Monkeyspheres and astroturf

SockMonkeyAngel on Etsy
Seattle Seahawk Monkey

Lately I've been following football.

This isn't something that I undertake lightly. My whole city is swept up into it. My whole city is rallying behind the Seahawks in a way that I've not ever witnessed. Not even when the Seahawks were in Superbowl 40 in 2005 did the city have this fever. There is something about this iteration of guys under Carrol and Schneider that has the region buzzing. 

I like to say that I watched football with my brothers and my father most of the years of my childhood. That isn't false. But during those times, all I could really understand about the games being played is that there was a football that needed to go to one side or the other. The men in my house had little patience to explain the intricacies of the game to a little girl. Let me write that again. Not to a little girl. So while I tried to understand, all I could glean was that my father would be rooting for the guys wearing red and gold. My brothers would be rooting for other colors that went against red and gold. Sometimes my father would yell at the television a lot. For years, I didn't pay attention. I simply didn't want to invest. Did I really want to have yet another facet of my life over which I truly had no control? When people would ask me which team I supported, I told them it was the red and gold one because it was my father's team. While I could probably name the cities and appropriate team names, my knowledge of the game was limited to that.

But then there was the 2012 season. I make no apologies about sitting up and taking notice for the first time really. My husband isn't a big watch-on-the-television sports kind of guy. Nor am I, if I'm being honest. The story of these players being from the island of misfit toys resonated with me. They were a team of late round draft picks and un-drafted players. The quarterback was shorter than most in that position and was a rookie to boot. But from that, they had progressed into a force. When they fell short to the Atlanta Falcons despite that soaring 4th quarter, despite that 2 point lead with 30 seconds left on the clock... Ah, the hubris of believing that they had it in the bag and had pulled off the greatest comeback of all time. I don't think I'll ever forget the look on Russell Wilson's face after that game. It broke my heart.

But this post isn't about that. It's more about what I've observed with being a fan. It all comes down to monkeyspheres. If that concept and the attached article are too much to take in, it is the idea that we as primates are only able to keep about 150 people within our radius of caring.  We are designed to think in terms of us & them.  It is part of being a social animal. Something primal within us makes us want to quickly categorize people. Stereotyping people is normal. Categorizing people is normal. Comparing our social group to other social groups is normal. Being part of a larger group is part of being human -- it is how we identify ourselves.

This is at the root of all conflict. All.

So I've started really paying attention to football in a way I never have before. I've been reading analysis. Learning about the different positions. Learning some history. Attempting to understand the rules. And feeling like I'm having to catch up. But that was fine. There was depth to this sport that was fascinating. Seeing the intricacies of how these teams function with each play was something I had never noticed before. It was like I had only ever watched a swarm of bees and never noticed that each bee had a job.

And here is where we get to the crazy. I've been a fool to think that this was all kind of fun. That becoming a fan of a football team was fun. That starting to watch and take part in this national obsession was like joining a huge club into which any American was gladly offered admittance! What I found was that I would not be welcomed into this monkeysphere easily.

With the recent success of the Seahawks, my friends and most notedly one of my brothers, have been scoffing at my interest. That my cheers and hopes and even clothing were not worthy of the franchise upon which I place my honor. But I'm not alone. A recent study from Nielsen Scarborough showed that NFL fandom is up by 27% in the Seattle area. While a bump is usual when there is a championship, this is interesting because NFL fandoms don't change numbers -- they remain stagnant.

There is a reason for that.

Within the monkeysphere of NFL fans, there are the monkeyspheres of the two conferences, and within that, there are the monkeyspheres of the 4 regions of the two conferences, and then within that are the individual teams. What you might not expect is the monkeyspheres within the monkeyspheres of the fans of the individual teams. That is an s-ton of monkeyspheres. How does one keep it straight?

