christmas

25th December: Day 73 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

I didn’t expect to receive so things this Christmas….  and didn’t expect that the biggest thing I’d come away with is the deep, deep sense of how amazingly blessed I am.   It feels like it would cheapen it to elaborate, but I also know from a non-religious perspective it may seem a bit “glory, glory, hallelujah,” gag me with a Popsicle stick to hear the b-word.  So let me put it in friendlier terms…  it was a bit like mourning a really, really big loss and all of a sudden, I am avalanched. Totally provided for. My vision is recovered and not only do I see things I didn’t see before, but I realise that things have been placed in my hands. Not the same things, but things that make me know that I am still very much loved. And like it will be okay…

Even better than okay was the Christmas dinner that completely spoiled my palate:

Chateaubriand with wine reduction and shallots
Tomatoes baked with Parmesan
Garlic mashed potatoes and gravy
Asparagus tips
Snow peas
Carrots

eve

24th December: Day 72 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

It makes me cry each year, without fail.

Silent night. for me a
Holy night.
All is calm. scarily calm. amazingly silent in the breathing spaces. just voices. and quiet.
All is bright when i stare into the flame of the candle that’s dripping on my hand and wish i could bottle it. the calm. the light. the sacred feeling.

Yet I still can’t quite put a finger on why it’s so special to me. Why I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else but there on Christmas Eve.

Because it gives me the same feeling whatever continent I’m on?

Or because of the holiday build up? And that I know this will deliver exactly what I expect?

Or maybe because my voice joins the others to become part of a bigger song?

Or more recently, that the wounds are still fresh.

And that here, I am accepted.

westbound

20th December: Day 68 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

It cost an arm and a leg.  But I’m westbound for the holidays, to a place where one watches, rather than minds.  I am so excited!!!

(and not going to worry about how I’m going to make it on public transport from Kew Gardens to the Upper West Side with two sizeable bags!)

The Piccadilly Line now offers a chunnel service.  Step in the train in South Ealing and step out in Jamaica, New York.  Brilliant!

wonderwoman

18th December: Day 67 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

On Wednesday I pedaled hard, round, round, round as I felt the peanut butter buckeyes rattling in my messenger bag and felt the “I’m late” adrenaline pumping through my extremities. I raced down, down, down the cyclist shoulder, through Chiswick, Stamford Brook, Ravenscourt Park, and on to Hammersmith. I kept my momentum through an exhilarating series of green lights, until I reached the special curbed-off cyclist lane. “No one can touch me now,” I thought until clueless pedestrians staggered into my lane and convinced me that having a bell would not only save me from a collision, but the repercussions of the day that the nasty New Yorker in me screams “Get the hell out of my way!”

I slowed at the cyclist dismount sign and remounted to fly through the backroads to the Hammersmith Bridge and hop over the Thames. But my pedals would no longer move. The chain refused to move. So I had no choice but to really heed the sign and dismount. And then walk my bike. All the way over the Thames, luckily not to far to make it (better late than never) to my small group’s Secret Santa party (in case you’re wondering, I chose to be nice. I don’t want to go to hell!).

When I finally arrived and picked at the remains of the ham, I found myself so stressed out from the long intense days of trying to pull together a pitch and budget in two days, Christmas shop, pack, and all of the blah blah blah that I mentioned in a previous email, that I was seriously fried. Perhaps it wasn’t as obvious as I thought. But if my conversation partners could have seen the site of the competing thoughts that had mounted big horses, tied themselves to the various limbs of my brain and taken full charge in opposite directions, they would have been a bit worried.

On Thursday, when I found out, at the very end of a long day, that my client decided to massively scale back the crazy project I was going to produce, essentially only requiring a phone consultation on the main presenter’s script, I was done.

And so, instead of going to a church friend’s minced pie and mulled wine party that I had really been looking forward to, I decided to quit trying to be Wonderwoman. I’m so over trying to earn that cape. Though it would look pretty cool flapping behind me as I cycle. And actually might make pedestrians pay more attention. Oh well.

santa

17th December: Day 66 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Naughty or nice.

Santa is supposed ask that. Not be asked.

This year as a Secret Santa, I asked myself that question. And decided that it would be so much more fun to be the former.

So when I pulled one of my closest friends, C, in the office Secret Santa, I decided it would be terrific to buy C the oddest, crappiest present.

