Tradition!

Yesterday we put up our Christmas tree.

'Tis tradition. The tree goes up on Thanksgiving and comes down the day after Jesus' birthday. It makes my happy hobbit hole smell like a Pine Sol Yankee Candle, with its glowing pearl lights, shiny red and turquoise bead garlands, and a hodgepodge of ornaments ranging from jingling bells to dangling balls to wild African animals.

But, there is a an expanse under my tree - a place where the presents should be. And, as a professional present-planner/list-maker/hunter-gatherer, one would think that all my shopping would be signed, sealed, delivered and yours.

But let me tell you somethin', Skippy Menendez. If you think that you have a tricky time with your Christmas shopping, try purchasing presents as a socially conscious minimalist with an iddy biddy budget.

The gift has gotta have purpose and meaning. It's gotta be something that they will like or that they will use. I can't get them another sit-around that they are just going to Goodwill after reading my blog. Or a do-hickey made in less-than-ideal labor conditions that will haunt my conscience every time I watch What Would Jesus Buy? Or something swanky that is beyond my non-profit budget.

So, let me help you help me. Here are my top 5 picks for Christmas gifts for this and all subsequent holiday seasons.

1. A Book: Some Smarty McFly said that the two things that will determine who you are by this time next year are the people that you hang out with and the books that you read. So, stop pondering giving the people that you hang out with that life-changing book that you just read. Give it to them. They just might read it, and it just might change their lives, too.
2. An Indulgence: Everyone has something that they love to do or buy or go to in order to treat themselves. The problem is, they feel a tad bit guilty about spending the extra dosh on it, especially during what some people are calling a recession, but what I like to call "learning to actually live within your means." So, find out what they love and take away the guilt by spending your moolah on it instead.
3. A Charity: As residents of the wealthiest nation on the planet, is there anything that we truly "need?" Methinksnot. So, find an awesome charity that empowers those living in poverty and honor your friends and family by giving a monetary donation in their name.
4. A Sweet: Fudge, truffles, toffee. Easy, yummy, cheap. Get thee to it, Julia Child.
5. A Gift Card: It seems like a cop-out, but here's the dealio-yo. The real steals are to be had AFTER Christmas has passed. So, instead of buying them that black petite merino wool crewneck sweater size XS from Banana Republic right now, wait until after the hollerdays are over, and they can get three for the price you would have paid for the one. And we all know how some people feel about getting deals on sweaters.
   

I hope this helps. And I hope you are not into surprises, because now all y'all know what you are getting from us for Christmas.

The Crying Indian

I have this friend.

He is a slob.

If you think this friend is you, you are right. It is. But he is also eight other friends of yours.

I looked up the definition of "slob." The primary definition came as no surprise: "a lazy or untidy person." But what caught my attention was the thesaurus' take on a slob. A synonym for slob?: "A litterbug."

Interesting.

So I looked up "litter." Litter is defined as "a disorderly accumulation of objects; a pile; carelessly discarded refuse."

Where does the modern-day slob litter? Why, in the comfort and convenience of his own home, of course. His home is a disorderly pile of carelessly discarded refuse.

How and why does this happen? Because the slob doesn't have the maturity to put things away.

I realized at an early age that life can be entirely defined by putting things away. Putting food in your mouth, putting knowledge in your brain, putting dirt in the vacuum cleaner, putting words and thoughts on paper or within hearing, and putting loving kisses on the cheeks of family and friends.

The cure for the slob's pile is simple. After you are done using something, PUT IT AWAY. I'm not saying to HIDE it away. Do not throw it in the junk drawer, hide it in the spare room, or shove it in your shoving place. Put it away where it belongs. Put it in the dishwasher, put it in the recycling bin, put it in the Goodwill box.

If you are "too busy" to do so, that only points out another layer of immaturity within you. It's called the inability to say the word "No." "No" to playtime, "No" to naptime, and "No" to the three other jobs that no one forced you to take on in the first place. Stop behaving like a child who doesn't want to clean up his toys and put it away.

The Crying Indians in your life will thank you.

Going postal

Christmas time is here,
Happiness and cheer,
Fun for all that children call
their favorite time of year.

How do I know?

Is it the snowflakes in the air? The carols everywhere? The olden times and ancient rhymes, and love and dreams to share?

Nope.

Well then, is it the Trans Siberian Orchestra's version of Carol of the Bells that makes Target feel less like peace on Earth and goodwill toward men, and more like the panic associated with impending nuclear holocaust? Or maybe the presence of TMX Elmo Extreme-to-the-Max-Times-Infinity with extra batteries included? Or is it the creepy Christmas decorations that have already invaded the neighbors front lawn?

Uh-uh.

It's catalogs. It's lots and lots of catalogs.

