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I am too practical to ever be cutting-edge fashionable.

When I saw a picture of Kylie Kardashian wearing a simple black dress with an enormous life-size faux taxidermy lion’s head attached, my first thought was: Will she be able to pull up to the table when food is served?

How can she keep her balance?

Will she be able to navigate that monstrosity in a restroom stall?

I’m so mundane, I check the weather app before deciding what to wear. My go-to fashion adviser is the local meteorologist.

I’m so void of imagination that never once have I surveyed the possibilities in my closet and thought, “I wonder how an artist’s rendition of an animal head would look strapped to that?”

The faux taxidermy accessory may be a trend that falls under the heading of “fashion regrets.” Far be it for me to cast the first shoulder pad; I live with my own fashion regrets.

Granny dresses with long skirts and big sleeves were popular when I was in high school. I felt wonderfully fashionable swooshing down the hall between history and math. I looked like one of the Ingalls girls from “Little House on the Prairie.”

In my early motherhood years, big lace collars on dresses were the trend. They were feminine and fancy. I tried to talk my mother into getting one. She refused, saying it would look like she rammed her head through a tablecloth. I immediately knew why I always felt like eating off the china when I wore that dress.

Mom jeans were one of the few fashion trends I was in step with. I just heard they went out of style some time ago.

Big hair had huge staying power. That’s the only trend I was ever on top of. Big hair is past, present and future, as my hair correlates with the humidity. Again, with the meteorologist my fashion adviser.

Jane Fonda workout videos popularized leg warmers. Leg warmers were like long evening gloves without the part for your fingers, only you wore them on your legs.

Even now, I ask myself, why? What were we thinking?

Were we thinking?

Today I read that the big blazer is the latest rage; everybody who is somebody is going to be swimming in one. True to its name, the big blazer is huge, with huge, oversized sleeves, and a trapeze cut so generous it could house you and three friends.

If I wore one of the big blazers, one of the grands would ask if I was playing dress-up. Someone else would ask if I wasn’t too old to go trick-or-treating, and I would ask myself if I seriously thought I could get a seatbelt around all the fabric.

One designer was quoted telling women, “. . . embrace the over-size fit and it will suit you.”

That’s exactly what I’m worried about.

If life is a pie chart with different size slices for “eating, sleeping, working,” etc., the biggest slice of my pie would be “looking for my reading glasses.”

I have a main pair, a backup pair in the kitchen, a backup pair on a bedside table and an emergency pair in my purse. It’s not like I didn’t see this coming.

The thing is, I don’t like to resort to a backup pair because that is an admission of failure that I cannot find the main pair.

I’ve stopped asking my better half if he has seen my glasses, because the answer is always the same. Without even looking up, he will say, “Did you check on top of your head?”

OK, so maybe that’s where they are sometimes. Maybe that’s even where two pairs are sometimes.

The man is completely without sympathy, and I can tell you why. He lives in a world with pockets. Nearly every shirt he owns has a pocket—a pocket for glasses. My shirts and sweaters do not have pockets.

The second largest slice on my pie chart would be “looking for my cell phone.”

Pocket inequity is why I also dash about yelling, “I can’t find my phone! Somebody call me! Somebody call me!” Someone whips out a cell phone to call me and I suddenly remember that I put my phone on silence.

To divert attention from the fact that no one will be able to hear my phone, I quickly switch the back to, “Has anybody seen my glasses?”

The third largest slice on my pie chart would be, “Looking for my car keys.”

Ninety-nine percent of the time, my car keys are in my purse, but it is a large purse. Think 50-gallon flex steel trash bag. It is the Bermuda Triangle. I once found a plane in my purse. It was made of Legos, but you get the idea.

I have a memory foam pillow but not even that helps.

The real problem is leaving home without one of the big three. If I leave without glasses, the phone is useless. If I leave without my phone, the glasses don’t matter. And if I leave without keys, but remember my phone and glasses, I wind up sitting in the car catching up on texts on my phone.

