It's Like Buttah

Just want everyone to know that my mom and dad came through for me once again this year.

Under the Christmas tree in a recycled Berghoff beer box was 10 pounds of butter this past Christmas Eve.

Thanks, Mom and Pop.

The Holiday Howdy

Okay, I will probably somehow stick my foot in my mouth at some point during this post, so I will apologize in advance. In other words, that's a shout out to all of you who send out Christmas letters with your cards: It's nice to hear from you. Really.

This is the second year my family (reality: me) has sent out our Holiday Howdy, a quirky and odd little newsletter, which was birthed from a "perfect storm" situation two years ago. Among other things, I was having problems finding a decent Christmas card. I have a tendency to get sidetracked by the publishing programs on my computer. I was also bored. I'm bored a lot, which is why I now blog. I also send out the cards. Just like I generally set up the tree. And dye the eggs. And buy the pumpkins. But I've been sharing the wealth lately on all of this. I'm tired of being a one-woman holiday show.

If you have not guessed already, this blog is brought to you by Mr. and Mrs. Scrooge, an all-purpose anti-holiday couple that eschews basically every holiday except maybe Veteran's Day. And yes, the rumor is true. We do generally take our Christmas tree down on December 25.

Anyway, thus the Holiday Howdy was born. I made a vow to myself in doing so. I would never, ever use it to brag about our previous year. It would become the Seinfeld of holiday newsletters. It would be about nothing.

That first year, I wrote about our septic system woes and the fact that we had a failed attempt at adopting a used dog, as viewed by our two cats. That would be the dog that was advertised to us as a "boxer," but in reality was a pit bull with jaws that opened wider than the hood of my Prius. I wrote about the fact that we'd spent thousands of dollars on two master's degrees and my husband - who hates going to school - had spent 23 of his 35 years as a student. There was no real mention of career aspirations or what he planned to do with those degrees or what had prompted him to go back to school in the first place.

I mentioned what I was doing simply because I had a hole on the back page. But I also threw in that I have only balanced my checkbook three times in 15 years. Which is quite true, I might add.

I do not have a good track record when it comes to traditional holiday letters. I once wrote a last-minute Christmas card to one of the women who stood up in our wedding. We'd met at camp in high school and lived on opposite sides of the state. We had a fantastic friendship maintained for years through letter writing. This was all pre-email and our letters would stretch to five or six pages longhand, sometimes twice a week.

Anyway, when I sent out the card on December 23, I wrote something that said, "Instead of boring you with one of those self-absorbed, Xeroxed holiday letters, just know that nothing's new, everything's fine and I'll write later."

On December 24, I received her card. Which was really a self-absorbed, Xeroxed holiday letter. The friendship never really recovered. I haven't heard from her in nearly a decade.

This year, there were more than a few in our mailbox. I do like reading them, but while doing so, my evil twin takes over. I start to dissect them, turn the words over and upside down. I peak behind the meanings. I'm a read-between-the-liner. I'm a doubting Tomasina.

The more bubbly, the more blessed, the more enthused the letter, the more inclined I am to think that all is not right in your world. If I can hear the trumpets of heaven playing as I unfold your letter, it's "uh-oh" time for me. My little card basket (something I would never buy, but was my Christmas gift last year from the Littlest Scrooge) has a cacophony of holy instruments playing in it this year.

A very good, longtime friend of mine writes a great holiday letter. It usually arrives after Christmas. It's funny, it doesn't take itself too seriously and it's highly realistic. It's her voice. When I read it, it makes me laugh. She writes about things like spitup and dueling children. And then she'll throw in something nice that happened to her family. Her life is not all rose petals and champagne, but it's real and it's genuine, just like our friendship which has sustained itself since middle school and now stretches between three states. She's the kind of friend that you like hearing from, whether it's a Xeroxed letter or a few sentences scrawled on the bottom of the card, along with an accidental chocolate thumbprint smudge.

Or a Holiday Howdy, printed upside down on the back because you can't remember which way the #@*$)@_ paper goes in the printer if you want to do double-sided copies.

The Best Gifts I've Ever Received

Though part of me suspects that I am beating this holiday/gift theme to death, I present to you yet one more, slightly inane blog entry. I almost feel like titling this, "English 101" in the corner and adding my social security number.

However, you are welcome to steal these for the upcoming holiday season if they tickle your fancy. With my anti-materialism bent, if this stops you from buying 2005's singing fish, go for it.

1. A ream of paper. Thank you, Dick and Ada. My dad was high school buddies with this guy named Dick and had, at one time, dated his wife Ada while in high school. This is ancient history, nothing weird here, at least nobody has elaborated it to me. My favorite story about Dick was that he and my dad used to get drunk and pee on the floor in the theater and their pee would roll down under the seats. This is something I do not condone nor would I recommend in any form. I just find it weirdly interesting in an odd sort of way. Dick and Ada have apparently become nudists in their golden years, or at least that was the last update I'd heard about them.

