Last week was my stepson’s final week of school prior to the start of winter break, and he managed to be in attendance for about an hour of it. He was sent home in his dad’s care Monday morning after having vomited, and he was kept out of school the following day as well. Upon picking him up from his dad’s house Tuesday night, he told me he was feeling well. He hadn’t vomited since the previous morning, felt okay overall, and he even wanted to ask a neighbor friend to play outside together that evening.
I knew that was inappropriate and kept him indoors. And that was a good thing. At dinner, Dom unexpectedly mentioned that it hurt him to swallow everything except his drink, and he sounded like someone who’d been stuffed up for weeks.
Well, it turns out that he might be laid up for weeks.
I took a vacation day (all out of personal/sick days so late in the year) on Wednesday to take him to the doctor and attempt to relax as much as possible, but the doctor’s diagnosis didn’t help that.
Mononucleosis. No shit.
The good news is that mono is rarely transmitted to younger kids. In fact, it’s plenty rare in Dom’s age bracket as well. But it happens to be quite infrequent with kids the age of mine (two and almost four), and adults are fairly immune to it as well. Yeah, so that’s the good news.
The bad news is that a third-grader who usually walks around with a chip on his shoulder is doing so even more now. Sure, I want to feel sorry for him, but it’s not easy. He still doesn’t listen worth a shit, which sucks real bad with someone you’re trying to keep relatively quarantined. He still often carries himself and speaks with the attitude of a 12-year-old girl rather than an almost-nine-year-old boy.
And he literally fucking stinks.
I don’t know if it’s the mono-causing virus, but something’s making the kid fucking reek. I mean he smells up a whole room. I don’t know if it’s coming out of his pores or if it’s coming from his mouth, but I’m not going to take a deep breath close enough to figure it out. I have seriously never smelled anything quite like it, and I don’t care to come across it ever again. The doctor says the symptoms could last a little over a week or over two months. Luckily, they already seem to have started to subside just seven days after the diagnosis. Hopefully that means the stench of death will soon fade too.
Go ahead, call me fucking heartless.
Here’s some other stuff that stinks, too, just not literally.
Today is my last day of work until after the calendar turns. I’ll actually have 11 days off in a row, which sounds like a pretty good deal. But, realistically, how much rest will I get? It is the holidays after all. And that’s always turns into a clusterfuck, especially with the usual heavy dose of in-law drama.
Part I: No one wants to hang out with my mother-in-law, but everyone wants to know what she’s doing, where she’s going to be, etc. My wife's family is always talking about her, and I always went them to just shut the fuck up about her. She treats you like shit and doesn’t give you the time of day; return the fucking favor. But, against my wishes, she always gets invited to our house one night in late December. She usually never even responds to the invitation though. That’s clearly fine with me.
Of course, this year she not only says she may come over, she also says we could come over to her place on one of a couple nights over the next week or so. I think that’s the first time we’ve been invited to join my wife’s mother’s side of the family for a holiday occasion since Easter 2008.
My fingers are firmly crossed hoping it will fall through.
Part II: The day after Christmas, my brother-in-law arrives in town for his annual holiday visit. This year, he’s been invited to stay with us since we now have room for guests. He and his girlfriend are staying for an entire freaking week … along with their dog.
Now I love dogs, a far cry from the Steve of old, but I still don’t think this is a good idea. I, of course, had no input in the decision.
My wife says Jet is a very well-behaved dog, and he’s perfectly crate-trained. So when we’re all gone, he’ll be fine down in the basement in his little private kennel. Well great for him, but 1) what happens when we are here and he has a full run of the house? And 2) what about our little 13-pound dog who isn’t crate-trained and is used to having a free run of the house in our absence? My guess is that she’ll be all over the basement door the whole time, scratching and yapping while enjoying the fresh scent of a foreign dog’s asshole floating around from upstairs.