Recently, I discovered a fix for making sure I have my three essentials before leaving the house. The key is mnemonics. Song and hand motions are a must.  Remember singing, “Head, shoulders, knees and toes” with your kids? Tweak it a bit (eyeglasses, keys and phone) and you will never again leave home without the essentials.

Just be careful when you do the arm motions and bend over that your glasses don’t fall off the top of your head.

(If you find Lori’s glasses, phone or keys, please email her at [email protected])

Once a year our entire family spends a long weekend together with the highlight being a “talent show.” Talent, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. Take the one who asks for volunteers and when his sister, a brother-in-law, a 6-year-old nephew and his own 13-year-old daughter go forward, announces he will guess their weights.

I’m not saying the talent pool is thin, but sometimes you may not be sure what the talent is. Last fall, a 6-year-old tossed a rumpled sheet on the floor, got beneath it and crawled around as others tried to guess her talent.

She was a mole. When you knew she was a mole, it was a pretty good reenactment of a mole.

We’ve had some semi-quality acts and even a tearjerker or two. There was the year a son-in-law played guitar while his three little girls sang “The Best Day” by George Strait. “We loaded up my old station wagon with a tent . . . some fishin’ poles, a cooler of cokes . . . going campin’ in the wild outdoors. As we turned off on that old dirt road she looked at me and said, Dad, this could be the best day of my life . . . I’m the luckiest girl alive. This is the best day of my life.”

That tender moment was quickly offset by a headstand demonstration, which resulted in an entire weekend of people dropping to the floor, doing headstands and asking others to time them.

There has been singing, dancing, a jug band, magic tricks, an escape artist demonstration, poetry recitations, extreme pushups, and a kindergartener spelling hard words like chrysanthemum, dandelion and Tennessee—backward!

A highlight last year was a 4-year-old in a dress-up evening gown and oversized plastic high heels. She stood with hands on her hips, someone cued the music with a thundering bass beat and she began her “model walk.” A model walk is where you dramatically kick one foot back, out, and around while jerking the corresponding shoulder. Left, right, left, right. It’s a high-spirited walk that takes grave concentration and is complicated by periodically jumping in the air and turning a complete circle. Each jump was breathtaking, but she landed upright in pink heels two sizes too big each and every time.

With a talent bench this deep, the husband and I have been reluctant to participate, although one year he called me forward, I went and said, “But we don’t have a talent.”

“Yes we do,” he said.

“No, we don’t,” I said.

“But we do,” he said.

“We don’t,” I said.

“We are doing our talent right now,” he said. “Bickering!”

Funny. Very funny.

Last year we upped our game. Wardrobe, lighting, the whole shebang. Wardrobe involved black clothing and glow sticks taped to our torsos, arms and legs. The lights were cut, Frank Sinatra was cued and we did a glow-in-the-dark grand entry followed by a dance routine to “Fly Me to the Moon.” It bought down the house, not to mention a few pieces of furniture.
We have booked our family weekend for this fall and talent show ideas are rippling through the troops. We’re at a loss. It was probably a “once and done performance.” It may be best to quit now and end on a good note and good foot.

 

I don’t want to point fingers or name names, but you-know-who is the reason I shop Costco alone. If someone else goes along, we are likely to be pushing a cart so loaded you can’t see over the top of it.

I remind him that the reason we joined Costco was because prices at the pharmacy were good when we self-insured.

Well, that and for the rotisserie chickens.

If I had to choose between prescription meds and rotisserie chicken, I’d choose the chicken.

I’d die happy.

He reminds me that we also go for cheap gasoline.

We do. Except that gasoline can be costly, as in, “Since we’re here for gas, why not run in and pick up a few things?”

The last time we went in for a “few things,” the gasoline came out to $17 a gallon. We can’t afford to keep saving money.

In a recent lapse of sanity, we went to Costo together.

