Christmas Shopping Procrastination

Tarry Ho’

Thanksgiving, the training wheels holiday for Christmas, is over. Oh, I know Chanukah and Kwanzaa are coming to, but neither of those lovely holiday can compare with the commercial and cultural juggernaut that is Christmas. Retailers put up the Christmas, Chanukah, and Kwanzaa decoration in October. Personally, I hate the mixing of holiday decor when they bunch up and rush the holidays like that. I hate seeing skeletons next to a menorah or a manger, it just ain’t right. But now it’s official, shopping season is open, bring on the fruitcake, eggnog and credit card debt. I’m buying only American made products this year.

A lot of people don’t get their shopping mojo in gear until the 24th of December. They always say they’re procrastinating, dawdling, or puttering until the last minute. These words are not interchangeable and I need to straighten everyone out.

First, on the time misusage continuum, we have ‘puttering around’. Puttering is done first thing in the morning. It is not done by “morning” people because they wake up oriented as to who they are, where they are, and what they have to do that day. Puttering is only for those of us who are night owls and are forced to rise in the morning. We putter around getting dressed, grooming, drinking coffee and struggling to remember what the hell it was that we have to get done today. I generally putter for an hour, after which, I go to work, or if I’m not working that day, I begin a session of lallygagging.

Lallygagging isn’t the same as dawdling or procrastination, that comes later. Lallygagging is having a second cup of coffee and reading magazines, books, or watching a morning TV show. Lallygagging is the cadillac of time misusage. You could be doing something productive, like working on a project, but instead, you indulge yourself. After lallygagging, you might be ready to do some Christmas shopping. But if you’re not quite ready, you can commence dawdling.

Dawdling is a fine art. My ex was a dawdler. Dawdling involves getting ready to leave the house, but finding some bizarre problem to fixate on at the last minute that prevents you from leaving. My ex was the best. Once, we were both dressed up to go out to dinner and a movie. It was a movie I picked, because I got to pick every third movie, and I was on high dawdle alert. I had my purse on my arm and we were exiting the house when he decided to check his wallet for money and he suddenly noticed his social security card wasn’t in his wallet. I knew the night was over. I pleaded with him that wherever the card was, it was going to stay there until we got back and he could obsess about it then. But, no, it had to be found immediately. He had downshifted from going to see Moonstruck to dawdling. I went alone, leaving him as he tore up his desk searching for a card he hadn’t seen in years.

Now dillydallying is doing tiny things to hold everyone up. It’s not as annoying as dawdling and takes less time. I dillydally and hold up my family every single time I get in the car, because my car won’t start unless I have lipstick on. Family members have suggested I put on lipstick before I get in the car, but then I might forget to dillydally long enough to check my makeup in the mirror on the visor. So you see, dillydallying can have a constructive purpose for the dillydallyor.

Procrastination is when you definitely have something you must do and you must find a way not to do it. You putter, lallygag, dawdle, dillydally and even goof off, and the good news is, you only have to procrastinate till 3 PM. Three o’clock is too late to begin anything. So, after 3 PM, you can stop procrastinating and advance straight to loafing which you can do till bedtime.

Since it is Christmastime, I like to upgrade my time misusage to ‘tarrying’. Tarrying is loafing and lallygagging with an english accent, fits in perfectly with this time of year.

Thanksgiving and Football > A Bad Mix

I love Thanksgiving. I love the colors of the trees, the snap in the air, the warm up for the big holidays. I miss the family I grew up with at Thanksgiving. My whole family lived within 20 miles of each other and we all gathered at my grandparents house in Sayville for Thanksgiving; 8 adults, 17 first cousins; tons of chaos, it was great. Now, the family is all spread out and so many members are missing, having gone on to their reward. There is no central gathering place anymore. There are no long term married couples anymore, everyone is either between spouses, or with a new one. And what divorce didn’t destroy in the family for Thanksgiving, football did. I remember the men smoking and drinking outside on the back porch while us kids played in the yard after the feast. I remember everyone coming in, all chilled with icy fingers, for dessert of hot chocolate and pumpkin pie and the traditional listening to family stories retold. Now, men grab a plate of turkey dinner, and head for the living room to watch football while they yell at the women to keep the kids quiet and out of the living room. Try as we might to force the family to sit together, at least for a blessing, the men are straining at the bit to get into that living room and get that damn game on.

