A Very 2020 Christmas: The One Where I Decorate the Tree and Bore You to Death

So, back about fifteen years ago, in early September, I hatched a plan that, in retrospect, was about the most unrealistic thing I could have concocted. I promised myself that if there wasn't a resurgence of the plague come Christmas, I'd drive down to Florida to spend the holidays with my sisters.

Ha. Ha. Ha. (Definitely not Ho ho ho.)

For a number of reasons that should be obvious, this isn't happening. The plague is resurging. I work with people almost every day, and I would rather not put my family at risk. And even though I've spent most of the past year in isolation, it hasn't turned me into a total asshole. The winter is slowly closing in on us here in the Midwest, and since it's no longer easy to socialize out-of-doors, people are doing exactly what anyone could have predicted: they're being dumbasses, inside. 

Anyway. I digress. My point is: Boy howdy, I will sure as shit be home for Christmas. Home as in my Indiana home, not my Florida past-home. 

It's hard. I love Christmas, weird little heathen that I am. I love the decorations and lights and coming up with lovely ideas for gifts, and I love the songs and parties and foods and glittering, glowing, sparkling joy. I even love the rather melancholy, but entirely inevitable, time of reflection that comes along with the lowering grey skies and the year ending, when memories of family and friends who have moved on or passed on out of my life crowd into my head once more. 

When I made the decision not to go to Florida for Christmas, I sulked and stewed inwardly for a second, and resented anything and everything about 2020. And then I thought, "2020 doesn't have to ruin Christmas. I can still enjoy this fucking holiday. If I choose not to, that's on me." So, I decided to lean into this extraordinarily fucked-up holiday season as much as I could. 

One of my favorite traditions is decorating my tree. One day, I'll have two Christmas trees--one of those shiny sparkly bougie themed trees for show in the living room window, and a hodge-podge tree with all of my lovely ornaments and bits and bobs I've acquired over the years. But for now, all I have is a scraggly old tree with a hideous assortment of ornaments. I usually have a friend or two over to keep me company as I put up the various ornaments, who patiently listen as I share the backstory of some of them. This year, of course, I can't do that. 

Except I can. With all y'all!

This is the latest addition--my brother-in-law sent this along
 to me, and if isn't perfect, I don't know what is!

When my sisters and I were wee mites, we would play with the ornaments

on our tree, much as though they were dolls and accessories. Our cousin

worked for Avon, and provided us with a magical treasure trove of Avon-

issued ornaments to aid us in our earnest flights of fancy. One of our favorites 

from this trove was the set of "Nutcracker" characters; we'd spend countless 

hours, over many Decembers,  with these crude wooden ornaments clutched 

in our fumbling, childish hands. Of course, they disappeared during the various

 traumas and upheavals of our adolescence, but about 12 years ago, Eldest Sister 

scored a vintage set on Etsy and brought this magic back into my life. 

Each year, my friends Michael and Anna give me an ornament with

 a picture of their son, my "nephew". These pictures always remind 

me of how we choose our family, and how lucky I am that 

these lovely people chose me for their family, too. 

One of my ex-boyfriends...we'll call him Mr. Robinson...gave this to 

me, back in 1998. It was originally part of a set (with Mickey, of

 course), but Mickey has long since departed. Or perhaps I showed 

Mickey the door, much was I eventually did with Mr Robinson? 

Also, I don't give two hoots about Disney shit, but the boyfriend 

sure did. I'm still not sure why he got me this, but I know why I keep 

it. Mr Robinson passed away five years ago now, and as problematic

 as our relationship was, it feels wrong to forget it, or him. 

Back in 2002, I was living with another boyfriend (John the Saint). It 

was my first apartment; it was the first man I shacked up with; it was the 

first time I had my very own Christmas tree. It was a beautiful (thematic!)

 tree, decorated in silver and white and ice-blue and lavender. This spray

 of stars is the only remaining ornament from that gorgeous tree...and 

close to the only thing that remains of my time with John the Saint. 

Speaking of boyfriends (again), this is an ornament that I purchased 

back during Indiana 1.0, in 2004, when I was shacked up with my boyfriend

 at the time (Mr. Indiana, AKA the previously mentioned Michael.) In the

 great scheme of my life, it was a fairly short-lived relationship, and it

 ended with me throwing out or giving away most of my belongings, packing 

whatever was left in my car, and driving to California to launch my career

 as a librarian. What on earth made me decide, Yes, I will save this ornament, 

but not my pots and pans, and move it with me all the way to California? 

No fucking clue, but I'm glad I did!