There is a kind of boastful pride that people use to talk about how long they have been a fan. They say they've been fans since the Seahawk's inception -- nearly 40 years ago already -- they founded in 1976. There's talk of fans who have weathered the times when the Seahawks were super crappy. Fans even pride themselves on wearing the old jersies -- Hasselbeck, Largent, or other luminaries we've had on the gridiron. The old colors and old Seahawk logos are a kind of badge of honor. That if you have not been through the rough times when the Seahawks sucked, you don't belong in this monkeysphere. That's the reason NFL fandom has been stagnant. One does not take up a banner because those who were there before will not give you berth.

My friends -- Seahawk and other monkeysphere team fans -- take great pleasure on quizzing me about the Seahawks. Recently, I texted a Niner fan friend of mine to wish him a happy new year. And he came back with pictures of himself and his family in full Niner regalia. I sent him a picture of myself in my Seahawk gear. He proceeded to quiz me on Seahawk history and I predictably failed. Told me that I wasn't a "true," fan. My brother and I have had what I thought was a friendly back and forth. However, it seems that was not the case. He's a Viking fan. At every turn he reminds me about how I'm not a "true," fan most recently because I do not own a jersey. The words bandwagon and fair weather are bandied about like racial epithets. But this kind of labeling comes also from my friends who are long time Seahawks fans. A "there, there, don't worry your pretty little head," kind of mentality when I talk about the game and its dynamics.

Is this to be yet another area in which I need to guard my views; religion, politics, and feminism need to make room for NFL fandom?

I am a TRUE fan because I say I am a TRUE fan. Just like in religion, politics, and feminism, you don't get to check my bonafides, you don't get to police or decide if I'm a TRUE fan based on how long I've followed the game, cared about the game, purchased the merchandise, or even had it register on my radar. You don't get to tell me how to be a fan simply because you don't think I belong in this monkeysphere. This is not something that gets passed down from father to son anymore. I don't have to prove anything to you so stop assuming that I do. I've been wrong to engage in it myself -- I flatly do not accept the premise of your position, that there is such a thing as a true fan versus a fake one. I know this, I'm real.

And for the record, I think the pink jerseys are stupid, too. They're reductive and sexist. But whatever. Women are increasing NFL fandom and the pink jerseys are not the reason.

People watching at its finest

My nephews are mental about trains. They are 6 and 3 years old so it is understandable. My boy was briefly into trains but much more into dinosaurs and Spiderman at that age. How great is it that they live in San Francisco where there is light rail. My brother said that it would be an adventure for us to ride the MUNI light rail so that they kids could go through the tunnel on the train. We'd even be able to see some real cable cars at our destination.

We wanted to take in the "world famous San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market," which is one of those events/places that just must not be missed. According to my brother David, the whole farmers' market organic movement had its birth here. One might say that this farmers market is the model for others across the country. (One who lives in SFO. Clearly not one who lives in Seattle whose Pike Place market started in 1907 because of outrage over the price of onions, but I'm not going to argue with my brother the chef. This is his turf.) The ferry plaza was remodeled about 5-6 years ago and so it is a great draw. 

It was a slightly overcast day this morning so we bundled the kids up on sweaters and light jackets and set off. We drove to a neighborhood towards the beginning of the L route train. I am thinking it was near the SF Zoo. We were the first to get on the train and it was a good lesson for my kids to learn some mass transit etiquette. I insisted my boy give up his seat for a senior citizen (with a cane I might add) who was trying to find a seat. Surprisingly, the people towards the front of the car did not stand up for them but I was very proud that my boy did without complaint. Later I had my kids and my niece double up so more people could get a seat on the train. It was actually a good lesson in consideration and compassion for all. 

We went to David's favorite burger place on the waterfront where none of us ordered burgers. I had Ahi Poke tacos. Clever idea. Wish it were really Hawaiian style poke, but it was good anyway. I also tried the Blue Bottle Coffee iced New Orleans coffee. It was quite good. My brother said that their individually brewed drip coffee is not to be missed but it was far too warm outside. I'm sure I'll have another opportunity to try their coffee  before we depart.

