Cheaper Than Therapy

Life in the Panhandle

This was the backyard last week, after our first real snowstorm of the season. That’s about 8” accumulation on the picnic table. Taken from inside the backdoor, thank you very much.

I’ve heard that most children take great delight in making the first snow angels of the season. There aren’t any ethereal angels to show off, but I was greeted by this charming site when I glanced down from the same backdoor. 

You can just barely see tell-tale men's size 8 boot prints.  Curiously the size Jackson wears now.

Jackson swears he doesn’t know how those golden impressions got there. Perhaps some low-flying northern Idaho bird species we’re not familiar with.

On a prettier note, here’s the view from, again, inside, this time from warm side of the living room window. The pears make nice frosted ornaments on the tree.

The icicles are everywhere. They are much longer and more menacing-looking now, particularly when they seem to be growing in toward the house.

I think Denise gave me this cute door hanger last year.  I put it outside on the front porch, not that the snow gods need any encouragement. 

Speaking of the front porch (nice segue, huh?) Jackson has been doing an amazing job of helping to keep the steps, walkways and driveway cleared of snow.

We have a guy who (eventually) comes by with the snowblower for the really big stuff, but there’s still quite a bit of chilly maintenance to be done just so I can get in and out of the driveway. Luckily I'm still nursing that sprained ankle so he'll have to continue to shoulder that burden. The recovery could well last into spring, I think, at least when I'm home. Otherwise, I'm 99.5% healed.

This week has been nice & sunny, and it doesn’t feel as cold as it sounds ~ highs in the low teens and lows in the lower single digits. Minus 2 degrees yesterday, I think, as Jackson trudged off to school. But it’s a ‘dry’ cold and thankfully not windy. Still, you can believe I was online shopping snow pants, lined pants, long underwear, thick ski socks, a balaclava (one of those full-face hooded neck covering things that only your eyes show through) that very morning. I may order some things for Jackson, too, once I try them out. He loves the cold and won’t even let me give him a ride to school. Mainly because he likes to be on time. He can’t wait to get his snow “skateboard” (hint, hint Camron), because lots of kids use them to get to school.

He has one weird quirk right now, totally normal for an 11-year-old, (and it could be a lot worse, I know): he swears he’s going to wear his green Gap hoodie sweatshirt every day to school all year. It’s his “thing.”  He has several nice new hooded sweatshirts, mind you, but it has to be this getting-pretty-ratty green one. Yes, he does change his other clothes. Yes, he does wear a very warm jacket, hat and gloves. He’s even learned to do his own laundry. Love that.

This was taken this morning. It was so clear and sunny. About 5 degrees, I think. You can sort of see our Christmas tree, which will reside on the front porch until we take it inside next weekend. It's in a pot, and we'll plant it next spring. (She says optimistically.)

At least I got the lights on it! Aren’t they nice and gaudy?

We had a nice surprise when we got home, a box from Mom & Dad. Jackson ripped into it and was thrilled to find a couple of things marked “open now.” He needed no more encouragement than that. 

One was this oh-too-cute piano-playing snowman. Hmmm, wouldn’t it be a generous gesture for Jackson to take it to school to share with his classmates up until the holiday break (or indefinitely?) Just kidding. We've already found just the right spot for it.

And then Jackson spied the oversized donut-shaped foil- wrapped package with the all-important“open now” note.  “I know what this is,” he declared triumphantly. “It’s Mima’s most world famous recipe.”  He had to have some right then so we declared it a dessert-before-dinner night and both had two pieces. 

Yum. 

He said he knows what he’s having for breakfast the next few days.  If there’s any left after tonight, that is. 

Thanks, Mom ~ standing around in the kitchen can’t be the most comfortable thing right now and we really appreciate having this great family tradition treat, the "world-famous" sour cream coffee cake.

Note: why the font size is jumping around I have no idea.  The more they "improve" Typepad to make it more user-friendly, the more frustrating it becomes to those of us who learned things the old way.

Countdown to a (Dysfunctional) Christmas

by Sheryl Van der Leun

UPDATE: An edited version of this article was published in the December 17 edition of the Laguna Beach Independent and was posted on American Digest.

P.S.  Of course, that was all weeks ago.  We did manage to get our tree decorated.  And Gerard put the lights up outside, so now our house looks like a cross between an Italian restaurant and a bordello.

We sold out of gift tags at the Holiday Boutique, though I confess I caved to my fear of the PTA leader and didn’t display the truly “dysfunctional” ones. There was quite a run on them, though, when Gerard posted downloadable versions on his website. Kinda warms your heart to know you’ve helped to share the Christmas spirit, even if in so very small a way.

I thought Jackson was going to have a breakdown when I told him I’d be making cookies from scratch since they were out of slice and bake dough at the grocery store.  “Mom, couldn’t you have tried a few more grocery stores first?” he moaned.  (They were delicious, by the way.)

