Medusa's Come to Call

Today is the last day of November. How did that happen? November can’t be over. All of the things that have to get done before Christmas aren’t.

I do have the Christmas photo done. But my Christmas letter sucks. I have three decent paragraphs in the whole letter. I’ve been waiting for the beautiful muse of writerly inspiration—her name is Calliope. I think she's visiting Steven King. So the only Greek available to help me was Medusa—and she turned my prose into stone.

I haven’t bought Christmas presents for anyone. My daughter is almost done with her Christmas shopping. Even my husband is done with his shopping—though that hardly counts—he buys one gift, mine. And I buy the gifts for everyone else.

Now before you remind me that there are twenty-five days left until Christmas, I have to tell you that we have three surgeries before X-mas. My mom’s, my son’s, and my daughter’s. And don’t forget the pre-op visits. So my days are limited.

And even worse, I promised my kids that I’d have the first draft of my sequel to Screwing Up Time ready to be read by X-mas break. Break starts next week Friday and I’m only halfway. Plus, I’m not one of those writers who can work for 48 hours straight, surviving on coffee, Red Bull, and M&Ms. I’m usually drooling after I finish editing one chapter. (I think this makes me really bad, but I’m figuring that I can edit while I do my motherly post-operative comforting.)

Oh, well, time to pour some brandy on the fruitcake. And spike the eggnog. 

Chicken Pox

Wednesday Matthew said to me, “Mom, would you look at my back. I’ve got all these itchy pimples.” At the words “itchy pimples,” a muscle in my face twitched. A shudder went down my spine. And a voice in my head said, “Oh, no.”

I said, “Let me see, Matt.” So he lifted up his shirt. And my suspicions were confirmed. “Matt, sweetie, those aren’t itchy pimples. Those are chicken pox.” My fifteen year old son, who has had the chicken pox vaccine AND who had chicken pox twelve years ago, has CP again! This is NOT supposed to happen.

Luke, Ariel, and Jacob all expressed their disapprobation in varying ways as they contemplated the possibility of getting chicken pox before/during finals. To keep the peace, every surface of the house has been sanitized and Matt has been banished to our bedroom though everyone realizes that they’ve already been exposed.

Matt, who now has pox everywhere, is getting by on Benadryl, oatmeal baths, hydrocortisone, books and movies. His plan is to watch the entire extended version of the Lord of the Rings. In the meantime, we’re all scrutinizing every red dot/spot that shows up on our skin.

Incubation is 10 to 21 days. So if we don’t get the pox by December 8, the last day of finals, we should be good to go for the rest of the holidays. If I don’t comment on a lot of your blogs in the next month or so, you’ll know why—we’ll be having a Jolly Spotted Christmas.

(Note: If you’ve been waiting to buy Screwing Up Time, now’s the time. I’ve put it on sale for 99 cents for the holidays.)

And here’s something fun. "Christmas Can-Can." Give it a moment--it starts kind of slow.

Let the Holiday Season Begin

For me the holiday season begins at the end of October when I bake my fruitcake. Before you groan or crack a joke, this is not the doorstop brick that your grandmother used to buy. This is an old Southern Living fruitcake, which is actually called "light." Not because it's low calorie, but because it's less dense--leaving more more for the brandy to soak in. YUM.

I start with this:

And end up with this:

Notice the white cheesecloth, it's there to keep the fruitcake damp with brandy. And it's sealed in a Tupperware container.

In early celebration of the holidays, here a Straight No Chaser song. Who knew that a'capella could be cool?