While the rest of our party played, 'Cess went to brave the long lines at the ladies' room. You would think that by this time, meaning the 21st century, architects and planners for public places would know that women need more stalls; that boys can stand and need fewer stalls. And yet, there are still never any lines at the boys' room and always 15 - 20 people deep lines at the girls' room. I say people because moms bring boys in to the girls' room all the time. Anyway, while I was waiting for my daughter to get out of the bathroom, I got to witness a little bit of crazy that big cities attract.

I sat on a bench out by the water when a man came by walking very purposefully. He had a kind of scowl on his face and he held a paper grocery bag in his left hand by the handles; his hand clenched in a fist. In his right hand, he was gesturing like he was holding a spider by the web. You know, like when you are trying to put a spider outside from the house and it keeps dropping more web so you try to wind it up on your hand so you can get outside the door. I couldn't see the spider, but I assumed it was there as he didn't seem to be off kilter at the time, aside from his general angry demeanor. He walked over to the railing and appeared to throw the spider out in the water. Well, that is until he appeared to be punching some invisible foe over the side of the railing and angrily muttering to himself the whole while. After he ostensibly defeated that foe, he walked away from the railing and then turned back towards it glowering. He again walked back to the railing and gesticulated with his right arm and hand like he was fighting zombies that only he could see. He then stomped off back into the market. Aside from the general wackiness of the situation, what was surprising to me was that nobody else seemed to notice this guy being strange. They were all in their own worlds and I kept scanning the faces of the people around me to see if they were noticing what I was noticing. Nobody was. That was a strange experience to be so crowded with people but be completely alone in my observations.

Holy crap! Maybe I'm the one with the imaginary zombies. 

But the best part of the day came when we made our way back on light rail to the neighborhood where we parked the cars. I sat by myself and waited for the people to load on the train. The second stop we were at, we were inundated with a sea of humanity coming on board. My brother later told me that all the buses in the city dump out at that particular stop to connect with light rail. An older Chinese woman sat down beside me as she was one of the first on the train, but when the numbers of humans just kept coming, I said, "Wow..." to nobody in particular, but the lady beside me echoed my amazement. "Wow."

She had clearly just come from the same farmers market that I had been to. She had 3 grocery bags full of produce. It all looked wonderful. She was happily snacking on some clementines. It was around this time that I realized that there was a very twitchy guy standing, well, barely standing at the front of the train. He was barely steady on his feet and moving around like there was music playing. Messed up midi synchronizer type music, but still music only in his mind. I realized that I was staring at him so I did the rational thing. I lowered my sunglasses over my eyes so I could watch him undetected. You know, like how the secret service does. Except for the fact that their sunglasses are mirrored so you can't see their eyes. Hell, I was only trying to fool a twitchy guy. And I happened to be on a train in a tunnel so wearing my sunglasses was completely ludicrous.

It was about this time that I heard some shouting from the front of the train. Lucky me, I had second row seating. Two women were in a very loud and very foul altercation with a rough looking young latin man. According to my brother (who is far more worldly that his hick sister about city life) the young man was obviously in a gang as he was wearing his colors under his hoodie -- red. Take that as you will, but apparently he was getting a little too close to one of the women and when the other woman told him to back off, tempers flared. That is the very washed down version of events. I give credit to the woman who apparently was the object of the inappropriate touching. She jumped up between her friend and this man and kept repeating that this was no big deal. Everybody just needed to calm down and just drop it. Neither her friend nor this young man were about to back down. Strains of Heart's "If Looks Could Kill..." were streaming through my consciousness and also the worry that I had to somehow shield my kids and the cousins from harm. I don't know exactly what I'd do. It was a great relief when the two women left the train, but not before a renewed flurry of foul racial and misogynistic slurs were shouted at them by our gang banger. You should know that I did take my sun glasses off by then because if I had to go all mama bear on this guy, I needed to be ready.

