Noel

“Get up, get up! It’s CHRISTMAS!”

Bess rolls over. “I’ll get up when the boys get up.”

Isaiah, who is 11, runs next door “Guys, get up! It’s after 9!”

“We’re growing. We’ll get up when the girls get up.”

“I’m up,” I say, on Isaiah’s heels. Here it is, the lawful hour of Christmas morning, and we’ve been organizing the presents into piles in anticipation of this day. And nobody moves.

Isaiah and I go downstairs and wait until they come to their senses. Then we get the stockings (why do my parents not get stockings?) and eat pancakes and Dad reads from the Torah (in Hebrew, the word woman comes from the word man, but the word man comes from the word fire) and then we open everything, and I get wool socks and a copy of Hamlet. We’re weirdly excited. Dad likes his dog-eared copy of a French reader, Samuel is ecstatic about his Cadillac belt buckle, Isaiah shrieks while opening a box of goldfish crackers.

Now the boys test out the give of their new clothes by playing football in them. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fight.

Put your humor to the test

I was compiling stuff for a fake magazine to give to my parents for Christmas: Highbrow Slick, a literary rag bursting at the seams with such gems as reviews of the Song of Solomon in limerick form. Only I didn’t have time to pull it off. One of the articles was a horoscope, kyped, compiled and re-worked from the Arg online when Ash used to work for me. She wrote this two falls ago, but it’s still funny.

Horoscope
This horoscope is not based on worn-out astrological signs, people. This horoscope is based on the ancient Hippocratic theory that the balance of phlegm, bile, gastric acid and blood coursing through the body determines fate. Obviously, this theory is much more scientifically accurate than the idea that destiny is governed by the stars. If you wonder which of the four humors you belong to, take the simple following test:

On sunny days, you like to…
a. Play tennis, hike or paint your nails pink.
b. Rearrange your room and your friends’ lives.
c. Relax and throw back a cold one.
d. Hide from the sun and all those happy people. They probably aren’t even really that happy. They just think they are.

You enjoy reading…
a. Calvin and Hobbes or “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”
b. “Thirty Days to Thinner Thighs” or the financial pages of the Wall Street Journal.
c. The ingredients of your cereal. What the heck is Riboflavin?
d. Mary Shelley, Chuck Palahniuk, Flannery O’Connor.

When in public you …
a. Greet strangers so warmly that they wonder if you were just released from prison.
b. Make mental plans to improve the music scale or polish your shoes.
c. Stop and talk to a few of your friends and forget where you were going.
d. Avoid eye contact with strangers who hate you—oh yes, they do.

Summer job in high school…
a. Wait-person at Chuck E. Cheese.
b. Clerking at the U.S. Supreme Court.
c. Professional beach bum/ pet sitter.
d. Morgue assistant.

Speaking of which, I attended…
a. Sunnybrook high.
b. Virginia prep.
c. Didn’t make it to enough classes to remember.
d. Our Lady of Great Agony.

You listen to…
a. Weezer, Everclear.
b. Bach, Techno.
c. Anything, dude.
d. Radiohead, Tom Waits, A Perfect Circle.

Tally up your answers. If you mostly answered “a,” you may very well be a Sanguine; if you answered mostly “b,” you are probably a Choleric. Phlegmatics may not have had the drive to decide which of the answers fit them, but if they did, they probably chose a lot of “c.” Melancholic traits were indicated by “d.”

Actual Horoscope
Sanguine: loving, energetic, cheerful, irresponsible, attention-seeking, extroverted. Governed by blood, influenced by air.
Sanguines will want indulgence this season, as they have been focusing recently on entertaining everyone around them. They are not acting sad because there is anything to be sad about, but because sadness is a tool for gaining sympathy, and sympathy is attention. Infants do this. Do not preach to them. Do not reason with them. Hug them.

Melancholic (opposite of Sanguine): focused, obsessive, dramatic, artistic, strongly pessimistic, passionate, introverted. Governed by bile, influenced by earth.
In general, Meloncholics will be on the prowl as the earth grows more barren. The prey of the prowler will vary for every Melancholic, but the hunting theme will prevail.
Melancholics may decide to go poach some innocent woodland creatures, or they may be predators of soul mates. The method to Melancholic madness will be, as always, profuse with drama. Whether they are seeking the perfect lyrics for a song they have written on the mandolin or they are in a heated quest for the right words in a term paper to impress that perpetually unimpressed professor, drama will govern their hunting just as Diana governed hunters of yore. However, Melancholics always expect their efforts to fail. They are pessimists. Therefore, you may find them in a state of deep vexation. You Melancholics, do not succumb to self-destructive emotions; they can lead to regrettable tattoos and really ugly haircuts. Try to channel sadness into some kind of action, such as catastrophically “beautiful” artwork. You will not realize, of course, that the fact that it is misunderstood means you are not expressing yourself coherently.

