The Diaries of a Fat Chick

For the last four years, Ben and I haven’t bothered to put up a large tree.  We have a small fake tree that we put on the counter and pile our presents around.  We have tiny little ornaments that we decorate with it.  It’s quite festive really.  However, this year, I decided it was time we had a proper tree.  I had been doing a lot of reminiscing about the trees we had as a small child, and remembering how much I loved shutting all the lights off and watching the tree glow and twinkle, and it convinced me to go out to a local department store and purchase a beautiful tree.

Last week Ben and I took this:

and began to shape it into our Christmas tree.  After a few comments about Kelly’s inability to properly shape a tree, I stepped back, grabbed the camera and recorded the images of our very first Christmas tree as a married couple, coming to life:

It turned out to be much bigger than we had anticipated:

Once it was put together to Ben’s baffling perfect expectations, he began to string the lights:

And add the ornaments.  We went with a blue and silver theme and chose an angel for the top:

Ben, proving that ornaments can also double as earrings:

Last year, as a Christmas gift from one of my co-workers at the vet clinic, I received a beautiful angel ornament:

We also made the decision that each year Ben and I would pick out an ornament together to hang on the tree.  This year, Ben discovered this little gem at the Hallmark store and insisted it was perfect for us.  I couldn’t disagree, even though I lobbied strongly for the Pacman game with realistic sounds ornament.

And finally, four years ago, for our very first Christmas, the mumsi entity gave us an incredibly cute “First Christmas” ornament that we finally had the chance to use:

The final product:

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So I don’t know if you’ve heard but our fair city?  Has received a, if you’ll excuse the expression, shitload of snow in the last four days.  It’s been extremely ugly in terms of driving.  Especially since the city doesn’t understand the concept of plowing AND sanding.  And working outside of the city means that I have to drive a long way on the blowing, snowing, incredibly icy roads.  Luckily, I’ve been fortunate in that I can, for the most part, carpool to work with sympathetic and understanding co-workers but the day before yesterday I made the (in retrospect- very bad) decision to practice my winter driving.  Ben graciously agreed to accompany me on my experimental drive-to-work in the horrible, terrifying weather and would then drive the car back to his office.  I’ve done my best to block the memory of that morning but let’s just say it involved a lot of semi-hysterical crying and cursing, white-knuckle driving, near vomiting and very insistent declarations that WE WERE ALL GOING TO DIE.  It was probably #3 on my list of most horrifying experiences of my life.  And despite Ben’s assurances that I did perfectly fine and the most important thing was that I had tried and succeeded in driving in wretched conditions, I very quickly pointed out that while it was all well and good he needed to be aware that I would NEVER do that again.  NEVER.

Last evening, after Ben picked me up from the vet where my carpool had dropped me off, we drove home in near white-out conditions.  Ben, being the cool pickle that he is, very calmly navigated the treacherous, icy roads with practiced ease while I ground my teeth and sat on my hands to stop them from clawing the dashboard.  At one particularly slippery intersection, the traffic light turned yellow and as we were a long way from the intersection, Ben applied the brakes.  Nothing happened, the car slid along on the sheet of ice also known as the road.  As we drew closer and closer to the intersection, my hands tore loose from my seat and I clutched the dashboard, trying my best not to distract Ben with my hyperventilating.  The anti-lock brakes in the car, perhaps in acknowledgement of my feeling of impending doom, were shaking and rattling, doing their very best to stop us.  It was useless.  The car continued it’s slide towards the intersection, where the oncoming cars looked as big as dinosaurs; oblivious to the power of the anti-lock brakes.  Did I mention Ben’s pickle coolness?  As I stopped breathing completely and black roses bloomed in my vision, Ben, humming softly under his breath, began to gently pump the brake.  That, with the combination of the anti-lock brakes, finally slowed the car’s obvious death wish and we stopped a mere inch from the cars that were driving through.  I’m not kidding people.  We were an INCH from the oncoming traffic.  I took in a big whooping gasp of air and pulled my fingernails loose from the dashboard as Ben put the car in reverse and carefully backed up.  He smiled at me, patted my leg gently and said, “Close one that was.” 

I’ve lived in this city for close to eight years and I believe this is the most snow I’ve ever seen here.  I love the snow, I do, it’s pretty and it’s going to be awesome to have a white Christmas but I sure wish I didn’t have to drive in it.  The dogs, not having to worry about driving to work, are in heaven with all this snow!

Cuda, in the middle of one of his signature spin around and around until he falls over moves:

I feel a little sorry for Cassie however, as the snow is so high it comes up to her shoulders and she has to wade through all the white stuff like a little, well, bulldog.

I purposely have not cleared off the top of the rail of our deck since the snow began four days ago.  This gives you an idea of how much snow we’ve accumulated:

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Contrary to popular belief, I am not a Christmas Grinch.  I can see why people believe that I am though.  I don’t want to listen to Christmas music until at least the 20th (Ben always jokes that he gets to play his Christmas album for exactly one day - the 25th), I rarely decorate until a week before and I always take down the decorations on Boxing Day.  There have been years where I haven’t even bothered to decorate and the idea of spending a Christmas completely alone doesn’t upset me in the least.

But I truly love Christmas.  I love the lights and the decorations, the atmosphere, the “happiness to all mankind” bit.  I like how peaceful it is when you turn off all the lights in the house, leaving only the lights of the Christmas tree on and sit in the darkness watching them blink and twinkle so prettily.  I have very strong memories of being a young child sitting in the darkness just staring at the lights of the Christmas tree and the excitement and anticipation coursing through me was almost more than I could bear.  And just the other day I bought myself a copy of the classic claymation Rudolph the Rednose Reindeer that I loved as a small child.  See?  I do love Christmas.

