“Oh Sh*t”

Oops, sorry. Decidedly not a spectacular nor Shakespearean type of opening, but then I never represented my writing to be anything close to the Bard’s. Not even Shakespeare adjacent; more like thousands of miles removed. Blah, blah, blah…okay Missy, get on with it already…

Awhile back I got a new cell phone, and it was anything but a welcome addition to my life. Why? Well, that’s easy. The fact is I’m decades old and not just a couple, which results in my being wildly old-school and technically challenged. Plus, the equation is made more complicated, considering I’m super hard-headed, very exacting, and not easily swayed, at least not recently. Those qualities all combined, for better or worse, create almost anyone’s, basic nightmare, right? It’s ok though, I’m pretty darn comfortable with who I am, even if it’s FAR from perfect, at this point in life. But still, what’s with the swearing, the intro, and the cell phone?

SURELY THE SWEETEST, MOST “CHILL,” FRIEND TO ALL THAT EVER WALKED THIS EARTH.

Last week I awoke one morning at about 2:00 a.m. (thank you very much, Ruger, the 13 year-old Golden Retriever pictured above, recently (and sadly) diagnosed with Lymphoma, but the most “broke” (it’s a good thing, I promise) canine buddy ever. Anyways, after checking that he was okay and had plenty of fresh water, I got back in bed and must have accidentally hit an unknown button on my cell? Later, when my alarm went off at 5:30 a.m., because I’m also a morning person, I discovered that my phone had inadvertently gone into some kind of “covert update mode?” I was locked out. WTF? The sky outside my window was still dark, no coffee yet, and zero access to the work awaiting me on that little black, rectangular device? Not a great start to the day. When I was asked to input a new “password,” all that I could think of was…oh shit! Still, the phone’s screen was insistent that I create a new password before gaining access to the trove of treasured photos, a bazillion ideas, thousands of emails, and the saved files from document upon document of legal history contained within the subject device. I went with my gut reaction when inputting the new code. And because “oh shit” rolled so effortlessly off the tongue early that morning as well as in general these days, there you go… post title deciphered and new cell phone code in place, check. A little swearing now and again, when purposefully placed, can be curiously POWERFUL, punctuating a statement with great clarity. But make no mistake, caution is required. After all these years, I realized swearing loses all its efficacy when overused. I was out at a lovely dinner party last week held in a popular steakhouse also something of a local “institution,” when my attention was diverted from the conversation at hand. Somehow the dark, old-world, “speakeasy-ish” ambiance amidst the festive holiday decor and crowd of well-heeled guests, was overshadowed by the unnecessary dropping of “f*** bombs” by one of the party’s guests. Nary a sentence escaped his mouth without the word f***, f***ing, or f***ed inserted somewhere in the statement. Suddenly, I was struck that the punch an aptly-used swear word wields, is completely diminished when excessively inserted within every thought a person expresses. This may sound a bit stuffy, but hey I did give a disclaimer right upfront that I’m no easy piece of work. Anyways I realized that evening, the consequence of incessant cussing can produce a boorish, pompous and even off-putting personality. Certainly not something I’d want to project myself. With that in mind, I thought it best to publish this post, with its questionable title before the New Year’s start. After all, if I’m going to begin minding my own “P’s and Q’s” in an effort to reduce swearing in 2023, this would definitely not prove an impressive beginning were the post delayed beyond this weekend, right?       

LIKE THE CHRISTMAS TREES THAT HAVE GRACED MY LIFE THROUGHOUT THE YEARS AS WELL AS THE ASSORTED HOLIDAYS AND CHARACTERS ACCOMPANYING THE SAME… THE TRADITIONS I’VE BEEN A PART OF, OR THOSE I’VE CHOSEN TO CREATE ANEW, ARE A POWERFUL REMINDER OF HOW TIMES CHANGE.

