- Jan 15, 2024
Here’s 37 seconds’ worth of scoop for you…to respect your time while also honoring a promise to myself to share one blog post a month throughout 2024.
(Rumor has it, today's average blog reader likes their posts short and sweet, as in 37 seconds sweet. To which I say, I'm more of a 60-second gal. But I can only try.)
So...if our 37 seconds haven't run out, I’d like to carry on the tradition of sharing my Word of the Year each January, which is now.
Interestingly, that's my 2024 word as well: NOW.
Here are some things I hope NOW will remind me to do this year:
Savor the present. Except during visits for root canals or mammograms, in which case this bullet point is null and void.
Stop procrastinating.
Seize opportunities. Even—or maybe especially?—those that scare me.
Nurture my sense of gratitude. I can be pissed that I’m old and my bones creak, or grateful I woke up to see another day. Okay, granted, I can sometimes be both. Ultimately, though, the choice is mine.
Continue to grow. Not by focusing on the past or the future. Growth happens in the present. NOW.
Strengthen my connections. Love big. Be present for others. NOW.
And that’s all, y’all. For NOW. Unless you have another 37 seconds….
If that’s the case, I’d love you to go to the comments and tell me: What’s YOUR 2024 Word of the Year?
(And as always, please sign up for my newsletter if you haven’t already done so. NOW.)
One of my favorite things this December has been walking my granddaughter to the bus on mornings so crisp I can see her breath in the air. She skips and sings and hoots a reply to an owl in the distance. Before crossing the street, she shoots a grin at a twelve-foot skeleton left up from Halloween, looming in a neighbor’s yard across from the park. Now donned in a red skirt and Mrs. Claus cap, Skelley’s bony arms cradle a strand of bright lights, apropos for this season of the year.
Recently, Skelley’s homeowners, somewhat taken aback, used our neighborhood’s Facebook page to share the content of an unsigned letter they got in the mail. The letter referenced their lighting display, deeming it somewhat “evil and demonic.”
That post provoked its own sizzles and pops. Dozens—and dozens—of neighbors weighed in. One or two suggested the display was, well, “dumb,” but an overwhelming majority said they found Skelley fun. Inoffensive. No one else mentioned finding it “evil” or “demonic.”
Skelley reminds me we all see the seasons differently. And by that I mean life, because life passes in seasons, too. Trends come and go, whether we’re talking about cars and hair styles or outside Christmas lights and décor.
When I was a kid, December meant colored lights on the bushes as well as a light-up plastic Santa and sleigh and reindeer up on the rooftop just so. My stepdad did all the work, but he drew the line when my mom asked for stringed lights to line the roof’s edge. “That would be tacky,” he told her.
At some point, probably during my own young-mom season of life, I cringed at all the outdoor Santa displays. What about Jesus being the reason for the season? Then I befriended a woman who’d converted from Catholicism to Judaism. Personally, she found all the outside December lights and decor tasteless.
Ouch. But that’s what she felt in that season. Her season.
These days, I bask in my glorious grandparent season. I don’t let the tangles and knots of the holiday lights stress me out too much. Granted, I am still struggling to warm to all the new-fangled inflatables. I know, I know, a lot of folks love ‘em. Maybe it’s because I’m older—or as my granddaughter’s learned to phrase it, golden—but in my mind, inflatables are the mullet hairstyle of holiday lighting. With luck, they’re just a fad that will pass. Eventually. God willing. Maybe they’ll even stay good and gone. Unlike the mullet.
This season, though, what the heck? Bring on the inflatables…the abundance of lights…Skelley and Santa. The Nativity, too, please. (Although, I confess, I struggle with questions about that in this latest season of mine. Like, why do we celebrate Jesus’s birth in the winter instead of the spring? And how is it Mary and Joseph, despite their long journey, remain so clean? And Caucasian?)
