This post, like the previous one, is accompanied by coffee. But it is 8:00 on New Year’s Day, and I need it, because it’s not looking like I am going back to sleep. Ironically I did not have any beer last night. I opted for two lemon drop martinis, which were deliciously imbibed at the time, but could have something to do with a vague headache and rebelling bowels. And being up at 6:30. Ah…partying at 49 just ain’t what it used to be. Like a lot of things. And, that is okay. We had a nice dinner with good friends, and that is enough of a party for me these days.

I am horrifically late with this writing, but I will take the easy way of blame and place it squarely on the season’s shoulders. Truthfully, I love celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas…and give everything over to the decorating, the cooking and cleaning, and the gathering of those dear. But equally truthful, it takes a lot out of me. Every year I wrangle with supposedly twistable  evergreen garland, and every year a chain of obscenities escapes my mouth as I force the unyielding stuff into place. Mounds of storage bins to be transported flank my sides. I make yearly vows to Pare. It. Down.  Of course I do get help, but afterward I will stand there sweating and cursing basement stairs and wonder why do I do this to myself?

I bake batches and batches of yummy cookies, peering through my cookbooks for weeks ahead of time to plan my annual giveaway to neighbors. I work into the wee night making pies and other delights until my back and neck ache unbearably, and even my son asked me why. Since I had so recently asked this of myself I was ready. I answered, “because someday I won’t be able to. ” I also add to myself, “because the minute I don’t make grandma’s powdered sugar balls and corn casserole and my peach jello you will all ask where is so and so?” And, it’s true. Whether it will be due to failing health, memory, energy, or maybe all three, the day will come when I will probably opt for a little tabletop tree and someone else will be the hostess.

I remember when this moment came for my mother. One Thanksgiving as we were cleaning up, she stopped and said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore. At one point today I couldn’t remember what to do next. I couldn’t remember how to make the gravy…” her words faded away as tears threatened. “Do you think one of you girls can take over?” I hugged her and said of course, I would be happy to…and would have done so earlier if I had known. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask, as she seemed to so thoroughly enjoy all that a holiday dinner entailed. Not only was she a superb cook and welcoming of guests, she made it seem utterly painless. One has only to put on a simple dinner for a few, to know that even this takes work to do it well.

As a child, you take all of this for granted. Children are too busy dreaming of turkey and gravy and making up lists for Santa, or fretting about teenage breakups or college and getting jobs, to give much attention to behind the scenes action. Didn’t the long banquet table adorned with the finest dishes and the painstakingly wrapped gifts just appear by themselves? Well, no…but that is how it seems to them.

But children grow up, and then they see. They see that it takes more than a fictional holiday fairy or chubby guy in a suit to make it all happen.

My mother was not an emotionally expressive person. Relationships were difficult for her, often strained and tense for a variety of reasons. The family complaint was that she was a hypocrite, going all Norman Rockwell come November, when where was this person the rest of the year? Where was all the warmth and acceptance and elaborate planning that she threw herself into with such fervor?

The answer, of course, is that it was always there.

It’s just that it went into hiding for much of the rest of the time, I think  due to a crippling mix of depression and martyrdom. Unlike many whose depression skyrockets during the holidays, hers went underground until January. It was as if she then had permission to show us the love she had for us, through the Herculean efforts of cleaning, baking, and enough food for an army.

The truth is, it’s why any of us do what we do at this time of year. Not for Martha Stewart accolades, not to outdo anyone else, or to convince anyone that lookhowgreatIamIcanmakefourpiesfromscratch. We do it out of love for our families, and if we do it right it is without complaint and of free will. We are trying to create magic that escape us at other times of the year, even if the stress of  it all while juggling a job just might erase a few years off one’s life.

Through all my mom’s imperfections, even as a youngster I sensed what November and December meant to her. I couldn’t wait for them either, because it was as close to Norman’s paintings as we came. And I was going to take it, dysfunction and all.

I didn’t thank her nearly enough.

For the piles of homemade treats, the miracle of endless food made in a kitchen the size of a large bathroom, the invitations to those who had nowhere to go, the cleaning and table set up and re-organizing and the list goes on.

But I think from wherever she is, she knows, as she watches me try to make my own magic with the same traditions.

And so it will go, until the day comes when I look up and ask someone else to take the reigns, and the holiday wand. And I will be more than okay with that, because I will probably be tired. Until then…I will clutch my recipe folders and magazine clippings full of snowmen, reindeer and Santa cakes close to my heart. And hope I still have a few year’s worth of yuletide fairy dust to sprinkle.

Happy New Year, friends. And may all of your kitchens be bigger than your bathrooms.

Cheers!

So today’s post, like the previous one, is accompanied by coffee. Gevalia brand, to be exact. No beer in sight…but there’s a good chance there will be later. I am trying to find the best time of day to squash my procrastinating writing ways once and for all, and it seems morning is better for me. This might mean I will have to try Founder’s breakfast stout after all, which has never sounded appealing until now. I sit in my son’s now unoccupied bedroom, at his old desk, and hope his creative aura still lingers enough to make its way into my words. I will try not to be sad at what is not here anymore, be grateful he is on his way to his own life. Our cat sits on my notebook next to me, covering up my chicken scratch post-its, and any sadness quickly evaporates. Aided by addressing the topic at hand, which is that of those ridiculous internet quizzes.