There’s an expression I learned early and often; one I’m quite confident has been mentioned here before but nonetheless remains true… “the only constant in life is change.” As a child, young adult, guest or hostess of a Christmas holiday myself, the Noble Fir trees which were a staple of my youth have come and gone, been flocked, morphed to other varieties, reappeared, and even been imitated by ‘fakes’ on a few occasions. Just as the trees have taken many varying forms, so too have the people and manners of celebration marking each holiday as well as every other day of the year.  While growing up, first in La Jolla and then Rancho Santa Fe, my parents hosted most every Christmas holiday that I can recall. My Mom had a very distinctive style and graciously hosted both sides of our family tree, which could mean anywhere from 10 to 24 people of assorted ages present for any number of holiday gatherings. But as it’s close to that very time of year today, I’m focused on December 25th and the traditions I remember well, most of which are still observed and treasured. Christmas Eve always included a traditional Catholic Mass, said at our home by any one of three Priests, all of whom were considered part of the family. The tables were set with Marghab linens, Silver goblets, and either Francis the 1st or Versailles sterling flatware. Centerpieces were always from my Mom’s well-guarded and exquisite collection of beautiful Epergnes with florals she created herself. That is except for the children’s table(s) and truth be told, other than the white cloths and silverware present, I don’t remember any other adornments our tables might have worn. The silver napkin rings which dressed the adult’s place settings, were always coordinated to match the flatware Mom had chosen for the occasion. Unfailingly, my sisters and I would gather up those special, Silver bands once dinner was concluded and would exchange the baubles back and forth, wearing them as bracelets. It was a cherished ritual, honored for as long as our little wrists could easily slide them on and off, and was subsequently repeated by our own children, but only when we were gathered around Mom’s table. The same care she took with her possessions and style, as well as the attention paid to the presentation of each, she extended to all aspects of any occasion, be it Christmas, Easter, Birthdays, Baby Showers, Christenings, Graduation parties and so on. It is a trait I’d like to think I inherited, but I fear the jury is still out…especially regarding whether I’m able to continue the tradition for as long as Mom did. Still, I know I feel the reverence for each milestone with the same sentiment Mom displayed.

The care and attention given to setting a table, preparing a meal, the selection and sending of Christmas cards, planning an event, remembering a Birthday, or helping to make someone feel loved and special is a gift and talent all its own, and a powerful one at that. I don’t know about you but, regretfully, I feel like that type of thoughtfulness is being eclipsed more and more often these days, and that makes me sad. With that in mind, it turns out I might have a bit more of my Mom’s Dad (my Grandfather Pa) in me than I realized? He used to get very “bah humbug-ish” and maudlin during this time of the year and was also fairly upfront about sharing his feelings on the subject. To this very day, I clearly remember hearing his voice exclaim that “he wanted no gifts; he had everything he needed and would donate anything he received to St. Vincent De Paul.” When I was very very young, I wondered just who this St. Vincent fellow was that was going to get all of Pa’s presents? Later on, I wondered about the thoughts which prompted his melancholy. Unfortunately, we never got the time nor opportunity for me to learn the answers to that question. Nevertheless, as the years passed, I began to feel some emotional misgivings surrounding the holidays which I imagine might have been similar to whatever prompted Pa’s distress. While raising my two kids, I did my utmost best to engineer the same magic for them, which my Mom fashioned for my siblings and me. That the Sheriff appeared religiously every Christmas Eve to serve Al, my Ex, with a Warrant for failing to adhere to provisions of his Settlement Agreement, crafted 18+ years earlier with his first ex-wife, would inevitably plunge Al into a “broody funk” and was tough to ignore. The invasion of my younger sisters and their families into our home and guest house; their need to reorchestrate the rhythm of how my own family navigated our days, together with their annual enjoyment of “contraband pot” in our driveway, all prior to berating me for whatever details I had overlooked, done incorrectly, and the frequent reminders of my innumerable shortcomings were challenging to say the least. Regardless, those were all things I tried to ignore and which took a backseat to Christmas dinner and the family gathered around that long, rectangular Pine table, even if the topics of conversation often took some off-color twists, like the year one of my nephews went into great detail about his recent break-up with a red-headed girlfriend. I didn’t appreciate the term he used to describe her; “fire-cr****” was not an expression I knew, much less used, nor one I was jonesing to explain to the group of kids sitting around the table under the age of five. Regardless, I tried not be too uptight and glossed over that brief drama as quickly as possible.  All of that aside though, I did truly love the symbolism of the Birthday Cake we baked and served for dessert to honor Baby Jesus’s arrival, as well as my kid’s excitement about the impending arrival of a certain jolly, Red-Suit clad fellow, who always left plenty from his Sleigh and nibbled on the cookies left alongside a note, proclaiming his pride in the behavior our combined crew of kiddos (the younger ones…lol) had demonstrated throughout the previous year. The wide smiles, squeals of delight, and words of sincere appreciation that were heard on Christmas morning far outweighed the work, pressure, and emotional toll that a love deprived marriage and a competitive, dramatic family can leave in its wake. Maybe those events are what drove me to so overcompensate for my kids, desperate to ensure they felt special? Who knows for certain? That I’m able to consider, accept and verbalize that reality now is a very different type of gift, but every bit as valuable.