Speaking of California...this little dangly, wobbly...crawdad? bay bug? came 

into my life around 2007, given to me by one of the first friends I made when

 I came to California. Kristin and I both had (and hopefully still have) a ridiculously
 absurd and quirky sense of humor, and every year, when I unpack this little guy, 

I laugh as much as I did when I first got him. Damn, I miss Kristin. 

My time in California (along with my marriage) finally and thankfully

 came to an end, and I returned home to the Midwest. I was so freakin' glad 
to shake the California dust from my shoes,  but I still stayed in touch with 
some of the folks I had befriended there. My first Christmas back in Indiana, one 
of those California friends orchestrated a Secret Santa exchange with all of 
her Facebook friends, and I decided to participate...only to be gifted, by some
 well-intentioned stranger, these ornaments. At the time I unwrapped them,
  I maybe shuddered a little bit, but enough time has passed now that when I
 put these ornaments on the tree, I smile and remember that past life and don't
  curse all those who peopled it to the bowels of hell. (Also, they live in 
Palm Springs, so I'm pretty sure they're already in hell.)

Whenever I travel to someplace new (oh, travel! remember that?) 

I like to pick up a Christmas ornament to remind me of my travels.

 In 2019, I journeyed to Australia, and picked up this little guy. 

It's a cassowary. Otherwise known as a Murder Bird. 

The end result of all these ornaments, gathered over various lives within my life. And 

yes, that is a mask you see, dangling towards the bottom of the tree. Fuck you, 2020.

Oh, Hell, She's Cookin' Now! Vegetable Soup

It's not that it's New Year's Day and I'm all full of resolutions and goals and dreams and visions (although I am)--that's not why I decided to make this soup today. The reason I did it is because...well, a while back I had Panera's 10 million vegetable soup, and pretty much became obsessed with it. It was delicious, and healthy (although the various other Panera goodies I inhaled at the same time probably undermined its healthy benefits). I've been meaning to make an inferior imitation of this soup for a while, and today has been the first time in a while that I made a point to slow down and cook something for myself.

So yeah, maybe that it's New Year's does have something to do with it. Whatever.

I chose this recipe from Hummus Sapien, and stuck (mostly) to it. Rather than put in two medium potatoes, I just put in one large one. I did throw in some broccoli and cauliflower, and probably was too wussy with the seasonings. And also--sorry, y'all, I just do not keep bay leaves laying around my apartment. Call it a moral failing of mine, if you will. 

Verdict? It turned out pretty damned delicious! And with plenty left over for the next couple of days. One thing that was missing was a crusty loaf of bread. I know what I'm picking up at the store tomorrow!

Only after I was done cooking the damned thing, when I happened to peep into the fridge, did I realize that I forgot to throw in the zucchini and orange pepper I had picked up for this purpose. This was just as well, as the pot was pretty much at capacity. If I want to add more vegetables in the future...well...We're gonna need a bigger dutch oven.

I'd like to try another couple of recipes before I call this my ride-or-die vegetable soup, but it certainly was a satisfying dinner on this chilly New Year's Day.

Fuck Off, February!

The subject says it all, yes? Fuck off, February!

Maybe it was the winter doldrums, finally getting to me and depleting my energy, motivation, and productivity. Maybe it was the health scare (my doctor found a lump, I had to get my first mammogram, I imagined I was going to die, and thankfully it turned out to be nothing). Maybe it was the work stress, occurring simultaneously. Who knows? What is a certainty is that February was a nasty little month. The best part about this last month (other than the fact that I am not likely to die in the immediate future) was that, hey, at least it was a short month.

Now, on to March. It goes in like a lion and out like a lamb, or something; this just means that the meteorologists have an excuse to fall back on whether there is a blizzard, tornado, or heat wave. We will spring forward, which I absolutely hate, and spring starts, which I kind of want to happen, at least for a minute or two. We're already a day into March, and at least for me, it hasn't been as shitty as February. It's still cloudy and cold, and there's snow in the forecast for tomorrow, but the daffodil bulbs are starting to thrust out of the never-dead earth. I'm hoping for a renewal of my normal energetic, bustling, cheerful self, and I am ready for a new month. What about you? Was yours a good February, or was it rather thorough in its shittiness? And what do you have planned for the month ahead?

Blue Monday

There's this fantastic reference book that I quite love--it's called Chase's Calendar of Events. Essentially, it's a catalog of every day of the year, and anything and everything, remotely important (and otherwise) associated with that day. Birthdays of famous people (death anniversaries, too), lunar events, historical events, national holidays, (inter)national whatever months and weeks and days, inconsequential things (think National Cheese Lover's Day--no, wait, that's actually very important.) I love perusing this reference book, because overall, while I usually rather enjoy this life, I'm always looking for silly, fun ways to jazz up my daily existence.