Yes, this certainly has the makings of an another holiday clusterfuck. Though I may have plenty of stories to tell over the next two weeks, the amount of true rest and relaxation that I enjoy remains to be seen.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Appetite for Dysfunction
It wasn’t too long ago, maybe four or five years, when my stepson’s dad hated me. Yeah, we’re told from an early age not to use the word ‘hate’ because it’s such a strong word; but trust me when I say it could certainly be used in this case.
I mean the guy basically told my wife, who was then just my girlfriend, that he wanted to kill me. He actually once told my wife after they’d broken up that if she ever became pregnant with another man’s baby, he’d kick her in the abdomen until there was no more living thing in there.
And I thought I didn’t handle rejection very well.
It was those kinds of comments that made me on several occasions tell my wife that I was going to smash his head through a wall. (I don’t know why, but that always seemed like the thing to do, grabbing him by the back of the head and just driving his head through some sheet rock.) To avoid complication, and perhaps some actual physical violence, my fair lady advised me not to be around when there was any exchange of Dominic. I usually complied for the sake of simplicity, while also acknowledging the absurdity of this aspect of our life together.
Fast forward to 2009, when somehow the guy is now a truly reliable friend of the family. At some point in the recent past, he figured out that he didn’t want to go down the path of the enemy. He realized that he should embrace those who love his son and treat them with the respect his son receives.
Sadly, I think it was the death of his mother that ultimately made him change his philosophy. He was openly remorseful about the ways he’d acted in the past. For all intents and purposes, he declared himself a new man.
That new man helped move us into our new house this fall, he takes Dominic to and from school everyday, and he fairly regularly brings beer when he has reason to show up at our house.
One of those random occasions was last week. After one of many recent trying days in my stress-filled life, the night was pleasantly capped by drinking about a half dozen beers with the man who was once my Lex Luthor.
I’d have never guessed five years ago that this would be the case.
And, sure, it’s plenty weird, in part because my wife always feels the need to freshen up her makeup before he arrives. But I consider the alternative, the Old Sal, as my wife sometimes says. This is much better. Especially the free beer.
But it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s normal … not that much else in my life seems to be either.
And a little more about dysfunction:
Wanting to hold a baby is one thing, but volunteering to shove something up his tailpipe? My wife’s a proverbial nurturer, and she should be since she’s a childcare provider. But this shit with my nephew is getting a bit overboard. She had to stop at her brother’s place last night to give the kid a suppository. Right, no one wants to do that; it’s an exit, not a point of entry. But when it’s needed, a parent fucking does it. Well, not in that family, I guess. For all I know, they can’t even change a god damn diaper on their own.
I also find it a little odd that every time we’re around the kid my wife goes way out of her way to reinforce how cute the kid is.
“Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
“Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?
I’m sorry, but when that kind of stuff is said repeatedly in the presence of a kid’s parents, it seems an awful lot like just trying to justify it for them. Translations:
Aloud: “Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
Translation: “Come on, Steve, tell them you think he’s cute too.”
Aloud: “Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?”
Translation: “I swear, I do think he’s cute, and I brag about him!”
Merry Christmas to you, too, A-hole. My mom is a Christmas list Nazi. She wants detailed lists from everyone in the family, adults and children alike, and we’re hounded until we provide them. These lists are usually provided via email, broadcast to all family members who celebrate the holidays together. This includes my mom and dad, my two brothers, myself, my wife, my sister-in-law and my aunt. So you might expect these exchanges to be innocuous. Well, not always.
One of my brothers had the dubious distinction of being the last to submit his wish list this past weekend, and among those items listed was a gift card to Banana Republic. This prompted the following comment from my other brother:
“Don’t a lot of gay guys shop at Banana Republic?”
The response, which went out to the entire group:
“Gay guys who get a lot of pussy, mother fucker.”
Yeah, that was received by his wife, my wife, our mother, father and aunt. Classy!
