Angry Mama

"It's you!" my beloved child said to me, pointing and squealing in delight. "It's short. It has red hair and it's angry."

Working hard to be affronted, I said, "I'm not always angry."

Ali laughed. "It's SO you."

The "you" being discussed is what may be the most remarkable Christmas gift of the season: the Angry Mama stocking stuffer, which according to word on the street, is an effective and entertaining microwave cleaner. I don't have hard evidence, just two reviews from others who also received the item in their stocking and have used it.

Her head apparently spins around for 7 minutes while she squirts a vinegar and water mixture around.

I, for once, have a stunningly clean microwave already thanks to an explosion involving something red and sticky that happened just before we left for Christmas at home in Maine. I'll have to wait for a day or so for another catastrophe in our microwave.

For the record, I do, on the rare occasion, get angry. My head does not spin around, though, no matter what Ali and Jeff may claim.

In other news, we had a great time in Maine. Grandpa claims the crustaceans off the coast will be watching for Alison's return, and he may be on to something. On the way out, we discovered Gaicha Sushi at the Baltimore airport. It's worth planning your connections in Baltimore. On our return trip, the manager remembered us, and we had another lovely meal, including a sample of a new menu item. Ali can eat her weigh in just about any dish she likes, and she's getting more adventurous of late.

She left behind a mountain of hard shell crab at our annual Christmas Eve at a Chinese buffet in Portland. She munched on a softshell crab on the way home.

She worked a little of it off breaking ice up on the driveway. There was a ton of snow, which was pretty and only hazardous a couple of the days. I helped with the driveway and served as a craft beer mule for Jeff, who was determined to visit new and exciting breweries and beer outlets while he was there. We went with three suitcases of clothes, gifts and a few beers he took to share with other beer nerds he was planning to visit. We came home with six suitcases.

I think there was at least an equal ratio of Christmas gifts to beer, but I wouldn't be surprised if the beer edged the gifts out.

While waiting for one of the breweries to open its new release sales, I stood with Jeff who had made beer friends with a young couple behind us. They'd driven up from Connecticut and this was their second stop of the day. We'd passed a jack-knifed semi that had crashed into a sedan, a car that was on its roof in a ditch and a handful of other cars that had slid off the turnpike due to snow and sleet.

The young woman behind us asked if we were going to hang a while and sample the beer as well as buying the coveted new bottles or cans. It's possible I channeled the Angry Mama when I declined for the both of us before Jeff could reply.

She looked at me like I was the mean mom who didn't let her kids play in the rain. Maybe so, chickie, but there was no way I was making a call home to Grandpa telling him we'd crashed the car and were calling from the local county lock-up.

Harumph!

We may have done our best work in the cookie department this year. I had earlier reported to Ali that Auntie Jen was asking if we still wanted to make cookies. It's a tradition we started back when Ali was about two or so and horrified her Grammie by her less-than-precise cookie cutting and insistence on licking the icing spoons.

"Uh, duh!" was Ali's reply to the hint of a suggestion that we might not want to invade Jen's kitchen.

 In other traditions, Alison dragged out the dominoes. Grandpa long ago resigned himself to being bested by the reigning champ, and it was another year for Ali to triumph. We only played five rounds and while Grandpa managed to start each game by having the right doubles, that was his only luck.

Grammie taught Ali to play, and I'm convinced passed along her cutthroat approach to the game. Here they are, back in the day. you be the judge.

 On the other hand....

 

Hope your Christmas was great and you have only high-fives in the new year.

The Whole Package

Ali had a big swim meet yesterday -- did pretty well; improved on her times -- and her body is still demanding that it be rewarded.

I came back from the gym this morning to find her spreading Nutella on just toasted mini-waffles and using them to make ice-cream breakfast sandwiches.

"Did you put some banana on that to at least pretend it's healthy?" I asked.

"No," she mumbled with a mouthful of sugar and fat. "But that would have been a good idea."

She then decided we needed provisions to get us to Zionsville for a performance of The Nutcracker. That turned out to be two pretzel rolls, one of which she ate on the way. Then, she had a bag of chips and half a package of Starburst. She wondered if we could stop for a snack on the way home.

