And Furthermore, You Can Forget About That Pony For Your Birthday.

Every Friday I have the much-appreciated luxury of having a babysitter for a few hours during the day. This is a lifesaver for me when I've got a job in progress as it allows me to work or run to meetings without having to worry about getting home by a certain time to pick up the girls at school. When I'm not working, which seems to be more the case lately, it allows me to take care of important tasks like having three-hour lunches with friends or trolling the neighborhood for donut shops.

On Friday Kira stayed home from school so I was here most of the day, but I asked the babysitter to pick up Kiyomi since I realized that I hadn't had time to change all day and I know how upset the kids get when I show up on campus in my pajamas. The school is only a five minute drive from here, so when she hadn't returned in almost twenty minutes I called her on her cell phone. I could immediately sense an edge in her voice, and she told me that she couldn't find Kiyomi anywhere, that she had looked all over campus and checked with a couple of her friends and that her classroom was locked.

To say that I'm prone to panic is an understatement and I was already getting images in my head of my little girl sitting in a strangers pickup truck headed for Texas and her new family. I knew in my heart, though, that more likely she was somewhere on campus and as I grabbed my keys and rushed Kira into the car the one thing that kept going through my head was, "If only I could get in touch with her and find out where she is." I reached the school just in time to see the babysitter's car leaving the parking lot and Kiyomi waving me at me from the back window - turns out she had gotten engrossed in a game of tag and hadn't realized she had run clear to the other end of the playground out of the babysitter's sight. She got a stern lecture from me about staying where she was supposed to be and about how, with all her running around and reckless behavior, why - she was turning out to be just like her father.

It got me thinking, though, of how I've often been faced with the dilemma of not being able to reach the kids, whether I'm running late to pick them up or I'm just wanting to check in with them when they're away on a field trip or a playdate. Which leads me to a decision that Rigel and I made this weekend, of which I'm happy to say is bringing me peace of mind but which will no doubt cause many parents to cast scorn upon us.

We got the kids their own cell phones.

I say this with embarrassment because it's one of those things I swore I wouldn't do until they were at least in middle school when I figured they could demonstrate some degree of responsibility, not like now when books, video games and lunchboxes are lost on a daily basis. I put it in the same category as those lofty notions I had many years ago, things like WHEN I HAVE KIDS THEY WILL NEVER WATCH TV or NOT ONE SPECK, YOU HEARD ME NOT ONE SPECK OF PROCESSED SUGAR WILL PASS THEIR LIPS. Now, nine-thousand-hours of SpongeBob and fifty-pounds of PopTarts later, I can say that Never Say Never is my credo, and a righteous mind is no match for a fast-talking Verizon salesman. At least I can say that I've been able to stick with my NO PIERCINGS rule and look - they're nearly out of elementary school.

In my defense I have to say that they were free, a nice little reward from Verizon for having upgraded our phones after being on our same plan for over two years. And we've programmed the phones to only call out to numbers that we've entered, like our home, Rigel's office and the local liquor store delivery hotline. We've blocked text messaging and allowed them to only download one ringtone each, neither of which can be anything offensive like Buckcherry's Crazy Bitch or anything by Clay Aiken.

But we've already endured our share of grief for our decision. We were at my brother's yesterday for a big family gathering and my siblings were incredulous, telling us how their kids (most of them in college now) hadn't gotten their own cell phones until they were in high school. We explained our reasons, though, and told them how we hadn't gone completely soft, how we were going to hold our ground and not buy the girls their own cars until they're at least twelve and that if they want their own condos, well they'll just have to wait until their sixteenth birthdays.

It is bringing me some measure of comfort knowing that I can contact them if I have to, or that they can reach me if they're in trouble or have an emergency. Kiyomi is going to a sleepover next week, and she says she's happy to know she can call us in the middle of the night and wake Rigel up, just like if she was at home. But most of all, I'm relieved to know that having crossed the line by buying them cell phones and given up the last shred of restraint that we've had, letting them get those belly rings will be just that much easier now.

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tags: cell phones | pushovers

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Mother Of The Year.

