The Great Christmas Light Caper

Like many Christmas-celebrating Americans, I look forward to my annual holiday light-viewing experience. I love the myriad of mini multicolored luminaries that twinkle in the nighttime sky at this time of year. I have yet to trim my own house with lights, but I certainly enjoy the prolific radiant fruits of other people’s labors.

After marrying my husband three years ago, my Christmas light-viewing jaunts have become much more adventurous.

My husband takes a militaristic approach to looking at Christmas lights. About three or four days before Christmas Eve, he plans our route by looking up addresses in the local newspaper’s holiday light insert and website. Then he draws up an itinerary that includes the most logical order of houses within a ten-mile radius of our own home.

On Christmas Eve, I navigate as Dan roars through the neighborhoods, making sure we see every house on our list, careful not to backtrack or look at any house twice.

From my perch in the passenger's seat, I watch the blur of lights whiz by as my husband whips around the cul-de-sacs, entertaining himself by slamming on the brakes on the icy patches, sending our car into fishtail down the street.

This year, I convinced Dan to split our trip into two evenings. We looked at lights once on our anniversary, conveniently five days before Christmas, and once on Christmas Eve. The light-viewing during our anniversary proved to be rather disappointing for Dan, however, since the streets were too dry to do any “Tokyo Drifting.”

The icy roads on Christmas Eve were much more rewarding for Dan, and I was able to see many kaleidoscopic displays. Every once in a while, Dan interjected, “Ha ha! That was a good one!” when our tires would slip around on the glacial neighborhood streets. Sure, my knuckles turned white as I clutched the car door handle in terror, but it was all worth it to hear the enthusiastic Christmas spirit in my husband’s voice.

Never mind that we did backtrack and pass a few houses more than once or twice, typically at least a venial sin according to Dan’s logic. In fact, we drove by the nice couple, who were passing out candy canes dressed up like Santa and Mrs. Claus, three times. They stood in the driveway to their house and waved and smiled at us, never indicating that they thought we were at all crazy. By the third time, I buried my head in my black pea coat and sank down into my seat as Dan said, “I think we’ve seen these houses before.”

In truth, driving around to look at Christmas lights with my husband is far more fun than looking at them alone. For one thing, Dan has a better sense of direction than I do. Yes, we saw a few houses more than once this year; but when I used to go out alone, I would drive by the same house at least six or seven times, probably looking more like a stalker than a Christmas light-seeker.

Every activity as a married person is an adventure. Even something as simple as looking at Christmas lights takes on a life of its own with a spouse. But I can’t think of a more amusing and enjoyable way to create Christmas traditions and memories.

A Thanksgiving Memory

“This Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for . . .”

Surely this is one of the most common and cliché topics of discussion around this time of year. At the elementary school level, the answer is often “I’m thankful for turkey, my family, my toys.” High school students may answer, “I’m thankful for my iPod, my car. Oh yeah, and my family.” Or they may just say, “I’m thankful for nothing. The world sucks.” I don’t actually know. I’m out of touch when it comes to teens these days. I think most adults are just thankful when the turkey finishes cooking before midnight. Oh yeah, and family.

This Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for a memory.

Every Thanksgiving, my mother and I made a trip to Filer, Idaho with the primary purpose of spending all sorts of money at the annual holiday and craft bazaar. One year, my mother bought me a freestanding wooden snowman (and woman) couple wearing knit hats and scarves.

"They look like you and Dan, for your new house," my mom said. Dan and I were getting married that December.

After the bazaar, we went to a nativity display at the Boys' and Girls' Club and then to a local soda shop for holiday buttered cider. I don't recall much about our conversations that day or any profound words of wisdom, just that my mother and I spent the whole afternoon together, enjoying each other's company.

Why tell a story about what seems to be an insignificant outing that could be part of the collective consciousness of any mother-daughter relationship?

Because that day was a final memory. It was the last day my mother and I ever spent together, just the two of us.

The following year, my mother was too sick to make the trip to the bazaar. That January, she died.

