Go Elf Your Shelf!

Hey, Elf on the Shelf, c’mere, I want to tell you something. Now I know your “boss” forbids you from talking to me, but it’s been made very clear that you can listen, so you better listen and listen good, you backstabbing bastard. Where I come from, snitches get stitches, so if you think I’m just gonna let you sit there all smug on your shelf knowing that as soon as I go to bed you’re gonna race off and rat me out to Santa, you’re even dumber than you look. And that’s saying something.  

Just who the hell do you think you are, anyway? People are nice enough to invite you into their homes, and you repay them by what? Informing on them? How do you sleep at night? Oh, wait, that’s right. You don’t. You’re too busy spilling your guts to the big guy, you two-faced sack of shit! But that’s all about to change. You see, I’m not the only one sick of your shenanigans. Word on the street is if you don’t change your ways, you’re gonna wind up the Elf on the Slab, you pointy eared prick.

So if you don’t want to be “accidentally” run down by a runaway Hess truck, you better start minding your elfin business!  Capisce? Now, no one’s asking you to lie to Santa, they’re just “suggesting” you to stop the snitching. That shouldn’t be too hard, right? I’m sure you must have better things to do with your time. Wouldn’t you rather be painting stripes on candy canes or making toys with the rest of your little buddies? What do you get out of spying for Santa, anyway? Free lederhosen?

You know, you’re starting to look a little nervous. What’s wrong? Does Santa have something on you? Did one of your elvin friends rat you out? Or is Santa blackmailing you for some indiscretion at the office Christmas party? C’mon, you can tell me…

Fine, just sit there. See if I care. But so help me, if I wake up tomorrow and you’re not still sitting there, we’re gonna have problems.  What I do during the day is MY business. If Santa is so concerned about my behavior, he can get off his fat ass and check on me himself. But as far as he knows, I’m Nice. And I plan to keep it that way. Even if that means I have to keep you here. Do we have an understanding? 

I can’t tell from your blank expression, but I trust this little talk has been enlightening.  Regardless of what you may have seen, I’m really not such a bad guy, and I actually get along rather well with the rest of your ilk. Me and the Keebler elves are pretty tight, I’ve spent a lot of time traveling with my gnome, and the Tooth Fairy has always been respectfully treated. The difference is, none of them were snitches.  So learn from your brethren and be the better man. No one likes a rat.

Hopefully this will be the last we speak of this matter, but if you need further proof that I mean business, just take a look at that angel over there. She couldn’t keep her big mouth shut and got a tree shoved up her ass. So unless you want a shelf suppository, remember: What happens in my house stays in my house!

That Feeling of Christmas

Every year there comes a moment where I remember why it is I like Christmas so much.  I never know when it’s going to happen – it might show up a few weeks before the big day, or maybe even a couple of days after. Sometimes it’s obvious and hard to miss. Others, silent and subtle. But it always manages to find me. It’s usually not in attic, even though I tend to spend an inordinate amount of time in there around the holidays.  And it’s definitely not in the mall, where I spend an incredible amount of money.

 Sometimes it’s in church – either during the Christmas Pageant, when all the kids reenact the whole birth of Christ thing, complete with kids dressed as donkeys - or when the Children’s Choir sings “Silent Night” in the darkened hall, holding flickering candles in their trembling hands.  Both are very nice moments and can usually be counted upon for a goose bump or two.

Other times it’s gotten me at work – wrapping packages for needy families and accepting hand-made gifts, such as the ever-popular “paperweight” (aka chalk coated rock), from kids you know can’t afford anything else are both surefire ways to get the spirit of Christmas flowing.

And speaking of flowing spirits, I can always count on family (and the wine that comes with them) to fill me with cheer.  With so many “sides” to see, things get a bit hectic, but each stop usually provides a moment or two that make it worth the effort.  The food is always good (especially my mom’s walnut chicken). The presents are always appreciated (even Renee’s). And the music, whether it was Vera’s accordion-led sing a longs (RIP), Cousin Christina’s piano solos, or my own holiday Christmix playing in the background, is also a big part of the day.

