Black Friday Shopping

It has become a Thanksgiving tradition at my house that, following dinner, all the womenfolk pour over the black Friday ads from the newspaper and plot our plan of attack.  We have been doing this for years.  Used to be, we could all go home, get some sleep and regroup at 2 or 3 Friday morning to begin our assault on both the stores and our checking accounts.  But now, if we have any hope of getting those super duper dirt cheap items, we would have to forgo sleep altogether and hit the shopping trail Thanksgiving day itself or at least get on the road late that night.

I'm just not sure I'm feeling this level of commitment.  Sure I like to save.  Give me a coupon, I'll clip it.  Show me a loss leader, I'll buy it.  But to spend my Thanksgiving day primarily preparing for my Christmas...not sure I'm on board with that.  

I enjoy my Thanksgiving.  Sharing a great meal with the people I love the most in this world.  Closing the gaps time and distance put on our relationships.  Laughing over the memories of yesterday all while creating the memories of tomorrow.  This isn't always going to be the way it is.  The kids will soon be grown and possibly off to other places for the holidays.  Our parents won't be with us forever either.  To give up such precious little time we all have together to save 50% on some electronic device, well, it just doesn't seem prudent to me. 

This year, I was most thankful for the time with my family.  Time is the one commodity I can't buy more of or substitute something else in it's place.  I can't get it back once it's gone, and I find the older I get, the quicker it's getting away from me.  I know the times are changing, and who knows, maybe next year you'll find me out loading up my shopping cart on Thanksgiving day too, but this year, I am glad I chose not to.

My mom, sister-in law, son's girlfriend and her sister and I did go shopping on Friday.  We didn't even bother going that early, leaving around 8 a.m.  We figured all the really great deals would be long gone.  But we had a good time.  We did get some serious shopping done and even managed to save some money.  And shockingly, we didn't even miss the craziness of most past black Friday adventures.  :-)

Girlfriends

I love my husband with all my heart.  I wouldn't trade him for anything.  I enjoy our time together immensely.  He is, in fact, my best friend. But I'll tell ya what, there's nothing like spending some quality time with my girlfriends.

It sounds almost silly to call them 'girl' friends when, truth be told, they are some of the most mature, insightful, interesting and entertaining women I know.  With them, there is no need to put on airs or puff up reality.  They know from experience that it's possible, even probable, to love a man with all one's heart and still be routinely frustrated by him.  They know that, no matter what I say, I do not really want to strangle, throttle or beat senseless any of my children.  They know that a clean house is both subjective and often overrated.  They know all this because, while our lives are all so very different, they are somehow still all so very much alike.

Married or single, little kids, big kids or no kids at all, working both inside and outside the home, thin, fat, tall, short, mild-mannered or boisterous...none of that matters.  When we get together, somehow what makes us different is less important than what makes us alike.

We understand that life is precious.  Accidents happen.  Miracles do too.  We know that when little dreams come true, big ones seem possible.  We know there's strength in numbers.  We know that the same person who will laugh with you over the most mundane things will also cry with you when your world falls apart.

With great friends, you can pick up right where you left off whether it's been an hour or a month since the last time you spoke.  There's no scorecard or seating chart or pecking order to worry about.  It's just easy, natural.  Come-as-you-are, be-who-you-are.  Sit and stay a spell.  You know what I mean? 

It's about venting over the struggles and stresses of life and knowing they get that you're just letting off steam.  It's speaking your mind and not being offended when they speak theirs.  It's about agreeing to disagree sometimes.  It's about being genuinely happy for their successes and just as genuinely hurt when they hurt, sharing the good times and the bad.

These relationship are developed through long phones calls, during shopping trips and over good meals.  They are tested by time and each participants ability to judge softly and support firmly.  They are rare and special treasures, not to be taken for granted.  So to the women I call 'friends', thank you for making life a little sweeter and the load a little lighter.  You bring so much richness to my life.

The little things

When I was newly married, my husband and I barely had two nickels to rub together.  We lived in this old house that had been converted into apartments.  It was dark and dank, the musty smell only occasionally masked by the pungent aroma of Indian food escaping from under our neighbor's door.  There was a huge purple paint stain in the middle of the bedroom floor that was only semi-covered by our bed.  A paper grocery sack served as the door to our apartment size freezer.  The bathroom was so small, my husband had to do his business sitting sideways with his legs in the kitchen.  It was quite a lovely place.

Back then, we couldn't afford cable or even a house phone.  We had to walk two blocks to use a pay phone. (Do pay phones even exist anymore?)  It was no fun calling collect from a pay phone to talk to our parents for three minutes.  I think prisoners even have better phone privileges than that.

All our furniture was hand-me-down or bought used.  We were fortunate enough to have gotten a couch, love seat, two end tables, and a small kitchen table with four chairs from another set of newlyweds.  It was the second time around for them so they had double of everything and were willing to part with half of it for a little bit of nothing. 