So this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for a memory, a vivid memory that plays over and over in my mind's eye. I'm thankful for the smell of pine cones and wooden floors at the holiday bazaar, the proud look in my mother's eyes as she looked at the wooden snowmen and saw her daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law, the sweet taste of the buttered cider. Yes, the memory makes me sad, but it also makes me thankful.

"Pain is inevitable. Misery is an option," my mother has written in her Bible. I refuse to choose misery; but, at the same time, I would have never chosen this pain.

Becoming Idaho-ish

Guns, dead animals, and camouflage are not my personal sources of titillation. These items apparently do excite many of my fellow Idahoans. I discovered this fact upon one infamous jaunt to the grand opening of a new store that shall remain nameless.

My indifference toward guns, dead animals, and camouflage might have prevented me from ever stepping foot in this new nameless store, had I not been invited by other more Idaho-savvy people than I. I returned from this venture, this three-hour venture no less, a wiser and much more Idaho-ish person.

At the entrance of the store, I covered my mouth and nose with my gray, fleece jacket and coughed a few times in order to let the loitering smokers know that smoking is a dangerous pastime. I darted into the store, pleased with myself that I had successfully dodged the risk of contracting secondhand smoke-related cancer.

My self-satisfied disposition abruptly transformed into horror as my Idaho companion excitedly directed my attention to the display in front of me.

"Look at that cute squirrel!"

Indeed there was a cute squirrel, a dead squirrel that had once roamed free in the mountains or the forests or perhaps in somebody's front yard. It was now lifeless and stuffed, along with several other wild animals - deer, chipmunks, prairie dogs, foxes, skunks, elk - all dead. But not just dead. Stuffed and majestically positioned like trophies on a platform that was supposed to represent the natural habitat of these now helpless, lifeless creatures.

I spent three hours amidst the stuffed animal hides and mounted deer heads and wild fish packed like sardines in an aquarium that came nowhere close to the spaciousness of a river.

Yet, I am a hypocrite. I do eat meat, and, although I realize this is cliché, I would never want to have to kill it myself. (I ask that if you are a member of PETA, please refrain from dressing up like an antelope and chaining yourself to my refrigerator.) Even though I indulge from time to time in an occasional slab of meat, I don't want its face staring at me, a painful reminder that another creature's death provided for my sustenance.

One thing my experience in the new nameless store taught me is that if I am going to be a "true Idahoan," instead of simply looking at meat as a source of survival, I need to mount a few antlers on my wall.

Just a hint, I wouldn't buy me a gun anytime soon.

My War on Road Ragers

Once upon a time, I declared war on road ragers. Yes, I, a self-proclaimed pacifist, officially declared war on those drivers who find joy in tailing others in residential neighborhoods, in shining their brights in rear view mirrors when they don't agree with someone else's driving style, in communicating their self-righteous wrath with what I like to endearingly call "finger language."

Now, let me preface this by assuring you that I do not drive ten miles under the speed limit, pass people without first turning on my blinker, or pull out in front of moving traffic and then slow down to twenty miles an hour. These truly are exasperating driving methods which could incite rage in even the most serene drivers. But I am not one of those exasperating drivers.

One pleasant summer day, while driving home from an invigorating run on the greenbelt, I noticed a scary, monstrous, gigantic, white pickup tailing me at less than the two-second distance I learned all about in my inspiring driver's ed classes.

I, being the alert driver that I am, noticed that the speed limit sign read "20 mph." I, also being a conscientious driver and always willing to help out my fellow driving buddies, pointed to the sign. I also made sure I drove that speed all the way up the hill through the neighborhood.

After turning onto a 35-mile per hour road, I noticed the person in the scary, monstrous pickup was still riding my bumper. I figured he needed to be called on his impolite behavior. So when he pulled into the left turn lane next to me at the traffic light, I mouthed through my car window, "JERK!" and gave him the most menacing "teacher look" I could muster.

