And Now: A Holiday Guest Post

This one comes from my big sister...

I know you've all been anxiously awaiting the sequel to "The Toenail F." Boys and Girls, gather 'round for another chapter in Hetherington Holiday Mayhem. For those of you who are new to this exciting holiday tradition, my cousin, Big T, and I exchange just about the grossest handmade gifts that you could conjure up. He started it all with a toenail charm necklace, followed by a matching toenail ring. There has been a cat litter ornament with Tootsie Roll embellishments, and another ornament with various items composed of DNA such as newborn umbilical cords, boogers, teeth, etc... Last year he presented me with The Toenail F. He saved his toenail clippings for a full year, and then formed them into a beautiful letter F (for my last name) and framed it. This year it was my turn.

Just about the time I needed to start planning my attack, my daughter and about 6 other extended family members got the gift that keeps on giving - lice. At first I was horrified, as any mother is when presented with parasites on her child's head, but then it hit me. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. When life gives you lice before the holiday season, make lice cufflinks for your cousin. Being the nurse in the family, I became the designated nit picker. I became quite skilled, I am proud to say, and collected each little critter in a ziploc baggie. My poor sister-in-law, who has long, beautiful, blonde hair was in tears when we found it in her hair. She was grabbing at those little guys and smashed a couple of them before I could get to them. I had to calmly beg her not to mangle them because I needed them for a craft. She cooperated after that little discussion.

Next, I needed to find just the right cufflinks with a nice white background for maximum contrast. Finally found the right pair on Ebay and had to have them shipped all the way from Hong Kong. Good thing the lice were free, because this was starting to get costly in shipping. I was so excited when I found the little manilla envelope in the mailbox with the Chinese stamps on them! It's craft time! Amazing what one can do with a bag of dead lice, some Modgepodge and toothpicks.

Big T was a little nervous to open his special gift at the family gift exchange the other night, but I think after the shock wore off, he kinda liked them. He even wore them in the buttonhole on his collar for all to see and enjoy. He has 367 days to start planning his retaliation....

Hetherington Holiday Mayhem

Over the past several Christmases, my sister has been enjoying a holiday tradition that she likes to rub in my face all year long. She invites my dad over to her house and she and my nieces make Christmas cookies with him. Last year they called me at work, giggling and listening to carols, bragging on and on about how much fun they were having with Dad.

Well, this year she was nice enough to include me, and thus begun the holiday hilarity of my weekend.

Dad was feeling a little under the weather, so we weren’t sure what to expect from him in terms of creativity. As you can see from the picture above, he more than delivered. He turned a gingerbread man into an alien, a Santa Claus into a Krusty the Clown-esque snowman, and an ornament into a very lifelike clock.

Given Dad’s less than healthy state, it was no surprise that last night—at our extended family Christmas dinner—Mom asked, “Who knows how to carve a turkey?” There was no way we were letting Dad get germs on our birds. The only person to raise his hand in the room was, my hero, Mr. Wonderful. Of course he knew how to carve a turkey, he watches 5-27 hours of the Food network each week.

The turkeys were carved and all was well in the world. Until dessert.

As a side note, it should be known that my 8- and 10-year old nieces are deathly afraid of human vomit. Simply saying the word “throw up” is equivalent to describing the Charles Manson murders in detail.

The two of them were perched on the couch when my cousin’s 2-year old started to choke on his pumpkin pie. He was still talking—no airways were cut off—he just needed a little sip of water to wash it down. Unfortunately, his dad didn’t move fast enough, and as my nieces watched with mouths agape and eyes bulging, poor little Lucas tossed his cookies. My cousin, being an expert in the field of motherhood, simply reached out and caught it on her dessert plate.

The nieces screamed. The room erupted into moans. Mr. W murmured, “Ooooh no…” And my mother started laughing so hard at everyone else’s reactions, that she locked at the knees and began doing a bladder handicapped run down the hallway to the bathroom.

Given that she wet her pants a smidge on Thanksgiving when my brother flew Mr. W’s remote controlled helicopter into the china cabinet and broke an antique glass, I was fairly confident that she’d ruptured the seal this time as well.

Ten minutes later, she reappeared, wearing slightly different black pants. “Did you pee?” I asked as she wiped tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. She tried to play coy at first. But after much harassing, she admitted that not only did she break the seal, she had a full flood on her hands…or rather, feet…by the time she reached the bathroom.

My family is all getting together again on Wednesday, so there may be more stories to come. And my sister will be writing a guest blog about this year’s disgusting gift exchange with our cousin’s husband.

Yes folks, it’s the most wonderful time of year in the Hetherington household… I hope we all survive it.

Fading to Black

Two weeks before I graduated from college, I received a phone call from the ad agency I interned at asking me to come in for an interview. They were creating a junior copywriter position and thought I might be interested. $30k to write every day?! Heck yes I was interested!

I got the job and spent almost 4 years learning the ropes of agency life. Around year 3, things started to change. Our biggest account was Microsoft and when they made the decision to consolidate their agencies, we were left in the dust…with about $6 million less coming into our office.

I watched coworkers get laid off. It started with higher-ups who were far enough removed from me that it didn’t really sting. But wave after wave, it crept closer. And it began to hurt. Then it hit one of my favorite people in the office.

