a christmas confession

This Christmas marks our third in Pennsylvania, and it doesn’t look as though it will be a white one.It's raining and the remnants of last week's snow storm are melting away. But earlier this month, we picked out our Christmas tree while snowflakes danced in the air, creating a bit of nostalgia and bringing back all sorts of memories for both B and me. It’s been years since either of us drove home with a Christmas tree covered in snow. As we did this year, we reflected on Christmases past and tried to name the most memorable. And despite fantastic gifts or exotic trips, one of our favorites has to be our first in Bethlehem when we were celebrating Christmas with my family. My mom and I were shopping for some last-minute stocking stuffers and decided to hit the drive through at Burger King for a quick meal. We ordered a ridiculous amount of Burgers, half of which never made it to our bags. Of course, we didn’t discover this until we were home and faced with a hungry crowd.

Dutifully, and at the strongest possible urging by B who is a peacemaker and justice seeker in all situations, I called the Burger King restaurant to notify them of their oversight and request just compensation for the missing burgers. The on-duty manager complied joyfully. She had remembered the order and told us to come back to the restaurant pick up the rest of our dinner. She also said that it wasn’t necessary to come in the store, rather go through the drive through and give the secret password, “Tiffany” at the speaker and drive on through. They would have our order ready.

B and my father, both very passionate about integrity and burgers, climbed in the car, muttering about how “they always rip you off at the drive through” and sped toward satiation.

Several minutes later they returned home with a bag full of burgers, still muttering about the drive through. B tossed the bag on the table and said, “I don’t know who you talked to, but apparently Tiffany left hours ago. So I told them they shorted our order and owed us burgers. We were there to get our burgers” He said after much conversation through the speaker, a manager finally sounded. She said she remembered the order and told them to pull up to the window where they would get their burgers. “Next time,“ she added, ”you will need to get out of the car and come in the store.”

I was baffled by their story and finally asked, “You went to the Burger King on Linden Street, right?”

“No,” B said. “Why would I go to the Burger King on Linden? I went to the Burger King on Schoenersville.”

“So you’re telling me, you drove up to the window, demanded free burgers and they gave them to you?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Should I go get the burgers from Linden Street, too?”

Merry Christmas.

socks bad, toys good

Just last week, Ash announced, “Santa gives socks to those who are naughty. I’m nice.”

I challenged her, “Are you really nice?”

She adamantly and curtly replied, “Yes, Mommy. I’m very nice.” And that’s when I put the new unopened package of pink and white and blue socks in her drawer instead of her Christmas Sock.

The dialogue continued capriciously this morning on the way to B’s office. In the midst of a conversation lull, Ashlyn announced, “If Santa gives clothes for Christmas, he won’t give toys.”

“What do you mean he won’t give toys?”

“If I get clothes, I won’t get toys. Clothes don’t make good presents,” Ash said.

“I disagree”, I said. “I love getting clothes for Christmas.”

“Yes, but you’re old.”

Hmmm. “How about books and puzzles and games. I think these all make very good presents for Christmas, “ I said.

“Mommy, toys are the best. Can you tell Santa not to bring clothes? He can give us all toys. You and me and daddy. We can all get toys.”

“I don’t really know what Santa is going to bring,” I said. This was the truth. Between both sets of grandparents, seven sizeable boxes - two of them in the extra large category - had arrived at our house, filled mostly with presents for Ash. Out of the 30 or 40 presents that filled the boxes – I didn’t stop to count - about 7 were for B and me. Could be clothes, could be toys. I’m just as curious as she is as to what Santa is bringing this year.

“Can’t he bring both?” Asked B.

“No.”

“Don’t put Santa into a box,” said B. “Santa feels as though he’s been ‘stereotyped.’ So Santa brings whatever Santa wants to.”

“Only toys this year.”

“Are you sure you’ve been nice?”

pretty in pink

She picked out pink socks again today. I talked her into wearing a pink sweater and a pink top, pink gloves and a pink scarf and mittens. She looked fabweus.

adorable girls wear pink socks

We were getting ready to leave the house. I can't remember where we were going, but there was a time line we were attempting to meet. My rather indulgent steamy, hot shower ran long, and that put us just a touch behind schedule. Even so, I had everything under control until B asked, "What can I do to help?"

"Uhhhh," I stammered trying to remember what I had left undone. "The girl needs sock and shoes and a hat and gloves and a scarf. Her clothes are sitting on my desk. I think her coat is in her room."

"Alright," he replies. And the dance began. "Ash, c'mon let's get dressed."

After a few twirls and a couple groin kicks, a karate chop to the forearm and a song and a dance, she's dressed. "Now for some socks," he announced.

