TREE TRIALS

Join me for a visit to Christmas past. Not that long ago. . .

 

One of  our cast of characters. You've probably seen her picture at PetSmart under a sign that says WARNING.

It’s half past tree-decorating time. I have a collection of beautiful and delicate heirloom ornaments handcrafted to celebrate joy and reflect the beauty of the Christmas season.

In a box in the basement. 

Why?

Because nothing says Here Comes Santa Claus like shards of memories and broken glass scattered across the living room Oriental to impale the toes of random passers-by on their way to the kitchen for a snack. And with centuries of experience, the reindeer are finicky about landing on a roof that’s decorated in a festive pawprint motif. Santa is understandably anxious about a house that decorates with broken balls.

 A week ago, we decked the halls, shook out the tree skirt, and festooned the boughs and branches of the well-worn, but guaranteed to remain life-like, evergreen with symbols of good will toward men. The evergreen that has a permanent, cat-shaped hole in the middle.

The next morning the tree exploded. I thought the star had gone supernova.  

A black ball of fangs and fur flew past in a cloud of glitter and tinsel, and a tabby with a surprised and somewhat bewildered expression catapulted from the center of the Christmas tree, ricocheted off the La-Z-Boy, and careened into the hall, where it scattered laundry baskets like bowling pins. The vacuum cleaner succumbed to a change in air pressure and current and performed a magnificent backflip, neatly taking out a stack of newly washed towels on an end table. A black and white furball with years of experience grabbed a gold ball with a luminous snowflake pattern and headed downfield like an Olympian about to score a gold medal goal.

The tree was shredded like a delicate interoffice memorandum and teetered like a ballerina with sore feet before it crash-landed on the hardwood floor.The Pit Bull, who is leery of the cats' shenanigans and who learned emergency maneuvers during the last hurricane, hid under the coffee table with his favorite knucklebone for rations.

 But within minutes the tree was up and re-decorated in its Christmas finery.

 Its Christmas plastic finery.

 In a move of inspiration and lightning-fast reaction to a scene of destruction in our living room years ago, Bill rushed out and snapped up all the dazzling, heirloom plastic ornaments that WalMart had to offer.

 Of course, our tree looks like the toddler aisle at Toys R Us on Black Friday.

 If our Christmas tree were a Muppet, it would be Miss Piggy.

Where other homes have trees that reflect good taste and tradition, our tree is a reflection of our life choices. We don’t have family photos on our walls so much as mug shots.

Because sometimes Peace on Earth looks more like Earth in Pieces. It just takes a little love to keep it all together.

 And maybe some duct tape.

 Hold your loved ones together with whatever it takes.

 Merry Christmas!

 

SOCK IT TO ME

 

Improvise! Adapt! Overcome!

One of the joys of aging is finding creative new ways to do things that you’ve done all your life with no excess trauma, such as putting on your socks. If you’re interested in stability, however, attempting this feat in a swivel rocker might not be the most productive course of action.

My son The Showoff can stand on one foot and, without wavering, pull a sock on without spinning like a weathervane in the direct path of Hurricane Helene or hopping like Peter Rabbit on Easter. Due to unique health issues, I can’t even walk to the bathroom without experiencing both events. I generally end up standing in the hallway litter box. It turns out that sand is only desirable between your toes at a place where the tide goes in and out. 

In a world where you can press a button to wipe out typing mistakes, the folks in charge of the universe still see fit to locate your right foot farther away than your left. Some people view this as God’s sense of humor, which I find is not even closely aligned with my own. My left sock goes on like hot fudge on a sundae, but my right foot bobs and weaves like Mike Tyson in his prime. I figure the distance to my left foot is measured in large print and the distance to my right foot is dog years.

I tried propping my foot in my the living room swivel rocker (also known as the Tilt-a-Whirl) for support. This method of sock manipulation was unsuccessful if you count encasing your foot in a sleeping cat and your sock residing on the dog’s nose like a gold toe condom as undesirable. As the chair spun left, the cat decorated my shin with claw marks in a clever barber pole design, then cited me for assault. Our attorneys are in talks. 

So, in the manner of Wile. E. Coyote, who never gave up on the Roadrunner, I took the adventure up a level. I used two swivel chairs with the idea that foot and shoe would undoubtedly meet up sooner or late like rotating gears. It works with clocks, right? What could go wrong?

I forgot that clocks have gone digital.

Perching at my desk in an office chair and using the swivel rocker as a runway, I discovered why Mr. Coyote always ended up on a fast track to a crash landing. Both chairs displayed the sort of flair for fast turns you normally find on the Indianapolis Speedway. The resulting wardrobe malfunction led to the friendly folks at Urgent Care encouraging me to apply myself to other methods.

So if you see me out and about, don’t look at my ankles. I’m just following doctor’s orders.

 

Esme in firing position.

Watch and Waste

 

It’s 7:00 on a Thursday night. Rain patters against the windows in the kitchen. Over the years I've collected animals like I'm Noah. The Captain of my ark and I are huddled in a small, square hallway surrounded by empty coffee cups and wrappers from the McDonald’s dollar menu. We have binoculars, a pair of large disposable tweezers, and a baggie containing a small plastic vial. If I listen closely, I’m pretty sure I can hear the theme from Dragnet playing in the background.

We’re doing surveillance and have probably watched one too many cop shows. Imagine a mashup of Starsky and Hutch and the Golden Girls. Add a muscle car and imagine Starsky with a bad back, counting the days until retirement and we could have our own show.

