I promise this isn't morbid

Last Sunday I read an opinion piece in the NYT (I know!  Me=Smartypants!) by Arthur C. Brooks called "Be Happy:  Think About Your Death."  Anyway, the gist of the column was that being mindful of your own mortality gives you perspective about what matters and what doesn't, what you enjoy and what you don't.  "If this were your last [day, month, week, year, hurrah] would you spend the next hour mindlessly checking your social media, or would you read something that uplifts you instead?"

(I would possibly be checking my social media, actually.  But I would remind myself to notice how much I'm enjoying it.)

I was struck by Brooks' opinion piece because I'd been doing that very thing even before reading the paper.  I didn't feel well much of December.  Also, I had a cousin who died after a brief unhappy relationship with cancer.  So inevitably my mind went THERE.  What if I'm dying?  What if this is the last time I put this ornament on a tree?  What if this is the last time I eat TRQ's famous Christmas tree loaf?  What if this is the last time my boys all get naked and take a Christmas sauna together?

NAKED BOYS!

(Sorry.)

Instead of depressing me, these thoughts helped me to pay attention to the things I was doing.  And when all was said and done, I have to say this past holiday season was full of joy for me.

So yes.  Think about your own death.  And be happy.

Food for the Dudes

Yesterday Ken Cannon called to see if I wanted to meet him downtown for lunch and I was all LUNCH!  So before I knew it we were together at DP Cheesesteaks on Third South ordering cheesesteak sandwiches like a crazy young couple in love.

Anyway.  The place was packed like a New York subway at rush hour.  Very popular, that DP Cheesesteaks.  And not long after we sat down Ken Cannon looked around and told me that aside from the girl at the counter screaming out people's last names, I was the only woman there.  Beyond that everybody else was a guy.  Some of them were even firemen.  WHAT A CLICHE!

And I said what is it about my life that  I can't even go to a restaurant and see my own gender?

Which brings me to this question--is there such a thing as dude food?  And chick food?

Opine, please.  And give examples.  I think this could be a column.  A super sexist column for the new year.

Not in a hurry

I've written before about the time TRQ forgot to take the Christmas tree down.  It stood in the corner of our living room, going full Charlie Brown on us--shedding its needles and dropping its ornaments onto the floor below where they (the ornaments) rolled around on the carpet like a thirteen year-old boy's brains.

In retrospect, I think TRQ was possibly clinically depressed, but at the time I was mortified.  All my friends' Christmas trees had been properly dealt with weeks before--ornaments in boxes, tree on the curb.  But not our tree.  It just hung around, slouching and embarrassing me in front of my friends like a crazy old uncle in mismatched carpet slippers.

Maybe it was in response to this that I used to get my tree down in a hurry--often a day or two after Christmas.  And (I also think) getting my tree down was a way to impose order on a chaotic household full of kids and dogs who used to crawl up on the table and eat birthday cake.  The dogs, not the kids.  I know this because we have a video of one of them doing that.  Except that's not what the video was about at the time.  No oneeven  noticed the dog photobombing the video.  And also eating the cake.

But whatever.

The point is this:  my tree is still up even though we are well into the first week of the new year.  And I don't think it'll come down this weekend either.  It's still remarkably fresh and it smells good.  It's also pretty and shiny, which comforts me at night.

I've changed, people.

Shine on, Christmas tree.

Star Wars

Well, the whole Star Wars thing is our era's mythology, right?  Sort of like The Iliad and the Odyssey belong to classical civilizations and Beowulf belongs to the Anglo-Saxons, Star Wars belongs to us.  And it's a particularly potent mythology for people who came of age watching the movies, like my oldest son who has loved Star Wars for forever.

So, it was with pleasure that we all saw it last night, although (I'll confess) I wasn't camping out for tickets or counting down the minutes or getting dressed up.  I like Stars Wars.  I even honor Star Wars.  But when push comes to shove, I could have waited to see it.

Still.  There was something  sweet about the thought of seeing it last night with the first-born (even though he and his wife ended up in another auditorium wth?)

Okay.  I liked it.  A lot, even.  Like a reviewer on NPR said, it works, because it hits all the familiar notes and hits them well.  Personally, I was unprepared for how emotional I felt when I saw the characters who have aged.

Like me.

It was an oddly bittersweet experience.

Unfiltered

Wow.

So a son had his tonsils removed this morning, and watching (listening!) to him come out of the anesthesia was entertaining.  To say the least.   As it turns out, this son is a freaking force of nature when he's completely unfiltered.

The commentary never stopped.  Whenever the nurse walked through the room he'd say, "Pam!  Is it hard to be nice to people all day?"  And then he would start rapping, yo.  Straight out of Compton!

He also asked another nurse if I should continue to let my hair go gray or if I should dye it.

And then he flipped me and his dad off like we were Australians in that episode of Flight of the Conchords where Dave has to teach the boys from New Zealand how to give someone the bird, after which they all head down to the Australian embassy and flip off a guard because you know how it is. Sometimes you just have to flip off a guard from Australia.

Classic.

My encounter with a Mormon missionary at the Smith's today

Today while picking up a prescription for Ken Cannon, I saw a missionary standing in line with seriously bandaged fingers.  Like, they were mummy fingers with big steel rods poking out and so forth.

ME:  Elder!  What happened?

ELDER:  I had a run-in with a snow blower.

ME:  Was it a service project?

ELDER:  Yes.

ME:  That'll teach you to serve your fellow man again.

ELDER:  Right?

ME:  I'll bet your mom is worried about you.

ELDER:  She doesn't know.

ME:  Good man.

I thoroughly subscribe to the philosophy that missionaries should communicate bad news to mothers on a need-to-know basis.  And who needs to know anyway when you're here and your kid is someplace where you can't do a damn thing for her or him anyway?

Words to live by, people.

Things I've Learned as a Result of Watching the Hallmark Movie Channel During This Christmas Season

Okay, for starters, I haven't watched it a lot.  But Kathy and Sally, my running pals, have it on during the month of December the way I have on my radio.  And since the news has gotten so damn depressing lately, I decided to give ye old Hallmark a try.

Here's what I've learned so far.

1.  Almost everybody in the original movies looks like somebody famous.  Kate Middleton.  Rachel Weisz, Jennifer Garner, that girl who played the ghost who flew out of the toilet in one of the Harry potter movies.  You know the one I mean.  The one with the weird voice which probably is the result of being a ghost who flies out of toilets and so forth.

2.  Adorable, precocious kids (who only a grandparent would actually think are a) adorable and b) precocious) are important plot facilitators.

3.  There are a lot of minor European countries with minor royal families who all speak with American accents in this world.

I'll keep you posted.