Jackson successfully peddles gift tags for charity at Top of the World Elementary Holiday Boutique. The less than joyous expression is because his teacher had shared with me only moments before that the golden boy had not turned in numerous homework assignments.  The lack of video games and TV was going to put a serious crimp in his holiday plans.

Jackson took this at the Dana Point Harbor Boat Parade Saturday night. We were on a boat, waving to people lining the docks and bridges of the harbor, and decided that this is something we have to do every year. Especially if we're having unseasonably warm weather.

Countdown to a (Dysfunctional) Christmas

A gift tag from the Holiday Boutique project.  (This was one of the "normal" ones.)

I’d love to tell you that outside our house the lights are hung with restrained elegance; that bells tinkle when you walk through my fragrantly wreathed front door; and that the smell of freshly-baked gingerbread warms our charming abode, decorated as it is in this season’s must-have holiday jewel tones. I would brag about the majestic Douglas Fir brushing the cathedral ceiling of the living room, and how the presents – tenderly wrapped in handmade paper – promise magical moments of surprise and delight on Christmas morning. You’d know instantly that in this house holiday traditions abound and that this family truly treasures the spirit of Christmas.

But I’d be lying.

Thanksgiving Community Potluck in Bluebird Park

The Real Laguna Beach

erard had cooked till all hours the night before, while I remained catatonic from The Flu, which literally knocked me flat for the six days prior. Smells of sausage, onions, and cranberries warmed the house, promising bountiful thanksgiving offerings the following day.

He prepared the fabulous Brussels sprouts casserole with onions, plus a perfectly tangy cranberry mandarin relish, and best of all, dressing with sausage, mushrooms, and black olives (yes, black olives, and they definitely worked.)

Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade

I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade over the top of my newspaper, marveled at the sheer volume of ads, mentally comparing prices to purchases I’d scored online in my obsession to beat the “out of stock” heartbreak. 

Wearing something other than pajamas for the first time in almost a week, I helped load up the car and we drove down the hill to Bluebird Park, or the Rocket Park as it’s known around here, rightfully so now that the new three-story rocket climbing structure has been erected.

When we arrived shortly after noon, the Laguna Beach Thanksgiving Community Potluck was already in full swing.

It was a quintessential fall day, Southern California style: temperature low-to-mid seventies, and the sun dappling brilliantly through the trees, spotlighting those who gathered for the feast.

We were immediately besieged by volunteers anxious to relieve us of our aluminum trays and Tupperware. Gerard supervised the careful positioning of his dressing and Brussels sprouts dishes on one of several very long buffet stations, but entrusted the placement of the cranberry relish to my judgment. 

We then made our way to the end of the line with increasing dismay, because it wound back through the park for several hundred feet, at which point another cheerful volunteer doled out paper plates, napkins, and plastic utensils. 

Fearful that his contributions might be consumed by the time we made it to the buffet, he returned to the tables and asserted his provider privilege to sample some of his wares while we still could.  He returned with a plate laden with dressing and Brussels sprouts which we shared with the lady in front of us in exchange for one of her homemade cookies. Happily, there was still plenty of the sausage stuffing when our turn came, and for me that was a meal in itself.

Which doesn’t mean I passed up the dessert table, where you had a choice of cheesecake, cobbler, and, of course, pumpkin pie with whipped cream. 

This well-organized event, now in its 17^th year, brings together those truly in need of a good meal on Thanksgiving with those only to happy to help provide it. You’re as likely to be standing next to one of your neighbors or a city council representative as you are someone who’s not sure where they’ll be spending the night. 

By 1:30 p.m., the food was gone. The smarter potluck veterans had brought containers for take-home goodies, and weren’t at all shy about loading up. 

“I like me a baked potato in the evening,” the charming lady with the oversized Versace glasses seated next to me said. “And what I don’t eat, I’ll give to the crows.  We have to feed them, dearie, you know.”  (Yes, she really did say “dearie.” And with a slightly Scottish brogue, no less.)

As we were leaving, Gerard gave me a squeeze and said, “This is what Thanksgiving should be.”

I look at him.

“Yes, and best of all, we don’t have a pile of dishes to do.”

That evening, we were reminded once again how lucky we are to be living in Laguna Beach.  The real Laguna Beach.

"National Treasure" on a National Holiday

ppropriately enough, we went from Laguna’s community Thanksgiving potluck to the Aliso Viejo movie complex to see "National Treasure," which opened last week and has had a strong showing at the box office although critical reception has been less than enthusiastic.

We were on our own, just the two of us, since our extended families are in Northern California, and Jackson was off with his dad and a pack of friends for an annual houseboating trip on Lake Powell. They tell me they deep-fry the turkey. Anyway, I know he’s having a great time.

If you’ve read the reviews, which are pretty snarky for the most part, you might think Nicholas Cage’s new quasi action-adventure movie would be a pass. But you’d be wrong. 

Because I was there, at the end of the movie, when a surprisingly healthy round of applause erupted. Gerard looked at me like, “What?” and I said, well, you know there’s something to be said for a movie with no sex, barely any violence, and a body count of one (and that was accidental).

