Sometimes you're the Grinch and sometimes you're the dog with the strap-on antlers.

The first year I spent a snow free December- ( having hauled my butt cross-country on a 2 week wild road trip from Central New York to San Diego ), I thought I'd never ever get used to seeing Christmas lights on palm trees, carols playing in convertibles, the sale of spray on snow next to suntan lotion in the drugstore.
But I did. And that first Christmas, when I sat in my bathing suit sipping Margaritas with my apartment house neighbors in the hot tub, and placed a very smug call home to NY, I knew this was exactly what I had been born to do.
After all, if I wanted snow, I only had to drive north or hop on a plane. This was me controlling my weather, for the first time in 23 years. Me, enjoying a cloudless sky with no bugs, no humidity, no wool outer garments, no long underwear, no electric blankets, no $300 heating bill.

I could relax knowing I wouldn't dent my car this year, I wouldn't be sliding into a snow bank on the way to a Christmas party. There would no longer be the late night icy doughnut spins in the parking lot after the retail stores closed, ( ok, I do miss that) but no longer would I have to rise twenty minutes early to "warm up" a car, scrape ice off a windshield or strap chains to my tires.
It would also be the first of many snow free holidays where I would no longer have the sweater/parka/ layered clothing excuse to pack on the winter weight. After all , this was San Diego. The place of the pretty people, perfect weather and beaches, beaches, beaches.

sigh.

God, I miss it.

The South is gives me a bit of the West Coast joy. Milder winters, the change of the seasons, enough cold to pretend it's winter and sometimes--sometimes. Snow.

It sounds trite to say, the spirit of the holiday is in my heart, not in my yard. But it's true. We should all feel that way. It's not dependent upon white fluffy stuff, or the need for a scarf and gloves, but it certainly helps feel the Christmas joy when you're wrapping gifts by a roaring fire and the icicle lights hang from a white dusted roof, even if Jesus was born in a desert, nowhere near December 25th.

When Did Christmas Cheer Become Mandatory?

I can do all the things that need to be done for this holiday with my eyes closed.. and without being particularly cheerful.

Baking for child's school bake sale. Done. Even though I used VERY expired baking soda in the cookie dough.Purchased,wrapped and mailed all out of town gifts including one unique gift certificate substitute:without complaining about the cost or time spent or traffic. Done.

Attended relatively tame p-ornament exchange party and a quiet bunko Christmas party where I managed to not piss anyone off or get thrown out of anyplace. Pretty much a first, and no, that's nothing to be cheerful about. *yawn*

Seeing as I had to select and then help my husband buy my Christmas gifts... I am not expecting any surprises this year... and after a ho-hum tree and house decorating weekend, I can't help but feel a little like... Is this it?

The only thing that is saving me from hanging up my stocking for good is my church.
Every year they open my heart to giving in a new and special way. I only hope that I find a way to do that for someone else this season.
And that's nothing to yawn about.

NOV 4 30 days of shoes

NOV 4 30 days of shoes
Originally uploaded by Another Good Thing

GUESS red patent leather.
4 sexy words.

Mixed Emotions This Satanic Holiday

I've always liked Halloween.
It's the only holiday that seems self-less- not about love and kindness and good impressions-- not that those are all bad things. But at Halloween, you can be whoever you want to be. You get to give things, expecting nothing in return. If you scare someone it's good and you can eat gobs of candy, if you want to. You get to make stuff and be creative-- always fun and there are no limits- which is really cool.

When I moved to the South-- the Baptist-laden South-- I had mixed emotions. How would my new neighbors deal with my skimpy costume selections, my creepy graveyard decor, my kitty litter party treats? Would I be able to find any women to accompany me to a haunted house- something I had fun doing every year in other states, with other neighbors?
I shouldn't have worried. We left the plastic knives and swords at home when attending church parties, had alternate costumes, one you could wear to the grocery store and one you put together with things in the bottom of your lingerie drawer and a length of black tulle from Wal-Mart, and found the best haunted house in the USA. Really.
As a creative type with a good imagination, dressing up is only half the fun of this holiday. Halloween also means lots of potential decorating. I think deep inside I am a frustrated Hollywood set designer, or a rich princess.
I've been adding to the Halloween house decor every year since 1994. Last year, we had a cobwebbed candle lit and black light shimmering spookhouse, a creepy rat- happy graveyard, screeching sound effects and Michael Jackson tunes ( oooh scary man) piercing the fog, mummies, skulls, robotic spiders and a shitload of scared kids. All in good fun.

But the best part of Halloween are the parties and the Haunted House. I found this one in 2002 and have been bringing a different group of women every year. Each year it gets better, and each year, our stories grow from:
We had beers and tequila shots at the Mexican place then waited in line for half and hour and screamed so much we were hoarse, then went out afterward and shot pool.
To: We had our DD bring us to an authentic Mexican place where the drug lords hang out, bought tequila shots for the mariachi band, and let the men buy us beer before racing over to the Haunted House where there was no line and even scarier monsters than the year before. After we ripped our fearless leader's thong, we went to a bar that was closing and charmed our way into the wigger room where we drank beer and shot pool for free, stumbling home at 3 am to sleeping husbands.
That's the edited version anyway. Let me just say, Netherworld rocks and when you get the right combination of girls together, it is one fun night out-- as long as being scared makes you laugh, like me.

Since I will be missing all the great Halloween parties this year, due to the ill-fated planning of a rather awesome writing conference, I certainly hope to get my fix of Haunted House and Ghoul's Night Out. Though this year, we'll need a new pre-spook party place, as last year the Mariachi's charged us to play and there wasn't a drug lord in sight.

The Camp Verdict from THE GIRL.

So THE GIRL, my beautiful auburn haired freckle-faced 9 year old goes to Christian Camp from Monday morning to Friday morning, in Covington GA.
She gets a top bunk and the top drawer of the dresser, plus an adorable counselor with two first names. She is happy.
When I pick her up she tells me what a great time she had, including being in a TALENT SHOW.
Then she says."And this guy came and we all sang the Itchy Beaver song."
"Really?" I say. "How did that go, exactly?"
She sings, "If you've got an itchy beaver, give it a scratch.. ch-ch-chee..."
I am not kidding.
Then she says, "Oh, and these boys went on stage for the talent show and they sang this song about a highway. Do you know it?"
I say, "Maybe. Sing some of it for me."
She sings,"Hey mamma, look at me, I'm on my way to the promised land...." She's sitting there strumming her air guitar and whipping her hair around, adding in a little head banging too, and all I can think is how much I wish I could have gone to church camp as a kid and how much I need my own getaway to the promised land.

Minority Rule

I'm raising minority children.
They only speak one language, have parents with the same last name, only one set of grandparents and live in an affordable house with a decent yard.
Whatever will become of them?

That's what I wondered all year long as my kids attended school in Lawrenceville.
But when I dropped my 13 year old off at church camp yesterday, I found the majority.
Up there in the North Georgia mountains, they had gathered. They were white and tall and pretty. They were dressed neatly in pants that fit with non-offending t-shirts. They spoke politely, waited in lines without complaining and drove shiny, clean SUVs.
They were The Methodists.