Can't Stop the Music

     For me, the holiday season has always been about the music.
     I have fond memories of stomping along in the snow, going caroling with the other kids from the neighborhood - back when it was still deemed safe to knock on strangers' doors and sing in their foyers for some cookies (and a few coins they'd put in the coffee can we'd conveniently brought along).

     Every year I'd look forward to going to Christmas Eve services at my Grandma's church, just so we could all sing "Silent Night" together, accompanied by a slightly out-of-tune organ, holding candles with those paper drip shields to protect our hands from the wax that would start to melt with wild abandon around the middle of the second verse.
     But, for sheer awesomeness, nothing beats being in a school holiday concert.
     Sure, I did the elementary school thing.
     We all did.
     Then in middle school we were all forced to choose our life path: band or choir.
     Mine was choir.
     Three years of the ridiculously high-pitched desecration of texts both sacred and secular ensued.
     My middle school choir had one boy who could actually sing.
     And I mean he could sing.
     He had classical training, amazing posture, and the ability to hit the high notes with pristine clarity. After getting a load of him, our choir director did the only thing she could do: make the rest of us his back-up singers. 
     That year we ditched Frosty and did numbers from Ahmal and the Night Visitors instead. It was probably the most culturally-edifying holiday concert our middle school had ever seen. Of course, most of us spent the evening singing "Ahhh...." and "Ohhh...." in hushed voices, so that the tone-deafness that pervaded our ranks would not overshadow il divo. Still, the applause was hearty that year. Yes, it was.
     Our high school choir was headed up by a dictator who demanded absolute allegiance from his minions. We bought fabric from him and were instructed which pattern to buy so all the girls' skirts matched perfectly. There were shoe rules (pumps, black, one-inch heel, no embellishments) and hideous red poly-blend sweaters.
     He was a perfectionist of the first order, and the only reason I'm still alive to type this is that no one would rat me out when I blurted, "Oh, shit!" after coming in a measure too early during a noontime concert at a shopping mall.
     Our holiday program was entirely sacred, much of it in Latin. We'd start practicing for it in early-October. All that lead time was necessary for the non-Catholics in the room to learn a new language, as well as the notes to sing.
     One year he went all Benjamin Britten on us - not a pretty sight. Totally fucked up my ability to spell for half my junior year.
     And when a Norwegian exchange student with a glass-shattering soprano showed up, we all found ourselves singing in her native tongue too. Man, the crowd lapped that one up like dogs.
     Every year, we ended the program with the same song: "Beautiful Savior" (Finally, something in English!).
     The school I teach at has been holding their holiday concerts this week, and I've been thinking about those adults out there in the crowd. Sure, they're all proud of their whipper-snappers up there belting it out, but it does get to be a long night, doesn't it?
     I recently realized that my parents stopped coming to my holiday concerts when I learned how to drive. Yes, once I had a way to get my sensible-pump/fugly-sweatered self to the venue without them, they were outta there. Can't say I blame them, though. I really can't.
     Now I get my holiday groove on singing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" with my daughter. As I watch her stand in the middle of the living room, belting it out solo, smiling proudly, and hitting her marks on all the hand gestures that go along with it, two words enter my mind: show choir.
     And it's a fate I am more than willing to accept.
     Until she can drive.

Cinderella's Balls

As spring weather brings out the necessity to speak to the tween girls I work with about appropriate dress (because they are either unaware of the concept or just think it's okay to dress as if they're going to be waiting tables at Hooters instead of attending middle school), I can't help but remember prom season of 1985 - when, even though my dress could be worn off-the-shoulder, I chose not to do so, because that seemed like WAY too grown-up of a thing for me to do.

matching cumberbunds = totally rad

When Pigs Flu

I remember standing in line with my parents at the Department of Health to get vaccinations the last time a version of the swine flu came around; my mom passed out in front of me as they stuck the needle in my arm, and I think this fact is adding to my general sense of unease/dread at the news coming out of Mexico - except this time there's no vaccine. 

