Solving the Resolving Issue

Here is it January 5th and as of yet I haven’t made a single New Year’s resolution. I suppose I can cross that procrastination one from my list. Maybe next year.

In 2009 I resolved not to resolve anything. Not only did I resolve not to resolve, I resolved not to feel guilty about not resolving. A couple of days into the year, it dawned on me that by resolving not to resolve, I had actually resolved. That realization made me feel twice as guilty.

This year I’ve rethought my resolution quandary. I considered the tried and true resolutions—eat less, exercise more, and follow the every move of Kate and Jon and however many kids they have. After careful consideration, I’ve decided against any of these. The first two require lots of self-control, which I’ve resolved to find numerous times but manages to elude me. The Jon/Kate option is just way too complicated. If I were so inclined to involve myself, my resolution would be to determine why these people are newsworthy and just why I should care.

It’s not that I don’t have any bad habits or that I’m unaware of the ones that I do have. But I’ve had little success and much frustration attempting to overcome them, so I’m now looking at them in a new light. My hope is that in the not-too-near future, they become not bad habits, but eccentricities. Years from now, my grandchildren will tell their children fond stories about their grandmother who sometimes sprinkled M&M’s atop her breakfast cereal and until they were able to read, convinced them they were berries. They’ll recount the many adventures they had with Grandma as she drove them to preschool and story time before she got a GPS. They’ll chuckle at how each time she buckled them in, they asked, Grandma, are we going to get lost again today? They’ll reminisce about the things they learned with Grandma; such as, never promise macaroni and cheese to a child before checking the pantry. Cheez Whiz over rice just doesn’t cut it.

Now that I’ve taken this time to think about this in depth, I’ve made a decision. My resolution this year is simply to not add any more bad habits—or perhaps quirks is a kinder word choice given I’m still among the living—to my repertoire. Prevention is key and procrastination can wait.

Merry Christmas from the Slangby Family

Christmas 2009

Dear Family and Friends,

Well, it’s that time of year again and I know you all look forward to my yearly Christmas letter. And it is a Christmas letter. Hear that? Christmas! That holiday this and that crap is going a little too far to suit me.

Like always, I’ll start with the good news.

Now I don’t mean to brag, but our little grandson Everett is doing great in school this year. Even the teacher’s amazed at his work. These are her exact words. “Looks like Ev will be out of junior high before he’s driving.” We couldn’t be prouder.

His older sister Mary Lula is going great guns too. She started at the local college this past fall. I can hardly believe she’s almost grown up. Mary Lula’s right at home in the cafeteria, and her boss is impressed how she’s taken to working that deep fryer. He drove her home the other night and asked how much she’d like to be head cashier. Our Mary Lula has a bright future ahead of her.

The best news of all is that Marvin, Jr. is coming home. Lord, it’s been so hard this past year. Marvin, Sr. and I worried ourselves sick over that boy. Not a day went by when I didn’t wake up wondering if he was okay. That’s if I slept at all. I lost many a night’s sleep fretting over him. That state budget shortage was a lifesaver. The prison’s budget got cut and they issued some early paroles. Marvin, Jr. was one of the lucky ones. Plus, he had no prior convictions before that convenient store misunderstanding. I know all you Slangby family members will be happy to see him at the reunion on New Year’s Day.

And that’s not all! Albert will be there too. Can you believe it? Both my boys at the reunion! I am a blessed woman. On the 30th that ankle bracelet comes off, so he can cross the state line to Ethel’s place this year. Albert’s real sensitive about his leg. I told him the hair will grow back. But please don’t mention it to him. His medication seems to be working, but I’d rather not push our luck.

Marvin and I are getting a new son-in-law. We’re happy to report our Karen Sue has herself a new beau. She met this really nice guy doing community service. It was love at first sight. They’re getting married in the park where they met. Karen Sue and Johnny Ray are asking that the guests don’t wear stripes. The invitation will remind you all. I don’t think they’ll serve any alcohol, but I’m sure they’ll mention that too.

Marvin, Sr. and I had our own little miracle. Now, don’t you go thinking we’re having a baby! We’re too old for that. No, Marvin and I called in sick last Monday. We needed a mental health day, like they say. Marvin and I took off for the boats and hit it big. How big? Well, I’ll be wearing my new genuine imitation mink to the party and Marvin will be getting that much needed hemorrhoid surgery now that he’s got the co-pay.

Remember how bad Marvin, Sr. felt about not knowing where his hunting buddy Hubert had taken off to? Marvin didn’t know whether Hubert was dead or alive. They’d lost contact years and years ago. Like Hubert walked into the forest and never came out. We were watching that show American’s Most Wanted and there Hubert was, the top story. Marvin, Sr. is so relieved to know he’s alive and kicking. Looked like he’d put on a little weight.