Twitchy guy told gang banger guy that he had hoped to see gang banger guy beat down the two women. Nice. After gang banger guy left, Twitchy guy sat down next to droolly-swollen-lip lady. She wasn't all that interesting to watch, aside from the fact that she couldn't seem to close her mouth and subsequently drooled all over herself. She was using a cell phone which makes me think that maybe she had some emergency dental work done. Twitchy Guy was actually a lot of fun to watch. Aside from his bizarre midi dance moves, he was carrying a purple and pink floral back pack with a random assortment of treasures inside. He offered to sell some cd's from the back pack to the passengers near him. He never asked me. My favorite moment with Twitchy Guy was when he bent over and picked up a used kleenex off the floor of the train. In keeping with this city's general reduce, reuse, recycle fervor, Twitchy Guy cleaned out both of his nostrils with a thorough reaming out with the found kleenex. I did mention that it was a used kleenex, right? A powerful argument against illegal drug use right there.

I turned to my seat mate and asked her, "does mass transit here always have so much drama?"

She responded, "You like," gesturing to the oranges in her bag, "only one dollar." (I'm hoping that wasn't too offensive.) She clearly didn't speak any English. So there I was, alone again with my thoughts. Again hoping that I wasn't the only one seeing phantom zombies. 

Visiting the cousins

This past Saturday was the Red Egg and Ginger party for my new(ish) nephew Aash*t. He is 6 months old and the sweetest baby on the planet. I'm totally in love with him. He is one of those dream babies. He rarely cries and when he does, he is usually consolable. He has a sweet personality and smiles easily, laughs even easier. The thighs on that boy are so chubby your fingers sink into them, you can't help but squeeze. Oh, I'll miss him. I've heard babies like this referred to as "sucker babies." They're so sweet and precious that you get suckered into having another baby. At which point God or the universe decides to bring down the hammer with a reproduction-activity-ending-baby: a colicky, scrawny, foul tempered spawn that will make you wonder if there is something seriously wrong with your husband's gene pool.

I don't think there is any worry that my brother and sister-in-law (SIL) will get suckered into having another baby. Little Aash*t was a surprise as it was. No, they started with Ashley and Alex, twin girl and boy. Ashley & Alex are 3 years old. I think God decided that my brother needed to have an easy time of it for once after the baptism of fire with twins up front so He gave my brother Aash*t. The twins are not without their charms though.

Ashley was looking for her mother one day. I told her that Mommy was in the bathroom so Ashley waited outside the bathroom door. When my SIL emerged from the bathroom, Ashley asked, "Mommy, where you go?" My SIL said, "I went potty." To which the potty training Ashley said, "Good job, Mommy," and clapped.

That reminds me of the time I was shopping in Safeway with a 2 or 3 year old That. His daddy was lagging behind so That turned around and said, "Come on Big Boy. Come on!"

Alex is the perfect example of a thrill seeking boy. If he's not climbing on something, he's trying desperately to find and press buttons everywhere. I predict that he will be one of those boys who will take apart something just to see how it works. He must be taught what the Great Wizard Gandalf said: "He who breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom." I think that assumes that Alex was on the path of wisdom in the first place. Really, what 3 year old boy ever is on that path? I'm certain my 11 year old hasn't quite found it yet. I think I'll send lots of helmets and other protective equipment for him along with his first skateboard. Considering that they live in concrete San Francisco, there's some seriously gnarly hills to shred. (I know it looks like I'm trying too hard to be hip and cool. I am.)

The twins adored That. I think Alex and That had a special connection. I told That that boys just need time with boy energy. There was an enormous amount of rough play and screeching which was just wonderful to watch. Painful to hear but wonderful to watch. Earplugs would have been a boon.

