Little Packages

In addition to blueberry pancakes every morning, rooms so dark you can sleep until two in the afternoon and still think it's only four in the morning, and people that I love more than anything, Home also has a Little.

Little, who I thought should be named Buttercup after the princess in The Princess Bride, is allegedly Betsy's chihuahua, but Little, like all dogs and children before her, intrinsically knows who the real mom is and, therefore, spends most of her time riding on my mom's shoulder, sleeping under her shirt, snuggled under her covers, and biting anyone who dares come too close when she is watching tv with mom. She also can dance on two feet like a ballerina, likes to bring you toys when you come in the door, prefers her food, aka "crunchies," to be laid across the floor in a sweeping motion, and does "the pretty" when she's really interested in pleasing you.

Although she didn't inherit the princess's name, she did come equipped with her tendencies. She likes to get up on the table while we're reading the newspaper. She likes her own bowl of cereal in an appropriately-sized bowl, complete with a splash of milk. She expects a reasonable helping of turkey, especially if it's the kind we have for special occasions, but certainly every couple of days. And whatever you are feeding her, whether it's turkey or chips or crackers or apples, she will turn her nose up at any piece offered to her that is bigger than a thumbnail.


For a six-pound dog, Little has done an admirable job of training us. She is brilliant.

Ghosts of Christmases Past, Present & Future

There's never a dull moment at the Griswald, er, Hensley's house at Christmas, and with the addition of two husbands, one fiance and one infant, the odds of something happening go way up. With laptops adorning every flat surface in the living room, discarded shoes at the top of every flight of stairs, and "boop boop" pads decorating every discreet corner in the house to demostrate how well-potty-trained the little Chihuahua is, tragedy is basically being tempted.

The clutter and lingering disaster is part of the thrill of being at home for the holidays. Just how long can a dozen unique personalities at different stages of life and enlightenment get along, especially when half of their time is spent making meals or doing dishes?

Perhaps the most exciting part of Christmas at our house is the Appendicitis Attack. For the last half decade, my dad has spent either Christmas Eve or Christmas morning at the Urgent Treatment Center or the Emergency Room. It started with Shannon, whose appendicitis morphed into menstral cramps. Then Leiah, one Christmas Eve, got a bout of appendicitis so bad, she ended up with a bladder infection. Even Little, the dog, had an absessed appendix one Christmas that erupted when she jumped from my mom's shoulder and landed on the hallway floor. I've secretly had appendicitis every year for the last five years, but eventually I poop it out. That's when the appendicitis attacks the plumbing, which is another indicator of a successful Christmas.

This year, son-in-law, husband, brother-in-law, uncle, dad-to-be Charles carried on the Hensley family tradition. He bravely started coming down with appendicitis on Christmas Eve, just before our 13th meal of the day. Not wanting to let marinated Alaskan Salmon, made especially for his vegetarian tendencies, go to waste or to miss out on the mystery present inside his holiday cracker (a three-year-old tradition courtesy of the victim himself), he sat through the meal before fully succumbing to the Appendicitis Attack.

I thought for sure we'd dodge the AA bullet this year, since Baby Ben would be filling the house with appendix soothing gurgles and demonstrating how best to have a bowel movement, but when I got to Shannon and Charles' bedroom at 9 o'clock Christmas morning, I was met with a sprawling, vacant bed. The saddest moment of the day. Then I learned that Charles had gone to the doctor. The second saddest moment of the day. Then I realized Christmas would be stalled. The third saddest moment of the day.

Charles ended up having the actual, real appendicitis, the kind where the appendix is inflamed and the pain localizes in the lower right side of the abdomen. The kind my dad actually, really had when I was a little girl which inspired the collective hypochondria that makes us believe that every unfamiliar stomach action is destined to be appendicitis. The kind that requires surgery and vicatin. The kind that delays Christmas a whole day while we wait for Charles to get better so he, his wife and our dad can be a part of our Christmas gift-opening marathon.

The Boy Who Stalled Christmas made it home the next day, and we picked up on our traditions where we left off -- eating, drinking, and being merry, with a thin layer of potential disaster on top to keep things exciting. It was the most wonderful time of the year.

