A Cabbage Patch Christmas Special

It was December 1984. I was an eight-year old third grader dealing with a serious issue, and I needed some answers right away. Some of the kids in my class had started fairly somber discussions about the fact that Santa Claus may not actually be real. I joined in with a couple of the other believers, arguing the fact that Santa Claus did indeed exist and offering proof in the form of munched-on cookies that I had left for him last year and a pink bicycle under the tree that I was certain my single mother could not afford. This debate going down right in the middle of Mrs. Green’s class was a heated one, so much so, that I turned to my mother for some adult wisdom. I knew she would be straight with me.

However, instead of being straight with me when I asked her outright if there was a Santa, she pulled off a skilled move. “Do you think there’s a Santa?” she asked me in the way she had of always talking to children as if they were grown ups.

I thought about it a lot. What did I think? Was it possible that I had been a victim of a cruel prank each year for my entire life? Was my mom really the one putting the gifts under the tree each year like the kids were saying at school? It seemed totally plausible and absolutely impossible at the same time. That is when a genuine stroke of genius hit my tiny eight-year old brain.

The holiday season of 1984 went down in history as the year of the Cabbage Patch Kid. There were stories all over the news every evening about how the illusive dolls were impossible to find. Mothers and fathers were fighting and pushing and yelling in order to get their hands on one of the ugly things for their precious children. There were brawls in the aisles of K-Marts across the country, and footage on CBS of grownups playing angry games of tug-o-war with the innocent, dimpled cloth children. It was mayhem, and my little sister and I watched enrapt, totally impressed that a toy for kids our age could garner so much adult attention. The news stories were all saying the same thing: it was completely impossible to get a Cabbage Patch Kid.

I’d only seen one of them in person once. A girl in my class had one and brought in to show it off. It had blonde yarn hair with wide blue eyes and a blue and white checked dress reminiscent of Dorothy’s in the Wizard of Oz. I asked if I could hold the doll, and the girl was actually a real bitch about it, so I let it go. Some people’s kids. Either way, I knew we were kind of poor, so I understood that this was probably going to be as close to a real live Cabbage Patch Kid as I ever got. Until, of course, the aforementioned stroke of genius.

I told my mother right then, about two weeks before Christmas, that I would know there was a Santa Claus if I had a Cabbage Path Kid waiting under the tree for me that year. I even added on that my Cabbage Patch Kid would have green eyes like me, just to make sure that Santa, whoever he or she may be, knew that I meant business.

Had I been old enough to notice such things, I’m sure there was an obvious twinkle in my mother’s eye as I said this. I know the twinkle well from my older years, but as a kid, I just wasn’t as attuned to those nuances.

Sometime during the previous July, my mom had been out shopping while my sisters and I were at my dad’s for the weekend. She had picked up a couple of strange looking dolls on sale thinking that they might make cute Christmas gifts for me and my little sister. She stuck them up on the top shelf of her closet with a few other gifts that she had purchased throughout the year and there they sat. Those poor little Cabbage Patch Kids sat in the dark closet for the next six months, never realizing how popular they had become out in the real world. My mom just sat back and watched all the crazies with what could have only been a slightly smug look on her face.

On Christmas morning 1984, my sister and I ran down to the Christmas tree the way that small children are wont to do. We tore into our stockings and the piles of fabulous gifts under the tree. Among many other things, there were Cabbage Patch tee shirts and cassette tapes for each of us, and while I appreciated these items, I was still vocal about the fact that they did not count. Just as I was about to throw in the towel and write off Santa Claus for good, my mom pointed out two larger wrapped boxes, side-by-side, tucked at the very back of the tree against the wall. Bingo. I knew the shape of the box by heart. I grabbed my sister by the sleeve of her nightgown, “Courtney, look!”

Hungrily, we ripped the paper from our respective boxes. Two Cabbage Patch Kids with green eyes. Mine was a pigtailed redhead named Lee-Ann Lottie (scarily, this is what my real children may actually look like if I hang on to Mike). Courtney’s was a brunette who actually bore a striking resemblance to her. They had been delivered to us straight from Santa Claus, and we were basically the luckiest kids in the world at that very moment. It was a Christmas miracle right there in our little townhouse. Just for that last bit of proof, I pulled Lee-Ann from her box and yanked down her tiny pants. Sure enough, right across her right buttock was the signature. Xavier Roberts. It might as well have been signed by Santa himself; I was officially a believer again.

