DECK THE HALLS (With Ready-Made)

 by Anne Skalitza

     
“I was born to wrap.”

“Born to rap? Like, Kanye West? No way!” our younger son exclaimed.

“No, no. Wrapping gifts, not rap as in music,” my husband replied, putting the finishing touches on a red and white festively wrapped box.  Not only was it beribboned with velvet and lace, but it jauntily sported two tiny bells that jingled when you picked up the package.

I stood nearby, watching, like a cat eyeing a mouse. How'd he do that so easily? I thought about the time years ago, when my older child needed an angel costume by the next day. Halo included. He ended up looking like a tipsy Casper the Friendly Ghost. At least he was the hit of the Christmas pageant.

Through the years I’ve learned to surround myself with a few friends who are as creatively challenged in the homemade department as I. But I also have a stable of friends who can make a mean Dobosh Torte in the time it takes for me to find my eyeglasses to read the recipe. And of course, there's my husband who pinch-hits when needed. His favorite television channel is a twenty-four hour food fiesta and he's on a first name basis with all of the show hosts.

"Bobby says this barbeque sauce is great!" he calls from the kitchen as he rattles pots and pans.

Later, from the family room, he yells out to anyone within a five-and-a-half mile radius, "Oh, wait 'til you hear what Rachel has to say about marinating!"

Well, I'd rather use the kitchen just for eating. In fact, I'll gladly accept gift certificates to the nearest "we cook it, you devour it" place rather than a Fifty Ingredients Or Less cookbook.

One day recently, I wandered into a craft store and stood stock-still. Milling about were men, women, and children, all armed with filled baskets and dangerous to the likes of me. Mustering up confidence, I meekly stepped into an aisle. People sidled past, talking about different size glue guns and levelers and sculpting clay. I raced out the front door before a full-blown panic-attack set in. My brief foray into the world of creative projects was over.

Thankfully there are many people who can sew and bake and make beautiful centerpieces. I was born to admire. And I’m thankful that I live in the twenty-first century, in a world of ready-made anything. If my entourage of creative stand-bys are too busy creating to lend me a hand, I can purchase and deliver. Right on time, no questions asked. My husband may be born to wrap, but for me, with Christmas right around the corner, ready-made rocks!

--Anne Skalitza can usually be found dazed and wandering behind her husband in the local craft store on any given Saturday in December. For more about Anne and her writings, please visit www.anneskal.wordpress.com

Photo credit: inhabitat.com

Ol' Rustbucket

by Anne Skalitza

I'm good at waiting. I have to be, with two cars in the family that, as far I can trace, are from the dawn of the Industrial Age. Once again I am at the car service center, sitting in my coveted seat by the drooping plastic plant, praying that I don't have to take a second loan out on the house to pay to keep Rustbucket sputtering for a few more months. Rustbucket is the van-that-seats-a-thousand and can haul a fleet of fishing boats. I always say I'm going to keep this vehicle until I run it into the ground. It'll be like a Flintstone mobile or Little Tykes Cozy Coupe--feet to the street instead of pedal to the metal.

But there's no way I'm going to plunk down money for a new van, only to have gum, soda, and McDonald's wrappers decorate the interior within minutes of its arrival. One time there was a horrible smell coming from somewhere in the van. I opened all the windows. I sprayed Eau de New Auto.  Finally I remembered a little-used compartment in the third row. When I opened it, I choked and gagged. Sure there was a McDonald's wrapper but it still contained its contents. When I gingerly lifted it out while not breathing, it felt like a brick. Petrified MickyDs. I realize now that my lungs must be excellent; I didn't release my breath until the rotting food was safely in the outside trash can. I was sorely tempted to go in the house and drop it at my sons' feet, but couldn't hold my breath that long. Let's just say they heard a lengthy tirade from Mom.

Back to the waiting room. Today it's quiet. No self-important person loudly talking into his cell about his excellent job and international travel. Or tired toddlers bored out of their diapers, throwing their binkys. It's just a few of us, scattered about, making sure there's at least five chairs between us. We need our privacy while pondering how to finance our car repairs or bracing ourselves when the employee with the clipboard comes out, calls our name, and shakes his head. Like a family member waiting for the surgeon's news on our loved one, our heart's race, our stomach's knot, and there's always someone who slips a flask out of his pocket.

My turn should be soon. I've been here the requisite hour for a diagnosis. Maybe Rustbucket will survive.  If I still have money left over, I'll treat it. I'll pile my sons in the van and we'll go to MickyDs drive-thru. I think some soda on the floor should make it happy.



