Soppy Love All Around

I have an unexpected day off from work on my top-secret consulting assignment. Hurray for me! So, it's off for a day of errands, tidying up and just enjoying the sunshine (even though it's still FREEZING!). The Bug will not be pleased when she figures out that I've booked her into the vets for her annual physical later this afternoon and a nail trim, but it had to be done. I just love my little Valentine dog (I found her in a shelter the day before Valentine's three years ago) and I need to keep her healthy because I'm really hoping that she'll live forever.

But enough soppy dog love. . .

On to my other big love, Craze gave me a very cute and thoughtful card this morning and we're off for some yummy but economical middle-eastern food tonight. Hummus, here I come. I'm also getting some kind of present. I'm guessing it's something I've already encouraged him to buy (i.e. picked it up and said "buy this for me for my birthday, V-day, X-mas, etc"). Could be the book about orchid care (I love them and have had several plants now for years), knitting (need a refresher course) or the new-fangled Fiestaware color (some shade of purple) that we found on clearance around Christmas time. Not sure what the present will be, so I guess that means it really will be a surprise.

Here's hoping that everyone out there shares in some of the happiness, love and hopefulness I'm feeling today. Happy Valentine's Day!

Our Currier and Ives Evening

I bought Craze ice skates for Valentines and even though it's not the official day yet, he took them to a Chicago Park District rink and tried them out tonight. He did pretty good even though he complained that the ice was really rough, only to find out later that you have to have the blades of new skates sharpened before you use them.

Who knew? Why don't they come pre-sharpened, that's what I want to know.

Anyway, the Bug and I watched from rink side and FROZE for the 20 minutes or so he stayed there. It was nice to be out in the fresh air and I'd never seen my husband skate before, so that was cool. But I was afraid after a while that my nose might fall off and I was worried about the Bug's poor freezing paws. As it is, she's not the most innately friendly of beasts and she was a little freaked out by all the people gliding by at high rates of speed and was keen to get the heck out of there!

And so it was that once Craze realized, after talking to one of the more skilled skaters, that he was skating around on unsharpened blades, he was ready to call it a night. Moments later I was enjoying the full blast of the car heater and happily headed home to my crock pot pork and lentils dinner.

Ahh. . .nothing like a winter skating outing with the family followed by a hot, homemade meal after a hard day of work. Makes us sound all Currier and Ives-ish, doesn't it?

That, in itself, is pretty funny actually.

I Can't Believe It's Not Fattening

Just polished off a Weight Watchers approved sloppy joe, fries and baked beans. I had to double check the points, because I was sure I must have exceeded my total. But I've got 3.5 points left for the day. Shocking what you can do when you know how to cook. I can actually make food that tastes too bad for me to be good. . .but it is. Amazing.

We were checking out Tina Turner on the Grammies during dinner. Man! That woman is a wonder. She's still got it, that's for sure (even though her stylist should be fired, I'm sad to report.)

Other than that, I stayed in today because it's been ZERO or below all day. I know I live in Chicago and all but. . .DAMN! That's cold!

It did give me a chance to keep reading "A New Earth" though, which is really quite insightful. I can totally see where my ego has led me into all kinds of missteps over the years. Ego=bad. Authentic self=good. Over simplifying, you say? Ok, maybe I am, but I have a good excuse. I just let the dog outside and think I got some frostbite on my brain.

Just Another Day

I woke up unusually early this morning. Especially for me, the perpetually late sleeper.

But I was actually up by 7am and already working on my latest assignment on the computer. I had to leave the house at 1pm for a client meeting, so I worked for a few hours, then made coffee and oatmeal. Fed the animals, did a couple loads of laundry. Showered, thought about coloring my gray roots first and then decided I was just pushing my luck time-wise. Tidied up a little (our house is a case-study in clutter at the moment). Let the Bug out. And then in. And then out again (repeat). Sent a few more work-related emails. Removed my cracked and peeling nail polish. Scratched the gray cat. Put on some make-up and tried to make my gray-rooted hair somewhat more presentable (I was not really successful in this pursuit). Organized all my work materials in manila folders and put the ones I needed in my bag for my forthcoming meetings. Scratched the alley cat.

Then, I made myself a sandwich (turkey and cheese) to eat in the car (washing my hands first, of course, after said cat scratching), grabbed a granola bar and a bottle of water. Wrote down how many WW Points it all was (must stay on diet track!) and gave the Bug a treat and doled out yet another scratch before locking up and hitting the road for my meeting.

I arrived in plenty of time even with all the Friday afternoon, downtown Chicago traffic. Took care of business before heading back out into the rush hour traffic, arriving home about 6:15pm.

I let the Bug out again. Doled out more scratches and treats and doggy and kitty cat dinner all around. Emptied the dishwasher so I could get the dirty breakfast dishes (the ones I ran out of time to clean up earlier) into the dishwasher. Geared myself up for making dinner although I was famished and had no inclination to make the proposed tacos. Greeted Craze. Convinced him that we should go out for cheap and tasty Ethiopian food (as long as I would drive since he'd been driving all day). Went out for yummy foreign cuisine. Hit Target on the way home. Craze bought Wacky Packages (he's called Craze for a reason, people!). I bought some new underwear, on-sale cereal, tissues, kitty litter, coffee and replenished oatmeal supplies.

Drove home through the newly falling precipitation (a little like clear Mr. Misty hitting the windshield). Stopped at Dunkin' Donuts/31 Flavors on the way. I got a coffee with skim milk. Craze got an ice cream sundae with two kinds of ice cream, nuts, caramel sauce and whipped cream (Can I have his metabolism, please, please, please?).

Finally got home. Carried in the Target purchases. Took the Bug outside after being in the firing line of her attacking, body slamming, I'm-SO-HAPPY-to-see-you welcome. Put away all that stuff we bought (except for the SIX boxes of super-low priced cereal (AND I HAD COUPONS!)--still need to find a place for them.

Sat at the kitchen table. Wrapped a couple of birthday gifts. Retired with my remaining coffee to watch my Tivo'd soap (I'm secretly addicted to Days of Our Lives). Watched it, pausing to let the Bug out. And then in. And then out again for one last time.

Oh, yeh. Then let her back in again before locking up and heading upstairs for bed.

Checked email again. Got side-tracked from sleep by computer and started typing, "I woke up unusually early this morning. Especially for me, the perpetually late sleeper. . ."

I'll Take More of that Belgian Stuff, Please

Craze and I made our way downtown tonight for a free movie screening of "In Bruges." Not only was it great because it was A) free, but B) I can't say that I've ever seen a more entertaining movie about hit men. I thought the leads (including Colin Farrell) were just top notch. Great character acting and a thoroughly funny, human and entertaining script full of twists you never see coming.

And let's not forget the title character, the city of Bruges itself (a medieval city in Belgium). It served as the atmospheric backdrop for all the crazy adventure. I went there once years ago, just for the day. But this film really filled me with a yearning to go back again. So much to see (even if Colin Farrell isn't around). And yeh. . .I hear the beer's pretty good, too.

My Cup Runneth Over

With the beginnings of a blizzard whirling around outside, I feel calm, peaceful and, above all, grateful on the inside.

I'm grateful for the usual things: my kooky and wonderful husband who sometimes really drives me crazy but always listens, really listens, to my side of things; that furry, fuzzy, often more-human-than-dog Bug, who I love so much; my kitty cats who come whenever I call their names; and my cozy, old house that actually now has a repaired dishwasher (I'm no longer in danger of killing the cat or the dog when I open the door. Praise the lord--oh, yeh. . .and the Sears repair guy).

I'm grateful to be gainfully employed, even if I am the employer. At the moment, it's working out pretty well. And I'm especially grateful that my new clients have, thus far, proved themselves to be sane and reasonable people.

I'm grateful that I finally really feel that I've put the grudges I've held for years (against people and events that I felt did me wrong) behind me. I still think some of you folks are just plain no good, but knowing you and getting screwed over by you provided valuable life lessons. And I've come to terms with that and I'm a better person because of the experiences. (That doesn't mean I want to hang out with you again though. I'm sure you're worse off from the lack of my friendship than I am from losing yours, but, oh well, too bad. . .you reap what you sow.)

I'm grateful for another week of sticking to my Weight Watchers plan. Seven pounds gone in four weeks. The tight jeans are feeling baggy. HURRAY for me. I rock.

I'm grateful for the feeling that things in my life are finally falling into place.

I'm grateful for my current feelings of contentment. I'd love a new car, but don't need one and don't feel the least little bit covetous about the new cars of others. Same goes for big diamonds, fancier houses, designer handbags or expensive duds. Right now I truly am enjoying my new Target long-sleeved t-shirt and I can't think of anything else I'd rather be wearing.

I'm grateful for lung-fulls of fresh, chilly air that make me feel alive and full of potential.

I'm grateful that I have some of the best in-laws ever. I can truly say that I love my mother-in-law and I'm pretty sure that she loves me. How many women can claim that?

I'm grateful for the certainty that my life is good and meaningful and that there are still so many wonderful things yet to come.

Checking Off the List

-Got up at a reasonable hour, had breakfast, showered and dressed and was seated at my computer just after 9am. Check.

-Actually worked at said computer for over seven hours. Check.

-Ran out in this horrible, rainy, foggy weather for a work-related errand. Check.

-Feel like I'm getting back in the swing and taking my work-at-home life seriously. Check.

All in all, it was a good day (not withstanding the rain, fog, snow, ice combo right outside my door). Craze and I agreed this morning that we have more snow in our yard than we ever remember seeing in our six years of residence. We had another big storm last night that dumped another 4 inches or so on top of the 8+ inches from a few days before.