I explained that when you shop at a warehouse store you have a list and stick to it. You do not wander around and browse. Browsing is how you wind up with 12 pounds of cashews, evergreen bushes and a 7-piece sectional sofa.

He said he couldn’t hear me. I said in that case he should go directly to the hearing department.

We got what we came for and then began browsing. Not just browsing, it was full-on meandering. Wandering. Drifting. Roaming. Strolling. From giant HD televisions to vitamins in gallon-size bottles.

“Look! Lime jalapeno tortilla chips!” he exclaims.

It was a bag the size you would take to a family reunion.

“Ghiradelli brownie mix!”

We’d need a forklift to get the box into the cart.

Then came the samples. Garlic kielbasa. “You can’t say no to garlic kielbasa,” he says.

“No, but our doctor would.”

“Deep dish pizza!”

He says it with the excitement of remote tribes the first time they saw a Polaroid picture.

“Pretzel crisps!”

It’s an enormous bag—a bag the size mulch comes in.

“Ask yourself this,” I say. “Will I live long enough?”

Pretzel crisps are in the cart. His father lived to be 97. Apparently, he plans on outliving him.

“Tiramisu!” He’s a kid in the candy store.

I freeze. It looks delectable.

“When was the last time you made tiramisu?” he asks.

I take the fifth.

“Six individual servings,” he notes.

I put my foot down—the one with the running shoe. “No.”

We check out and I calculate the cost of gasoline per gallon.

We get home, unpack and open the ‘fridge to scrounge something up for lunch. He joins me as we stare at a smattering of leftovers staring back.

“You know what sounds good?” I muse. “Tiramisu.”

 

 

My phone is listening. Yours is, too, but you probably knew that.

My PC monitors my every move. I’m constantly chased through cyberspace by products, services, time-saving gadgets and apparel I don’t want.

Relentlessly, they try to wear me down. Sometimes they win.

Maybe I do need an immersion blender. Maybe a WeatherTech CupFone holder would be convenient. Maybe a quilted vest with a fur collar now 40 percent off would look good on me.

The other day the husband and I were talking about a fraudulent call he had received asking for his Social Security number. Naturally, he ignored it.

Minutes later he opened Instagram and there was an ad from a security company promoting coverage for all his devices.

Social media platforms and search engines say they are not spying on anybody. Internet providers track the sites we visit and how long we stay there, but they’re not spying either. Tons of information can be harvested from social media but social media is not private (hence the name social), so it’s not spying.

I believe them. I also have a bridge I’d like to sell in New Jersey.

They say it’s simply AI, artificial intelligence, and algorithms that can anticipate personal interests.

I’ve tried to limit my “not being spied on” by going to settings and rejecting cookies. I hate it that life has come to rejecting all cookies. It goes against my inner being and my inner baker.

I’ve also read that smart phones and computers can listen through smart assistants like Alexa or Hey Google.

I’ve never had a smart assistant. I’ve never had a dumb one either.

I do use Siri. Siri is so helpful. So convenient. So ready to oblige. But then, so was Benedict Arnold.

I’ve disabled most everything I can disable, but my phone still knows things about me and still sends ads—not just about things I’ve looked at online, but about things I’ve said.

I can’t beat them, so I’ve decided to join them.

When the husband is away from his phone, I talk to it. I tell it things I think he’d like to know more about.

“Spa day for wife.”

He probably thinks about giving me a spa day all the time and just forgets to mention it or follow through. This way I can help him. What kind of woman doesn’t want to help her man?

“Restaurants near me,” I whisper to his phone when he goes out to get the mail.

“Tour Italy!” I shout when he is in the garage looking for a lightbulb.

“Florence!”

Specifics are always helpful.

Meanwhile, I’m working on my surprise face. If he suggests going out to dinner or taking a trip, I’ll be completely bowled over.

In the event international travel doesn’t resonate with him, I’ve also picked up his phone and said, “Beach rentals for snowbirds.”

I’m not a beach person but he is, so I’m throwing that one into the mix as well. I try not to be self-centered.