Not everything has been roses and lollipops though. Like every family, we’ve had our down times. That reminds me; don’t you go buying anything for Marvin III. That paternity test didn’t turn out so good.

The police around here are cracking down on adult entertainment, so Sissy’s out of work this Christmas. It’ll be rough on those five youngins of hers. They’re growing like weeds and no two have the same body build so it makes handing down clothes real hard. If you know anyone needing some holiday entertainment, give our Sissy a call.

Thank you all for asking about my mother. With helping Sissy and her kids out, we don’t have enough money left to pay for Grandma’s elder care every day. We had to come up with something to do with her while we work. The airport’s real busy on Mondays and Fridays, so we drop her off at airport security in the morning and most times she’s still in line when we get back. We feel good knowing she’s in a safe place.

That’s all the news from the Marvin Slangby family. We’ll see you all at the reunion.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Elvira Slangby

Christmas Questions

I’ve read the story of the first Christmas at least a zillion times. I know it’s not proper to critique the writing style of the apostles, but I dare say in this instance it’s sketchy at best.

It’s probably a guy thing. Women are by nature more interested in birthing tales, while men are more likely to be intrigued by how many miles to the bale of hay Joseph’s donkey got. Or what was going on at the Coliseum.

Had a woman written the account, we’d know more of the inside story. To make my point about men and their lack of attention to detail, I submit the following questions that given the opportunity any woman would have answered.


Was Mary’s mother upset she didn’t marry a guy with roots in Galilee? And when Caesar Augustus ordered the census, did she say I told you so?

Just curious. What’s it like riding a donkey when you’re nine months pregnant?

Just how many potholes were there on that road from Nazareth to Bethlehem?

How many rest stops did they make? Were the facilities clean? Was there paper in the Ladies' Room? How often did Joseph ask if Mary could hold it for just another mile or so?

When Joseph told her there were no rooms in Bethlehem, did it ever cross Mary’s mind he might just be trying to save a few bucks?

How much did Jesus weigh and how large was his head? And, Ouch! Did he come with the halo?

Did those angels and their trumpets keep baby Jesus awake all night? Was Mary ticked those shepherds dropped by unannounced?

Did the Wise Men hang around until Mary fed them?

I understand the gold, but whatever did Mary do with that frankincense and myrrh?

Did Mary and Joseph have Christmas every year? Or did Joseph’s family take a turn?

Tis the season

Black Friday has come and gone.
As has Cyber Monday.
I have shopped.
Until I've dropped
A bundle and a half.
Now I’m singing

The IOU Christmas Blues

Dashing through WalMart
With a three-wheeled shopping cart
Midst the checkout throngs
I charge with all my heart.
Bells on registers ring
Making shoppers crass
Oh what fun it is to be
In debt up to my…credit limit.

Master Card! Visa, too!
Discover’s the way to buy.
Oh, what fun it is to pay
For Christmas in July.

Thanksgiving - The Real Deal

Thanksgiving is coming and I’m concerned that my grandchildren are not aware of the true meaning of holiday. When I picked them up from school, I was greatly relieved when they bounced into my car wearing Pilgrim hats. They even had made turkeys in the shape of their own precious hands that I could display on my refrigerator.
On our drive home, they talked about the books their teachers read to them about the first Thanksgiving. Having had some time for the stories to perk in their little kindergarten and first grade heads, they had a Mayflower load of questions. I answered them as best I could.

No, I was not at the first Thanksgiving even though it took place a long, long time ago.

No, my feelings weren’t hurt. I wasn’t born yet.

No, Grandpa wasn’t there either.

Yes, he is older than me. But not that much.

No, he wasn’t born yet either.

I’m really not sure where we were.

No, I do not forget everything like your Daddy says. I suppose we were in heaven waiting to be born.

No, Sponge Bob wasn’t invited either.

He was in cartoon heaven waiting to be drawn.

No, Cinderella wasn’t invited.

No, the Pilgrims weren’t being mean. They didn’t want her to get her ball gown dirty. Or her feet. She only had the one shoe. And that’s because she didn’t keep an eye on the time.

After this conversation, I decided that reenacting that first turkey feast was the only way for them to truly understand. Some things have to be experienced to be understood. As I found out during childbirth, reading and experiencing are totally different.

When we got home, the children and I planted a row of vegetables. Due to time constraints, we buried two cans of green beans and a bag of frozen corn in the sandbox. The neighbor’s cat strolled though and fertilized our garden.
I want the children to appreciate the courage and fortitude of the first settlers, so while our crops grew, we played a game I called long cold winter. I told them we’d make believe we were early settlers dealing with days and days of snow and wind. I pretended to pull on a coat, hats, boots, and a scarf. Much to my dismay, they jumped up and down cheering No school! No School! I didn’t want to bring on nightmares, so I didn’t get graphically specific, but touched lightly on the scarcity of food. They told me they understood. Just the night before they had run out of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and had to eat plain vanilla. This was going nowhere. I thought long and hard, and then decided to get tough. I whispered to them that in the day of the Pilgrims, there was no such thing cable TV. They wailed inconsolably.

