Fa la Blah blah blah-or Christmas. Can't live with it. Can't avoid it.

If there were some magical escape pod that would carry me away until December 26th I'd get on it. Especially if my perfect clone could step in and do all my work, without inconveniencing anyone while I was away. I would not want the show I was doing to suffer. I would want my family and beloved family of pets to well taken care of. Once the madness of CHRISTMAS was over I would come back and enjoy the tree that Joe had put up and the fire in the fireplace and the relatively low-pressure holiday that is New Year's Eve/New Year's Day.




Not to say that I've NEVER had a good Christmas. They're just spaced few and far between. Like blips on the radar. And trust me, I treasure the memory of them. When I was really small, my Dad was Santa Claus at the bank where Mom worked. And oh how he convinced me he was NOT. But NO, I said to him, you have my Daddy's hands. And "Santa" laughed and laughed. I remember being in the Elkin, N.C. Christmas parade--a teeny small town parade--and waving from that float like I was THE biggest star in the world. There was the year I got my tiny emerald ring. A grownup ring that I'm not sure how my parents could afford, but it was my birthstone and they knew how much I wanted it. I promised I would never lose it. So far I've kept my promise.




But then there are the endless holidays and still counting, where there were fights, and tears, and tension. The ones when I was a kid I didn't always know the root cause of all angst. But my guess would be money. The great destroyer of happiness when you don't have enough of it. And my parents struggled alot when we were kids. Think about how much pressure Christmas can put on you when you've got kids clamoring for the latest doo-dad and you're trying to pay for groceries and god knows what else. And then there were Christmases when people were really ill. My sister was so sick one year she almost died. Everyone in the house walked around with their eyes sort of glazed over. I was at my grandma's one week, my brother's the next. Or home with my other brother. That was the Christmas that Mom said honey, why don't you take a shower so Santa can come, because I need to get back to the hospital. I don't blame her. She was strung out, we all were, none of us wanted to believe, could believe that my sister might die.It was an unbearable thought. She pulled through and came home and I drove her crazy following her around for weeks afterward.




Ah, wouldn't it be nice to say here that my family became closer than ever after that. We're just not made that way. We are who we are. And I don't think Christmas suits us well. It stresses my mother out. Especially now that she is struggling with memory issues and the onset of dementia. I'm certain and sure that we all love each other. But we are not a warm fuzzy family. We are not the Brady Bunch. Or any other family ideal you can think of. But I do regret that as we get older we get better at hurting each other. Especially at this time of year. It's inexplicable to me that THANKSGIVING and CHRISTMAS does this to people. I think the idea of loving someone all the time is much better than I love you, but I love you EXTRA during the holidays. So yeah, I'm sort of DONE with holidays. I'm making an effort for Joe at this point. Because he loves Christmas more than anything. But I'm stepping back. Because diving in doesn't work for me anymore. And I'm really, really tired.

.

Some more favorite sayings.....

Here are two more sayings that I wanted to share with you all. In case you were short on inspiration for something to stitch on that sampler or pillow or what have you. I did a blog back in January with some other sayings that warm my heart, or whatever.

Here goes:

1.Fucker of the fuckness(no explanation, it just came out at a bad driver on the way to Lowe's once)

2.If you remember something hateful, call me!

Please, if anyone has a new one, or an oldie but goodie (saying that is) please feel free to share....

Blue Eyeshadow. Red Shoes.

I remember watching my mother get ready for work when I was little. I remember the liquid eyeliner, the blue eyeshadow, red lipstick. The cloud of hairspray. And her outfits were always "sharp". She had a pair of red shoes that I thought were the best thing ever. Her skin was flawless. Her eyes were large and green and I thought she was the prettiest lady in the whole world. I would get so mad when people told me I looked like my Dad. He was a BOY. Here was my Mama, the penultimate picture of what a female should be. I was going to be her.

Never mind that it took years into my marriage to get comfortable leaving the house without makeup. (My Mom: "Aren't you going to put on some lipstick or something? You look tired.")She still says I look tired if I visit her house sans makeup to this day. My husband Joe finally convinced me, however, that I do not look like some hideous, suffering, sub-species swamp creature if I leave the house without blush and concealer. Nor do I necessarily need sunglasses, unless it's really sunny out. But...I still think of my Mom every time I look like crap in the grocery store and run into someone I know. (Mom:"I told you")

Today I had to help my Mom find some Rx pills she misplaced, get rid of some Rx's that she no longer should have around, and insist that she no longer keep her medications in the bedroom where they can't be monitored by Dad. She looked like a little girl. She has a pill minder and now we all hope she will mind her pills.

As time goes on, I like to think more about that pretty lady getting ready in front of the mirror. She still has those lovely, large green eyes.

