Christmas Gift Fails

I’m crap at Christmas presents. Well, that’s not exactly true. I actually enjoy buying stuff for people. It satisfies my second-X-chromosome connected need to shop, neatly combining it with my equally second-X-chromosome-connected need to please other people. And I delight in finding gifts that match my friends and family, I really do. There’s a kind of creative satisfaction in it. Don’t ever get me started on the whole ‘just give them a gift card’ copout… which is only marginally better than the ‘ask them what they want’ scenario. And as for the ‘go buy yourself something and I’ll wrap it’ shirk… Pffft…  But that’s a whole other story, what I want to tell you about are the two ways that I’m crap at Christmas presents.

The first of my Christmas gifting fails is due to the fact that I’m not a last-minute-impulse gift buyer. I’m a yearlong purchaser-hoarder. Whenever I see something that I think will be just right for X, I get it right then and there. And then I stash it away and forget what the hell I’ve already bought… and I go on squirreling merrily away until some time in late November, when I spread out the plunder and start the annual pre-Christmas-wrapping self-flagellation ritual.

Really? Is she really going to like that?

Am I thinking that’s perfect for him because I’ve already given him one of those?

Is this enough?

Is that too much?

Should I swap that for a blue one?

You know how it goes. And it goes on and on and on until I finally bite the bullet and begin the annual Christmas-wrapping ritual —which involves lots of tinsel and glittering, colour-coordinated ribboning and black-and-white movie watching. Very therapeutic.

Once everything’s wrapped, the panic subsides… Sort of.

The second way I’m absolutely crap at Christmas presents is very closely allied to the first way I’m crap at Christmas presents. You see, because I have this stockpile of great stuff that they’re gonna just love, it’s as if I have premature-gift-ejaculation-syndrome.

If, at any time …any time at all… not birthday, not holidays, not any damn special celebration of even the most miniscule kind… if I happen to spend time with this person and they even kind of sort of maybe vaguely hint at something that kind of sort of maybe reminds me of the thing I have amassed in my hoard, I’ll go get it and give it to them right away. Yep. I just hand it over with a stupid grin and it’s all over. In an instant.

I don’t think I’m Robinson Crusoe here. There must be others who share my Christmas-crappiness and there probably isn’t a double-X chromosome bearing human being alive who doesn’t experience some sort of anxiety about the whole festive season thing. That’s why champagne and chocolate were invented, right?

Dropping the f-bomb

I think I broke my mother. Well, not broke her exactly. Maybe cracked her a bit.  Corrupted her a wee tad. And it’s all because of my penchant for bad language.

I say fuck a lot. I say fuck a real lot. In fact, I say fuck so fucking often that my mother has become desensitised to hearing me say it. She no longer tut-tuts, or reminds me to watch my mouth. She doesn’t give me a disapproving look. She doesn’t even flinch. You know how there’s been about fifteen million pieces of research into how constant exposure to brutally graphic computer games and death metal causes teenage boys to become indifferent to violence? Well, it’s like I’m the Postal 2 of language and she’s Justin Bieber. Truly. These days, sometimes she even SAYS fuck.

When I was growing up, our household was the quintessential middle-class suburban family. No swearing was tolerated. I distinctly remember being dragged to the pink pedestal basin when I was eight or nine to have my mouth washed out with soap. I don’t recall what I said. It might have been shit. Or bugger. It might even have been shut-up — back in the 1960s  shut-up was considered offensive language. But it most certainly would not have been fuck. Fuck came much later. If it’d been fuck I might have had to eat mustard.

We had a swear jar too. For years we all had to pay a fine every time we dropped a swear word in the house. Even Dad. If I implemented one of those in my house, we'd be neck deep in gold coins in no time.

There were also words that were not cussing or blasphemy that were forbidden. Mum couldn’t abide the word fart, for instance. It was vulgar. Crude. Unacceptable. It was right up there on her Top 10 Things Never to be Said. Or done. Actually, it was probably in the Top 5 Never to be Done. Although she did let one slip one time. Just the once.

