Holiday Highlights
Here's the highlights reel:
Roxann asked me how Pete was getting to Denver for Christmas. After I stopped trying to convince her he was going to swim, she clued me in that there was a blizzard going on. I made the offer that if the worst happened and the airport still wasn't open, he would be very welcome to have Christmas with my family, but I didn't get a call, so I think he made it to Colorado okay. He should be flying from there to the ancestral homestead, as it were, on Hawai'i, today. He'll be back on January 2nd, I think.
At 8:56 AM on the Friday before Christmas, our Finance manager came in from a smoke and told me I had to go put air in my left front tire. Now. The tire was all but flat, and once I'd limped the 300 yards to the local Circle K and filled it (and checked the other front tire--I only have trouble with the front tires, for some reason), I waited until the compressor quit and put my ear down by the problem tire, and listened. And heard it hissing. So I called my Daddy for a recommendation on a shop that deals with tires, limped to the closest one, and had the good news/bad news thing. The good news is, it was a screw in the tread, and easily patchable. The bad news was, on the Friday before Christmas, they were backed up 2-3 hours. Our office had only planned on being open till noon. I gave up and called my Mommy to come pick me up, and spent a couple hours hanging out with her while I waited, which was nice.
My sister and her boyfriend came down on Christmas Eve. My sister and I elected to sing with my parents' church choir for the Christmas Eve service. The choir director, you must understand, is Dr. Bruce Chamberlain, who teaches at the university of Arizona and directs the Tucson Symphony Orchestra Chorus. He'll tell you that he can spend three minutes with a high school choir and improve their ranking a full step, and it's true. And, oh yeah, he puts up with a bunch of church altos who can't sing their way out of a paper bag. So sis and I spent most of an hour that afternoon copying down breath marks, dynamics, and tempo changes, and then running the pieces we weren't familiar with. Because, even coming in cold, we couldn't be worse than some of the aforementioned altos . . . but that's cold comfort.
(Side note: A good conductor makes you want to do better than your best. What so few people understand is that, if he's doing his job, that guy who stands in front of the choir/band/orchestra isn't just waving his arms around: He's playing the orchestra. That is his instrument. Your job is to know your part and watch the conductor. He's the one who fits the parts together. He controls the speed, tone, volume, mood, and color or the orchestra. If he chooses to emphasize the wrong part of a beat or can't tell that the viola sitting next to you is consistantly flat, you can sing or play your heart out and the group will never sound the way it's meant to. I quit orchestra in high school because the orchestra teacher was a fine violinist, but a terrible conductor.)
The Christmas Eve service at my parents' church is a candle-lighting service, so choir rehersal before the service began with the obligatory lecture on how to light your candle without setting yourself/your robes/your neighbor on fire. This was followed by the obligatory instructions on how to blow your candle out without splattering wax everywhere. Marian offered that if you hold your finger in front of your candle, the air will go around on both sides and put it out, gently. Bruce replied that that was a fine idea, but your other hand would be full of your choir music. To which tiny, delicate, eight-five-year-old Marian replied, "Oh. That crap." The entire choir broke down laughing (yes, including Bruce. Marian looked like she couldn't quite believe she'd said that . . . out loud).
After the service, we had Christmas dinner back at my parents' house, and then opened presents. For the highlights reel, my parents got my not-quite-a-brother-in-law Guinness pajamas, I got them weird plants (a pancake plant, crown-of-thorns, and dinasaur back--they were delighted), my sister got her boyfriend's employee-of-the-month bonus in the form of an iPod, and I got a phone that doesn't suck (which is tantamount to giving me my fiancee, given the circumstances).
My friend Mark (not to be confused with my boss, Mark) gave me a puzzle. Not a jigsaw. One of those metal things where the challenge is to take it apart and then put it back together. Only this one is in the shape of a heart, with a male symbol and a female symbol that thread through it, and it's stamped 'amour.' It is, in some ways, the perfect gift--not because it's such a wonderful thing in and of itself. Because of me and Mark. Mark is one of three people I knew before I ever met Pete with whom I might really have been compatible, but with whom there was one thing that would always be in the way. It's a different thing with each of them. With me and Mark, the situation is so deeply tangled that affection and pain become inextricably entwined. It is, at this point, bittersweet, and somehow all the affection and the pain are now tied up in one ironic little puzzle. I appreciate irony.
At about 11PM, I went home and discovered that seven other people were having Christmas in my living room. Kendra had mentioned that Amy and Rob would be coming back down from Phoenix with her on Christmas Eve; I had somehow failed to make the connection that they would end up at our apartment for Christmas instead of Kendra's parents' house, or that they would have two teenagers with them. So I hung out for the forty minutes or so that I was still conscious. Someone other than me got to enjoy the Christmas tree. Hooray!
On Christmas morning, it was back to the family. We watched Lady in the Water. I was quite pleased. It didn't have the pacing problem some of M. Night Shyamalan's earlier movies did and played more with the best elements of them. And I'm sorry, the pool is a yoni. It just is. And it's deliberate. Kendra had seen this in the theatre and I think characterized it as one of those movies that either you get it, or you don't. I like to think most of you reading this would get it.
And I found out my sister's roller derby association is the pre-parade entertainment for the Fiesta Bowl parade this year. And her boyfriend is marching in the Rose Bowl parade--he's a storm trooper. He's likely to end up carrying the flag for the Arizona garrison, since he's the tallest of the three Arizonans who were asked to march. My father is going to record it so that if he doesn't end up with the flag he can point himself out, later. I am much amused.