When they calmed down, there was the matter of hunting a turkey. None run wild in our subdivision, but my Butterball was in the freezer. I pulled a handful of feathers from my duster, which was clean as a whistle, so there was no fear of contamination. I plastered those feathers to the frozen bird and rolled it down the hill in the back yard to simulate a running target. Lest I expose the youngsters to yet one more incident of gun violence as they encounter on the nightly news, I encouraged the children to pummel the turkey with corn hole bags. When it rolled into the house, I declared it dead. My granddaughter cried until I explained that this turkey came from a turkey bush and had never been a real live gobble-gobble one.

This was a lot of work. We’d been at if for hours. The sun would be setting soon. I began to panic.

We hadn’t finished pounding popcorn into cornmeal. The stones were cumbersome and I was running out of band aids, so I used my food processor and told the children only a few people knew Monsieur Jacques Cuisinart came from France to celebrate the First Thanksgiving. I suggested they keep his visit a secret. A bag of M&M’s sealed the deal.

The children and I harvested our vegetables in the wagon, and pretended to roast our turkey in the fire pit. We joined hands and gave thanks for the blessings he’d given us. After our dinner, my grandson asked about pumpkin pie. I told him that the chief’s wife was Princess Sara Lee.

Everything New Is Old Again

I’ve never expected to find our home on the cover of House Beautiful. There was a time I might have thought it worthy of honorable mention in House Comfortable or House Pleasantly Habitable. Today, however, I’d nominate it to be the centerfold for House Demanding.

We’ve tried to be good to our house. We’ve given it some of the best years of our lives, but somehow it’s never enough. When we first saw it nearly 25 years ago, the place was empty and lonely. My husband, three children, and I took the house as our own and moved our furniture into its barren space. We hung pictures on the wall. We painted a room or two. And the house felt better, but it wanted more.

Its closets were vacant and abandoned. They had no purpose. We moved in clothes, shoes, and hundreds of boxes holding our precious stuff. The house swallowed it all in just one gulp, but still was not satisfied. With time and perseverance we filled each and every one of its nooks and crannies. It was full and remained that way. For a while, the house was happy, but that was short-lived.

A few short years later, the house grew tired of its appliances of harvest gold, avocado green, and coppertone. It moaned those colors were no longer fashionable causing it embarrassment beyond belief. We responded by telling the house those appliances were perfectly functional and much nicer than the ones our childhood houses had been happy with. The house rolled its shades at that one. We stood our ground, but the house was determined. It taunted the appliances until the refrigerator melted our ice cream and froze our lettuce; the stove didn’t clean up after itself; the dishwasher regressed to wetting the floor.

It didn’t end there. The house demanded almond appliances. After all, our fibbing two-story promised, almond would never become passé and teased us with the prospect of increasing its resale value. It also wanted and got new wallpaper since the old didn’t go with the new color scheme. It sulked until we agreed the countertops were shabby and installed butcher block the house swore would last till Armageddon.

The house wore us down until we felt it was easier to cave than fight. We told the house we would give in this time, but this time only. And it darn well better enjoy and appreciate this because after this kitchen remodel, we were finished. Did it understand? The house dutifully agreed. I think it crossed its downspouts behind its back.

The house was content for a few years before it had issues again. Small ones at first. A room painted here. Some wallpaper stripped there. We thought this reasonable. What house can be expected to wear the same coats year after year? It pushed the limit at faux painting, but we managed to accommodate even that.

All was quiet on the home front for a time. Suddenly the house hinted that its sump pump had seen better days. We turned a deaf ear until six inches of rain proved us wrong. The house got its way yet again.

Our house was not immune from the lure of botox and facelifts. We installed triple-paned windows, replaced its sagging shutters, and hung a new front door. These things appeased it. For a time.

The house has discovered HGTV. I know it’s our fault. We should have monitored the programs it views more carefully, but we thought the house was sleeping. We were so wrapped up in our own lives we didn’t even notice. Once again the house has a list of demands. Granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a hot tub. At this writing we’ve reached a stalemate. The house sees itself in need of an extreme makeover and we’re thinking it’s designed to sell.

On The Road With The Other Woman

My husband Bill and I returned Wednesday evening from a vacation in Ireland. Witness the shot I have downloaded from my digital camera. I have done this both to share our visit to the Emerald Isle and to prove that I am now adept at the process of downloading. Adept may be too strong a word as this was actually a picture of Bill and me at Giant's Causeway. Alas, I've experiened a glitch. Just visualize us in front of the rock.

