Thursday, December 20, 2012

The Several Days of Sockmas - Seventeen through Twenty

As the strains of our refrain start to curlicue about your brain, I hope you'll clear your throat and jump onboard for even MORE sockmassy caroling with me and my tootisie.

To catch ya up to speed as you clear that ol' throat:

The Several Days of Sockmas Part One
The Several Days of Sockmas Part Two
The Several Days of Sockmas Part Three


On the seventeenth day of Sockmas, my true love gave to me... my own baby tree, mad milonga jollies, nifty new nuker, a small sporting good store, one fulgent faux fir, frolicking ovines, sweet South Hill stocking, tamarins aleaping, client file kindling, eight blue bulbs, cat-nipped Advent chocolate, one impromptu date night, reams of wrapping paper, tango shoes and shoe bags, four sock santas dancing, two moosies skiing, two cobalt bands, and a loris in a pear tree.



After all that chatter about other people's trees and not being quite ready for my own, destiny struck a blow straight to the temple... as if I'd emerged groggy eyed from my domicile to the plaintive coos of an orphan child set upon my steps, I have been entrusted by fate with my own arboreal infant. David, the host of the tango event that I (mostly nominally) host, gave this to me at the milonga on Saturday. My first reaction to gifts of live things - plants in particular - is pure unadulterated panic and anticipatory guilt. 

I have what you might call a black thumb. That's a figurative comment on my ability to destroy plants with an idle glance, although there admittedly have been times of diving in snow without proper gloves that they may have come close in color (or lack thereof) as well. Better a black thumb than a black heart, but getting flowers and things always makes me think "oh boy, you gave me something beautiful so I can watch it die!!" (things, incidentally, not to say to your baby-mama in the delivery room). However, neuroticism aside, this little guy rather fits me and I'm becoming fonder of it by the minute. It's small, portable and low-drama. It allowed me to put my sparkly floral hairclip on the top without protesting that I was making it look dorky. And it didn't raise a fir bough at the fact that I have chosen my defunct microwave covered in a sheet as its ceremonial pedestal. I decided that presents would likely swallow the tree up entirely - and besides, my presents are already securely warming their seats for the big show at my mom's and dad's places respectively - so my tree will be surrounded by Christmas cards. I'm popular, as you can see. Two whole families sent me photo-cards. I'm tempted to take that photo montage of myself as a fat baby and start sending that as my Christmas card. Maybe it would net me a few more family photos of cute children and perfectly kempt happy parents (fiction! I call fiction!)



To carry on the Christmas tree theme, Mr. (W)right and I spent yesterday decorating my Dad's majestic faux fir with him. We shockingly managed to strew his tree with fifty plus years of baubles and bagatelles and not a single fatality to ourselves or the myriad glass orbs of substantial weight and fragility. Now that truly is a Christmas miracle. And then we went to a linner at a downtown Sports Bar where the Seahawks game-of-improbable-continuing-success was being held. Earplugs to deafen the noise may have been like a bandaid on  severed stump, but I had to mention it since we're speaking of Christmas miracles and all. 




On the eighteenth day of Sockmas, my true love gave to me... mother and child, my own baby tree, mad milonga jollies, nifty new nuker, a small sporting goods store, one fulgent faux fir, frolicking ovines, sweet South Hill stocking, tamarins aleaping, client file kindling, eight blue bulbs, cat-nipped Advent chocolate, one impromptu date night, reams of wrapping paper, tango shoes and shoe bags, four sock santas dancing, two moosies skiing, two cobalt bands and a loris in a pear tree.



When I was 16, I went with my father and sister on a church-sponsored trip to Israel. Aside from the quirks of Shabbat elevators and getting some very stern tsking from teenagers with guns when my skirt blew open and exposed my knee by the Dome of the Rock, I remember these things the most often:

(1) Father John Gibb, the man who baptized me, officiated my sister's wedding (3 years later), and brought this aura of love and acceptance to the church and to his life. He took a particular liking to dancing with me at every site we visited. Pure unadulterated fun and joy in the face of the sacred. And I can definitely say that I've danced in the Red and Dead sea, as well as at a baptism or ten on the River Jordan. That connection between meaning, spirit, dance and joy has stuck with me through my life and I will never forget his smile.

 (2) Linda, who had advanced cancer during the trip, and passed not long after. She took a shine to my unruly mop of hair, because it was thick and bountiful like hers had been. She got great joy out of braiding and styling it for me at various moments.

 (3) the thoroughly surreal feeling of bathing in the Dead Sea, trying to submerge in water that seemed not to want me, and covering ourselves with mud.

This piece is carved from olive wood. I purchased a few other olive sundries and we shared communion from olive wood cups on our last night. I have had a particular fondness for this mother and child, and particularly so during the Christmas season. There's something whitewashed and sterile about most nativity scenes. It reminds me of a production of Tristan and Isolde that I watched in which the couple never touched until their final plunges into death together. I couldn't figure out why for the first two scenes, but that lack of contact made me physically uncomfortable (appropriately and intentionally, as it turned out). I feel that with nativity sets sometimes. Not to stray into theology, but the power of the Christian story was that Jesus was made man, and to me I think that there is nothing more beautifully human than those unspoken contacts between parent and child or friend and friend. That Mary traditionally sits back in perfect clothing holding her hands up instead of holding her baby seriously bugs me. The whole "every one is whiter than wonder bread" thing is a whole different discussion. Anyways. This moment captured in wood is so powerful and so beautiful. I can see her and conjure up a million moments of silent bond through a simple nuzzle with my loves, my parents, my nephews... needless to say, it's earned a spot next to my tiny tree. 



