The Clock is Ticking

Child is asleep. Wife is in the tub. In 25 minutes, or less, it will be 2008.

I'm thinking about my "10 Best Movies of 2007" list, which would have to include all 8 movies I saw in the year 2007, and the movie that sticks in my mind most clearly is "Conversations with Other WOMEN" (which is probably the funniest joke to ever appear in this blog, if you happened to be at our New Year's Eve party). Towards the end of the movie, one of the characters says, "It's so hard to be happy."

My response: really?

As we draw closer and closer to the new year, as your lists of wishes and lists of regrets grow, as your resolutions come closer and closer to being broken, here's the simple secret to being happy: it's okay to want what you want. If you want another donut, that's fine. If you want to take a nap, that's fine too. My own personal struggles with happiness - and I am happy to say those struggles are few and far between - are always between what I feel I want to do and what I feel I ought to do.

For the sake of everyone, let "want to do" reign supreme. It'll save you the trouble of writing, directing, and starring in your own indie movie, which must be a tremendous pain in the kiester.

Happy 2008 (really, it's not that hard)! Come back soon for Christie's nearly famous reading list.

Rebel, Rebel

Correct me if I'm wrong, but my daughter is six, right? S-i-x? You'll forgive me if I seem a bit confused because she's been acting like she's 16 lately. Case in point:

Wrig and I were headed out for a walk in a bloody downpour the other day. In general, the rain in Portland doesn't actually get you wet. It just sort of mists you, kind of like the spray bottles they use at the barbershop. Damp? Yes. Dripping? No. Well, this was real rain, not Portland rain, and I insisted Wrig strap on the rain pants, which are, of course, the worst thing ever invented. She has a mild-to-major hissy-fit but, with Mom's assistance, we make it out the door. On the way out, Mom pulls Wrig's hood onto her head for her. We aren't two steps out the door when Wrig, with a defiant flourish, throws the hood back. I look down at her, smirking a bit, and say, "I bet that felt pretty good, huh?" She didn't say much, but I'm pretty sure she agreed.

Less than two blocks later, she puts the hood on. It takes every ounce of my minimal will power not to snark, "I told you so."

Or how 'bout this:

Wrig is making strawberry milk at breakfast by pouring some juice from some frozen strawberries into her, duh, milk. She then spends the next fifteen minutes stirring it, banging her spoon against her glass, creating the most jarring, clanging, annoying sound you can imagine. Since the adults haven't been sleeping well at our house lately, clanging, jarring, annoying noises are not so welcome at the breakfast table. We politely ask her to stop - well, as politely as cranky parents can manage - and, because the child in our house hasn't been sleeping well lately either, she throws a mild-to-major hissy-fit. We lay out her options and she prefers option 3: take your milk into the bathroom, shut the door, and stir to your heart's content.

Our darling angel stomps to the bathroom, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like "those frickin' parents" (though she might have said "flippin"). She spent the next five minutes in the bathroom, stirring away, muttering quite loudly to herself about the injustice of it all.

I can't wait until she has her own blog, so she won't have to complain about us in private.

Your Holiday Decorating Questions Answered Here!

Wrig is at that age, and the age comes for everybody, when she's begun to wonder about all that Christ in Christmas business. Wandering around town one afternoon, she saw a nativity scene and asked Mom to explain the story about that baby. Mom managed to get through it, but Wrig was not satisfied.

Later that same day, Wrig and I were listening to a lovely, very traditional (read: religious) Pete Seeger Christmas album. Wrig asked me to tell the story about that baby and I told her what I knew: the mom, the dad who wasn't the dad, the no room at the inn bit. Then I told her about the sheep and the shepherds and the, "let's see, I think there was a star - yeah, there was a star, that's why there are all those songs about the star of Bethlehem. And then the three wise men show up and give gold, frankincense, and myrrh ... you know what gold is, right? And frankincense ... um, frankincense smells nice ... and, well, I don't know what myrrh is. But that's why we give all these gifts on Christmas. And there were angels there. Singing. Yup. Singing angels." And in response to a question Wrigley asked a few weeks ago as we gently placed our reindeer at the top of our tree, I added, "That's why lots of people put angels on the top of their Christmas trees ... and stars, too. 'Cause of the star of Bethlehem."

This is deep stuff, this Christmas story. Heady stuff. The kind of stuff wars are fought over and tv specials are written about. So Wrig ponders. And ponders. And ponders. And finally she asks the question that has been plaguing preachers, philosophers, scholars, and home decorators for centuries:

"So why don't people put crying babies on the top of their trees?"

The Ghost of Breakfast Past

Today for breakfast, Christie took me to the 1950s. I don't mean she took me to some tacky mall style restaurant with a cheesy jukebox and waiters in paper hats. This place was authentically stuck in the past - we could still smell the cigarette smoke from back when the "no smoking section" was out in the parking lot. The restaurant came stocked with regulars - "You'll be having the usual, right, Harry?" - and a waitress whose name, I'm sure, was Vera or Flo. The coffee was weak but my cup was always full.

We had to go to the 1950s for breakfast because I've been craving chicken fried steak ever since Christie read me the report about menu labeling that appeared in the Oregonian. You see, quoth the venerable Oregonian, with the benefits of menu labeling, you would know that you could have an order of chicken fried steak AND a ham and cheese omelet and consume less fat and calories than if you ate a single order of french toast. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, chicken fried steak is now the healthy alternative to french toast! Thank you, medical science! And since it appeared in the Oregonian, you know it must be true.

So, as the new year approaches and we all make half-hearted promises regarding our health and well being, remember that eating right is all a state of time.