And if that's not scary enough, we're supposed to have another giant storm tomorrow and get another 8-10 inches. Yikes!

Ahh. . .I can see the next task on my agenda:

-Go to supermarket this evening to stock up on stuff you've run out of BEFORE the storm and your full day of work-at-home duties tomorrow.

Off I go. Check.

Sad News

I am very saddened by the deaths of the five women at the Lane Bryant in Tinley Park, IL. I shop at one of the LB locations in Chicago every couple of months. Why, I was just there about ten days ago and bought a pair of jeans on sale. The store is always quiet, often with just me and one or two sales clerks in the place. It's just so unfathomable that you can be murdered just for shopping for plus-size clothes. It drives home how the actions of one individual, in just a few moments, seconds even, can cause such irreparable harm to innocent people.

I know, I know. Wrong place, wrong time. But, it reiterates the tenuousness of life in general. And reminds me how lucky I am just to be alive.

My prayers are with the families of those women.

My own mother wasn't shot, but she died suddenly and unexpectedly at a young age. But even I can only imagine the horror, disbelief and devastating grief they must be feeling. I feel so sorry for them and for the young lives lost that will never have the chance to live out their own potential.

I just hope they get that guy, and soon. And I hope he never sees the light of day again. I don't believe there is forgiveness for this type of crime. I do hope that the families can come to terms with this at some point in the future and get on with their lives. That they can find their way to forgiveness as a balm for their heartache. But there is no rehabilitation for this murderer. I really don't believe you can ever right this kind of immeasurable wrong.

Saturday Sushi Left a Bad Taste in Our Mouths

Craze and I went out to dinner last night and it was a BIG disappointment. Going out for dinner is a big thing for me, since I cook every night. I really look forward to having one delicious meal a week that someone else slaves away in the kitchen preparing.

Also, since money has been tight lately, we've been going to places we know that are less spendy. My absolute faves at the moment are an Ethiopian place called Blue Nile up in a tiny strip mall on the north side of the city and Houagh Lough (which I think I totally spelled wrong), a Vietnamese joint on the far north side with the yummiest beef you've ever tasted. Just thinking about them both is making my mouth water!

But alas, last night, I was in the mood for sushi. So, we went back to a place we haven't been for a while, a place on Western Avenue next to the El trains and near Lincoln Village called Thai Oscar. About a year or so ago, Craze and I went there almost weekly. We've taken friends and family there who all marveled at their modestly priced, yet super delicious maki selections--especially the veggie tempura role which has historically been my favorite roll of all time.

But last night, after the very brown, verging on black with overcooking, and largely flavorless egg rolls, I remembered what I'd forgotten. We stopped going there because the food totally lost its zing last year. We had a couple of meals that were ok, but just no where near as good as they had been. And last night was the third strike in my book.

Beyond our almost burnt appetizers, the maki we ordered all tasted the same. It didn't matter if it was a spicy tuna, ebi shrimp or, my former fave, the veggie tempura roll, it all tasted mediocre and oddly similar. Even I, not claiming the culinary detective skills of someone like Gordon Ramsay, could tell that they hadn't changed their frying oil in too long and everything with a deep-fried ingredient had an oily, slightly bitter, rancid taste. Fifty dollars later, that bad taste in my mouth just turned to disappointment and annoyance.

I was pissed that their prices has gone up for such totally marginal food (our bill at the delicious Blue Nile comes in under $30). And I was even madder that I've been saving Weight Watchers points all week specifically for this dinner outing. My calorie cache had been wasted and I would have to wait yet another week for my palette to be satiated with something less than super healthy. Arrgh!

At least a trip to the movies was planned for after dinner and that did not disappoint. We saw the Spanish film "The Orphanage" which was both atmospheric and edge-of-your-seat scary (even though you never saw any real carnage like your garden variety horror movies). Really worth watching, just don't go alone!

Itching to Talk

I have an itchy toe problem. I'm not sure how or why it's happening, but I have the most maddening itch around the base of my middle toe of my left foot. And no amount of scratching on the desk, carpet, edge of stairs, with or without sock, seems to provide the desired release. It's almost like an internal itch. Is that even possible?

I think I'm going to have to take a Zyrtec and hope for the best. That's what I lived on last year when I had non-stop hives for six solid weeks (you wanna talk about itchy!). Yes, SIX weeks. At many points during that time, I really did begin to feel like some beleaguered biblical character. Scratchy and spotty. It's times like that when working from home really is tops.

And speaking of working from home. . . I'm in the midst of a top secret pitch project which is taking up most of my time. This is good--I'm making money again. Hurray! I have also found that I am getting into the more challenging aspects of the assignment. I guess I do, in fact, enjoy using my brain. Good to know.

Other than that, I need to get outside shortly to help Craze tackle the ten feet of snow that fell last night. I wonder if snow shoveling is listed on the Weight Watchers web site in terms of activity points? I've been sticking to my fiber-rich, point-counting regime and am proud to report that I've lost 6.5 lbs. in three weeks. Good for me. Now, if only I can trade some snow shoveling activity points for some kind of chocolatey treat, all will be right with the world.

Except for the snow, of course. There's just too damned much of that.

'Specially Mine Which Is Just As It Should Be

I feel calm even in the midst of the busiest time I've had in a long while.

I've been busy networking to try and get more consulting work, coordinating my dad's cancer treatment and driving the 80 miles there and back it takes to get to his nursing home, interviewing and exploring full-time job opportunities, reconnecting with work colleagues I haven't seen in years, taking my temperature every morning in an effort to figure out the best time to try and impregnate my almost 43-year-old body, sticking to my new Weight Watcher's eating regime (which has resulted in 4.5 lbs GONE in two weeks) and taking care of my husband, dog, cats, home. It's all happening. All at once.

If that wasn't enough, I've read two books in the past couple of weeks, remembered to send birthday cards to my old English aunties and laughed a lot with Craze along the way.

My networking has actually resulted in some actual, dare I say it, work! So, I've had projects to work on and money coming in. I even got a call yesterday for a long-term project that could be really lucrative. Just what we need at just the right time.

In the past, I might have been crazed at all this activity. But oddly and thankfully, none of it seems to weigh too heavily on my shoulders. I feel light and happy. "Two and a half years of therapy kicking in?" you might ask and you might be right.

Nothing in my life is still perfect, yet it seems right. I'm ok with the imperfections and feel less angst ridden than I can practically ever remember being.

I am not rich or especially beautiful but I am especially happy just to have the life that I have. In the words of a song from my favorite movie (Scrooge with Albert Finney), "Life is fine, life is good, 'specially mine which is just as it should be."

Father Forgive Me. . .

It has been ten days since my last confession. . .as it were.

Not too many exciting occurrences or deep thinking to share during this period, sadly. I've been working to try and get more business and actually my consulting has picked up in the past week (hence my absence). Nothing too exciting to work on but money coming in (or soon will be). Things are looking up and that can't be bad.

It's extra freezing here in Chicago which I am not enjoying in the least. At noon today, it was 24-degrees and three hours later had dropped to 17. I'm sure it's in the single digits now.

Oh, how I long for the sweet, fragrant, earth-melting scent of early spring in the air. . .please come. . .please come. . .soon

Weighty Dreams

Last night I dreamed that I was getting dressed or something (I had no pants on) and I had some of the fattest calves I have ever seen. Not just chubby or plump, which mine already are, but like Discovery Channel's Heaviest-Man-in-the-World-fat. In the dream, I just stared in disbelief wondering how all this pendulous fat had attached itself to my lower leg without me ever noticing it sooner.

And then I thought. . .

"Well, now I really have to get serious about my diet."

Good God, Weight Watchers, can't I at least slumber in peace?!?

New Diet: Day Two

One thing I need to seriously conquer this year is my weight/food issues. So, yesterday it was back onto Weight Watchers for me. Counting points is familiar and not so tough once you get in the swing of things and it forces me to make healthier choices. The diet's fiberific nature is also good.

Day One was, as Borat says, a "great success." Day two is off to a good start also--oatmeal with raw almonds, dried apricots, raisins and coffee.

I actually feel a little better already.

Christmas cookies, chocolate Santas, white flour matzos, full-fat just-about-anything (except Danish blue cheese and dark, dark chocolate consumed in moderation): I divorce thee. I divorce thee. I divorce thee. There. I've done it. That was easy.

It's Time to Put Out a Hit on Cashmere Mafia

Trapped in my current doldrums, I turned to network TV to help lift my spirits this evening (usually a poor decision) and thought I'd give Cashmere Mafia a try. After less than thirty seconds I'd estimate, I found myself just wanting to bitch-slap most of the characters and tell them to get a real life.

As a woman, I find these dreadfully skinny, high-heel wearing, over-dressed, super successful "women" who still find time to meet with their friends for lunch and cocktails several times a week (and also have lots of fun sex when they don't have their noses to the grindstone) like some man's wet dream of what a successful woman is. I don't like them. I don't want to be like them.

Frankly, I found all but about twenty seconds of the whole program to be fairly nauseating. I think I might have actually thrown up in my mouth. Just a little.

I used to love Sex and the City even though it also had no real bearing on my life. And coming from some of the same production team, I thought CM might be ok. But S&TC was much more compelling and clever. And when it comes to Cashmere Mafia, as my British mother used to admonish me, "It's not smart. And it's not clever."

If these women truly are part of some kind of "mafia," I hope some rival family takes them out. . .real soon.

Get-Up-And-Huh?!?

I am feeling BLAH.

