Despite all the mucking about, the wondering if I'm a Scrooge, and the hours of chocolate-covered-pretzel making, Christmas was lovely. In fact, it's been the nicest Christmas in quite awhile.
I'm learning to go with the flow a bit more. It's one of my biggest challenges. As a borderline Obsessive-Compulsive, it's difficult to throw down the reigns and let go of control. I constantly try to do everything as efficiently and successfully as possible, so just kicking back and attempting to not mold everything into what I want it to be... well, it's not always easy for me. But this Christmas, I did it well.
I had a few cookies and didn't beat myself up over it. I broke down and went to Wal-Mart to buy Dad the Eagles CD he wanted. I didn't get too pouty after eating mashed potatoes for three days (Holiday meals are not too Vegetarian-friendly). I had a blast playing with my adorable new nephew, Gavin, and stayed up late playing Scrabble with my sister and her fiance. I slept in and didn't feel bad about it (yes, believe it or not that's an accomplishment). And I had an awesome time catching up with the family and enjoying their company. I did all of this and maintained calm despite issues with our car that were not resolved until just before leaving home (a long, boring story that ended well - we made it home in one piece, though I missed some work because of it).
All in all it was a lot of fun. And last night we had our Christmas Part II: the Yost version. John's parents, brother Neil and his girlfriend Sol-Ana came over last night and we had another night of fun making homemade pizzas, playing board games, and opening more presents. Our homemade gift this year - a custom designed photo yearbook for both of our parents - was a huge hit (despite the close call with holiday shipping, I highly recommend blurb.com).
Now, in-between holidays and there is much to do... lots of work to catch up, lots of cookies and chocolate to burn off, and lots of New Year's plans.
But first, an extended weekend to New York City for New Year's. Honestly, I think New Year's is one of my favorite holidays. It is so much less stressful than any other holiday and there are really no rules - just to have fun! I have been truly spoiled every year since I've met John, as our New Year's festivities are always outrageously fun: 2003 we partied like rock-stars at RIT with a bunch of friends; 2004 we watched fireworks over London from our hotel room with the Yosts and my Mom; 2005 we hosted a party at our Rochester apartment; 2006 we partied on a rooftop under city-wide fireworks with friends in Brooklyn; and last year we rang in '07 in Montreal. Every year the scenery may change, but the good friends, good locale, good drinks combo never gets old.
This year we're going back to Brooklyn, as Johnny has to record the Director's Commentary for his film with Holland and Randall (which has received online distribution through IndiePix.net). We'll be staying with them and probably hitting the town for some party-hopping. No definite plans guarantee another memorable night.
I think what I love most about New Year's is the fact that you 'go out with a bang' so-to-speak... and get a fresh start, all at the same time. I am a self-reflective person by nature, and there's no better time like a New Year to look closely at your life, realize all that you've accomplished, and set some goals for the future. It's going to be a good year... I can feel it.
Here's to '08. And going out with a bang! Happy New Year!
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Humbug Anecdote
An attempt to prove that we're note quite as Scroogey as my previous post may have indicated:
Two Scrooges
It's that time of the year again. And as much as I'd like to shut my brain off and just go to the mall like everyone else, I find the holiday season to be one of the most difficult times of the year.
Well, maybe I'm being overly dramatic. But my frustration with the holidays are rooted in a slow progression away from the traditional concept of Christmas celebrations.
As a young girl, this was my favorite time of year by far. Steeped in careful tradition and stories of Christmas' past, the month of December played out like a well-read book, year after year. There was the gift wish list, given to Mom early in the month. The same cookie recipes baked with love and decorated by all of us girls. The shopping trips and gift wrapping sessions. The same holiday albums on repeat and the same movies, now known so well we can all recite lines even in the middle of summer. And then the tree: every year we would get a real evergreen - sometimes going out to cut it ourselves - and the night that we all decorated it was taken so seriously that usually my parents ended up arguing about something silly. Dad always brought the tree in and set it up. Mom always strung the lights. And the rest of us worked until every ornament was hung, always stopping for nostalgic smiles and stories when certain old bulbs were brought out.