I’ve also mentioned Home Depot and Lowe’s when his phone is unattended just so he doesn’t get suspicious.

I’m not spying or manipulating; I’m just anticipating his interests.

I’m his smart assistant.

The symbols for the New Year, Father Time and Baby New Year, are polar opposites on the age spectrum.

Father Time is gaunt and haggard, draping about in a long robe, carrying a huge hourglass and a large scythe. The timepiece appears heavy and the scythe definitely looks lethal. The message is clear: “Time’s ticking – get the lead out!”

Baby New Year wears nothing but a diaper, a sash and a top hat. Baby New Year travels light compared to Father Time. Baby New Year has chubby cheeks, pudgy thighs and fat rolls, all of which are adorable. He’s also ready to party! Oh, the joys of youth.

The message of Baby New Year is “fresh start.” It sounds good, but in reality the kid has no idea what lies ahead. There will be food and digestive issues, toileting matters, sleep problems and people yelling, “Get down from that ladder!” and “What are you doing on the counter?”—all of which also may be familiar to the people Father Time is trailing as well.

Surely, there’s something between “time’s up” and “fresh start.” There’s much to be said for the middle ground of having some time and experience behind you and a horizon still somewhere in front of you.

Life is an ever-expanding canvas painted one day at a time. Some days are masterpieces, others look like wild paint splatters, and many are an in-between work in progress.

Nobody knows with certainty how long the canvas will keep unrolling. Some are told it is growing short then find themselves enjoying a serendipitous reprieve. For others the canvas ends with shocking brevity.

Because of the unpredictability of time, some say we should live each day like it is our last. The intensity of such a challenge would be utterly exhausting emotionally, mentally, physically, and nearly impossible, if not outright debilitating. If we truly did live like each day was our last, one of them well could be.

My New Year symbol of choice is a new calendar, page after page of blank spaces waiting to be filled and roomy margins for notations on special events, anniversaries to remember and new memories waiting to be made.

Twelve months, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Each one a gift with countless possibilities.

Let the unwrapping begin.

 

My mother used to say she dreaded the day she returned to school after Christmas vacation. The standing assignment in that small country school was to write about their holiday and the gifts they received.

Growing up in a large family during the Depression, her family didn’t always have gifts.

“So, what did you write about?” I asked.

“My many Christmas gifts!” she exclaimed.

My mother never suffered from writer’s block, even as a schoolgirl.

Her story of not having much at Christmas as a child, then growing into a woman who took the holiday over the top and embodied the joy of Christmas, has the hallmarks of a classic Christmas tale.

The good ones grip your heart and bring you to tears—the stories and the storytellers.

O. Henry’s “Gift of the Magi” is about a young couple strapped for cash. He sells his prized watch to buy a comb for her hair. She sells her beautiful long hair to buy a chain for his watch. The story of sacrifice and love culminates in joy and tears.

In 1965, CBS took a huge gamble airing Charles Schultz’ “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” What many executives thought could well be a dud has become a cherished holiday tradition.

One of the newer additions to our collection of classics is “The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey.” It belongs under the Grumpy Old Men category. It is the tender story of a woodworker with a cold and grieving heart, melted by the love of a small boy and his mother who ask him to carve a nativity set.

First place in the Grump category will forever belong to Charles Dickens’ Scrooge in “The Christmas Carol.”

All the components of a classic are in place—the haves and the have-nots, the thankful and the unthankful, an awakening from death to life.

Hans Christian Andersen’s “Little Match Girl,” is a two-tissue cry. The story about a poor young girl who freezes to death trying to sell matches while beholding a vision of her grandmother escorting her to heaven is a good read and even better antidote for a culture flush with comfort and material goods.

But the true Christmas classic is the oldest one. The story is told in verses, not chapters. The simplicity is stunning.

A peasant couple is alone in a strange town and she is about to deliver a baby.

There are no familiar faces, only the unknown and the uncertain. Finding no place to lodge, an innkeeper directs them to a stable.