Over the holidays I pretty much ate whatever I wanted and I think my food allergy issues are creeping up on me. My hands and wrists have been sore and stiff for the past couple of days and my knees hurt more than usual. This morning I woke up feeling stiff and achey. It always happens like this. I just wish I could narrow down the culprit.

I thought it was wheat that eventually makes me feel like an arthritic 90-year old. Then I got tested and my doc says I'm not allergic to it. But magically, every time I cut it out of my diet, I feel better in a matter for a day or two.

Is it yeast? Sugar? Something else? God knows.

I guess it's back to fruit, veggies and lean protein for me. That prescription always seems to clear this up.

In the meantime, I need to stop wallowing in it. My aches and pains along with the dark, rainy, oddly-warm weather are making me cranky. Thunderclouds are rumbling in the distance, but, damn them, I have things to do.

Can someone please loan me some get-up-and-go? I promise to get it back to you in a day or two.

"Thank You, Dad"

I've spent the past two days with my dad which I find very tiring. I'm not exactly sure why, when I just sit around either driving in the car or with him during our visits.

His instability on his feet, rampant forgetfulness and lack of any kind of social graces makes you feel like you're babysitting a 200-lb tipsy toddler with poor communications skills (because my dad forgets everything you say to him after approximately two minutes--no exaggeration).

And apart from just having to keep an eye on him all the time, I find a part of myself, hiding in the background, stands there pointing her finger in anger at the whole scene. I am never short or angry with Dad, but a part of me wishes I could speak to my pre-stroke father and just really give it to him.

"Look. See what you've done to yourself!" I'd love to hurl at the man who refused to quit smoking and started downing frozen Snickers bars like they were going out of style once he found out he was diabetic.

I'd really love to just smack that man who used to say to me, "When your number's up, it's up," when I used to implore him to take better care of himself.

"No, Dad, sometimes it's not up. Sometimes, you just lose your mind and your senses and leave it to everyone else to take care of you as you slip farther and farther away at a snail's pace."

I've been taking care of my Dad on and off since I was twenty. When my mom died and Dad refused to get out of bed for weeks. That was twenty-two years ago and I'm still looking after him. Now it involves frequent long drives to the nursing home, trips to the oncologist, dressing and undressing him and explaining the same things a million times over.

My real dad died a long time ago. The one I have left doesn't know how old he is or what year it is. He doesn't remember my husband's name or that I'm even married for that matter. And if you ask him if he has grandchildren, he can't tell you for sure. He's quiet now and looks perpetually lost. He says "thank you" a lot even when you haven't done anything to deserve thanks. And that's pretty much all he says unless he's asked a direct question.

I guess, if I'm truthful, it's the buried anger that tires me out. It's heavy to bear. I'm angry with my father for opting out of our lives in such a cowardly way. In refusing to take care of himself when he could, to make himself healthier when that was still an option, he gave up on us and didn't give a thought to the fact that we deserved a better father. One who wanted to be around. One who wanted to really participate actively in our lives for just as long as he could. It's worse than abandonment because the father we did love once is long gone. But this quiet, sad shell of a person is still here. And that man, he requires a lot of looking after.

"Oh, no. Thank you, Dad. Thanks a million."

Hello, Universe

My bank balance is sad :(

It's not exactly making me sad or panicky but I do need to make more moola. . .and soon. I've been looking for a "real" job now for a few months, but the end of the year is clearly the worst time. I've had a few interviews but no offers yet. I'm frankly a little surprised. I've got such a great track record that I figured I'd be snapped up by some clever company in no time. Not the case it seems.

There's an interesting lesson in all this somewhere. I'm just trying to figure out exactly what it is.

In the meantime, I'm going to try and drum up some more freelance work now that the holidays are over, keep looking for any new job openings and generally think hopeful thoughts and keep my fingers crossed for good measure. And while I'm at it, I might finally sell some of the stuff sitting around my house collecting dust that I've been wanting to shift on eBay for years. Clear out the clutter and cobwebs and bring in some extra cash.

And, last but not least, I'll put it out into the universe. "Hello, Universe. I heard you were looking for a smart, creative and hard working person. Well, I'm your girl. Give me a ring. Let's chat. . ."

Unmaking My Mess

The tree is still up but, sadly, the holidays, it would appear, are over. The advent of January (beyond the first of the month) has swept away all my excuses for relaxation, laziness or other more pressing holiday duties. Just need to get back to it, I guess.

So, I was back online looking for gainful employment opportunities this morning and shooting emails to a few contacts. My big project for the next couple of days is to finally clean up my office. It's a HUGE mess. I've been really lax about getting things together in there for months. But now, I feel like it's just holding me back.

Not to mention the fact that one of us (the human or furry inhabitants of my home) are likely to be crushed at any moment by a landslide of paperwork and miscellaneous stuff while innocently passing my desk. I couldn't have that on my conscience. Or all over the floor for that matter.

Now where did I put those new file folders I bought like seven months ago? I hope to god they're not at the bottom of the pile. That could be problematic. . .

All Is Quiet on New Year's Day

Just like the U2 song of my youth, New Year's day was still and peaceful. Except for the snow which continued to fall but made for a picture of loveliness and a visual clean slate to begin the New Year.

After days over the holidays spent dishing out Dayquil and matzo ball soup to the sickly husband, he finally felt a little better on New Year's Eve. So, we ventured out with a friend to a downtown Latin-themed hipster restaurant/bar where they play samba music and serve mojitos and over-priced tiny tapas.

It was fun at first, but I grew tired of the noise and chill sitting by the plate glass window after several hours. Waiting for midnight, I just kept wondering what the Bug was doing back home and wishing I was there with her, curled up with Craze on the sofa with a glass of something tasty and alcoholic, waiting for the ball to drop on TV and watching the snow fall outside. But instead, we waited for a countdown that never came until the establishment finally yelled "Happy New Year" at about 12:02 according to Craze's cell phone. Very anti-climatic.

We danced a little after midnight, but the dance floor was steamy and uncomfortable as over-dressed people jostled for space. The floor was slippery and sticky presumably from a multitude of spilled exotic cocktails.

It just wasn't my thing and, having settled up the bill, I was really counting the moments until I could gracefully let our friend know that it was time for us to go. Just about that time, most of the electricity went out in the place. The lights went dark and the emergency lighting kicked in and the music stopped. A hush fell over the festive crowd as everyone looked around waiting for things to kick back into gear. Moments ticked by and nothing happened. We waited about ten minutes until I finally took this as my perfect out-clue. It really was time to go.

Arriving home to about four inches of freshly-fallen snow, we let the Bug outside and she did her crazy, body-slamming dance of pure "welcome home" exhilaration. She then proceeded to run around attacking the snow in the backyard as if it was some new kind of agility course like she likes to do.

The following morning I watched the Rose Parade, chatted with my aunt and uncle in England and read magazines in my jammies until well into the afternoon. And in the evening I made the most delicious, spicy curry, finally using up the last of the Christmas turkey.

All in all, the first day of 2008 was uneventful and cozy and really quite a good way to start the New Year. Better still because there was nary a mojito or a caipirinia anywhere in site.

Great in '08

Christmas has gone by in a blur of road trips, canceled get-togethers, sick days, elder care, crazy preparation and moments of pure relaxation. Both Craze and I have been sickly and snotty and generally under the weather. Nevertheless, I got some lovely and thoughtful gifts from family and enjoyed time just sitting looking at the Christmas lights with the snow falling quietly outside. And for once, I let myself eat little chocolate Santas without feeling guilty. This Christmas has been remarkable in the delight I've found in it being quite unremarkable. I've enjoyed the quietness of this holiday more than I can say or would have expected.

And now, New Year's Eve is already upon us. Unlike other years, I don't feel the need to make a list of resolutions or run around tidying up to get a jump on things before the new year strikes. Instead, I plan to tip toe quietly into 2008 and pull up a cozy chair and just get to know it a little before I bowl it over with a list of expectations. I don't know what's ahead, but I feel in my heart that I'm going to like this new year. In fact, if it doesn't sound too completely cheesy, I think me and '08 are gonna get along just great. If this new year was a person, I think it would be a kindred spirit. Someone who would knit me a nice, wooly scarf just because and tell me honestly, but kindly, to get a grip when I need a reality check. I look forward to making its acquaintance.

And as 2008 approaches, I'm hoping that everyone can feel some of the peace of mind I finally feel that I have. The peace of mind that I've worked so hard to find over the past few years.

I won't be wishing for more at midnight. I'll be looking around and gratefully counting my blessings. I won't be contemplating what this new year might bring to me, but I'm sure I'll be smiling as I think about the wondrous things that I could bring to it.

A Dab of Christmas Magic

Today I ran around finishing up some last minute Christmas shopping. And even though the past week has been super busy and I'm running on only five hours of sleep, I was in a great mood. I was noticeably more amiable with cashiers than usual. I let cars pull in from of me. I stopped to let people cross even when I didn't have to. I smiled at tired little children in shopping carts.

The more cheerful I got, the more it seemed to spread to those around me. People were helpful when they didn't have to be. More human even. Funnier.

Maybe that's just a bit of that Christmas magic we're all lead to believe exists around this time of year. If so, I'd like a bottle of it under the tree this year, please, so I can dab a little behind the ears whenever I'm feeling cranky and misanthropic.

And I'm hoping that everyone gets a dose of what I'm feeling and enjoys a wonderful holiday.

Hello, My Old Friends

I had a bad day today. It started out fine enough and a quick call sent it all speeding right downhill.

See, the thing is that a couple of weeks ago, I found out that my Dad has prostate cancer. His health is already pretty poor (he's been in a nursing home for five years even though he's only 76) and we're just waiting to find out if the cancer has spread elsewhere.