But it’s typically during the quiet moments that Christmas finds me. Curled up on the couch, squinting at the lights of the tree. Finishing the last glass of wine after most of the guests have gone home.  Watching It’s a Wonderful Life for the hundredth time…

As I get older, the hustle and bustle of the holidays seems to get more stressful, and I wind up wishing I could just conjure the feeling for why we do it. With all the pressure and work that goes into “making” Christmas, I feel myself starting to get a little too anxious for it. I feel the need to go looking for it, but I know I can’t.  So I just go through the motions: buy the gifts, cut the tree, string the lights, wrap the gifts, decorate the tree, play the carols, clean the house, open the gifts, and a thousand other things in hope that the feeling will eventually arrive.

And while I don’t have faith in much, but I do have faith that it’ll come.

Out of Tune?

Whatever happened to carolers? Back in the day, my friends and I would gather and go door-to-door singing holiday songs for our neighbors. Most of them seemed happy to see us, and some even tossed coins or treats our way to reward us for our efforts. It was like a mini-Halloween, only with singing instead of costumes (though I’m sure my voice must have been pretty scary.)

But now, unless they’re some “professional” outfit wandering the malls, or a church group hitting the nursing homes, you never come across carolers. Or at least I don’t. So what happened? Are today’s kids too lazy? Or are their parents too afraid? Was there some anti-caroling campaign I missed?  Did Nintendo come out with wii Carol? I figure something had to happen, because with the popularity of Glee, and flash mobs, it would seem like more kids would be into this aspect of the holiday spirit. But they’re not.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you, as frankly, it’s pretty awkward to be standing in the door, letting all the heat out, while some out of tune urchins screech about Santa in his underwear.  But as a kid, it was fun. We’d steal the songbooks from church so we could practice, and then argue over our set lists. We’d giggle over words like “virgin” and “balls” and try to outlast each other with the longest peeeeee-eeeeeeace at the end of “Silent Night.” We demanded figgy pudding, implored people to come let us adore him, and exposed Santa kissing mothers.  And while very few of us could actually sing, what we lacked in talent, we more than made up for in volume.

And it seemed like we always had the perfect night, where the light of the moon would sparkle the lightly falling snow. We’d trudge up unshoveled walks, mash the doorbell with mittened hands, and start singing before the door was opened. Sometimes it never opened, but we always finished the song anyway. Then we’d go off to the next house.

 We didn’t worry about lawsuits, or pedophiles, or interrupting an episode of “The Dukes of Hazzard.”  Our biggest concern was trying to remember if it was Nine Lords a Leaping or Nine Ladies Dancing. And maybe our neighbors were irritated by our intrusions, but they never let it show. Instead, they’d call for their husbands, ask if we took requests, and offer us some cocoa. And while we always tried to honor their requests, we never took them up on the cocoa. There was no such thing as to-go cups back then, and we had many other houses to hit and many more songs to sing before the night was through. The cocoa could wait until we got home.

Looking back, I suppose our caroling was pretty lame and corny, even by 70’s standards, so I can’t blame today’s kids for their lack of enthusiasm. But if there are any out there willing to give it a shot, my door is always (partially) open. I can’t promise caroling will make you the coolest kid on the block, but you will be the coldest! 

Things I Like About My New Cat

Above is a picture of my new cat, Steve. And below are all the things I like about her:






























Have a nice day

Thanksgiving

NOTE: This originally ran in the Connecticut Post in November of 2008. My intent was to capture what it was like growing up in my family, so I did not even attempt to account for my wife's family (and their Jell-O addiction) but I would like to dedicate this to the memory of Kathy Cribbins and all the members of our family who are no longer with us at the table, but will always be in our hearts.