We chose to design our own trip rather than join a tour and be held to scheduled stops and time constraints. We would be masters of our own vacation. We would answer to no one. For two solid weeks it would be just the two of us roaming the Irish countryside; the two of us taking in the forty shades of green first hand; and at the end of the day, the two of us retiring to a guest room at a quaint B&B alone.

All of that changed a week or so prior to our leaving when a friend suggested we take Rhonda along with us. Let me add, this suggestion was made to Bill, not to me. On the occasion of said suggestion, Bill and I were with a group of people I previously thought to be of high moral character when Joe took Bill aside. At that very moment I noticed a button was missing from my favorite jacket. Since the light was better where Bill and Joe stood talking, I chose a nearby spot to search look for my button. I overheard Joe make this Rhonda suggestion to Bill. It worked so well for Kathy and him, Joe thought we might like to try it too. I had always thought Joe a pretty straight-laced family guy and was shocked at the visions this brought to mind. Joe went on to tell Bill that having Rhonda along took a lot of the pressure off Kathy as they traveled. Joe was evidently friskier than I gave him credit for and Kathy more open-minded than I had perceived. Bill told Joe he’d think about it. I assured myself my faithful husband did so only to spare making an ugly scene. Joe added he’d drop Rhonda off at our house, if we liked. Not in this lifetime, I vowed silently.

The next morning, Bill mentioned Rhonda and how it might be a good idea to take her along on vacation. After I poured the hot coffee into his cup, but before I poured it into his lap, he mentioned Rhonda was a GPS as if that gave her a license for perversity. I told him I didn’t care if she was an MBA, CEO, or CPA. There was no place for her in our life.
How was I to know that Kathy and Joe felt the need to name their Global Navigation System? I cited this as proof positive that humans are interacting entirely too much with machines. Nonetheless I consented to allow Rhonda to join us. What harm could a little electronic device do?

We first engaged Rhonda at the airport in Shannon, Ireland. Before I could hum the verse to Danny Boy, she had miraculously locked in our location and directed us to our first destination, The Cliffs of Moher. Ronda got us there with no problem. Bill was quite smitten by her. He was oblivious to her lack of manners. He didn’t take offense as she constantly interrupted my attempts to read aloud from our travel guide. She thought nothing of butting in with Turn right here. Turn left there. Watch for a roundabout in two miles.

Our next stop was Galway and Rhonda took us there as well. My replacement’s cute little screen beamed as she hung from the windshield showing the road we traveled and supplying information such as what direction we were headed and how long it would take to get there. Bill was impressed. This man who takes directions from no one complied with Rhonda’s every command. He even shushed me to listen to her. I tossed the guidebook into the backseat acknowledging my defeat. He didn’t care that our backseat driver never said Please turn right or please turn left preferring instead to order us here and there. Rhonda was definitely on the bossy side.

From Galway, we drove to Dingle—a site I knew to be voted the most beautiful place on earth by National Geographic. I waited for smarty-pants Rhonda to mention that, but she was all about herself as she once again commandeered our drive and my husband’s attention along with it.
Along the way, we missed a turn and Rhonda did not appreciate it. In my opinion, Rhonda had not given us ample warning. But did Bill raise his voice at her? No way. And did Rhonda apologize to us? Did she say Oops, my bad. or I should have given you more warning? I’ll have you know she barked at us to Turn around as soon as possible. She assumed no responsibility for the incident. We turned around and I swear she snickered as we resumed our route.

As we drew closer to Dingle we encountered some narrow rural roads, many of them unnamed. Miss Rhonda must be a city slicker, as she didn’t like this one bit. Her screen showed us driving amuck in green spaces and sometimes floating on a body of water. She recalculated our route more times than the government does the national debt. She directed us to turn left in one hundred feet and followed that with turn right in twenty-five feet. Rhonda was lost, but not willing to admit it as I always did—sometimes before Bill started the car. Bill was not upset with Rhonda and asked me to check on her to see how she was faring.

When we finally reached Dingle, Rhonda had caught up with us and acted as if nothing had happened. Bill excused her behavior saying the roads were too small for the satellite to pick up though he would expect me to identify a back alley in downtown New York.

When we pulled into the drive of our B&B, Rhonda finally went too far. She announced You’ve reach your destination. We continued down the drive and again she said, as if we were too stupid to know it, You’ve reached your destination. Bill turned the car around in the lot. A third time Rhonda lost her cool and all but screamed You’ve reached your destination. Bill finally saw Rhonda for the electronic dictator she really was and pulled her plug. Then I shoved her into the glove compartment. It was the end of the road for Rhonda.