One of my favorite things this December has been walking my granddaughter to the bus on mornings so crisp I can see her breath in the air. She skips and sings and hoots a reply to an owl in the distance. Before crossing the street, she shoots a grin at a twelve-foot skeleton left up from Halloween, looming in a neighbor’s yard across from the park. Now donned in a red skirt and Mrs. Claus cap, Skelley’s bony arms cradle a strand of bright lights, apropos for this season of the year.
Recently, Skelley’s homeowners, somewhat taken aback, used our neighborhood’s Facebook page to share the content of an unsigned letter they got in the mail. The letter referenced their lighting display, deeming it somewhat “evil and demonic.”
That post provoked its own sizzles and pops. Dozens—and dozens—of neighbors weighed in. One or two suggested the display was, well, “dumb,” but an overwhelming majority said they found Skelley fun. Inoffensive. No one else mentioned finding it “evil” or “demonic.”
Skelley reminds me we all see the seasons differently. And by that I mean life, because life passes in seasons, too. Trends come and go, whether we’re talking about cars and hair styles or outside Christmas lights and décor.
When I was a kid, December meant colored lights on the bushes as well as a light-up plastic Santa and sleigh and reindeer up on the rooftop just so. My stepdad did all the work, but he drew the line when my mom asked for stringed lights to line the roof’s edge. “That would be tacky,” he told her.
At some point, probably during my own young-mom season of life, I cringed at all the outdoor Santa displays. What about Jesus being the reason for the season? Then I befriended a woman who’d converted from Catholicism to Judaism. Personally, she found all the outside December lights and decor tasteless.
Ouch. But that’s what she felt in that season. Her season.
These days, I bask in my glorious grandparent season. I don’t let the tangles and knots of the holiday lights stress me out too much. Granted, I am still struggling to warm to all the new-fangled inflatables. I know, I know, a lot of folks love ‘em. Maybe it’s because I’m older—or as my granddaughter’s learned to phrase it, golden—but in my mind, inflatables are the mullet hairstyle of holiday lighting. With luck, they’re just a fad that will pass. Eventually. God willing. Maybe they’ll even stay good and gone. Unlike the mullet.
This season, though, what the heck? Bring on the inflatables…the abundance of lights…Skelley and Santa. The Nativity, too, please. (Although, I confess, I struggle with questions about that in this latest season of mine. Like, why do we celebrate Jesus’s birth in the winter instead of the spring? And how is it Mary and Joseph, despite their long journey, remain so clean? And Caucasian?)
But enough already. I count myself lucky to celebrate yet another season. I’m happy to string my white lights and fake greenery, even if down the street, Skelley stands prouder, her light strand more vibrant and fun. So be it. We don’t have to decorate cookie-cutter style in this ‘hood.
And that, my friend, is just one sweet thing I'm celebrating during this joyful season.
What is it about condoms that makes me giggle? Certainly not their importance or efficacy.
As a mom of three grown adults, I remember cringing more than laughing back in their teenage days, when Santa tucked a condom into each of their Christmas stockings.
“I’d rather you not need them,” I said. “But for heaven’s sake, if you’re going to do it, make sure you are safe.”
It’s been a lotta years since I—er, Santa—stuffed those kids’ stockings with golden protection. In fact, I haven’t walked down a condom aisle at the grocery store since, well, let’s see, maybe 2007?
So when I found myself on a mission recently—in search of unlubricated condoms, no less—I felt rusty about my skillset in picking them out. And, I confess, a little giggly, too. That’s why I asked the Riceman to help me.
“I am not going to buy your condoms for you,” he said in a huff.
True, the condoms were for me, or rather for my boat, which I was getting ready to winterize. Rice is a landlubber so I often ask our daughter Alex, rather than her father, to help me remove the battery for winter and wrap the remaining electrical cables in Ziploc bags.
“At my age!” Rice wasn’t about to let this go. “What will people think?”
I would’ve thought he’d be flattered, having the sales folks at Publix think of him and condoms in the same sentence. Especially at his age. Never mind, though. I’m starting to creep myself out. Let’s move on.
To Rice’s credit, when he came home from Publix, he told me he had, in fact, searched the pharmacy aisles while waiting for his prescription.
“No luck,” he said. “And before you accuse me of looking ‘like a man,’”—in our house, that means barely looking—“I went so far as to ask the cashier about them at checkout time.”
The cashier confirmed what Rice suspected. The grocery store didn’t carry unlubricated condoms. That’s Rice’s story, at least, and for the sake of family unity, I didn’t press further.
But…back to the post autumn equinox condom caper. I needed those condoms damned quick, as I wanted to winterize the boat the next day. So I texted Alex for help. After all, she’s the one who told me that unlubricated condoms are often used by audio operators working out in the elements. If they’re good for protecting audio cords, why not boat cables?
Our text thread follows:
Me: Dad’s having trouble (and moments of embarrassment) trying to find unlubricated condoms.
Her: That’s because they should never be used (outside of audio work.)
Me: So…where do you suggest I get ‘em?
Her: Are you asking your lesbian daughter where to buy condoms?