But there is that dark and ugly side to it - the materialism of it; people going into debt to buy expensive gifts that aren’t necessary, the expectation that you’re supposed to be happy at Christmas and not have a care in the world. 

I’m a Christian and this particular time of the year should be less about presents and Santa and more about celebrating the birth of Christ.  Somewhere along the way, I became swept up in the presents and celebration and put more emphasis on the materialism instead of what matters most.  But over the last few years, I have found myself thinking less and less in terms of ”What am I going to get for Christmas?”.  And I truly don’t believe that’s a bad thing.   I am extremely lucky in that, while we’re not rich, Ben and I do just fine when it comes to all things monetary.  We have a roof over our head, the ability to pay for all of our expenses and groceries and still purchase items that aren’t a necessity.  Not to say it’s always that way, there have been many times where I’ve had to make a desperate call to the mumsi entity because our car has broken down or I have a sick animal that needs medical attention but for the most part?  We do just fine.  

Before I go any further, let’s set something straight - I love presents.  I really do.  I love getting them, unwrapping them and seeing the thoughtful item that someone who loves me has picked out for me.  Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you how excited I am when I’m getting a present.  And yet, the last few years, Christmas rolls around and I look at the large pile of presents under the tree with my name on them and mixed with the excitement and pleasure is the sour taste of guilt and, well, regret really.  Because while during the rest of the year I make sure that I volunteer time and money to various causes, it seems that at Christmas it becomes all about me and what I want.  And internets, I gotta tell you - it makes me feel bad.  Real bad.

So, here’s what I’m going to do about it.  It’s too late for this year so I purpose something wild and crazy for Christmas of 2009.  Christmas 2009 will be the year of no presents.  Well, not exactly no presents but a diffent kind of gift giving.  I’m vowing right here and now that next year I will not ask for any gifts that are for me but are more specifically geared to helping others who are less fortunate.  And, I will not give any gifts to family and friends that are not a donation of some kind to a person or family less fortunate than them.

“But Kelly,” you say, “just because you’re becoming a martyr and don’t want presents doesn’t mean your family and friends don’t.” 

To that I say - 1) I am not being a martyr about this; I truly and honestly do not want any gifts and 2) my family and friends can get by one year without getting the type of gift they usually get from me. 

I realize it’s going to be difficult for two reasons - the whole “Kelly loves presents.” thing and the whole “the mumsi entity loves to give presents” thing.

I’m sure most of you have heard about the five languages of love.  Quite simply, scientific type people and pot smoking hippies got together and came up with the theory that all people show love in five different ways (okay the scientists and hippies part might not be completely true but whatever).  Most people apply these five languages of love to their significant others but if you think about it, it can be applied to all of your loved ones.

The five languages of love are:

1)  Words of affirmation

2)  Quality time

3)  Giving/receiving gifts

4)  Acts of service

5)  Physical touch

While I can honestly say the mumsi entity falls into all five languages in some way, her number one language of love would definitely be gift giving.  The woman loves to give gifts and frankly, I love to receive them.  I truly do.  And while mum and I have a wonderful relationship, over the last few years, as my feelings and thoughts about Christmas change, we’ve had more than one argument about the presents at Christmas.  I walk away from those arguments feeling frustrated and helpless at my inability to explain to her why I don’t want a bunch of gifts and each time Ben has to remind me about her specific language of love.  And I get it, I really do and, in fact, respect that she wants to give lots of gifts to the people she loves.  But for me, presents don’t necessarily mean that I have to have something under the tree to unwrap or that I get something I specifically want.  I’ve always maintained that the best gift I could get would be a simple piece of paper that says, in my name, a goat or cow or whatever was donated to a family that needed it for their survival.

So, because it is too late this year; next year I’m asking my family and friends to help me celebrate Christmas a different kind of way.  No stocking stuffers, no brightly wrapped presents under the tree; okay well - there can be brightly wrapped presents but in those boxes I’m really hoping there will be a piece of paper that says a donation was made to your local SPCA or Food Bank or Women’s Shelter or, or, or… take your pick.  And, in kind, you’ll find the same type of present from me under your tree.   I encourage each of you to consider doing the same thing next Christmas.  You’ll help someone who truly needs it and as an extra bonus - feel good about yourself too!

Y’all?  Christmas 2009 is going to rock!

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So last night I felt pretty crappy.  Bad headache (still have a bad headache if the truth be told), upset stomach, yada, yada.  I napped while Ben was out taking sports pictures, which didn’t help much unfortunately and by the time he got home around 10 we were both ready for bed.  We laid in the bed for awhile with the tv on when I said:

Me:  I have terrible heartburn and indigestion.

Ben:  I keep telling you, take a tums.

Me:  I took a tums once when I was a kid, it tasted like chalk.

Ben:  That was a long time ago, they don’t taste like chalk now.

Me:  Are you sure? 

Ben:  Yup, they’re mint.  Take two and you’ll feel much better.

I wandered into the bathroom and helped myself to a Tums with, I don’t mind saying, more than  a little trepidation.  And I was right to be worried…

Me:  Oh my…oh gross.  Oh yuck.  *gag, hork*  You son of a bitch!

Ben:  What?

Me: Don’t “what” me you jerk.  I just took a Tums and guess what?  It tastes like chalk!

Ben:  *laughing* It does not.  It tastes like mint.

Me:  Minty chalk!!!  *spits into the sink*  Bastard.

Ben:  I can’t help it if you’re a wimp.

Me:  *climbing into the bed and turning off the light* That’s it, we’re fighting.  Don’t talk to me.

Ben:  Yes dear.  Good night.  Love you honey.

Me:  Love you too.  Jackass. 

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