the other is a Belfer Center fellow who also heads the international cyber security department at Hewlett-Packard. As far as I know, neither of these successful young women has ever been told that her priority should be doing the dishes or putting on lipstick. 

And that’s what I’m thankful for this Thanksgiving. 

Just for fun, and because it makes a colorful picture, here’s the back of a quilt I just made.

No Spontaneity Here

A few years ago the grocery store near our house in Houston closed for a couple of days; and when they re-opened the milk was where the magazines used to be, and the salt was where the packaged cookies once were. In short, nothing was where it had been before. 

The twenty-minute raid I usually perpetrated became a lengthy scavenger hunt. My fellow customers wandered around, dazed and dumbfounded, as befuddled as I was about where to find their usual products. 

The store even hired new staff whose single purpose was to stand around and answer questions about where to find batteries and toilet paper. It seemed that they’d made major changes for absolutely no reason other than to confound the customers.  

And the really crazy thing was that the cashiers and department managers seemed to think all this change was a cause for celebration. The women wore flowers in their hair and inquired more enthusiastically (perhaps sardonically?) than they had before whether I’d found everything I needed. The sackers smiled more brightly and moved with more energy. Even the piped-in music was perkier. 

And all I wanted to know was why? Why? Why? 

 I’m not one to turn on a dime. I confess, my daily existence is based on habit. 

When I tell someone that I get up and write at five every morning, most often the response is an admiring comment on how disciplined I am—but I’m not. I’m just someone who gets up early and needs something to kill the time until other people wake up. It’s my routine, not an impressive indication of self-control; though I do enjoy that period before the day starts, when all is dark and still. 

I’ve always been an early riser. When I was thirteenish there was a craze involving “come as you are” parties, where a mom would drive her daughter from house to house in the morning and the girl would surprise her friends by pulling them out of their beds and taking them back to her house for breakfast in their pajamas. 

The first time someone called my mother to warn her that they’d be by to grab me out of bed at seven-thirty, she felt compelled to tell me to stay in bed because the girls would be disappointed if I was already out of bed and dressed. 

“What? No,” I objected, imagining the tedious hour of waiting in bed so I could act like I was asleep simply to avoid disappointing someone. How annoying. 

“You chose to be friends with these girls,” she told me in a reasonable tone. “Friends are often inconvenient.” 

So, forewarned, I kicked the covers back at my regular time, washed my face, brushed my teeth, changed into fresh pajamas, and watched for their arrival. When the car pulled up out front, I rushed back to bed and pretended to be asleep. 

A few minutes later several girls came into my room and jumped on my bed, giggling and shouting my name. When I opened my faking eyes I was surrounded by musky girls wearing embarrassing jammies, with curlers in their hair and pimple goop on their chins and cheeks. 

There’s a moral in here somewhere, something about early birds and worms; or maybe it’s early to bed, early to rise. Anyway, I sure looked better than everybody else. 

Aside: Come as you are parties—do they still do that? 

You’re wondering how girl parties and the grocery store switcharoo pertain to one another. 

They pertain because the calendar’s fixing to hand me another birthday, which is an indication that introspection is called for. I have a reputation for being irritable, especially when something unexpected happens or my schedule is disturbed. There’s a theory positing that as a person gets older his or her strongest negative traits become even more dominating—an aroma becomes a stink, so to speak. So it’s understandable that I’m wondering if this irascibility has worsened or if I’ve always been this gripey. 

And by comparing the two incidents which are separated by fifty years on my life’s timeline, I’ve concluded that I’ve always been cantankerous. As a kid I was every bit as irritated when something or someone messed with my plans as I am now.

Being able to adjust quickly to change is an admirable quality that I simply don’t possess—and I’m okay with that. 

So, happy birthday, me. 

Here’s a change I don’t like. They seem to be taking all the Almay products off the shelf, and I love their mascara. And again, why? Why? Why?

And here’s a change I do like. This little guy boosts our house internet so I get better television in the back part of the house. Yay!

Here’s David, who wants me to tell everybody that he didn’t drink all the vodka!

Domestic Surroundings and Low on Vodka

As I’ve previously related, I alternate drinking months and non-drinking months; but on my non-drinking month, I allow one happy hour a week, which I understandably look forward to. Last week before my libatious evening I bought a bottle of vodka, which is my current drink of choice. This week I relax in the knowledge that last week’s supply will last for a while, but when I go to pour, there’s barely enough for a single weak vodka tonic. 

“You drank my vodka?” I ask David, rightfully incensed.