Shortly thereafter, a text from one brother to the other served as a reminder that the email went out to the whole group, suggesting an apology may be in order to the ladies. Brother #2’s response:
“I apologize for nothing.”
I love my freaking family.
I mean the guy basically told my wife, who was then just my girlfriend, that he wanted to kill me. He actually once told my wife after they’d broken up that if she ever became pregnant with another man’s baby, he’d kick her in the abdomen until there was no more living thing in there.
And I thought I didn’t handle rejection very well.
It was those kinds of comments that made me on several occasions tell my wife that I was going to smash his head through a wall. (I don’t know why, but that always seemed like the thing to do, grabbing him by the back of the head and just driving his head through some sheet rock.) To avoid complication, and perhaps some actual physical violence, my fair lady advised me not to be around when there was any exchange of Dominic. I usually complied for the sake of simplicity, while also acknowledging the absurdity of this aspect of our life together.
Fast forward to 2009, when somehow the guy is now a truly reliable friend of the family. At some point in the recent past, he figured out that he didn’t want to go down the path of the enemy. He realized that he should embrace those who love his son and treat them with the respect his son receives.
Sadly, I think it was the death of his mother that ultimately made him change his philosophy. He was openly remorseful about the ways he’d acted in the past. For all intents and purposes, he declared himself a new man.
That new man helped move us into our new house this fall, he takes Dominic to and from school everyday, and he fairly regularly brings beer when he has reason to show up at our house.
One of those random occasions was last week. After one of many recent trying days in my stress-filled life, the night was pleasantly capped by drinking about a half dozen beers with the man who was once my Lex Luthor.
I’d have never guessed five years ago that this would be the case.
And, sure, it’s plenty weird, in part because my wife always feels the need to freshen up her makeup before he arrives. But I consider the alternative, the Old Sal, as my wife sometimes says. This is much better. Especially the free beer.
But it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s normal … not that much else in my life seems to be either.
And a little more about dysfunction:
Wanting to hold a baby is one thing, but volunteering to shove something up his tailpipe? My wife’s a proverbial nurturer, and she should be since she’s a childcare provider. But this shit with my nephew is getting a bit overboard. She had to stop at her brother’s place last night to give the kid a suppository. Right, no one wants to do that; it’s an exit, not a point of entry. But when it’s needed, a parent fucking does it. Well, not in that family, I guess. For all I know, they can’t even change a god damn diaper on their own.
I also find it a little odd that every time we’re around the kid my wife goes way out of her way to reinforce how cute the kid is.
“Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
“Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?
I’m sorry, but when that kind of stuff is said repeatedly in the presence of a kid’s parents, it seems an awful lot like just trying to justify it for them. Translations:
Aloud: “Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
Translation: “Come on, Steve, tell them you think he’s cute too.”
Aloud: “Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?”
Translation: “I swear, I do think he’s cute, and I brag about him!”
Merry Christmas to you, too, A-hole. My mom is a Christmas list Nazi. She wants detailed lists from everyone in the family, adults and children alike, and we’re hounded until we provide them. These lists are usually provided via email, broadcast to all family members who celebrate the holidays together. This includes my mom and dad, my two brothers, myself, my wife, my sister-in-law and my aunt. So you might expect these exchanges to be innocuous. Well, not always.
One of my brothers had the dubious distinction of being the last to submit his wish list this past weekend, and among those items listed was a gift card to Banana Republic. This prompted the following comment from my other brother:
“Don’t a lot of gay guys shop at Banana Republic?”
The response, which went out to the entire group:
“Gay guys who get a lot of pussy, mother fucker.”
Yeah, that was received by his wife, my wife, our mother, father and aunt. Classy!
Shortly thereafter, a text from one brother to the other served as a reminder that the email went out to the whole group, suggesting an apology may be in order to the ladies. Brother #2’s response:
“I apologize for nothing.”