A few months later, because she felt it was time and because I was obviously a little too dense to figure it out on my own like all the other third graders, my mother explained to me how the whole Santa thing really worked. I took it sort of hard, but told her that I understood. She then asked me not to tell my sister, who was only six and was still young enough to believe. I promised not to…

…and then went directly upstairs to find Courtney. I found her in the bathroom sitting on the toilet with a Berenstein Bears book in her lap. “Corky, we have to talk,” I told her, trying to portray the seriousness of the situation on my face. I went on to explain to her everything my mom had asked me not to. She got upset and went running to my mom who had no choice but to confirm the bad news. I had done what I felt I had to. It was only fair that we should both be given the option of grieving the loss of Santa at the same time. My mom told me a few years ago that she got a call from Courtney’s teacher not long after my spilling of the beans. Apparently some of the other first-graders’ parents were upset that Courtney was explaining the Santa concept to their children prematurely. I’m sure my mom wanted to strangle me at that point.

A couple of months after we lost our mom in 2006, I randomly opened one of her boxes of stuff right before Christmas. I am not sure what I was looking for, and I had been pretty reluctant to open any of it until that point. But for some reason I opened a box that was full of random paperwork and photographs that had been haphazardly tucked away. I sat on the floor of my little office ,which had been converted into a storage room for my mother’s things until I could figure out what to do with them, and I went through that single box. There were a few old bills, a 1950’s picture of my great grandfather and his dog back in Ireland, some random photographs of my sisters and I as little kids. I pulled out my mom’s nursing license and her citizenship papers, probably two of the most important papers that she had in her lifetime, and right beneath them were the two most important papers that she had left behind. Two ornate birth certificates from the summer of 1984 for two very special dolls, signed by Xavier Roberts. Right then, right when I was so broken, so devoid of holiday spirit, and so desperately craving something, anything at all to believe in, I got all the evidence of Santa Claus that I will ever need, and I will never doubt again.

Valentines Schmalentines

Last year for Valentine’s Day, we vowed not to spend a bunch of money, instead deciding to get creative with each other’s gifts. Taking the creative part of it a little bit too literally, I had the great idea to paint Mike a picture. I asked my artist/graphic designer friends at work for their advice on what medium I should choose and then went to the craft store to purchase my booty. Working in acrylics on canvas, my goal was to create an inspired abstract of Mike’s beautiful red hair. Like my height, Mike's red hair is his defining physical feature, and because it is such a part of who he is, I wanted to capture it through the magic of art.

In my mind, the painting was going to turn out beautifully. I pictured swirls of copper and bronze emulating his curls and blending perfectly on the page. It would be a work of art that we would treasure for years to come and hang on the wall in our house, proudly displaying my talents for everyone to see. I neglected to think ahead though, and if I had I would have realized that I have absolutely no idea in hell how to paint. It is way, way harder than it looks. I guess I thought that I could Bob-Ross it and come up with a very presentable, although not necessarily completely amazing piece of artwork in approximately thirty minutes. Not even close. What I created was a mess.

In my defense, after mixing several different times, I got the color almost exactly right. And to defend myself again, it did sort of look like his hair. It just didn’t accomplish the effect that I thought it would, which was to actually resemble art. I guess you have to be an actual artist to make that happen.

Mike, on the other hand, did not give me a messy attempt at art as a Valentine’s gift. Instead, he had cleverly asked my friend from work to sneak him into the office the night before Valentines Day. He left a little scavenger hunt in the various crevices of my desk; hiding a bunch of tiny little gifts, each with a sweet note, all tucked in and around my workspace. All day long I was surprised by a new lip gloss, or candy, or scented lotion each time I opened a drawer or moved a file. I had such an amazing day constantly finding these little surprises, and then I had to go home and give him my crappy canvas.

I was almost too embarrassed to even give the painting to Mike, but it was Valentine’s Day, and since I had put my artwork off until the last minute, I had nothing else to give. So I stared at my feet while handing it over. I presented him with my ugly orange painting and a card as a sign of my unending love. I felt like an idiot.

Of course, Mike is too nice of a guy to let me know that I had bombed on the gift. He was so sweet about the picture, staring at it and mentioning how I had captured the undertones just right, and that the size was perfect. Then, he looked up from the picture and our eyes met. We both cracked up. We laughed for several minutes, then I showed him the orange paint that I had gotten on the wall as a result of using my dresser as an easel. It wouldn’t come off. We laughed our asses off over that, too. As per usual, my gift came in the form of unintentional comedy, something I excel at.

As of right now, my famous Valentine’s Day Massacre painting is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall in the basement. We can’t throw it away; I mean, it could be worth some serious cash some day if I get famous, or if that type of “art” ever comes into style. However, as it stands right now, we sure as hell aren’t hanging it up anywhere.

