Some Things Never Change

Today, I looked out of my bathroom window to see a familiar sight. The ritual of building a massive snow fort after the first major storm had begun. Snow was flying everywhere as the mound of white stuff deposited at the end of the cul-de-sac by our friendly, neighborhood plow began to take shape. My husband and son were crawling around on all fours as they dug out places to sit, as well as a tunnel to wiggle through. Gloved hands painstakingly molded the outer walls until the icy mass resembled an Eskimo palace. In years past I would have been a puddle of tears watching father and son build their masterpiece but this year I was too busy laughing. My husband is fifty-seven and my son is twenty-two!

They said they were getting it ready for my ten year old nephew's arrival but I wasn't falling for that one. I have no doubt that they were enjoying themselves just for the sheer fun of getting out there and playing in the snow. Hey, anything that gets my son away from video gaming and my husband away from his desk is okay by me. The fact that they were having so much fun constructing this winter playhouse (due to melt by the end of the week) made me appreciate the fact that our kids are still living with us. It's not often that I see anything resembling a Norman Rockwell painting around here so I'm going to savor every moment I get. I might even be waiting with the hot chocolate. With marshmallows.

Merry Colonoscopy!

I put it off for years. Every time the doctor reminded me that I still hadn't followed his recommendation to add this procedure to my "to do" list I was ready with my excuses; lousy insurance, too busy, can't afford it, no history in my family. But this year, thanks to my son's unexpected appendectomy, the main excuse was gone. We met our deductible. I made the appointment.

The specialist failed to fall for my last attempt at weaseling out of what I knew needed to be done. Even though our deductible was met in August, I didn't call his office until the first of December. When I told him that I had to get in before the end of the year, he didn't flinch. 'Of course we can get you in', he said. 'And we can fit your husband in, too.' Damn. Just my luck to find a dedicated professional who put patients care (and wallets) ahead of his Christmas plans.

So, that's how I found myself flushing out my colon one week before Christmas. The procedure, as anyone who has had one would undoubtedly agree, was nothing. You take a trip to la-la land and babble some incoherent ramblings that will amuse your loved ones when you wake up. The day before prep was something I could have done without, but, let's face it, one day of the holidays away from the cookie tins can't be all bad.

I never did convince my husband to join me. I guess togetherness has its limits. But, he doesn't know what he's missing. After a month of exams, blood work, a bone density test, a mammogram and a colonoscopy, I'm going in to the New Year with a relatively clean bill of health and a sense of gratitude that I didn't waste the opportunity my son so lovingly provided me. Not a bad Christmas gift.

This is Torture

As anyone who has been a regular reader of this blog knows, I'm madly in love with all things Italian. Let's face it, if Italy were a guy, I'd be spending Christmas in jail, serving time for stalking. I've watched enough House Hunters International shows to know that living there is out of our price range (unless I ever edit that bestseller that is now sitting on my hard drive). My next best hope is getting back there for an extended visit but even that seems unlikely with other financial obligations tugging on our dwindling resources. That's why I've grown to hate the mailman.

Every week, without fail, our local public servant deposits tantalizing brochures and beautifully photographed catalogs for Mediterranean cruises and Italian vacations, detailing the once-in-a lifetime deals waiting for my husband and me if only we book by the end of the month. Every time I go to the mailbox and find one of these instruments of torture waiting for me I'm torn. Do I pay the mortgage or call the travel agent? As I grab a cup of tea and lovingly turn each heavy, laminated page filled with images of the Italian countryside or rustic, cobblestone streets, my rational thinking goes right out the window. Maybe we could get by eating nothing but potatoes for a few months. Maybe we could raise the deductible on every insurance policy we own. Maybe we could rent out a spare room. (Oh, yeah, that won't work. Our kids are still in them.)

Eventually, reason prevails and I finish my tea and close the latest attack on my senses. But I can't bring myself to toss the brochure into the recycling bin. That rational I am not. So now I have a filing drawer filled with outdated specials and once in a lifetime deals that have passed us by. But that's okay. I'll hang on to them just in case one of these years, I get what I really want for Christmas

Okay,The Lights Are Up. . .

One of my first blogs was right around this time of year in 2009 when I groused about how much I'd come to dislike Christmas now that my children are older. When I went back and read it, I realized how close to Scrooge I sounded. Determined to make the holidays a more enjoyable experience in 2010, I vowed to get the decorations up earlier, make lists for everyone before I hit the stores and start churning out those Christmas cookies the first week of December.

Well, as you well know I was a little pre-occupied in November so nothing was addressed besides the writing of the next great American novel. Today, I went to Costco and actually purchased our first real Christmas tree in years. I also braved the elements (okay, it was almost forty degrees) to put up some lights outside. Which brings me to my only grumbling of the day. Why do manufacturers of these tiny instruments of torture not make it easier to find which bulbs are out so you don't have to pitch the whole damn string into the nearest trash receptacle? It never fails that the very string that lit up so beautifully inside the house, fails to do the same once it's nestled in the bushes. I don't mind traipsing through the snow to put them on but I'll be damned if I'm going to stand out there searching for the one bulb that is disabling half of the lights I just lovingly threw on our landscaping.

So, here's how it's going to go down next year. I'm hitting the after Christmas sales this year and purchasing a whole boatload of those suckers. I'm then going to pitch every last one of the lights we own (sorry, I do try to be green but this is war) and know that I'll be ready for 2011. Of course, if the half strands that are still out there doing their job give up the fight, I'll find myself in Target sooner than I expected. Who am I kidding? I'm bound to be there anyway finishing the shopping I swore would be done by now.

TGIO (Thank God It's Over)

In the past, November has meant only one thing - Thanksgiving. This November, it's meant something else - writing. Or as I like to call it - hell. It started out as a challenge; something I've always wanted to do. Doesn't everyone think they've got at least one novel hidden in the deep recesses of their souls? I know I always did. For the last twenty years my husband has been reminding me of my promise to someday put on paper (or computer as the case may be) the bestseller that will allow us to move into that villa in Italy next to George's. Well, he may not have mentioned that part about George. That may have been my idea. Anyway, I was always shooting off my mouth that I could write something better than half of the drivel occupying spots on the library's shelves. But did I actually do it? No. Until this November 29th, I was only a novelist wannabe.

Not anymore. For twenty-nine days, I wrote an average of 1750 words per day. I sat my butt in front of the computer twenty-eight of those days and actually typed a beginning, a middle and an end of what I hope will be an actual, published book. The hard part is over. I've proved to myself that I can do it. Even if my novel never finds its way into an agent's hands; even if it never occupies a shelf in your neighborhood bookstore, no one will ever be able to take its existence away from me.

As a reward for a month of grueling hard work, our local region of the National Novel Writing Month challenge met today for a celebratory luncheon. Everyone who participated was recognized for their accomplishments (even if they didn't hit the necessary 50,000 words) and one of the writers read an essay by Tom Clancy. In it he praised and offered encouragement to anyone who had the audacity to think that what they had to say was important enough to spend hours of their lives putting it on paper. He reminded all novel writers to be proud of the fact that they accomplished something that others only talk about doing. As I listened, my eyes started to tear up. Finally. Finally, he was talking about me.