I've been kind of a rock about the whole thing. Very matter of fact. Hopeful that it hasn't spread and that, with hormones and radiation, we can just nip it in the bud. That without too much discomfort, we'll be able to maintain his quality of life.

But today just chatting with one of the nurses at the nursing home about all the testing appointments for my dad, the nurse Kim said this, "I'm so sorry to hear this about Charlie. He's such a nice man."

For some reason, those two sentences pushed me over an edge that I didn't even know was there. I couldn't talk for the next minute or so and burst into tears once I'd hung up the phone. Luckily, I had a counseling session already planned for today and so I went to Jane's office and just basically cried for an hour. I felt better afterwards and decided to put my bawling aside and get on with the rest of my day: Going to PetSmart for food. Filling the car with gas. Mailing our last little Christmas packages at the post office.

By the time I accomplished the first of these things it was four o'clock and, not having eaten lunch, I was starving. At that instant, what should conveniently be looming ahead of me but my old high school hang-out, Steak and Shake. I thought about just getting the grilled chicken sandwich and a bottle of water. Instead I went a little nutty.

"Yes, I'd like the Steakburger with Cheese, large onion rings and a vanilla shake. With hot fudge," I heard myself saying into the ordering podium, the possibility of a healthier lunch already forgotten.

Here's the thing: I have spent a good chunk of my life comforting myself with bad food. And, for the most part nowadays, I'm a pretty healthy eater. I might order one of the things I did today as a treat once in a blue moon, but never all three at once.

But I have to tell you, as a pulled away from the drive-thru and took the first sip of shake, things really did seem more right with the world. It wasn't just a "takhomasac" or whatever they call a hot bag of high-calorie foods at Steak and Shake sitting on the passenger seat next too me. I felt like I was in the company of old friends. It felt warm and reassuring. Certainly drive-thru dining is not a long-term coping strategy (unless I want to weigh 400 pounds!), but at that moment, it was just what I needed.

Oh, Christmas Tree

I am way overdue to Christmas-ize our home. When I was a kid, we were never allowed to put up our decorations too early. Though, oddly, I can't remember my mom's exact rule. Was it no holiday decorations until the week before or two weeks before Christmas? I honestly can't recall. What I loved though is that we always kept the tree up until Epiphany (Jan. 6th). And even though, as a kid, I was always annoyed that all my friends had festive trees and decor on the home front long before me, as an adult, I've pretty much kept to my mom's prohibitions (even if I can't remember the exact time frame).

When it comes to our Christmas tree, every year I like to drag out the same old stuff I've collected over the years--including the tree. I love the idea of a fresh tree, but hate the idea of cutting down a living thing for that purpose. Also, I like the idea that the same tree can spend so many happy times with my family. My particular fake tree is a skinny six-footer that I bought in the after-Christmas sales at Target more than ten years ago for less than five bucks. It's nothing special, but once it's decorated, it warms my heart with its loveliness.

And the decorations I've had for years. Ornaments from childhood are my favorites, those that bring back special memories of loved ones still here and those long gone. They're reminders of happy Christmases from long ago, those days when we had so much less, but never seemed to notice. I'm lucky to have hand-made treasures from friends and special children. Each year they're carefully unpacked and put in a place of honor. And the best part is the angel. When I was about four, my mother made a bunch of angels for a charity bazaar and kept just one. My angel is small and made of burlap and gold ric-rac with a friendly painted face that I have a vague memory of mom painting at our dining room table in those far-away days when we lived on Mackinac Island. Every year that angel looks down from the tree top with a kind of sweet benevolence. It reminds me that there are moments when, indeed, my mother is still here.

My tree definitely has no contrived theme. No matching color palette of carefully placed garland, ornaments and bows. On my tree, nothing matches and that's just the way I like it. The course of my life is the only common thread that unites its elements. Every little oddity has a story, a tree of tales you might say.

My big change this year is that I'm going with the larger, multi-color LED lights. They remind me of the big colored lights that we had when I was really little (before it was revealed that they were burning down people's homes and my parents hastily got rid of them). The new lights are more environmentally friendly. So, while things are much the same, we're greening up the Christmas tree a little you might say.

Happy Birthday, Bug!

The Bug is three years old today. We are so lucky to have her.

In the Spirit of the Season

I found this on Ms. Mamma's site and decided to join the gifting fray. Here's my proposition to any bloggers who may read my blog:

I will send a handmade gift to the first THREE people who leave a comment on my blog requesting to join this PIF (Pay It Forward) exchange. I don’t know what that gift will be yet and you may not receive it tomorrow or next week, but you will receive it within 365 days. That is my promise.

The only thing you have to do in return is Pay It Forward by making the same promise on your blog.

Anyone interested? The first three takers are in and I'll confirm the giftees.

And if you're really feeling generous and/or flush, please join me in getting a gift for a needy child this holiday season. I'm sure there are appropriate charities in your area. Personally, I'm going to get a letter to Santa via the Chicago Sun-Times Season of Sharing Fund. Ho, ho, ho.

One of the Best Gifts

Yesterday Craze and I made our way to a suburban shopping mall to jump into the Christmas shopping thrall. I had painstakingly compiled a gifts-to-get list and felt particularly flush because I had a Bloomingdales coupon for an extra 20% of sale items AND a $250 Bloomingdales gift card that I got before leaving my old job by cashing in accumulated AMEX points. I was good to go to score some bargains. . . or so I thought.

Before we went too crazy, I decided to find out how much money was on the card (I thought it was mostly unspent) only to be told the card had expired and I was sent to customer service. Up on the third floor, a young, bespectacled woman was happy to help re-instate my cash. But sadly, I had clearly gone shopping in a now long-forgotten spree and only $62 bucks was left on the card. Can you say Christmas buzz-kill?

Nevertheless, we soldiered on and found some good bargains that should make everyone happy. When we tired, I cashed in a Starbucks coupon for a free "get a friend" coffee I've been carrying around in my wallet for weeks. I had the usual, Venti Skim Latte. Craze prefers the more extravagant fare and ordered a Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha. With whipped cream, thank you very much.

What I love most about these shopping expeditions with Craze, which don't happen very often, is that we work as a team. He carries the heavy stuff and never loses patience even though he doesn't love shopping. He doesn't mind when I spend fifteen minutes perusing the clearance racks in every department and holds things, even my purse, while I scout out bargains. He happily follows wherever I lead with never any rolling of the eyes or loudly expressed sighs of exasperation.

What a difference from shopping trips with old boyfriends and even some girlfriends.

I guess in the end, what I bought doesn't really matter. But the trip does reiterate that when it comes to really great gifts I've gotten in my life, my husband was and continues to be, one of the very best.

Snow's Not the Only Thing I Shovel

I've always been a good liar.

My mother always used to say that a liar has to have a good memory. Luckily for me, mine is excellent. And while I think myself particularly talented in the telling of untruths, I also value honesty very highly and usually try to stick to the straight and narrow as much as possible. It just feels lighter living with a clean slate. Leaves valuable memory cells free for more important things.

That said, I've certainly shoveled my fair share of shit over the years. But, I've almost never lied about anything really important. Probably my most significant, premeditated lying occurred in my early teens. For example, I made up a couple of stories and got my brother to back me up so that my parents wouldn't find out that we'd been smoking my dad's cigarettes.

I lied about how the yellow candle wax got on the sculptured, green upstairs hall carpet. I can't even remember what lie I told, but it was enough for my parents not to ground us right before my friend Sarah's thirteenth birthday party. Which is exactly what they would've done if they'd have found out that we'd had all the neighbor kids over one afternoon for a seance and knocked the candle over when some spooky shadow (shaped like an ax!) appeared on the wall. To my mind, that lie was pretty justified. After all, if my parents really wanted the house to be a seance-free zone when they were at work, they wouldn't have left me, at 12, solely in charge of my 9-year-old brother. All day. All summer long.

And of course, as I got older, I had new life experiences to weave tall(ish) tales about.

I've lied about how many men I've slept with. Not because I've done a lot of whoring around but because, on occasion in conversation, the number seemed pitifully low and it made me feel unsexy and undesirable to admit it. And besides, I totally feel that it's only right to count one man twice since there was a twelve-year gap between our sexual adventures and we were both different people during the second go around. There you go. Not lying, really.

I sometimes tell the story of the boyfriend I had just before I met Craze because it makes people laugh. The pre-husband boyfriend, Joe, had the smallest penis I'd ever seen except for, maybe, while diapering a toddler. So little in fact, that I only saw it once when it wasn't erect and it was like a little, flesh-colored button really. What's unfortunate about that story is that it doesn't involve even the tiniest bit of a lie.

I do though tell white lies occasionally about things most people lie about. How much I weigh for example (I claim less). How tall I am (I claim just slightly more).

I've told people they look fine when they really don't look their best but telling them so would only make them feel worse. I've told recruiters that I make more money than I actually do. Since working for myself, I've claimed to be on a conference call when I was really just catching up on laundry so I'd seem more in demand.

I've bought expensive items in their original boxes on eBay for a pittance, given them as gifts and let some people think I spent a fortune. Though I guess that last one isn't lying per se. It's just being kind of sneaky and, to my mind, pretty clever actually. Financially astute, even. Come to think of it, I pat myself on the back for that one.

Probably the worst lie I ever told was said to my mother. She had collapsed suddenly early one Sunday morning and couldn't catch her breath. After calling 911 for an ambulance, I sat with her trying to calm her. Sitting on the floor together at the side of my parents' bed, waiting for what seemed an eternity for the paramedics to arrive, I told her the same thing over and over again.