He, in a fit of rage, hurled off a string of expletives through his open window which I, of course, couldn't hear because I refused to roll down my window. Then he started throwing little pebbles and dirt from the floor of his truck at my car.

I, once again being the astute driver that I am, gestured toward the left turn lane light in order to inform him that the light had long ago turned green, and he was the only one left in that lane. He threw another pebble at my window and peeled out, showing complete ingratitude toward my attempt to make him into a more courteous and considerate driver.

When I told my husband about my victorious battle in my war against road ragers, he was slightly concerned that if I declared war on too many road ragers, I might end up being chased or rear-ended. He also said, "How does calling him a 'jerk' make you any less of a road rager than him? What if one of your students saw you act that way to a fellow human being? Is that the kind of example you want to set for them?"

Uh oh. Then, an all-too familiar wave of guilt that often accompanies my impulsivity swept over me. My husband was right . . . again.

My war on road ragers was short-lived. But I started thinking that perhaps the way we drive reflects the attitudes and behaviors prevalent in our world. And wouldn't that be a sad commentary on our society?

The Legendary Globe of Death

Last weekend, my husband and I went on our annual venture to the state fair. Dan and I are not overly eager fair aficionados. One of our first dates took place at the Idaho State Fair. We listened to an a cappella boy band croon cover songs, shared our first Pronto Pup strawberry lemonade, and watched the amusing antics at the late night hypnotist show.

It was also on that outing that Dan introduced me to the heavenly gooeyness of the Ice Cream Potato – not a true potato in the root vegetable sense of the word, but ice cream shaped as a potato, doused in cocoa, whipped cream, and chocolate syrup. With the invention of the Ice Cream Potato, Idaho has truly lived up to its reputation as the cultivator of famous potatoes.

So it’s out of a sappy sentimentality rather than a love for genuine western tradition that Dan and I visit the fair every year.

This year, Dan persuaded me to watch the circus act that the fair advertises as a thrilling daredevil spectacle. I’m not much of an advocate of thrilling daredevil spectacles. But I’m not much of a fair ride enthusiast either, and my choices were either watch a thrilling daredevil spectacle or get stuck with my husband in a metal cage that spun on its side, ascended to a vertical 50 feet above the ground before turning its passengers upside down and plummeting into oblivion.

This thrilling daredevil spectacle was no Cirque du Soleil. According to my keen observations that evening, a fair circus act consists of a human size hamster wheel that swings like a pendulum between two rickety metal posts and a steel sphere that the performers proudly call “The Legendary Globe of Death.”

A male and female, clad in shimmering spandex jumpsuits, who gravitate toward feats of psychosis rather than the daring bravery the fair brochure advertises, spent thirty nail biting minutes performing acts of insanity inside this hamster wheel and Globe of Death.

At one point, the male performer covered his head with an executioner’s hood and balanced himself on top of the wheel while it was suspended above the ground. As the crowd cheered in amazement, I looked on in horror, covering my mouth to prevent myself from shouting a not-so-amazed exclamation at the man.

“They don’t even use safety nets!” Dan said, sounding much too enthusiastic about this realization.

Indeed they did not. A fair circus act does not need safety nets. Instead the performers stand below the apparatus so that they may catch one another if mishap ensues.

Before the performers entered The Legendary Globe of Death, they told the audience that insurance companies refuse to cover them so if we would kindly have our photos taken in the steel globe after the performance, all proceeds would cover their emergency medical costs.

Then they entered the legendary globe on motorcycles.

I watched the motorcycles zoom around, upside down, vertically, horizontally, diagonally . . . through my fingers.

"You can't see what they're doing if you cover your eyes." My husband has a knack for pointing out the obvious.

Once the dolorous spectacle ended, the crowd ruptured into applause, and I allowed my face muscles to finally relax after a half-hour of being frozen in fright.

"So, you want to get your picture taken in the Globe of Death?" Dan said.

I responded with a dirty look.

"It's fun to watch these sorts of things with you. It's kind of cute."

