Envy is one of the more disturbing emotions humans wrestle with. I say this because I carry a cold belly-full of it once a week.
As a writer, I've felt mild doses of jealousy for others' accomplishments before. I'm not proud to say that, but it's true. But, that's generally fleeting, and I can't recall ever begrudging another writer, any writer, success. Maybe it's because I know how tough it is to get anywhere, so I'm happy and heartened when I see people succeeding in this field. Like, okay, it might be mildly annoying that Paris Hilton got a book deal. But then I think, well, someone else, some WRITER actually wrote the damn thing, and I'm sure they got a handsome payday for it! So it's really not tragic.
Professionally, I don't have any envy. I don't know why. Maybe because I don't care all that much.
Personally, though I get lonely sometimes, I don't envy happy couples, because I've made my choices and I don't regret the ones I've made. Okay. On Valentine's Day I envy happy couples. A lot. But, you know, c'mon.
Money isn't really a hot button for me either. Sure, I'd like more money, who wouldn't? But I'm not really a "thing" person. I don't care about clothes or jewelry or cars so much. I can appreciate some of the stuff, but I don't have an overwhelming desire to possess most things. The only thing I'd like more money for would be so I could travel more. But I've been busy lately and wouldn't be able to get away anyhow. Don't get me wrong. It makes me mentally ill that some people are rich fucks for no apparent reason. But that's bound to happen. And it gives me something to hate on to pass the downtime.
But, oh, despite all these rationalizations and sublimations, I am not the breezy, magnanimous, and cheerful person I wish I could be. Because I do harbor envy. LOTS of it. And it comes frothing out every Saturday at noon. I actually plan my day so that I can do this to myself. If I get up early enough, I go to the gym and make sure I'm home by 11:55. If I sleep late, I put off the gym until later and loiter long enough around the house until it's time to flip on the TV at noon.
And that's when I do it to myself.
I flip to the Food Network and watch Everyday Italian. The host/chef on this show is Giada De Laurentiis, and she makes me fucking insane with envy.
I mean, we're not talking pangs of jealousy here. We're talking full-blown, yelling at the TV, slithering through my veins until it settles in the pit of my stomach, squirming and cold and nauseating envy.
WHY HER????
I just can't fucking stand it.
And I can't NOT watch it.
Fucking Giada De Laurentiis with her million-watt, perfect fake smile. I swear, it looks like she's got an electric wire shoved up her ass as she blasts that fake smile while cooking and oozing her contemptibly aristocratic, exaggerated Roman accent when she speaks of certain ethnic foods. Seriously, have you heard her pronounce "spaghetti"? It's fucking appalling.
And now the Food Network has upped the ante, and doubled my hate factor on her. I thought I'd hit the apex when they sent her on a trip to Rome. And then, they made it worse by sending her ALL over Italy. She strutted around bragging about her grandmother and couldn't stop name-dropping her grandfather at every other street corner. BUT SHE WAS THERE AND I WASN'T! Coozing her way all across Europe on a high-falutin' per diem from Food Network.
Again -- WHY HER???
But now the stakes have risen, and they've given her a whole new show, a whole new way for me to torture myself on Wednesday nights. "Behind the Bash". That's right. Food Network now sends saccharine Giada tromping all across the country to all these swank soirees where she gets to eat the food and drink the booze before the partygoers. And then, of course, because she's Giada and she thinks she's so fucking glamorous, she then hangs out at the parties in her best evening wear.
It makes me sick. SICK.
And I can't stop watching.
And then as an added stab to my heart they had on some special dessert competition last weekend from Las Vegas -- and Giada was the host for it. DESSERTS. VEGAS. And I wasn't there. And she was.
I hope she enjoys her life. Because it's the life I wish I was living, and I know I never will. The best I can do is sit down and choke it back as I watch her schmooze it up.
As an added little shot of envy, she has a cookbook.
Current Amazon ranking: #102
My books?
24/7 current ranking: 252,710*
Trattoria current ranking: 622,255*
And my books have SEX in them!!