They recently created a small parking lot in back of the girls' school. It was intended for faculty use, but since many of the teachers park in the front lot it sits virtually empty most of the time and it's become a popular spot for parents, including myself, to park and drop off our kids. The administration doesn't really discourage it, since it alleviates much of the traffic in front of the school that had become a problem lately. The thing I like best about it is it saves me from ever having to parallel park in front of the school, a pathetic, hour-long spectacle that has more than once sent students and teachers running for cover.

The parking lot has it's own hazards, created mainly by those idiot parents who don't want to take the extra sixty seconds it takes to park their cars and walk their kids through the gate and onto the playground. Instead, they pull over wherever convenient, and with motor running let their kids get out of the car, not only creating a traffic jam behind them but more seriously, putting their kids in danger as they dart between cars to get to the school gate.

I saw one of those idiots, driving a large SUV, yesterday morning and after cursing it under my breath I parked and started to get my girls out of the car. It was then that I heard the piercing sound of a child's scream and a man frantically yelling at the driver to "Go forward!." I looked up to see the SUV lurch a few feet and a woman jumping out of the driver's seat and running towards the back of the car. We ran towards them and saw one of Kira's friends crouching down and discovered that her mother, in her hurry to drop her kid off and leave, had just run over her foot. The girl was sobbing and we asked if we could help in any way, but the woman waved us away saying, "Oh, she's fine" obviously not wanting any more attention than she had already gotten, especially from someone who she doesn't particularly like. Because when your child is injured, YES, THAT'S THE BEST TIME TO HOLD A GRUDGE.

After I had walked my girls to their lines I was shocked to see the girl, slightly limping, walking onto the playground and her mom's car pulling out of the parking lot. I asked her if she was okay, and she replied, "Um, yes. But my foot feels like it's asleep." I asked her if she wanted to go to the nurse but she refused, so I told Kira, who had run up to meet her, to please tell the teacher what had just happened.

So, what kind of mother runs over her child's foot with her SUV, doesn't have the common sense to take that child to the doctor or, at the very least, park her car and walk her child to the school nurse? And then sends her into school without looking back?

Did you guess? That's right. This kind.

And I thought I had run out of things to say about this woman.

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tags: idiot

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Living Mildly, Eating Fearlessly.

I had brunch yesterday with two of my best friends, friends that I have known practically my entire life. I met J. literally on the very first day of kindergarten when the teacher asked her to help me at the coat closet and something about the way she slung my tiny plaid jacket onto that brass wall hook impressed me and made us friends for life. Two years later in the second grade I met G. while admiring her red patent leather purse with the big gold rings affixed to it, and her, J. and I became a trio, a force to be reckoned with on our inner-city-school playground. I liked to think of us as a miniature version of Charlie's Angels without the good hair, hot clothes or crime-fighting skills.

We eventually went to different schools, got married, had kids and moved to different cities. J. and G. now live within minutes of each other and around an hour's drive away from me, but we all still manage to get together without fail three times a year to celebrate each of our birthdays. The routine is always the same - we meet on a Sunday at the birthday person's house sans husband and kids and treat the honoree to brunch. Over the years, when our kids were small we've had to bend those rules a few times and bring one or both of our kids along (necessitated by breast feeding schedules or babysitting issues) but for the most part we've been able to make it a girls-only bonding affair. I imagine we'll be doing this into our old age, eventually all rolling our wheelchairs into a van, trading coupons for Depends and Metamucil and complaining when one of the other's oxygen tank hums too loudly.

The restaurants vary from year to year, but the one prerequisite is that the brunch must be of the All-You-Can-Eat-Buffet variety, the kind where upon entering you are greeted with a vista promising absolute gluttony and excess. To see table upon table heaped with platters of crab legs and cocktail shrimp and huge chafing dishes piled with pounds of sausage is what gets our mouths watering and makes our reunion complete. We've actually got up and left restaurants when upon being seated we were handed a menu and informed that their Sunday brunch consisted of their standard breakfast selection served with a glass of champagne. No going back for seconds of eggs benedict or standing in front of a 'chef' while he carves up a slab of prime rib? We're outta here.