Oddest Thing I've Ever Said With Tremendous Sincerity While Heavily-Medicated

"When I get better, I'm going to be strong like Mighty Mouse; he is very strong for a mouse." -  Me, fall 2001

The Greatest Story Ever Rolled

Sometimes I get frustrated when I see the foolish choices my students make, but then I'll remember that, when I was in middle school, I paid money to go to a theater and see THIS ...

... and have a tough time mustering up much of a sense of superiority after that.

Censorship: Yea or Nay?

So, my mom brought over a gift for my daughter - the Simplicity Patterns Halloween catalog from last fall. I remember that when I was little, Mom used to get the outdated pattern catalogs at the fabric store for about a buck, and I adored them. I would pore over them, looking at the pictures and loving the fact that I had in my possession this book that you usually could only see at the store. It was cool and unbelievably special to have one of these catalogs, so I totally get why my daughter loves the thing.

Here's the deal, though. 

I'm thinking about tearing out one of the pages. 

And my liberal, don't-shelter-your-child-from-reality panic alarm is blaring away at my sudden desire to commit censorship. 

The page in question features a collection of "adult" costumes they call "Short and Sassy". To their credit, the folks at Simplicity (all of whom I picture as sweet, elderly women in embroidered sweatshirts, by the way, which makes this all even more disturbing) do stop short of printing "Costumes for Coitus" or "Fornicatin' Fun" at the top of the page, but that's so obviously what these get-ups are. They're designed to either spice up the doldrums in a relationship that's cooled or to ensure a hot one-nighter with a complete stranger you meet at a party and on whose website you show up in a sex tape wearing said costume. Or portions of it, at least.

Is is wrong of me to want to censor this little bit of Frederick's of Hollywood that has shown up among the toddler teddy bear and fairy princess costumes? My daughter has her whole life ahead her, filled with media images like this to try to reconcile with her own feelings about what it means to be beautiful. Can I just spare her from this one page?

In Vain

Background: My students' assignment was to write advertising slogans for various products, using similes in their ads. They made mini-billboards featuring their slogans and eye-catching artwork. Totally educational. Totally fun.

A conversation with one of my students:

He hands me his billboard. I see the slogan "Botch Tape is as strong as Jesus". I stifle a giggle.

Him: What?

Pause as I search for the right words.

Me: Well, was Jesus really known for his physical strength?

Him: (deadpan) He is very powerful.

Me: Yes, but powerful and strong are different.

Long, awkward pause as he stares at me.

Me: Have you ever noticed that companies don't really use religious figures in their ads? Do you see how it might make people who aren't that religion feel about what they're selling?

More awkward silence as he scrunches up his face in confusion as to my point. I see a possible out in discussing his artwork; unfortunately, he's gone hog wild with the markers, and it's a big, multi-colored blur.

Me: What is this you've drawn here?

Him: He's taping those two guys to the ceiling.

I search my limited knowledge of Bible stories and try desperately to remember one where Jesus sticks people to the ceiling. (My parents liked to sleep in on Sundays, and I went to one day of Vacation Bible School with the neighbor kid when I was about eight - it mostly seemed to be about making pictures of stained glass windows out of macaroni and tempera paint.) The closest explanation I can find is that this young man believes that Jesus painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Sensing a gigantic can of worms opening with that line of inquiry, I try a direct approach.

Me: Why is he taping them to the ceiling?

Him: (without the slightest hint of humor) It is really strong tape.

Another awkward silence.

Me: Fine. Just go sit down.

Curse You, Jacknobber!

I have been mulling around the idea of crackin' wise about a product I found on the Origins website; it's called the Jacknobber. 

Behold the Great and Powerful Jacknobber

It's a "stress relieving tool" they sell for eleven bucks, and, while it probably does a heckuva job at working the knots out of one's aching muscles, its porn star name and number of "heads" in various sizes just make it all look super-kinky to me. I was all set to blog about it and make a bunch of sophomoric references to gettin' my nobber jacked and stuff like that, but then this happened ...

I was at my parents' house for my daughter's birthday party. We were all getting ready to go out sledding, and I was walking down the stairs in my snowpants. (Yes, I am an adult woman and have snowpants. I am also insulted by your snickering.) Anyhow, said snowpants are longer than normal pants and made of slippery material. Since I tend to be all cool and gazelle-like as I move through this world, I managed to step on the back of my pant leg, slip, and do a big Cartoon Network-style WHAMMO in the front entry. 