Lil'T was about 3 inches taller than both of the twins. I think she weighs about 15 pounds more than either of them. I was trying to get them to call her Lil'T because that would just be funny in a Little John of Robin Hood fame kind of way. Lil'T and her cousins bathed together in one big bathtub every evening. Alex typically will stand and pee before he takes a bath. Lil'T was absolutely in awe of this. After one particular bath, she came out of the tub and told me, "I want a boto potty." For my non-pino(a)y readers out there, boto = penis. From what I gather, she was suffering from a major case of penis envy. Specifically, the ability of her cousin to pee while standing up. I totally can understand her pain because I remember having that same kind of envy with my brothers. Totally unfair.

It was good to visit with them and I always leave wishing that they lived closer.

Watch your step into the 21st century

My brother called me on the phone last night. He's got a new webcam for his computer and we thought it would be fun to have a video conference so the kids can see each other even though we live in different states.

After exchanging ooVoo usernames, we attempted to talk to each other on the computer.

You would think that all you had to do was plug that little device in and off we'd go. But no. What followed was about an hour of trying to describe things to my brother that he should see on the screen. "Click on the button that is under your picture that looks like a blue thought bubble..." "Try clicking on the hang up button and then you call me. On the computer. Not the phone." Ultimately, we did an end run on the problem of getting the audio and vid working at the same time and instead ran the video while using the speaker phone on our land lines to talk.

Every day I find myself acting a little more like how I remember my parents acting when I was a kid. I remember my dad holding the remote control over his head and aiming it at the t.v. while pressing the button. He and Mom called it the "space age controller," and my dad swore that it really did work better when he held it aloft.

I remember when we got our first microwave. I don't remember what year it was, but I think it was in the late 70's. My parents invited the son-in-law of my Godmother (Ninang Emily) to teach us how to cook with it. Morris was a certified appliance repairman, not a chef or cook. But a repairman. We all gathered around the kitchen while Morris put in a raw scrambled egg in a bowl and out came a that same bowl with a yellow rubber like film that was allegedly cooked scrambled egg. You had to scrape the egg off the bowl and then attempt to eat it. For months after that lesson, my mother would start my day with egg microwaved in the bowl. For months after that lesson, I went to school nauseated or hungry because I had puked up that poor excuse for an egg. Morris also gave me and Mom some microwave cookbooks -- the official ones from the manufacturers of the appliances themselves. You'd think they'd give you edible recipes because they'd want to promote their microwaves. But no. According to the cookbook, there was nothing you couldn't cook in the microwave. Birthday cake? In less than 3 minutes! Fish? You bet! In less than 5 minutes! Thanksgiving dinner? Absolutely! In less than 10 minutes! Mom bought all kinds of special microwave cookware for our new oven, but no matter what, the food experiments were all just assaults on our senses.

But back to last night's foray into technology. It was really fun to get to see my niece and nephew. The littlest one was asleep so I didn't get to see him. I got to see Mom too. Unfortunately, all my kids were asleep but we're going to try to video conference again.

And probably use the speaker phone on the land lines again. Ahhh... technology.

Christmas 2007

The Gospel according to Luke

"(T)he stingy uninspired script consists not of springy dialogue, but rather of a deadening series of pronouncements. Mary to Joseph, "I am tired." Joseph to Mary, "We will rest here for the night." There's no fire, no give and take. And the audience soon grows weary of this passionless relationship." David Sedaris from Front Row Center with Thaddeus Bristol.

My kids participated in the Christmas pageant at our church. Their reenactment of the first Christmas was performed instead of the usual gospel reading. My daughters both dressed up as angels for the production but Lil' T didn't go up on stage. She contented herself with wearing the halo and wings. My son had the starring male role in the play -- you might be thinking Joseph or Gabriel -- sure, they had important parts too, mostly supporting though. My son was the Innkeeper. Really, the whole story arc and the dramatic heft of the play rests on that role's shoulders. Through his scant 6 lines of dialogue, he had us on pins and needles, wondering if his icy heart would melt and give the poor travelers a place to stay. His acting was stellar. I totally believed him as a money grubbing, heartless suck up who ultimately has a small shred of compassion, allowing a pregnant woman to give birth in a cave with his ox and ass sleeping nearby.

