What I got and what I hope to get

Like I said before, in our family, we do Christmas lists.

I asked for a cotton flannel wrap robe in blackwatch plaid from the Vermont Country Store.

I also asked for a Pandora cubic zirconia bangle bracelet I'd had my eye on for some time.

Both were under the tree.

Due to the vagaries of online ordering guessing relative to size, my beautiful robe (a gift from Erica) was a tad on the too-large size.

As in, I could grow six inches and gain seventy-five pounds and still comfortably wear that robe even if I strapped a litter of beagle puppies about my person.

Which -- as delightful as that sounds -- the puppies, that is -- I have no plan to do.

So with much reluctance I re-packaged the robe and called the folks up in Vermont to make sure I was fixing to process the exchange for a smaller size, correctly.

(It may actually dip below fifty degrees in South Carolina this "winter" and I may need that garment on a chilly morning or two.)

The lady I reached (I pictured her sitting in a log cabin in the woods in Vermont, wearing a Lanz of Salzburg flannel granny gown and fuzzy slippers, a crackling fire not ten feet away, snow drifting sumptuously outside the window, a stack of flapjacks drenched in maple syrup at her elbow) -- name of Linda -- couldn't have been nicer.

I told her I loved my robe and that I considered simply keeping it although it's roughly the size of Vermont.

But I said, I thought better of it the first time I tripped and nearly fell while modeling said robe.

(Not that tripping and falling is foreign to me, and not that I have to be wearing too-large clothing in order to suffer that fate accomplish that feat).

I think I should exchange it before it becomes my blackwatch plaid flannel shroud, I told Linda, causing her to belly laugh and (probably) spill her mugful of piping hot apple cider.

She told me they were expecting their first snow of the season that very night. Three to five, and I don't mean years. Inches.

I hope they got it. She sounded so happy and hopeful.

So my robe is even now wending its way back to a cabin deep in the woods of Vermont where it will, I hope, be promptly exchanged for one exactly like it, in a size I don't often technically wear.

As to my bracelet -- a gift from TG -- it too is beautiful, but too small.

Yes. A bangle bracelet that is too small. And no, I am not a giant. Not by any means. I am not even big-boned (whatever that means).

If I were, it would not have been necesssary to send my robe back to Vermont.

This bracelet, though? It's an oval, and it has to fit over your hand. There is no clasp.

As such it could not have possibly been meant for a grown woman to wear, unless she is roughly the size of your average twelve-year-old.

Turns out that in the link I had provided in my Christmas list -- for ease of purchase of said item -- was an option of ordering the bracelet in a ridiculously small size as well as in a normal, larger size.

Naturally the default was the ludicrously small size -- ????? -- and none of us noticed it.

So back it will go -- to Miami, not to Vermont -- and in a few days I should have a stunning Pandora CZ bangle in a size that slides over my hand and onto my wrist.

And sparkles there, beguilingly.

I shall treat you to a photo of my bracelet on my wrist, against the backdrop of my flannel wrap robe in blackwatch plaid. I promise. That's totally how I roll.

Meanwhile, for reasons even I cannot remember, late last night I was searching Amazon for a buffet-style flatware caddy. I've wanted one for years, and again this holiday season I wished I had one.

I didn't find what I wanted, but I was amused by the search results.

So that's something.

As in, who throws the search result of swim fins in with dozens of flatware caddies in every possible size, configuration, color, degree of attractiveness and practicality, and material of make-age?

I stared and the thought occurred to me that for a pool party, maybe you could place the fins on a buffet and stick the silverware down in them.

That's when I knew it was time to head for bed.

But maybe that's what the folks at the Zon were thinking. We'll never know. Let's give them the benefit of the doubt.

I still don't have a flatware caddy.

Perhaps in 2016 I shall acquire one. In just the right size.

When/if I do, I'll share. 

And that is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday :: Happy New Year

Merry Christmas, my lovelies

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These four make it Christmas every day of the year.

The abundant beautiful gifts of love and respect they give to me and their father year-round, say more about them than they do about us.

They are God's gift to us and our gift to the world, which they change daily by their faith, their work ethic, their integrity, and everyday acts of kindness and generosity.

I hope to be more like them, and more like the One each of them serves.

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Merry Christmas Everybody

Merry Birthday, Melly Belle

Our beloved Melanie Noel turns eleven today. Eleven years of the Christmas present of Melly, born on the shortest day of Two Thousand Four.

We feted her in down-home fashion last Friday evening at the Cracker Barrel in Fort Mill, South Carolina.