We drove the 1976 Ford Maverick, three speed on the column, that had been mine since I was sixteen. It was poop brown with poop brown interior. We did soon afterward upgrade to a Chevy Chevette with a $78 a month payment.  Oh, those were the days!

Our first Christmas, we had an ugly white artificial tree we picked up at Big Lots for ten bucks.  It was all of three foot tall and pathetically bare.  There wasn't much under it either.  But that didn't matter to us. It was ours, and we liked it.

It was a more modest way of life back then.  Simpler.  In a lot of ways, sweeter.

We couldn't afford to go out much or have many nice things.  Luxuries were out of our reach.  Back then, I was doing all my writing the old fashioned way, pen to paper.  Not that I minded too terribly much, but I certainly can type a lot faster than I can write.

When I got married, I had to leave behind the electric typewriter that I used all through high school.  My three younger siblings still needed it.  But I doubt they had the same connection to it.  Sitting at that machine, correction strips nearby, I pounded out not only many a Croxford paper (those from my high school alma mater will understand the reference), but I also spent hours spilling my thoughts and ideas all over plain white sheets of paper.  With the click, click, click of the typewriter keys, I moved stories from my mind to the printed word.  To me, that was like breathing life into something that hadn't existed until then.  With words, I could create whole worlds, tailored to suit me.  I could give birth to people, making them in whatever image I wished.  Whatever I could imagine, I could bring to life.  Writing was not only a means of escape but a means of great personal discovery.

My young husband, (we were eighteen at the time) did not seem to fully understand my need to spend large blocks of time filling spiral bound notebooks with stories and random thoughts and little notes with seemingly no real value to them.  He didn't mind that I did it.  He just didn't get why I did it.  How did I find pleasure in pouring over pages and pages of written words, first writing, then reading aloud, then writing again?  He just didn't seem to see the point.

So the afternoon he came home from his job at a small factory and announced proudly that he had something for me, I had no idea what to expect.  He was holding a large box, trying to balance it's weight as he stepped down into our meager little living room.  It could have been anything.  We needed so much.  He said the people at work were just going to throw it out.  He hoped I could use it.  He hoped I like it.  With curiosity piqued, I watched as he lifted this monstrous contraption from the box.  I didn't know for sure what it was at first sight, but I knew it had an electrical cord, and I knew it had lettered keys.  He quickly informed me it was a word processor, not a typewriter exactly, but close.  I remember clapping my hands and laughing aloud, tickled pink with my 'new' writing machine. 

Today I write with ease at a computer, watching each word fall into place on a big monitor as I go, spell check following along.  But as it turns out, the littlest things in life sometimes leave the greatest impressions on it.  Maybe that's because the little things rarely are. 

Even now, I look back on that moment some twenty two plus years ago with special fondness, not because the machine was so precious to me or because it forever changed my life in any way, but because at that moment, I knew my husband got me.  He understood that at least part of who I am is a writer.  He, whether instinctively or through insight, knew that nurturing me in one area would open me up to nurture him in others.  He showed me love in a brand new way that day, by giving worth to something simply because I did.

Pet Peeves

Am I seriously the only person in this house who knows how to replace an empty toilet paper roll?
How about fill an ice cube tray?
Or put my shoes in the cute little caddies I bought solely for that purpose?

I am not an easy woman to please, I understand that, but why do these people I live with not even try?!?  They claim to hate my nagging yet they provide me with an endless list of irritations and annoyances to harp on. 

For instance, what is the deal with refusing to finish off the last of something?  I mean, why leave half a swallow of milk in the jug, a smattering of ketchup in the bottom of the bottle or a single Oreo in the package?  What good is one Oreo??  And why leave a bread bag with just the heels in it laying on the counter?  Just throw it away!

Oh, and speaking of bread bags, am I the only one who knows how to use the twisty tie on the bread?  Or a chip clip? Or reseal a zipper baggie?  Seriously, folding the bag over does not in any way, shape or form constitute an air tight seal.

And more bag related vexations...Why is it that no one else in this house can figure out that when the trash bag is full, an actual human being must remove said bag and replace it with a new one?  And why, oh why, do the people I live with think that an acceptable solution to a full garbage pail is to sit excess refuse on the kitchen counter?!?   I don't know which is more irritating, the trash on the counter or that darn single Oreo in the package. 


Also, I'd like to know what's so hard about scraping one's plate?  We have a garbage disposal, for Pete's sake, so even if that trash can is full, there's no excuse for not scraping.  

And why when I tell someone to pick up something or clean up a mess do they feel it necessary to inform me that it isn't theirs?  Did I ask if it was theirs?  Do I care?  NO!  Just do it.  I pick up stuff and clean up junk that isn't mine all day long.  It doesn't kill me, and it won't kill them.

Honestly, if they'd just put things back where they belong, they wouldn't have to all that picking up and cleaning up to begin with.  Plus, if they'd put things back when they're finished with them, I wouldn't always have to go hunting for scissors, tape and my good ink pens.