Yes, that’s right. Of all the things to opine about, I am choosing “what Disney princess are you?” and “what your favorite song says about you” nonsense, because if I see one more of these damned things clogging up my newsfeed I WILL SCREAM.

Mind you, these are only two fairly lame examples. Call me a glutton for punishment, but I checked out what seems to be at least one source of all this braininess: Buzzfeed.  I figured in all fairness I should do a little investigating, see if there was some more substantial stuff out there.

Um…not  so much.

The reigning subject that I discovered was that of all things Taylor Swift. Such as, “Which Taylor Swift album are you?”, “Which Taylor Swift lyric should be on your grave?,” and, “Which Taylor Swift BFF are you?.” Aaggghh!

Now, I understand there is a generational gap here. I find her music, persona, everything about her, incredibly uninteresting and bland. Sure, I no longer writhe in teen angst…but when I did I at least listened to Bruce Springsteen moaning about being down by the loveless river. (Now there’s a songwriter who has tombstone-worthy lyrics…and I wouldn’t need a quiz now or then to tell me which of his albums are “me.” Then again, the album I would’ve picked at seventeen vs. now would be totally different. Hey, this sounds like a quiz in the making! Which Bruce Are You? Jersey Girl era, or Born in the USA?

Wait! The aura may be working, because I have an idea…

Maybe this could be my big writing break. Instead of toiling for hours not getting paid and reaching about ten people, I could try to attract thousands of pubescent followers! I could make money telling them if their favorite toenail color is cornflower blue, it must mean they are a sympathetic friend, a PMS psycho, and that they hate McDonald’s french fries because it makes their skin break out. Oh, and they hate their parents 50% of the time, too. Meadow gold girls would be romantics who want to be swept off their feet by their dream prince, Justin Bieber! In between hating their siblings ALL of the time. Wow…this could be maliciously fun and insanely easy.

I think I might be a bit too churlish for the sweet innocents.

I have sympathy for them, though. I get the appeal of these quizzes for the teen set, because at sixteen you are frantically searching for any shred of identity clue you can find. So how does one explain the explosion of quizzes on Facebook, where the majority of my friends are middle aged? Shouldn’t you kind of know by now if you are a dog or cat person? Acoustic or heavy metal? Missionary or on top? Organizer or hoarder? Founder’s Two-Hearted Ale, or Miller Lite? Bonus points for you if you picked Founder’s….chances are you’re not sure what it is, but you know you don’t like anything that tastes and looks like pee.  So, see? You know more about yourself than you think.

I’m pretty sure my peeps are not doing the Taylor Swift quizzes, but a zillion variations of, “what decade are you really from?, movie and media characters that reveal hidden traits, what city/country/type of house do you really belong in? to, “which pinklady from Grease are you?” Yes, it’s all there, along with results that are teeth-grittingly, annoyingly cliche’, and comments like: “Whaatt? This is sooo not me.”  Followed by a different, more desirable result: “Oh yes, this is sooo me. Spot on.”  Seriously. Some hack is probably looking up horoscopes and old Star magazine issues to make these questions up, in between taking hits off a joint, while fragile self-esteems hang in the balance.

Dear friends, please don’t get offended if you are one of these test-takers. I would be bummed if you unfriended me, I really would. I understand that completing the quizzes is likely “just for fun,” and that you are probably (I hope) not taking it seriously. But I have to say, if you spend more than one millisecond analyzing what the “results” mean…you have problems. In the insecurity realm, and toomuchtimeonyourhands kind of problems.

And now, I am one of those who have too much time on their hands, because I trolled until I found a suitable quiz to take. I surmised I had to, so this little piece would be unbiased. I settled on, “What kind of Sexy are you?”…thinking my husband might get a chuckle or two out of my outcome.

I knew immediately I was still in the inappropriate age category by the second question, “What is your secret fantasy?”

One of the choices was: “getting it on while his parents aren’t looking during their next holiday bash.” Even back in the day when this could have been a feasible option, I wouldn’t have found it a thrill. Fumbling, four minute sex? No thank you. So, I picked mile-high club. This is because I think at some point in the distant past, before I had ever seen that an airplane lavatory has enough space for an eight year old child, I thought it sounded fun. Now when I try to visualize it, I just picture Ebola germs and getting sucked down into that little bowl from the air pressure when you flush. Not exactly setting the mood.

After plodding through more unlikely scenarios, I anxiously awaited my results. Here is what it said: “You are Sweet Sexy! You romantic sentimental, you…you are the TAYLOR SWIFT go-to girl! Own your adorable-ness…it lures them in!” I swear to God, I am not making this up. It had to be the “What bra is your spirit animal?” question that did me in. I picked plain, unexciting white over black lace. I don’t like that scratchy stuff, even though it appears to drive men wild. Guess I have to own my adorable-ness to lure him in…lucky for me he’s an easy (and worthy) catch.

And now, the stress over being compared to the horribly dull Ms. Swift is driving me to crack open that Founder’s. Maybe I can drum up a quiz that could tell you which craft beer drinker you are, even if you aren’t. Now THAT would be something actually worth taking, with a result you could depend on. And trust me, your life would be vastly improved. Stay tuned…

Cheers!