Me: Yes! Since she’s the one who suggested I get them in the first place.
After several minutes, she texted me back again.
Her: Called my audio buddy. He says they’re increasingly hard to find. He’s going to send me a number to an audio place that might know. But I wouldn’t stress if we can’t get them. I just thought they might work better than Ziploc bags.
The next day, Alex met me at the dock, five packs of unlubricated condoms in hand.
“What do I owe you?” I asked, wondering why we needed five.
“This round’s on me,” she said. “But just FYI, they’re available on-line in bulk. Fifty for fifteen bucks.”
Interesting, but most likely moot. This round I needed only two. At two per year, a bulk purchase would reap twenty-five years’ worth of condoms, likely outliving my boat. Or worse, they’d disintegrate before I could even try to give them away.
But…may I say this? Those babies worked like a charm. When I wrapped one around two electrical cables, they stretched out as needed, which was a lot. And when I wanted that same condom extra snug to form a seal with electrical tape around the cables…well, I felt more confident than I have in years.
“Will you have the same guys tune the boat next spring?” Alex asked as I wrapped the second set of cables.
“Probably,” I said. “They did a good job last year.”
“Do you plan to let them know what they’ll find when they go to put a new battery in?”
“They’ve probably seen it all before.” I shrugged. “But…I might tell them that if they like my water-safe set-up, then I’m their gal.” I grinned. “I know how to get those unlubed babies in bulk for cheap, after all.”
The other morning, I woke up slowly, more so than usual. My other half stood in the doorway to our bedroom, his grin wide, a glint in his eyes. Half-awake, I struggled to make out the clock and drag my sorry self into a sitting position. I squinted at Rice, suspicious.
“You must have had quite a dream last night.” He walked in and kissed me.
I returned his greeting with all the love I could muster. “Huh?”
His smile was now more of a smirk. “You let me snuggle up to you to get warm. We were all nice and cozy, and then you mumbled, ‘I hate people.’”
I squirmed. “I did not say that.”
“Oh, but you did,” he assured me. “You didn’t say it meanly. Just sort of under your breath, like how you get when someone makes a thoughtless comment or starts to act rude for no reason.”
Gradually, it started to come back to me. “I was trying to tell you something, but I knew I wasn’t making sense. And that’s what I hated. Not people. Just all the busy-ness in my head.”
“Well,”—he squeezed my hand—"speaking of busy-ness, she’s already here.”
I nodded, knowing exactly what he meant, accepting his unspoken gift with gratitude. A touch of quiet before heading downstairs to my 6:30 weekday morning routine. A sip of hot coffee while brushing my granddaughter Charli’s hair. A little more coffee while she ate her breakfast, then time for our game of Two Truths and a Lie.
Charli: “This morning I woke up, got dressed, and then fed my unicorn.”
Me: “I think the part about the unicorn might be your lie.”
Charli: “Ding-ding-ding. You’re right.” She giggled. Hard.
After that, she walked to the bus, checking out constellations with her Big Daddy. They passed the park as the day broke. Peaceful. On its own clock.
Alone again, my heart was full, as it often is. I’m thankful for that.
Yet sometimes my full heart leaves my restless soul hungry for even more quiet. Like a couple mornings later, when our ritual repeated.
Me: “Today I’m going to go shopping, have lunch with my Happy Hour, and go see the Barbie movie.”
Charlie: “I think the shopping part is your lie.”
Me: “Buzzzzzzzz. Good guess, but you’re wrong.” (It was a good guess as she knows I hate shopping.) “My lie was about the Barbie movie. I already saw it, remember?”
Charlie: “Oh, yeah.” She giggled. “I hope you have fun with your Happy Hour.”
I hoped so, too, because that lunch came during a week filled with busy-ness. Not just the routine stuff, but extras as well…for each and every one of us scheduled for that lunch. We squeezed it between appointments for haircuts and crowns. Around babysitting the grands and visiting doctors. Making time for another friend’s birthday dinner. An elderly parent’s fall.
It’s all good, though. That elderly parent bounced back well—yay, Rita!—and our Happy Hour did have fun. Plus, we didn’t just squeeze in one lunch. We made time for even more.
Granted, it took a special telephone call to make it happen. No emergency, thankfully. Just a "How 'bout I come to visit soon?" call from Debra, one of our Happy Hour foursome, which is still going strong after thirty-two years. Okay, we’re not quite as strong as back in the day. Lunch plans now require buying a round-trip plane ticket, dealing with TSA, figuring out who will brave Atlanta traffic to and from Hartsfield-Jackson, juggling schedules….
In other words, nothing earthshaking. Just life.
So…truth or lie: Life is just a big ol’ blob of busy-ness.
If you’re like me, you’re probably shouting, “Yes!”
Then again, it’s all good. Because sometimes, a little more busy-ness is just what it takes to keep our hearts full.
#
[Pssssst: Thank you for reading this. If you haven't already signed up to receive my blog direct to your mailbox each month, you can do so now by going to the CONTACT button at the top of this post. Thanks! Cheers ~ J]