"Shhh," I'd say to her as she tried to speak, brushing her hair back from her forehead the way she always did to me as she sat at my bedside when I was trying to fall asleep. "Just be quiet. The paramedics will be here in a minute and you'll be fine. . . You'll be fine."

But she wasn't fine.

After she finally got to the hospital, she died less than three hours later after a particularly nasty battle with a rogue blood clot. She was only 50. "You'll be fine," was probably the last thing I ever said to her, yet again, as they carried her from our house on the gurney.

That's the only lie I've ever told that's really tortured me. Why, I'm not really sure. "You'll be fine," was really more a statement of a wish on my part than some contrived untruth.

Twenty-two years after her passing and thanks to two years of therapy, I've finally gotten over the guilt of that lie. And the stupidity of it really is that, wherever mom is, I'm sure she's never held it against me. Not even for a second.

But the candle wax, cigarettes and sex with HOW MANY men? That might be a different story altogether. . .

A Shoe That Doesn't Fit Anymore

Last week I interviewed for a job that I was somewhat excited about. . .initially. Though, since that day, I've had some misgivings about going back to fast-paced, corporate life. I need more of a regular income and, theoretically, if I got a job doing what I used to do, I could clean up.

But I have a feeling that it's not gonna happen.

I thought the interview last week went pretty well. I was witty, well-dressed and imminently qualified. But frankly, I had a job interview a couple of months ago that I thought was a shoe-in and nothing came of it. So much for my take on things. It's beginning to make me doubt myself when I've usually had such good instincts in the past.

The reality of the whole situation is that I need to make more money. My freelancing isn't reliable enough to keep my family afloat long term--at least not at the current pace. But going back to what I used to do just feels like I'm trying to force on a shoe that doesn't fit any more. Maybe prospective employers are sensing that, too?

When I think of being back in an office every day, the traffic of the commute, the hoards of weary-looking people, the traveling, the annoying clients, it makes me die a little inside.

I did the same work for almost twenty years and I'm honestly at a loss about what else I could do where I wouldn't have to start at the absolute bottom. I love to write and I feel more committed to that than ever. But in the short term, that's not going to help pay my mortgage.

I do feel certain about a way ahead for myself in terms of a long-term goal. I need to work on my writing projects and actually finish something. Be more goal oriented. Try to get something published. Be more authentically myself. That is the way forward.

But how do I find work in the meantime that makes me a decent amount of money and gives me some personal fulfillment? That is the quandary.

I wish so much that I knew the answer. Now. Today.

But the truth is that not knowing is just another part of this journey. And I need to embrace the uncertainty, too. Because the answer is up ahead, just out of sight. I'll find it soon enough. But I guess, if I've learned anything over the past couple of years, I know that how I come to it is just, if not more, important than the answer to it all.

Everything I Need to Know About Life, I Learned in My Kitchen

They said it would come and it did.

We got a good five inches of snow last night which I'm mentally readying myself to get my ass outside and shovel. I love how bright it is outside with new-fallen snow covering everything. It's like the world is glowing and the most ordinary things become, if only for a short time, magical works of beauty.

And then I fuck everything up by marring the perfection with my shoveling. Ah, the impermanence of it all. . .

On a completely different subject, but something I've been thinking a lot about lately. . .I know that people travel the world seeking enlightenment. They go to shrines and ashrams and the like. And I've done my fair share of globe trotting. But so far, no trip has ever been illuminated by the irrefutable clarity of some great life lesson. I seek, but I just don't find.

So, why is it that my most meaningful life moments always seem to take place in my kitchen?

It's where precisely 26 months ago I sat at our old, red linoleum table at the very end of my rope and actually decided that I was not smart enough to pull myself out of that pit. That for once in my life, I needed someone else's help.

And it was in the kitchen again yesterday that it came to me that these past 30 months of indecision, worry and searching have not been for nothing. These painful but also sometimes joyful moments and months weren't just something to get through. They were, in fact, my gift. And I also realized that the answers I've been searching for were there all along, walking beside me. It just wasn't time yet to see them.

At my darkest moment, what I needed to know sat right across from me at that old table. It looked at me, patient to wait, and wondered how long it would take for the light of recognition to come into my eyes.

The light is finally there I think. And like the glow of the newly-fallen snow, it is vibrant and lovely and so, so bright. I am happy to finally see it and surprised by its familiarity. And more than that, it feels like it lights a path in front of me and I think I finally know what it is I'm meant to do.

December Lameness

Two days after Thanksgiving, the day we were down in Dixie readying ourselves for a 10+ hour drive home to the Land of Lincoln, I got it. That horrible, sore, scratchy throat feeling and the need for an endless supply of tissues (preferably the kind "with lotion").

For a week, I haven't been able to shake it off. It's one of those colds that just makes you feel sleepy all the time (perhaps from lack of oxygen, since breathing has been an issue)--so between sniffling and naps, it's hard to get motivated to start, let alone finish, new household or holiday projects.

Then in the middle of this, I had a job interview. I geared myself up with as many over-the-counter remedies as I could take at one time so as not to appear snotty and germ ridden. I think I pulled it off pretty well. Then I drove home, wrote a follow-up email to my potential employers, put on my "I'm sick, I don't have to look presentable" clothes, laid on the couch and promptly fell asleep for three hours.

When I'm not interviewing or napping, I've been watching a lot weepy holiday movies on the Hallmark channel and crying way too much. Craze just shakes his head in dismay at my overdosing on the bad Hallmark productions. "Meet the Santas" with an overly tanned, glibly-ho-ho-ho-ing-at-every-occasion Steve Guttenberg was particularly awful, but never the less had me tearing up a couple of times.

A virus made me sick. But I don't believe that same bug can be blamed for making me so exceedingly lame!

All That Really Matters

I'll never know the particulars of how it happened.

In my imagination, it's always a youngish woman who dropped her off at the shelter. But it could have been a man or even a couple. And they might not have been young. And I don't know if they were white or black or Hispanic. I guess it really doesn't matter. I always imagine that they weren't very well to do. After all, I always think it's the less-educated, lower-income people who don't get their pets fixed in the first place and allow them to breed. Maybe some don't know any better. Or they just can't afford it. Or they're careless.

All I know is that the person who brought her to Chicago Animal Care and Control told the employee on duty behind the wide beige official-looking desk that their dog, a collie mix, had had puppies. "Midnight," as she came to be known at the shelter, was the only one that they couldn't find a home for and, so, at seven weeks, they took her from her mother and brought her there to be rid of her.

Whether they just sat her on the seat of the car, bundled her in an old towel or put her in a cardboard box for the car trip to the shelter I don't know. It must have been cold outside though, because it was January. I can imagine that she cried being taken from her mother and the only people she'd ever known out into that cold world.

I'm jealous if I'm truly honest. Jealous that I never saw her when she was really tiny. Jealous that mine weren't some of the first hands to hold her and pet her soft, fluffy black and white fur like I do now every morning when I wake up and she's lying on the bed cuddled up next to me.

I think of the people who owned her mother as cruel. Taking a little puppy from its mother so early and leaving her to an unknown fate in that chilly, concrete place. Only the month before her arrival, the Chicago shelter had had a rampant outbreak of distemper and every dog in the place had to be put to sleep. But that didn't stop them from leaving her there all the same.

I blame them in a way for making her so shy, so fearful. But these people who I judge so harshly, and I'm also sure unfairly, unknowingly gave me the best gift ever. Because it was at that same shelter two weeks later when I first saw that little dog and, like the proverbial thunderbolt out of the blue, I knew she had to be mine.

It really was love at first site. And I didn't even go there to get a dog. I was just there for work. But once I saw her and then held her for the first time, I knew I couldn't be parted from her.

It took me several days to work on Craze. To convince him that we should get this dog he'd never even seen. That we did, in fact, need a dog in the first place. But finally he gave into my relentless nagging. He wasn't happy about it, but I think he'd have done anything at that point just to shut me up.

And the next day when I called the shelter, "Midnight" was still there. Still homeless. Just a little ten-week-old collie mix all alone in the world. And I told them I'd be there that night to get her.

Now, almost three years later, I'm so thankful to those "cruel," faceless people who brought her to the shelter. Today all thirty-five pounds of the Bug, as I call her now, sits near my feet gnawing on a rawhide as I type this. She is still black and white and fluffy and so, so beautiful. And while she is fearful of most people she does not know, she is the kind of dog that seems to smile most of the time.

People stop us all the time and ask what kind of dog she is and we can never answer. All we know for sure is that she is ours and we are hers. And as far as her story goes, that is all that really matters.

Good Night Gratitute

Lately as I snuggle down into my pre-warmed bed (my heated mattress pad is the savior of my seasonally Arctic bedroom), tucked around with my favorite duvet and soft, well-worn sheets, the Bug at my side (she's always in bed before Craze), it's one thought that comes to mind.

And it doesn't matter if I've had a happy day, a boring one or even a day that I mentally described as a "write-off." At the end of each day, just before I drift off to sleep, I try to think of three things that I'm grateful for.

Typically, I find myself saying the same things:

No. 1) I'm grateful for my wonderful and frustrating husband who often annoys me but I wouldn't want to live without.

No. 2) I'm grateful for my dog who is the most beautiful mutt you've ever seen and is the best dog ever (even though she really isn't) and has brought a special joy to my life that I didn't have before I found her.