I had bonded with this guy and several others—spending long lunches with them, hanging out on weekends, even traveling to Vegas to see U2. The thought of not seeing him every day broke my heart.

Slowly, the unraveling continued and eventually I was laid off. I felt somewhat relieved—I was ready to work for new clients. But I also found myself mourning my past life. Change didn’t agree with me.

On an almost visceral level, I missed the carefree days at the agency. When we could get ice cream after lunch and throw a super ball around my office. I missed the feeling that everything was right and okay. I missed being excited and having fun on a daily basis. The halcyon days had faded to black.

I’m the first to tell the people around me that change is a good thing.

“With it comes growth and opportunity.”

“When I was laid off, I wrote a manuscript for a novel.”

“It was the greatest four months of my life.”

The truth is, I also cried a lot.

I’m at a point again where change is crowding in around me. The stable life I knew last year is rocking back and forth, preparing to go topsy turvy like a pendulous theme park ride. And I don’t want it to. I don’t want to grieve for the good days gone by. I don’t want my heart to ache because I miss old coworkers. I don’t want to sense the prickles of fear that the fresh, limitless sense I had with Mr. Wonderful has given way to familiarity and a need to shelve the romance and focus on the logistics of our future.

The past few weeks of ups and downs have left me feeling like the dance floor I was waltzing across has fallen away, board by board. Change is after me. And I’m scared. I don’t want to get off my tiny square of hardwood because I know it so well. I know the dance I was doing made me happy. And the thought of learning new steps just makes me want to cry.

Look into Our Eyes and We Will Kill You

In an attempt to get them out of my bed and prevent cat hair inhalation while I'm sleeping, I gave the children early Christmas presents. You would think they'd be really grateful for their new nests, but instead they've decided to try to vaporize me with their super laser cat vision.

Yummy Yummy Yoga

Until yesterday, I hadn’t been to yoga class in about a year and a half. The last time I went was the first, and only, time I ever went to the studio solo. It was the day I had my incident with sweaty, naked guy.

Given that I still like Mr. Wonderful a lot when he is sweaty and naked (What? No, Mom I’ve never seen him naked. I’m talking hypothetically about after we get married.) I figured it would be safe to take a class with him. So we braved the chilly morning air and headed to Golden Bridge Yoga in Hollywood to get our chakrasses handed to us in the most difficult Basics class I’ve ever attended.

The moment we entered the studio, I was in love. It’s a huge building with exposed beam ceilings, brick walls and the smell of incense wafting everywhere. The front desk is connected to a store that has just about everything zen you can think of. Candles, yoga clothing, handmade jewelry, books on positive energy. I could’ve spent hours in there.

People were milling about everywhere and a lot of them were decked out in real deal yogi clothes—solid white pants and tunics, with head wraps and knit caps. I’d never seen anything like it. They assembled on the main floor like a devoted congregation preparing for Sunday mass. At the front of the room was an ornate stage with a gong and tapestries and pillows. This was the Guru’s teaching pulpit.

Mr. W and I made our way through them, upstairs to the Basics class, and were pleased to find only 3 other students in attendance. We spread our mats next to one another and very quickly lost ourselves in the beginning stretches. Eyes closed, listening to the chanting below me, focusing on my breath, I quickly remembered how replenishing yoga can be.

Being in class is different than doing yoga in my living room. The energy isn’t the same. Or rather, there’s more energy. On the wooden floor, with bells and gongs ringing in my ears, I could feel myself reconnecting to a forgotten peace. I stretched until my limbs shook, recalling my desire to be stronger in body and spirit. It was so nice to have that familiar feeling back.

Every muscle in my core and upper body is sore today. It’s fantastic. And I can’t wait to turn this practice into a habit again. Even if it means seeing the occasional sweaty, naked guy.

Calling All Composters

If you read me regularly, you know that I drive a Prius. I recycle. I wash the plastic silverware I use at work so I can reuse it. There is a picture of me in a scrapbook somewhere and I’m hugging a Sequoia tree. Yes, I’m crunchy and green and I want to save our planet.

So when I found out about this electric, indoor composter, I was smitten! It’s mega expensive but I figured there are lots of girls out there who spend $400 on a purse, so why shouldn’t I spend it on something that will help reduce landfill waste and give my plants lovely nutrient-rich compost? I even told family members to give me money instead of gifts this Christmas so I could use it toward my coveted purchase.

Then Mr. W read an article in the L.A. Times about how noisy these indoor composters are. The story likened the sound to having a Lincoln driven into your living room. Sadly, I do not have a garage in which to place something like this, so the kitchen is my only option and well…I don’t want to be woken up all night by a loud-ass composter.

So now I’m exploring my other options.

There’s this one that comes with a whole kit, and this one that’s on wheels for easy transporting to the garden, and this one that’s enhanced with solar power. They all seem great and I have NO idea which one to choose.

Do any of you have any experience with this? Or know someone who does? I’d love some sage advice!

Heredity

It is very clear to me where I get my dorky gene after reading my mother's response to yesterday's post:

Dad was more disturbed about you spending the night at Mr. W's house than witnessing all that.

But I assured him "Twas the Night Before Christmas, when all through the house, there was Melissa asleep on the couch."

Clever and cheesy go hand-in-hand in the Hetherington family...