I love my freaking family.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Observations from a Grinch
Note that I say a Grinch, not the Grinch. There are surely a lot of other people out there who are more anti-holiday than I am. My overall lack of spirit is more due to a combination of indifference, annoyance and realism. It's not driven by true hatred or distaste, although I do have plenty of that reserved for other things in life.
That said, I understand when there's a need to come through with a little cheer. Last Thursday would be a good example.
We were due to attend my stepson’s holiday music program at his school. This was especially important to Dominic, who loves to belt out his vocals. Sure, I give him a hard time occasionally about how it’s relatively gay, but I do prefer that he’s happy. This, singing in a school program, clearly was going to make him happy. So he promoted his upcoming music program pretty aggressively as it approached.
Predictably, it didn’t all go as planned.
Among those expected to attend, my parents backed out Thursday afternoon seemingly due to my dad’s full-day hangover. Likewise, my father-in-law also informed us he wasn’t going to be in attendance. His excuse, well, sounded an awful lot like he simply forgot, then he stumbled while telling us about something work-related that had apparently come up.
The final straw, however, came just minutes before heading out the door that evening. We came downstairs to find Dominic in tears. His dad, who had arrived a few minutes earlier with plans to follow us to the school, left and told Dominic he wasn't going to the program. This officially had all the makings of a train wreck.
Our trip to the school was understandably tense, with my wife leaving several inflammatory voicemails on Dominic's dad's phone. The tension was spread around too. It was apparently partially my fault that we were late because I didn’t help enough, not with finding clothes, getting the diaper bag ready, etc. It was also clearly part Dominic's fault because he lied about what he was supposed to wear (either that or he's an even worse listener than I thought. A light-colored shirt and shorts for a winter holiday program. What the fuck? My wife actually called a neighbor to confirm the correct and more formal attire that we’d expected).
But that didn’t really matter. What did matter was that Dominic’s big night was going to be a big turd.
After just a few songs, he clearly wasn’t feeling it. I pointed out to my wife that it looked like Dominic wasn’t giving it his all. She thought that was a good thing because it meant he wasn’t being flamboyant in a Disney Channel girl type of way. But, as I pointed out, “No, I mean you can tell his heart isn’t in it.” That made my wife sad, and even me a little too.
Luckily, there was a late rally. Dominic’s dad showed up after all, and maybe it was because Dominic noticed him that his demeanor on the stage changed. He was all smiles for the second half of the program, and by the time it was over he was ready to relive all of his favorite songs and favorite moments.
Good for him. Even a Grinch can appreciate that … although it should be noted that Dominic has since reproduced the entire program – all eight songs – on three separate occasions for those who weren’t able to attend the show. So I’m officially done with this aspect of my holiday spirit.
As you might guess, I have some other thoughts as well.
Political correctness reigns. What was Dominic’s favorite song in his program? “Oh Hanukkah.” He loves it and still sings it around the house. During its actual performance in the program, the opening notes sounded straight out of “Fiddler on the Roof” and it did seem pretty jolly. Nice clever beat. Keep in mind, of course, that there was a Kwanzaa song and a Mexican Christmas song in the program too. It’s great that everything was so balanced, despite the fact that 90% of the kids on stage appeared to have blond hair and blue eyes.
Welcome to December. It’s supposed to be fucking cold. If it’s two degrees outside, you can complain about it being cold. If it’s in the 20s or 30s, don’t complain unless it’s April through September. Get the hell over it. Also, it’s not an “event” when it fucking snows. If it snows a whole hell of a lot, perhaps a foot or more, maybe you can call it an event. Otherwise, it’s weather. It’s the type of weather we’re supposed to get, for Christ’s sake.