* -- I'm quite certain these will be even lower if you click the link
Oh! And one more thing. She did a special Christmas show, where she cooked Christmas dinner for whole family -- and she used STORE-BOUGHT JARRED SAUCE. I can't even begin to express to you how WRONG that is. It'd be so many shades of wrong for any self-respecting American-Italian to serve commercial jarred sauce to their entire family at Christmas. But for a chef? Bitch, please.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
For Me It's You
Train's latest CD goes on sale tomorrow. You can Amazon it here: For Me It's You. It's great. Check it out.
Funny, smart, hot, expired
This just in from Salon: Funny women a turnoff for men.
*sigh*
Naturally, I'll capitulate and qualify everything first:
1) I don't fancy myself as funny. But someday, I'd like to be funny.
2) Yes, I realize most of these "studies" are seriously circumspect.
But are there any other Salon readers out there? If so, do you bother to even skim the new "letters" format? A while back, Salon underwent a horrible, nearly disfiguring facelift that makes site navigation fairly sucky, and went with a blog approach. In this facelift, they did away with letters to the editor and replaced that with comments on the blog articles.
The vitriol that female writers inspire in these comments is jaw-dropping. Seriously. Be it the outlandish Ayelet Waldman or the more flouncy (and seemingly harmless) Rebecca Traister or Ann Marlowe, when there's an article from a woman, and especially if that article relates to anything regarding sex, love, motherhood, feminism or the like, the backlash is nearly staggering. Always, always there's some assclowns (hopefully the same few assclowns) repeating the same things. They always say that the female writers are:
1) Untalented
2) Boring
3) Narcissists
and then they really rev up with these insults:
4) they're old and "expired"
5) they aren't hot
6) they're deluded or stupid (or both)
It's very depressing, and yet, kind of funny. The repetition and vehement backlash is so over-the-top it's nearly a farce.
*sigh*
Naturally, I'll capitulate and qualify everything first:
1) I don't fancy myself as funny. But someday, I'd like to be funny.
2) Yes, I realize most of these "studies" are seriously circumspect.
But are there any other Salon readers out there? If so, do you bother to even skim the new "letters" format? A while back, Salon underwent a horrible, nearly disfiguring facelift that makes site navigation fairly sucky, and went with a blog approach. In this facelift, they did away with letters to the editor and replaced that with comments on the blog articles.
The vitriol that female writers inspire in these comments is jaw-dropping. Seriously. Be it the outlandish Ayelet Waldman or the more flouncy (and seemingly harmless) Rebecca Traister or Ann Marlowe, when there's an article from a woman, and especially if that article relates to anything regarding sex, love, motherhood, feminism or the like, the backlash is nearly staggering. Always, always there's some assclowns (hopefully the same few assclowns) repeating the same things. They always say that the female writers are:
1) Untalented
2) Boring
3) Narcissists
and then they really rev up with these insults:
4) they're old and "expired"
5) they aren't hot
6) they're deluded or stupid (or both)
It's very depressing, and yet, kind of funny. The repetition and vehement backlash is so over-the-top it's nearly a farce.
Friday, January 20, 2006
TQR
The premier issue of TQR: Total Quality Reading is now live! It features a marvelous lineup of stories, including my personal favorite, "Slayground" by Paul Finch.
Who's the ad genuis...
Have you seen this grotesque little commercial? It's the one that NBC is running nearly nonstop to promo the Olympics, but it's also promoting some gas-guzzling vehicle too. This is the commercial where the red, white, and blue body painted Americans unfortunately let one of their tribe fall through cracked ice and become frozen. But does that damper their gung-ho party in Torino? Hell no! They strap the frozen fucker to the top of their SUV and thrash through Italy enthusiastically cheering on their American team anyhow with pinhead babes commenting on how cute the frozen corpse in their midst is. Is that all? Oh no! They then proceed to scrape his frozen, blue flesh and eat it as a fucking snowcone!
Look man. I know some people get pissy about the Olympic coverage on NBC because it's so American centered. And it certainly is. But given our jingoist government these days, I certainly don't expect that to change this year. But isn't there still a line somewhere between brash, irrational patriotism and cannibalism?