While we both had a good time with those gifts last year, I think we’ve realized that neither of us are really the Valentine’s Day type. I am a total romantic, and so it always seems like cheating to me to take every ounce of spontaneity out of a gift by giving it on a designated day. Mike does pretty well for himself, too, remembering spontaneous flowers on occasion and presenting me with surprise gifts fairly frequently, so I definitely don’t need to force him into it once a year

I got him a wallet this year. A really cool one from my favorite store ever, The New York Public Library Gift Shop (if you haven’t been, go to libraryshop.org right now!). I gave it to him last week so that he wouldn't have to keep carrying his driver's license and credit cards around wrapped in a rubber band. When I handed it to him, I said "Oh yeah, this is kinda for Valentine's Day, too" I’m pretty sure he was totally swept off of his feet by that one.

Yesterday, my old personal trainer from my gym called me. He had helped me rehab my knee last year, and had worked out with Mike a couple of times as well. He wanted us to come in for a free measurement and to let him give us his sales pitch on the new couples training they are doing at 24Hour Fitness. He gave me his open appointments, and I said we could make it Thursday at 8.

“Hey, Cara”, he said, “Thursday is Valentine’s Day, are you sure you guys want to come in that night?”

I thought about it. We didn't have any plans for Thursday, so I said " Oh sure. That's fine"

We are so unromantic.

I always swore that when I settled down with someone, it would be a man who swept me off my feet on a daily basis. Someone who made me swoon with lyrical poetry, a man who would shower me with gifts and compliments and put me on a pedestal. I wasn’t going to settle for anything less. Then I met Mike. He had only a brother growing up, and then went to an engineering college where girls were extremely few and far between. While he has always been sweet, he took on a fairly large romantic learning curve when it came to me. I had to explain a lot about how to romance a girl to him, but I was surprised when my having to explain didn’t really take the thrill out of it for me. I still have to beg him to not throw his boxers on the bathroom floor every single morning, and to please at least pretend to acknowledge that I am speaking when there is a soccer game on. Oh, and there has definitely never been any lyrical poetry that I can recall unless you count when he makes up raps in the shower and shouts them out to me while I am curling my hair. He is not a born romantic, but it never felt like settling. In fact, just picturing him reading actual poetry to me kind of makes me cringe a little. It just wouldn’t work with us.

I think I misjudged the whole romantic thing just a little too much as a younger person. Now, in the thick of life, that stuff just seems so unrealistic and kind of stupid. I am more swept off of my feet when we stand at the top of a mountain, staring down at what we have just accomplished together than I could ever be standing alone on a figurative pedestal. I think we pretty much have it figured out.

So, tomorrow night, Mike and I are going to go on our very unromantic Valentine’s Day date to the gym. We will wear ugly clothes, and we won’t smell nice at the end, but I guarantee that we will have a blast. Then we will come home and probably snuggle up and watch a little soccer before bed. Maybe, if we get around to it, we will finally hang up my ugly painting.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner...

The mayor stopped by my house a couple of weeks ago. The actual mayor of Denver.

Let me preface this by saying that I am sort of obsessed with Mayor Hickenlooper. Not only do I find his politics inspiring, but I also think he is just plain cool. Remember his dorky little self-deprecating campaign commercials where he was riding around on the scooter? I mean, what other “normal” politician does that? And what other large city has a mayor who owns a bar? Plus his wife is a writer, so I feel that he understands my creative plight, and that if he were to get to know me, he would really like me, too. In summary, I think our mayor is the best. He is trying to help the homeless and save the environment and make Denver a great place to live, and I just really like him. In fact, I’m not shy; I’ll say it. I LOVE MAYOR HICKENLOOPER!

I suppose I should also preface the story with the fact that this night in particular was Halloween. And the mayor lives in my neighborhood. Oh, and he has a son who is about 6 or so. And also, uh, he didn’t really stop by to see me, but instead to bring his son trick-or-treating. But still, he did stop by.

After having lived in an apartment for the past seven years, this was the first time that I have had my very own house, and therefore my very own trick-or-treaters vying for their chances to take my candy. I was so excited to hand it out that I rushed home from work and carefully prepared my stash. I made sure to purchase the good stuff, too, none of the crappy candy that kids hate. I was going to do this right so that these kids would be talking about me for years. There were Snickers, and Skittles, and Mike and Ikes, and KitKats, and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. Oh yes, only the best for my very first trick or treaters.