Another thing we look for in choosing a brunch is the co-mingling of ethnic cuisines. We've tried the brunches at Mexican restaurants where you can feast on unlimited servings of chicken enchiladas and finish off with a glass of horchata and even a brunch at a Japanese restaurant where they had fry-while-you-wait tempura stations alongside enormous vats of of miso soup. But the hallmark of a truly great brunch is one where your slice of lasagna happily shares a plate with your Chinese dumplings and on your second go-around that same plate is home to caprese salad, a spicy-tuna handroll and a mound of wasabi.

Please don't lecture me about the dubious reputation of the all-you-can-eat buffet. I've read Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential where he cautions against ever eating at such brunches, especially at hotels, where it's common knowledge that they gather up all the leftover food from the week, lay it out attractively on an expensive platter and foist it upon a hungry, unsuspecting public. Ever wonder what they do with the leftover rolls they pick up from your dinner table? Look no further than the gargantuan banquet table at that restaurant's Sunday brunch, where piles of 'fresh' bread beckon to you from baskets the size of trash cans and that piece of leftover chicken from your kid's plate has now been cut up and incorporated into a lovely antipasto salad platter.

In fact, I like to freak myself out by imagining the scene preceding the brunch at a hotel restaurant we frequent. In a dark, basement corner of the kitchen, scores of hefty hotel workers in hair nets flank a long conveyer belt onto which platters of cast off room service trays are being dumped. The workers use their stubby fingers to pick out and discard cigarette butts smashed into scrambled eggs and condom wrappers stuffed between slices of french toast. What remains are sent down to a crew of chefs whose sole job is to immediately come up with appealing brunch dishes incorporating all the scraps being hurled at them via the conveyer belt. Six mounds of old hashed browns and a scattering of half eaten bacon? Pork au gratin! Three uneaten sides of steamed vegetables and some leftover shrimp cocktail? Seafood salad, bon appetit!

Is this visual I've created enough to make me turn my back on our beloved Sunday buffet? Are health reports that caution how vodka destroys brain cells enough to stop you from inhaling that fourth martini? I didn't think so.

I admit to being a bit picky when eating at restaurants. Here in L.A. all retail food establishments are given a grade by the health department indicating their cleanliness and food handling practices, with 'A' being sparkling and anything below a 'C' being the type of place where you'll find the cook using the poultry scissors to trim his toenails. I always try to eat at restaurants with an 'A' grade, although I've eaten at the occasional 'B' restaurant when desperate and only once at a' C' joint. This happened when the girls were small and Rigel and I found ourselves wandering the streets of Santa Monica late one night. We were starving and had gotten to the point where we had to choose between risking our health at the questionable offering in front of us or eating the children and lying to the police that they were attacked by wild dogs.

But I seem to be fearless in the face of all the health hazards the glorious all-you-can-eat buffet presents. At the sushi table, I barely bat an eye at the huge plates of raw fish sitting out for who-knows-how-long as I scoop up five pieces and place them on my plate, right next to the hunk of salmon whose age is unknown. Moving on to the cheese table, I hardly notice the absence of a sneeze shield and treat myself to a generous slice of brie and a handful of crackers from the obviously picked through basket. And look - it's a hearty pasta salad! I try not to think of the tomatoes that are probably leftover from the vegetable plate tossed out last night by room 1104.

We're already thinking of where to take J. for her birthday brunch which is coming up at the end of February. Both her and G. live in a city filled with first class restaurants, but the trick will be in finding the place that has a twelve-ingredient omelet station and a table in the back devoted entirely to potatoes. We'll walk in, survey the scene and try and decide which chafing dish to attack first, choosing to ignore the sauces that have congealed because of a extinguished sterno. Then we'll return to the tables with our heaping plates, determine who managed to snag the most slices of bacon and sit down to talk about our lives.

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tags: friends | gluttony | all you can eat | food and lots of it

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Aging Like Fine Wine. Or Was It Old Cheese.