On the nineteenth day of Sockmas, my true love gave to me an appropriated tea mug, mother and child, my own baby tree, mad milonga jollies, nifty new nuker, a small sporting good store, one fulgent faux fir, frolicking ovines, sweet South Hill stocking, tamarins aleaping, client file kindling, eight blue bulbs, cat-nipped Advent chocolate, one impromptu date night, reams of wrapping paper, tango shoes and shoe bags, four sock santas dancing, two moosies skiing, two cobalt bands, and a loris in a pear tree.



Sometimes clients bring in gifts over the holidays. Usually they maybe just affix a holiday stamp to their monthly payment, but some really do bring in gifts. Or so I observe. This mug - roughly the size of an infant's skull - was a gift from one of my mom's long time clients. She's been with my mom and Leslie longer than most celebrity couples manage to glue it together (divorce limbo!) and brought in matching "eat, drink and be merry" mugs for them. She didn't bring anything for me, which is understandable, since I don't really know her that well or work on her case that often. I was awfully jealous though, because I prefer to drink my tea by the gallon. Fortunately after a few days of stalking the rotation of tea leviathons, I came to understand that Leslie had no use for a mug that required physical training just to lift and it became mine. Ho ho ho... self-regifting-of-the-gifts-of-others. The best part of the season!




On the twentieth day of Sockmas my true love gave to me double-decker dance-class, an appropriated tea mug, mother and child, my own baby tree, mad milonga jollies, nifty new nuker, a small sporting goods store, one fulgent faux fir, frolicking ovines, sweet South Hill stocking, tamarins aleaping, client file kindling, eight blue bulbs, cat-nipped Advent chocolate, one impromptu date night, reams of wrapping paper, tango shoes and shoe bags, four sock santas dancies, two moosies skiing, two cobalt bands and a loris in a pear tree.



Naturally the reason I'm getting married is to have some fabulous first dances that every one must watch and say are good because I'm the damned bride and brides actually do develop the ability to spit acid and breathe fire on their special day as any member of a wedding party ever is well aware of

Mostly, it was to pressure my dad back into performing with me after a willful hiatus on his part, but Andrew is - though he may not seem it - is quite the cheeky little narcissist - er - dance-ham too. Since the day we were engaged, he's been threatening to attempt dead-lifting me over his head during our dance. 

My Dad and I have taking lessons for the past month or so, which right there makes that wedding thing worth it, as we always have such a blast and it can make any stressful day delightful. Andrew and I have taken half a lesson. I, naturally, selected songs months ago. Possibly before I nailed down the groom and/or the father. Possible. Last night, I scheduled back to back lessons with the fellas in my life for our various wedding dances. Shall I say, it was a dark and stormy night...? It was. 

And it was quite the experience - starting off with a series of incomplete phone calls from teacher Nate's cell phone right before our lesson. We speculated the worst possible scenarios given the storm and his living in an area quite prone to disaster, but actually, he'd just tried to perform some sort surgery on his iMonster earlier that had gone awry leaving him unable to see his schedule, phone people about this problem, or retrieve any of his music. He got through in time to tell us he was just running late and not dead under a fallen tree in Sudden Valley, so we headed over to the studio. 

When we arrived at the studio, half the floor had been torn up, and we were ushered into the downstairs dance room by a friendly workman who repeatedly warned us about stepping on the myriad nails popping up from the unfinished path to the stairs like little prairie dogs. It was roughly ten degrees below zero Kelvin downstairs, but nice enough until the Zumba hoardes arrived shortly after and chased us all back upstairs (screaming ZUUUUUUUMBAAAAA while pumping their fists in the air of course), where it was roughly fifteen degrees colder than downstairs. 

If we can't have snow for Christmas, we can have sawdust... I'm dreaming of a beige asthmatic Christmas...


We danced in our winter-clothes with numb fingers and shivers that were hopefully on beat... although on beat with what would be hard to say, since they were still making a small cacophony ripping apart the floor, and Nate had lost all of my music. Nate dutifully held my phone in his hands and followed us around the floor playing my song, though. I came home with white fingers and toes that needed soaking, but who can complain about dancing with my fellows? We danced into eternity through an ether of sawdust. And my toes only got a few light tips and taps of leaders' toes. 


To continue the madcap themes (cold, wind, rain, hilarity!) of our XTREME DANCE LESSON!!!, this morning I indulged in some more comic prat-skipping. I come into the office unseasonably early, usually a few hours before the building is unlocked. That's the first thing you have to know. The second is that it's still storming and raging around here and the skies were bloviating some hefty torrential rhetoric through the streets. So, I managed to get through the parking lot, fighting the falling metaphorical cats and dogs all the way, until I got to the door with key prepared for action. The lock, however, was less prepared. Actually, the lock was apparently grumpy and hungry. It ate my key and didn't even unlock in appreciation. Try as I might - and oh yes I tried for comically long in the wind and rain, tears of frustration mixing with the tears of angels - I could not unlodge my key, nor could I budge the door. After far too long of stubborn negotiations, I took the key off my ring and went to Fred Meyer's to buy groceries for the office. Security managed to unlodge my key later in the day and the office manager returned my key with the advice that they don't know why all the sudden the lock is eating keys, but maybe I'll want to try another door for a few days because it's not the first time this has happened. Thank goodness, I recently gave into my hair's natural inclinations and am allowing myself to have layered puffy windswept 'do. It is certainly making this weather and things like bed-head much less of an issue. 


Did I spend five hours with a hair dryer and cream
or did I just step outside in a windstorm?
The world may never know...

Since I've already taken a joy-ride down tangent lane, I do have to say it's kind of funny that I spent all this time and energy last year getting together ads and business cards featuring photos that look - as a dazed consult told me yesterday - nothing like me:


Wait... no, I meant




For one, I look moderately sane and professional in the above photo (the monkeys, yes). 

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