As I mentioned yesterday, my Christmas tree usually goes up the day after Thanksgiving. It kicks off a Christmas season that lasts six weeks, from just before Advent through to Epiphany. This is not something I was raised with; I simply adopted my own liturgical calendar over the years and it makes sense to me.
Now, I’d like to adopt a patron saint.
I spent Thanksgiving with my parents yesterday. After dinner, I tried to figure out why my father’s computer had quit talking to his printer. After fiddling with this and tweaking that, I decided the drivers might need to be updated. My parents still have a dial-up internet connection. Downloading the drivers would take forever - or something in that range.
Instead, I opted for taking both of my parents’ laptops home with me. While others were out there standing in Black Friday lines, I would be peacefully at home updating drivers, antivirus definitions and anything else that required high speed access to the World Wide Web. That was the plan. And at first, the plan went swimmingly.
Somewhere around noon, just as I finished updating the last updateable thing on my parents’ computers, it occurred to me that I gave away my Christmas tree last year (the tree, on the stand, stood just over 7’ high. I needed a tree that 5’5” me could top with a star without calling in support personnel.) That meant I needed to go buy another tree. Today. On Black Friday. It would mean giving up the right to roll my eyes lovingly at all those people in my family (you know who you are) who stood in long lines to buy a single item, but I needed that tree.
I packed up Mom and Dad’s computers and drove back over to their house. Dad’s computer booted up well and I tried printing a page. Nothing. An error light flashed on the printer. I checked the paper tray. It was full. I turned the printer off and back on again. The light kept flashing. Frustrated, I stared at the computer screen. A tiny red alert caught my attention. Had that been there before? I double clicked on it.
“Paper jam!” said the cheerful pop-up message, with a diagram of exactly where the offending paper was.
Oh. In about 5 seconds, the problem was fixed. I tried not to think of how many hours I had spent trying to cure it with downloads and re-installations.
Next on the agenda: the Christmas tree. Studiously avoiding the malls, I found a store with empty spaces in the parking lot. Not too many people inside the store, either. The lines were moving quickly. Call me superstitious, but being aware of Murphy’s penchant for messing up my plans, I figured that if I bought only one item – the tree – something was bound to happen to make my check-out line go slowly. So I picked up a poinsettia to take out to the cemetery tomorrow and made my way to the cash registers.
A store employee efficiently guided shoppers to the next available cashier. People were spending less than 2 minutes checking out. The line was a smooth flow of happy shoppers.
“Three!” the employee called to me, pointing to cash register 3. I pushed my cart forward. The cashier scanned my little tree and I handed her the poinsettia. She searched the flowers for the price tag. I searched the cart, in case the tag had come loose. Neither of us had any luck. Fellow shoppers with one item breezed through the other lines. The cashier and I exchanged small talk and waited. About ten minutes later, the price was located, I checked out and slunk back out to my car. Murphied again.
It’s days like this one that make me want to adopt a saint. I’ve already found a perfect match: St. Jude, patron of lost causes. Could someone please tell me where I go to sign the papers?
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Cranberries and other simple blessings
Thanksgiving might just be my favorite holiday. My Christmas tree usually goes up the day after Thanksgiving and comes down on Epiphany, marking 6 weeks of giving thanks, giving gifts and giving myself new goals to fall short of by the following New Year's Eve.
Christmas is delightful, but as holidays go, it's a bit confused. While I deeply honor the birth of Jesus, my inner nitpicker is a little too aware that December 25 was a date appointed by human design. Besides, Jesus' gifts were less about price and more about cost. Saint Nicholas is a much better match for our current Christmas traditions. By all accounts a very good man, he is also the patron saint of merchants, thieves and little children.
Easter is lovely, and I don't mind having eggs and rabbits gathered around the open tomb. But Easter is really about life beyond the limits of our five senses – hard to capture in a simple holiday.