I had a birthday last week. It was pretty wonderful - a few girlfriends took me out to dinner the night before, and the night of my actual birthday me, Rigel the girls and two of our best friends went out for sushi. (Is that sentence grammatically correct? Because all the holes in my aged brain are impeding my language skills.) I got so many great gifts - beautiful handmade cards, a candle and soap from the girls, bouquets of flowers, a huge basket of cookies from my sister and this awesome gadget from Rigel, as well as birthday phone calls all day long from family and friends, not one of them mentioning how much slower my metabolism seemed or the extra flab on on my upper arms.

I don't really like getting older, so I'm not going to get all Lifetime Channel on you and enthuse about how each advancing year is getting me closer to the 'real me' or how I'm like a flower, a truly beautiful flower that's just about to bloom. Or how every new morning brings new insight or that old tired adage about age being just a number (said the 19-year-old.) And don't expect any lectures from me on how those young people in their twenties really don't know what they're missing or that load of crap about how I wouldn't trade my wisdom for my youth. Because show me the scientist that could give me back my porcelain skin and tight ass I will gladly FedEx him my frontal lobe wrapped in a pretty bow and packed in dry ice.

But I will tell you that getting older is a little easier with a husband like mine, one who let me sleep in on my birthday while he got the girls up, dressed and fed and took them to school and then, while I still slept and he was late for work, made me a big breakfast and left it for me in the warming drawer. Because this is a man who knows that the true path to my heart is not necessarily through romance and flowers but through a couple of over-easy eggs, a slice of wheat toast and two pieces of bacon.

And the best part? He had left little notes all around the house, everywhere from my favorite coffee mug to the inside of the refrigerator, that I was finding all day long. I told him how much I loved this and how I was so touched that after thirteen-and-a-half years of marriage he would think of something so sweet and romantic to do. He looked happy for a second but then got one of those looks on his face that guys get when you've used the word 'cute' to describe the engine in their new car, or when you make them carry your purse while you go to the bathroom and he said, "Let's not let this get around."

It was then that I realized that if I ever wanted a repeat performance of his sweet birthday gesture it would be wise to keep pretty tight-lipped about it. And if it ever got out to his friends, say through idle gossip or perhaps through someone's blog, I'd better not reveal the truth, that those notes were composed of birthday sentiments and heartfelt 'I Love You's', but instead I'll just tell everyone that they contained numerous requests for hot monkey sex.

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tags: birthdays | not getting older, getting bitter | manly macho behavior

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I'd Invite You Along On Our Next Trip, But I Need That Seat For My Shoe Bag.

Happy New Year!

We just returned from our Annual Winter Vacation. I know that sounds pretty lofty, like maybe you're picturing a family dressed in matching designer snow gear jetting off to their vacation home in Aspen where they'll spend toasty nights by the fire sipping cognac, their children lounging nearby playing backgammon. But for us? A hastily planned road trip in our van, a van whose windshield cracked an hour into our trip, heading up the 101 along the coast of California with stops in Pismo Beach and Big Sur. We bought Cheetos along the way, and I sipped this in front of the wall heater in our room at the Big Sur Lodge while the kids ate Cup O' Noodle and played Mario Kart on their Nintendos nearby. We're high class.

I'm a big fan of road trips. The main reason, and I'm being totally honest here, is because I don't have to think twice about how much crap I'm packing. The black sweater or the blue sweater? Bring them both - in fact, I'll just bring the whole drawer! Do I really need twelve t-shirts? Who cares? Eight pairs of shoes may seem excessive for a six day trip but not when you can just toss it all in the large cavernous backside of a van. And correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think there's an airline around that would let me step on board dragging a small ice chest, a pack of juice boxes, a bottle of wine and two Trader Joes shopping bags stuffed with snacks.

Another benefit to a driving destination is freedom from schedules. Having to be at a certain place at a specific time has never been one of our strong points, and for us trying to catch a plane makes the launch of the space shuttle seem like a trip to the market. Being forced to figure out how to actually get to the airport is bad enough, and then there's those unreasonable, unyielding flight schedules. Damn you, all you efficient, on-time people! We're always frantic, scrambling not to miss our boarding time and are always incredulous that the departure time on our ticket doesn't actually mean TAKE YOUR TIME - WHENEVER YOU GET HERE, WE'LL FLY THE PLANE.