Look man. I know some people get pissy about the Olympic coverage on NBC because it's so American centered. And it certainly is. But given our jingoist government these days, I certainly don't expect that to change this year. But isn't there still a line somewhere between brash, irrational patriotism and cannibalism?
Thursday, January 19, 2006
New FRiGG
The new issue of FRiGG is now online. It features fantastic artwork, and two stories by the beautiful Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz.
Congrats Lisa!
Lisa Renee Jones has just made her first major sale! It's to Avon, and it's for her novella "The Hottest One Night Stand". Congrats Lisa! It'll be fun to watch this woman's star rise.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Vanity
There are exceptions, but as a general rule of thumb, I don't like it when people share their dreams with me. I don't mean their aspirations, I mean their trippy little nighttime manifestations of their subconscious. If the person is a friend, or if it's lighthearted, that's fine. But I really dislike it when, say, a co-worker approaches me and says, "I had a dream about you last night!" I'll always ask them to please not tell me about it, but you know how people are. They'll insist on telling me. And always, always they tell it as though it's giving me some insight into myself.
Here's what they're not getting: It gives me no insight into myself. But it might give me a frightening insight into THEM. Perhaps in their dream I wasn't really "me", but I was symbolizing something else. Nevertheless, when the story is relayed it generally reveals that "I" did something to terrorize the person in the dream. This person is generally, for lack of a better term, my subordinate at work. So they've just given me a nice little peak into the fact that they resent me or fear me or whatever. I didn't want to know that. I could have enjoyed my day without hearing that in their most vulnerable state, while their psyche runs rampant, it conjures images of me with duck feet chasing them down a marshmallow staircase. Or, better yet, when I get the full blown resentment dream smashed in my face, like they dreamt that everyone in the office chipped in on a lottery ticket and it wasn't a winner so they threw it away and then I went to the trash and it magically materialized into a winner. I don't really need to know that's how they feel about me, dig? I'd rather cruise through my days at the office with a veneer of polite distance that's been burnished by my conscious and willful ignorance and aided by their sublimation.
But we can't have everything we want. I have to politely smile and then nod and then go "Oh! Ha!" and then tuck my head back down after they've (probably quite purposefully) unloaded this guilt-fest on me. Am I supposed to apologize to them? Because quite often, they stand there, waiting. Expectant. Am I supposed to say, "I'm sorry I had the winning lottery ticket"? Or am I supposed to say, "I'm sorry for anything I've done to make you resent me"?
That said, I'm going to share the discomfort!! Over the past six months, I've developed a recurring dream. In this dream, my teeth are crumbling and falling out, and I don't like it one bit. Basically, it's a psychology 101 dream: It signifies insecurity. I'm not about to lie and say I'm a fully secure person. But try this explanation, too. Seven months ago, I got my teeth fixed. Nothing vain, mind you. But when I was a teenager, I got a tooth knocked out while playing ball. Then, a couple years ago, the replacement tooth got knocked out. Instead of getting another bridge put in, the dentist decided to do a permanent implant. That's fine. Except that it took over a year. For a year, I walked around with no front tooth. I was *incredibly* self-conscious and insecure about it. It finally got fixed, and I'm very happy with the results. But a month or so after that, the crumbling teeth dream started.
I'm not so vain. If you've seen pictures of me, you'll understand why I'm not. But I am vain about my teeth, expecially now. So on nights when I'm disturbed or unhappy or when I've eaten tacos too late, I have this bad dream. I think it signifies insecurity, yes. But I think it signifies insecurity that my teeth are going to get fucked up again.
If the dream ever morphs into something where one of my co-workers is extracting my teeth, I'll be sure to not tell them about it.
Here's what they're not getting: It gives me no insight into myself. But it might give me a frightening insight into THEM. Perhaps in their dream I wasn't really "me", but I was symbolizing something else. Nevertheless, when the story is relayed it generally reveals that "I" did something to terrorize the person in the dream. This person is generally, for lack of a better term, my subordinate at work. So they've just given me a nice little peak into the fact that they resent me or fear me or whatever. I didn't want to know that. I could have enjoyed my day without hearing that in their most vulnerable state, while their psyche runs rampant, it conjures images of me with duck feet chasing them down a marshmallow staircase. Or, better yet, when I get the full blown resentment dream smashed in my face, like they dreamt that everyone in the office chipped in on a lottery ticket and it wasn't a winner so they threw it away and then I went to the trash and it magically materialized into a winner. I don't really need to know that's how they feel about me, dig? I'd rather cruise through my days at the office with a veneer of polite distance that's been burnished by my conscious and willful ignorance and aided by their sublimation.
