Christmas Blues - Tamar

It’s eight o’clock in the morning, I’ve been up for two hours, and Christmas is three days away.

Last night we had our staff Christmas dinner, and everyone made fun of me because I pronounced Daiquiri wrong. Our dessert waiter knew the four of us from the craft store in Steveston and is coming in the New Year to take crochet classes. And why not? Lots of guys crochet now. Pauline ended up under the table; I’m sure everyone wonders how the hell that happened, but I’m not telling. Some things are best unknown.

I can’t type this morning, my head is all stuffed up and my throat is sore and scratchy. I don’t have all the gifts bought yet and am not looking forward to heading to the mall with my husband after work, to fight the crowds and have him waiting impatiently while I check every store for the perfect presents for two of my girls.

I have nothing wrapped, I have nothing baked. Did I mention Christmas was three days away? I have to work for the next two, my bank account is overdrawn already, and I can’t breathe through my nose.

It’s raining with the promise of more rain, I have no bus tickets and am only hoping and praying that there is enough coin in my purse to scrounge up bus fare, my feet are cold, and I would rather be in bed.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Ha ha happy new year! See you at the Olympics!

Stuff I Learned From My Brother - Roxie

I am the youngest of three in my immediate family. My brother is four years larger and my sister, in the middle, is older by two and half years. Being the youngest and having both brother and sister was ideal for me. I could be a tomboy with my brother and do girly things with my sister like play with Barbies and paper dolls and dress up in our mother's old clothes and high-heel shoes.

Some of my fondest memories are of being a tomboy. My brother and I often took advantage of living out in the country in Spring, now a suburb of Houston. Back then it was twenty miles north of that sprawling metropolis. We moved in 1964 when I was nine and Daddy commuted back and forth to work in Houston. I believe he wanted to raise his family where it was safe and easier to keep track of us. There were only two other houses in the entire subdivision when we moved in. Our development was of the large lot variety where the minimum lot size was an acre. When my grandparents moved into the area we split the acre behind both of our houses allowing an acre and a half for each of us. My stay-at-home Momma planted a huge garden year round on that half acre. We had corn, bell peppers, watermelons, cantaloupe, green onions, sugar snap peas, ornamental peppers (those were hot and looked way too much like bright colored candy!), tomatoes, lettuce and even potatoes and radishes. We ate very well! She was a great cook and gardener, my Momma.

Our one-story red brick home was on Haydee, a dead end street. Nestled amongst tall loblolly pine, sycamore, and live oak trees, it was perpetually in shadow. My favorite was the sweet gum with its stickery gumball fruit. In the summer, being the tree-climbing monkey that I was, you would often find me swaying in the small branches at its highest point. Probably hiding from my brother. I would torment and bug him endlessly until finally he would chase me up a tree, usually the sweet gum. Since I was a teeny little nine-year old girl and he was a strapping thirteen-year old boy he couldn't follow me to the highest small branches. From my perch, toes and legs firmly wrapped around the tree, I would throw gumball fruit and occasionally even spit on him. I know, I know, I was a brat.

I was an accomplished runner and could shimmy up that tree faster than you could say "I'm gunna getchoo fer that!" We'd be yelling and cursing each other the whole time. I learned some of my favorite words from him. I'm fluent in curse.

“You little brat, can’t you just leave me alone.”

“Why? You’re not doin’ anythin’ anyways.”

“Yeah, but I want to do the nothin’ that I’m doin’ without you hangin’ aroun’. You can’t follow me ev’rywhere, you know.”

“Why not? Don’chu like me?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’re just a big fat meanie then.”

“If you don’t go away I’m not goin’ to take you huntin’ tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you will. I’m yur good luck charm, you said so.”

“Right now you’re bein’ a lil’ bitch!”

“Ah-um, I’m gunna tell Momma you said that.”

“Go ahead, my word against yours.”

“She’ll believe me, I’m not a liar like you.”

“Jus’ get the hell away from me.”

“Fine, I’m goin’ then, butthead.”

That’s when the chasing would begin and I could simply run faster than him. He hated that.

We would leave early on a summer morning, b-b gun in hand and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches stuck in pockets and not come home ‘til sunset. We'd pick blackberries that grew wild and swim in the man-made lake at the front of the subdivision. Tall reeds along the edges and a thin layer of algae on top, we'd plunge right in amongst the snakes, turtles, bass and who knows what else due to the murky water, I don't even want to know. Someone had made a raft so you could pole your way to the middle of the lake and dive to your heart's content. That's where my brother taught me to swim. By teaching me I mean one day when he was utterly tired of me hanging around his neck, the proverbial albatross, he picked me up under my arms, swung me around a couple of times to get momentum and threw me off that raft as far as he possibly could and said, "Now sink or swim." He had, of course, taught me what to do prior to that act of rebellion but it was always easier to simply hang on to him, right? That's the day I learned how to swim. I believe I eventually got even with spit.