My Father-in-Law

Today was the final performance of Jack and the Beanstalk. This was a show I performed in 22 years ago, with the same lovely people, in a lovely adaptation by Douglas Jones. Theatre IV was kind enough to ask us all to come back, and with our gray hairs, aches and pains, and the odd wrinkle and crinkle, we all said "Yes!". No regrets.

But I must say, this has been a wild year so far. My father-in-law has a terminal illness. And I've never mentioned it before. Not on facebook. Or here, but it seems time is truly running short now, and I just wanted to say a few things. Roland Pabst, my husband's(Joe's) father, is a fine man. Tall, with a full head of snow white hair and big blue eyes(just like Joe!). A gifted carpenter and handyman, always knew how to fix ANYTHING. I also say with complete admiration that he can be willful and stubborn as hell. Takes a lot of strength to be that way, and he has it in spades. And best of all, he has a sharp wit and sense of humor, and loves to laugh. Rollie, as his friends and family know him, would NEVER turn down the opportunity to laugh at a good joke. But it would have to be a GOOD one, mind you. His only son, and THE light of my life, Joe, will be performing in a show this spring called "Is He Dead?", by Mark Twain. Now, delicacy has dictated that we tiptoe around this title. But on my blog, I choose to celebrate a couple of things. One, that Rollie Pabst would be the FIRST one to laugh at the irony of the title. Sorry if anyone is offended,but I'm telling you, he would laugh. Two, that Joe has dedicated his performance to his Dad, who, more than anyone would appreciate being remembered in a show that made people laugh, smile, and feel good.

We don't know how much longer Rollie will be with us. But I just wanted to celebrate him a little. I'm glad he's part of my family. I'm honored to be married to his son.

I want to be Betty White

Yep. I pretty much do. I want to live to be a ripe old age and still be able to, comically speaking, wipe the floor with any one's ass even then. That lady rocks it. Always has. Does anyone remember Sue Ann Nivens? Here is a quote from the Mary Tyler Moore show that I found online. Delivered as only Betty White could deliver it.

(After Sue Ann insults the wallpaper in the mens' room.)
Mary:Did you crash the mens' room?
Sue Ann:Of course not! (Pause) I went as somebody's guest.


And, The Who was GREAT last night. And all the people who called them geezers are assholes. Period. Any one of you would crawl over broken glass nekkid to have one tenth of their career. Or income. Or great drugs. Or great sex. And still be upright and able to sing and play the guitar and play the Super Bowl, much less string two coherent sentences together. So, as Daughtry might say: "Bugger off, twats!"

Ahem. Now to use Audra's phrase: that is all.

My Grandma Wagoner

My brain has been ALL over the place lately. But one person I keep coming back to is my paternal grandmother. Lois Wagoner. As my parents and my husband's parents turn a corner health-wise I've been thinking of her. I miss her alot. Here are some things I remember about her that make me smile.

She always stopped whatever she was doing every weekday to watch her "stories". Back then these were "The Doctors", "Another World", and "Days of Our Lives". But, she always had some sort of busywork. She didn't just SIT there. There were beans to snap, or crochet or something else to work on.

She made a teeny tiny dress on her sewing machine for my Skipper doll. She made alot of her own clothes for many years, was quite a seamstress until her hands and eyes wouldn't co-operate anymore.She was no spring chicken when she made that itty bitty dress, and I still have the doll and the dress.

She was sort of scary religious. Was raised to think most fun things were sinful. But was married to a drinker and a gambler. From what I hear anyway, as my paternal grandfather died when I was a baby. So I think she had a soft spot for rogues. Because she always spoke of her husband with love and affection. And though she told us she was taught that dancing was a sin, she came to all of the dance recitals my sister and I performed. Why? Because we were her grand babies, and she LOVED us. She was proud of us and our sparkly costumes and tap routines and figured the Lord would just understand.

She was a GREAT hugger. And she always smelled really good. She was fond of Avon products. I know, I know. But she never overdid with the perfume or lotion, she just smelled sweet. Like Grandma's are supposed to.

This is really sounding like the-perfect-cookie-cutter-Grandma. She wasn't perfect of course. No one is. But I gotta tell you, she was rare. I haven't come across many people like her.

Thank you Grandma.

Weak. I am WEAK.

This morning I re-activated my Facebook account. For better or worse, it's a done deal. I missed some folks who live far away, and facebook was our lifeline.....

I figure it's like this. It's entirely up to me to keep things light and fun. To not use facebook (of all things) as an outlet for my frustration or political opinions---or any opinions for that matter. I can keep in touch with friends and show support and say hi and do all the things I originally did when I first opened the account.

And, if it gets to be too much, then de-activating my account is not all that difficult. Hey, everybody needs a break now and then.