We didn't stop, as dinner isn't far off, but she could have easily eaten on the way to, home and had dinner too. All that and she is a tall, thin, muscular stick. It's sometimes hard to like her.

We had a great time at the ballet. Alison has great posture and is often very graceful. (When she's not belching as loud as she can, that is.) I can barely put one foot in front of the other without falling down.

We'd gone, primarily, to see my friend Vicki's daughter, Audrey, who was stupendous. I was bragging about how great Audrey is, basing my commentary on what I've seen and heard from Vicki. Ali listened attentively and checked out the program photo I showed her.

"Yeah," Ali agreed that she sure looked the part of a professional dancer. "I bet I would blow her away in the water, though," she remarked, thoughtfully.

I took that as a cue to focus on my own child for a while...

The girls have never met. I think if they ever do, they'd like each other. They're different enough that they'd have stuff to talk about and similar enough to like each other. God forbid their mothers arrange their meeting. That only worked when she was 4.

In other family conversation, Jeff and I were talking about something the other day that I had done well. I don't remember what it was, but it earned me a pat on the head and the comment that I'm
"more than just a pretty face."

“Oh, yeah, Yeah, I’m the whole package,” I agreed. Because, well, sometimes even a blind squirrel finds an acorn.

"Hey now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said the Captain who had a different nickname before we knew of his military service and that became his nom de plume. “ I’m the Package.”

My Postal Carrier's Name is John

I've learned a lot about my neighborhood in the past seven months or so.

More of my neighbors work from home than I knew. Most of them are awesome people. I don't have one I don't like. And our postal carrier's name is John.

I've known John for about 12 years, and I'm pretty sure he's liked me (and us) from the start. But it was only this week that I learned his name. Yes. Shame on me.

Why he would like me: In the winter when it snowed, we always shoveled a path for him from our west-side neighbor's house to ours and then to our east-side neighbor's house. And regardless of the season, if Ali has baked some goodies and I'm home when he comes to the door, I always share.

I remember the time he found me mowing my neighbor's yard and said, "Hey, you don't live there."

That might have been the first time it occurred to me that while I had been smiling and nodding at this guy for a long time, I didn't know his name. I don't know how many times I've thought to myself that I should know his name. It became too awkward to ask.

Besides, ours was a fly-by-night kind of relationship. I'd seem him fleetingly when I was doing chores in the yard and he was on his rounds.

This summer, I've seen him a lot more than I ever have in the past. I'm generally working at the kitchen counter, so I see him coming. Unless I'm on a call or absorbed, I meet him at the door. If I have them, I give him cookies and cupcakes. We chat about this and that.

When Ali broke her collarbone, she and I walked a gift over to the people who'd helped her. He saw us from a street away and he stopped his truck to see what we were doing. He commiserated with Ali and told her she'd be just fine. He'd had a similar injury. She had been super worried about always having a knot poking out. He made her feel a lot better about it.

I was walking to the mailbox the other day with Christmas cards for the mailbox (Yes, Amer, I did it.) and it was super cold. My plan was to get in a few steps to shut my FitBit up. A block away, I ran into him and he suggested that I might want to just give them to him and go get warm.

That afternoon, I lamented to Ali that I needed to break down and confess that I didn't know his name. I knew that he's an Army vet. I knew he likes chocolate. How could I not know his name?

"It's not that big a deal, Mom," she said. "Just ask him."

So I did. He laughed and said it was no big deal, "I've only been coming by for 12 years."

Ha. He's funny, too.

I don't know that me wanting to know his name meant anything to him. For all I know, I'm the most annoying stop in the neighborhood.

If you have a person in your life like this, there's no better season than to toss your awkward self to the curb. People deserve to have folks know their name. Except crappy people. Keep away from them.

I don't have a photo of John. That would be a step too far. But I do have the shot below. Ali and Jeff were twins in gray shirts and flannel the other day. They refused to pose for me. (That's borderline crappy...)