I have a bad arm and shoulder to begin with (a LONG story, which most of you know already...), so, of course, I take the brunt of the fall with that hand and arm. It was that instant sort of pain where you're not completely sure that what just happened really did happen but suddenly feel an urgent need to throw up. 

Pain dissipates into dull ache. Swelling ensues. Muscles tighten up on entire left side of body. Arrangements for substitute for next day are made. 

So, as I sit here with my muscles knotted and sore, I find myself wishing that I had one of those Jacknobber deals to help me out. I believe that's called irony. Or poetic justice. Or something like that.

This Is What it Sounds Like?

In a fit of end-o-the-calendar-year cleaning, I took all the CD's out of my car. I'd reached that point where I had memorized that disc two was Duffy (tracks 5 and 7 being the best), disc four was a mixtape from a friend (tracks 2, 4, and 13 getting the heaviest rotation), etc. I was in a bit of a CD rut, and a total clean-out seemed the best course of action. Gotta mix things up a bit and get a fresh start for the new year, blah, blah, blah.

But I missed step two of this process entirely. I forgot to replace the removed discs with new ones, so now I find myself stuck with the whims of FM radio for my listening pleasure. I've stumbled into some moments of unexpected greatness, like blasting the Go-Go's "Vacation" and realizing that I remember every stinkin' word of it. Mostly, it has been frustrated button- pushing on my part, though, often searching station after station for something, ANYTHING to sing along with loudly. (That's right, I don't carpool, as a matter of fact. Why ever do you ask?)

Today I traveled to the far-end of the presets and clicked on the station that plays lite songs to sing along with, because I, on occasion,  like to sing along with lite songs. (And just hold on a second there.  Think about whether you can, in a moment of absolute privacy, resist the urge to belt it out with Bette when "Wind Beneath My Wings" comes on before you start judging me. That's right. Ya'll without sin can cast the first stone. Yep, just as I suspected.) 

Anyhow, England Dan & John Ford Coley and I were just wrapping up their masterpiece "Really Love to See You Tonight" when I detected the distinctive four-note introduction to the next song: "When Doves Cry". Now, I realize that this was one of Prince's softer-edged songs; it's not "Let's Go Crazy" or "Little Red Corvette", but is it really lite? Can Prince - the man who confounded our fine Midwestern parents for a good decade or so with all his dancin' around in crazy get-ups and singin' about vaginas and stuff - ever be lite? 

Okay, "Seven" and "Raspberry Beret" were on the cusp of lite-ness, but "When Doves Cry"?! That's from Purple Rain, for God' s sake! That movie was rated R. I had to wait 'til it came out on video before I could even see what all the fuss was about. And he was in a bathtub for half that video! Does that sound lite to you?! (Well, actually it kinda does now that I see it written out like that. Especially when you factor in the doves and candles and stuff. Bet he had lavender bath beads in there too, huh?)

Hearing Prince - the sexually-charged, guitar maestro of my teenage years - as part of the lite FM playlist forced me to ask the great philosophical question: What is lite?. 

In my mind, lite stations have always been where one finds the Carpenters, Chicago, and Celine Dion - music that women of a certain age sing along with in the car on the way to pick up their kids at daycare. 

Then it hit me.

I am a woman of a certain age.

And I'm singing along in the car.

On the way to pick up my kid at daycare.

Ouch.

Risky Business

Here it is, ladies. The aisle of I-am-far-enough-into-this-relationship-with-you-that I-have-to-get-you-a-gift-but-have-no-idea-what-to-buy-for-you gifts for men. These specially-packaged goodies range from stress balls with smiley faces to an automatic card shuffler. I don't believe that men really want these things. Honestly, I don't know what men, in general, want for gifts. (Based on some of the gifts I've gotten from men over the years, I'd wager there's bit of a struggle on their part as well.) Shopping for a guy is hard, especially in those early stages of a relationship, when you don't know his shirt size, and a pair of boxer shorts emblazoned with the words "Jingle Balls" feels a bit too intimate. 