The first group of kids came to the door. They rang the bell, and instantly my crazy dog decided that he was not down with little goblins and Power Rangers hanging out on our doorstep. As I opened the door, he started with his low growl and then crescendoed into his loudest, most ferocious bark. Blue is about the sweetest dog in the world, and he is usually a huge wuss. However, this night, he was determined to protect me from the throngs of 8-year-olds who were plotting to steal the chocolate that he would otherwise pilfer from the bowl while I slept, in turn, adding a trip to the vet to that week’s to-do list. He wasn’t going to give it up that easily.

When the next group of kids came to the door, I figured Blue would get the hang of it and calm down. Instead, he bared his teeth and started growling and barking again. This time, one of the kids on the porch burst into tears and turned and ran without even getting any candy. I could see that my suddenly certifiable Australian Shepherd was making damn sure that this would be my first and last year of catering to the trick-or-treaters of Denver. I could be giving out laptop computers next year, and they still wouldn’t risk ringing the bell. My dog was ruining Halloween, but I had an idea.

The weather was gorgeous, so I loaded up my arms with the huge orange bowl full of candy, my magazine, and a monster glass of wine and I went outside to sit on the porch and wait for the kids. Blue stared at me through the window as I flipped pages and sipped from my glass. He wore a look that said, “you will pay for this,” but I didn’t care; I was hell-bent on enjoying it.

The kids started to come in droves, and they were adorable. Chubby little pumpkins, a pair of identical-twin angels, a couple of those prostitute-y Bratz girls, a very believable Dracula, and even a little rap star with his own bling. I was loving it. My perfect neighbor from across the street came by with her daughter, world’s cutest two-year old dressed as a little, tiny, chubby-cheeked cow. We chatted for awhile, and then they headed back home.

Just as they were leaving, my favorite kid of night walked right up to me like he knew me. He was a Storm Trooper which, as a child of the 80’s, I totally appreciated. He said “trickertreeeeet” and I reached into the bowl and lifted a big handful of candy, about to drop it into his bag. He examined what was in my hand, then looked down into my bowl and said, “Actually, I’ll just pick my own” which he did. He deliberated, then selected two pieces and said “This will be fine, thank you” as if he were my boss reviewing a document I had just dropped on his desk.

I love kids who are so precocious like that. He was with a grown-up, a man dressed in all black, topped off with a witch’s hat. I looked up to see what genius had raised this adorable Storm Trooper. There, standing on my front steps, was the mayor, and in my infinite wisdom, with my internal editor completely starstruck, that is exactly what I said.

“Oh, the mayor is here,” I bleated out to no one in particular.

And I’m sure he was thinking no shit, lady, but instead he just smiled and said “Shhhhhhhh” because, with my highly intellectual and apparently somewhat loud words, I was giving away his presence to the entire population of the neighborhood.

That's when I saw him look directly at the biggest glass of wine in the world which just happened to be sitting next to my feet. I saw him look at it, and then he looked back at me and then immediately ushered his son back down the steps. I just stood there like the idiot that I was, devastated that I had just completely embarrassed myself in front of the man whom all of Denver would cheerfully elect President tomorrow if given the chance.

I’m sure that the mayor now thinks that I am the crazy lady of the neighborhood who gets drunk and tries to hang out with little kids for kicks. I’m sure that as soon as he was out of sight, he took away the candy I had given to his son and threw it in the bushes. I’m sure that he has probably placed me under some sort of government watch; if I look closely I bet I can see the undercover officers on stakeout in front of my house, blowing on their hot coffee, staring at my door, taking turns for bathroom breaks like on Law and Order. I’m sure of all of this.

Anyway, about twenty minutes later, I saw the mayor and his son again, this time walking up the other side of the street heading to my perfect neighbor’s perfect house. She opened the door wide, giving the mayor a glimpse of how the perfect residents of his city lived, gorgeous art, shiny hardwood floors, not a rabid dog in sight. She graciously introduced herself and made perfect small talk about the upcoming light rail projects and the Democratic National Convention coming in August. She did what I wanted to do, and she did it with style, and grace and without a gallon of cheap wine in her hand. I just sat there silently berating myself for being so inarticulate, and for wearing a ripped sweatshirt, and for not thinking to at least put my wine in an opaque plastic cup of some sort like all the other classy people would have done. I looked on as the mayor and my perfect neighbor chatted like old friends. Then it got even worse when the mayor turned around and caught me staring at him longingly over the top of my magazine. I was just innocently watching him and wishing that I weren’t such an idiot, but I am sure that, to him, my mournful gaze resembled borderline stalking. ARRRRRGGH! Why am I such a loser??