No. 3) And finally, I give a word of thanks for my house. It is old and ordinary. There's not an inch of granite or stainless steel to be found (unless you count the cutlery), but it is warm and comfortable and cheerful. I love that it holds some of my favorite pieces of furniture from childhood and the bright colors of our walls. I like to think of the families who lived here in the 81 years before we bought it. I think they must have been happy because it's just that kind of place. And I feel lucky that, for now, I get to call it "home."

And then in that space of time between wakefulness and sleep, I often get annoyed with myself that I am so repetitive in my gratitude. Always with the husband, dog, home. So predicable! So I challenge my brain to be a little more searching of my day and creative with my thanks and more things pop to mind.

The other night I said I was grateful for being asked to make Thanksgiving brunch for 25 people at my husband's uncle's house, even though that morning I was frankly pissed off to have the assignment dumped in my lap. But then I decided I was just being sort of lazy and I should take it on with a better attitude. And I was grateful that this culinary request had challenged my thinking in that way.

I also find myself remembering and being thankful for little moments during my day. Snapshots really, of something only I, in all the world, saw or experienced. The little sparrow endlessly preening on my back porch railing. The way the evening sunlight cast a golden aura during my dog walking. The breeze that felt chill on my cheek, that particular mixture of autumn with a hint of the winter to come.

And even on the days that I do deem a "write-off," my gratitude Top 3 are still there. And that in itself could be reason No. 4. . .

Happy Thanksgiving!

Making Allowances for His Mess

For the past couple of days on Oprah, they've been featuring a story about the lives of hoarders. Specifically, one poor woman in her '60s who had turned her 3,000 sq. ft. home into a maze of paths through four- or five-foot-high piles of stuff.

And it reminded me that, while my husband is not anywhere near this bad (thank God!), he clearly does have a problem.

When we bought our house, it had a giant unfinished basement that we were going to remodel and make into his collection/music room. In addition to this giant space, he also had two bedrooms for his own use. One room was for records, the other for CD's.

In the six years that we've been here, none of his spaces has ever been organized and are now SO disorganized (because he's continued to add to his crazy collections) that you can barely walk into the rooms. A couple of years ago, I kicked him out of the record room because it was a dark and dingy hovel that you couldn't get into at all. Instead, I made it into an office that is light and bright and a usable space. But the other two areas have remained a mess and I just really can't take it much longer.

While watching Oprah, I made him watch part of it, too. And I couldn't stop myself from telling him that he has the same problem as this women, just not so bad. I also told him that I'm tired of having a home that's defined by his problem. With his stuff everywhere, it's not a fair representation of both of us. And it's certainly not the home I ever imagined owning or living in. Everything is a compromise to his clutter.

Now compromise is certainly key to marital harmony, but it's not fair that I'm always the one making allowances for his mess.

To be fair, he has gotten rid of some stuff in the past year or so. About a year ago, he finally parted with the dust-mite-ridden, broken, stained and downright ugly La-Z-boy recliner that he insisted on bringing from his old apartment to our new home. Once here, it had languished untouched in the basement for five years. To this day, it riles me up that we paid movers good money to transport that hulking piece of crap instead of just putting it out on the curb.

And as I've written about before, we did have a yard sale about a month ago and got rid of some stuff. But truthfully anything that Craze got rid of was just a tiny fraction of the stuff he's still hanging onto.

I'm a little bit at my wit's end. How do you convince someone that they need to purge when they don't see a problem? In the past, I've threatened him, yelled, cried, pleaded. Nothing seems to motivate him to get it organized and under control. He's perfectly content for our overnight guests to squeeze past thousands of dusty, piled up comic books and action figures to get to their bed in what's supposed to be the "Guest Room" (not the record, CD or comics room). To me, it's a sad, embarrassing and unacceptable joke.

And the worst of it? I often think that all these piles of musty stuff are so much more important to him than I am. After all, he actively reiterates this daily in his unwillingness to organize what he has and his constant purchasing of new items that have no place to go despite my pleas to stop.

And that's the saddest part of all.

Something Worth Buying

Have you seen those pop up ads online for a product called Dermitage that show a REALLY, REALLY, REALLY wrinkled woman who magically morphs into a fresh, line-less beauty before your eyes? And somehow we're supposed to believe that their product not only does this, but according to their ad it bestows the miracle of "less wrinkles in 10 minutes."

Every time I log into yahoo mail, there she is again. That hideous wrinkled face smiling at me. "Hey lady, if I looked like you, I sure as hell wouldn't be smiling," I've found myself muttering at the computer screen when her visage pops up again.

This kind of bogus advertising really annoys the crap out of me. Are people, especially women who are clearly their target, REALLY that stupid? I'm guessing not. But, I SO hate ads like this that insult the intelligence of me and every woman I know.

For one thing, the woman in the ad looks to be in her '30s, but she's been photo shopped to look like an ancient cadaver freshly unearthed by grave robbers (except for her lovely blond hair, which is picture perfect at all times). No one I know in their '30s,'40s, '50s or even 60+ looks this awful. Not even my now quite-wrinkled, sunscreen-eschewing, sun-worshiping friends. I think you could really only look this bad if you've been involved in some kind of unfortunate boiling oil accident. Or possibly if you've smoked all your life and are pushing 140.

I know this type of advertising isn't regulated by the FDA, because it's not a food or a drug, but surely there's got to be a governing body that should be taking issue with this junk. It's an outright lie.

So needless to say, I am not fooled by their fancy photo shop gimmicks. And I won't be giving the Dermitage people a penny of my hard-earned cash. Staying out of the sun and a daily dab of sunscreen may not work "in ten minutes," but I'm sure they're both better long-term investments in a less-wrinkly me.

Now, if only I could find product that would wipe the image of that old hag off of my computer screen in ten minutes. That might be worth buying.

Love in the Time of Lunch

Today like most days, I found myself sitting in front of the computer writing around noon. And since I didn't have any consulting jobs in the hopper, I was just goofing around.

Then the phone rang. It was my cute husband bemoaning the fact that he was half way out to the northern suburbs when his job got canceled. So, he was turning around and heading back to his office in the Loop.

And then, unexpectedly, about 30 minutes later, I heard the back door open and the Bug excitedly ran down the stairs. Her master was home. Surprised, I yelled down from upstairs, "Do you want me to make you some lunch?"

"You weren't expecting me, huh?" Craze said mischievously, his head appearing around the banister on the stairs. The next thing I know he's standing next to me and he says with a smirk, "I have to go back to the office but I came here first to see if I could get some sex. Know where I could find some?"

That Craze is a naughty, naughty man.

Needless to say, he found what he was looking for before being sent back to work with a sack lunch and a smile on his face.

All I can say is that lunch here at home isn't usually so. . .interesting.

A Future Finally in the Making

We had a visitor this past weekend.

Craze has a friend named Alan he's known since high school who is a really troubled guy. Until about six months ago, he lived in a one-bedroom apartment in a questionable neighborhood in Chicago. And to be truthful, more than his neighborhood was questionable where Alan was concerned.

He'd given up having any kind of real job more than ten years ago and instead become an unlicensed "massage therapist." I use that term loosely as I know, for a fact, that more than just massage was involved in his late night out-calls.

When I met him for the first time more than seven years ago, he had been surly and high. He didn't think twice about lighting up a joint right in front of me in Craze's apartment and ignored me in such a way that made it clear that he didn't think I'd be around for long. And my first opinion of him was that there wasn't much to like about Alan.

And months later when Craze filled me in about his suspicions about Alan's line of work, I couldn't believe that I even knew someone like this. After all, I had always been squeaky clean where any illegal or immoral activities were concerned. I certainly wasn't perfect and one person's morality can certainly be another's immorality, but I'd never in my life imagined that I would hang out with anyone engaged in prostitution. To this day, the word still sticks in my throat when I try to say it out loud.

P-R-O-S-T-I-T-U-T-I-O-N. Surely it was a word, at least in my life experience, reserved for bad Lifetime and ABC Movies of the Week. How could I know someone who did this for a living?

Over the years, Craze and I have had about a million conversations about Alan. We both knew he was on a bad path and tried to tell him as much many times. But he never wanted to listen. Things were going fine according to Alan, and while he said he appreciated our concern, we could basically go to hell.

That is, until two years ago.

Around that time, Alan's best customer moved out of town. And with him, went Alan's main source of income. What followed were 24 torturous months where Alan finally began looking for a real job. But with his lack of any real work experience and far greater lack of social skills, he never had a prayer. Several suicide attempts followed, two of which landed him in Chicago Reed, the local mental hospital, where they took away his shoe laces and sharp objects.

Through all this, Craze stood by his friend. Not because Alan was even moderately likable on many, if not most, occasions, but because Craze knew that he literally had no one else except his parents who live hours away in Michigan.

And his parents are another story entirely. They're two of the oddest people I've ever met. Blue-collar, conservative Catholics with more than a hint of right-wing fundamentalism (and some staunch beliefs that seem downright Amish!), their life experience where Alan has been concerned is an odd mix of sympathetic help offered through the filter of their stilted belief system. And to put an even stranger twist on their pious personas, in Alan's younger years, much of his relationship with his parents involved extreme violence.

How do I know this? Well, over the years as I got to know Alan more, the man, who at first haughtily ignored me and, honestly, I still found it difficult to like, began to confide things in me. Always in odd, unlikely moments when Craze stepped away for a second. He told me how as a kid, his father had beaten him up numerous times. Once he was so badly beaten that he couldn't go to school for several days because of all the bruises. Or I heard about the time he lay powerless in his childhood bedroom just listening as his father beat and then, he believed, raped his mother while she screamed.

They were the kinds of stories you cringe upon hearing. Stories that someone like me, who was lucky enough to have mostly kind parents, finds hard to fathom.