Recently, when idly flipping through Chase's, I came across a rather intriguing date:

January 21: Blue Monday.

Apparently, it's the saddest day of the year, based on some math-y equation that factors in variables such as weather patterns in the Northern Hemisphere, days since Christmas and New Year's (and the corresponding resolutions that are probably faltering, blah blah blah). Basically, on that particular Monday, we are assumed to be disillusioned, in debt, and stuck in the doldrums of winter, and therefore, at our saddest. Stuff and nonsense! I say. I mean, if you want to be blue and miserable, that's totally your prerogative, and your feelings are valid, etc. etc. But as for me--the doldrums of winter are almost my very favorite time of year! What's not to love? While we had a little bit of cold sunshine during the day, by the time I left work, it was below freezing, and the heavy, gloomy clouds had regrouped and crowded in. Home beckoned, warm and cozy, and I was happy to get there and curl up in my armchair and listen to the wind moan.

We had some snow last weekend, and when I left for work on Monday morning, there was still plenty of snow, all around. It didn't trouble me a jot, stuffed into my heated car as I was, and of course, I rather loved looking at the snowscape and the cloudy skies and relished how safe and cozy I felt. But it made me pause and ponder: the ability to enjoy winter is, in and of itself, a privilege and a luxury. I need not worry about a lack of food, or being exposed to the cold. I have the resources to acquire more sustenance, and the concept of a poor harvest isn't something that troubles me. I have shelter and warmth, and am never exposed to the elements for a prolonged period of time in my travels. Briefly, I tried to imagine my ancestors in Indiana, back in the 1820s and 30s and 40s--there were no roads, really, and the only modes of transportation they had to get about wouldn't have kept them warm. There weren't necessarily reliable sources of food, beyond what they themselves could provide. I've no doubt that my great-great-great-grandparents did not look on these snowscapes with pleasure.

I also have no doubt that my great-great-great-grandparents knew what a Blue Monday in January really was.

And Now, December

Now, December. It's a morning with a lowering grey sky, a morning with just enough chill to allow my breath to linger in a little puff. As a child in Florida, walking with my sisters to our school bus stop, I would huff away continuously, delighted by that rare (for Florida) reminder of cold weather. I'd be lying if I said I didn't prounce and puff about in these chilly mornings, even now, as I push into middle age. I've still not acclimated to the delight and gratitude that surge through me whenever I realize that I'm here, home, and able to experience the progression of life, happening in cycle with the season.

Fourteen years ago, around this time I hopped on the bus and rode it into campus for my last classes of my first semester of grad school. Then, I was 24--so young, although silly me, I didn't feel like it at the time. So certain about so much. That certainty is one of the things that dies with youth, I think--thank goodness. I knew I was loved and that I had a life partner who would stick by my side through thick and thin; I knew I was surrounded by fun, young, smart people, each of us enduring a similar grad school experience. I knew that there was so much still ahead of me, if only I could survive grad school.

And then this morning, I hopped on the bus and rode it into campus for my last class of the semester. Perhaps because it's cold and early, perhaps because we have become a population absorbed with our phones, the crowd on the bus was silent, each rider wrapped up in their own thoughts and world. Normally I'd be happy to immerse myself into social media, but this morning, I gazed out the window at the bare trees, the students and faculty hustling about, the grey limestone of the university buildings, the endless rhythms of academia expanding and contracting. I'm no longer 24 or even particularly young; the partner and friends I had have all moved on, although we are all, more or less, in touch. Graduations, jobs and careers, cross-country moves, marriages, divorces, even death have been our lot. Climate change, hope and change, recession and recovery, making America great again which made it worse again. It's like a Billy Joel song, without the music.

I'm older but not wiser, sadder, yet strangely, happier. Certainly more content. Hopefully able to keep things in perspective, to know when to fight, when to give something up as a bad show, when to stop when I'm ahead. Hopefully able to appreciate this fleeting life and its countless privileges, and hopefully able to embrace opportunities and adventures.

Today is the last class of the semester. Somehow, I survived (I mean, really, there was no somehow about it; it's not like I was actually going to not make it through)--at the expense of my social life, perhaps, but I'm enough of a natural hermit to put that shit on hold for a while. But three jobs simply require too much of my mental resources; it's difficult to devote all of my mental energy to one particular job at a time, to say nothing of the other facets of my life. It's not fair to anyone, so at the end of this semester, I'm indefinitely giving up teaching. I'm no longer in the first flush of youth, but I ain't old, either, and it doesn't make sense to me to keep plugging away, working so much, when there are places to go, people to meet, things to create, lessons to learn, winters to wallow in.

