This wonderful Christmas holiday
Noise bothers me. I like silence. Really, I crave silence. Which is why I really need to move away from my current apartment so badly. But there are so many other reasons.
I have been finding myself spending a lot of time with ixchelmala lately, mostly because my apartment is in a scary neighborhood. Besides, she makes good company. Another problem in my apartment is that it has a space heater in the hallway, but I can't get any heat unless I leave my door open at night. But the 2nd roommate, who lives in the living room, plays music on his computer late at night, and it bothers me, so I have to keep the door closed. I have two large windows looking out over the ghetto, and the insulation in the building and in the glass is piss-poor. The street where my apartment sits is a long straightaway in a poor neighborhood, where cars regularly blaze through at twice the legal speeds, and haven't been tuned up in 12 months or are equipped with low-quality aftermarket tailpipes that are just overpriced noisemakers. And there are cars on the street with ultra-sensitive alarms that go off every time one of these angry hornets buzzes down the street.
What does this all have to do with Christmas? Well, for one, I spent two nights in a row at ix's place. I like staying here because her place is warm (central heating) and quiet (near the beach in a small town with almost no traffic on her street after hours).
I like warm, quiet places. That's what Christmas is all about. Being with someone you love in a warm, quiet place, gazing at a fire or looking at the pretty lights or watching a movie. It's a nice feeling.
This Christmas, Milly and I were invited to attend a Christmas party (on the 23rd) with my dad's family. Each of his siblings has had an average of 3.5 children, and some of those children brought their girlfriends or wives. The married ones have at least two kids in tow...and you see how crazy this is getting. We had about 35 people in the kitchen, formal living room and recreation room, with lots and lots of amazing food. Milly and I worked the room, announcing our engagement to various members of the family. Some mentioned having heard a whisper of good news (probably from my father, but I didn't think to ask). They were all happy for us and many of the ladies gave compliments about her sapphire ring.
Good times were had by all, and we received Christmas gifts from other family members.
Later that night, we decided to continue a mutual family tradition of opening one Christmas gift on XMas Eve. I opened my family's present--a new pair of men's sleepwear (cozy jammies)--and Milly opened her gift from my parents. Actually, I guess that it was from my mother, who wrote the tag on the wrapping paper. If she is the author of the tag, then she is the giver of the gift. Milly fully expected the present -- which felt like a piece of framed artwork -- to be something safe and well-intentioned, like a picture of Jesus or The Temple.
Before she opened the present, the expression on her face was that of uncertaintly, apprehension, curiosity and skepticism, with a slight sense of wonder at the mystery of this gift. It still baffled her that my mother was getting a gift at all, considering the relative lack of relationship between them.
When Milly opened the present, the artwork opened up to face her; I saw only the back side. I admired the exquisite hand-carved wood. Milly's face changed from curious and skeptical to shock, disbelief, surprise, joy, denial, amazement, heartbreak, and at last, happiness. Bittersweet tears rolled down her cheeks, and I asked what was the matter. Without so much as a word, she turned the artwork around to reveal two beautifully framed and matted photographs: an old cathedral, and a brass lion's head door knocker covered with the patina of a hundred years. These images were oddly familiar; and then I recognized them immediately. They were MY pictures of Guatemala. Milly and I were together when I took those pictures.
I was amazed at the thoughtfulness of this gift, and the effort that Mom took to produce such a beautiful present.
We visited Milly's parents on Christmas Eve, where Milly spent time with her mother making a chocolate devil's food bundt cake. The recipe was easy, and it smelled great coming out of the oven. When it came time to serve the cake, it had to be turned over one more time. Milly insisted on using a knife to level the bottom of the cake, which was now upside down as it had been released from the bundt cake pan. The three of us all yelled at her to leave it alone, and that if she tried to cut it she would end up breaking it. She ignored our pleas and continued preparing to mutilate the dessert.
Just then, Milly's father made a desperate attempt to rescue the cake from its demise at her hands. He lunged across the table and snatched the cake. We never expected an 80-year old emphyzematic double heart attack sufferer to move so quickly. He was about to drop the cake onto his plate, when it suddenly crumbled in mid-flight. The cake was destroyed. The irony was delicious. Milly tried to blame it on me, since I raised the first objections about the cake. I rebuffed her futile attempts to redirect her frustrations. ;-)
On Christmas morning, we got up super-early and went to my aunt's house for Christmas Breakfast and Secret Santa Gift Exchange. Bit of backstory: We had been playing Secret Santa all month, and I was supposed to get my older cousin a bottle of Southern Comfort Whiskey. The only place I knew that carried anything alcoholic was Beverages and More, and I had never set foot in a liquor store. I found one near my apartment, in Torrance. I parked the car, got out and walked through the sliding doors. A vast array of alcoholic beverages lay before me. I had stepped into Pleasure Island, and I was Pinocchio, innocent and naïve. The expanse of liquor was beyond my comprehension, escaped all description. No...words! Poetry! They should have sent...a poet! I wandered aimlessly through the aisles, searching for this mysterious fire water. I dared not to ask any questions, for that would belie my innocence. At long last, I found it: a small bottle of brown liquid that was described as "Southern Comfort Whiskey, 100 Proof, (50% Alcohol by Volume.)" It was locked behind a glass case, and I didn't want to ask a sales associate to remove the bottle for me. I took the easy way out by purchasing a gift card and wrapping it in a small box.
That morning, my cousin opened his present; he was both pleased and surprised. He exclaimed, "You actually went into a liquor store?!?" This was strange to him, because he knows that my religion prohibits the consumption of alcohol.
