Jingle Bells, Winter Wonderland, chestnuts roasting, nothing stirring…

I haven’t had a Christmas tree in years but I recall the glittery twinkly tinsely wonder I had at the Christmas tree we put up when I was a kid.

A REAL tree.

With REAL tinsel (almost like aluminum foil) that mom saved (neatly) year after year.

Dad would buy a Silver Tip tree from some corner lot and out would come the multi-colored miniature lights and the fragile glass ornaments.

Now that I think about it, we didn’t have much money but dad would buy this pricey real tree and I’m not sure how he managed it.

Christmas was great for me. Mom loved dressing me up which was part fun and part torture. The fun part was knowing I looked just adorable in my little velvet dress, white tights and black patent Mary Janes.

The torture was the endless photos of me being told to look adorable.

I’d really load up during Christmas – I got lots of cash in those little red envelopes as well as toys and of course the less favored clothing.

What I didn’t like was getting Barbie. She seemed very odd to me. So of course I bended her every whichway. I was more of a stuffed animal person, heavy on the stuffed rabbits.

I would count up the presents and I’d have over 20!! Nothing like having a gazillion relatives, doting grandparents and the adorable thing going on.

Don’t let kids fool you – they know dang well when they are adorable, especially the girls. I was a much better flirt then than I am now.

I was more of a kid during Christmas than at any time of year – I got more attention, I had more wonder and more hope that good things were coming. The aftermath of saving the wrapping paper and the tinsel and carefully storing everything wasn’t so much fun but wearing my Dr. Dentons and skidding around the hardwood floors in those footed PJs…total kidshtuff!

Christmas songs make me smile.

So my collection of Christmas music is out and you know what that means …

Podcast alert!!

Are you ready for a sing-along??  A little Christmas caroling?

It’s been a while since I’ve uh, sung so whaddya think?

Any requests?

Or maybe you’re thinking …

“Please…no singing…I promise I’ll be good…”

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Mommy and Daddy separate and slowly, everything falls apart.

Lines are drawn.

Papers are filed.

Divorce. So much paperwork. So much pain.

I see Daddy every other weekend.

Daddy is angry and confused. In his world, he followed the rules – he worked hard, he got married, he had a child, he bought a home, and he paid all his bills.

In his world, if you follow the rules, you would become successful and you would be happy.

In Daddy’s world, doing your best is a given and there is always room for improvement.

Following the rules isn’t making Daddy happy.

Divorce is failure. Daddy did everything right so it must be all Mommy’s fault.

Daddy feels that he has lost everything. He feels that he has lost me to Mommy.

I want to be Daddy’s little girl again and I want him to be happy. I think that getting good grades will make him happy. I think that helping him around his apartment will make him happy.

I try following his rules. I get good grades, I’m considered mature for my age, I am quiet and well behaved.

I want to bask in his love and approval. Instead, I am told about the next goal, that there are higher rungs in the ladder of life.

Daddy is a Chinese immigrant. He struggles with English. Love can be expressed without words yet Daddy struggles with it as well.

By the time the battles are fought, the lawyers are paid and final judgments stamped and filed, I’m beginning high school.

He remarries. I don’t see him as often.

I wander around lost and unsure of what to do with my life.

Years go by. Some years I barely see my father. We live in the same city and I barely see him.

Despite everything, I know that he will always be there. He’s that kind of father. If I’m in trouble, he’ll be right there.

I slowly move forward with my life. I graduate college. He seems proud but all I can recall is his pointing out the next achievement.

I remember when I bought my car. My first big purchase. I handled everything: loan, down payment, and negotiation. I was pretty proud of myself.

I drive to his place. I show him my car. He doesn’t look particularly excited.

He says, “Now you can buy a house.”

More years go by. I barely see him. It was after one visit that I wondered why I always felt so sad afterwards.

I realized that I was disappointed. All these years I kept expecting him to tell me how much he loved me, how proud he was of me.

Every time I saw him I was hoping that this time, things would be different. I had no idea of this secret hope.

But now, I was tired. I was tired of trying.

So I stopped. It was time for me to move on.

As you can see, this is a very personal story.

It’s been difficult to tell not because of it being painful but because there are so many ways to tell it.

I want this to be a story about love and hope and forgiveness, not one of blame.

And so it shall be.

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But the very nature of the gift is that it should be shared. I have struggled with how to share my very special gift. Some gifts change your life.

I wanted to share my gift with you in such a way that it changes your life for the better.

My gift begins with a story …

Once upon a time, I was Daddy’s Little Girl.

My daddy is young and handsome and strong and I know he will take care of me.

My parents are young and there isn’t much money but I don’t notice the lack.

I love Saturdays. Daddy and I get up early. Just the two of us. I am 4 years old and Mommy is still asleep and the apartment is quiet.