She was clearing the table, carrying the dirty plates to the sink. She had her back to us. She must have. Because I can remember staring at the bow that held her apron tight. My brother and I were too shocked to laugh. It was as if the Queen had ended her Christmas message by mooning the Commonwealth. Unthinkable. But she didn’t acknowledge it in any way. There was no pardon me for the fluff/bottom burp/ pop-off (all of which terms could be used free of charge). She just pretended it never happened.

I discovered that other families outlawed particular words too. One mother I met disallowed the word stupid. Seriously. The designated replacement word was silly. How fucking ridiculous is that?

I guess it was probably while I was at uni that fuck became part of my daily lexicon. Ironic really. The more I studied language, the worse mine became. But I’m living, walking confutation of the theory that people who swear have a poor vocabulary thus are unable to express themselves any other way. I’m proof that it’s not only the uneducated who drop f-bombs into everyday sentences. And I make no apologies for it. 

But I am sorry that I broke my mum. Really I am. She used to be such a nice little lady before she met me.

A kestrel for a wench

A small kestrel hawk hovers outside my study window. She hangs in the air, only the tips of her wings quivering almost imperceptibly as she fixes her sights on the something in the grass that will be her meal.  Freedom, power, fearlessness — she is all of these. But she does not glower with menace, for she is also patience and grace.

Why do I assume her to be female? Is it her determination? Her single-mindedness? Or merely her beauty?  Her size? Perhaps I confuse her with the doomed creature in A Kestrel for a Knave. There is no logic in my choice. And yet I am certain.

Magpies, gulls, even mud larks and swallows dart and dive about her, trying to distract her from her task, to divert her attention and repel her from their patch. But she is not pressed. She will not be moved. She will fold her elegant wings and dive only when the time is right, or stretch them further and beat in a wheeling turn that carries her to another possibility.

Sometimes, if I am lucky, she will settle just beyond my frame of glass and I am utterly awed. I understand in every cell of my being how Hopkins 'Stirred for a bird, —the achieve of; the mastery of the thing'. 

And I feel blessed.

 

I used to be a christmas tree nazi

I used to be a Christmas tree Nazi. I really did. When Number 1 son was just a little bloke, I would climb the step-stool to hang the lights and then he would cheerfully loop all his favourite ornaments around the branches he could reach. The lower branches would be a festive cacophony, while the top remained tastefully minimal. 

There would be mutual congratulation and plentiful admiration. And then, as soon as he was in bed, I would begin to rearrange, relocate and reduce. Every year. Without fail. On the first Saturday of December. 

Shame on me.

Today, when Dr Dad and I went down to select the tree from the local farm, Mr 16 didn't want to come. He can't cope with watching the ceremonial chopping down of the tree. It makes his heart ache to think that this glorious green-scented beauty must sacrifice  four years of development for our Yule-time pleasure. He can't watch.

 So when I finally collected the dusty boxes marked 'Super Fragile' from the shed, it was only child number three, Girlchild — Miss 14, who was keen to be part of the annual decorating ritual.

Like me, she revels in the rediscovery of the treasures that have been boxed away all year. But she's not systematic or ordered about it. She bounced joyfully between the boxes and the tree, leaving a trail of bubble-wrap in her wake, singing as she went or chatting incessantly over the soundtrack of the cheesy Christmas movie I had chosen. I just sat and watched.

Number one son is already 31 years old and long gone. Mr 16 is a planet who spins in his own solar system. My baby girl is already a teenager. I didn't want to do anything to break the spell.

Finally, as she appraised her handiwork, she expressed how glad that she feels that we don't have one of those catalogue trees made of plastic. Or worse, one like the silver tinsel and wire thing that Grandma has because pine needles make too much mess. Or a perfectly co-ordinated affair, each year a different matching pair of colours: red and gold, green and silver, pink and blue. Like a department store. I always admire those glamorous creations; they're so thoughtfully designed and perfectly balanced. But I too love our mismatched tree. It speaks of my life.