But we can't have everything we want. I have to politely smile and then nod and then go "Oh! Ha!" and then tuck my head back down after they've (probably quite purposefully) unloaded this guilt-fest on me. Am I supposed to apologize to them? Because quite often, they stand there, waiting. Expectant. Am I supposed to say, "I'm sorry I had the winning lottery ticket"? Or am I supposed to say, "I'm sorry for anything I've done to make you resent me"?
That said, I'm going to share the discomfort!! Over the past six months, I've developed a recurring dream. In this dream, my teeth are crumbling and falling out, and I don't like it one bit. Basically, it's a psychology 101 dream: It signifies insecurity. I'm not about to lie and say I'm a fully secure person. But try this explanation, too. Seven months ago, I got my teeth fixed. Nothing vain, mind you. But when I was a teenager, I got a tooth knocked out while playing ball. Then, a couple years ago, the replacement tooth got knocked out. Instead of getting another bridge put in, the dentist decided to do a permanent implant. That's fine. Except that it took over a year. For a year, I walked around with no front tooth. I was *incredibly* self-conscious and insecure about it. It finally got fixed, and I'm very happy with the results. But a month or so after that, the crumbling teeth dream started.
I'm not so vain. If you've seen pictures of me, you'll understand why I'm not. But I am vain about my teeth, expecially now. So on nights when I'm disturbed or unhappy or when I've eaten tacos too late, I have this bad dream. I think it signifies insecurity, yes. But I think it signifies insecurity that my teeth are going to get fucked up again.
If the dream ever morphs into something where one of my co-workers is extracting my teeth, I'll be sure to not tell them about it.
Bestselling Title?
Found this nifty little link via Sharon Hurlbut's blog. You can find Sharon in the latest issue of Mad Hatter's Review with her poem "Mirrored Surfaces are Not to Be Trusted".
Want to know if the title of your novel has a good shot of being a bestseller based on its title? You can find out right here with the Lulu Titlescorer.
I didn't enter any of my old books, cause that's water under the bridge. But I did check out the titles for a couple of books I've got in the can that I'm hoping to sell. The one came up at 69% and the other at 59%. So apparently I'm much more talented at naming books than actually writing the freaking things.
Want to know if the title of your novel has a good shot of being a bestseller based on its title? You can find out right here with the Lulu Titlescorer.
I didn't enter any of my old books, cause that's water under the bridge. But I did check out the titles for a couple of books I've got in the can that I'm hoping to sell. The one came up at 69% and the other at 59%. So apparently I'm much more talented at naming books than actually writing the freaking things.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Congrats to Edward Moore!
His story "The Cornbin" took 3rd place in the Sudden Fiction contest for the Berkeley Fiction Review! They'll be publishing it in the spring.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
P&E Poll
Preditors & Editors is holding their annual writing poll again! And this year, not just one but TWO, count them TWO of my pals have been entered in the Short Story category. You can go right here to vote for your favorite. Both "Hadley" by Matt St. Amand and "Canada, Man, Canada!" by Steve Hansen are nominated, and both are excellent choices. Congrats to Matt and Steve!
And, in some self-serving promotion, I'm nommed, too! You can vote for me (or for someone else if you prefer) as author for 2005 and for both my books! Here's the links:
Trattoria for Romance Novel
24/7 for novel
me (Susan DiPlacido) for author
Thanks!
And, in some self-serving promotion, I'm nommed, too! You can vote for me (or for someone else if you prefer) as author for 2005 and for both my books! Here's the links:
Trattoria for Romance Novel
24/7 for novel
me (Susan DiPlacido) for author
Thanks!