So I had a great Christmas! How was yours?
I have been finding myself spending a lot of time with ixchelmala lately, mostly because my apartment is in a scary neighborhood. Besides, she makes good company. Another problem in my apartment is that it has a space heater in the hallway, but I can't get any heat unless I leave my door open at night. But the 2nd roommate, who lives in the living room, plays music on his computer late at night, and it bothers me, so I have to keep the door closed. I have two large windows looking out over the ghetto, and the insulation in the building and in the glass is piss-poor. The street where my apartment sits is a long straightaway in a poor neighborhood, where cars regularly blaze through at twice the legal speeds, and haven't been tuned up in 12 months or are equipped with low-quality aftermarket tailpipes that are just overpriced noisemakers. And there are cars on the street with ultra-sensitive alarms that go off every time one of these angry hornets buzzes down the street.
What does this all have to do with Christmas? Well, for one, I spent two nights in a row at ix's place. I like staying here because her place is warm (central heating) and quiet (near the beach in a small town with almost no traffic on her street after hours).
I like warm, quiet places. That's what Christmas is all about. Being with someone you love in a warm, quiet place, gazing at a fire or looking at the pretty lights or watching a movie. It's a nice feeling.
This Christmas, Milly and I were invited to attend a Christmas party (on the 23rd) with my dad's family. Each of his siblings has had an average of 3.5 children, and some of those children brought their girlfriends or wives. The married ones have at least two kids in tow...and you see how crazy this is getting. We had about 35 people in the kitchen, formal living room and recreation room, with lots and lots of amazing food. Milly and I worked the room, announcing our engagement to various members of the family. Some mentioned having heard a whisper of good news (probably from my father, but I didn't think to ask). They were all happy for us and many of the ladies gave compliments about her sapphire ring.
Good times were had by all, and we received Christmas gifts from other family members.
Later that night, we decided to continue a mutual family tradition of opening one Christmas gift on XMas Eve. I opened my family's present--a new pair of men's sleepwear (cozy jammies)--and Milly opened her gift from my parents. Actually, I guess that it was from my mother, who wrote the tag on the wrapping paper. If she is the author of the tag, then she is the giver of the gift. Milly fully expected the present -- which felt like a piece of framed artwork -- to be something safe and well-intentioned, like a picture of Jesus or The Temple.
Before she opened the present, the expression on her face was that of uncertaintly, apprehension, curiosity and skepticism, with a slight sense of wonder at the mystery of this gift. It still baffled her that my mother was getting a gift at all, considering the relative lack of relationship between them.
When Milly opened the present, the artwork opened up to face her; I saw only the back side. I admired the exquisite hand-carved wood. Milly's face changed from curious and skeptical to shock, disbelief, surprise, joy, denial, amazement, heartbreak, and at last, happiness. Bittersweet tears rolled down her cheeks, and I asked what was the matter. Without so much as a word, she turned the artwork around to reveal two beautifully framed and matted photographs: an old cathedral, and a brass lion's head door knocker covered with the patina of a hundred years. These images were oddly familiar; and then I recognized them immediately. They were MY pictures of Guatemala. Milly and I were together when I took those pictures.
I was amazed at the thoughtfulness of this gift, and the effort that Mom took to produce such a beautiful present.
We visited Milly's parents on Christmas Eve, where Milly spent time with her mother making a chocolate devil's food bundt cake. The recipe was easy, and it smelled great coming out of the oven. When it came time to serve the cake, it had to be turned over one more time. Milly insisted on using a knife to level the bottom of the cake, which was now upside down as it had been released from the bundt cake pan. The three of us all yelled at her to leave it alone, and that if she tried to cut it she would end up breaking it. She ignored our pleas and continued preparing to mutilate the dessert.
Just then, Milly's father made a desperate attempt to rescue the cake from its demise at her hands. He lunged across the table and snatched the cake. We never expected an 80-year old emphyzematic double heart attack sufferer to move so quickly. He was about to drop the cake onto his plate, when it suddenly crumbled in mid-flight. The cake was destroyed. The irony was delicious. Milly tried to blame it on me, since I raised the first objections about the cake. I rebuffed her futile attempts to redirect her frustrations. ;-)
On Christmas morning, we got up super-early and went to my aunt's house for Christmas Breakfast and Secret Santa Gift Exchange. Bit of backstory: We had been playing Secret Santa all month, and I was supposed to get my older cousin a bottle of Southern Comfort Whiskey. The only place I knew that carried anything alcoholic was Beverages and More, and I had never set foot in a liquor store. I found one near my apartment, in Torrance. I parked the car, got out and walked through the sliding doors. A vast array of alcoholic beverages lay before me. I had stepped into Pleasure Island, and I was Pinocchio, innocent and naïve. The expanse of liquor was beyond my comprehension, escaped all description. No...words! Poetry! They should have sent...a poet! I wandered aimlessly through the aisles, searching for this mysterious fire water. I dared not to ask any questions, for that would belie my innocence. At long last, I found it: a small bottle of brown liquid that was described as "Southern Comfort Whiskey, 100 Proof, (50% Alcohol by Volume.)" It was locked behind a glass case, and I didn't want to ask a sales associate to remove the bottle for me. I took the easy way out by purchasing a gift card and wrapping it in a small box.
That morning, my cousin opened his present; he was both pleased and surprised. He exclaimed, "You actually went into a liquor store?!?" This was strange to him, because he knows that my religion prohibits the consumption of alcohol.
So I had a great Christmas! How was yours?