The traditions continued, right through the holiday, and became more and more solid. Christmas Eve was Gramma's party, filled with its own rituals: singing carols and finding the ring in the advent tree and singing Happy Birthday to my aunt who was born Christmas Day. And on the 25th, we usually relaxed a bit... but the day was always filled with two very rigid traditions: opening gifts all morning long, each attempting to guess every one and sometimes spanning into the evening; and Mom's homemade breakfast and dinner, usually consisting of scones or pancakes then a baked Ham, usually shared with the Grams or other single family members that might be joining us that day.
Now that my sister and I are adults - myself married and five hours from home, my sister with a son of her own and living in Florida - keeping these traditions has grown more and more difficult. But every year, my parents do their best to maintain the schedule.
I admit that I love these traditions, and the feeling of being home and hearing the familiar skip in a holiday record that has been there since I was a little girl. And I love gathering around the tree on Christmas morning, drinking coffee and guessing each other's gifts, all of us always trying to stump Dad - the Master Guesser.
But what's changed in me has been a consciousness in tradition - an ability to connect to the purpose of these holiday routines and separate them from commercial spillover. And the ability to let go and make room for flux and flow of new, different traditions with my own family.
This is what makes the holidays difficult for me. In short, I sometimes see us blindly following these traditions out of habit and cold obligation. And to me, it becomes pointless and any true meaning behind Christmas becomes lost in all of the tinsel and wrapping paper.
John and I have tried to make our own little traditions, giving respect to our upbringings while charting our own path. We have a little tiny tree and a few decorations that have been given to us, and we have taken the time to make about 80% of the gifts we'll be giving out. In fact, tomorrow we'll be in the kitchen making our last edible presents for friends and family and I'm sure Bing Crosby and Mel Torme will be in the background. And it'll be a blast.
But it seems like the past few years December has been filled with a lot more frustration than fun, and sometimes I wonder if we're turning into two Scrooges. We're making an effort, for sure, but there are still some things where we draw the line: we're not buying each other gifts, we're not going to church, and I'm not - I repeat - NOT - going to the mall.
Happy Holidays!
Well, maybe I'm being overly dramatic. But my frustration with the holidays are rooted in a slow progression away from the traditional concept of Christmas celebrations.
As a young girl, this was my favorite time of year by far. Steeped in careful tradition and stories of Christmas' past, the month of December played out like a well-read book, year after year. There was the gift wish list, given to Mom early in the month. The same cookie recipes baked with love and decorated by all of us girls. The shopping trips and gift wrapping sessions. The same holiday albums on repeat and the same movies, now known so well we can all recite lines even in the middle of summer. And then the tree: every year we would get a real evergreen - sometimes going out to cut it ourselves - and the night that we all decorated it was taken so seriously that usually my parents ended up arguing about something silly. Dad always brought the tree in and set it up. Mom always strung the lights. And the rest of us worked until every ornament was hung, always stopping for nostalgic smiles and stories when certain old bulbs were brought out.
The traditions continued, right through the holiday, and became more and more solid. Christmas Eve was Gramma's party, filled with its own rituals: singing carols and finding the ring in the advent tree and singing Happy Birthday to my aunt who was born Christmas Day. And on the 25th, we usually relaxed a bit... but the day was always filled with two very rigid traditions: opening gifts all morning long, each attempting to guess every one and sometimes spanning into the evening; and Mom's homemade breakfast and dinner, usually consisting of scones or pancakes then a baked Ham, usually shared with the Grams or other single family members that might be joining us that day.
Now that my sister and I are adults - myself married and five hours from home, my sister with a son of her own and living in Florida - keeping these traditions has grown more and more difficult. But every year, my parents do their best to maintain the schedule.
I admit that I love these traditions, and the feeling of being home and hearing the familiar skip in a holiday record that has been there since I was a little girl. And I love gathering around the tree on Christmas morning, drinking coffee and guessing each other's gifts, all of us always trying to stump Dad - the Master Guesser.
But what's changed in me has been a consciousness in tradition - an ability to connect to the purpose of these holiday routines and separate them from commercial spillover. And the ability to let go and make room for flux and flow of new, different traditions with my own family.
This is what makes the holidays difficult for me. In short, I sometimes see us blindly following these traditions out of habit and cold obligation. And to me, it becomes pointless and any true meaning behind Christmas becomes lost in all of the tinsel and wrapping paper.