Friday, January 06, 2006
Lou
I adored Lou Rawls. "Velvety" is a term that's overused to describe voices, but I think it fits his. Nobody's singing could put me in the mood like his. Back in the '70s, my dad moonlighted as a jazz DJ, and sometimes when they were in town the musicians would personally stop by to drop off their latest albums to him to butter him up for extra play. Once, Lou stopped by. He ended up hanging out for the whole show and my dad could never say enough about him. He was smart, with-it, and a pleasure to hang out with. Not only talented, he was one cool cat.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Trattoria -- new reviews
So it's a downer that Mutual Holdings is delayed, but I can't complain because I've been getting some late-season love for Trattoria recently, what with the RT nomination and now a couple of new reviews. Here's links to them in case you're interested:
New Review from The Muse
New Review from My Shelf
Thanks so much to the reviewers, Shelagh and Sarah!
New Review from The Muse
New Review from My Shelf
Thanks so much to the reviewers, Shelagh and Sarah!
Mutual Holdings -- Delayed
If anyone has made a special trip to Barnes & Noble to try and purchase my new book, Mutual Holdings, I owe you an apology because it's been delayed. I'm truly sorry if this made you go out of your way, but you're welcome to e-mail me and I'll try to make it up to you. I'm not sure when the new release date will be, but I'll be sure to post it here when it is actually available.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Happy New Year
2006. We'll see.
Here's a way to kick it off solid, with a fan-freaking-tastic piece of fiction. Red Roy by Tripp Reade.
Extra bonus for the pic of Tripp alongside the story! Funny thing, that picture. I've never seen Tripp before, but I pictured him, as I'm sure most of us picture people we correspond with. And, it's probably less than 50/50 that those mental images match up with what I'd mentally painted. And with Tripp, it did! He's even more adorable.
Here's a way to kick it off solid, with a fan-freaking-tastic piece of fiction. Red Roy by Tripp Reade.
Extra bonus for the pic of Tripp alongside the story! Funny thing, that picture. I've never seen Tripp before, but I pictured him, as I'm sure most of us picture people we correspond with. And, it's probably less than 50/50 that those mental images match up with what I'd mentally painted. And with Tripp, it did! He's even more adorable.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Romantic Times 2005 Reviewers Choice Awards
I am so stoked about this: Trattoria has been nominated for a Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award. (!!)
It's nominated for Best Small Press Romance. I am utterly shocked, and honored. Thanks so much to everyone at RT and especially the reviewers.
It's nominated for Best Small Press Romance. I am utterly shocked, and honored. Thanks so much to everyone at RT and especially the reviewers.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Congrats Collins!
One of the best (and most respected) lit magazines is Night Train. And I'm so pleased and proud to say that a writer that I know, Myfanwy Collins finaled in thier annual Richard Yates Short Story Award Competition with her story "Freak Magnet". An excellent story from a talented writer. Congrats, Myfanwy!
Crooner
At the risk of outing myself as a fan of things throwback, I'll note that this Christmas marks ten years exactly we've been without Dean Martin.
Sure, sure. I'm a big Sinatra fan, and of The Rat Pack in general. But Dino? He's the quintessential crooner, and sometimes, he even does it in Italian. This season, I've been listening to plenty of Christmas with Dino and have been really digging it. A boxer and a card shark, how could he not hold a special place in my heart?
Sure, sure. I'm a big Sinatra fan, and of The Rat Pack in general. But Dino? He's the quintessential crooner, and sometimes, he even does it in Italian. This season, I've been listening to plenty of Christmas with Dino and have been really digging it. A boxer and a card shark, how could he not hold a special place in my heart?
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Holiday traditions
In an utterly un-shocking revelation about myself, I'll share this with you: I'm Italian, and as such was raised Roman Catholic. Therefore, my family celebrates Christmas. When I was very young, we'd go to an annual Christmas Eve party at my parents' friends house. They'd have Santa come and hand out presents and they put out a great spread. To this day, those annual shindigs are the parties that I measure all others against. And there has never been anything I've seen that topped it. Alas, 'twas the '70s, when people knew how to put on their finery and drink and eat with reckless abandon.