Occasionally we would stop at Dick and Ada's house in the Rapids when visiting my grandparents, and for some reason, the original "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" was always on TV and somehow, I always ended up the hospital with pneumonia. Anyway, Ada worked at the paper mill and one time she brought me a ream of paper (for no reason, I might add) which was just uber cool to a child who went through "typing paper" like toilet paper and was occasionally forced to use "scrap" (ugh) paper to draw on. A ream of paper, yeah. It was good. She probably stole it from her office.

2. A bracelet of "African" beads. My dad and our neighbor, Keith, went to downtown Milwaukee for something or other (they had a tendency to just disappear on Saturday afternoons and come back with weird dad things like bench grinders. Sometimes they'd take in aluminum cans or make other mysterious "dad" trips.) and my dad came back with these beads strung on copper wire. I have a vague memory of my dad saying they were from Africa. This doesn't mean that my dad and Keith went to Africa that Saturday afternoon - though maybe they did since I was never privy to or paid much attention to what they did - but rather that the vendor said they were from Africa. They were probably made on 35th and Cherry for all I know. These beads have a name which, of course, I can't remember. But I do know what guanxi is. Anyway, the beads are cool. For awhile, I thought I lost them and I was frantically looking for them for about a year, thinking they'd been misplaced. I never really have wore them, but they've always been on my dresser and they remind me of my dad. They've become more of a talisman than anything for me. I always thought it was a nice gesture that he bought them for me.

3. A broach. Well, this actually isn't my gift, but when my great aunt died, my great uncle gave my mom a Limoge broach he'd bought his wife in France after the war ended. I think it was basically just a leftover trinket for him that he really didn't know what to do with, but knowing what he went through in WWII and the fact that he was able to bring this delicate little thing home to her, there' s a lot of sentimental value there. It's not really my style, in fact, it's not my style at all (nor my mom's), but it would be a true honor to wear it. There are certain people that you feel honored to know in your life and Aunt Vi and Uncle Frank are at the top of my list. I bet my mom would let me borrow it if I was "very careful."

4. A "walking balloon," a loaf of really darn good bread and a newspaper subscription. Back before I was a writer, I worked a series of really, really sucky jobs. I had to because I was the "breadwinner," no pun intended. I HATED these jobs. I HATED these jobs more than Al Qaida hates the U.S. I happened to start a job on my birthday - a bad, bad omen - and though the job I applied for was "desktop publisher," somebody rearranged the letters on me to reform "receptionist." So, after spending a miserable eight hours answering the phone - and as you all know, I am a natural font of sunshine on most days - I drove home in a big funk and opened the door to our apartment. There I found the most ridiculous balloon with these accordion-paper legs wandering around our postage-stamp living room, a loaf of my favorite bread from Great Harvest Bread Company and a subscription to the Milwaukee Journal (okay, now that last one is a bit embarrassing to admit and I have since moved on to the Wall Street Journal) but my husband was recognizing my love of reading. I broke down and cried when I saw it because he'd made such an effort to find me things that he knew I would really like.

I could probably think of a few more, but my point is that none of these gifts broke the bank. But all of them really resonated with me. Now, if I could just find someone to buy me some butter, I'd be really happy this year.

What do I want for Christmas? Nothing.

In keeping with the holiday theme...

This holiday season has been a real struggle for me. As I grow older, I am finding more and more that I don't like things.

Things, that is, as a general group.

There are certain things that I love. I like my Mont Blanc fountain pen. It makes me feel like a writer when I use it. I once took it to the eye doctor's office after I was fitted for contacts. With my lenses, my newly restored 20/20 vision picked out the Mont Blanc white tip from his shirt pocket. He was an ink man. I said there was nothing like a fountain pen. Discussion ensued. I don't remember why I brought it in, but his receptionist ended up making a copy of it on her copy machine.

I like my Mrs. Beasley doll. I'm not a big doll fan. I would like nothing more if Barbie, the Bratz, those weird My Scene Dolls with the removable feet, et al would just disappear in one giant poof!, but there's something about Mrs. B. I must have played with her as a kid because her feet are all dirty and her hair is a bit ratty. I look at her and she fires off the neurons associated with my childhood.

I also like guacamole. But I don't know if that's a thing, per say. I also like Pepsi, but the high fructose corn syrup goes right to my behind and, to misquote my friend Jenny (see convienient link on the right), contributes to my "writer's ass."

But I digress. I am struggling with things this holiday season: The fact that I have to buy and receive them is just dampening my chi. I have a basement full of stuff. My daughter has a room full of stuff. There's stuff in piles all over my house. My husband would really like some Surround Sound stuff and some HDTVstuff.

Though I can understand that one. Watching TV in our house is an aerobic activity. When the picture goes out, you have to stomp your feet on the floor or the TV turns into a radio.

Do we really need any more?

I have spent the past three weeks looking for a gift for my in-law's holiday gift exchange. I have been through Boston Store, Target, even forced myself to walk through a Super Wal-Mart and came up empty handed.