Now don't get me wrong. Christmas is good times. LOVE giving. Big fan of Christ. But, when I open my snail mail box, I ain't finding the good Lord inside. It's more like a colorful cornucopia of card stock in there. I'm talkin' Crate and Barrel, Pottery Barn, LL Bean, IKEA, Delias, Urban Outfitters, Fossil, Godiva, Sephora, Sundance, and Archie McFee.

Now, I know what you are thinking. Who the poo is Archie McFee? Wouldn't you like to know...

It's not till the season of shopping and returning that you realize how many catalogs you are "subscribed" to. I say "subscribed" because I know I never asked for these catalogs. Your catalog "subscription" is launched whenever you place an order.

And what are the majority of them good for, besides kindling?

Hello: lavatory literature.

Now let's be honest. Some of them you just like to have lingering in the loo. Not because you are going to order anything from them, but because you want the other people who use your potty to know that you are the type of person who would order something from that catalog.

It's an identity thing.

And it's a waste of paper. So when the mailman cometh, as you make the trip from your mailbox to your front door, open up your cell phone, call their customer service representative and have them take you off of their mailing list. Better yet, have them put you on their "suppression" list if you can. That way, when you place another order with that company, they won't just automatically throw you on their mailing list again.

They'll at least think about it for a minute before they throw you on their mailing list again.

Or, if you would like to be removed from a bunch-o-lists at once, check out the DMAchoice website. It's too legit to quit and will cut your mail significantly.

And if you are wondering what to get me for Christmas, here's a hint.

What gives?

I have this friend. Let's call her Petunia.

Every Christmas Eve, Petunia's family holds a party. Uncles and aunts and cousins all gather together under one roof for one night only in order to ingest carbs en masse, down a few drinkypoos, and exchange gifts. Sounds like a regular barrel o' monkeys, eh?

More like a barrel of Big Mouth Billy Bass.

Gift giving is not exactly her family's forte. The words kitschy, cheesy, tacky, and Cracker Barrel all come to mind in regards to the bounty of wrapped rubbish that exchanges hands that evening. In short, every Christmas Eve my friend further refines her acting abilities as she has to smile smile smile through whatever pile of imitation Hickory Farms beef and cheese baskets, Monkey Farts scented candle/body wash gift sets, or gifts in a jar were being sold at the Christmas Tree Shoppe that season. And when she gets home, she has a cardboard box awaiting her that she fills to the brim with Christmas carnage fated for Goodwill.

But, it wasn't always this way.

Now, Petunia's family has always been terrible at gift giving, God love 'em. But, for years she would actually hang onto this junk. Out of some sense of obligation to the gift givers, she would use the stuff, decorate her room with it, and even wear it (FYI: Avon should stick to cosmetics).

Until one day a friend set her free.

Petunia watched in shock and awe as her friend opened a gift she had received earlier that day, and promptly threw it in the trash. When Petunia had managed to remove her mandible from the floor, she inquired as to how her friend could justify such behavior. The friend explained that she appreciated both the gift and the giver, and that the disposal of the gift didn't detract from those feelings. But, just because the person had given her something, she was under no obligation to keep it.

Brilliant.

So, as the season of giving approaches, be released.

Receive the gift.

Appreciate the gift and the giver.

And then chunk that plastic bag doll in the Goodwill box where it belongs.

Clean plate club

For the next 6 months or so, I will be plant sitting for some friends.

How does one plant sit, you may ask?

Simple. Just add water.

Now, these friends are not "old" per say, but they are definitely "older." They are comfortably retired and migrate south every winter, honking all the way there like a flock of Canada geese. I'm serious - the gentleman of this dynamic duo has a long and frightening history of road rage. But, not to worry. He carries one of his many guns with him in the console of the mini van.

Anywho, back to our regularly scheduled program. When I arrived at their northern home to receive my watering instructions (pour water on dirt, not on carpet), I was greeted with the myriad of food that they had cleaned out of their breadboxes/cupboards/pantries/refrigerators/freezers/barns and that they insisted I take home with me. I'm talkin' teas, condiments, salad dressings, cereals, Sam's Club sized bags of dried fruit, and frozen breads which were all meticulously labeled and wrapped in neat aluminum packages. I could go on.

I graciously, gratefully, and confusedly hauled the bounty away with the help of numerous shopping bags and two coolers. The source of my confusion was not just the reasoning behind the random assortment of foiled frozen loaves which I promptly kicked to the curb as soon as I arrived home. I was, and still am, puzzled by this phenomenon that I find to be prevalent among "older" people.

I would qualify it as food hoarding.

You see, Greg and I have this thing called a "grocery budget." This means that each week, I participate in the ancient female tradition of hunting and gathering. I hunt the websites of the supermarkets I deem both worthy of my patronage and accessible to my income, create a menu based on what types of dead animals are on sale, make a shopping list of outstanding ingredients, and gather the items from whichever store had the best deals on chicken carcasses.