That's basically Charlotte. The Carowinds exit.

I admit to a fondness for Cracker Barrel. I like the store as much as the grits and biscuits. And those corn muffins.

So anyway, we all converged upon the lip of North Carolina where it kisses the lip of South Carolina, and for a change it was cold like a normal December night, and windy, and we shivered and hurried and whooped and hugged and hollered when we saw one another.

I had brought two giant 40-inch silver helium-filled mylar balloons in the shape of ones.

Two ones. Eleven. Melly, who is a special needs child (emphasis on special) with little capability in the way of speech, gave an eloquent shriek when she spotted the double massive shining bobbing airborne digits.

(The birthday girl has some feelings of trepidation when faced with helium balloons, but they're a staple at our celebrations that she's had to accept. She succeeded at live-and-let-live until later in the party when I asked her to pose beside them.)

We ten settled in, having passed by the roaring fireplace, and our server was charming and made us feel so welcome.

In addition to me -- the one perpetually behind the lens, and no, I'm not hiding, I'm just busy being creative -- not a bit of this, after all, is about me -- the cast of characters included our one grandson, Andrew:

Like the sign says: Big Trouble.

Not really. He's adorable and very sweet, and exceptionally good.

Dagny loves parties:

She was, naturally, accompanied by her adoring mother, Audrey:

And her adored and equally adoring Aunt Erica:

There was the lovely Stephanie, always busy, and TG who presides quietly in the background:

No party would be complete without my son-in-law, Joel. I think he has a wonderful face. The kindest, bluest eyes.

I somehow dropped the ball and failed to get a picture of Allissa by herself. But I wish you could see her at Melanie's birthday parties. She is forever looking out for her big sister, helping and explaining and protecting.

She glories in providing assistance, as in holding up just-unwrapped clothing items so that the recipient's delight at the gift can be duly memorialized in the very moment:

An avid reader, Allissa especially enjoys sharing the card messages aloud.

There were lots of cards, to go with a an impressive number of presents. 

In fact, the number of gifts began piling up and I saw there would be nowhere to put the plates of food which had been ordered and for which our mouths were watering.

I know it's odd for a Friday night during the dinner hour at Cracker Barrel in a busy metropolitan hub a week before Christmas, but at no time during our visit was the restaurant more than half full.

Although there were diners at a table beside us, the rest of the tables in the area were empty.

So I wondered, what would be the harm in stacking Melly's presents on a bare unused table a few feet away? If there came a rush of customers and they needed to seat folks, we could quickly move them.

But no sooner had I placed a few packages on said surface and was reaching for more, and Stephanie had expressed relief that she'd have somewhere to put the large cake box, than a passing server (not ours) told me to move them.

I'll be needing that table, she said. I looked around at the sea of empty tables. I looked back at her. I didn't say a word but I thought, Seriously? This very table?

I'll be needing it, she repeated. While not precisely rude, she was far from being exactly its opposite.

She must know something I don't, I thought, envisioning a busload of tired chilly hungry revelers from Carowinds even then being emptied out at the Cracker Barrel entrance.

But no.

Throughout our three-hour stay at Cracker Barrel, this was the subject table:

In fact, at different times a single diner was seated at the tables on either side of the lonely empty table. But no one -- least of all the territorial waitress -- came near it again, during our party's party.

Melanie's presents sat in a heap on the floor until they were needed. The cupcake-cake painstakingly prepared by Stephanie and Allissa perched on a narrow ledge until serving time.

And yes; I tattled to a manager as we left. Don't judge. That's my job.

After effusing about the watchful hospitality of our server and the delightful scrumptiousness of our meal, I revealed that a grumpy employee had denied us the use of a bare postage-stamp-sized space on which to rest the birthday gifts and cake of a special-needs child.

Arrrgh. Me pirate hackles were ever-so-slightly elevated.

Melanie loved all of her gifts, but she had a real surprise this year. Because she needs it for school, her parents bought her a refurbished iPad.

If you'd seen her reaction, you would have thought the gift was one million dollars in cold hard cash, to be spent on the toys and treats of her choice.

Her shrieks upon seeing her device -- at school, up till now, she has been obliged to share the teacher's iPad -- made the exclamations she emitted upon the giant double-one balloon sighting seem like whispers.

As the pink-dress cupcakes were served and pink-and-purple fairy wands distributed to the females, Dagny briefly considered the boundless benefits of becoming a bona-fide princess.