Part of this is that I am buying for a wide audience. I don't know who will get my gift. So I have to be purposely all-purpose and generic in my selection. Theoretically, I could also end up with my own gift, though that has never happened. Someone has always taken my gift.

I can think of a myriad of quirky things that I would want: $20 worth of butter. A new snow shovel, one that won't cause my spine to shrivel and shriek in fear. Some wool socks. Sea monkeys would be nice. A bottle of red wine with a cork in it, not a screw top. A gift card to a bookstore (though I would just probably buy a clearance cookbook. I read cookbooks like some people devour Danielle Steele.)

I'm too practical, plus I can't see any of my in-law relatives being pleased with 9 one-pound blocks of butter.

Though, that would probably be better received than the $20 worth of M&Ms that made it into the men's gift exchange last year. Or maybe not.

That's not to say that I don't enjoy things. I like to look at things. But I don't like to have them around my house. I buy things when I need them, not when I want them.

That's a distinction that a lot of people cannot make. Or maybe they don't want to make it. Or, after a lifetime of conditioning to buy, buy, buy, they don't know how to make it.

When I think about it, I have always been the happiest when I haven't had stuff. When we were first married, all we really had were my parents' furniture castoffs, our wedding gifts and a really ugly apartment. I would save up for a week to buy a half-pound of shrimp to make pasta. We'd take walks. We couldn't afford to do much else.

But I look back on that time fondly. With nothing, happiness. It's always been true for me.

I find a delicious joy in throwing out something. I'm the ultimate anti-consumer. Wow, that cookie sheet looks now looks like it was in an A-bomb test. Yee-hah, throw the baby out! I get an unshopping high. My high point of this week was finally using up some ribbon I bought for our wedding decorations nearly 15 years ago. Man, it felt good to throw that spool out after packing and moving it SEVEN times.

I have decided on my gift exchange gift. I didn't buy anything. Instead, I made up a certificate, which I will wrap up in leftover wrapping paper. It says: 'Tis better to give than to receive. I will donate $25 in your honor to the charity of your choice.

I know there will be at least one taker.

Oh, Tannebaum.

So, last night the tree went up. Our neighbor had this beautiful pine tree that was encroaching on his garden and he offered it up, nay, he sacrificed it in the name of Christmas to us.

Being the cheapskates that we are, we took it. Well, not all of it. Just about the top 2/3. Of course, being new at the whole real Christmas tree thing, we brought it in the house where the heavy frau (it has a matronly German feel to it) was strapped into a stand and stood before our picture window. If I sat quietly, I could hear sweet German carols in our living room.

Shape wise, our tree looks a bit like Beth from "Dog, the Bounty Hunter." The post-modern star I bought from Target looked like a misplaced earring on the top. It's gone now. The box was anihilated in the process, so I can't return it.

Anyway, being a bass awkwards family, while my husband was trying to straighten the tree, I was using the shrub clippers to shape it into something a little less Beth like. These fell on our off-white carpet and started to ooze sap.

Despite my half-hearted efforts, the tree could still use a Brazilian, if you know what I mean.

The thing is, both my husband and I are not holiday people. My husband is known for dying every Easter egg the same crappy shade of, well, crap, by putting each egg in multiple colors. For years, we used a Christmas tree that my mother used to set up in the grocery store where she worked for many years. I rescued it from the garbage after she quit that job.

Then, my brother-in-law, Larry, gave us a tree he bought at Wal-Mart on super-duper clearance. We never set it up until Christmas rolled around, and that was when we found out exactly why it had been on super-duper clearance. It was the Festivus bush. We dragged it outside at our old house and put it on the curb. Usually, the curb divers would take our bounty within hours, but the Festivus bush stayed out there for three days.

So, being that our daughter is of the age where holidays should be meaningful, we decided to go out of our way and actually stop being Scrooges this year. She was thrilled with the tree. Delighted in the most sweet sort of way that children can be. She hummed Christmas carols as she rooted through our motley collection of ornaments plus the new "blue" themed ones I bought last December 26 at Marshall Field's.

By the way, that's our theme: Blue. In honor of Elvis.

So, with enough cheer between us to fill a shot glass, my husband and I started on the tree. We strung our six packages of $1.48 blue lights from Target (one complete with a short in it) on the tree. The child continued to hum as she poked at the most expensive glass ornaments. Our hands and arms began to prickle and then itch as we both began to react to the sap.

Ho, ho, ho.

But the child was buoyant. She loves Christmas; she loves decorating. Each year, the height of our ornaments gets higher thanks to her evolving decorating skills and continued growth, but they still tend to be heavily concentrated on the lower third of the tree. I followed behind her, moving the doubled-up ornaments on single branches.

"I am out of room," she finally proclaimed.

It was true. But the upper third was naked.

We moved more ornaments up. We turned off the lights and shooed the cats away from the tree. I still felt relatively foul and lacking in Christmas spirit - and my husband had long retreated to the laundry - but looking at her face and sensing her excitement, I realized that what we had done was good.

And Frau Beth was happy with her new outfit.