Another dirty look, "I'm glad I could be so entertaining."

Then we finished off our evening with an Ice Cream Potato. And the nightmarish visions of The Legendary Globe of Death faded into obscurity.

Adventures in Rollerblading

I am not what you would call a risk-taker. I reprimand my husband and my father for not wearing safety goggles when working with power tools. I refuse to set foot outdoors without slathering on sunscreen. Once upon a time, a friend convinced me to go downhill skiing. "This is a ski lift. This is how we get up the mountain," my friend said, pointing to a cluster of rickety chairs swinging like windchimes in the breeze approximately twenty feet above my head. Needless to say, that experience marked the end of whatever desire I might have possessed to conform to the Idaho skier lifestyle.

I have arrived at the conclusion that risk-takers (ie. base jumpers, hang gliders, parasailers, and people who cut the "Under the Penalty of Law" tags off of their pillows) have special genes that make them more willing than someone such as myself to endanger their lives. Those genes are called "crazy genes." And since my DNA only consists of "sane genes," it came as a tremendous surprise to all who were acquainted with my overly cautious genetic structure when I took up rollerblading.

I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I am in no way an expert rollerblader. I have yet to master the art of stopping. Even slowing down has proven to be a challenging feat.

During the summer, my husband and I frequent the city greenbelt on our rollerblades. Whenever I roll down the hills that always seem to accompany the bridges along the trail, I make an audible sound to announce my presence to other greenbelt users . This is one of the guidelines listed on the "Greenbelt Safety" signs along the trail. Typically my audible sound goes something like, "Watch out!" or "I can't stop! Get out of the way!"

One day, when I was announcing my presence with an especially urgent audible sound, the fifth grade teacher at my school rode by on his bicycle. At school the next week, he described his encounter with me in this way, "I don't know if I'd call it rollerblading. It's more like she rolls by, screaming at the top of her lungs." Ever since then, I have been known as the psycho rollerblading music teacher.

About three years ago, I rolled down a hill by the Visitor's Center in Twin Falls. The hill was steeper than I had anticipated, and it veered off into two different and equally narrow directions. One path followed the length of the parking lot while the other adorned the side of the Snake River Canyon. The canyon path was blocked by tourists who seemed deaf to the audible announcements of my presence.

Rather than risk being hit by a car in the parking lot or roll like a bowling ball into the happy, deaf tourists, I belly-flopped into a large gravel pit that separated the paths from one another. By that time, the tourists had finally noticed me and provided me with a generous supply of napkins from the glove compartments of their cars. I attempted to stop the blood from gushing out of my elbows and knees while my husband frantically zigzagged our car into the parking lot.

I didn't let that experience stop me, however. I dusted myself off and got right back on my rollerblades the next week. During the summer, I'm still blading on the greenbelt, making my presence known with audible sounds. And if you ever happen to be taking a leisurely stroll on the greenbelt, and you hear one of my audible sounds, my advice to you would be, "Get out of the way!"

Bigger is Better?

In the world of technological toys, size does matter. At least, that's what I've learned from my husband.

Because of the romantic oblivion we all experience before marriage - that blissful oblivion which prevents us from noticing when our future spouses chew with their mouths open or belch without saying "excuse me" - I didn't pay much attention to my future husband's preoccupation with size. Even after two and a half years of marriage, I still think his affinity for "super-sizing" our electronics collection is kind of cute. "Honeymoon phase" is a term that often comes up when my older, wiser, matrimonially experienced friends describe my marriage.

There were warning signs. Aren't there always warning signs?

Dan took me computer shopping on one of our early dates. I had finally saved up enough money from my meager teacher's salary to purchase my first computer. Dan, a software engineer with an eye for bargains and rebates, seemed like the obvious choice to help propel me into the world of technology. He knew about gigabytes and processing speeds, and I knew whether or not the computer would look cute in my one-bedroom apartment.

"Are you sure you want a 15-inch monitor?" he asked me, steering me toward a 21-inch flat screen.