But enough already. I count myself lucky to celebrate yet another season. I’m happy to string my white lights and fake greenery, even if down the street, Skelley stands prouder, her light strand more vibrant and fun. So be it. We don’t have to decorate cookie-cutter style in this ‘hood.
And that, my friend, is just one sweet thing I'm celebrating during this joyful season.
What is it about condoms that makes me giggle? Certainly not their importance or efficacy.
As a mom of three grown adults, I remember cringing more than laughing back in their teenage days, when Santa tucked a condom into each of their Christmas stockings.
“I’d rather you not need them,” I said. “But for heaven’s sake, if you’re going to do it, make sure you are safe.”
It’s been a lotta years since I—er, Santa—stuffed those kids’ stockings with golden protection. In fact, I haven’t walked down a condom aisle at the grocery store since, well, let’s see, maybe 2007?
So when I found myself on a mission recently—in search of unlubricated condoms, no less—I felt rusty about my skillset in picking them out. And, I confess, a little giggly, too. That’s why I asked the Riceman to help me.
“I am not going to buy your condoms for you,” he said in a huff.
True, the condoms were for me, or rather for my boat, which I was getting ready to winterize. Rice is a landlubber so I often ask our daughter Alex, rather than her father, to help me remove the battery for winter and wrap the remaining electrical cables in Ziploc bags.
“At my age!” Rice wasn’t about to let this go. “What will people think?”
I would’ve thought he’d be flattered, having the sales folks at Publix think of him and condoms in the same sentence. Especially at his age. Never mind, though. I’m starting to creep myself out. Let’s move on.
To Rice’s credit, when he came home from Publix, he told me he had, in fact, searched the pharmacy aisles while waiting for his prescription.
“No luck,” he said. “And before you accuse me of looking ‘like a man,’”—in our house, that means barely looking—“I went so far as to ask the cashier about them at checkout time.”
The cashier confirmed what Rice suspected. The grocery store didn’t carry unlubricated condoms. That’s Rice’s story, at least, and for the sake of family unity, I didn’t press further.
But…back to the post autumn equinox condom caper. I needed those condoms damned quick, as I wanted to winterize the boat the next day. So I texted Alex for help. After all, she’s the one who told me that unlubricated condoms are often used by audio operators working out in the elements. If they’re good for protecting audio cords, why not boat cables?
Our text thread follows:
Me: Dad’s having trouble (and moments of embarrassment) trying to find unlubricated condoms.
Her: That’s because they should never be used (outside of audio work.)
Me: So…where do you suggest I get ‘em?
Her: Are you asking your lesbian daughter where to buy condoms?
Me: Yes! Since she’s the one who suggested I get them in the first place.
After several minutes, she texted me back again.
Her: Called my audio buddy. He says they’re increasingly hard to find. He’s going to send me a number to an audio place that might know. But I wouldn’t stress if we can’t get them. I just thought they might work better than Ziploc bags.
The next day, Alex met me at the dock, five packs of unlubricated condoms in hand.
“What do I owe you?” I asked, wondering why we needed five.
“This round’s on me,” she said. “But just FYI, they’re available on-line in bulk. Fifty for fifteen bucks.”
Interesting, but most likely moot. This round I needed only two. At two per year, a bulk purchase would reap twenty-five years’ worth of condoms, likely outliving my boat. Or worse, they’d disintegrate before I could even try to give them away.
But…may I say this? Those babies worked like a charm. When I wrapped one around two electrical cables, they stretched out as needed, which was a lot. And when I wanted that same condom extra snug to form a seal with electrical tape around the cables…well, I felt more confident than I have in years.
“Will you have the same guys tune the boat next spring?” Alex asked as I wrapped the second set of cables.
“Probably,” I said. “They did a good job last year.”
“Do you plan to let them know what they’ll find when they go to put a new battery in?”
“They’ve probably seen it all before.” I shrugged. “But…I might tell them that if they like my water-safe set-up, then I’m their gal.” I grinned. “I know how to get those unlubed babies in bulk for cheap, after all.”