When I got a bit older, we started going to mass at midnight. I always loved midnight mass, even when I was a particularly rambunctious teenager. We'd have our Christmas Eve feast at home and then me and my best friend used to drive all over the city checking out the Christmas lights in the late evening and then we'd procure the booze from somewhere and end up stumbling into mass and having to stand in the back because it was so crowded. Didn't matter, and I'm sure some people aren't so moved by the fact we attended mass with a glow on. I won't get all religious on you, but suffice to say that the candles and incense and the hush of the place, even with the fully packed house, always really symbolized the beauty of Christmas to me. It was profoundly peaceful. It was kind and thoughtful, and it was special, even if we were repeating essentially the same thing we repeated every Sunday, just many people around the world had been repeating for nearly a couple thousand years. There's something nearly supernaturally comforting and reassuring about a tradition like that. My friend, she's since moved down south and just this year had her first baby. So as I was out finishing shopping one night last week, I went on a detour and drove around checking out the lights by myself. Unfortunately, she was always the one with a good sense of direction and memory, so I couldn't find some of the best displays. And it wasn't nearly as much fun without her. But it was nice to do anyhow. For mass at midnight on Christmas Eve this year, there will be a different priest, but other than that, it will be the same as all those years ago.
Anyhow, from childhood all the way to my teens, not much changed about Christmas Day. When Christmas morning rolled around, there was always panetonne and presents, and then we'd start cooking and eating for the rest of the day. On Christmas night, my aunts, uncles and cousins would come over for dinner of stuffed shells and cherry dessert and whatever else, meaning plenty of booze like pina coladas for Christmas. 'Twas a joy.
With the advent of videotapes and then later DVDs, we'd always have Christmas movies playing in the background throughout the day. Our idea of Christmas movies is probably a little different than most. My dad's favorite was always 1941, while I was much more fond of Die Hard, and my poor mom was too busy to even consider leaving the kitchen. So we'd watch parts of both. Then, of course, The Godfather (both parts 1 and 2) would get slapped in and that'd pretty much eat up the whole rest of the day/evening while we'd sit around while the family came over and we'd start eating phenomenal food and then listen to Lou Rawls or Tony Bennett's Christmas albums, cause they're the best.
Then, once the 26th rolled around, we'd had our party where everyone had visited and eaten, and the rest of the week was utterly consumed with visiting everyone else's place and making sure we: 1) saw their tree, 2) ate their food, and 3) drank their booze. It was like this round-robin game of house-hopping every night. Even though we all saw each other at our house on the 25th, EVERYONE had to get to EVERYONE else's house at some point. But there were no other scheduled parties, so it was a week of slightly controlled chaos with calling and "dropping in" and whoosing around, eating Chex mix while pulling boots off and being banished to the basement with other kids and a cookie tray at some houses (which was good) as opposed to having to sit in the living room and listening to the adults talk over a cheese plate (which was very very bad and boring) and ooohing and aahing over the trees and checking out everyone's toys and avoiding my one aunt's diet cookies before pulling the boots back on and whooshing back out into the blowing snow to get to someone else's house where there'd be homemade wine and meatballs while people counted down, three, two, one -- corks popped at midnight and a whole new year had started and by then everyone's circadian rhythms were screwed from staying up so late and running around and eating so much and just when most people take a breath and rest for us it would all culminate on New Year's Night when there was the second "official" party of the season at my uncle's house where everyone gathered at the same time once more to have whiskey sours and ham and alfredo and all the cousins would be finished with their presents but when we'd finally careen home on the icy roads with less oscillating lights illuminating the streets as people turned off their decorations and then we'd go to sleep and wake up the next day and it would all be back to normal. No more rushing and no more visiting and no more fancy meals and no more cousins and no more trees. Back to routine. And that's fine, cause we all had jobs and lives and you can't really live in that sort of circus for longer than a week unless you're a rock star.
Anyhow. That was Christmastime for us. Nothing earthshattering, I know. But I enjoyed it. It was all so very merry.
I hope your last week of the year is filled with whatever makes you happy, be it food and family or drinks and decorations or watching The Godfather on DVD.