But once I knew these things, Alan's inability to create any kind of normal life for himself became much more easy to understand. And as a result, my judgments about him and his life choices became less harsh. As obnoxious as the guy could be, it was clear that, on most days, he hated himself.

And then about six months ago at the end of his financial rope (he owed money to us and his parents, his landlord, the phone company, you name it) and with the realization that he really didn't want to kill himself, he actually did something he swore he'd never do--he moved home to Michigan to live with his retired parents and try to get his life together.

The solution that I was sure would come to blows in the first week, has, shockingly, worked out pretty well. I think in trying to make amends for his horrific childhood, his parents have actually provided him a strong base of support. They encouraged Alan to go back to school to become a patient care technician and he's the star pupil. And they drive him to his evening job, where he's joined a rag-tag mob of pot-smoking outsiders and gang-bangers who work as charity fund-raising telemarketers. He's paid us back some of the money he owes us and is also paying back his parents. At 41 with the help of mom and dad, he finally seems to be getting his shit together.

And then, he arrived last Friday for a weekend visit via Amtrak. I could tell from the outset that he was trying hard to be on his best behavior. He even thought to bring me cans of the Cafe du Monde coffee he knows I like.

Saturday, we invited a few friends over for cocktails since Alan rarely gets a lot of time to socialize in suburban Detroit (after all, it's hard to build a new social network when, at 41, you have neither cash nor a car and live with your parents). But at our gathering, he actually went out of his way to make conversation, which was out of character. And he seemed to have a good time.

Sunday morning after a unusually meaty breakfast of sausage, bacon, eggs and toast in Alan's honor, Craze was about to take Alan back to Union Station when he ducked into the basement to look for a CD. Putting his coat on, Alan looked across the kitchen at me and said out of nowhere, "Do you think I'm doing good? Do you think I'm doing the right things? I'm so stupid. I've wasted so much time."

"You can't look backwards," I said after a moment, taken aback somewhat by the question. "The past is the past. You can't change it so there's no point spending your energy wishing it had been different. All you can do is move forward. . . And you're on a good path, Alan. I know it's got to be tough living with your parents, but you just have to keep reminding yourself that it's temporary. It's something you need to live through to get you to a better place. You're on your way now. And you'll get there."

Alan shook his head in agreement, but not with any kind of real confidence, as Craze emerged from the basement. And a moment later, they were both gone. Craze to Union Station and then to errands at Home Depot. Alan heading back to the train that would take him away from his old hometown and back to the place where his future is, fingers crossed, finally in the making.

Dream On

It happened again last night.

That recurring dream about the house I'm moving into with undiscovered rooms. From dream to dream, the houses are always different, but I'm always delighted to find more living space that's NOT filled up with Craze's crazy hodgepodge of stuff.

In each case, I set about putting it all in order with an immense sense of satisfaction. And, as I've done unsuccessfully in my own home in real life, am able to contain Craze's collection so that it isn't everywhere.

And then I wake up.

The good feelings about getting my house in good order dissipate pretty quickly. Believe me, I've looked for hidden troves of additional storage space inside my own four walls, but they're just not there. And the realization is a sad awakening.

But more than anything, I wonder what this dream says about me. Could it all just be about my frustration with my husband's stuff? Or does it have some deeper meaning? Perhaps there are hidden "rooms" within me, filled with wonder and delight, just waiting to be uncovered. Capacities for good things I can't yet imagine? Uncluttered spaces within where my life's journey hasn't taken me yet?

Either way, I look forward to that day of discovery. I'd put the space to good use.

Detroit Did, Indeed, Suck

Last night Craze and I did something quite out of the ordinary. We actually attended a sporting event! Now, for any normal person, this might not seem extraordinary. But for the couple who regularly profess to abhor most professional sports, it was extremely out of character.

One of the things I loved about my husband when I first met him was his lack of interest in the manly pursuit of sports viewing. He doesn't care about basketball, football, you name it, and I've always thought that was GREAT. But for some reason, my Motown man has decided in the past couple of years that professional hockey isn't so bad. And he loves watching his home-town Detroit Red Wings whenever he can. And so about a week or so ago when he heard that they were playing the Blackhawks at the United Center last night, he's been buzzing about getting tickets.

And since I should make an effort every now and again to do something I don't think I'll really enjoy, just to try something new, I begrudgingly agreed to go with him.

We scored free parking near the United Center, which was a coup. And then got two tickets from a scalper for $20 each (saving $24 off the box office price). When we got to our seats, the teams were already on the ice.

Oddly, once I started paying attention, I actually thought it was a lot of fun. It's amazing to watch the players glide around the ice at incredible speed with an odd combination of grace, agility and aggressiveness. The Red Wings were on a nine-game winning streak and only had to beat the Blackhawks for a ten-win league record. But it was not to be.

The Blackhawks scored two goals in the first period and the Red Wings just couldn't catch up. On a couple of occasions, sticks were dropped onto the ice and punches were thrown. And in between all the on-ice action, there were the loud random chants of "Detroit Sucks!" and the calls of the sweaty, overweight beer man hawking his $6 Buds and Bud Lights.

So, am I going to become an NHL fanatic? Probably not. But the experience did remind me that sometimes it's actually worth getting off the couch and out of the house to try something that I don't think I'll enjoy. If I make the effort to do something out of the ordinary, I might be pleasantly rewarded. Sadly, this was not the case for the Detroit team last night who did, indeed, suck.

Chilly State of Affairs

My brother and I have a semi-adversarial relationship.

It came to a head just a little over a year ago when I got one condescending email too many from him instructing me about something I was supposed to do in quite a rude manner. I retorted with one of the longest, and probably meanest, emails I've ever sent into the ether telling him I'd had enough. Needless to say, what followed was several months of silence on both our sides.

I refused to communicate with him and he with me. And if I'm perfectly honest, I didn't really mind that. In fact, I even sort of liked it.

Being incommunicado meant I didn't have to participate in any of the strained family gatherings that had come to be a semi-annual norm. There were no gritted teeth and fixed jaw during our brief phone conversations because there was no contact. And since our only real tie is an elderly father in a nursing home with limited memory capacity, our estrangement really didn't effect any one else either (except for my husband who is close to his family and thought the whole thing was "crazy" and "weird"). My young niece and nephew might have noticed Aunt Maggie's absence if their father had every really made an effort to make me a regular part of their lives. However since he hadn't, not seeing me was, for them, the norm.

But the thing about my brother is, he's all about appearances. He drives a Lexus. Wears Ralph Lauren at every opportunity. Lives in an affluent suburb devoid of any old-growth trees where every house looks like the one next door. Maintains a perfectly manicured lawn with tasteful seasonal decorations that never go up too soon or stay up too long. And so, when Christmastime rolled around, it clearly seemed unforgivable to him to let it pass without extending an olive branch and pretending like none of the silence and anger between us had ever really happened.

But for me, that just wasn't acceptable.

I had stored up so many slights over the years that there was no way that I was just going to move on without letting him know that the status quo of our relationship had to change dramatically. So, one cold and snowy day about a week before Christmas, I met him at the neutral ground of a suburban sports bar/restaurant for lunch and told him everything I'd been holding back. For three hours, he sat through my barrage of anger and hurt feelings shaking his head every now and again, his mouth hanging open most of the time in what appeared to be disbelief. And while he never denied a single thing that I accused him of, frustratingly, he never apologized either.

At the end of that meeting, we agreed to move forward and in the year that followed he's made some small efforts to bridge the gap between us. I have to, at least, give him that.

But today, on the phone with him again, I felt that horrible yet familiar feeling creep up the back of my neck. My jaw tensed. My teeth began grinding silently together. In chatting about Christmas, I told him that I was going to take my Dad out of the nursing home and have him stay with me for a couple nights. He's done it before and loves it. And he's never broken a hip or gone into a diabetic coma on my watch.

When I told him of my plans, my brother said flatly, "I don't think that's advisable," in a voice that for him, seemed like the final word on the subject. This coming from the man who lives about 15 minutes from my dad, but barely has time to visit him maybe once a month.

For some reason, my younger brother feels like he has veto power over my decisions regarding my father. And the reality is, he doesn't.

Why is it that any time we discuss holiday get-togethers, it feels like a battle? Why can't things just be more easy going between my family and his? And why is it that within the confines of the tiny family I have left, we can't actually like each other. . .even a little bit?

If my mother was alive, she'd be none too happy about our chilly state of affairs. But maybe if she was alive and had been with us for the past twenty-plus years, it never would have come to this. My brother and I really couldn't have been more different growing up. And the truth is that the love for our mom was probably one of the few things we did have in common. "Did" being the operative word.

It Was Never in the Bag

I was reading a well known blog today where the writer mentioned that she had a hankering for a very expensive (almost two grand!) Gucci bag. Unless you've seen the posting yourself, you cannot imagine the tidal wave of vitriolic comments that followed.

While I personally don't give a hoot whether the writer (someone I don't even know) shells out big bucks for a status purse or not, it totally reminded me of my own high-priced handbag fiasco.

A couple of years ago, I was about three months into my new work-for-myself-from-home, try-to-get-back-my-life phase. I'd quit my high-profile job with a big company and while you'd think that I'd be reveling in my time off, it was not the case. I was mired in depression and self doubt. Being blackberry and conference-call free wasn't getting me out of the hole I'd dug myself into with my workaholic ways.

And aside from spending much of my days in my PJ's and, oddly, tuning into Jerry Springer, I developed one burning obsession--the Balenciaga Le Dix handbag, preferably in a decadent, chocolaty brown leather.