My most-hearty laughter is reserved for a product on the top shelf - the personal trimmer. This is a gift that manages to be exceedingly personal - it's right there in the name - and oddly impersonal at the same time. It says, "I don't know what kind of books you read or have any sense of your musical tastes. What I do know about you is that you have a bit too much nose hair, and I'd really like if you did something about it." How's a guy supposed to react to a gift like that? Is he pleased that she wants to take care of him? Frightened that she'll be expecting him to start waxing delicate parts of himself by Valentine's?

I would argue that the whole notion of giving personal care appliances as gifts is flawed. And I just happen to have a story to illustrate my point:

I'm certain that my mother's intention was to give me a Christmas gift that would bring me joy in the upcoming year - something that would improve my life and make me think of her fondly every time I used it. So, when I was about eleven, she wrapped and ribboned a battery-powered Clearasil face-cleaning scrubby brush thing. I still remember seeing the picture of a teen model with flawless skin on the box and having the stomach-turning realization that I'd just unwrapped a gift designed to buff away my zits. 

Of course, the opening of gifts in my family was of the one-at-a-time and admire-what-everyone-got variety, so I got to open this embarrassing appliance with all my relatives looking on. I had kinda been hoping that no one would even notice that I was entering that awkward stage and that my skin had started to break out, but now my mother had pretty much announced it to the entire room. 

Though the tag on the present had my name written on it, the true gift really went to my older brother that year. You see, he found this to be the single-most hilarious thing he'd ever seen in all his fifteen years here on Earth. For several days he tormented me with questions about my "zit brush" and how it was workin' out for me. 

In my mind I picture some hapless tweenager out there today, anticipating an Xbox or a date with Zac Ephron from Santa this year. Poor kid's gonna get the full-on set of Proactiv products from a well-meaning relative. And I feel for that kid. I really do.

So, I guess what I'm saying is, "Step away from the personal care appliances!" If you are truly that flummoxed as to what to give someone this year, I've got two words for you: gift card.

They're Frosty. And They're Trees

Lest anyone start to think me a bit of a Grinch, I feel the need to talk about a holiday season consumer good whose siren song I am drawn to year after year: The Kemp's Frosty Tree.

For those new to this product, it is a mint-flavored ice cream novelty shaped like a Christmas tree. It is not, technically, a Christmatized product in that it isn't a dolled-up-for-the-holidays version of an everyday item; it's more a once-a-year goodie. But, since it just wouldn't be Christmas without it (for me), it's on the blog. Deal with it.

My memories of Frosty Trees go back as far as I can remember. They were a holiday staple at our house, and their appearance at the grocery store signaled the official start of the Christmas season much more than the Macy's parade ever could. "The Frosty Trees! The Frosty Trees!" was followed by wild clapping from my seat in the grocery cart on an annual basis. Still is, actually, only I'm the one pushing the cart now. 

They made snowmen (Still do!) and Santas too (Haven't seen them in years!), but I was always unflinchingly loyal to those minty little trees of goodness.

As an adult, I realize that it is the power to elicit fond childhood memories rather than the actual taste of the ice cream that continues to draw me to them. (I doubt that seeing liquid soap in a bottle with a snowman on it conjures up any such memories for anyone, and that's why I find those truly Chrismatized products worthy of a bit of ridicule.)

Frosty Trees are not made from Kemp's most premium ice cream, they have a distinct artificial taste, and the packaging renders them incapable of ever really freezing up solid, so there's always a panicked I better eat this fast before it turns into a pile of green mush factor when eating one. They're too small to make a truly satisfying grown-up dessert, and they're messy - leaving dark green stains on your fingertips, face, and tongue. (You can never sneak one of these suckers and lie about it. The evidence is pretty, well, evident.) 

But I love them just the same. 

Christmas is all about traditions.

And I'm pickin' this one as mine.

See the selection of Kemp's Family Novelties. 

(I mostly just included the link because I adore their use of the somewhat prissy, archaic term "Family Novelties" and was looking for an excuse to use it. So there.)