Big Sur was spectacular, and I don't want to spoil these pictures with some inane narrative. For instance, I could really ruin the moment by telling you how our heater wasn't working when we got to the room, and even after it was fixed I couldn't sleep that night worrying that we would all be killed in our sleep by carbon monoxide poisoning and even imagined what the newspaper headline would be: 'Family Enters Eternal Sleep In Historic Big Sur.' Or how the front desk told us the restaurant closed at 9, when it really closed at 8 and then we had to drive five miles to a local bar where I had one of the worst meals of my life, a pasta dish that contained fist-sized chunks of raw onion and a bowl of clam chowder that was fluorescent yellow and had an odd sour taste to it, a dish that had 'Food Poisoning' written all over it. (Next time? We'll listen when Kira says, "I don't like this place. It seems unstable.") And stop me before I taint these beautiful images by telling you about the old guy who kept walking by our table, giving us the evil eye, and how he had probably never seen an Asian before in his life, and when he saw me sitting there next to my white husband and my two half-breed kids I just knew he was thinking that Rigel was a traitor and how any minute he would summon his white-hooded friends to take our nice family out back for a little lesson.

But like I said, enjoy these photos:
We ended our trip at one of the girls' favorite destinations, Rigel's sister's home in Northern California. She lives in a beautiful house, and since she's single and without children the place looks like something out of a Pottery Barn catalog, everything neatly arranged and in it's place. It's strange to be somewhere that isn't strewn with tank tops, pajama bottoms and plastic jewelry, where you can actually see the tabletops and where you don't have to wade through a sea of backpacks and sneakers to get from the living room to the kitchen. At one point we were looking for Kiyomi's necklace and when I reached under the couch cushions I was shocked to find that there wasn't a single raisin, Cheerio or gum wrapper stuck to my hand. I did find a year-old People magazine that I hadn't read, though, which I was excited about since I was getting tired of all the ones stuffed into our couch back home.

Our usual routine is to go to San Francisco and get a hotel in Union Square for a few days, but after our Japan trip this past summer and the excesses of the holidays we decided that our remaining funds should be spent on other necessities like groceries, the mortgage and beer for Rigel. So we just drove in for a visit and spent a day shopping and eating, and I knew the long drive had been worth it when we saw this sign in an alcove next to a restaurant:
I'm thinking of posting a couple of these in our bathrooms, just for fun.

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Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum.

In consideration of our sanity and that of our neighbors', we decided against getting Kiyomi a drum set and instead got her one of these, a digital drum machine:
She was pretty excited, and couldn't wait to get started. After the four hours it took to open the box and then search the house for six C batteries, she finally got down to business and started banging away. After her first solo she dramatically thrust her sticks in the air above her head, got up and took a deep bow. Then in an added bit of realism she pretended to be drunk, staggering around the room with her eyes half closed and bumping into furniture, JUST LIKE A REAL MUSICIAN.

We're so proud.

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HAPPY HOLIDAYS! I'm wishing all of you good things for the coming year - joy, health, happiness and the company of those you love.

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I Went To A Concert Where I Gave Birth To Someone On Stage.

Sounds messy, I know. Let me explain.

A few weeks ago I wrote about Kira and Kiyomi starting guitar lessons. They just finished their first eight week session, although on the last day Kiyomi decided to quit and walked in and announced to her teacher, "I am not a guitar player. I am a DRUMMER!" It remains to be seen whether or not Santa will be stuffing this down the chimney. I'm sure the money would be better spent on a math tutor, but who ever won American Idol by reciting their times tables?

Kira, however, took to it immediately. By the end of her second lesson she knew how to tune her guitar, had memorized her chords and could play a couple of songs all the way through. Rigel was amazed that he was actually learning a few chords from her, although I think it was a blow to his ego when she called him her roadie in front of her friends.