So I went to the thrift store and found the cheapest thing. A book in German. For £1.50. C doesn’t speak German. It was perfect. I couldn’t help but allow the saleswoman in on the plot. Her face broke into a smile and she summoned me forward, with large eyes and a breathy whisper. Her son also had done Secret Santa last year. And – dramatic pause, ever-widening eyes – he received a condom!

I giggled all the way along the tiny alleys back to my bike by the Richmond Green. I decided that I positively had to leave the tag for £1.50 so she can see that even Santa was hit by the recession. And then I should include a card that said that a little elf had told Santa that she was a Germanophile (funny how you never hear this word, like you hear francophile…. hmmm….. well, I know I love my German friends!). It was going to be great. Though I wasn’t so sure I’d get a reaction of disappointment or confusion.

As expected, my lovely friend had a big smile on her face and completely hid the fact to the surrounding crowd of gift openers that she didn’t speak German.

And since I couldn’t help being Nice Santa as well, a gorgeously wrapped present later appeared on C’s desk with a beautiful leather change purse inside, filled with Aveda mini bottles and tiny hot chocolate packs… clearly Santa kept his cash tucked safely in his mattress rather than the stock market.

Oh yes. And with it, a card saying, “You thought Santa was a cheap bastard. Turns out he has a sense of humor!” and a few cartoons such as this:

spirit

14th December: Day 63 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

I missed the boat on the advent calendar (or at least I’m telling myself that to resist the temptation to gorge myself on fourteen pieces of chocolate in one sitting) and only put up a Charlie Brown-worthy strand of red garland on a colleague’s orange tree this past Friday! But amazingly, it has been a magical month leading up to Christmas. The Christmas spirit (yes, it’s still pc to say this word here in the UK) has made London glow. Not only with the lights. But there is a warm, cozy feel. And a very merry feeling, even though the Brits insist on calling it a happy Christmas. Maybe some of it is the reinforcement of the images of Love Actually and The Holiday. Or maybe those films just accurately depict the holiday season in this very big village. Whatever the case, even though I only have a week left before heading home, I decided to go ahead and decorate my bedroom.  Then I headed out to the carol service to sing the songs that whatever continent I may be, always have the power to elicit feelings and images of serenity, snow, light and wonder. Christmas is on it’s way!

now

13th December: Day 62 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

I’m a muller.  Especially when it comes to gifts.  Not only with look, feel, colour, size and cost, but also with function, witty nature and personalisation.

But with the craziness of the last week of work, all of the mulled wine and mince pie Christmas parties and packing for New York, there was no time for the arduous process of my usual once-over at every single store, possible follow up visits to reconsider, and finally the purchase.  Not if I wanted to stay sane.  So when I was in Richmond window shopping, I decided that when I saw something that I loved, even if it was a bit more expensive, I was going to buy it NOW.  And pack NOW (ok, start throwing things in a pile on the floor).  And just start crossing things off of my list, rather than dragging my feet and thinking that I had time.  What liberation!  And I think I put together pretty great gifts too!

spree

Saturday. Me + my debit card + Woodbury Commons + US prices = woman on a mission.

After seven hours of extreme bargain shopping I couldn’t help but think of a quote that my skittle-eating roommate L, won concert tickets from a radio station for identifying. Laden with six heavy bags, it seemed clear that Miss Piggy’s great bit of wisdom, “Never eat more than you can lift” should also be applied to shopping. Lugging my loot back from the Woodbury Commons shuttle to the Harriman train station to the Secaucus Junction to Penn Station to the 1 to the UWS was worth it though, even one atrocious item I caved and purchased. At least I only bought one of these two ridiculous things below…

wooden legs

It’s only 10:45, but already I think I can go out on a limb and award the most amusing email of the day.  My sis, K, just sent along the following questions from her friend’s early Christmas present of Would You Rather?

would you rather have a lot of permanent crust around your eyes or have permanent white drool crust around your mouth?

would you rather find out on your wedding night that your spouse has a wooden leg or that your spouse has herpes?

would you rather have a ripe pimple on the tip of your nose, concealed with make-up, be discovered when someone’s kiss accidentally pops it or have your hairpiece lift off with a sudden gust of wind?

would you rather have people keep asking you how long you’ve been pregnant when you’re not or asking “goodness, how long have you been ill?”, when you’re not?

Such enticing options… I would have to say: crust, wooden leg, hair piece and ill

And you?