TODAY THE ACTUAL PHYSICAL TABLE MAY BE DIFFERENT, ALTHOUGH STILL IRISH PINE, BUT THE SILVER SLEIGH BELLS I’VE COLLECTED EVER SINCE 1991, SYMBOLIZING MY DAUGHTER’S FIRST CHRISTMAS, THROUGH 1996 AND MY SON’S ARRIVAL, ALL THE WAY UP TO THIS VERY YEAR ARE STILL A FIXTURE OF EVERY CHRISTMAS.

So too, remains the hand-carved wooden Nativity Creche from Italy, left to me by my Maternal Grandparents; the beautiful, porcelain Madonna & Child, which anchors my Advent Wreath and was my Mom’s; the dozen Pewter goblets my Dad gave me prior to his passing, and the golden, Mercury Glass Winking Moon, which my Sister Viv gifted me one year and graces a wreath adorning our home;  I love that all those happy remembrances I’ve kept and are gracing my home today exist because of Christmases past. Each phase of my life seems to bring more knowledge, curiosity and respect for the power of the past and how it continues to influence our present. 

In addition to the items mentioned above, there are many more which can get me “spinning” and stir my not-so-latent nostalgia. Each year when I undo the stack of rigid, red plastic bins housing all things Christmas, I carefully remove the custom collection of stockings neatly folded within; they include the original one my Mom had made for me and a replica of which, I had made for both of my kids. So too, I inherited my Grandmother Ma’s custom velvet stocking with all its embellishments as well as the one Mom made for George, her 2nd husband/love of her life, a.k.a. “Valdez” and my Stepfather. We have a stocking that was knit for Alex upon his addition to our family, and is very similar to the ones my kids and I call our own. So too, Stella has a special stocking. Stella is my Australian Shepherd, and so incredibly human-like, Emily often refers to her as a sister. Stella’s stocking is a reminder of the place in our lives and the value we hold for the collective group of our four-legged family members. “Santa” never fails to fill it with all types of treats. The list of Christmas memorabilia goes on and was added to a year or two ago, when an Aunt gifted me a collection of clear and deep-purple, glass balls of varying size, yet another keepsake from my Father’s side of the family. I’m honored to have become the steward of these mementos, as each gift carries with it a story that helps keep me connected to my family of origin. They represent a history I wish hadn’t been taken from me at such a young age, but one I continue to appreciate learning more about as various cousins and an Aunt, sporadically, fill in the vacant spaces. In an effort to tie the past to the present, I have surrounded the Madonna and Child in my Advent Wreath with the glass balls which used to reside at my Grandmother and Grandfather’s family home at 222 Adelaide Drive. The purple hue perfectly complements the purple and pink candles in the wreath. It’s a divine kind of union and yet in total contrast to the way my parent’s marriage went, but nonetheless a positive takeaway that helps me reconcile reality. Digging deeper into the red bins, I reach the layer where a vast assortment of Christmas cards, both sent and received, are kept and added to each year. Every time that bin is unpacked, I browse through the assemblage of faces that grace the front of most cards, and marvel at the sentiment which commands the care and keeping of those gems. The cards I always loved receiving were the ones portraying pictures of a family as it grows, and often reflects great change, which in certain instances have been fairly drastic. It only makes sense and follows suit, I suppose, that it’s that same type of card which would be my choice to send…right?  Emphatically, YES! Among the collection of cards is one from a childhood friend, now a well-renown, very talented, if pricey and recently “awfully precious” event/floral designer. However, the picture staring back at me, from what was surely 20+ years ago, portrays the ‘across-the-street neighbor’ I remember from years ago. A sweet and beautiful young woman wearing a wide smile, and in the picture, holding her firstborn son while sitting next to her husband on the exterior front steps of their Santa Ynez Valley home. The same child, pictured on her card, is now college age or beyond, and I ponder how time manages to pass with such tremendous speed. There are scads of cards with pictures presenting a happy family followed by subsequent cards from the same address, but with a fractured group of family members, reminiscent of the progression my own family took. And towards the bottom of that pile are all the Christmas cards sent from my own little family; I’ve held on to at least one from each year since the 90’s.