She had her first gig on Friday night, accompanying her teacher (and a seven-year-old singer) on Green Day's Boulevard Of Broken Dreams. I've seen the Stones from the tenth row, partied backstage with The Talking Heads and been offered a joint from Stanley Clarke, but I have to say none of my musical experiences so far compares to seeing someone you gave birth to playing her mini-Fender on a community center's stage.



(In true Stage Mother form, I have to add that most of the guitar you are hearing is Kira's, since she was hooked up to an amp, and her teacher wasn't. Okay, that's all. I'll be over here trying to get her to wear makeup and this sequined halter dress I made her.)

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This Is Where I Talk About My Refrigerator And Then Provide Links To Distract You.

It's been a plodding week over here. First Kira got sick, then I thought I was getting sick, then Rigel got sick, then I thought I was getting sick again then we woke up Friday morning to a huge puddle of water underneath our refrigerator. Never say I don't know how to have fun.

The repairman showed up to look at our refrigerator and told us it would cost $450 to fix. Seeing as we had just spent $400 on it a little over a year ago to fix a similar problem, we started discussing whether or not it was worth it to fix a twelve-year old appliance. This seemed to cause our repairman great distress, all this tossing around of big words like "money" and "fix" and "old" because he started sighing loudly, rolling his eyes and checking his cell phone. Finally he said, "While YOU TWO are TRYING to decide I'm going to go outside and smoke." Charming fellow!

Apparently he called his office to complain about us indecisive yuppie scum, because immediately the phone rang and when I answered it his supervisor launched into a whole sales pitch, trying to convince me that buying a new refrigerator would be a mistake, and we should fix our old one and he knew that if I went to the store I would (and I quote here) "buy a refrigerator with a TV in it, and in a few years that TV that you thought was so great would end up speaking French to you." I told him that his talents were obviously being wasted in appliance repair, that where he really belonged was as an ambassador to NATO.

But what really sealed the deal for me was this exchange that followed:

Me: Thank you, but we've really made up our mind not to fix it. We'll be buying a new –

Ambassador To Nato: Excuse me! Let me explain! I don't think you understand - your refrigerator is perfectly fine. The new ones are not made as well. You should let us fix your old one.

Me: Yes, I do understand but we've decided to –

Ambassador To Nato: Let me explain! Or, maybe you don't understand. Maybe I need to talk to your husband.

WWMD? (What Would Mom-101 Do?) Liz, I could have used a good feminist zinger to put this chauvinistic, appliance-fixing, French-TV-hating jerk in his place.

The upside of the whole ordeal is that I now have this beauty humming away in my kitchen.

Unfortunately, I had to cancel plans to have coffee with one of my favorite bloggers.

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Some more links to distract you from the fact that this entire post consisted almost entirely of my conversation with an expert on refrigerator repair:

If you haven't already read this, go read it now. KC of Where's My Cape writes beautifully about growing up with racism and ethnic stereotypes.

Check out MetroDad's mailbag, where he gives advice on a variety of topics, including hiring a nanny: "During the interview, have your wife dial her cell phone and check her ring tone. If it plays "My Humps" or the theme song to "Scarface," don't hire her. There's a good chance your potential hiree is a wanna-be gangsta or an undercover skank."

I'm not even remotely crafty but I'm inexplicably intrigued by this project over at Wisdom Has Two Parts. It must have been the cheapskate in me picking up on the part where she mentions getting something for a quarter.

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The best part of my week? I went to a great concert on Friday night.

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tags: refrigerators | icebox | large kitchen appliance | where you put your food to keep it cold

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Don't Even Think About Getting Me That Knitted Toaster Cover.

The holiday season is here and all the excitement that comes with it: The parties! The shopping! The buffets! It's all over so quickly, but there's one thing I can count on to be with me even after the season has ended, something that will remind me of the holidays long after the tree has been unceremoniously thrown to the curb and the last piece of gingerbread has been inhaled.

I'm talking of course, about all those bad Christmas gifts.

It's not that I'm ungrateful - I'm definitely from the 'It's The Thought That Counts' camp when it comes to gifts. It's just that I can't help but feel bad for the tree that had to die in order to make those wooden boxes adorned with cat portraits that I got one year, or the underage Thai children that worked at a knitting machine for hours to turn out that beaded, sequined, mauve vest a friend gave me.