I am worried though. My son is being type cast. When he was in the third grade, he played an angry sea urchin. It was a break out role for him. He was the only child that truly acted his part. Sure, most of them were simply making statements about who they were like, "I am a star fish. I like to live in tide pools." But my son really acted like a prickly sea urchin. He shouted, "Hey, what are you doing here? There's no room in this tide pool for you. It is crowded enough as it is." Again, totally believable. But can you see how that is essentially the same part as the innkeeper in the Christmas pageant? The only difference was the costume. Instead of an outfit made of duct tape (a.k.a. duck tape -- for those who are hardware store impaired), paper cones and purple spray paint, he wore a middle eastern robe and pill box hat. I just hope that this typecasting doesn't crimp his ability to take on different roles. I mean, really, what's next down this track? Mr. Roper from Three's Company? Mr. Cunningham from Happy Days? The man from Chico & the Man? The troll from Billy Goats Gruff? I know it is still early in his career, but a mother does worry.


All I want for Christmas


A local radio station here gives out Christmas wishes in the days leading up to Christmas. I decided to try to get something for my mom this year through them -- something that I certainly couldn't afford, especially not this year. This is the entry I wrote, and yeah, it may seem a little over the top, but I wanted to win this for my mom. Oh well, I guess I'll have to fulfill this wish the old fashioned way -- earn it.

When my father retired 17 years ago, my mother treated him to an Omega watch. It was a lavish present for a man who was the son of immigrants, a veteran of 2 wars, worked most of his life as a civil servant doing pest control, sent the 4 of us kids to private school, and at one point took 2 jobs to keep us in our school uniforms. He told my mother that he would get her the matching Omega watch when she retired from her work as a clinic nurse. He promised her that he would. This past year, that retirement finally came. She did not retire on her own schedule but instead, as my parents always have done, put her kids' needs before her own and retired because of me.

In June 2007, my husband, the sole wage earner for our household, was laid off. I was an RN before I left work to raise my kids, ages 10, 6 & 2 years old. To get my license back, I needed to take an RN refresher course -- a 5 month class from a community college. Concerned about me and her grandkids, she said she would retire and come up here from Hawaii to care for my family. Also worried about how I was going to travel to and from the hospital for my clinical assignments, she shipped her only car up here for me to drive.

I always intended to give my mom her Omega watch at her retirement because my dad is unable to keep that promise.

Five years ago, our family gathered in Washington for a Christmas reunion. It was to have been the first one we had shared in over 10 years. At Christmas Eve dinner, my father announced that he expected us all to be in Hawaii for Christmas the following year. He ultimately got his wish, but not the way he had intended. That very evening, Dad died unexpectedly of a massive heart attack. We never had that Christmas all together like we planned. My brothers and I (two in WA, one in HI, and one in CA) went to Hawaii the following year to be with Mom for the 1 year anniversary of Dad's death. Every Christmas season since has been bittersweet -- a shame because Dad truly loved Christmas.

Because I don't have work yet and sadly, my husband has not found a new job, we're struggling this year. My Christmas wish is to give my mom the present my Dad had wanted to give her, the matching Omega watch. I just think that if I could give that to her, she could have Dad here with us for Christmas, even in this small way.

I know, it reads like that overly saccharin Christmas song, Christmas Shoes. My husband will turn off the radio if he hears it playing. It is such an obvious tear jerker. Last night I think he was going to throw up when I started singing it. "Sir, I wanna buy these shoes/ for my Mama, please./ It's Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size./ Can you hurry, sir?/ Daddy says there's not much time,/ see, she's been sick for quite a while,/ and I know these shoes will make her smile,/ and I want her to be beautiful/ when Mama meets Jesus tonight..."