As much as I love over-eating and being with family, Thanksgiving was never that big of a deal for me.  It felt more like a day off than an actual holiday – probably due to the lack of presents. It started when I was a kid, when a holiday wasn’t a holiday unless there were gifts involved. And I’m talking about real gifts…from a store.  Not those so-called “gifts” of good health, loving family, and fresh food on the table – I wanted something in a box, or a basket, that I could put batteries in and play with. But year after year Thanksgiving guests would arrive bearing nothing more than smiles and pies, leaving me with nothing to open (unless you count all the walnuts I had to crack for my arthritic aunt.)

It’s not that I disliked the day, it’s just that everything Thanksgiving had to offer, some other holiday did better. Take decorating for example. My family needed the entire month leading up to Halloween, Christmas, and Easter to properly decorate the house for the big day. But Thanksgiving? With maybe an hour to go before the company started arriving, my brother and I would “decorate” by setting out a few pilgrim and Indian candles, filling the cornucopia (but only after we took turns wearing it as a hat), and creating place cards for our guests. For some reason we fought over who got to fill the relish tray with the assortment of sweet pickles and olives, so that became my dad’s job (which he didn’t seem to mind since it gave him the opportunity to steal a couple of olives for his martini before sneaking off to watch football until it was time to carve the turkey.)

My mom’s job was to cook the turkey – a task she approached with the delicate precision of a bomb squad, since she considered the turkey to be a time bomb that would kill us all if not cooked long enough - though she didn’t seem quite so concerned for our health the year she accidentally cooked the turkey with the plastic bag of giblets still stuffed inside – “It’ll be fine” she declared, peeling off the melted pieces of probably toxic plastic. "Just don't eat the middle."

Normally a late riser, she’d set her alarm for 6:00 a.m. Thanksgiving morning in order to put the turkey in the oven so it could cook long enough (a time determined by a complicated formula derived by scientists at NASA, but later made obsolete by Butterball’s pop-up timer.)  She would then spend the rest of the day sticking to a strict basting schedule.

When we were really little, every time she opened the oven to check the turkey (which was quite often) she’d start shrieking and screaming, claiming that it was trying to escape  My brother Joe and I would come running into the kitchen just as she was closing the oven door, wiping her brow with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Not quite done yet,” she’d say before shooing us back into the living room to continue watching the Macy’s Umpteenth Annual Thanksgiving Day Parade – a six hour snooze fest that she somehow always convinced us to watch.

Which is another area that Thanksgiving was clearly lacking – good TV specials. Christmas had Frosty and Rudolph. Halloween had Charlie Brown. Thanksgiving had…balloons. An endless parade of big boring balloons, their tedious passing narrated by the likes of Lorne Greene, or some other washed-up celebrity, who would share “facts” about them as they floated by. We didn’t care that six people could swim in Snoopy’s supper dish or that Bullwinkle’s nose was so big you could park a Volkswagen in it. All we cared about was seeing Santa, who traditionally brought up the rear of the parade, ushering in the start of the real holiday season.

But the star of Thanksgiving was dinner, which somehow always managed to coincide with half-time. Now most normal families start their feast with a prayer – seeing as how the whole reason for gathering was to give thanks for the food and so forth, but not us. When my mom would ask, “Who wants to say grace?” We’d all yell “Hulford!” -  the last name of our neighbor, and the only Grace we knew.

But what we lacked in prayer, we made up for in toasting. We toasted everyone. Those who were at the table with us, and those who were no longer with us. We toasted the turkey, the stuffing, and even the bread, quite literally one year when my cousin, trying to clink a glass across the table, accidentally tipped a lit candle into the napkin-lined basket of rolls, setting them on fire. After the flames were extinguished, someone (I like to think it was me) held up a burnt roll and said, “Well, you did say you wanted to make a toast!”

Yes, we had the traditional “kiddy table” but it was purely for logistical purposes.  We never felt left out or unwanted, we knew that there was simply not enough room for everyone at the main table. And it didn’t really matter how old you were, if you were someone’s kid, you sat at the kiddy table. Therefore, graduating to the adult table didn’t have that rite of passage feel for us – if a seat opened up, it was only because someone had died (or even worse, was spending Thanksgiving with a girlfriend’s family!)