So I thought as a service to anyone in the midst of their shopping this year I would put together a gift guide, something to help you figure out what not to buy this holiday season in the hopes that your gift won't end up in the back of someone else's closet only to be re-gifted to you for your birthday in two years. Happy shopping!

1. Try to avoid giving those huge gift baskets of cheese and salami to anyone on a diet, or twenty-pound bags of Starbucks coffee to someone trying to cut their caffeine intake. However, if you've already purchased these items, I'll be happy to take them off your hands.

2. By the same token, never give a vial of live Ebola virus to a hypochondriac.

3. Don't give gifts 'for the baby' to a pregnant woman. This will only breed resentment towards the unborn child because what the mother-to-be really wants are some nice bath products or a gift card to an all-night donut shop. There'll be plenty of time for resentment once the baby is born.

4. Additionally, absolutely never gifts 'for the baby' if you're not certain the woman is pregnant. If it turns out she has just put on a little weight you can just kiss that friendship goodbye.

5. Stay away from pet-themed gifts unless you know that the recipient is a dog fanatic or subscribes to Cat Fancy magazine. I have a friend who gave me cat gifts for Christmas and birthdays for three years straight. Earrings with cats, cat necklaces, cat stationery, even a fly swatter with a felt cat on it. The sheer awfulness boggled the mind. While we had a cat we loved, I never considered myself a 'cat person,' one of those people who wears huge sweatshirts with sparkly, appliquéd cats on the front and who always signs their name with a little paw print next to it.

6. When giving an item of clothing to a female friend, never buy it in her actual size, always at least two sizes smaller than she wears even if you know it will be an inconvenience for her to return it. She will think you see her as thin, which is important to all good friendships.

7. It is never a good idea to give suggestive pictures of yourself to your husband for Christmas, as this may cause some uncomfortable moments during the big family gift exchange. Plus, it can be crushing when your niece asks, "Are those pictures of Grandpa Earl?"

8. Don't give movies unless you are certain of the recipients tastes. It's fine, for instance, to give a Super Deluxe Gold Re-mastered Pantomimed Edition of The Lord Of The Rings if you know that the person is a fan of the movie. But buying someone a DVD because you've "watched it at least fifty times" is not a good reason, and you may be shocked to discover that not everyone thinks Patch Adams is a cinematic masterpiece.

9. The same rule applies to books. They are not a good gift choice unless you know the person very well, or are trying to date them in which case remember to only buy books that greatly exaggerate your intelligence and knowledge base. Art Of The French Renaissance will get you considerably more action than Garfield: Survival of the Fattest.

10. Never give anything that can't be quickly recovered from the closet and put on display whenever you come over. It's unfair to expect your friend to haul out that life-size panda wall clock you gave her whenever you decide to drop by for a visit. At least that small vase made out of walnut shells can be brought out from behind the books at the last minute. Be considerate.

11. Try not to give expensive gifts to your neighbors. They will perceive you as being rich and will constantly be over to ask for things, like a cup of sugar or some gold bullion bars.

12. It is dishonest to give someone a gift you know they won't use because you are secretly hoping they'll turn around and say, "Oh, I'll never use this. Here - you take it." Like giving a friend who never cooks an expensive enameled sauté pan. Not that I've ever done that. I'm just saying.

13, Avoid stereotypical ethnic gifts. It annoys the hell out me when someone gives me a pair of chopsticks, or a toothpick-holder shaped like a rickshaw, or a 3-disc bundle of all the Karate Kid movies. If you feel you really can't help yourself from buying these types of gifts, try not to preface them with statements such as, "I wanted to give you something from your motherland" or "Your people sure know how to kung-fu."

14. Unless you are very close to the person you are giving to, never hand them a gift and say, "I know you're going to love this. I bought ten of them for myself." It is a 100% certainty that they will hate it, and then question your taste for all eternity.

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tags: i love christmas | reasons to buy gift cards | it's the thought that counts

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Losing My Tradition.