TIMES CHANGE FOR ALL OF US; SOME GOOD CHANGES, AND SOME NOT AS GOOD ~ THIS COLLECTION OF MEMORIES IS A POWERFUL REMINDER FOR ME TO LIVE EACH DAY WITH GRATITUDE. NO-ONE KNOWS HOW OR WHEN THE NEXT CHANGE WILL OCCUR.

The last few red bins waiting to be unpacked contain the special family ornaments and mementos I take extra care to wrap and keep together as a group. Among the many objects in this last wave of red bins are some of the framed and unique Christmas cards my Mom chose all those years ago. Her artistic style shines through every aspect of her life and these cards are no exception; a quintessential insight to her soulfulness and flair. After selecting and sending each year’s card, she would find a way to memorialize the existence and longevity of the special statements that each individual example of any one Christmas communicated. One year, she chose a card, from “The Georg Jensen Graphic Collection,” designed by “Lubalin, Smith, Carnase.” After inscribing our names and mailing the cards, she had a free-standing Neon sculpture made replicating the image on the card itself. That Neon sign graced most if not all of Mom’s homes.

Three other cards, similar in style, but with very individual colors and messages, Mom framed and hung vertically together on a single, wide piece of heavy ribbon. That grouping was hung, wrapped and unwrapped, over and over for years. The same bin was also home to several strings of metallic red and green strips of “Daisy Chain” which Mom gifted me shortly after my first child was born, sharing the story that she and my Dad had made them together on the occasion of their first Christmas as a married couple. She knew and explained to me, that I was the one of her four daughters who would treasure that specific gift the most.  There were a few other items of exceptional significance and each of them as all the others do, continue to hold a special place in my heart.

After my Mom’s passing, as was the case for the two years prior, my two younger sisters took possession of all my Mom’s belongings. Among those were certain items and paintings, which Mom had previously shown to Emily and I, and wore markings on either the back or bottom of each stating our names and that we were to receive them… “some day.”  That day never arrived. Rather, several months following Mom’s death, my older Sister, Viv, and I were directed, via email, that we had a period of five consecutive days, within the next week or two, in which to stop by the house Mom last lived in, to pick up the assortment of items my two sisters together with input from my frighteningly narcissistic Uncle and an equally disturbed cousin had designated and left for us to collect. As I’ve explained in past posts, Viv was ill at the time and asked if I would arrange for the pick-up of both Viv’s and my articles. Done. While there was little of much substance remaining in our cluster of boxes. There were, in addition to the various cache described above, a couple items, which are absolutely precious to me, even if not to the four troubled individuals who orchestrated the distribution of my Mom’s estate.  One item was a custom red glass, Gingerbread Man shaped ornament with my Mom’s name painted atop. It was one of a set of 8, which my Mom had designed and crafted for my Dad, both my Maternal Grandparents and each of my parent’s four daughters, as well as my Mom. She had long since gifted me the matching ornament bearing my name, but I was stunned to see that Mom’s version of that same storied ornament was among the rubbish (literally, old Kleenex boxes, pharmacy bills and other miscellany) left in the muddle of Mom’s belongings assigned to my older Sister and me.  It's hard to make a good segue here, but I suppose I’ve expressed my deep affinity for the sentiment which can accompany any given moment, memory and certain physical items. I hope the writing of this post will lighten the burden and alleviate the pain which has fostered my maudlin feelings about Christmas; maybe releasing my feelings and the facts will serve to do just that?         