Whenever I have travelled, since my first overseas trip, I have collected ornaments for the tree.  A Tiffany's box from New York, pandas from China, an embroidered royal tea cup from London, Pinocchio from Milan, satin balls from Beijing, beaded beauties from East Africa, silk animals from Malaysia and Korea, hand-painted balls from Paris and Washington, angels from Indonesia. Every one of them tells its own story.

Then there are all the gifts I have received over the years. Irreplaceable hand-made jewels, delicate glass baubles that belie the enduring strength of true friendship, and lovingly chosen ornaments that reflect how well others know me... like the frankfurt Karin brought me from Germany.  Impossible not to smile.


So this year I think I should apologise to Number 1 son for all those years of insulting his aesthetics. It really would have been magic if all three of them had been here to trim the tree together. 

Maybe next year.

Long Distance Love

Just recently, Dr Dad returned from a business trip to the other side of the globe. When he’s home, he hates to shop. Despises it. To be perfectly honest, as much as the weekly supermarket visit makes me want to bellow “Who died and left me in charge of trivia?!?…” it’s even more painful when he comes to help.

After almost thirty years of living with me, he still seems to think that the shopping list is a complete and total inventory of every item that we actually need/ will probably run out of/might fancy nibbling on at some stage. Nor does he have the vaguest understanding of how two teenagers can stand staring into the expanse of a vast fully stacked pantry and a double-door fridge that is groaning under the weight of stunning seasonal fruits and vegetables and declare disgustedly that there’s never anything to eat.  I swear; if you ever hear that the end of the world is nigh, head on down to our place. There’s enough in our cupboards to keep us all going until the smoke clears.

But truthfully, he whips that trolley around the supermarket aisles so damned quickly that on a number of occasions I have had to ask if I had missed the news that the sky was going to fall at 11:13 precisely, or whether he was just shooting for a personal best.  

When he’s away, however, if time allows, he shops for gifts to bring back for us. It’s kind of sweet, really.  I guess the habit harks back to those days when the kids missed him when he wasn’t around. Way back in the days when they made those ‘Welcome home, Daddy’ banners and knocked him over with enthusiasm as he came through the door. He’d let them rummage through his bag full of random documents and dirty business shirts for their surprises. A reward for each of them for being good while Daddy was away, and a prize for me for surviving.

He has no idea that these days they don’t even notice he’s not around.

This time, he arrived home in the wee small hours. We were all snoring. Even the dogs didn’t stir as he tiptoed in. But he did his wonderful good-dad thing, despite having been travelling for almost 27 hours straight, and before falling unconscious into the bed next to me ( by this stage I was, of course, just pretending to be asleep because surely nobody wants a welcome back kiss from someone with evil bed-breath)…before falling into the depths of jet-lagged darkness, he had begun to unpack his bag.

So that when we got up in the morning, there it was. His London shopping. Spread out on the table in neatly ordered groups so that we knew who was getting what. His way of telling us that he loves us and he missed us. 

You won't be surprised to hear that the Bombay Sapphire and wrinkle creams are for me. 

The Blog of Eternal Stench

From overload to withdrawal… that’s how it feels having completed the November Nablahblah blogging challenge and then taken a few days to cogitate on why and what and whether I’d do it again… And I have to confess, I find myself back in the same sort of mess I was in before I started.

During November, I took a tangled ball of yarn — different colours, different textures, different ply —  and managed to extricate enough usable lengths to knit thirty squares of varying sizes. Disparate patterns. Some more pleasing than others but all of them creatively challenging and, to some degree, satisfying.

Word by sentence, I knitted my way around the maze of beginning a blog, through the labyrinth of self-doubt. I turned at the prickly hedges of uncertainty and increased beyond the black holes of despair. And at the end of the month, I cast-off with a sigh. Challenge met. Indeed, more than that, I felt some degree of joy and pride that I had developed new skills, practised some old ones, and met some talented and like-minded writers …and readers…along the way.

But in the four days since I stopped, I’ve fallen back into the Bog of Eternal Stench. And I'm pretty sure I dropped all the squares in too.