And while we could fill the seat of a departed loved one, we could never take their place. They brought something to the table that couldn’t be replaced. But we kept them alive by sharing stories and making toasts in their honor so that the new additions to the kiddy table will know what it was like to eat with Grampa, and George, Gramma Rose, Auntie, Uncle Paul, Bobby…

Now that I'm older, I've come to appreciate what a special holiday Thanksgiving really is. Looking back, as much as I liked getting them, I can’t recall a single Christmas gift any of my deceased relatives gave to me. But I do have countless memories of conversations and moments with them from Thanksgivings past – and I know now that it wasn't their gifts I was missing,  it was their presence.

P(raising) the Bar

Porky's, circa ? - see if you can find me, Where's Waldo style!

NOTE:  Call it lazy, but I plan on rerunning my holiday "Greatest Hits"pieces year after year. This would be one of them!

Tomorrow night, aka Thanksgiving Eve, has quietly grown to become one of the busiest bar nights of the year. Whether it's college kids home on break or prodigal sons returning home a bit too early, everyone seems to feel the need to head to their neighborhood bar before spending the big day with their families. 

Here in Shelton, we call it "Valley New Year" and for some reason,  many of the bars we flock to are the same places we desperately avoided growing up. They were dives, places to be steered clear of since that's where our friend’s fathers (and father’s friends) hung out. But somehow, without changing (or cleaning) a single thing, they get transformed, for one night at least, into friendly, lively, homey places where everyone knows your name…or at least your face.

Which is how most of the night is spent: naming names and figuring out faces of all the “friends” and acquaintances bellying up to the bar. They'll look vaguely familiar, but receding hairlines, expanding waist lines, and fake tan lines will make it hard to be sure.  The sad part is that it wasn’t that long ago that you were good buddies, signing yearbooks and claiming to “Never forget the good times...” and now you don’t even remember their names.

On the other hand, people you once passed by in the halls without so much as a nod will be recognizing and hugging you like long lost friends. And who knows, maybe they are!  So just to be safe, give them a hearty “Hey, how’s it going? Good? Good!” greeting and maybe raise a glass in a toasting motion.  And then hope to God they continue on their way, for you will have absolutely nothing else to talk about. 

But they won't go away, and will usually linger for a couple rounds of “Name That Dude,” where the two of you, lacking any real connection, will start naming all of the people you once commonly knew.  So, you still hang out with Greg? Seen Jerry around?  How about Gina?  Once you run out of names, a few moments of uncomfortable silence will follow as the two of you nod and smile insincerely at each other with an, “Isn’t this great, the whole gang’s together!” attitude, until one of you sees someone (anyone) else to go talk to.

And if you're lucky, that someone else might actually be a person you not only recognize, but are truly happy to see.   Unfortunately it will be too loud and crowded to carry on any type of real conversation, so you’ll settle for the quick catch-up, covering the past five years in all of five seconds before reverting back to the old nod and smile. It'll go something like this:

You: “Hey, how have you been? It’s been years since I saw you last! What’s new?”

Them: “Not much. How about you?”

You: “Ah, you know, the usual…”

Them: “Yeah, me too.”

Commence nodding and smiling.  Never mind that during the last five years, one or both of you could have been married, divorced, hired, fired, jailed, bailed, promoted, demoted, and so forth - all of your highs, lows, and in-betweens will be summed up with a simple “not much” and “the usual.”

And maybe that is what’s so appealing about Thanksgiving Eve: that no matter what has passed over the past year (or years), all your hardships and dramas and tragedies suddenly become “not much” and “the usual.”  And that truly is something to be thankful for. 