Daddy and I are going grocery shopping and leave early to avoid the rush.

But first we have breakfast. We don’t always go to the same place but there are always nice waitresses and sticky vinyl chairs and a booster seat.

Eating out is a big treat. Eating out with Daddy – a bigger treat!

The years go by and daddy is always working and tired and the house is a mess and everything is weird and I do my best, my very best, to be a good little girl.

I get good grades. I say please. I say thank you.

I follow the rules, I draw inside the lines, I cook, I clean. I’m good.

I can’t fix what is wrong. What is wrong with me?

Mommy and Daddy argue, Mommy cries, Daddy shouts, no one is happy.

Mommy and Daddy separate. I think this is a good thing.

I didn’t know that Daddy and I would separate, that I would no longer be his little girl.

My story is one told over and over in homes across the world.

It’s not a fairytale but it’s one that many know by heart.

Once upon a time, I was Daddy’s Little Girl.

I know the ending to this story but I’m not sure how I’ll get there. As with most of my stories, there will be forgiveness and understanding.

And love. There is always love.

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Yeah, we make fun of hotdogs but what are they? Just another sausage but the fat is blended in better.

Anyway, this post was inspired by Jill’s post over at Twipply Skwood.

Now, she thought that hot dogs were made out of pig eyeballs.

She then encountered some kid who thought they were made out of pig…anuses. Is that correct? Maybe it’s anii??

I was told that they were made out of mostly pig snouts.

This all goes to show The Power Of Condiments. People will eat anything smothered by tasty condiments. I heard that one of my very own Presidents counted a condiment as a vegetable.

Hmmm.

Anyway, hot dogs aren’t a big part of my diet. The only time I succumb to their tubular call is when they are the so-called “good” hot dogs (all beef) and are grilled and I’m over at a friend’s barbeque. This combination is something along the lines of the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius.

What was inneresting was that I think I heard the snout rumor from my parents. Yet my dad made me bologna sandwiches to take to grade school. Just 2 slices of bologna, slapped between Roman Meal bread with a thin smear of mayonnaise.

My dad would actually get bologna in white butcher paper for the week. The thing is, I’d see him order it up and the butcher slicing it up. The bologna looked liked a giant hot dog and in my mind, pretty much tasted the same.

What is odd was that I ate the sandwiches and I really didn’t much like bologna. Nor PBJs. Not that my dad made PBJs. Sometimes he did but I didn’t like jelly or jam and I thought just a PB was too dry and it wasn’t really a lunch item, more of a snack. Thank goodness for the hot lunch program where I could look forward to 5 tater tots and a grilled cheese sandwich on white bread cut diagonally and nicely displayed on pale green plastic compartmentalized trays.

Liked the tater tots. Not much into grilled cheese. Huh.

Tater Tots should have an entire post all to themselves.

I did go through a stage where I ate a lot of hot dog sandwiches. That’s when I started “cooking” and if you can slice a hotdog along its length and manage to keep the 2 sides hinged together and then you do that to another one. You fry them up in a skillet (flat side first). Then you fry the round sides.

Get out 2 slices of bread. Spread mayo on each slice if you like. Add lettuce. Preferably, iceberg. Place your fried dogs on the bread so look like a 4-log raft.

Shake your mustard squeeze bottle a bit. This prevents that initial watery squirt. Squeeze the bottle with firm pressure down on the dogs in a nice zigzag pattern. Follow the same method with a squeeze bottle of ketchup. Top with lettuce. Top with bread.

Note: mayo’ed side of the bread faces the dogs.

At age 12 or so, this was gourmet cooking.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

So there I was eating bologna sandwiches and wondering if they were just giant hot dogs and pondering at why bologna was pronounced baloney.

As you can see, I haven’t changed all that much.

As I said, Part is Parts and some…are tastier than others!!

Enjoy your Cinco de Mayo!!

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My mom is extremely nearsighted. Her mom was nearsighted. So was her dad.

My mom and her brothers had to wear braces.

My mom was prone to cavities and continues to have problems with her teeth.

My mom was five-foot-one. She’s maybe five-foot-one-half-inches now.

My dad didn’t start to wear glasses until sometimes in his thirties.

My dad has straight teeth and I don’t think he has a single cavity.

His brothers and sisters have similar smiles.

My dad is five-foot-five. Like mom, he seems to have shrunk.

Anyway, it was sometime around my senior year in high school when it became apparent that I wasn’t going to have any growth spurt. Of course, I could have had one but it just wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

I was four-foot-ten-and-three-quarter-inches in high school. Nothing has altered that fact.

I was probably complaining about how difficult it was to buy clothes when my mom first apologized. She’s apologized for the same thing repeatedly, despite my saying that really, it’s OKAY.

“I’m sorry! When I met your dad I thought, ‘He has good eyes, he has good teeth’…I never thought about his height!”

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