'Tis the Season

At 9 p.m., after making ornaments out of a cut up soda box and some glitter from my forgotten/abandoned craft box, I felt inspired to do Christmas cards. I love to do Christmas cards, and it's not necessarily because I like to get them. I like to spend a couple hours flipping through my address book, prioritizing the 36 people I want to know I'm thinking of them, sending a quickie message into the Christmas mail abyss, never knowing for sure if they're getting the message but feeling good about at least sending it out.

This is the first year I haven't sent them out solo, and I gotta say, adding Mack's name felt a little fake, a little conflicting and made me a little mad. He didn't ask me to include him on the cards, but to omit him seemed to be bragging, like an unspoken, "I am better than you because I am thoughtful and it is the thought that counts." To include him gave him a sidecar of credit that crippled the integrity of my thought. I mean, it's not like he signed his name. To be honest, I don't know if he wanted to sign his name or not, but I assumed he was like every other man I've ever met who masks his laziness by trying to appear flippant about such silliness as Christmas cards. I added him because I wanted to be nice, which is probably the whole desperate reason I spend two hours every December being inventive with the phrase, "Happy Holidays."

Mack does not care in the slightest if I include his name or invite him to sign the Christmas cards or ask his opinion as to which ones are cutest. I have a feeling he is not alone. I can't think of a single Christmas card I've ever received from a single man. I get them from couples, families, single women, but single men, never.

Do they not think? Or is the thought too much to ask? Or are they too cool for cards? Or are they lazy? Or, maybe, do they not do it so that women can feel good about having the thought and passing it on? Do they secretly like getting the Christmas cards when they get them from their women friends and from other couples whose female component takes the initiative? How is it that something I like to do so much can seem so worthless to the other gender? How can we be so different? What would people think if I just left his name off? Why should I care, especially since these are my top 36 people?

I guess it comes down to relationship building, and women are so much better than men at relationship building. If I were to get a Christmas card from one of my dormmates from my freshmen year of college once a year, I would look forward to that once-a-year update and expect nothing else. That would be sufficient relationship maintenance for me. If I send a hopeful hello to a cousin I haven't spoken to in years, I hope it resonates enough to reinvigorate that relationship, but if it doesn't, hey, I tried. The Christmas card relationship round up -- all I can say it's a good thing women keep it going. If we weren't keeping relationships alive, there'd be some very lonely men in the world. And all that thought that's supposed to count so much might be lost in the shuffle toward the PS3.

Old Habits Die Hard

Ever since she was a puppy, Venus has had an affinity for bread. Pizza crusts, bagels, baguettes... any hard, crusty bread turns her into a sneaky hoarder. A few years ago she lost bed privileges, and one of the hardest things that went with that was the "silly dog" smile that swept across my face as I'd stretch my hand under my pillow and come up with a covertly buried pizza crust. She won't eat the bread, she just wants to keep it. And when she buries it, she doesn't like for you to notice what she's doing. The cutest part about the whole deal is when she uses her nose to cover the bread up. She used to stand on her blanket while trying to shove it over the bread and then smoosh it down on top of it. It was a futile exercise, but she thought she was really accomplishing something. One day, just before we moved, I caught her burying a pizza crust outside. Hilarious.

Since we don't have much of a yard here, and since she's already been hauled in once for meandering about unsupervised, she doesn't get the hoarding opportunities she used to get. But somehow she still finds a way to feed her habit. On Friday, as we walked around the block so she could go potty and I could pick up her hot poop (going to the bathroom in front of people is also something she's had to learn how to do), she picked up a hunk of bread somewhere along the way. I have no idea where she picked it up or how long she'd been carrying it, but when we got home, there it was, sticking out the sides of her mouth, while her eyes said, "What? I don't have an enormous hunk of bread in my mouth."
I left the door open while I finished getting ready so she could have some alone time with her special find, but since watching her bury things is one of the highlights of having a weirdo for a dog, I waited until she was around the corner and then I followed her. Sure enough, she was pawing at someone's unkempt flower bed, digging out a spot for a chunk of bread that she will not eat, will not even remember burying, but still cherishes and needs to save it. The cuteness of her at those moments is enough to make me forget just how bad she can smell and enough to remind me just how sad life would be without her quirks warming up each day for me.

