…and a fat squirrel in an oak tree

Skyway Drive 061

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me… comedy. In the form of volunteering to shop with our nephews.


Christmas this year… well, it happened, but after we put in the requisite time for programs and celebrations, we missed a lot of the spirit of it. Our last concert was the 17th, with lovely brass, bells, and organ, and then we dove into a round of lab visits, specimen samples, and recovery rooms. Swallowing a camera during an endoscopy is, apparently, not something you remember clearly when you wake up, but the photographs of the inside of one’s abdominal caverns is usefully interesting, if not truly illuminating. (“What’s it supposed to look like?!”) Himself has had a lot of trouble eating and keeping food where it’s meant to be, so we’ve been in kind of a quiet blind panic of medical visits. None of the signs of cancer have been found, though, thank you for your concern. We are taking it all very seriously, even if we haven’t been that forthcoming with it in person.

Anyway, by the time the actual holiday arrived, we were exhausted from stress and worry and work nonsense, and so took a day off. We were so grateful for people giving to us – a lovely church service where we didn’t have to do anything but sit and take it in, people sending cards and fun gifts, far too much See’s candy that we didn’t regift, but ATE… And it was Good.

As we recovered, we asked family what we could give them as gifts, and as usual, most of our family said a lot of “Meh,” which is what our family has always done, which is why we tend to get together seriously at Thanksgiving, and spend Christmas a.) avoiding each other, b.) taking long walks, c.) staying in bed, d.)watching movies and e.) arguing about Scrabble points. But, as a mother of growing boys, T’s sister asked for new church clothes for the boys, as protruding wrists and ankles are heralding the newest growth spurts, so T dutifully asked for sizes, and ran into the wall of, “well, that depends on…” and so D said, “Oh, I’ll just take them shopping. Just give me a list, and I’ll take them around and get them a few things.” He also said it’d probably take him an hour.

Theories are great things. But sometimes they don’t take into account, like, reality.

“I have a list, it’ll be quick,” does not take into account the temperaments of a dreamy eleven year old, and a zippy, bounce-around-the-store-because-I-already-tried-it-on-once nine-year old. Theories do not take into account conscientious adults trying to allow children to make decisions, because adults all too often make decisions for children for the sake of expediency (and having the decision made before one expires of old age). There is valuable entertainment to be had in watching expectation collide with reality sometimes. This was one of those times.

D. had already decided to make a whole day policy of not rushing the boys, because there was no true time limit for the shopping day, so he just… waited… while… they… made… up… their… minds. At Jamba Juice. At DSW. At Old Navy.

He regretted this choice. Frequently.

He also regretted that he hadn’t any understanding of shopping for children. The texts came thick and fast: Did you know kids’ jeans don’t have inseam measurements!? How does anyone know what size they wear?” and “I have located a pair of pants, found an empty changing room, tried on a pair of pants, texted you a picture of them, folded them, and returned them to the shelf and that child is still trying one the same shirt How does that one shirt take ten minutes?” and that sort of thing. Those left at home were doing a lot of snickering.

At any rate, the subsequent fashion show went swimmingly, as the boys modeled their new clothing, and the adults sat in various stages of exhaustion in the living room and provided the appropriate drumrolls and applause as the boys emerged from the den. And all went well until we heard older brother say to little brother, “Those aren’t going to fit. You can’t do up the button.”

From the front room, Himself yells, “WHAT!? I had you try on EVERYTHING! How can something not FIT!?”

Ominous silence.

Then, little brother, “Um… Mom…?”

Amid protests from older brother that she’s not “talent” and “only talent is allowed backstage,” T’s sister goes into the den, and lo and behold, a pair of pants doesn’t fit little brother. Which he tried on. And pulled his shirt down over because it wouldn’t button.

Cue myriad exclamations from the adults. “But, why would you do that? You were in a store. You could have just gotten the next size up.”

*Hazel brown eyes blink blank incomprehension*

T asks, “Do you know why you try on clothes at the store?”

Still with the Bambi eyes. “Um… no?”

All eyes turn to Mom, who sighs, and rolls her eyes. “That’s my boy,” she says.

Himself thrusts the receipt into his sister-in-law’s hands. “You’re on your own,” he says. “I don’t do returns.”

Himself says the boys were every bit as good as they could be, and that he’d take them shopping again in a heartbeat… He just needs at least a year’s recovery time. At least.

Skyway Drive 056


On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me… wine. SO. MUCH. WINE.

Corporate America continues to reveal its clueless, tone-deaf self in terms of gifts; we have now four (4) bottles of wine D’s been given, plus two T’s eldest sister doesn’t know what to do with. Given the number of D’s Hindu and Muslim coworkers, it is truly astonishing that someone in HR still clings to the idea that Wine is great! Sure, it’s perfectly appropriate; EVERYONE will want this…” but that seems to be the case.

After awkwardly accepting yet another bottle of, what we’ve been assured is some Very Fine Vintage, we’ve been Googling What To Do With Wine pretty thoroughly. White wine lends itself more easily to cooking and to cleaning, but for whatever reason, all of our gifts this year are reds. However, Martha Stewart suggests reds for crock-pot roasts of meat or bean-and-bay leaf stews, or for red cabbage and apples, as well as for simmering a dried fruit compote, with dried cranberries or sour cherries. Once wine reduces, it’s apparently quite sweet. (The good news is that not only does the alcohol dissipate when heated, but the sulfites do, too – so allergy sufferers, rejoice.) We’ve also found recipes for red wine vinegar, chocolate cake, pancake syrup, lentils, jellies, gravies and sauces. D has produced an amazingly good olive rosemary bread with a fine crumb and a hint of garlic – and that all the liquid in the bread was red wine has so far made no discernible difference in flavor – but it might help it keep longer, who knows.

Additionally, wine apparently makes a good skin toner, or you can pour it into a hot bath to soften skin and clear up psoriasis, though we’ll believe that when we see it. It’s allegedly useful for cleaning produce and it makes an amazing fertilizer, apparently. While white wine is known to remove stains, red wine makes a great dye. Will you now please cue a little 90’s era comet blaze across your inner eye, emblazoned with the words, *The More You Know…. Thank you.


And so we conclude: It is not yet New Year’s; somehow, 2018 is still clinging like a viscous film to our brains. We’ll try again at Lunar New Year to see if we feel fresh and at all different in the Year of the Boar. Somehow, we have our doubts. For now, we’ll stick with merely wishing you a Happy Wednesday.

2 Replies to “…and a fat squirrel in an oak tree”

  1. This story just gets funnier each time I read it. Bless his heart for bravely wading into the retail world this week!

    Red wine also can be regifted nicely.

    And yes, I am SO much more about the Lunar New Year celebrating.

    1. @divatobe: Oh! Yes! I neglected to mention that the last four bottles have NO LABEL. The caterer for the big, fancy, expensive holiday party in SF bought wine wholesale from a vintner… thus no labels. The extras were given to each department, and then passed out from there. So… yeah. It’s a bit awkward to regift something when you’re not sure of the name/provenance of said wine…

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