“And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths and laid Him in a manger.”

Nearby, shepherds keeping watch over their flock trembled with fear as a celestial being appeared in the sky declaring, “Do not be afraid; I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.”

Still wondering if they could believe their eyes, a multitude of heavenly hosts joined the angel declaring, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among people with whom He is pleased.”

And so it was, in the dark of night, long ago, in a place far away, stars blazed in the heavens as a baby boy whom angels declared a Savior, was born to a humble couple in a lowly stable.

And that’s not the end of the story—only the beginning.

Nothing tops the original. It is always the best.

One of our granddaughters just asked if I knew Merriam-Webster announced their word of the year.

“No,” I answer. “What is it?”

“Gaslighting,” she says.

“Wonder why they chose that?” I muse.

“Are you kidding?” she yells. “The price of gas! What else?”

“Gaslighting has nothing to do with the price of gas,” I say.

“I think it does!” she says.

We race to the computer (it’s a highly competitive family), go to the Merriam Webster website and begin reading about gaslighting. Her eyes light on an opening paragraph, which she quickly skims. “It says right there ‘2022 saw a 1740 percent increase—’ ”

“Keep reading.”

“Oh—2022 saw a 1740 percent increase in lookups for gaslighting.”

I try to explain what gaslighting means but the best example may be right before us – trying to make someone think what they think isn’t true.

Meanwhile, across the pond, Oxford Dictionaries announced their word of the year is “goblin mode,” which has nothing to do with trick-or-treating or Halloween.

Goblin mode is defined as, “a type of behavior which is unapologetically self-indulgent, lazy, slovenly or greedy, typically in a way that rejects social norms or expectations.”

The rise in goblin mode– not bathing or grooming, binging on chips and pizza and living like a slob—is often attributed to excessive use of social media and the pandemic, all of which wonderfully illustrates the principle of goblin mode of not taking responsibility for oneself. Consistency is everything.

In other alpha-developments, Scrabble has added 500 new words to the official Scrabble Dictionary, including – brace yourself—proper nouns like Google and Boricua (a person from Puerto Rico by birth or descent).

Also added is “bae,” which is short for babe with a nod to those in goblin mode lacking the strength to add that second b. Oh, the exhaustion of it all.

Likewise, for those too weary to spell out adorable, “adorbs” has been entered into the Scrabble dictionary.

Another entry Scrabble is allowing, is Fauxhawk, a haircut like a Mohawk, but the hair on top is waxed and pointed toward the front of the head instead of straight up. This one (the word, not the haircut) is exciting, as it contains both a high-scoring x and k.

Another addition of interest is “welp” not to be confused with “whelp” which refers to a dog giving birth. “Welp” is a feeling of weariness and resignation, a combination of “help” and “well.”

Meanwhile, Gaslighting’s younger sibling, listening to our discussion about new words, says, “Grandma, do you know what the last word in the dictionary is?”

“What?” I ask, taking the bait.

“It’s zyzzyva. That’s z-y-z-z-y-v-a; a beetle in South America.”

I had no idea.

Welp.

I’ll let her have the last word.

Sometimes life simply gets ahead of you. By a few minutes, a few hours, maybe even a day. Or let’s say your entire fall has been action packed and life has gotten ahead of you by weeks.

The holidays arrive with the usual clamor and you wonder if you’ll ever catch up. Your late-night online shopping packages begin arriving. FedEx, UPS, mail carriers, Amazon. Such nice delivery people.

Of course, you know what you ordered so you stack the boxes in the corner of a bedroom and will get to them later.

Time passes, days turn to weeks and later finally arrives.

I pick a box, open it and have no idea what I am looking at. Well, I know I am looking at a pair of shoes and a jacket, but I have no memory of ordering shoes and a jacket.

When did I order this?

Why did I order this?

What else have I ordered that I don’t remember ordering?

Will any live animals or heavy machinery be arriving?