 

It wasn't actually my idea to write every day for thirty days. That's something else I fell into. At the Gunnas Writing Masterclass I attended back in September, Catherine Deveny talked about Blogher.com and how November was to be the month of writing. She told me about the challenge in that writing workshop I hated... the one I cried for a week after... the one where I was sure I felt my arse hit rock bottom. 

And then on October 31st, Gael over at The Vinyl Edition sent me a message to say she was going to give Nablopomo November a go. So I said I'd join her. Just like that. Why not?  Nothing to lose. Stop being a gunna. Maybe it really would help the happy hormones surge. Maybe I could find an opening for the light to shine in on the demons of the dark space inside my head. And for the most part, it did.

And yes, I met some 'incredibly helpful' worms along the way.





But this week, I fell back into the stinking quagmire of uncertainty. My bog of qualms. 

After my month of blogging, I still have fewer followers than you can count on one hand. I spent November reading and commenting on all sorts of blogs. Learning about what others do. Hearing what others say. But numerically, I failed. 

During the month, I found myself checking daily to see if anyone had visited my post, left a comment, noticed me. Pathetic. Embarrassing. Needy. Fail.

History repeated, regurgitating images and feelings from that time nearly fifteen years ago when we lived in a towering apartment block in Kuala Lumpur and I would click on the dial-up link every time I walked past the laptop...every time... hoping for an email from home. A connection to outside. Proof that I exist.



So in the past few days, I have examined my ugly need for validation. I have confronted the shallowness of my not having grown out of the need for approval. I have stared at the bubbling mud and breathed in the rancid fumes of self-loathing at my blog of eternal stench...

And I have decided that I will just keep on going until I reach the castle.

...the applause jobs

Somehow I’m often the person in the line who doesn’t step backwards when a volunteer to do a particular less than glamorous job is needed. Yep… just call me Muggins  —it’s a whole lot nicer than a heap of other names I’ve been called over the years. And I’m not playing my tiny violin or trying to pump up my own tyres here, truly I’m not. What I’m actually trying to get at, and Part II of the Legend of Lawnmower Man, has to do with what I call applause jobs.  

                                  

 Any SAHM will understand what I’m trying to say, and working mums will get it entirely. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the trait I'm going to expose is connected to the Y-chromosome. 

 Yes, I will own that I’m being just a wee tad on the sexist side of politically correct here. OK. More than a wee tad. A shitload. But I’m not going to take it back. Not ever ever ever… So there… And you can’t make me. Because, with apologies to Jane,it is a truth universally acknowledged that even a man in possession of a good wife needs applause.

One of the reasons Dr Dad loves to mow the grass on his Yee-hah-check-me-out red ride-on lawnmower is that after he’s finished, everyone can tell what he’s been doing. He is rewarded with:

“Wow! That looks great.”

“Gee, how long does it take you?”

“Gosh, it must be hard to keep all of this in check.”

 There’s no applause for any of these:

Source: www.thestyleproject.com.au

www.charlottefloordesign.com

                  

 

  Source: www.motherjones.com 

Source: www.bionicafitwarrior.com

Nobody notices when all the invisible, crappy, repetitive, kill-me-now-I'm-dying-of-boredom, please-God-don't-make-me-do-it-all-again-tomorrow brain-atrophying jobs have been done. But you can bet your left tit that they'll all comment if they haven't been done. Somehow, all those who-died-and-left-me-in-charge-of-trivia tasks amount to zippedy-doo-dah. But cut the grass or dig a hole or burn a goddamn sausage on the bar-be-que grill  and it's:



Truth be told, I actually quite enjoy spending a few sunny hours on the beastie cutting swathes through the waving tussocks myself. In fact, I have been known to slash the occasional obscenity across our tiny acreage as a kind of ride-on-mower created way of flipping the bird to those annoying helicopters that buzz over our block all summer. But nobody ever thanked me for that.

There's a theory that people who choose only to do the applause jobs are the ones who have never recovered from being a kid like this:

Because of course, as I've said before, EVERYTHING is ALWAYS the mother's fault.