My hubby and I changed the final lyric a little though, "So I laid the money down. /I just had to help him out. /Then he grabbed the money and he ran,/ and I think it might be part of his plan,/ and I think I heard him stop and say/ 'another one born every day...'"

But I think the difference between my entry and that song is that my story is truthful -- real -- I mean, we lived it. And are still living it. I still get teary eyed sometimes when I go to church, remembering that on my dad's last day, we attended Christmas Eve mass. We watched the last Christmas pageant performed there for years before this year's production. I heard my dad sing, O Little Town of Bethlehem and he boasted a little, like he often did when he sang, about how good his voice sounded and how well he knew the lyrics. And then he was gone. And Christmas has really never been the same since. I kind of get a little grumpy in the days leading up to it. I hope that will change eventually, but I doubt it.

My mistake though. The radio station had a cap for their prizes -- $600 per person. Had I known that, I would have asked for a new camera or something like that. And some of the stories they shared were shockingly more tragic than ours. And I thought ours was pretty bad. All in all, our Christmas was great just having Mom here. And even though money was tight, the kids had a great one.

Eat and get gas

What Christmas blog would be complete without a full recapping of what we ate for the Christmas feast? There was no figgy pudding or Christmas goose. I have not yet tried the scary Turducken phenomenon. My brother the chef has done it, and says it is fabulous. I think I'll wait for him to prepare it for me.

In previous years we've had the traditional Thanksgiving redux and we've also gone totally the other way with steak fajitas. But in our defense, the fajitas had red and green bell peppers in them.

This year, our decision on what to make was made by the upper management at Safeway. Prime rib roast went on sale for $4.99/pound. For those of you who have no frame of reference on that, it usually goes for at least $9.99/lb, often more.

I decided to make potatoes au gratin with leeks, oyster mushrooms & guyere cheese. It is a recipe I got way back in the day from Bon Apetit Magazine. I liked it but the kids didn't. They've got some kind of mental block against mushrooms. I blame their father.

The problem with choosing to make the roast and the potatoes was that there is only one oven in this house. The roast prepared in the oven takes about 3 hours at 200 degrees F. The potatoes cook at 400 for 1 hour 20 minutes. You see the conflict. So I decided to grill the roast using the indirect heat method. It was the perfect solution.

After a quick call to my brother the chef, I asked my husband to prepare the briquets. And like the Jews at the first Hanukkah, we were left with too little fuel to keep the fire lit. We only had 1/2 a chimney starter of charcoal. And in our own Christmas miracle, my husband found another 1/2 a chimney full of charcoal still in the grill. Thank goodness for poor housekeeping. Cleaning out the grill after the season was a chore that fell by the wayside. Amazingly, that one chimney full of charcoal was able to cook the roast for over an hour and imparted the most wonderful smoky flavor to the meat. Does that count as a miracle?

Since it was a special occasion, I decided to use our wedding china.

I do question my sanity looking back at it. Why add the stress of using the wedding china for dinner on Christmas day? As if Christmas isn't stressful enough. The meal is cooked by loving hands that will turn decidedly unloving, should you chip the wedding china. I actually have planned for that eventuality and got 13 place settings. I know that seems unlucky, but I think of it this way. I have 12 place settings and 1 replacement for each piece. My anxiety was sensed by my husband who while clearing the table and bringing the china to the kitchen sink mimicked the sound of a large truck backing up and in a loud voice said, "Beep! Beep! China in transit. Beep! Beep!" Then when he almost dropped a Tupperware container on the plates, looking at my barely contained freak out, he changed his mantra to, "Beep! Beep! China in danger. Beep! Beep!"

Oh, I suppose you all would like to know what we had for dessert. Mom and I made binbingka cassava and jello mochi. Both desserts almost didn't make it to the end of the meal. We had prepared them early and by the time we set the table for dinner, most of it had disappeared down the gullets of my family.