John and I have tried to make our own little traditions, giving respect to our upbringings while charting our own path. We have a little tiny tree and a few decorations that have been given to us, and we have taken the time to make about 80% of the gifts we'll be giving out. In fact, tomorrow we'll be in the kitchen making our last edible presents for friends and family and I'm sure Bing Crosby and Mel Torme will be in the background. And it'll be a blast.
But it seems like the past few years December has been filled with a lot more frustration than fun, and sometimes I wonder if we're turning into two Scrooges. We're making an effort, for sure, but there are still some things where we draw the line: we're not buying each other gifts, we're not going to church, and I'm not - I repeat - NOT - going to the mall.
Happy Holidays!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Me and Snow Falling
Metaphorically, I am a stilt walker.
Most of the time I am soaring above people, high on life, giddy about the possibilities, eager to make a difference. I go about much of my social life with such effort that I am often lost in the to-do lists, projects, parties, and plans to realize how effortlessly I'm trotting along.
But it doesn't take all that much for me to lose balance and come crashing down. First it might be a little gust of irritation. Then, perhaps a pebble of self-doubt. But before I realize what's happening, I'm teetering and swaying and shifting my footing but the result is always the same: a hard, sloppy crash.
Tonight was the inevitable crash landing. I had a fine, productive day. If anything was awry leaving work, it was simply that I was quite tired and the snow had been falling since noon. I marched to my car through the piling snow with much gusto, thinking of my warm apartment and loving cat and husband waiting for me. The snow was coming down hard; I crossed the street through thick rivets of accumulation, to the lone vehicle on the street covered in inches of white fluff.
I hadn't worn my boots this morning, and was mildly irritated but my spirits were still high. After tromping into the mounds around my car, feeling the cold hit my bare ankles, I climbed inside quickly, starting the engine and cranking up the heat and defrost. Almost there... I only had to bear the snow pushing up to my ankles for a few minutes of snow-brushing and I'd be home in minutes; Luckily, I live a half-mile from work.
I got out of the car, shut the door, and went for the back door where I keep the snow brush. To my confusion, the door was locked. Hmm. I had just hit the unlock button... So, I went back for the front door.
Locked.
And - just like that - it hit me: I had made the ultimate I'm-that-girl move. I had locked my keys in the car... and it was running. I had heard stories of people doing this before, and had always thought God, how could you be that dense? Now, I was that dense.
There was a moment of How did I do this?
Then, Oh, I must have hit Lock instead of Unlock.
Then, What the hell do I do now?
I knew there was only one option: go home. Since I don't have a cell phone (maybe that will be another entry someday titled "I was so happy living life without an electronic leash until the day I locked my keys in the car while it was running during the first major snowstorm of the winter")... and since I am so close to home, I did the only thing I could do: I started running.
I puffed and slid and stomped through the rising snowdrifts, my socks getting wetter, feet getting colder, and good spirit slowing but surely dissipating into the snowbanks around me. By the time I barged into the house I was furious; You'll never believe what I just did! I proclaimed. I am such a moron!
John stared at me coolly as I explained what had just happened, still gasping from running, still dripping with melting snow.
Well, it's a good thing we have Triple A. He said, fetching his card. Give them a call and we'll go get it. Not a big deal at all!
I glowered. Not a big deal?
I sat on the couch on hold with Triple A while John played with Toonces, tossing her mouse around, running across the living room and talking in his high-pitched little boy voice that is reserved for Toonces and occasionally me. I was fuming. How could he not be angry? Why is he not comforting me?
Finally, I got through and the operator informed me that, of course, there was a backup because of the storm and they would send someone to unlock my car... but it would be a two hour wait! That was it... I cracked. That's the moment when I came crashing down and there was no stopping me.
After stomping around like a child, slamming the dresser drawers as I changed my wet socks, and moping on the couch, John came and sat next to me.
"Want a quesadilla?" he asked in that same little boy voice.
I smiled. Then laughed.
"It's really not a big deal. That's what Triple A is for." He reassured me. And we went into the kitchen and made dillas for dinner.
By the time we got to my car, most of the snow had melted off from the heat that had been on for 2 hours. My keys were retrieved in mere seconds, and we were back home within ten minutes of leaving.