I looked at the stark, gargantuan 21-inch monitor.

"I don't think that would even fit on my computer desk. Besides, I like the rounded corners and silver and gray frame on the 15-inch."

After we got married, my electronic equipment was gradually and magically replaced by larger, technologically superior equipment. First, there was my portable CD player. It became a stereo with a five-disc changer that could play MP3s.

Then, my dainty white desk with stenciled blue and yellow flowers was relegated to the guest room while Dan's 5-foot wide oak desk took over the ranks in our office.

The 13-inch television, that had been permanently tuned into Nick-at-Nite during my dateless pre-Dan evenings, became the master bedroom T.V. A 25-inch now serves as the source of entertainment in the living room. Of course, I'm waiting to see how long that will last. Lately, Dan's been talking about surround sound 37-inch digital somethings.

My deskjet color printer metamorphosed into an all-in-one printer-scanner-copier. And our computer speakers now look as if they could be subwoofers.

The other day, I came home from the grocery to find my husband unloading his car.

"I got some goodies on home-loan today!" he said, grinning impishly, holding a new . . . bigger laser printer. "There's more. Look in the office."

I made my way toward the office with a wifely skepticism.

"What are we supposed to do with that?" I exclaimed. A 21-inch monitor with its sharp edges and silver frame stared vacantly at me. "That thing will take up the whole desk. Our office will be one huge computer monitor!"

I'm growing accustomed to my new monitor even though our DSL modem is now propped up on its side since desk space is a rare commodity these days. Of course, there has been some mention of 24-inch widescreens.

Oh well. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Isn't that what marriage is all about - accepting the whole, for lack of a better word, package?

Insecurities and Stomach Cellulite

I thought I was a fairly secure, progressively-minded, liberated woman. As a child, I woke up every morning to a "Girls Can Do Anything!" plaque hanging on the wall beside my bed. My favorite record was Free to Be, You and Me which taught me that girls could be astronauts or firefighters and that husbands should help their wives with the housework. I scoffed at the Ally McBeal women, who constantly allowed themselves to be disappointed by the male population and who strutted around the courtroom in mini skirts - "Look at me. I'm a career woman!" Most of the women who appeared as regulars on the show weighed less than ninety pounds and looked like emaciated string beans. By the time I was in college, this vessel of insecurity was the image of the liberated woman.

But I thought I was beyond all of that. I was certain that the subliminal "anorexia is cool" messages emanating from Hollywood had somehow escaped me . . . Until I became involved in theater.

Picture doing the mambo next to flat-chested sixteen-year-olds in West Side Story, or having measurements yelled across the rehearsal hall, "She's a 36 - 29 - 38," or hearing the women's dressing room conversations, "I was a size four last year, but thank goodness I'm a size two now," while you're trying to squeeze into a vintage size - ahem - we won't even go there since vintage sizes are obsolete.

About a month ago, I started to prepare for a role in Anything Goes by using Crest Whitening Strips, running eighteen miles a week, and rubbing firming lotion on my stomach. Yes, it's supposed to be for the cellulite on the backs of your legs, but I have stomach cellulite. No matter how many sit-ups I do, I can't get rid of these crazy looking wrinkles on my stomach. In fact, I wasn't even that worried about leg cellulite because, in this moment of high self-esteem, I will confess that my legs look pretty fabulous.

Within the first week of using the lotion, I ended up with red, itchy bumps all over my stomach. I decided that firm tummy skin wasn't worth that much cortisone ointment.

A few days ago, I told a fellow cast member that I loved her tight six-pack. She later confided in me that she hates her stomach, that it looks like her mother's stomach. I thought, "Society has really trained women to be so insecure." Then she said to me, "Why can't I just be happy that I have a body, that I'm healthy and alive?"

"Why can't I?" I thought. "I have food, shelter, and a healthy body. Not everyone in this world can make those same claims." And then I realized the idiocy of the quest to rid myself of stomach cellulite.