When I got a bit older, we started going to mass at midnight. I always loved midnight mass, even when I was a particularly rambunctious teenager. We'd have our Christmas Eve feast at home and then me and my best friend used to drive all over the city checking out the Christmas lights in the late evening and then we'd procure the booze from somewhere and end up stumbling into mass and having to stand in the back because it was so crowded. Didn't matter, and I'm sure some people aren't so moved by the fact we attended mass with a glow on. I won't get all religious on you, but suffice to say that the candles and incense and the hush of the place, even with the fully packed house, always really symbolized the beauty of Christmas to me. It was profoundly peaceful. It was kind and thoughtful, and it was special, even if we were repeating essentially the same thing we repeated every Sunday, just many people around the world had been repeating for nearly a couple thousand years. There's something nearly supernaturally comforting and reassuring about a tradition like that. My friend, she's since moved down south and just this year had her first baby. So as I was out finishing shopping one night last week, I went on a detour and drove around checking out the lights by myself. Unfortunately, she was always the one with a good sense of direction and memory, so I couldn't find some of the best displays. And it wasn't nearly as much fun without her. But it was nice to do anyhow. For mass at midnight on Christmas Eve this year, there will be a different priest, but other than that, it will be the same as all those years ago.
Anyhow, from childhood all the way to my teens, not much changed about Christmas Day. When Christmas morning rolled around, there was always panetonne and presents, and then we'd start cooking and eating for the rest of the day. On Christmas night, my aunts, uncles and cousins would come over for dinner of stuffed shells and cherry dessert and whatever else, meaning plenty of booze like pina coladas for Christmas. 'Twas a joy.
With the advent of videotapes and then later DVDs, we'd always have Christmas movies playing in the background throughout the day. Our idea of Christmas movies is probably a little different than most. My dad's favorite was always 1941, while I was much more fond of Die Hard, and my poor mom was too busy to even consider leaving the kitchen. So we'd watch parts of both. Then, of course, The Godfather (both parts 1 and 2) would get slapped in and that'd pretty much eat up the whole rest of the day/evening while we'd sit around while the family came over and we'd start eating phenomenal food and then listen to Lou Rawls or Tony Bennett's Christmas albums, cause they're the best.
Then, once the 26th rolled around, we'd had our party where everyone had visited and eaten, and the rest of the week was utterly consumed with visiting everyone else's place and making sure we: 1) saw their tree, 2) ate their food, and 3) drank their booze. It was like this round-robin game of house-hopping every night. Even though we all saw each other at our house on the 25th, EVERYONE had to get to EVERYONE else's house at some point. But there were no other scheduled parties, so it was a week of slightly controlled chaos with calling and "dropping in" and whoosing around, eating Chex mix while pulling boots off and being banished to the basement with other kids and a cookie tray at some houses (which was good) as opposed to having to sit in the living room and listening to the adults talk over a cheese plate (which was very very bad and boring) and ooohing and aahing over the trees and checking out everyone's toys and avoiding my one aunt's diet cookies before pulling the boots back on and whooshing back out into the blowing snow to get to someone else's house where there'd be homemade wine and meatballs while people counted down, three, two, one -- corks popped at midnight and a whole new year had started and by then everyone's circadian rhythms were screwed from staying up so late and running around and eating so much and just when most people take a breath and rest for us it would all culminate on New Year's Night when there was the second "official" party of the season at my uncle's house where everyone gathered at the same time once more to have whiskey sours and ham and alfredo and all the cousins would be finished with their presents but when we'd finally careen home on the icy roads with less oscillating lights illuminating the streets as people turned off their decorations and then we'd go to sleep and wake up the next day and it would all be back to normal. No more rushing and no more visiting and no more fancy meals and no more cousins and no more trees. Back to routine. And that's fine, cause we all had jobs and lives and you can't really live in that sort of circus for longer than a week unless you're a rock star.
Anyhow. That was Christmastime for us. Nothing earthshattering, I know. But I enjoyed it. It was all so very merry.
I hope your last week of the year is filled with whatever makes you happy, be it food and family or drinks and decorations or watching The Godfather on DVD.
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