Suddenly, imaginary suspense music envelopes the scene. The subject of our stakeout strolls into the hallway, pauses at a bait bowl of snack mix, and crosses the hall to rub flirtatiously against the Captain's leg. She curls up in his lap and purrs like a bandsaw.

Dropping the baggie on the floor between us, I aim a look at my partner that I usually reserve for husbands who buy chocolate doughnuts when you’re on Day 5 of a 7-day diet.

“I told you it wouldn’t work.”

“She smells fear.”

“She smells beef jerky on your breath.” 

Esme is a beautiful ball of gray fur who loves Bill like he’s made of bacon. She looks at me like Willy the Weasel in the chicken coop in cartoons you’ve never seen if you were born after ATMs were invented.

She’s 15-pounds of cat treats and dandelion puffball fur destined for a vet appointment tomorrow morning. She’s approximately the size of the death boulder in the first Indiana Jones movie and it’s likely that she’s looking down the throat of the kitty version of the Atkins Diet once she lands with a thud on the vet’s scale. Our job is to stake out the litter box and get a sample of the sort of thing vets like to ask for on Friday mornings to make Thursday nights an adventure.

All in all, I’d rather shave my legs with sandpaper. Our household includes four feline inhabitants, and if I have to invade the shady side of the house I want to come up with the right prize the first time. It’s like doing a drug deal with a parade full of motorized Shriners.

Also, the impending vet visit is tricky because the puffball in question has a record. She was pawprinted and landed on the Health Department’s No Fly List  during her last visit due to an assassination attempt on the technician who violated the rules of kitty etiquette with a pair of latex gloves and a cold thermometer. We avoided the vet for two years with a clever plan that involved the feline version of Witness Protection.

I wave the tweezers meaningfully. “She likes you. Tell her to go to the litterbox.”

“I don’t tell her what to do. That’s why she likes me.” 

“She likes you because you would hand feed her Beluga caviar if she wanted it.”

“You gotta know your audience.”

“I told you to do it my way. I have experience in collections. I once got a urine sample from a Dachshund with the lid from a chicken salad container.”

“Where is the container now?”

“Let’s just say I make my own chicken salad these days.”

The subject began to purr.

“Okay, what do you suggest?”

“Maybe we should feed her tuna casserole.”

Our wedding vows included the phrase, “Love, honor, and never make tuna casserole.” His previous spouse made tuna casserole for special occasions, such as any day that would be improved by a food fight. If Bill is ever poisoned, the paramedics need only to whisper the phrase “tuna casserole” to cleanse his system. I haven't made tuna casserole in 27 years but we're in a desperate situation.

I lean close to her ear and whisper the forbidden phrase. She shoots me a look that lets me know to check my shoes next time I put them on.

“Let’s change her appointment.”

“Why?”

I have a feeling that by tomorrow morning, we’ll have a fresh sample. But make sure we have a baggie in my shoe size.”

 

 

 

 

Santa Snoop

 

Not sharing. Only one reason I made the naughty list.

Since I’m not one to hover at the top of Santa’s Nice List, I’m never sure what to ask for at gift-getting time, so I end up in January with a wishful thinking list instead of December with a want list. A castle in the Alps seems like it would stretch Santa’s Comfort and Joy a little too far, and socks and underwear are a little too personal coming from a fat man who dresses in fur and hangs out with the kind of elves that make cars instead of cookies. But since pushing my luck is my favorite activity, I feel like I need to ask for something. Just in time for my birthday. Which comes up in February just in case you're putting together a shopping list. It turns out lists are handy in all sorts of situations.

This year I know just the thing. Snoop Dogg’s peanut butter chocolate chip cookies! It will take the pressure off the elves who are more suited for Worst Cooks in America than the Holiday Baking Championship and give me incentive to resume my aerobic workouts in the New Year. (Hint. That’s a lie.)

For those of you who haven’t racked up enough street cred or haven’t been near a television in the past year, Snoop Dogg is the coolest (I’m not cool enough to know today’s synonym for cool), hottest topic since Taylor Swift rode to fortune and fortune on the remnants of her broken heart. Snoop is cooler than an Artic ice floe and chiller than the last popsicle in the back of the freezer.

He’s been a gangsta, a rapper, a Superbowl halftime sensation, an Olympics commentator, and a vocal coach on a TV singing competition that I usually forget to watch until the last episode. He’s been much more, and most of these at the same time, and even if I wore ice chips in my underwear I would not be as cool as Snoop.

And now he has a cookbook. Granted, he has a friendship with Martha Stewart that has lasted longer than Brussels sprouts at the kids table, but I would expect Gaga and Brad to invite me for a prime-time singalong of A Star is Born favorites before I would look for a cookbook from jolly ole Snoop. But what to my wondering eyes did show up on my digitally delightful news feed when pretending to shop for my husband, but a recipe for Snoop Dogg's Rolls Royce Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies.

Now I don’t like to crumble my own crackers, but I have to admit I’ve sampled a few of the best cookies around in my six-decade snack streak. There’s a recipe in our church cookbook that would jingle your bells any day of the week. But I’ve never even had a Ram tough cookie, never mind a Rolls Royce one. I’ve had a lemon, both in cookies and cars, and there’s only one of them I’d care to have again.

So, I killed two birds with one chocolate chip, which sounds like a cross between Martha Stewart and Alfred Hitchcock. I ordered Snoop’s cookbook for Bill on Christmas Eve and told him he could make cookies for my birthday. He won’t have to worry about fit or fashion when he starts searching the sites for my gift.

Because chocolate chips never go out of style.