A few years ago I bought this beautiful wooden advent calendar. It's not a traditional one, but works in much the same way to count down the days until Christmas, except without the Bible story and with small compartments for each day that hold gifts. In other words, it's a cheap commercialization of a lovely Christmas tradition. Just what I was looking for!

I saw The Box as a way to start a tradition with my girls. Instead of constantly asking me how many days were left until Santa's arrival, I imagined them excitedly opening the door for each day to find the small trinkets I would hide in there. They would pass it on to their children, who would pass it on to their children, and so on until years from now my great-great-great-great grandchildren would be retrieving their time-travel vouchers from The Box's tiny alcoves. As you can see, I put a lot of thought into this.

When I showed The Box to Rigel he reacted like a typical male, skeptical about us needing any more holiday traditions. I convinced him that the customary Holiday Hangover and our festive, annual Haggling Over The Moneys were probably not things we wanted to pass on to our children and he grudgingly agreed. The girls were excited about it, deciding that anything that increased their gift-receiving days from one to twenty-five was all right by them.

That first year I spent a lot of time carefully choosing small knickknacks to put in The Box. The size of the compartments posed a challenge and finding items that would fit inside the small space was sometimes difficult. But I did it, scouring Target and Claires to find small keychains, miniature bottles of nail polish and chocolate Santas that were just the right size. I was so caught up in my wonderful new holiday tradition that if you knew me then you would have wanted to throttle my holly-ringed neck. And in hindsight, I wish someone had.

By the second year, I was slightly dreading the Filling Of The Box. In my initial excitement I had failed to calculate the sheer volume of gift buying I was in for: 1 item x 2 girls for 25 days = 50 items. This was in addition to my already extensive list, so I didn't spend as much time shopping for items that year. Carefully chosen presents were replaced by dimes and quarters on some of those days, which the girls heartily approved of. There were less bracelets and more chocolate coins, less tubes of Skittles-flavored lip balm and more stickers. Still, The Box was filled and there was happiness in the household.

When the holidays rolled around last year I had serious regrets about The Box. This came after a particularly grueling cleaning session of the girls' room where I found enough small trinkets to fill five-hundred advent calendars. The idea that I would be buying more crap to fill up those small compartments for twenty-five days panicked me. I considered recycling items, but that wouldn't be in the spirit of the season, and besides I intended to wrap most of it up and re-gift it to the kids of people I didn't like.

I ended up buying a few items but my lack of enthusiasm was evident and I was no longer concerned with the element of surprise. I would scramble to find the little presents for the day, ask them to turn around while I put them in the cubbyhole. and then they would immediately turn around to open the small door to retrieve their gifts. I was beginning to wonder why I didn't just hand them each a bag on December 1st with twenty-five items inside.

On some days I wrote small notes which the girls, while politely feigning gratitude, weren't so crazy about. I don't blame them - who wants a piece of paper that says, "We're so proud of you!" when you're expecting a rhinestone ring? It got worse as the month wore on, with me forgetting days altogether or scouring my closet for leftover party favors or office supplies. By the time December 24th rolled around I had turned into a regular Scrooge, and the girls couldn't hide their disappointment at what they found behind those tiny doors that day. I gave them a lecture about being grateful and thinking of those less fortunate, so then they thanked me for the pocket lint and three paper clips.

I briefly considered not even taking The Box out this year, until Kiyomi saw it in the closet and started pointing and squealing, "The Box! The Box!" as if she had discovered Santa himself sitting there on the shelf. I brought it out, but told them I wanted to do something different this year with more meaning and less useless junk. I took it as a good sign when they looked thoughtful for a moment as they opened the small doors, but then Kira inquired, "Can a gift card fit in there?"

So, today's December first and I haven't gotten around to buying anything for The Box. I've got some Halloween candy that will last me through the next few days, but beyond that I'm not sure what to fill it with. Touching notes of encouragement? Coupons for extra desserts? Lumps of coal? Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

Either that, or feel free to FedEx me twenty-five small items that can fit inside a two-inch space.

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tags: advent calendar | drowning in trinkets | bad traditions | save me from the box

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