July 4th, Memorial Day, Veterans Day: our holidays mark the passage of time and events, and that is good. The cycles of tradition carry bits of flotsam that show where we came from and who we have become and draw us back together when the petty differences of life divide us.
Thanksgiving, on the other hand, is more than tradition. It's a celebration of the simple blessings of humanity and cooperation.
Forget our petty arguments. Can you think of two groups whose agendas were more diametrically opposed than the Pilgrims and the Native Americans? Yet there they were, mutually thankful for their survival.
Forget for a moment the harried race to get more, faster, and better. Appreciate the genius who figured out that cranberries could be jellied. Taste the recipes of generations. Stop. Focus on the smells and sounds and be thankful if you can.
Reach across the table of life to those who are different and find your common points of gratitude.
And may you have a happy, blessed Thanksgiving Day.
Christmas is delightful, but as holidays go, it's a bit confused. While I deeply honor the birth of Jesus, my inner nitpicker is a little too aware that December 25 was a date appointed by human design. Besides, Jesus' gifts were less about price and more about cost. Saint Nicholas is a much better match for our current Christmas traditions. By all accounts a very good man, he is also the patron saint of merchants, thieves and little children.
Easter is lovely, and I don't mind having eggs and rabbits gathered around the open tomb. But Easter is really about life beyond the limits of our five senses – hard to capture in a simple holiday.
July 4th, Memorial Day, Veterans Day: our holidays mark the passage of time and events, and that is good. The cycles of tradition carry bits of flotsam that show where we came from and who we have become and draw us back together when the petty differences of life divide us.
Thanksgiving, on the other hand, is more than tradition. It's a celebration of the simple blessings of humanity and cooperation.
Forget our petty arguments. Can you think of two groups whose agendas were more diametrically opposed than the Pilgrims and the Native Americans? Yet there they were, mutually thankful for their survival.
Forget for a moment the harried race to get more, faster, and better. Appreciate the genius who figured out that cranberries could be jellied. Taste the recipes of generations. Stop. Focus on the smells and sounds and be thankful if you can.
Reach across the table of life to those who are different and find your common points of gratitude.
And may you have a happy, blessed Thanksgiving Day.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Denver with a side of Murphy
Murphy, that invisible magician-of-all-that-can-go-wrong, has me in the cross-hairs.
Last week, I went to a conference in Denver. I had never been to Denver before, nor had I ever been to this particular conference. I packed carefully, almost obsessively. At the last moment, I went to pack my laptop. My bag wasn't where I usually left it. Then again, my usual place changes periodically and I wasn't sure what the usual place du jour was. I searched the house. Ah-hah! Found it in my son's old room. It wasn't until I was on the plane, departing Dallas, that I realized it was my son's computer bag, not mine, and the white cord in the side pocket was not – as I had thought – my phone charger, but rather the cord to a camera that no one in the family has any more. And my phone was down to a 30% charge.
"Oh well," thought I, chalking one up for Murphy, "I'll just pop into a store in Denver and buy another one."
My friend Jody met me at the airport in Denver; he had flown in earlier in order to visit with his sister, Shannon, before the conference. We drove straight to the conference hotel from the airport in order to enjoy the opening ceremonies. It was late by the time we made our way in the rental car over to Shannon's house, where we were staying. I plopped my suitcase down on the bed in the room I was to use, and pushed a cat out of the way. The cat ignored me and returned to his spot.
A second cat walked into the room. I love cats, so I just unpacked around them. That was when I realized I had forgotten to bring any socks or hose for the conference. "Oh well," thought I, shaking my head, "I'll just get some more when I get the phone charger." And I shooed the cats out, shut the door and climbed into bed.
About thirty minutes later, I climbed back out of bed, opened the door and conceded to the cats that yes, indeed, they had been there first and begged them to please, please come on in and stop that incessant yowling.