I’ve Had Too Much Coffee

Last weekend Mack and I watched Word Play, a cute little documentary about crossword puzzles and the genuine nerds (watch another cute little film called American Splendor to know the right way to say genuine nerds properly) who love them. Because I worship the box others call television, I heard the mandate to start doing crossword puzzles. Because I acknowledge that my worship of the box has seriously compromised my mental capacity, I knew that a grande au lait was a prerequisite to any attempt at word games.

We sat down with the New York Times with good intentions and lubricated brains and thumbed through every page of every section in search of this mental challenge that has developed a cult following. We couldn’t find the crossword puzzle. Mack bought an LA Times, and two hours later, we had done about 75 percent of the puzzle. It was such a good way to spend a Sunday, we’ve sort of adopted it as a weekly ritual -- for two weeks running now.

This week, we sat down to do the puzzle, and because we spent all our money on plane tickets home, we had to come up with our own coffee. One cup of Folger’s cappucino mix just doesn’t do what a grande au lait does, so when Mack asked if I wanted another cup, I accepted the offer.

We drank our second cups and busted the puzzle open. Our brains were focused yet flexible, and we kicked the puzzle’s ass.
Now we’re sitting at the table staring into the other boxes we worship, with fingers that can’t be still and brains that are starting to buzz. My armpits are sweaty, and my legs are shifty, and I swear the table is vibrating. We don’t have another crossword puzzle to do so all this mental racing is manifesting itself physically. How can something so good turn so bad so fast?

A Dance Off

Last year when Mack and I were separated so he could save the South from Katrina (read: rape the government for an exorbitant amount of money since FEMA is the biggest disappointment since Nixon), I got to fall madly in love with Laila. Oh, she's a total demon, cute and smart and with a voice that cuts diamonds and a laugh that crumbles my sense of self, but I still fell for her big time. Well, Mack sent me a challenge (which I'm not allowed to post for fear bad words will fly in my face), and with the help of Laila and Shahin, it was broughten... as well as a white girl in a turtleneck can bring it. Enjoy, and sorry for the delay in sharing.

A Crappy Experience

We, okay I, fell for one of those radio FREE TRIP TO VEGAS scams when we first moved here, and then, after weekly calls from Consolidated Cons, er, I mean, Consolidated Resorts, I caved. We needed a trip out of town, we didn't have a lot of money, we needed to officially get married, and I had to have something to look forward to over Thanksgiving since I wasn't spending it with my lovelies. We secured our three night, four day package in exchange for two hours of being subjected to high pressure sales tactics and headed to Sin City. As we pulled into the Frontier, which is understandably scheduled for demolition because the walls are now exhaling cigarette smoke, Mack actually lit up brighter than the sign at the words, "cold beer dirty girls."

I'm scared to gamble. I used to play blackjack with David at the Indiana riverboats, but only because I knew if I didn't know what to do I could just look at Dave and he'd tell me. Plus, he always seemed to have lost more money than me and that kept me from feeling guilty. Other than that, I had no desire to gamble, and the last time I was in Vegas with Kate, neither one of us placed a single bet.

This trip to Vegas things went a little differently. I plunked $1 into a slots machine and ended up with 200 credits (a whopping $5).
While I sunk into a slots-induced coma, Mack sauntered up to the craps table. He stood back for a while and watched, then he started asking the dealers questions, then he came skipping over to me to deliver $60 in chips. Craps had recruited some fresh meat.In my slot zombie state, I couldn't accept any new knowledge and refused to play craps, but the second day in Vegas, I threw the dice after being sponsored by a neighboring player and turned $10 into $30. A few hours later, trying to get rid of the $10 in chips we had left from one casino, I threw the dice again, and $10 became $50. A few hours later, as we stopped to play once more on our way to the room for the night, a table of Chinese people were winning left and right on a Hi/Low bet with 31:1 odds. Craps, it turns out, is the shit.