A red boy's bike was my means of transportation. I demanded to have a boy's bike and, of course, it HAD to be red. I believed it was a sturdier bike being made for a boy and all, so that's what I wanted and got. We'd fly up and down those mostly deserted roads and I became adept at balancing, not even touching the handlebars. Hands flung wide, hugging the wind; I'd compete with him to see who could go the farthest hands free. You never knew who would win our daily races on the long straightaway main road. We were both so eager to be the victor, I remember us being pretty evenly matched, although he may have let me win sometimes so I'd continue to play that game, one of his favorites.

My brother also taught me to shoot his b-b gun. We'd set up a paper target under the sweet gum tree and practice, practice, practice. Sharp shooters had nothing on us. I pitied the poor squirrel, rabbit or bird that was unfortunate enough to come into our sights. We rarely missed. Sometimes when my brother was particularly irked with me … again, he'd shoot me with his b-b gun in the back. The back was all he could hit because I'd be running as swift as a deer away from him. It never hurt; I think he waited until I was far enough along before pulling the trigger. Perhaps he was using me for target practice. Spit comes to mind again, not sure why.

Growing up in Spring, Texas, was an exceptional way to begin my life. My brother prepared me for many trials and tribulations that have been set before me. I'm a stronger woman because of him, I get along with the male species in ways that some of my female friends envy and have even been considered "just one of the guys", a compliment I cherish. PLUS I can spit pretty dang accurately, an asset I've yet to figure out how to use to my advantage, but when I do I'll show my big brother how it's done.

Saturday Morning at the Aberdeen Centre - Tamar

Yesterday morning, DH and I decided (well, I actually decided) to check out The Aberdeen Centre in Richmond. Now, one may think this is a place where one could buy a kilt or listen to the bagpipes, but one would be quite wrong. This is actually a huge Asian mall - surprise surprise!

(One store stood out from all others - on the third floor, a place called Strawberry Cones. Guess what they sold?)

When we first came to Richmond, we went to the old Aberdeen Centre, which was a very Asian mall, full of Asian smells like dried fishy stuff that cured all sorts of diseases and other fishy stuff from the food court. We were followed around by Asian security guards who thought maybe we were there with the sole purpose of stealing Asian things, which of course we weren't. We were just interested in the many cultures our new hometown had to offer, and ready to try new things - except of course for the smelly things that either cured or sustained life. My little Scottish mother felt quite uncomfortable in these surroundings, so we left promptly, with the guards nipping at our heels like little shi tsus.

(No, not ice-cream...)

Now, 15 years later,a brand new block-long building replaces the old mall, with three stories of shops, and glorious views of the mountains from the huge food court. Parking was relatively easy, which was not surprising when we realized that it was only 10:15 and the mall didn't open until 11:00 - on a Saturday morning.

(Not frozen yogurt, either...)

At 10:40 we both got tired of waiting and decided to head out. It's amazing how many vehicles were now looking for a place to park, most of them in the wrong lane and getting very friendly with each other. Howard couldn't back out right away as one lady and her van were just sitting behind our rear bumper, having a wee chat on her cell phone with someone about something. She finally pulled over into the correct lane, and we exited the mall - for some reason I was thinking about the bumper cars we used to ride in at the carnivals of my childhood.

(And not fruit and veggies...)

The mall was interesting enough for me to plan another visit, but next time I will go by bus and leave my poor little car at home! And I may even stop at Strawberry Cones for a big slice of pizza!

Beware the Deflated Balloon - Tamar

Sunday was a beautiful fall day, cold because it was the end of November, but sunny and blue-skied. I wrapped myself up in coat, gloves, hat and scarf, and left Pauline in charge of Crafts'n'More to go for a wee walk to the Cannery Cafe to buy lunch - the best egg sandwich in the world - and pop into the Thrift Store to hunt for treasures.

Now, there are certain things we seem to do naturally as we walk - kick a stone, maybe, or step over a puddle or a curl of dog poop, stop and smell a rose. I discovered one thing, however, that one should never do, and I know I will never do it again.

It's okay to step on bubble wrap, or an empty potato chip bag - they give off satisfying sounds as you stroll along. But on this Sunday, when the sidewalk was filled with Sunday tourists and shoppers, I should never have stepped on a balloon.

I know it was only a balloon, a deflated little dark blue balloon with silver stars, but I didn't realize it had a smidgen of air left inside, so when I stepped on it, it released a loud, if not noxious, fart. It's really strange how many people didn't see the balloon, just the little round woman who stepped on it - and moved away with their noses averted. Meanwhile, I did what everyone does in these situations. I too scrunched up my nose and increased my speed, although my first instinct was to hold up the balloon and shout, "It wasn't me, it was this stupid balloon."

I guess I knew no one would believe it was a balloon, not when little old ladies are full of gas anyway. Usually. So I continued my walk, feeling as guilty as if I were the real culprit, a little bit wiser than when I left, a little more cautious as to what I would step on in the future.