By the end of the week, this Old Mother Hubbard's cupboards are bare and a distinct echo-echo-echo may be heard resonating in my fridge. Suffice to say, don't come lookin' for free vittles at the Varney pad come Saturday or Sunday, cause it's slim pickens. Each week we literally eat ourselves out of house and home.

I have yet to solve the mystery. Why do "older" people with no one to feed but themselves have an odd tendency toward stockpiling sustenance? Is this a poverty mentality leftover from the Great Depression? A fear of blizzards? Of nuclear holocaust? Of frogs and locusts? What is the dealio-yo?

I don't get it. So, as for me and my house, you will never see our cupboard jammed to the gills.

Well, except for right now. Three pounds of Craisins anyone?

Don't contain yourself

I've seen it happen time and time again.

'Tis tragic, but true.

Unsuspecting consumers who buy into the misconception that the following equation is the answer to all of their clutter concerns.

Stuff + Containment = Organization

Sigh. 'Tis too true.

But I'm here to bring you the gospel truth.

You can invest in every Rubbermaid, Sterilite, and Container Store contraption created, but that won't make you organized. That just means that you now have a wider assortment of ugly boxes to put your crap in.

OH NO I DIDN'T!

Oh yes, I did.

Allow me to slap forward some previously backwards thinking. You don't need more containers to put your stuff in so that you can make room for more stuff that you'll need to buy a container for.

What you really need is a yard sale or a Goodwill run.

Not to buy stuff, y'all. To let stuff go.

So, the next time you find yourself eying a Tupperware "Forget Me Not" onion keeper or a Caboodles makeup storage box, go ahead and chuck the onion and the Bonne Bell Blushing Gel. You can thank me later.

Semiannual clearance event

I am a minimalist through and through. Inside and out. Top to bottom.

How do I know? Because even the inside of my tiny munchkin body refuses to store excess junk.

Now, I pinky promise not to get verbally icky, so read on.

Every spring and fall my body invites me to participate in a joyous seasonal cleaning known as a "liver/gallbladder cleanse."

See? That's as icky as icky the verbiage it will get. Keep reading.

How does my body encourage me to partake in such an unpleasant undertaking?

With threats.

It starts out as an increased appetite for junk food. I'm talkin' daily trips to Mast General for gummi raspberries or Sugar Mama's for a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. These cravings are followed by early morning wake-up calls in which my eyes mysteriously open for no apparent reason at 4 AM. The resulting lethargy equals a decreased desire to exercise, the volume on my seasonal allergies being turned up to eleven, and a stitch on my right side occurring about an hour after I eat.

Left alone, the stitch turns into constant ache best described as the constant gnawing of a rodent of unusual size. The only relief to be found for the pain is to stop eating.

Or, to start cleansing.

Now, let me clarify. A cleanse is not for the faint of heart, not for fun, and not to be done to win a bet.

It is done as an act of desperation.

What do I dislike more than cleansing? Let's see...um...nothing.

The list of things I would rather do than a cleanse are countless, including having my wisdom teeth put back in, calling 100 people I don't know to ask them for money, and seeing Carmen live in concert.

Among other things, the cleanse involves drinking a glass of Epsom Salt water twice before bedtime and twice upon waking. The taste, which can best be compared to downing a rust smoothie, is so overwhelmingly disgusting that my teeth literally chatter after I drink it. In between iron oxide cocktails II and III comes the chugging of a cup of olive oil and lemon juice. This citrus marinade will wake you up at 1 AM wishing that the chariot would sweetly swing low and come-ah for to carry you home.

The process of cleansing?: Painful, stressful, and messy. The results of cleansing? Relief, peace, and health.

Isn't this the picture of how so many of us are about getting organized? We are not willing to endure 24-hours of cleansing to reap months or years of organizational health.

So, stop procrastinating! Pick a date, chug the rust and the marinade like a champ, and let the cleansing begin! Do it now, before the gummi raspberries begin their wily wooing.

Q is for Quarantine

"Q is for Quarantine. Isn't that a big word? Do you know what this word means? It means- COME IN KIDS - FREE ICE CREAM" -Shel Silverstein, Uncle Shelby's ABZ Book

I am flattered that all of you have been calling the police and the hospitals and Carmen Sandiego out of concern for my sudden blog-less-ness this past week, but for the love of Barney Fife, give the horn a rest!

My apologies for not leaving an away message of some sort. Please forgive me. Being ill throws a monkey wrench in the cogs of me brain more than anything else. Allow me explain.

You see, it all started with the Elk of Cataloochee,

then I got the fever,

and then the fever went away,

so we paid a visit to our good buddy Billy Hall,

and spent some quality time with the in-laws,

and then this seagull came, and it was this is this, and that is that,

and then I was inspired to write the blog that follows.