“It didn’t have your name on it,” is his annoyingly immature response.  

Wanting your vodka and not getting it isn’t a thing a person gets over easily. But I gain control by reminding myself that at least I’m not dead; and there’ll be other evenings and other drinks. 

So today one of our errands is to go to the liquor store and buy enough vodka that on my next week’s drinking evening I won’t be disappointed. Maybe I’ll buy a case of the damned stuff. On the way to Spec’s, David and I stop by our friend’s home renovation to see how things are going. You know the house—the lilac one with the colorful cow beneath the trellis at the intersection of F and Sixth. The redo’s been going on for eight months. 

And oh my, you would not believe the things she’s done with that hundred-and-thirty-year-old home. So faithful to the era has she been in the construction of the addition that it’s impossible to tell where the new sections begin. The kitchen, which was the size of a closet, is now massive and high-ceilinged. Throughout the house the doorjambs, window frames, and cabinetry are handmade, with carvings, curves, and curlicues. She speaks reverently of her carpenter, who’s evidently a true guru of wood. 

Every room is a different color, not beige and not pastel, but bold shades of green, turquoise, and purple. When I cross from one room to another, one color to another, it’s like entering a fresh mood or receiving an intriguing message. 

She is ebullient in her room-by-room tour. She enthuses tirelessly about the house and her plans and I’m thrilled for her that she’s going to be surrounded by the appliances, floors, light fixtures, and colors that she has chosen. 

In the guest room she’s perpetrated a sunup to sundown theme. The alcove nearest the window is pale blue accented with fluffy clouds; and from this side of the room to the other the blue gradually deepens until it’s a dense indigo; and high on the darker wall is a fluorescent full moon that will glow at night. It will be a sight to see when driving by—an indoor moon!

In the adjoining bathroom she motions toward a modest expanse of drywall behind which she has arranged a grinning skeleton sitting in a chair, surrounded by editorials, political cartoons, toilet paper, and masks. She’s taken all the painful detritus of 2020 and hidden it away, her unique personal shrine to the turmoil and angst of our year—a healthy way for an artistic soul to handle pain.

“I’ll be happy to think of you in this house,” I tell her. 

It makes her smile 

I’ve done the same thing with houses—not the house we’re in now. The walls of this house are so neutral that I’d be pressed to name the shade. But in the past I’ve had sunny yellow living rooms and periwinkle kitchens and mottled tree-top bedrooms. I’ve had checkerboard floors and flowered stair frontages. And with every attempt to personalize and bring color to my world, there was a nay-sayer hovering in the background telling me that I was making a major decorating mistake. 

“You’ll have to completely redo it before it’ll sell,” from one.

“You’re inflicting your taste on everyone who enters your home,” from another.

These days I’ve calmed down a bit. I love this house and the color, or lack thereof, suits it. Also, I promised David that I wouldn’t go crazy painting the walls this time, though they’re dated with that textured look that was a big thing a while back. I figure if I wait long enough it’ll come back around. 

There’s one touch in our home, though, that I don’t think I’ll be able to tolerate much longer—and seeing our friend’s lovely house with her gorgeous and unexpectedly thematic chandeliers has served to enhance my disdain. The atrocity I’m talking about is the ornate fixture that’s suspended by a heavy chain and looms over our dining room table like a spiky wrecking ball. And here I must be tactful because someone I know may have the exact same chandelier hanging in their dining room. It’s a common design. And I don’t want to insult taste or hurt feelings simply because I prefer delicate fixtures and I don’t care for the fake candle look—inevitably one or two of the holders goes wonky. 

So after we hit the Specs we stop by a local light fixture store. But it’s not open, which is the way of things these days. Nevertheless, this crusade has just begun, and I will persist in my search for the perfect chandelier. I’ll check out a few recommended websites and get by one of the showrooms in Austin. Meanwhile, I’ll simply continue doing what I’ve been doing for the last five years, which is to avoid looking at the thing and concentrate on the artistic pieces and paintings and fixtures that I do like. 

Overwhelming. I’ve been complacent long enough!

Taken a couple of months ago. The skirt is now covered with handmade shingles which will be painted to match the house. The red touches are unexpected.

Whoa! Some artistic designer’s pride. Too busy for me.

I have no idea what I’m looking for, but this isn’t it.

A grouping of three of my favor artsy possessions. The oil, by Vietnamese artist, Lam Manh. The African busts, purchased in Kenya over thirty-five years ago. The antique bowl, from Singapore. I look at these things when the clunky chandelier gets me down.