Allissa hovered as Melanie tried out familiar games and lessons on her Internet-free electronic workbook. There was joy and there was excitement.

Aunts Audrey and Erica gave Melanie a special padded carrying-case for her iPad. Melly seemed to instinctively realize its importance in the scheme. Also, purple is her favorite color.

It was all such a blast. A cold starry night near to Christmas and bright stars in our darling Melly's eyes, and white stars glowing in warm lamplight, and delicious food. All of my family, except my son, that other cherished Andrew, within touching distance.

The best part was Melanie's happiness. I love my eldest granddaughter's smiles on her birthday. She struggles every day in ways we cannot understand, try as we might. All year I look forward to this very smile.

Melanie and her family are traveling to Pennsylvania and her other grandparents' house today, where tonight there will be a second birthday party. I can't wait to hear all about it next week when they return, and make their way here for a second Christmas.

And so it is time to prepare my final shopping list of the season. I must not forget to dig out the suntan lotion, as I'm pretty sure we'll be serving the Christmas ham and other delicacies poolside.

The forecast for Christmas Day in Columbia, South Carolina, is eighty-one degrees.

Records may be shattered.

We shall see.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday :: Happy Christmas Week

God bless us, every one

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Tangling and tingling

Life is complicated. Then they pile on the holidays.

That which is tangled remains tangled but we add a certain tingle.

Andrew, before leaving for the middle east late last spring, sold his snazzy black Honda Accord. He didn't want it to sit undriven for four-plus months at the base, and he didn't want to make payments on a car someone else was driving.

Since he possesses an innate ability to locate a good used car deal in a blizzard, while blindfolded, acquiring an auto is never an issue.

(My "new" car, purchased on the last day of August this year? Andrew found it online for me while lying on his bunk in Qatar. It gave him a temporary diversion that did not involve counting sand grains.)

(All I had to do was text him a description of what I wanted. The whole thing -- from my first look at a picture of the subject vehicle, to my nestling it lovingly in our garage -- took less than twenty-four hours.)

All that to say this: When he arrived back in the States in October, job one for the son and heir was to buy a car. It took him a few minutes but he ended up paying cash for a used Jeep.

Great for hauling the trailer with which he transports his big kayak. Andrew loves to get out on the river to fish and to explore and to enjoy nature, and for obvious reasons you can't do that in Qatar.

East Tennessee is way better in more ways than one. Also Rambo totally dug the Jeep.

But alas, while Andrew was in Columbia for Thanksgiving, being, after all, used, his Jeep broke down. It's a risk you take. He drove our second (old) car home to Knoxville for a week while his ride was in for repairs.

On Monday this week he was back to pick up his Jeep, which he declared drove like it was brand new. Happy.

Until twenty-eight hours later -- that would be last night -- when a lady prepared to make a left turn in front of him on I'll Kill Ya Alcoa Highway in Knoxville, not a mile from Andrew's home, then miscalculated.

As in, she (unwisely) went for it, but failed to employ her car's accelerator with sufficient alacrity to clear two lanes of oncoming traffic.

Andrew was unable to avoid hitting the lolligagging driver's car. He swerved to the right but struck her passenger side rear door with his left front wheel.

He is intact and uninjured but there is a rumor afoot that his Jeep may be totaled.

Adding outrageous insult to emotional injury, the woman driver with poor spatial judgment exited her vehicle and accused Andrew of speeding up in order to hit her.

Like anyone does that. I suppose this is how such a split-second thought process on my son's part would work:

Oh look! A car making a left turn directly into my lane of travel! There's probably time for it to complete the maneuver but I've got the right of way so I think I'll just gun it for that baby! What fun! I hope I can T-Bone it! Yay, wouldn't that be fantastic! Who cares if I total my just-out-of-the-shop Jeep because after all I've had it for two whole months! Also I'm leaving for a thirty-four-day deployment to Guam in the morning and I won't be needing it! And it's Christmas! Merry Christmas, everybody! Merry Christmas, you old Building and Loan!

Seriously. Making sense of anything these days is like herding hyperactive squirrels with mommy issues.

Anyway. Here's another Andrew -- my only grandson -- who (for now) has no choice but to let others do the driving.

He posed for me on the day after Thanksgiving at Irmo Town Park during his family's Christmas card shoot. I didn't even have to ask.

Now that's cooperation. I like it. I like it very much. It makes me tingle through the tangle.

Also I love my littles and I love my bigs, and we all cherish our doggies, and it's Christmas.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday