Christmas Eve day, 10 am. Status: Still shopping.

flickr-target-store-shopping-carts-cropChristmas Eve day, 10 a.m.

I have ventured into the mall to get “just one more thing.”

Everyone seems to be here, cycling up and down the aisles in an endless search, Roomba vacuums narrowly avoiding hitting shelves or each other.

I am grouchy. Lines are long. Cars move slowly through the Moebius-strip like parking lot circuit.  I want to tap on the horn to speed them up, but I know it wouldn’t do any good. I wonder about the legal trouble I’d get into if I drove directly over the grass berm to the street.

Why did I come here? I had most of my gifts purchased early and conveniently delivered via Amazon. But last night I had a haunting vision of that one, poor family member, sitting amid the colorful litter of everyone’s unwrapped gifts, lower lip trembling. Does my family even love me?

Target is a sad and desolate place today, its employees tired and its shelves and racks depleted. Except for an odd selection of things:  weirdly abbreviated women’s sweaters, manly flasks, and…..bath bombs. There are lots of bath bombs. If they actually exploded, that would make for an interesting gift. Alas, they do not.

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They don’t actually explode.

I continue searching for something, anything, for a present. My thoughts go toward condemning our country’s consumerism, embedded in us so deeply that we don’t feel good unless we’re buying things. I think of how Jesus himself would see this. Would he, who was born in the poorest of circumstances, approve of this scene? Would he replay the biblical scene in the temple in Jerusalem, by kicking over the Santa and Rudolph plushies, mad that they were an affront to the seriousness of his birth? Would he overthrow the displays of green and red bath bombs?

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I believe God is able to be sad about the need-to-buy desperation, while deeply loving the people caught up in it.

Jesus would be looking at the people pushing the carts. The ones who are here because it’s the first day they could drop their kids off with a relative so they could go buy them gifts. Jesus would be looking at the employees, working one of the three jobs they need to work in order to afford to rent a room in Silicon Valley. Jesus would look at my grouchy heart, sad that I am making unnecessary stress for myself this morning (Finally nailed that gift for Aunt Flo—and it was on sale!) when sitting down and listening to Aunt Flo would be less tangible but a more memorable gift.

When my freshman English class read Fahrenheit 451 this year, we learned that a dystopia starts with a good intention. One that is thoughtful and fair. Then it gets twisted out of proportion. In the Christmas shopping scenario, our desire is to show our family and friends that we value them. We want to see their faces light up when they open a gift. We have family friends who excel at giving joy-inducing gifts to one another, and it’s a beautiful thing. But I don’t feel great when I buy something just to give somebody something to unwrap with my name on it. I want to think differently next year.

As I hang out with my family today, the grouch in me is receding. Rain has started here, just enough to give us some seasonal ambiance here in California. From the kitchen, there’s the smell of freshly baked bread. In the other room, I hear sounds of bumping, crinkling and giggling that accompanies gift wrapping. I am happy. I don’t need much else.

To all of you, your family and friends–best wishes for a Merry Christmas and/or happy holiday!

The Indoor Life

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The hills, barely visible behind our local high school.

Nine days after the start of the most destructive fire in California history, the Bay Area is filled with smoke. When you walk out of your house, you smell it. There’s ash on your car in the morning. The parks, normally filled with kids, are eerily empty. Our air quality index has been between 160-180. Unhealthy.

In our western part of Silicon Valley, you can barely make out the hills a couple miles down the street. The scenery around us is grayed out, like an unavailable option on a computer screen.

We’re staying at home. Inside.

I’m trying to write for NaNoWriMo, so this has worked pretty well for me. When I get antsy, my go-to is usually a hike. Since I can’t do that, I write. I research. I dip into that stack of unread books spawned by my serious book buying addiction. More than usual, I’m getting stuff done.

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In the evenings, we’re watching movies and playing games. My youngest is obsessed with 1980s movies, which is amusing to me, since these are the movies of my youth and young adulthood. She’s obsessed with the Back to the Future series, which has made for lots of deep discussions. The kind that you hope for and don’t easily get. What events in your life caused you to be who you are today? What if things had happened differently? And, more importantly, was Biff Tannen really modeled after Donald Trump? (Yes—confirmed by screenwriter Bob Gale in a 2015 Rolling Stone Interview).

And we’ve played board games, one of my husband’s favorite things to do. As an introvert, he socializes more easily when he’s doing something. And occasionally, I do win a game.

Our bad air quality is expected to last through Tuesday (four days from now).

Indoor life has been less frustrating than I thought, a reprieve from busy Silicon Valley life. The sad thing is to go outside, smell the air and think of the cause of all this. Two hundred miles away, people’s lives are going up in smoke. I have nothing to complain about. I have my family around me and a house to be indoors in. The people in and around the town of Paradise, California do not. And their situation is heartbreaking.

I got some sobering perspective from this post by a woman who grew up in Paradise. “Please Excuse the Smoke,” https://legitfaith.wordpress.com/2018/11/16/please-excuse-the-smoke/

Are you holed up indoors, too? For those of you outside California, what’s your perspective on what you’re seeing and hearing about the fire?

Who’s up for a bored game?

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Century, Golem Edition. A family addiction for us.

I grew up in a family of poor sports.

The kind of people who stomped off to their bedrooms when they started losing a game. I remember Monopoly games so intense that objects were thrown. Issues came up that had nothing to do with the placement of little green houses on Park Place.

Soon the winner (often my mom) was gloating, losers were dredging up past grievances and I was ducking into the nearest closet to hide.

But my engineer/gamer husband grew up playing games for entertainment. His dad is a card shark, who’s played in poker tournaments in Vegas. His mom and siblings love games. My husband goes to regular board game nights. The other days of the week, he is secretly plotting the acquisition of his next game—if not actually going down to Game Kastle to get it.

Since games haven’t been a happy part of my past, it’s taken me a long time to want to share that interest. My husband constantly looks for games that might lure me to play: “Honey, this one’s about art. I bet you’ll really like it!”

But in my mind, board games = angry confrontation. Or just boredom. Learning a set of rules to follow, and patiently taking turns at following them, seemed pointless to me. That’s supposed to be fun? Seriously?

But as I observed my husband, I started to see that it’s not about the game. It’s about the interactions of the players. My intelligent, introverted husband takes games to parties because it gives him a context for being social in a sea of small talk. He can explain the rules of the game he’s introducing (something he’s great at). Then the rules of the game are the boundaries for the discussions. He doesn’t have to work at coming up with things to say.

A game-playing friend of mine says she loves the interactions that happen while you’re playing a game. “You see how people react when things get competitive. You see what they’re really like under pressure. It’s a microcosm of life.”  I saw that big time when I was growing up. But playing a game is kind of like going on a virtual adventure with people. You enter into this thing together. Afterwards, you recount your adventures, you talk about what made  you win or lose, the close calls, and what you could have done differently.

If the game is really epic?  You’ll talk about it for years.

Are there some games that you’ve enjoyed playing with your significant other or family?

Games you might want to try with your SO or family:

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The incredibly addicting Century: Golem Edition game

Century (Golem Edition)
My husband found this on the discount shelf at a game store. We were immediately addicted and ended up hooking other friends. The goal is to collect colored gems, which are used to buy golem cards of different point totals. The art in this game is beautiful and the transparent gems are incredibly alluring. It’s a very easy game to learn.

Dominion
This game has made me something I’d never thought I’d be:  competitive.  You play different cards in strategic combinations to get money and victory points. The unlimited card combinations make each game different. For some reason, the variety levels the field, and no one player, even an uber gamer, has an advantage over time. I can win this one.

Apples to Apples
A social game, great family game. Many gamers won’t consider it worthy of attention. You play an adjective—e.g., “Evil, Pretty,”—and players play a card with a celebrity or cultural reference they think fits the word. Each person takes a turn as a “judge,” to pick the one they like the best. Goal is figuring out how to play to the judge so your card will get picked.

Goa
A game based on colonizing the Indian island of Goa. The idea is to set up spice plantations and colonies, and win victory points. The game is a favorite of my game-playing women friends. It pairs well with an evening of food and wine, probably because you’re constantly thinking about acquiring cinnamon, clove, pepper and ginger.

What the fork

My husband has this thing with forks.

He picks up the fork he’s been given and examines it carefully, turning it on its side. He inspects the alignment of the tines. If one is bent, he sighs. He calmly gets up from where he is seated and goes to the utensil drawer to find a more acceptable one.

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photo and fork by Claire Ellen Keyes

It drives me crazy.

I can’t understand how the misalignment of one tine can be such a dinner-disruptling thing.

“It bothers me when it’s bent,” he says. “I can’t eat with it.”

I nicknamed my husband the Princess and the Pea because he reminds me of the fairy tale. The one where a young woman is proved a princess because she can feel the irritating presence of a single pea under a stack of twenty mattresses. My husband is overwhelmed by a pinch of lemon pepper in the mild sauce on his chicken. He is…special that way.

My feelings finally peaked at the intersection of annoyance and curiosity. I decided to see if this fork thing was real. Or if he was maybe making this up to be stubborn. So I asked if he would do an experiment. I would blindfold him, and he would use five different forks, some of them bent, some of them not. And he would tell me which forks had bent tines and which did not.

“But you understand that the conditions of this experiment are not valid,” my engineer says in his Spock voice. “I already know what I’m looking for, and that will influence the results.”

And that’s important because I’m writing this up for Scientific American.

So I blindfolded him. And I slid a homemade piece of his favorite pie, Banana Cream, in front of him. I started handing him forks. I had two pretty obviously bent forks, then one in which one tine was slightly off, and one fork in which all tines were perfect.

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Side observational note: It is very hard to eat cream pie blindfolded without assistance.

The final results:

  • Forks with multiple bent tines: called it within seconds
  • Fork with one slightly bent tine: (after almost a minute) unsure, maybe bent
  • Fork with perfect tines: called it–within seconds

My husband isn’t making this up. He is fork-sensitive. Maybe it’s his super power.

Of course it does seem a bit petty to me, especially in comparison with really big issues–like insisting that the hand towels and tissue container in the bathroom maintain my Pantone 14-1116 color scheme.