I could go on and on and on, but by now, you're probably feeling like my family does...wishing I would just quit complaining already.  So...I will.  :-)

When the memories hurt

Isn't it interesting how some things fade quickly into the sea of lost memories while other moments forever etch themselves on our hearts and in our minds.  I wonder why learning to tie with a gigantic ribbon on an ordinary wooden chair in Mrs. Tupper's kindergarten class sticks with me while almost nothing else from five to seven remains.  I wonder why I remember one Christmas where I lay on the floor staring at a candle for hours in my feety pajamas while my parents and their friends talked in the next room, but I cannot recall a single gift from that year.  I wonder why I remember sleeping in our family's camper in the back yard one summer night prior to leaving on a big vacation, but I don't remember a single thing about the trip itself.  Strange how our minds work.

I wish all the things that stick with me were positive or benign.  But somehow the cruelest moments of life seem to leave the deepest and most lasting marks.  I had an uncle, by marriage, who routinely spoke to me with menacing brutality.  His words were harsh and cutting, and I felt helpless to defend myself from them.  Worse, I felt betrayed by the adults around me who failed to protect me from his malevolent taunts.  I wondered why no one rescued me.  Did no one notice?  Did no one care?   Or did everyone feel the same defenselessness I did against such a tyrannical bully?  I wonder still.

With vivid clarity, I remember the night another uncle was lost, a good uncle.  He was young, just twenty-four, handsome, charismatic and kind.  He was everything an uncle should be, fun, easy going and accommodating of the inconvenience little kids can be.  The memory is seared into my mind.  My sister, cousin and I were watching the Love Boat on tv while our parents talked in the background.  A friend of my uncle's came unexpectedly to our front door.  He asked to talk to my mom in the other room.  I can remember her saying, 'Only if you promise not to hit me.'  She was joking, but the blow that was about to strike her took the very breath out of her.  There was screaming, sobbing, bewildered disbelief...we watched in silent horror.  Her reaction left no question that whatever news she had just received was not good.

It was my first taste of real loss.  While others I had known and even loved had passed on before him, they had done so leaving nary a mark on my young life.   But I knew almost immediately that my Uncle John's death was different.  Things were going to be different.  I was going to be different.  My mother, my grandmother, the atmosphere itself...it was all going to be changed because he was no longer with us.  I cry now with an even deeper sadness over his loss.  It is with greater understanding that I now realize the implications of what his life lived could have meant to us all and how losing him changed the shape of each of our hearts to varying degrees.  


That same event sparked another memory of mine that is set in stone.  At my uncle's funeral, I was instructed to go find my older cousin.  He was my father's nephew, but he had found a kindred spirit in my mother's brother.  My cousin had a difficult childhood and was being raised by my dad's mother.  He was 'spoiled' in some people's eyes, but I believe wholeheartedly he would have gladly traded every gift to have involved, interested or even present parents in his life.  And now he met my Uncle John, who in the gentle, kind way he had about him had welcome my cousin Brent into the fold.  They shared an interest in music and motorcycles.  They had a relationship all their own, a relationship my cousin desperately needed.  A relationship with an adult male who had time and a willingness to actively participate in his teen aged life.  But now that man, my uncle, Brent's friend, had been taken from us.  In that moment, Brent's pain surpassed my own.  He was feeling the loss on a much different level than I was.  It was not his first taste of loss, but it was, to date, his most bitter.


I found Brent sitting in the dark beside a dumpster behind the funeral home.  He was crying. I had never seen him show any emotion, ever, so I was shocked to find him crying.  I didn't understand back then the depth of his pain.  He looked up at me and asked, "Why?  Why did this happen?  He was my friend."  I stood there with my eight years of wisdom and life experience and shrugged my shoulders.  I had nothing to offer him in the way of condolences.  I didn't know why anything happened.  What could I say to ease his pain when I couldn't even ease my own?  Then he grabbed me and held me tightly, crying like a baby, saying nothing, just crying.  And I just stood there and let him hug me.  I don't even think I hugged him back.  I don't even think I cried with him.  I just stood there wishing someone else would come looking for us, that someone would help us escape this thing that was swallowing us up.  I know now it was grief that was tormenting us, each in our own way.  But then, I was certain the darkness in us and all around us was going to consume us.


That was the one and only genuine moment I had with my cousin Brent.  He died a few years ago, a drug overdose. I wonder if I had been able to answer his "why", would it have made a difference in the path his life took?  Or did he even remember that moment ever happened between us?  


Funny how memories work, stirring us up over things that were long ago said and done. Interesting what our minds hold onto through space and time.  Amazing how retrospection leads to introspection. To have a moment back, who doesn't wish for that?  To be able to apply today's insight to yesterday's occasion, who wouldn't like to have that ability?  To find peace with those things we cannot forget and yet are unable to redeem, am I the only one who desires such a thing?