I have a defective cranium. As has become tradition over the past couple of years, my boss hosted myself and my fellow team members along with our spouses this weekend for a holiday dinner. Just like last year, it also involved a fair amount of alcohol and a friendly board game. Perhaps it was a problem that I'd already had a steady flow of beer since noon, seeing as my Fighting Illini played at 11:30. So by the time we arrived close to 5:00, I was probably already in a place that most people didn't reach by the end of the night. Add to that the fact that I'm really competitive and a really sore loser, and you have the makings of an at-times unpleasant game of Cranium. That includes me cursing the rules, cursing my opponents and cursing my teammates.
‘Tis the season to make an ass of oneself, no?
That said, I understand when there's a need to come through with a little cheer. Last Thursday would be a good example.
We were due to attend my stepson’s holiday music program at his school. This was especially important to Dominic, who loves to belt out his vocals. Sure, I give him a hard time occasionally about how it’s relatively gay, but I do prefer that he’s happy. This, singing in a school program, clearly was going to make him happy. So he promoted his upcoming music program pretty aggressively as it approached.
Predictably, it didn’t all go as planned.
Among those expected to attend, my parents backed out Thursday afternoon seemingly due to my dad’s full-day hangover. Likewise, my father-in-law also informed us he wasn’t going to be in attendance. His excuse, well, sounded an awful lot like he simply forgot, then he stumbled while telling us about something work-related that had apparently come up.
The final straw, however, came just minutes before heading out the door that evening. We came downstairs to find Dominic in tears. His dad, who had arrived a few minutes earlier with plans to follow us to the school, left and told Dominic he wasn't going to the program. This officially had all the makings of a train wreck.
Our trip to the school was understandably tense, with my wife leaving several inflammatory voicemails on Dominic's dad's phone. The tension was spread around too. It was apparently partially my fault that we were late because I didn’t help enough, not with finding clothes, getting the diaper bag ready, etc. It was also clearly part Dominic's fault because he lied about what he was supposed to wear (either that or he's an even worse listener than I thought. A light-colored shirt and shorts for a winter holiday program. What the fuck? My wife actually called a neighbor to confirm the correct and more formal attire that we’d expected).
But that didn’t really matter. What did matter was that Dominic’s big night was going to be a big turd.
After just a few songs, he clearly wasn’t feeling it. I pointed out to my wife that it looked like Dominic wasn’t giving it his all. She thought that was a good thing because it meant he wasn’t being flamboyant in a Disney Channel girl type of way. But, as I pointed out, “No, I mean you can tell his heart isn’t in it.” That made my wife sad, and even me a little too.
Luckily, there was a late rally. Dominic’s dad showed up after all, and maybe it was because Dominic noticed him that his demeanor on the stage changed. He was all smiles for the second half of the program, and by the time it was over he was ready to relive all of his favorite songs and favorite moments.
Good for him. Even a Grinch can appreciate that … although it should be noted that Dominic has since reproduced the entire program – all eight songs – on three separate occasions for those who weren’t able to attend the show. So I’m officially done with this aspect of my holiday spirit.
As you might guess, I have some other thoughts as well.
Political correctness reigns. What was Dominic’s favorite song in his program? “Oh Hanukkah.” He loves it and still sings it around the house. During its actual performance in the program, the opening notes sounded straight out of “Fiddler on the Roof” and it did seem pretty jolly. Nice clever beat. Keep in mind, of course, that there was a Kwanzaa song and a Mexican Christmas song in the program too. It’s great that everything was so balanced, despite the fact that 90% of the kids on stage appeared to have blond hair and blue eyes.
Welcome to December. It’s supposed to be fucking cold. If it’s two degrees outside, you can complain about it being cold. If it’s in the 20s or 30s, don’t complain unless it’s April through September. Get the hell over it. Also, it’s not an “event” when it fucking snows. If it snows a whole hell of a lot, perhaps a foot or more, maybe you can call it an event. Otherwise, it’s weather. It’s the type of weather we’re supposed to get, for Christ’s sake.