I’M RESOLVING TO ABANDON ANY HINT OF “MAUDLIN” FEELINGS ABOUT CHRISTMAS FROM HEREONAFTER. THERE IS SO MUCH I NEED TO BE GRATEFUL FOR AND SO MANY WAYS I’VE BEEN BLESSED. IT’S HIGH TIME I REALLY HOLD ON TO AND EMBRACE THE BLESSINGS, LIKE THE NOTES MY DAUGHTER LEAVES FOR ME OR THE BEAUTIFUL STERLING SILVER VASE THAT I WAS JUST GIFTED THIS YEAR AND BELONGED TO MY PATERNAL GRANDPARENTS AT 222 ADELAIDE DRIVE AND HAS NOW FOUND ITS WAY TO ME ALONG WITH ITS SWEET BACKSTORY AND LOVE FROM THE GIVER. “CHRISTMAS GIFT,” MEMORIES, AND TREASURES…ALL. 

I’ve been beyond fortunate to call my daughter and son-in-law my best friends, business partners and even “housemates.” It isn’t always easy…no, and even quite challenging at times. But, it’s probably far easier for me than it is the other way around. We fight and bicker, but we also laugh, cook, dance around the kitchen, and make one hell of a team when working together.  We share a unique rhythm; I’m the morning shift and they are the closers. Working from a home office, compounds the amount of time spent together, but the fact that they travel for work, almost two weeks of each month, while I “keep the home fires burning” seems to provide just the right balance of private time. Then too, our extended family of four-legged babies ensures I’m never truly alone, nor lonely. Good company comes in many sizes and shapes; our crew is no exception and runs the full gamut. That type of security and comfort is powerful stuff, not to be taken lightly; I don’t.  The past few years have brought loss too, but I hit my knees, fold my hands, and ask the “Big Guy” above to watch over and protect those I no longer can. That faith has always served me well, even if a bit circuitously, and I’m good to keep on trusting its power. You can’t replace or understand certain losses, but you can try to stay positive and direct your energy where it’s most useful at the moment. That’s what I’m working on. Gratefully, I have the support of a daughter/best friend who shares with me her talent, thoughtfulness and generosity, like that which I remember about my Mom, and try to replicate myself, but which Em does with so much more genuine happiness, less constraint and very firm boundaries. Again, a very powerful model of strength which I am fortunate to be the recipient.

As we make the transition from 2022 to 2023, I’m thinking that I may need to double down on my extreme feelings of faith, in addition to paying homage to my roots and some of the lore which accompanies the Irish, of which I am one.  While it may sound a tad sacrilegious, I’m quick to blend my religious faith with my affinity for traditions… no matter how far-fetched it may sound. With that “M.O.” guiding my path, I’m going to say my routine “Heavenly Father Novena,” tomorrow, as well as my daily Rosary, but you can also be sure that come midnight, you’ll find me observing a few of my favorite, Irish, New Year’s traditions. #1. Our dinner table tomorrow evening will feature an extra place setting and chair, as well as the latch off our front door, symbolizing those we’ve lost, but will remember and honor from the year past. #2. There will be two loaves of Rye Bread being made in my kitchen today, so that tomorrow evening, I can follow the Irish superstition of banging on the doors and walls of our home with a loaf of bread to chase out all the bad luck and invite good spirits for the year ahead. #3.  It’s known as “First Through The Door” and involves the identity of the first person to cross the threshold on January 1st.  Should a dark handsome stranger come to the door first, then the year ahead promises to be bright and full of hope. Should, however, a young, red-headed woman come knocking, yikes…take cover; that’s not a good sign. Although it does seem oddly reminiscent of a specific dinner conversation around the Roblar Christmas table that one year? 4th, and finally, because my kids are both an equal blend of Irish and Italian, I’m going to pay respect to their Italian blood and at the stroke of midnight, throw all our brooms out the door, in the hopes of sweeping away any bad juju!  Oh, and I may bang a pot and pan, or two together…just because!

With a few new creative ventures to introduce in the year ahead as well as the “team” I count alongside me, there’s no lack of energy, enthusiasm or love empowering this journey. So, to that I say…bring it on 2023. Let’s raise a glass at midnight on Saturday and toast to all the possibility we will welcome in the days and year ahead!

NO MATTER WHAT IT IS THAT FILLS YOUR GLASS, RAISE IT HIGH…LET’S COUNT OUR BLESSINGS AND BE GRATEFUL FOR THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING AND ALL THE GOOD THAT FILLS OUR LIVES.