The next thought that comes to mind is: “Do I need Prevagen?”

I wonder if I am really losing it, then put the contents back into the box and see it is addressed to my neighbor.

What a relief, although the relief quickly turns to angst when I realize I have not only opened my neighbor’s package, but it has been sitting in our house for more than two weeks.

Has she been going without shoes and a jacket?

I quickly text her and she texts back “ha-ha” saying she complained to the company weeks ago, and they resent the merchandise. She will return the merchandise that was sitting in our house and says it is no problem. She is most gracious. I only hope the company doesn’t ask for the name and address of her neighbor that was sitting on the goods.

All is well.

Then it hits me. We are going out of town for a few days. Guess who we ask to watch for packages when we are gone? Do I really have the nerve to ask the neighbor whose package I sat on for nearly three weeks if she will keep a watchful eye out for our packages?

Maybe I can strike a deal. I could suggest that she keep our packages at her house for a few weeks, even open a few and see if there’s anything she likes.

She is more than welcome to enjoy the Nerf Blasters or the giant stuffed unicorn. It’s probably been years since she played with a Slinky. Maybe she’d like to make a volcano and watch it blow up.

My neighbor is free to do whatever she likes with the packages. All I ask is that I have them back by December 24^th. I’d really appreciate it.

 

Despite the cost of everything shooting through the roof, we know someone making money. Even better, we are related to him.

He is our grandson, which should be a close enough bloodline to provide some comfort in our old age.

He’s only 9, but  I just read about three kids under the age of 10 making millions on YouTube. They wow viewers by partying on yachts, riding in Ferraris and traveling the world.

Our grandson isn’t on the internet; nor does he ride on yachts, or in Ferraris, or throw big parties. He floats on a pond in an inflatable raft, rides in a four-wheeler with his dad and grandpa and prefers being alone to big parties.

And he’s making money hand over fist. Well, make that hand over hot pad.

People usually have a dream in mind when they set out to make money. This boy was no different. His dream was a jigsaw. Aisle 22 at Harbor Freight.

Jigsaws aren’t cheap, especially quality ones, which the boy is sure will last longer. He has long shadowed his dad in the woodshop, watching, helping, sweeping up and working on his own projects, most recently a guitar.

The base is a rectangle of 2 x 4 blocks stacked 2 deep and bolted together. His dad helped him cut a face for the guitar with the appropriate curves. The boy attached a neck, also made from 2 x4 s, carved frets into the fret wood and attached tuning pegs someone gave him. It is a nice-looking guitar, albeit on the heavy side and still needing strings.In any case, he wanted to buy his own jigsaw. He saved allowance money, birthday money and asked for extra chores. The cash began adding up, but he was still short.

Then his oldest sister was selling frozen cookie dough for a fundraiser. He saw how much his brother and sisters wanted them, so he bought a box of 48 mounds of frozen dough for $17. That’s a big capital investment when you’re 9.

He baked a tray and “let them sit out for a minute because they smelled super good.” His four siblings quickly materialized, all clamoring for a cookie fresh from the oven.

He said, sure – for 50 cents.

A few days later, he baked some more. Not long after that, he began running a “special” – two for a dollar. His dad paid a full dollar for a cookie.

Next thing you know, the kid was purchasing a jigsaw.

He’s already made lot of things with the jigsaw but can’t reveal what because they are Christmas gifts.

With the leftover cookie dough, he bakes a few at a time for himself and eats one a day for Advent, which in his mind is something like the opposite of Lent.

The family is on their own for cookies.

Meanwhile, he has found a hollow log in the woods and plans on using the jigsaw to create a bird feeder. The birds will eat at no charge.

 

Lunch, anyone?
If you live in the Indianapolis area, and would enjoy a festive holiday lunch with an uplifting speaker (I will be that speaker!) at Second Presbyterian on N. Meridian,  Thursday, Dec. 8 at 11: 15 a.m. Tickets are available here: https://secondchurch.org/story.aspx?storyid=2149