So, that was my Halloween experience. I finally met the mayor, and I acted like an enormous ass. I guess there is an upside, though, and that is that I will definitely get the chance to see my hero, the mayor, in person again. Unfortunately, it will be when he and his lovely wife pull up for their dinner date at my neighbor’s house next week. Why didn’t I think of that?

Winter Whining

The first Fall chill hit just weeks ago followed shortly thereafter by the inaugural snowstorm of the season. I have always treasured the first snow, and in seeing this year's, I realized that I had no real memory of last year's. Breaking local tradition, the first snow this year came before Halloween, passing through a week or so early and allowing the trick-or-treaters to conduct their business with fabulous costumes unencumbered by the dreaded winter coats. Halloween was mild, and even today it is a downright San Diego-esque 76 degrees with the sun bright and sharp, slicing through the perfect blue sky. It does not fool me, though. I am a Colorado native, and I know the sneakiness that comes with Winter in Rockies. I know the feeling of falling asleep after a day spent golfing or hiking in the warm sun only to wake suddenly during the night to hear it, the turmoil outside as something new blows in on a strong wind. It is only the next morning when I come to in a different world, one blanketed in white, that I realize it wasn't a dream, that I was truly awake, albeit it for a fleeting moment, an aural witness to the brewing storm.

If I had possessed the wherewithal in those dark and early morning moments to go to the window, I am sure I would have seen the snow beginning its descent on the sleeping Denver streets, sneaking in when no one is paying attention, executing its plan of attack in silky silence. But in my sleep-starved state, I typically roll over, and wake in the morning to the smell. I swear there is a smell. Or maybe it is not a smell, but a feeling, the combination of the slight chill of my nose, and the low hum of the warm, dusty air rolling out of the vents, and the strange innate understanding that, outside the house, someone has carelessly depressed Mother Nature's mute button and forgotten to release it. There is nothing like that feeling, and everyone from Colorado knows it well.

I didn't realize it then, but I missed Winter last year. Yes, there were the silent overnight snowstorms and the sight of my excited dog plowing nose trails through the yard, whiskers and lashes coated with flakes each time he came up for air. Winter was definitely here last year, but I barely remember it. I remember skiing exactly twice, the second time resulting in a horrible fall, a torn MCL, and the remainder of the season spent snuggled down reading while all of my friends frolicked their weekends away on the slopes. I have a few Christmas gifts to show from last year, too, a book I truly love, and a sweater I wear frequently. The specifics are there, but the larger picture is a blur. It is a section of my memory, a piece of the continuum that both flew by and dragged on at the same time, and it left a scar. I'm sure that this scar will fade, in fact, it has already faded some, but it seems, if this year is any indication, that it will sting a little each year as Fall passes into Winter.

Last September, my mother was killed in a car accident. She was 53. I am, or was, her spitting image; strangers were always commenting on the similarity in our looks, friends always mentioning the way our voices were indiscernible over the phone. At age 30, right before the accident, I had even started to find myself saying her grown-up mom-isms and acting in her grown-up ways; the words would escape my lips and then my eyes would roll with the dread that every girl feels when she is faced with the realization that she is turning into her mother. Now, though, I do not dread it so much.

My mom was one of those moms who celebrated each season with decor and food and silly traditions. I forced myself last year to attempt the traditions that my mother had instilled in us as so important, but instead I was tormented by grief and anger and a brokenheartedness that can only be described as debilitating. I started to bake the things we had always baked, but ended up in a helpless ball of tears on the kitchen floor as soon as the smell of my mother's Rum Ball recipe hit my nose. I put up my Christmas tree, and then stared at it pointlessly and for hours at a time, the lights turning to blurry stars as my eyes welled over. I couldn't bear to shop for the traditional "ornament of the year"; 2006 will forever be without one on my tree, the year that was simply missed. When a blizzard shut the city down, I was mistakenly halfway through dialing her phone number before I realized that she would not be around to talk the wasted day away.

This year, I think things will be better. I can feel it. What I have realized in the past few months that had evaded me before is that I am resilient and that I can make it. I have learned to laugh again at the things my mother would have thought funny too, and I have learned that her traditions, so many for each season, are actually gifts and not tortuous memories. So this Winter, I am looking forward to what is ahead. I have accepted that the Rum Balls will always have the tiniest amount of bitterness from now on. There will be no more snow day marathon phone calls, and I will always ache just a little bit at Christmastime. However, I am ready to face those things because they come along with a happy snow-dog carving trails in the yard, and a Sunday morning cup of coffee enjoyed while staring out the window at the clean, crisp, white world, and a ride up the ski lift above the wintery planet, with a knee and a heart that are still a little sore, but healing.