Now, December, for a moment.  But not forever.

Season Snapshot: March 2018

I've survived another winter here in the Heartland! Yesterday was the first day of spring--although, Indiana being Indiana, you wouldn't have known it. By the time I headed home from work yesterday, the snow was falling in earnest, and the traffic was creeping along. Half an hour later, when I got home, I paused to drool over this gorgeous moment:

Spring, schming.

It'll happen soon enough. In the meantime, the only thing for it was to do my chores, hunker down, light a candle, drink some wine, and relish the hygge moment. (Yup, I'm one of those people. I loves me some hygge.)

Finally, a cozy home of my own. God help the poor fool who ever tries to talk me out of this lovely life I've been given. 

Chasing my Happy: The Winter Weirdness Edition

My happy isn't your happy, and that's okay. There's enough to go around.

In the early morning hours, I reluctantly slipped out from underneath my covers--disturbing the furry feline fuckers in the process--and padded over to my window. Was I seeing snow? It was hard to say for certain; darkness still enveloped everything, and my bleary eyes weren't aided by glasses. And really, what did it matter? If it was, in fact, snowing, well, chances were I'd have plenty more opportunities to see it. So I padded back to my toasty bed and burrowed back underneath the covers, and the furry feline fuckers quickly forgave me.

When I woke up for good, a couple of hours later, I quickly realized something pretty darned cool (heh, literally):

It's November 1, and here in the hoosiery hills of Southern Indiana, we've had our first snowfall of the season.

It didn't last, of course. But what did last was the wet, gloomy, cold weather that brought us the snow to begin with. All day, the temperature has hovered in the low forties, and there's been absolutely no sun. If I'm being honest, I'll admit that I've been vaguely cold, all day. And it doesn't bug me, not in the slightest. In fact, I am relishing that warm feeling that I'll finally chase down to earth later this evening, when I am in bed once again, and the furry feline fuckers are trying to get as close to me as possible. I've learned that when you achieve a penetrating warmth after a prolonged chill, it's a beautiful, almost sensual thing, an incredible feeling.

I might not always feel like this. Maybe some day, I will resent this place and dread the winters as I once resented California and dreaded...well, all the seasons. But right now, I am just happy to be happy with these cold, grey mornings and evenings, these bare trees, these empty, hollow nights. Even looking up at the picture above, at that grey sky over the rooftops, makes me happy. And not in a "gloom and death and badness and everyone is miserable!" sort of way, but in a "I love the sight of that grey sky and all the cozy homes and people tucked safe away" sort of way. 

Not any one thing is going to make everyone happy. And my way of happiness seems to be distinctly different from most other folks. Folks don't need to get why this cold, empty, gloomy weather makes me happy (which is good, since I don't get why, myself); it's enough that I knew enough to chase that happiness, and that it brought me here. And that I didn't get any frostbite in the process.

Now that the holidays have passed, now that the hope and excitement of the new year have slipped away and we've all returned to work and school and our humdrum duties, how is 2017 progressing for us all?

Here's what I know: when you don't make a lot of goals and promises and resolutions to yourself, you don't really end up being too disappointed. So that's a thing. I've not been more disappointed in myself than I usually am. And in fact, I've so far kept to two of the promises I made to myself--I'm holding firm to "Dryuary", wherein I eliminate alcohol from my diet to see if it makes a difference to my health (it hasn't), and I'm faithfully using my Estee Lauder Anti-Aging Kit to see if it reverses the effects of aging. (It doesn't). It DOES, however, give me pimples.

This is the dark of winter, that long, lonely stretch of time that lapses between the joyful excesses of Yuletide and the hopeful, almost obscene fecundity of spring. This is when we retreat indoors and hide from the cold that stings and bites at our digits and extremities; when we look up, hopefully, at the sky, only to see more lowering clouds. I don't mind this time year, myself. I rather like the painful cold that drives us indoors, where all can be cozy. And all is cozy, really, at the moment. I don't have the company of a partner to assure me that I am safe, and cared for, and loved. But I do have a roof over my head, and a blanket draped over my lap, and a cat nearby (and another one lurking), and a pile of books, and music I can listen to, and candles I can burn.

What better thing to do during the dark of winter, than to shut ourselves away into our homes? With that as my guiding thought, I am happy to comply with this expectation. I'm restless, and starting to think about my future, and the expectations that I want to create for myself, but for this dark time, I hide. I think. I imagine. I ponder. I wait for freedom, for an idea of what comes next. And I await the spring, and perhaps a rebirth, while loving this cold winter, and my period of rest.