I have a defective cranium. As has become tradition over the past couple of years, my boss hosted myself and my fellow team members along with our spouses this weekend for a holiday dinner. Just like last year, it also involved a fair amount of alcohol and a friendly board game. Perhaps it was a problem that I'd already had a steady flow of beer since noon, seeing as my Fighting Illini played at 11:30. So by the time we arrived close to 5:00, I was probably already in a place that most people didn't reach by the end of the night. Add to that the fact that I'm really competitive and a really sore loser, and you have the makings of an at-times unpleasant game of Cranium. That includes me cursing the rules, cursing my opponents and cursing my teammates.
‘Tis the season to make an ass of oneself, no?
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Half-full or Half-Empty? Thankful or Not?
I've never been accused of being optimistic. I've said that to my wife many times, along with such similar unpopular statements as "I've never been accused of being fun" and "I've never been accused of being romantic."
Trust me, those are real fucking winners in the eyes of a woman.
Whatever.
Anyway, it's no mystery to those who know me that I'm rarely going to sugarcoat things. Case in point recently when I questioned a communication strategy at work and my boss said, "Steve, the glass is half full."
Now that's one of my least favorite expressions. Honestly, regardless of which way it's interpreted, there's a flaw. I don't see how it's reasonable for someone to look at a glass and say, "Wow, it's half-full! That's great!" Pardon me, but that sucks. Seriously, how could you not look at that and think, "Why the fuck is it only filled halfway? That's retarded."
Sorry, but that's reality. And excuse me for being a fucking realist.
Enter Thanksgiving, a day on which we're basically supposed to ignore all flaws and be thankful for all that we have. I have no problem appreciating my wife, children, job, etc.; but that doesn't mean that all of life's other problems have disappeared. It's just not in my personality to pretend those things don't exist, and I'm at a point in my life when there are a lot of plenty of other things on my mind.
With two of my own kids and a stepson, plus the recent addition of a second house payment and double the utilities, cable, etc., I don't think it's unfair for me to be more concerned with my day-in day-out responsibilities rather than taking time out to honor the people/things I already recognize each day. Trust me, while I'm not a religious and prayer kind of guy, I think about my many blessings everyday, and that includes my parents, my siblings, my wife, my children and my belongings. Please don't try to tell me when I might need to truly acknowledge them. Instead, please just give me a chance to relax.
It's probably not difficult to imagine that I have a few other Thanksgiving-related thoughts to share. Here are a few:
Can someone really be referred to as a Grinch prior to Thanksgiving? Maybe this is more of an indictment of our society and the way it identifies "The Holiday Season." (Thanks to my good friend Nick for helping me realize this.) Because the so-called Holiday Season revolves around shopping and because holiday shopping revolves around the so-called Black Friday that follows Thanksgiving and the many days of hype that lead to it, I suppose it's okay for people to interpret the attitudes of their peers and family members before the last Thursday in November. My wife apparently had no qualms in doing so early last week as she spread holiday cheer and decorations throughout our house, much to the obvious delight of our children and to the palpable indifference of yours truly. (Please see the paragraphs above should you need further explanation.) After placing a very small plug-in Christmas tree in our basement, the part of our house that might be known by the terrible title of 'man cave', my wife told my stepson that "even the Grinch needs a tree." Again, pardon me for not needing to be told when and how to celebrate things.
Consider this chain of events on a Thanksgiving weekend for a sports fanatic who also had to work on the month's final Friday: Illinois football pummelled Friday afternoon, Illinois basketball losing in heart-breaking fashion Friday night to an inferior opponent, followed by another hoops loss the following night to an in-state non-BCS school, capped by a Chicago Bears' blowout loss to hated divisional opponent Minnesota, who happens to be led by longtime hated quarterback Brett Favre. Sorry, but at the age of 32 I still don't have the capacity to handle all of that negativity like a true adult.