“Oh gosh, Sally, what have you done to the living room?”
“I’ve adapted, Patty. I covered all the furniture with plastic drop cloths and put a trough on the coffee table in front of the couch. The men don’t want to sit with us and the kids, so I’ve stopped fighting it. I’m no longer making a “kid’s table”, I’m making “men’s table.””
“What are you serving them?”
“Traditional Thanksgiving foods. I’m putting a small turkey I made just for them in the center, with big bowls of mashed potatoes, stuffing and gravy, and all the remaining space I’m filling with nachos.”
“Where’s the plates and silverware? I just see big serving spoons and a carving knife.”
“They don’t need or deserve plates. They can just grab a big spoon and shovel the food in their mouths from a common bowl.”
“What about carving the turkey?”
“I figure one guy will carve the white meat and they’ll just rip the bird apart after that.”
“Eeeew! That’s so primitive!”
“I disagree. Ripping meat apart and ladling mashed potatoes and gravy into their mouths is how their ancestors ate. They can all feel like cavemen while they watch a grueling game of football and grunt and shout.”
“After you gonna give them napkins at least?”
“Nah. Napkins are too civilized. I’m leaving disposable baby wipes around. They can throw them on the floor, which is covered with a plastic sheet and when they’re gone I can just gather the whole thing and ditch it.”
“Don’t you think some of them will be insulted by the idea of eating from big bowls in a trough?”
“You’re an only child, right Patty?”
“Yes.”
“I have four brothers. Men always attack food like they haven’t eaten in a week. They’re pigs anyway, I’m just accommodating the reality. Wait and see.”
Four hours later. Patty walks into the living room during the game.
“Hi guys. How is everybody? Can I get you anything? Anybody need a knife or fork? How’s the food?”
Men on couch, “Everything’s fine. You’re blocking the TV. Everything’s fine. We’ll call you if we need anything.”
“Well Patty, are you satisfied? Did I do the right thing setting up a men’s table?”
“They didn’t even notice they were eating from a trough.”
“I rest my case.”
“Unbelievable.”
“More pumpkin pie? I pulled out the good china just for us. Isn’t this a beautiful pattern? It was a Neiman’s exclusive. I just love it.”

Flying Cow Lands on MiniVan

Udderly Implausible

SPOKANE, Washington (Reuters 11/7/07) - A cow plunged from a 200-foot cliff onto the hood of a minivan on a highway in central Washington state, according to police. The police estimated the animal weighed 600 lbs., the average size of a mature cow. It had been missing for two days and wandered 5 miles from home near the popular Lake Chelan tourist area.

“I swear to God, Carol, the cow just fell outta the sky on the van.”
“You talked me into letting you use my van to go deer hunting again - you swear not to mess it up this time but, nooooooo, you destroy it! Now I’m supposed to believe that - not only was it raining cats and dogs - oh no - it was raining cows! Are you kidding me? How am I going to get my insurance to cover that? Is a falling cow an Act of God? Why don’t you call the agent, ask what the deductible is for airborne bovine collision!”
“Carol, I’m serious, babe. Look, call Johnny, it nearly scared him to death, he’ll tell you, it’s the God’s honest truth.”
“Stop it! I’m so sick of this! You make up any excuse you can to go hunting as much as possible so you can avoid spending time with me and the kids! You always come home hungover and deerless, my van stinks of beer and doe urine for weeks, and now, somehow, you’ve crushed the roof of the van, and the best you can come up with is some cow and bull story about being attacked by flying cows in the night in search of hapless deer hunters in minivans. Tell the truth, you got blitzed and you have no idea what happened to the van.”
“Look, we were sober. I was driving. Johnny was opening up a bag of chips when, WHAM! There’s this huge crash on top of the van. I coulda had a heart attack - ever think about that? And then we hear something go ‘thud’ on the ground behind us. We turned around and saw the cow on the road and Johnny called 911.”
“You hit the cow.”
“NO! The cow hit US! The cops said it fell off a cliff.”
“A cow was wondering around and rather than face certain capture and deportation back to the farm, it decided to commit suicide by jumping off the cliff, and it just happened to hit you.”
“Yes.”
“How stupid do you think I am?”
“You’re not stupid, Carol, you married me didn’t you?”
“I think I just answered my own question.”
“Look, I’ll take the van in for repair first think tomorrow. You can drive my Chevy this week. I’ll get a ride to work with Carl.”
“I can’t drive the Chevy.”
“Why not?”
“The left side is crushed in.”
“You had an accident with my car?”
”No. We were driving home from the IGA when we were sideswiped by a rhinoceros.”
“Geez, Carol that’s not even close to a good lie. How the hell did a rhino get on a highway and sideswipe the car?”
“I don’t know, ask the cow, she should’ve had a good view from up on the cliff.”
“Good night, Carol, I’m going to bed.”
“My bed?”
“I guess not. I’ll get some sheets and take the couch.... hey, what’s with these sheets, they smell funny.”
“It’s my new cleaning agent for removing the smell of beer, cigarettes, doe urine, and campfire smoke.”
“Smells like kerosene.”
“Nope. Lighter fluid. Have a good night.”
“You’re killin’ me, Carol, you’re killin’ me.”
“Don’t tempt me......... flying cows.......”