I had just put an entire unopened bag of new socks in her sock drawer. I couldn't wait for Christmas mostly because Ash had just explained to us that Santa no longer gives coal to the naughty, he gives socks and I thought it best to avoid a philiosphical panel discussion on the naughty v. nice and coal v. socks with that 4 year old. "Socks are in the top drawer," I yelled from the bedroom.

B opened her sock drawer and said, "Oh would you look at this: Brand New Socks!"

"Ohhhhhh, Oh, Oh, Ho," she exclaimed and actually giggled. Apparently new socks in a drawer is a good present.

I hear B opening the package and asked, 'What color would you like to wear? White? Blue? Pink?"

I yell again, "She's wearing a blue top!"

"Pink!" The girl said, as if her voice could actually dance."Dark Pink."

"White or blue," I said loudly and quite ignored.

"Dark pink it is," said B.

Then I heard them talking about how great the socks were. Soft and the right size and beautiful and dark pink and cushy and cute and new!

Not long after, Ash pranced up to me, stamped her socked and Mary Janed foot on the floor. "Look at me, Mommy! Look at my socks!"

I looked down at the dark pink staring at me through the opening on the top of he shoe. I whispered, 'But you're wearing a blue top and jeans."

"But Mommy, these are pink and fabweus. I am so adorable."

That she was, even though she was wearing a blue top.

Later the night, still enamored with her outfit, she asked if she could wear the entire ensemble to bed. Sure, why not.

it was the food

Last night at dinner, the just four-year-old Ash was hesitant to finish eating actual food, because before her on the table was a very small slice of chocolate cake. As she took the tiniest of bites from her plate, she kept a keen eye on the cake, which was almost so thinly sliced that you could actually see through it. But nonetheless, it had captivated her and promised her a sweet taste sensation.

Then, almost as if an actual lightbulb flashed over her head, she paused, shifted her eyes from the cake to me and back to the cake and back to me. The wheels were indeed churning. "Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom."

She was there and back in a flash. As she approached the table, she announced, "Mommy, I think the food you gave me made my arms hurt." Then she hugged herself tight. "My arms hurt. It was the food."

"Oh no," I gasped, "not the food."

She titled her head to the side and nodded, and gave me an affirming smile. "Yup."

"Well the only cure that I know of is to not give you any more food."

Her smile faded. She looked at the cake, "No more food?"

"No more food," I said sympathetically.

"No more food," she repeated quietly to herself.

"Are you sure it was the food? Could it possibly be something else that made your arms hurt?"

She whipped her head toward me, eyes wide, mouth opened. "I don't think it was the food. No, not the food. I think..."she stated excitedly and looked at her arms where just a few days before three bandaids resided, "...I think it was the bandaids. Yes, Yes! It was the bandaids that made my arms hurt."

"Phew," I said wiping my brow and looking at my plate and then at the beckoning, decadent chocolate cake. I think my arms began to hurt a little too! "I'm glad it wasn't the food."

mistaken identity, but not in the good way

Today, I talked to a collector who called to collect on a school loan from Colorado State University in the amount of $34,750 and some pennies. It’s funny that I never remember attending CSU or racking up thousands on campus. I don’t have a CSU sweatshirt that says I was even there.

“Impossible,” I said.

I told the collector, who pressed me hard for the funds, that she must have the wrong person. The only school I attended in Colorado was Air Academy Junior High School in the 1980s, and as I remember it was a publicly funded institution.

“What year were you born?” she asked accusingly.

The pre-disco era number rolled off my tongue smoothly in adamant reply. “But wait, you mean to tell me there’s another Kat Groshong and she lived in Colorado, too?”

Apparently yes. And she still thought that she is me. The collector pressed me even more for information. And I, no longer amused, explained to her that I attended college in California, unfettered from student loans. I remember those years, mostly, and I have a faded sweatshirt and alumni association membership card to prove that I was there. I offered to send her a picture of me in the sweatshirt, but she said no. I also offered to send her a junior high yearbook picture. Again, no.

The only way to removed all doubt was to divulge something so personal that I shuddered at its very thought. I spat the first three digits of my social security number at her. And that was all it took. As of today, all my personal information has been removed from the file – including B’s work number where they originally tried to call me.

This got me thinking. I know of another Kat Groshong, I met on Facebook. Different first name spelling. And apparently there are two others that I know of, who date me by a few years. One is a gallery artist in Canada and the other lives some place in the South. And yet, there is one more who, according to what is being said, got a high-priced education in the Rocky Mountain State. I don’t think her degree was in finance. But, if you are Kat Groshong from CSU, they’re looking for you.

on the edge

B said that the dog drives me to the edge and then the girl pushes me over. I think the truth is they hold secret meetings to decide who gets to drive and who gets to do the push. The other day I heard something behind me. When I turned around I saw a pickup truck with a snow shovel attachement and all three of them had their faces pressed up to the windshield.

the lazy dog

This morning, my not-quite-four-year-old, sat on her bed having a conversation with her “husband”, not quite imaginary and not quite alive. Her conversation started politely enough but soon a full-on spousal spat ensued.