And here's how I contributed to Thanksgiving this year. My wife is the kind of person who insists on bringing something to contribute to a holiday celebration that's being held outside of our own home. This year, I enjoyed her choice of bringing a large jug of warm apple cider. Very seasonal. I was the first to indulge once we'd arrived at my parents' house, and as wonderful as it smelled while being warmed on our stove top, it tasted even better when mixed with a great cognac like Courvosier. My father and brother followed by pouring their own, and I'm pretty sure they were happy to have such an option to warm their souls.
So passed Thanksgiving 2009.
Trust me, those are real fucking winners in the eyes of a woman.
Whatever.
Anyway, it's no mystery to those who know me that I'm rarely going to sugarcoat things. Case in point recently when I questioned a communication strategy at work and my boss said, "Steve, the glass is half full."
Now that's one of my least favorite expressions. Honestly, regardless of which way it's interpreted, there's a flaw. I don't see how it's reasonable for someone to look at a glass and say, "Wow, it's half-full! That's great!" Pardon me, but that sucks. Seriously, how could you not look at that and think, "Why the fuck is it only filled halfway? That's retarded."
Sorry, but that's reality. And excuse me for being a fucking realist.
Enter Thanksgiving, a day on which we're basically supposed to ignore all flaws and be thankful for all that we have. I have no problem appreciating my wife, children, job, etc.; but that doesn't mean that all of life's other problems have disappeared. It's just not in my personality to pretend those things don't exist, and I'm at a point in my life when there are a lot of plenty of other things on my mind.
With two of my own kids and a stepson, plus the recent addition of a second house payment and double the utilities, cable, etc., I don't think it's unfair for me to be more concerned with my day-in day-out responsibilities rather than taking time out to honor the people/things I already recognize each day. Trust me, while I'm not a religious and prayer kind of guy, I think about my many blessings everyday, and that includes my parents, my siblings, my wife, my children and my belongings. Please don't try to tell me when I might need to truly acknowledge them. Instead, please just give me a chance to relax.
It's probably not difficult to imagine that I have a few other Thanksgiving-related thoughts to share. Here are a few:
Can someone really be referred to as a Grinch prior to Thanksgiving? Maybe this is more of an indictment of our society and the way it identifies "The Holiday Season." (Thanks to my good friend Nick for helping me realize this.) Because the so-called Holiday Season revolves around shopping and because holiday shopping revolves around the so-called Black Friday that follows Thanksgiving and the many days of hype that lead to it, I suppose it's okay for people to interpret the attitudes of their peers and family members before the last Thursday in November. My wife apparently had no qualms in doing so early last week as she spread holiday cheer and decorations throughout our house, much to the obvious delight of our children and to the palpable indifference of yours truly. (Please see the paragraphs above should you need further explanation.) After placing a very small plug-in Christmas tree in our basement, the part of our house that might be known by the terrible title of 'man cave', my wife told my stepson that "even the Grinch needs a tree." Again, pardon me for not needing to be told when and how to celebrate things.
Consider this chain of events on a Thanksgiving weekend for a sports fanatic who also had to work on the month's final Friday: Illinois football pummelled Friday afternoon, Illinois basketball losing in heart-breaking fashion Friday night to an inferior opponent, followed by another hoops loss the following night to an in-state non-BCS school, capped by a Chicago Bears' blowout loss to hated divisional opponent Minnesota, who happens to be led by longtime hated quarterback Brett Favre. Sorry, but at the age of 32 I still don't have the capacity to handle all of that negativity like a true adult.
And here's how I contributed to Thanksgiving this year. My wife is the kind of person who insists on bringing something to contribute to a holiday celebration that's being held outside of our own home. This year, I enjoyed her choice of bringing a large jug of warm apple cider. Very seasonal. I was the first to indulge once we'd arrived at my parents' house, and as wonderful as it smelled while being warmed on our stove top, it tasted even better when mixed with a great cognac like Courvosier. My father and brother followed by pouring their own, and I'm pretty sure they were happy to have such an option to warm their souls.
So passed Thanksgiving 2009.
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