The following afternoon (after a truly fantastic day of Murphy-free workshops), Jody and I left the conference hotel to return to Shannon's, intending to stop at a corner drugstore somewhere along the way.
Let me say right now that the people of Denver are amazingly nice to strangers. In the course of four days, only one person honked their horn at us as we zigzagged through the streets trying to get our bearings (and I secretly suspect that person was also from out of town.) But that day, in our search for a drugstore, we took a wrong turn. Next thing we knew, we were cruising streets with taverns, tattoo parlors and not a single drugstore. We passed gas stations, massage parlors, a couple of D-list fast-food joints and one place that might have been a tiny brothel or a nail salon with a twist. I couldn't tell.
As I tried to figure out the GPS system in our rented car, Jody turned into what appeared to be an industrial district. Two men in hard-hats were leaving a building. One seemed to be heading for the parking lot on the opposite side of the street. With a mighty swerve, we screeched up to the sidewalk just before the man could step down. I reached out to lower my window and ask for directions – and accidentally hit the lock. Click! All four locks shot down. I tried the window again. It didn't move. "I'll get it!" said Jody, determinedly hitting a button on his side of the car. The windows did not budge. Nor did the startled man we had hoped would rescue us.
I glanced at Jody and realized the button he was punching was the child window lock. At that, we both collapsed in laughter, Hard Hat man began inching away from our car, and we decided that the better part of wisdom was to beat a hasty exit.
If you ever hear a Denver factory worker tell of the day he narrowly escaped two lunatics in a rental car, please tell him we're sorry.
In the absence of drugstores, we settled for a Family Dollar store; no phone chargers, but I got some hose for the next day. "I'll try again tomorrow," I thought.
The next day once more failed to yield a drugstore. A friend at the conference had the same type of phone as mine, and offered to charge it for me. Score one for me. That night, as we drove the streets of Denver trying to find a restaurant we'd been recommended, we passed drugstores. And phone stores. And electronics stores. Phone chargers galore were in reach, but I no longer needed them - so instead, we accidentally entered the on-ramp to a freeway, during rush hour, and found it impossible to get back off for several miles. When we finally did exit, we found ourselves at the county jail. Score another one for Murph.
After the conference ended, Jody stayed at his sister's a little longer and I took off for the airport. Security was relatively quick. I found some lunch, settled into a chair in the waiting lounge and congratulated myself on how smoothly things were going. Spotting a man from the conference, I waved and called, "Hi Michael!" No response. He was busy talking to the woman beside him – and she wasn't the one he'd introduced as his wife at the conference. I quit waving.
A little later, as I wandered the lounge, I saw them coming toward me. "Oh well," I thought, "None of my business who he's with," and I made my smile warmer and my wave even more direct. The man turned. It wasn't Michael after all. His wife caught sight of my enthusiastic hello and turned a scowl on the hapless man.
Beating another hasty retreat, I took refuge in the ladies' room.
If you happen to hear a man who looks like Michael tell of the overly friendly stranger who got him in hot water with his wife at the Denver airport, please tell him I'm sorry and that it's really not my fault.
It's just that I'm stuck in Murphy's cross-hairs.
Last week, I went to a conference in Denver. I had never been to Denver before, nor had I ever been to this particular conference. I packed carefully, almost obsessively. At the last moment, I went to pack my laptop. My bag wasn't where I usually left it. Then again, my usual place changes periodically and I wasn't sure what the usual place du jour was. I searched the house. Ah-hah! Found it in my son's old room. It wasn't until I was on the plane, departing Dallas, that I realized it was my son's computer bag, not mine, and the white cord in the side pocket was not – as I had thought – my phone charger, but rather the cord to a camera that no one in the family has any more. And my phone was down to a 30% charge.
"Oh well," thought I, chalking one up for Murphy, "I'll just pop into a store in Denver and buy another one."