The meal was fabulous and festive. My son really had a fun time with his Christmas present from Uncle Dwight. It is a remote control fart machine. So yes, my table was set with my finest china. I had a brand new gold table cloth and deep red table runner both imported from Italy. The kids were drinking out of stemware instead of plastic tumblers. We even used cloth napkins instead of paper. And all the while, we had the sound of farting coming from under the table with giggle filled accusations flying. That's classy.

Ah, memories. Mele Kalikimaka!

And so it begins...

I know that is an ominous title for a post, but I think it is an ominous day. A box arrived this morning. I knew to expect it. My brother, Dwight, had told me that he'd ordered my daughters' Christmas presents early just to be sure they'd get here in plenty of time.

It seemed like a perfectly innocuous box. Nothing special about it. But I'm sure my daughters would disagree. The baby, Lil' T, was present when I unleashed the beast from its brown cardboard confines. She was sworn to secrecy, and since most of her words are unintelligible to humans aside from her parents and grandmother, even if she tries to tell the secret, she'll not be understood. Inside the box was an American Girl doll.

The doll is Ivy, a Chinese American girl. Her best friend is Julie, and their story takes place in the 1970's. Heck, these girls could have been my classmates! Dwight bought the Ivy starter set which includes the book, and the Chinese New Year outfit. These items are for my older girl. The baby gets to have a matching clothing set for her hand-me-down Chinese baby doll.

My older daughter received that baby doll 5 years ago from our dear friend Sharon, who had invited us over for a pre-Christmas gift exchange for our families. It was the last holiday season we were with my father. He came with us for the gift exchange and my #2 child was only 18 months old at the time. She was not speaking a whole lot, but she sure knew how to make her preferences known. Her big brother did a lot of the speaking for her, interpreting her grunts and gestures pretty well. So well, in fact, that our daughter didn't really start speaking in earnest until our son went to Kindergarten. The little princess had a few dislikes then, a big one being inanimate objects that moved of their own accord.

Once we were in a hospital waiting room where they had an activity table set up for kids. It was one of those deals where you use magnets on the bottom of the table to move the toys on the inside of the table. Princess saw the toys move and started screaming because they seemed to do it on their own. Darling husband asked me to do it again just to see, and sure enough, Princess screamed like somebody was killing her. I guess DH thought it was funny.

Anyway, back to the gift exchange. Princess was initially enamored with the baby doll. It was a pretty little thing, complete with its own baby bear. But disaster happened when she laid the doll down. The doll *gasp* closed its eyes. This prompted a treasured moment shared with my father and me. We were watching Princess as she enjoyed her new doll but when that doll betrayed her by moving its eyes on its own accord, it brought on a flash of anger from Princess. She picked up the doll and as best as she could, tried to bite its head off. I don't mean figuratively; she tried to put her teeth into the doll's scalp. Dad and I were so taken aback by this display of toddler angst, we busted up laughing. Needless to say, Princess didn't like that doll, not one bit, but thankfully, I held on to it. Lil' T loves the doll despite the fact that it has those eyes that close on their own.

Here's what's bad about the whole American Girl phenomenon. It is a perfect storm. They've got videos, books, dolls and best of all CLOTHES. There isn't just one kind of doll, (stupid Barbie, you really blew that one) but dozens of different dolls. Each doll has its own book of historical fiction or some present day adventures, so parents think of the books as educational. All the stories are about empowering girls. Each book is just one more opportunity for your daughter to become enraptured by a doll that she just needs. A doll that has different outfits. A doll that has matching outfits for your daughter. These American Girl dolls are in my house and waiting to explode all over me on Christmas morning.

I know that it is what Princess told her Uncle Dwight she wanted for Christmas. I know it isn't his fault that he fell into the trap. But I will fault him for bringing me down into the trap with him. Damn.