So whatever your Thanksgiving plans are, try to spend a few hours the night before down at your local bar. Time with the family is great, but it’s also nice to hang out with a roomful of “friends” who don’t really care who you’ve become or what you’ve been doing.  Most are just happy to know your name - and maybe buy a round of drinks that you can raise together in recognition of just how truly great it is that the whole gang is together.

Getting My Bell Rung

The doorbell rang the other day (an unusual occurrence around here - unless my two-year old is pushing the button) and I opened it expecting to find a UPS man or something. Instead I was greeted by a stranger looking to get me to switch cable providers. 


Now, before I go any further, you should know that I can not stand telemarketers. I despise them. Hate them. Rue the day they were born. When they call, I either: A. hang up immediately B. pass the phone off to the aforementioned two-year old and let him "talk" to them, or C. offer to go get "Mr. or Mrs. Wood" and then leave them waiting until they hang up. 


Basically, I don't like attempts at selling me things in my own home. I don't care if you're a Girl Scout, Jehovah's Witness, or political candidate - if I want what you have to offer, or am looking for information, I am more than capable of contacting you or finding it for myself. 


But here was this guy offering me a money saving opportunity that I was actually considering just a few days before, so I gave him a few moments of my time. He was nice enough, a little nervous, but seemingly on the up and up, so I gave him my phone number asked him to call me back on Monday after I had some time to look things over, compare offers, squeeze my current cable provider for a discount, etc. We agreed on a time, shook hands, and went on our merry ways.


Then, two days later, at dinnertime, the doorbell rings again, and it's him. And while I may come across here as a take no prisoners, call it as I see it sort of guy, in person, I'm rather timid. I never send food back in a restaurant. I don't confront neighbors about obnoxious fireworks. I accept less than stellar service with a smile. But for some reason, I let this poor guy have it. Before he even had a chance to open his mouth, I laid into him about how unacceptable it was to show up at my house, that we were in the middle of dinner, yada yada yada. 


He got all flustered and started fumbling through his binder, and assuming he was looking to leave me with more information about his cable company, I cut him off and said I didn't need any more pamphlets and I was not interested in any of his offers. And that's when the poor guy hands me the paper he was looking for, which turned out to be a printout of a writing website his sister had created (It had come up in our first conversation that I was a teacher) that he thought I might be interested in. 


I felt horrible, but already committed to being a dick, I took the paper without comment and sent him on his way. I closed the door, feeling none of the manly pride one might expect after going to battle with the enemy. In fact, I felt like a real jerk. So much so that I sent the following letter to his sister's website in hopes that he might get it. 




"Dear Mike, I want to apologize for the way I  treated you. I know you were just doing your job, and sales are hard to come by these days, but I was REALLY put off by your second visit to my home. To tell you the truth, I was put off by your FIRST visit as well, but since I don't even like when friends or family stop by unannounced, I let it slide. But regardless, you still didn't deserve to be treated like that. Had you been some pushy jerk or intimidating individual, I wouldn't have thought twice about brushing you off, but you seem like a genuinely sweet and sincere man, and should have been treated accordingly. Point is, I feel terrible about being such a jerk to you (not bad enough to sign up for Comcast, mind you, but still pretty bad!) and I wish you success in your endeavors. 


Speaking of, not to dismiss the job you have, but I also hope you find something better suited to your skills and personality that WON'T put you in the line of fire from jerks like me. You have such a warm presence about you that it seems a shame that it's being "wasted" on pimping cable! But I know we all got to eat, and jobs are scarce, and sometimes we just have to make the best of it - and I'm truly sorry that your job led to you seeing me at MY worst. 


I hope you know that my reaction to you at my doorstep had nothing to do with YOU as a person, as I think you would make a great neighbor, it's just I really don't like intrusions, or even surprises for that matter! I hope this message finds its way to you, and if it does, that you will accept my apology. Sincerely, Mike Wood"


This is not to say I'm going to hug the next a-hole who tries to spray me with cologne in the mall, but I am going to try to remember that he's just doing his job and politely decline. As for the telemarketers, they can continue to talk with Eli.