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Winning Christmas

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This is the year I was going to win Christmas. Our house would be just like my aunt’s house in Mississippi when I was growing up.   The house where you were afraid to touch anything.  That’s what good taste means to me—the ability to make everyone else feel that they’ve done everything wrong.  The feeling that you’re only supposed to whisper.   As a grandparent, thats just what I wanted. Just one year in my life, I wanted our house to be so fancy it made kids scared. With awe.   Except now I realize that the reason I used to decorate the house like crazy is the kids.  After waiting years and years and years to finally get rid of the kids, it turns out they were of some use at Christmas.  I decorated for them.  Basically I didn’t care what the neighbors thought of our house—I cared what the kids thought!  Who Knew?   Unfortunately, decorating is one of those housewife things that I feel competitive about. Just once I wanted to...
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Trivial? Hardly!

As I slid into my seat, the guy next to me immediately starting joking about how huge he was and telling me that if he bumped me in any way to just slug him. This is always the way coming back to Salt Lake from New York. Friendly. Going out is a different story. Everyone has on their game face, their “I live in New York” face. Their “I’ve got a great haircut and I have no intention of letting you into my space ever” face. On the way back the passengers are over-friendly. Maybe it’s the relief of getting to be yourself again after four days of people running into you and acting like it’s your fault. All the couples returning to Salt Lake have kids, dirty blonde hair, and knee-length Bermudas. We export these wholesome types as our way of obeying the commandment to be leavening in the world. And then when they get back on the mother ship to go home and we send out a fresh batch. You want to ask them immediately what ward they’re in. The man next to me on my flight from New Yo...
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I miss Maggie most when I have a great leftover like this mornings cheese omelet.  I would never have to explain why it was a leftover, or worry that she wouldn't like it. 
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