Christmas '09 - or - I'm Behind!

I've read several New Year's Resolution posts. I'm not there yet. I feel like I'm straddling 2009 and 2010. If forced to claim a resolution, I commit to continuing my quest to triage relationships better. I still find myself watering a few dead plants [unresponsive people], and not nurturing the thirsty ones enough. Rereading my post from last January, reinforces how important this remains for me.

Christmas. It came, it went, it brought joy, and it brought stress. The four-year-old boy refused to sit on Santa's lap, after waiting in line for a very long time, and after his two older brothers had grudgingly agreed to accompany him and prove that it was safe...and fun. We have video of the drama. Maybe...

My parents joined us for the holiday. We went sledding, ate and drank too much, and attempted to get a picture of Mom and Dad with the boys for their New Year's card.

Because the four-year-old has a defiant streak, this was the best we could do.

 

A virus was amongst us over the holidays, and teased us with fatigue before making it's presence officially known. The kids are doing better, but Chris and I encourage you all to purchase stock in Advil, Sudafed, and Mucinex DM. We're increasing demand at a freakish rate.

Finally, Mom and I prepared Christmas dinner—a repeat of last year's menu—Beef Wellington. The meal turned out great, and this year we remembered to video the flambe part. [I recently posted a video of Mom and me from Christmas 2008 [here], where I mentioned we should have videoed us flambeing.]  You'll have to believe me when I tell you that we did a much better job flambeing our sauce in 2008 than we did in 2009. Yes, we were drinking wine, and I beg you to remember that we were being ambushed by a virus, so fatigue was contributing to the lack of focus and general confusion.

And before I go, I need a jump-start for 2010. Anyone?

Christmas Flambe '09 from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Up In Smoke

The "Jesus hates it when you smoke!" ashtray featured in my last post generated strong responses. People either thought it was great or it made them feel uncomfortable. My apologies to those of you who I offended. Please don't read the rest of this post. *kisses*

A few people have asked where they can get their own ashtray...

I recommend searching irreverent, greeting card stores, coffee shops, book stores, or your local gay porn establishment. Here in Utah, it's one stop shopping. I purchase the "Jesus hates it when you smoke!" ashtray at a store where I can buy irreverent greeting cards, best-selling books, keychains, have a cup of coffee and pick up gay porn. Somehow I manage to do this with a four-year-old boy in tow, simply distracting him with the rainbow flags, kites and wind chimes that are tinkling above our heads.

Speaking of the Ashtray...
Two of my local friends requested an ashtray last week. We'll call them Mulva and Juicy. Because I frequent the store where the ashtrays can be purchased, and I usually have spares tucked away in my personal gift center, I was more than happy to help Mulva and Juicy score one. These friends' kids attend the same school as our sons, so it seemed convenient to transfer possession of the ashtray at the school.

The Plan
Middle Boy [10] had a holiday concert on Friday morning. I would stay home with Four-Year-Old Boy [uncivilized] and Chris would attend the concert. Juicy would be at the concert, so Chris could discreetly hand her the small Williams Sonoma bag cleverly containing the ashtray wrapped in white tissue paper. Mulva would not be at the concert, so I asked Chris to please deliver the small Sundance bag, also cleverly camouflaging the tissue wrapped ashtray, to Oldest Boy's [12] homeroom teacher. Chris was supposed to simply hand it to the teacher—we'll call her Mrs. Teacher—and tell her that the bag was for Mulva, who would be by at the end of the day to retrieve it.

Note:  I do not know Mrs. Teacher very well. We've only had the opportunity to chat in person during parent-teacher conferences.

Fat, Dumb and Happy
I assumed things went according to plan. I hadn't heard differently. My weekend was busy with ongoing Christmas preparation. I do recall asking Chris, "Did you see Juicy at the concert?" He told me he did and shared pieces of their conversation with me.