Anne Skalitza is a freelance writer with MGD (Multiple Genre Disorder). Her many short stories, essays, and poems are published in various magazines such as the Birmingham Arts Journal, The Dollar Stretcher, True Romance, and the now-defunct Alienskin magazine. (Anne swears she has nothing to do with its demise.)

For more on Anne's writings, click here: http://www.anneskal.wordpress.com

This Old Car

I was the youngest in my family to graduate from college. This should have been met with cheers and a celebratory handing over of the loan. Well, my parents did pat me on the back and told me the loan payments were now all mine. But what I didn't expect was the crestfallen look on my dad's face. Maybe he was sad that I was moving back in? Or maybe he realized I was all grown up now.

I soon found out. My parents handed me the keys to a classic car--my father's 1966 Ford Mustang, midnight blue and gorgeous. He kept it garaged and tuned up and polished. I was in heaven.

But as the years marched on, the car needed more and more TLC that I couldn't afford. Then came marriage and baby number one. With no air conditioning, front seatbacks that didn't lock in place, and ancient lapbelts that barely held an infant seat securely, I had to let her go. Now it was my turn to cry.

My days were to be spent hauling kids and bikes around in a van. Practical and sturdy, it did its job. Until the past year. When it rains, water pools in the third row, and after a few damp days, boys' stinky socks don't hold a candle to the smell.

Little by little, things begin to go wrong, and now I'm on a first name basis with the car center repair people. I even have a favorite spot in the waiting room, next to the table with the wilting plant and dog-eared magazines, like Bow 'N Arrow and Fish 'N Chum. It's also a good seat to watch their TV, but the Weather Channel doesn't cut it after two hours. So I bring my own 1,000 page book to read. I could be there for days.

One time I was so engrossed in my reading, that I sensed rather than saw everyone in the waiting room stopping whatever they were doing. I looked up into ten pairs of eyes staring at me. The eleventh pair belonged to a man standing at the front, clipboard in hand.

"Mrs.Skaleetza?" he boomed, probably for the fifth time.

"Uh, Skalitza," I corrected, hoping they'd think I just didn't understand his pronunciation of my name.

"Car's ready."

I packed up and raced out of there, paying the bill and grabbing my keys. My van was right by the door. I opened it, climbed in, and noticed that my gray cloth seats had magically turned into pristine black leather. Not a bit of ketchup adorned the dashboard. Sheepishly I got out, and one of the repair men came toward me, laughing. He pointed to my van, in all its dented wonder, one aisle over.

There's a classic car show coming to my area soon. You know where I'll be. :)

*For more about Anne and to read her ramblings, go to www.anneskal.wordpress.com

Did They Say That?!

Okay, this is going to be an interactive post (yep, "interactive" not "inactive" ;) ). How many have either given or been the recipient of verbal gaffes? I've done both, many times. I've overheard many, too, and try so hard not to laugh out loud and mortify the recipient. There's the saying, If you want the truth, ask a child. I can amend that by saying, "If you want the truth, ask a child--or me." So here, in no particular order, are some humdingers, given, received, or overheard:

Adult male to woman wearing a ski cap: "Wow, you look great, like you had a face lift."

Male adult to woman with a slight tummy: "Do you have a hernia or something?"

One woman to another: "When's the baby due?" (Leave it to those empire waist tops)

Child to another child: "Your grandfather really is good at running!" (It was the child's uncle.)

Young woman to a slightly older woman: "So, what hair dye do you use?" (It was the woman's natural color.)

Okay, your turn!

Jewelry: Friend or Foe

I love jewelry. The first thing I locked my gaze on when I was born were probably my mother's earrings. Forget being fed. I needed bling. Well today brought home the wonders of wearing a diamond ring. This particular ring is my engagement ring, purchased many years ago when Joe and I were just out of college. Money was tight but we didn't need a high-powered microscope to see it. Only a magnifying glass.

Today I started my yearly spring clean-up-the-ol'-body routine and did ten crunches. Or tried to. Before the first crunch could even dent my tummy, my diamond ring cut into my hand that was under my head on the floor. It drew blood. That drop of red stopped me cold and I had to sit on the recliner for an hour, watching TV. With a large chocolate chip cookie for comfort.

That little encounter with my jewelry had me thinking: all those years and I had not a clue that every day I wielded the equivalent of brass knuckles. Watch out, anyone who wants my purse! My diamond might not knock your socks off, but it will knock out a tooth. Or at least put a permanent dimple in your chin.

