Saturday, December 04, 2010

Christmas in Seattle

I went to the 3W/NSU Christmas Party alone. Because that's how I roll. Like 31 years of rolling like that. I didn't realize that basically everyone else there brought a guest until Rose, a nurse I'd never met, introduced herself to me, prompted me to smile and surprised me by snapping a picture. Of me. Alone. I don't want to smile, Rose! This is sad! It's Christmas, for crying out loud.

The party was at Pabla's Punjabi Palace in a strip mall by the airport. There was naan, daal, paneer masala, samosas, goat curry. All but the last of these are currently in my proximal esophagus. The Indian nurses from work were dressed beautifully in shimmering sarees, Baliwood movies played in the background; a group in sequined silver dancing around a prominent female, something about professional assassins killing a taxi driver's son, a girl in love with a boy named Amit.

We were encouraged to dance, and dance we did, to the most desultory mix of music I've ever heard: Michael Jackson's Billy Jean, Take a Chance on Me by ABBA, Hindi Pop, the Jackson 5, Thriller, more Hindi pop.

I think I'll remember the way the holidays were celebrated here.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Hypomania, perhaps?

I got SO MUCH done today.

Spent three hours getting my car worked on. Walked to Starbucks. Read half of the Diving Bell and the Butterfly (amazing so far, almost cried). Walked to HT Market to get Vietnamese sandwiches for the boys at the shop. Listened to David rant about Seattle taxpayers. Did my couch to 5k workout while David was replacing my thermostat. Drove to City People's to get a Christmas tree. Drove to another City People's to get a Christmas tree with the stand that the other location didn't have, which is why I went to that establishment in the first place. Drove said tree home. Did four loads of laundry. Cleared about 4 hours of TV (mostly Conan:) off the DVR. Decluttered my place, a decluttering that's needed to occur since I moved in 6 months ago. Decorated tree. Vacuumed. Went to the bank, twice. Went to three stores, purchased and replaced a track light. Watched most of three Christmas movies. Did dishes. And baked 4 dozen raspberry almond thumbprint cookies.

Thank you Jesus for a body that allows me to do this, the ability to get 12 hours of sleep on a weeknight! to fuel me, the inspiration to clean as great friends are visiting, and a job that I really, really enjoy and that allows me 4- 10 hour shifts.

The cute lil felted wool gnomes my mom sent me for my birthday ended up in my tree, and they're right at home there.


Hoarders


From December 30, 2009

I love my mom's family. They're crazy (the lovable kind). They grew up in McGrath, Minnesota, famous for the McGrath stone, population 62, listening to Bill Cosby records and screaming at the Beatles and dairy farming all the day long. 5 kids. "ValerieJaniceBarbaraGregoryKurt", my grandmother would call, meat and potatoes ready. I could listen to their stories forever I think, like how my mom and her sisters would launch overripe cucumbers at one another, yelling "Bombs over Tokyo", or read the typewriter correspondence between my mom and Kurt and their plans to fight in the haymow, Mohammed Ali-esque, Kurt touting that he'd be "fresh as a daisy" in the morning and would whoop her, despite being 5 years her junior. There was my surly teenage aunt Valerie, who instead of blistering her hands haying, would kneel in the grass, combing surreptitiously for four-leaf clovers; she had a penchant for Fredrick's of Hollywood magazines and false eyelashes, a far cry from the hackneyed labor required of a small but all-we-have farm in the sixties. Now she files her taxes in August and instead of washing her dishes, temporarily stores the dirty ones in broken-down cars in her yard at her woods-surrounded home.

My uncle Kurt is a veterinarian, has six kids, five of which he delivered himself. I suppose it's not all that different than, say, a cow. Smaller anyway. They turned out normal, one of whom is following in his father's footsteps, at least in the professional way.

When cleaning out my grandparents' house after they passed away, and finding a scrap of paper with my grandmother's hurried cursive reading "look at Greg's foot" (he non-figuratively shot himself while hunting as a kid), there was a lot of sentimental bric-a-brac that my mom and her sisters fought over. Santa and Mrs. Claus salt and pepper shakers, Depression-era rose hobnail glass, a sweet-pea pink McCoy tulip vase. These were "primo" items and caused much derision. After fighting mixed with laughter, one would ultimately acquiesce, and my aunt Barbara even renounced her grip on said salt and pepper shakers, as she knew my mom, who lives in a more central location, would hold family Christmases.

At any rate, the sisters seem to have a problem with vintage goods at best and really horrible no-good junk at worst. They collect it, so much so that my aunt Barbara, also a practicing veterinarian, turned a rental house into a storage house, and owns both a real and virtual shop where she sells the things she somehow relinquishes. My aunt Valerie has an inclination to "dumpster dive" (she also finds intricate spider webs in her house "beautiful" and great for decorating). My mom, well yes, she has a lot of things she doesn't need, but I wouldn't call it excessive. I however, am probably seeded with the sickness as well, which will only grow with time and nurturing.

Which leads me to the point. My mom received a letter from California yesterday from a PhD who is from the show "Hoarders" on A&E asking her and her sisters to be part of a special on familial Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. This woman mentioned several times that she is concerned for their "health and well-being". My mom laughed for five minutes straight. I don't know if they'll do it. It might be necessary.