Sunday Afternoon
In an unrelated Facebook comment thread, Mulva casually mentioned that Mrs. Teacher wasn't in her classroom on Friday afternoon and an attempt to find the ashtray with the help of another teacher resulted in nada.

Hmmm...

Channeling Inner Special Ops Girl
Chris was outside shoveling snow. I high-stepped through the house and out the garage, shrieking, "Chriiiis!" I asked him if he gave the bag to Mrs. Teacher. 

"What? Uh. No. I was in a hurry so I gave it to Oldest Boy to give to her."

The color drained from my face. "Did you tell Oldest Boy to tell Mrs. Teacher that she was to hold the bag for Mulva until the end of the day?"

"Uh. No."

I shrieked for Oldest Boy, who was in the backyard. My entire body visibly throbbed with my heartbeat.

Oldest Boy happily answered my call.

"Did you give the bag Dad gave you to Mrs. Teacher?" I manically chirped my question.

"Yes."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her, this is from my mom."

FAINT.

It's AAALLL Good
Somehow I managed to find Mrs. Teacher's phone number and dial it, in spite of the fact that I was convulsing. She was gracious as I babbled and explained and apologized and offered myself up for detention. I tried to throw Mulva under the bus too, but somehow it didn't work for me. It was HER ashtray after all.

Mrs. Teacher shared my "gift" with other faculty Friday afternoon during a meeting, and...THE DEAN. Neato.  She said it was a huge hit, although admitted to being confused as to why I would give her such a unique gift. She laughed at the comedy of errors and offered to get the ashtray to Mulva. I told her it wasn't necessary. Mrs. Teacher seemed genuinely happy to keep it, for story value if nothing else.

Next year I'll get her a "Jesus Shaves" coffee mug. His beard disappears when hot beverages are poured into the mug.

Forgive me.

The End

Sheltered

Our recent houseguest, Jane Devin, smokes an occasional cigarette. We maintain a smoke-free environment here at Casa de Ross, but have a special place for our smoking relatives and friends to discreetly burn one. I call it The Smoking Room. It's a small but private porch outside of the walkout basement.

 

The weekend delivered snow, so the boys spent much of Sunday afternoon building a snowman and snow cave in the backyard. Jane was at Starbucks and I was upstairs when Chris heard simultaneous, frantic knocks at two of our doors—a back door, and a garage door. Oldest Boy [12] was at one, and Middle Boy [10] was at the other.

Chris answered Oldest Boy's knock at the back door first. "Dad! There's cigarettes down by the basement.  They're in a shallow dish."

Chris told Oldest Boy to hold on a moment. He then answered Middle Boy's knock at the garage door. "Dad!  There's a pile of cigarettes. In a dish!"

Jane's full, shallow dish was sitting on a window ledge outside. The boys had to walk down the snowy stairs to the lower porch and must have searched to find it. They couldn't get to Chris or me fast enough.

It was tucked in the far left hand corner of this space.

Chris explained to each boy that the cigarettes were Ms. Devin's. Oldest Boy wanted to know if it was okay that Ms. Devin smoked. Chris said she was an adult and it was her choice to smoke cigarettes as long as she didn't expose others to secondhand smoke.

When Jane returned from Starbucks, I couldn't wait to tell her that the boys had visited The Smoking Room and discovered her habit. Middle Boy considers himself an artist and writer so I think he was particularly disturbed to know that Ms. Devin smoked. He glanced at her suspiciously for the rest of the afternoon but avoided eye contact, like he'd seen her naked by accident.

Later that evening, Middle Boy was still processing the cigarettes. "I thought it was a joke at first, Mom. Like they were fake. But then? I smelled them, and they were REAL. I know it wasn't good for my lungs, but I had to know. Then I ran and told Dad."

I still haven't educated the boys that the word for a shallow dish that holds cigarettes butts and ashes, is ashtray. I also haven't told Middle Boy that simply sniffing an extinguished cigarette probably won't harm his lungs.

I DID show them the shallow dish we offer to all of our guests who smoke...