Now that I'm back home in my comfy sweatpants with peace restored, I realize that the stilt-walking is just part of my nature. After a good night's sleep, I'll be back up on top of the world in the morning. But mostly, what I've realized is that I've married the most wonderful man in the world, because even when I have hit the ground hard and am thrashing about like a wild woman, he just smiles and reaches out his hand.
Thanks sweetie, for always picking me back up.
Most of the time I am soaring above people, high on life, giddy about the possibilities, eager to make a difference. I go about much of my social life with such effort that I am often lost in the to-do lists, projects, parties, and plans to realize how effortlessly I'm trotting along.
But it doesn't take all that much for me to lose balance and come crashing down. First it might be a little gust of irritation. Then, perhaps a pebble of self-doubt. But before I realize what's happening, I'm teetering and swaying and shifting my footing but the result is always the same: a hard, sloppy crash.
Tonight was the inevitable crash landing. I had a fine, productive day. If anything was awry leaving work, it was simply that I was quite tired and the snow had been falling since noon. I marched to my car through the piling snow with much gusto, thinking of my warm apartment and loving cat and husband waiting for me. The snow was coming down hard; I crossed the street through thick rivets of accumulation, to the lone vehicle on the street covered in inches of white fluff.
I hadn't worn my boots this morning, and was mildly irritated but my spirits were still high. After tromping into the mounds around my car, feeling the cold hit my bare ankles, I climbed inside quickly, starting the engine and cranking up the heat and defrost. Almost there... I only had to bear the snow pushing up to my ankles for a few minutes of snow-brushing and I'd be home in minutes; Luckily, I live a half-mile from work.
I got out of the car, shut the door, and went for the back door where I keep the snow brush. To my confusion, the door was locked. Hmm. I had just hit the unlock button... So, I went back for the front door.
Locked.
And - just like that - it hit me: I had made the ultimate I'm-that-girl move. I had locked my keys in the car... and it was running. I had heard stories of people doing this before, and had always thought God, how could you be that dense? Now, I was that dense.
There was a moment of How did I do this?
Then, Oh, I must have hit Lock instead of Unlock.
Then, What the hell do I do now?
I knew there was only one option: go home. Since I don't have a cell phone (maybe that will be another entry someday titled "I was so happy living life without an electronic leash until the day I locked my keys in the car while it was running during the first major snowstorm of the winter")... and since I am so close to home, I did the only thing I could do: I started running.
I puffed and slid and stomped through the rising snowdrifts, my socks getting wetter, feet getting colder, and good spirit slowing but surely dissipating into the snowbanks around me. By the time I barged into the house I was furious; You'll never believe what I just did! I proclaimed. I am such a moron!
John stared at me coolly as I explained what had just happened, still gasping from running, still dripping with melting snow.
Well, it's a good thing we have Triple A. He said, fetching his card. Give them a call and we'll go get it. Not a big deal at all!
I glowered. Not a big deal?
I sat on the couch on hold with Triple A while John played with Toonces, tossing her mouse around, running across the living room and talking in his high-pitched little boy voice that is reserved for Toonces and occasionally me. I was fuming. How could he not be angry? Why is he not comforting me?
Finally, I got through and the operator informed me that, of course, there was a backup because of the storm and they would send someone to unlock my car... but it would be a two hour wait! That was it... I cracked. That's the moment when I came crashing down and there was no stopping me.
After stomping around like a child, slamming the dresser drawers as I changed my wet socks, and moping on the couch, John came and sat next to me.
"Want a quesadilla?" he asked in that same little boy voice.
I smiled. Then laughed.
"It's really not a big deal. That's what Triple A is for." He reassured me. And we went into the kitchen and made dillas for dinner.
By the time we got to my car, most of the snow had melted off from the heat that had been on for 2 hours. My keys were retrieved in mere seconds, and we were back home within ten minutes of leaving.
Now that I'm back home in my comfy sweatpants with peace restored, I realize that the stilt-walking is just part of my nature. After a good night's sleep, I'll be back up on top of the world in the morning. But mostly, what I've realized is that I've married the most wonderful man in the world, because even when I have hit the ground hard and am thrashing about like a wild woman, he just smiles and reaches out his hand.
Thanks sweetie, for always picking me back up.
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