iPod, iPhone, idontcare

Time, time, time, is on my side, yes it is

I have a memory from when I was a very small child of my great grandfather, Clancy Seaman, standing in the kitchen in his LIRR conductor’s uniform, with a vest that had a chain draped from a button hole to a small pocket on the vest. Clancy used a pocket watch as was the custom for his generation. I always thought he looked so proud and dapper in his railroad uniform. I think I fell in love with pocket watches because of that memory.

Pocket watches are novelties now, except for the real antiques, no watchmakers make them and no one uses them. A pity. The wristwatch came into existence in the 1920’s, courtesy of Tiffany’s who made them for the Army and called them tank watches, and we’ve had time on our hands ever since.

If you ever need to know if someone is right or left handed, and you don’t want to ask them, look at their wrist. Right handers wear their watches on their left wrist and vice versa. And if someone forgot to wear their watch on any given day, you know that by the fact that they look at a blank wrist and curse every five minutes all day long.

I noticed that many young people don’t wear watches at all. I asked my daughter why not, and she said, “Cell phones and iPods, Mom. You can set your screen to always show the time. Wearing a watch is for old people, it’s the sign of a TC, Technologically Challenged, that’s you Mom.”
“Yeah, but when you want to know the time, you have to find your phone or peapod in your purse first.”
“No, that’s what phone chains are for,” she said as she showed me her cell phone on a tiny tether to the strap of her purse.
“What’s the little seahorse and beads for?” I asked, observing that they were also attached to the phone.
“Phone charms.”
“Phone charms?”
“Jewelry for your phone. Should be a natural concept for you, oh Mother with whose breathalyzer test would show a blood glitter level of 2%.”

Using your phone as a timekeeper, jewelry for the phone, a leash for the phone, apparently an entire subculture centered around cell phones and their new role as timekeeping devices has been blossoming without my knowledge or consent.
“Maybe I should get one of these iPhones on TV,” I said.
“You don’t even have a cell phone, Mom, you aren’t ready or qualified to own an iPhone. You know they play music, right?”
“In your ear, while you’re talking? That’s terrible!”
“No, it combines a cell phone with an iPod, you know, the thing you call my ‘pea pod’.”
“Does it have a clock in it too?”
“Yes Mom. Not only does it tell time, you can set an alarm, and there’s a mini program that sends a signal to your coffeepot to start brewing and turns your TV on to a preprogrammed station.”
“Well, that’s convenient.”
“No, Mom, I’m joking.”
”Oh, it doesn’t tell time and play music?”
“Just forget it, Mom.”

Not long after that conversation, my daughter started a job and all of a sudden, started wearing a wrist watch.
“What happened to wrist watches being old fashioned?” I asked.
“Mom, be practical, I can’t look at my phone all day.”
“So, does this mean I’m smart after all?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mother.”
“Admit it, I am smart sometimes!”
“Keep it up and I’ll start talking about CD burners and wireless remotes and Bluetooth! Then we’ll see how smart you are!”
“Oh yeah? I got a hundred embarrassing pictures of you from childhood, they’re going up on YouLube.com today! What’s so funny?”