“Shawn, you lazy dog,” she snapped. Fair enough, Shawn is in fact a 2 foot, pink and purple dog who doesn’t contribute much to the family. “You’re wasting my time.” She yelled.

Shawn sat quietly, obviously giving much consideration to her accusations and what his reply might be.

Finally in exasperation, she huffed, then sighed deeply, threw her hands in the air and stormed out of the room.

I held in both my laughter and my dismay. Where did she come up with that? Me? To my knowledge, I have never called B a lazy dog. I’ve never told him he’s wasting my time. I may have thrown my hands in the air, and I have most likely stormed out of a room or two.

After lunch, I found Shawn sitting in my desk chair, perched over the computer keyboard. He was browsing matchmate.com. The two of them have yet to reconcile.

another brief conversation

Outside, heavy sleet & rain. Us in the car. The conversation went like this:
Me: I want to get Ash some rain slicker boots. And me, too.
B: What are rain slicker boots?
Me: You know, rain boots.
B: No.
Me: Rubber boots that you walk around outside in the rain.
B: Never heard of them.
Me: Yes, you have.
B: No.
Me: You had them when you were a kid. Yellow galoshes.
B: Oh, why didn't you say so. Galoshes.
[He turns the windshield wipers on full]
B:Why do you need 'em?

a brief conversation at lunch

B: Know what I'm thinking?
Me: No. What?
Long silence.
B:What?

dinner

Tonight we had chocolate fondue for dinner. Really, chocolate fondue for dinner. Nothing else. Chocolate and stuff to dip in it. I must be the best mom and wife in the world.

nicknames

Ash has a new nickname for B, "Thunderpants." Is there anything more to be said?

found and lost

Last week B and I found ourselves in New York City. It’s not like we suddenly woke up from an unknowing slumber in a strange and distant land, or that we were on a walkabout and this was our final destination. This journey was planned. In fact in the days leading to the BIG day, we spent time looking at maps and ferry and bus schedules, so much so that when the BIG day finally arrived, we were very confident that we could navigate our way across the island of Manhattan with ease. It was almost as though we felt we ourselves were New Yorkers. Oh, yes, residents. Nay, natives.

Admittedly, everything went smooth, from our timely departure from Pennsylvania to the I78 Express merge to Jersey City to finding parking and the Paulus Hook ferry dock. We even have the pictures to prove it.

The dual process of catching the ferry and then catching the corresponding NY Waterways bus on West Street to midtown was seamless. Our BIG day was perfect. We arrived at the Imperial Dock at 40th a mere 45 minutes after we parked the car in New Jersey. After that we walked to Times Square to lose ourselves in the grandeur of the City.

We spent hours walking and eating. All was going according to plan. And then when it was time to make our way back to the car via a bus and a ferry, we walked to exact spot the map indicated on the corners of 42nd and 7th. We squinted and discussed and finally decided that where we stood was the NY Waterways bus would appear to start us on the journey home. We looked up confidently from the map, smiles as broad as our faces, and that’s when we saw the bus on the other side of the street and our smiles drooped just a little. We ran. The bus left. Once on the other side of the road, not so confident but still hopeful, we looked up again just in time to see the bus on the other side of the street. We ran again. The bus left.

Out of breath and just a little confused, we did this another two times before we finally met the bus on the south side of the street where the driver, who didn’t stop when we hailed him in the appropriate taxi-cab style described by the bus schedule pamphlet, flipped his hand to indicate this bus stopped on the north side of the street.

We crossed the road once more. We caught the bus. We went home. In the end, we weren’t sure if we were lost or found.

more laundry

A friend of mine posted that she was contemplating her overflowing laundry baskets. I could identify. I stood in the laundry room and stared at the clothes lying prostrate and surrounding the washing machine as though they had come to Mecca. What finally guilted me to take action, actually turn on the machine and send the clothes to cleaning Nirvana was the fact that I took B's last pair of clean socks from his drawer this morning so that I would have clean and cushy socks for my workout (and B I know you're gonna see this. Don't worry, you'll have all sorts of clean socks by the time you get home. No guarantee they'll be folded, though.)

smell this

The other day while we were sitting in the living room, B points to the pants he was wearing and says to me, “I think these need to be washed.” His statement was almost immediately followed with, “Smell them.”

Normally, I would wrinkle my nose, tighten my mouth and vigorously shake my head. Instead, I got up from my chair walked over to him and smelled his pants. He was right. They desperately needed to be washed. However, I wasn’t in the mood to do laundry, so I shrugged my shoulders and sat back down, way across the room.

Then he says, “Really?”
I shrugged my shoulders again and turned back to my book.

Next time, no actual evidence will be required. If he says something needs to be washed, I'll demand he remove the offending article immediately.