My friend Jody met me at the airport in Denver; he had flown in earlier in order to visit with his sister, Shannon, before the conference. We drove straight to the conference hotel from the airport in order to enjoy the opening ceremonies. It was late by the time we made our way in the rental car over to Shannon's house, where we were staying. I plopped my suitcase down on the bed in the room I was to use, and pushed a cat out of the way. The cat ignored me and returned to his spot.
A second cat walked into the room. I love cats, so I just unpacked around them. That was when I realized I had forgotten to bring any socks or hose for the conference. "Oh well," thought I, shaking my head, "I'll just get some more when I get the phone charger." And I shooed the cats out, shut the door and climbed into bed.
About thirty minutes later, I climbed back out of bed, opened the door and conceded to the cats that yes, indeed, they had been there first and begged them to please, please come on in and stop that incessant yowling.
The following afternoon (after a truly fantastic day of Murphy-free workshops), Jody and I left the conference hotel to return to Shannon's, intending to stop at a corner drugstore somewhere along the way.
Let me say right now that the people of Denver are amazingly nice to strangers. In the course of four days, only one person honked their horn at us as we zigzagged through the streets trying to get our bearings (and I secretly suspect that person was also from out of town.) But that day, in our search for a drugstore, we took a wrong turn. Next thing we knew, we were cruising streets with taverns, tattoo parlors and not a single drugstore. We passed gas stations, massage parlors, a couple of D-list fast-food joints and one place that might have been a tiny brothel or a nail salon with a twist. I couldn't tell.
As I tried to figure out the GPS system in our rented car, Jody turned into what appeared to be an industrial district. Two men in hard-hats were leaving a building. One seemed to be heading for the parking lot on the opposite side of the street. With a mighty swerve, we screeched up to the sidewalk just before the man could step down. I reached out to lower my window and ask for directions – and accidentally hit the lock. Click! All four locks shot down. I tried the window again. It didn't move. "I'll get it!" said Jody, determinedly hitting a button on his side of the car. The windows did not budge. Nor did the startled man we had hoped would rescue us.
I glanced at Jody and realized the button he was punching was the child window lock. At that, we both collapsed in laughter, Hard Hat man began inching away from our car, and we decided that the better part of wisdom was to beat a hasty exit.
If you ever hear a Denver factory worker tell of the day he narrowly escaped two lunatics in a rental car, please tell him we're sorry.
In the absence of drugstores, we settled for a Family Dollar store; no phone chargers, but I got some hose for the next day. "I'll try again tomorrow," I thought.
The next day once more failed to yield a drugstore. A friend at the conference had the same type of phone as mine, and offered to charge it for me. Score one for me. That night, as we drove the streets of Denver trying to find a restaurant we'd been recommended, we passed drugstores. And phone stores. And electronics stores. Phone chargers galore were in reach, but I no longer needed them - so instead, we accidentally entered the on-ramp to a freeway, during rush hour, and found it impossible to get back off for several miles. When we finally did exit, we found ourselves at the county jail. Score another one for Murph.
After the conference ended, Jody stayed at his sister's a little longer and I took off for the airport. Security was relatively quick. I found some lunch, settled into a chair in the waiting lounge and congratulated myself on how smoothly things were going. Spotting a man from the conference, I waved and called, "Hi Michael!" No response. He was busy talking to the woman beside him – and she wasn't the one he'd introduced as his wife at the conference. I quit waving.
A little later, as I wandered the lounge, I saw them coming toward me. "Oh well," I thought, "None of my business who he's with," and I made my smile warmer and my wave even more direct. The man turned. It wasn't Michael after all. His wife caught sight of my enthusiastic hello and turned a scowl on the hapless man.
Beating another hasty retreat, I took refuge in the ladies' room.
If you happen to hear a man who looks like Michael tell of the overly friendly stranger who got him in hot water with his wife at the Denver airport, please tell him I'm sorry and that it's really not my fault.
It's just that I'm stuck in Murphy's cross-hairs.
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