Roxann asked me how Pete was getting to Denver for Christmas. After I stopped trying to convince her he was going to swim, she clued me in that there was a blizzard going on. I made the offer that if the worst happened and the airport still wasn't open, he would be very welcome to have Christmas with my family, but I didn't get a call, so I think he made it to Colorado okay. He should be flying from there to the ancestral homestead, as it were, on Hawai'i, today. He'll be back on January 2nd, I think.
At 8:56 AM on the Friday before Christmas, our Finance manager came in from a smoke and told me I had to go put air in my left front tire. Now. The tire was all but flat, and once I'd limped the 300 yards to the local Circle K and filled it (and checked the other front tire--I only have trouble with the front tires, for some reason), I waited until the compressor quit and put my ear down by the problem tire, and listened. And heard it hissing. So I called my Daddy for a recommendation on a shop that deals with tires, limped to the closest one, and had the good news/bad news thing. The good news is, it was a screw in the tread, and easily patchable. The bad news was, on the Friday before Christmas, they were backed up 2-3 hours. Our office had only planned on being open till noon. I gave up and called my Mommy to come pick me up, and spent a couple hours hanging out with her while I waited, which was nice.
My sister and her boyfriend came down on Christmas Eve. My sister and I elected to sing with my parents' church choir for the Christmas Eve service. The choir director, you must understand, is Dr. Bruce Chamberlain, who teaches at the university of Arizona and directs the Tucson Symphony Orchestra Chorus. He'll tell you that he can spend three minutes with a high school choir and improve their ranking a full step, and it's true. And, oh yeah, he puts up with a bunch of church altos who can't sing their way out of a paper bag. So sis and I spent most of an hour that afternoon copying down breath marks, dynamics, and tempo changes, and then running the pieces we weren't familiar with. Because, even coming in cold, we couldn't be worse than some of the aforementioned altos . . . but that's cold comfort.
(Side note: A good conductor makes you want to do better than your best. What so few people understand is that, if he's doing his job, that guy who stands in front of the choir/band/orchestra isn't just waving his arms around: He's playing the orchestra. That is his instrument. Your job is to know your part and watch the conductor. He's the one who fits the parts together. He controls the speed, tone, volume, mood, and color or the orchestra. If he chooses to emphasize the wrong part of a beat or can't tell that the viola sitting next to you is consistantly flat, you can sing or play your heart out and the group will never sound the way it's meant to. I quit orchestra in high school because the orchestra teacher was a fine violinist, but a terrible conductor.)
The Christmas Eve service at my parents' church is a candle-lighting service, so choir rehersal before the service began with the obligatory lecture on how to light your candle without setting yourself/your robes/your neighbor on fire. This was followed by the obligatory instructions on how to blow your candle out without splattering wax everywhere. Marian offered that if you hold your finger in front of your candle, the air will go around on both sides and put it out, gently. Bruce replied that that was a fine idea, but your other hand would be full of your choir music. To which tiny, delicate, eight-five-year-old Marian replied, "Oh. That crap." The entire choir broke down laughing (yes, including Bruce. Marian looked like she couldn't quite believe she'd said that . . . out loud).
After the service, we had Christmas dinner back at my parents' house, and then opened presents. For the highlights reel, my parents got my not-quite-a-brother-in-law Guinness pajamas, I got them weird plants (a pancake plant, crown-of-thorns, and dinasaur back--they were delighted), my sister got her boyfriend's employee-of-the-month bonus in the form of an iPod, and I got a phone that doesn't suck (which is tantamount to giving me my fiancee, given the circumstances).
My friend Mark (not to be confused with my boss, Mark) gave me a puzzle. Not a jigsaw. One of those metal things where the challenge is to take it apart and then put it back together. Only this one is in the shape of a heart, with a male symbol and a female symbol that thread through it, and it's stamped 'amour.' It is, in some ways, the perfect gift--not because it's such a wonderful thing in and of itself. Because of me and Mark. Mark is one of three people I knew before I ever met Pete with whom I might really have been compatible, but with whom there was one thing that would always be in the way. It's a different thing with each of them. With me and Mark, the situation is so deeply tangled that affection and pain become inextricably entwined. It is, at this point, bittersweet, and somehow all the affection and the pain are now tied up in one ironic little puzzle. I appreciate irony.
At about 11PM, I went home and discovered that seven other people were having Christmas in my living room. Kendra had mentioned that Amy and Rob would be coming back down from Phoenix with her on Christmas Eve; I had somehow failed to make the connection that they would end up at our apartment for Christmas instead of Kendra's parents' house, or that they would have two teenagers with them. So I hung out for the forty minutes or so that I was still conscious. Someone other than me got to enjoy the Christmas tree. Hooray!
On Christmas morning, it was back to the family. We watched Lady in the Water. I was quite pleased. It didn't have the pacing problem some of M. Night Shyamalan's earlier movies did and played more with the best elements of them. And I'm sorry, the pool is a yoni. It just is. And it's deliberate. Kendra had seen this in the theatre and I think characterized it as one of those movies that either you get it, or you don't. I like to think most of you reading this would get it.
And I found out my sister's roller derby association is the pre-parade entertainment for the Fiesta Bowl parade this year. And her boyfriend is marching in the Rose Bowl parade--he's a storm trooper. He's likely to end up carrying the flag for the Arizona garrison, since he's the tallest of the three Arizonans who were asked to march. My father is going to record it so that if he doesn't end up with the flag he can point himself out, later. I am much amused.
posted by Journey | 1:24 PM
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