I had seen it in the hands of celebs on the pages of US Weekly and People. I knew that it sold for well over $1,000 but I felt like I had to have one. Trying to find a bargain, I was tempted to go on ebay to see what was available there. And, let me tell you, there were lots to be had.

Suddenly I found myself pouring over auctions highlighted with glossy photos of the Olsen Twins casually carrying this coveted item on their Starbucks runs. I carefully checked the feedback stats of potential sellers to try and weed out the authentic bags from the knock-offs on offer. I thought about that damned bag constantly. Dreamed of how my life would be so much more glamorous if I possessed it. How I would feel different. How somehow in possessing this bag, all the pieces of my life's puzzle would suddenly fit neatly and comfortably together.

I broke down really late one night and bid on a brown one that was guaranteed authentic and won. And while I never paid four figures for it, it was and is the most expensive purse I've ever bought. Days passed as I impatiently waited for the mailman to bring me my miraculous purchase. Each day that it didn't arrive seemed painful.

Then I got it.

Actually having it in my hands was, sadly, an enormous anti-climax. It looked like the bag I committed to purchase online. It had all the tags with the right words and authentic-looking serial numbers. A little golden plate stitched inside the bag proudly proclaimed "Balenciaga." But it didn't feel right. Surely the leather of a super expensive bag would be of much nicer quality. And wouldn't it have something better than plain, old black fabric lining? I was sure I'd been duped. And to confirm my suspicions, the moment that I decided to email the seller about my dissatisfaction, he was permanently removed from ebay by ebay. No explanation was given--he was just gone. No doubt because there were other women across the country who had stared at their expensive purchases with the same misgivings. And so, I was stuck with it.

Ashamed of my idiocy, I stuck the bag straight in my closet and didn't use it for a year. Not only did the sting of being ripped off smart, but more than anything, I felt really stupid for coveting something so ridiculously expensive and giving it so much power over my thoughts and desires. It was, after all, just a stupid handbag. And since when had I ever given a flying fuck about anything that Mary Kate or Ashley Olsen had? It was completely irrational.

Last year around this time, I finally took it out of my closet and decided to use it. I couldn't return it, so I decided I might as well get some use out of it. Lots of women I knew would "ooh" and "aah" over it when they saw me carrying it. But only I knew that they were, in a small part, being as foolish as I had been. Carrying that bag didn't make me cooler or smarter or more successful. In fact, it didn't solve anything in my then-fractured life.

Given the choice again today, I would totally put the money towards the mortgage, buy some stock or just put the cash away for a future rainy day.

But all-in-all, buying the questionably-Balenciaga bag was an interesting life lesson about giving things the power they don't deserve. I realized that no fancy bag (replace "bag" with "car," "diamond, "house,"--it's all the same) can change my life or draft a better and more whole definition of who I am. Only I have the power to do that. And while making my life better was never "in the bag," the self knowledge I gained from the "Great Handbag Debacle 2005" was actually worth every penny.

Christmas in. . . November? Bah! Humbug!

I get that the holidays are grossly over-commercialized. And I rolled my eyes and cringed when, a few weeks before Halloween, I heard the first TV commercial for the Radio City Music Hall Rockette's Christmas Spectacular. But I get that they sell tickets in advance, so it wasn't too much of an afront.

But then a day or two after Halloween, I was driving in my car and turned on the radio to WLIT ("the Lite" as it's known here in Chicago) only to have my ears and sensibilities thoroughly assaulted by a chorus of Little Drummer Boy.

What!?!?

Now, don't get me wrong. I LOVE Christmas as much as the next birth-of-Jesus celebrant. I bake cookies. Wrap presents. Decorate a tree and watch Scrooge and A Christmas Story far too many times. But do I want my Christmas season to begin on November 1st? No. No, I don't.

When I should be looking forward to the most American of holidays, Thanksgiving, and thinking of all I have to give thanks for, is it Little Town of Bethlehem and It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas that I want playing in the background of my life? Absolutely not.

Since when did the November-December period cease being about individual holidays and start being Thanksmas? I don't like it one bit. Not one little bit.

And so, a couple of days ago, I decided to do something about it. I actually went to the radio station Web site and sent them an email telling them that I didn't want to hear a single Christmas song until the day after Thanksgiving. And to show my displeasure about their premature caroling, I told them that I was not going to listen to their station AT ALL this holiday season. And further more, I was deleting them from my cherished radio pre-sets.

If you asked Craze, he'd say that I get what I deserve for listening to the lame, middle-of-the-road pop music that they play on The Lite anyway. But for me, it's really about keeping something special. I love chocolate, but if I had to eat it all the time, it wouldn't be so great. Christmas song favorites are a little like chocolate. Especially delicious when only eaten occasionally but sickening if consumed too much and too often.

More Right Than Wrong

Windows got cleaned with hot water and vinegar. Window screens got hosed off and dried in the sun. The drafty front door finally got weather-proofed. The broken storage chest upstairs is now fixed. Halloween decorations were carefully stashed away for next year. And that pesky fan with the power cord that the Bug chewed through has been banished. All the spaces underneath the couches are now dust-bunny- and animal-hair-free zones. And the new curtain rod for our bedroom that's been sitting in my closet for a year is now actually up and holding curtains.

This weekend didn't achieve all my ends in terms of new order cleanliness/tidiness, but it was a great start. Craze was not happy to spend most of his weekend on various projects, but got in there and worked hard none the less. I still have to conquer my office which is a real mess, but with all this other stuff done, I feel renewed enthusiasm.

I know the holidays are going to be busy and I'm trying to get out in front of them. I really want to enjoy them this year versus running, running, running and then feeling like I'm still running out of time. I don't want to worry that I haven't had time to dust the ceiling fans or the edges of the book shelves that I just know my sister-in-law will look at with disdain and stand in judgement of our household habits. And besides worrying about her, I get sick of looking at that dusty light fixture every day. What a pleasure it will be to look around me and find more things right with my home than wrong.

Clean Up Day

Our house is a morass of clutter. In every room there's some randomly placed item(s) that has been left there and will stay there forever unless drastic measures are taken.

Therefore, today has been declared "Clean Up Day" by yours truly. Craze is none too happy about it, but it must be done. We must bring order to the chaos. Tidiness will reign again.

Ok. . .let's see how far we get. . .more to come.

Rules of Halloween Engagement

Last year Craze went on a tear at Halloween (you can read all about it in my 11/1/06 post). This year, we had even more spooky decorations casting a green glow down the street. Mini tortured heads floated in the breeze of our front porch. A glowing man appeared to be trying to claw his way out of our front lawn and eerily lit skulls were dotted in front of our bushes.

However after a long day at work, Craze was cranky when he donned his Dracula cape and ghoul mask to hand out candy to the local kids. And for the most part, the trick-or-treaters did nothing to lift his mood. Many were really quite annoying. So, as the evening wore on, he came up with his list of rules for proper trick-or-treating. Here they are:

Rule 1) Only one visit per person. You can't keep coming back to the same house multiple times to get more candy. And that means you, Brian (our 9-year-old neighbor who not only came back twice, but possibly FOUR times)!

Rule 2) No costume. No candy. Since when do people just get to come to your door for free stuff without making the least little bit of Halloween effort? At the very least, stick a cheap-ass pair of Dracula fangs in your mouth. Jeez! Every time one of these costume shirkers came ringing the bell, Craze would just look at them with dismay and say sarcastically, "What are you?"

Rule 3) No skanky-looking adults (pretty much all 30-40 year old men) sans kids claiming that they're collecting candy for their kid who's in a car (somewhere out of sight). Please. Are you really that hard up for candy? You can get a Jumbo Bag of peanut butter cups for $2.50 at K-Mart. Is your financial situation so dire that you need to get your candy fix by knocking on strangers' doors (uncostumed no less!) and claim that you're collecting out of the goodness of your heart for your non-existent child? Weird and pathetic.

Rule 4) Along the lines of Rule 3, what's up with parents who come up to the door with their kids and an extra bag? Some claim that they are also collecting for another unseen child. Some say it's for "the baby" (and why the hell is your baby eating candy, ma'am?). While others just mumble something undecipherable under their breath and you just know that they are getting candy for themselves. What the?!?

Rule 5) Do not ring my doorbell after 9 p.m. looking for candy for the sleeping toddler in a stroller on the sidewalk that you're dragging around the neighborhood. If the kid conks out, stop ringing doorbells and TAKE THEM HOME and tuck them in bed. What's wrong with you people? It's way past their bed time.

Rule 6) Proper Halloween etiquette should be followed at all times. That means when we open the door, you actually say, "Trick or Treat!" and hold up your bag for me to deposit your treat. Don't just stand there looking at me with an annoyed expression as if I'm not giving you the candy fast enough. Once you get the candy, say "thank you." We spent our hard-earned cash on candy. The good stuff, mind you, not the crappy candy we hated getting as kids. You get it for free. The least you can do is offer a word of thanks. Especially if you're over the age of six (or sixteen, as we saw in several cases last night).

Rule 7) Show some enthusiasm. Craze loves it when kids are delighted by all his decorations and his own scary get-up. He'll enthusiastically complement the kids' costumes, too, and frequently talk to them in a funny, monster-ish voice. It cracks up the kids and their parents. When you show that you love Halloween and really get in the spirit, fun ensues. It's a win-win for everyone.

Note to Self: Six jumbo bags of candy are enough. DO NOT BUY NINE as you did this year. It's just overkill. And give extra candy to the kids who are living up to the true spirit of Halloween. God knows we don't need leftover peanut butter cups hanging around the house. Or more precisely, making their way into your mouth and eventually onto your behind.