Yet, as I said, there's the down side. I cut my hand with my own jewelry. And did you ever open a hot oven, bending down to admire the roast turkey, and your metal earrings got so hot they burned your ears? My ears are done before the meat is even brown.

I still love jewelry. But after today, I have a new respect for the toughness of diamonds, and now see how it really could be a girl's best friend.

The Agony Of The Feet

After a rough winter of watching my sons shovel snow and experiencing a damp early spring, I had to get out and get some exercise. So the other day when the weather was warm and the skies blue and cloudless, I drove over to the local shoes-for-under-twenty-bucks store and bought sneakers. Then I drove home, laced up, and walked to the beach, three blocks away. I made it there in thirty-five minutes flat. (There was Mrs.Slattery's dog to pet, a few gorgeous roses to smell, and a penny to pick up from the gutter.)

At the beach, I immediately sat down on the nearest bench to catch my breath.This was hard work! I finally got up and started my walk on the boardwalk. It was a good pace, the kind where I watched the sailboats and fishing boats out at sea, and took in the people sitting peacefully in their beach chairs, reading. I waved to a few friends and strangers. My husband calls my type of walking "meandering."

Thunder. I looked up. Blue skies. Now it came closer and it sounded more like a herd of cattle. Felt like it too as the boards moved under the weight. I froze. Pounding feet thundered around me--three men and two women, older than me but most definitely physically fit. And their shoes didn't scream "discount." They whispered "athletic." "Eat my dirt."

I strolled on. A few more runners passed me. One looked like a candidate for a heart attack. His breathing was labored, his face beet red, and he was soaked in sweat and good intentions. I was relieved. At least if I passed out from walking a quarter-mile an hour, I'd have company in the ambulance.

My feet started hurting. I was sure blisters were sprouting blisters. So much for saving a buck in the shoe department. I decided to call it quits for the day so I called my husband to come pick me up. When we got home, I took off my sneakers and decided that the next time I went for a walk, I'd bring my beach chair and a book. And a large water bottle to make me at least look like I too was a runner. A runner on permanent vacation.

Ghosts R Us

I live in a 1920s house where only two families have resided. And even then our families are related by marriage. Something like we are tenth cousins three times removed. So the spirit that lurks in the basement, attic, and bathroom, is a relative.

This particular relative, though, is mostly impish. She was an older woman who is said to have had three little dogs by her side at all times. One of the dogs supposedly is buried beneath the cement in the basement. (This being New Jersey, I find this perfectly logical.)

One night, when Son the Second was raiding the fridge, the stereo in the family room turned itself on. To an opera. Our ghost's choice of stations freaked my younger son more than her turning the system on.

This ghostly woman can also be bossy. One time I was angry at one of my sons and my voice boomed. An unseen hand shoved my left shoulder, effectively cutting off my tirade. My husband applauded her. She accomplished something others have tried and failed at.

And then there is the electronic equivalant of a whoopee cushion that impresses this spirit immensly. I think most of us have been introduced to this wonder of technology.

One day, about two weeks ago, Son the First was asleep in the afternoon. A very loud noise--louder than any male could make--echoed throughout the house from his room. Then stopped. I left my writing and opened his door. My son looked up from bed, bleary-eyed, and said, "I didn't do it!" I looked over to his dresser where he usually keeps his beloved fart machine remote and also its speaker. There they were, the ultimate jokesters. I climbed over the mountain of clothes mixed with you-don't-want-to-know stuff. There was no way he could have hurled himself across the room to press the button then fly back to bed without being buried up to his neck.

A few nights later, around two in the morning, various types of breaking wind woke me. I rolled over and saw my selectively hard-of-hearing husband asleep. And quiet. I padded into Son the First's room while Son the Second followed me, laughing. Again, my older son was in bed, but sitting up, amazed that his precious machine could turn itself on like that. The machine was going non-stop this time. Again the remote was on top of the dresser, the speaker near it.

It took me a half-hour to maneuver through his room, but I did it. I took the batteries out and killed the machine. For the time being, that is.

My only hope is that our resident ghost won't learn how to use our cell phones. She might think it great fun to text everyone in our contacts. Or take and send photos....

We better lock our phones away.

*When Anne Skaltiza isn't chasing down the resident ghost, she battles MGD or Multiple Genre Disorder with her writing. Her blog is Mightier Than A Sword.