Oh, and there was a swear word.  It was “damn,” and I think Nicholas Cage’s character Benjamin Franklin Gates said “Shut up” a time or two, but in an affectionate way.

Throw in a little bit of historical relevance, and Harvey Keitel as the FBI honcho, and what’s not to like?

Plenty, according to the reviews. But, lukewarm-to-hostile reviews notwithstanding, the theater where we saw National Treasure, on Thanksgiving day, was three-quarters full.

I’m not saying it’s a great movie by any means, but it was perfectly appropriate for an afternoon matinee. As Stefan Lovgren writes at National Geographic News:

Imagine this: Centuries ago an order of European knights amassed a huge treasure of priceless artifacts from around the world.

The loot was later brought to the United States by the Freemasons, a secret society. Determined to keep it out of the hands of the British during the American Revolution, Benjamin Franklin and other Masons hid the treasure in a secret location but left clues to its whereabouts in famous American landmarks. Now, the great-great-great-great-great-grandson of a carriage boy who learned the secret vows to find the treasure. The clues lead him to an invisible map hidden on the back of the U.S. Declaration of Independence.

Preposterous? Absolutely.

But the plot of National Treasure, the adventure yarn starring Nicolas Cage that opens in U.S.movie theaters today, is also irresistible fun.

It's become a bona fide recipe for success: Invent an old-fashioned treasure hunt, fill it with conspiracies and secret codes, and set it against a backdrop of real history.

And thought he mostly trashes it, Wesley Morris gives “National Treasure” this begrudging praise in The Boston Globe:

“What follows is a spree of chase sequences, chemical experiments and trivia-answers that refuses to let you be bored.”

The bottom line is, there are plenty worse ways to spend an afternoon. Still, it earned only one thumb up from the Van der Leuns.

11/29 Update:  According to CBS MarketWatch, "National Treasure" has topped box office sales for the second straight week, according to preliminary estimates, grossing more than $33 million over the holiday weekend.

Mr. Wonderful

The award for the ‘Christmas Gift That Keeps On Giving’ goes to my dad, a retired United States Air Force Lt. Colonel and pilot. The biggest laugh of Christmas morning came when my witty and urbane husband Gerard opened a large package containing Mr. Wonderful, a 12” talking doll that spouts off 16 different phrases when you squeeze his palm. He’s every woman’s dream come true, in plastic, anyway. Handsome, sensitive, and a good listener, he says things that women want to hear, but seldom do, like:

You know honey, why don't you just relax and let me make dinner tonight.

The ball game isn't really that important, I'd rather spend time with you.

Why don't we go to the mall? Didn't you want some new shoes?

You know, I think it's really important that we talk about our relationship.

You've been on my mind all day. That's why I bought you these flowers.

You know honey, why don’t you just relax and let me make dinner tonight?

Can’t your mother stay another week?

Hello darling. Have I told you I love you lately?

Did you have a hard day, honey? Why don’t you sit down and let me rub your feet?

Actually, I’m not sure which way to go. I’ll turn in here and ask for directions.

You look so beautiful in the morning.

No, you don’t look at all fat in that dress. How could anything make you look fat?

I think my dad, perhaps unconsciously, had my best interests at heart when he presented his new son-in-law with this hysterical learning toy. The addition of heavy-rimmed black glasses (courtesy of Mr. Potato Head), was an inspired touch, making Mr. Wonderful’s resemblance to Gerard unmistakable.

But not knowing my husband as I do, he doesn’t realize that Gerard is last man in the world in need of platitudes on how to be the ideal mate. He makes dinner, dinners the Fab Five would be proud of. He brings me flowers. He rubs my feet. He tells me how much he loves me on a daily basis. He tells me I look beautiful in the morning. (Yes, after he’s put on his glasses.) And never, never, has he ever made the slightest derogatory comment about my appearance. Except my baggy khaki cargo pants. He hated those, and they mysteriously disappeared when he was doing laundry one day. He doesn’t care a whit about sports. In fact, I heard him ask my brother-in-law Scott at Thanksgiving, “Football, is that when they nudge each other down the field or the one with tall guys bouncing the ball around and throwing it through a hoop?” He volunteers to go shopping with me, and gets as excited as I do when I find an exceptional pair of shoes on sale.

Still, with these simple words of wisdom, Mr. Wonderful did manage to teach my husband one new wife-pleasing trick:

Here, you take the remote. As long as I'm with you, I don't care what we watch.

Apparently there’s a huge desire for Mr. Wonderful. He’s sold out or backordered all over the Internet. Lucky for other more needy women out there, Mr. Wonderful is expected to be back in circulation by March. And he’s available in two sizes, the 12” original and the handy 5” keychain version. Me, I’ll stick with my handsome 6’1” real-life Mr. Wonderful. He’s already everything I need in a mate.

Mr. Wonderful -- Keychain version