Phlegmatics: Lazy as all get-out, rational, sarcastic, imperturbable. Governed by phlegm, influenced by water.
Do your work, dang it, or the Cholerics will fire you. Beware of Melancholics on the hunt, because if they catch you with ease they’ll despise you just as easily for ruining their pessimism. Good things fall into your path always, and the next few days will be no exception. Eat all the pie you can find.

Choleric (opposite of Phlegmatic): hyper-organized, goal-oriented, bossy, proud, natural leaders. Governed by gastric acid, influenced by fire.
Getting bitter about gas prices is not going to make them any lower. Measuring the distance between each Christmas ornament, in millimeters, is not going to lower prices either, but as it gives you a sense of accomplishment, bust out the yardstick.

Dates

It was in the negative degrees, and the roads sported ice as hard and dry as the concrete beneath them. Inside, we swallowed coffee that even piping hot seemed lukewarm. In came Leslie and another bearing plates, sugar and spice and everything nice. On one lay crumbly squares filled with a brown paste. Dates, said Leslie.

Dates. Here. In this red-and-green haven from the chill. Once upon a time, less than a year ago, I walked over broken sidewalks littered with the fruit, fallen from the trees, baking in the sun. I was tempted to collect them and taste, but the film of sand disuaded me. I went to a market and bought several packs, the fiberous sticky things bulging with health under the plastic. These were dates as God intended them. Lush and sanitary.

I took a bite of Leslie’s date bars and grimaced. Leslie is an excellent cook. But the fruit, having come who knows how many miles, was bland, even mixed with sucrose.

Ah, pour la-bas, ou le soleil se leve sur le sable. Mais bon. Ce-ci, je prefere quand meme.

Missing

Back from break, and not just me. The house, so empty, now filling and yet no conversation is ever as good as the one you formulate beforehand. Today at church Tara was asking me the not-so-uncommon question: do you miss France yet? To which I replied, oh, I don’t know, I guess sometimes. But that is merely the way of things. We miss what is not right in front of us, the part of us that is somewhere else.

I missed everyone when no one was around, but once everyone came back, to tell them so would be a little akward. So I just assume they know. Hey, you’re cool, housemates, dear, but don’t take that too personally.

What is it I miss exactly? I can’t say I miss one person, ever, because it’s always more than that. You miss the seasons you never saw clearly enough. You miss the almost calous innocence of 18, first school, first time away, friends in the food court. You miss the thrill of discovery: “endoplasmic reticulum” has a meaning and I know what it is! (I’ve forgotten by now) You miss the long hours frittered away watching movies with friends, Kari in the lighthouse making tea and giving advice (“go abroad” “boys are evil” “rrrrr, this is how you say it”). Meg in France and her earnest cycling in the rain with a baguette under her arm, the boulevard des pyrenees and the mountains so sharp you could cut yourself on them. Home, you miss home… wherever home is. Buffy and Sara singing off-key in Taiwan, dancing in the hot rain of the monsoon. Is that home? Hannah and Michelle, Hannah and J. Grif: “Hi, my name’s Jonathan, what’s your bride price?” the lighthouse again. First street. Bonners in the summer, Canada, the lake, sunburn. Kari’s in Japan, Meg’s living somewhere, Buffy’s married, Sara I haven’t seen in ages, Hannah, Michelle and J. Grif are gone. C’est la vie. Where to go now. The drums have silenced. Back to France, then, to listen for a year and find other things to miss. “Il a arrive quelque chose d’incroyable,” spoken with an intake of breath. Something to miss. Seeing people’s faces fill with wonder, that’s always something to miss. Seeing people as you wish they were. You miss strange moments, like that woman, sitting in wheelchair outside the Co. Kerry grocery, whom I overheard say “I’m just saving the parking space for my daughter.”

We’re always missing something. Wounded, as if we’d forgotten our arm somewhere. But why? This is what we have: THIS. One thousand one one thousand two. Time. Not much, but enough: enough to give away. And restless-content we look for ways, in the fridge, in our e-mail, on the sidewalk; routine becoming time becoming routine. If we could only be content — and not in the way we use contentment, as an excuse not to do something because it’s hard or painful.

At home

Stayed awake with one brother and Kelsey, who is up for Thanksgiving, until they got tired. Silly children. Haven’t laughed so much in a long time. Ok, maybe yesterday.

Daniel (the silent 16-year-old): I usually fast and pray and then get advice before I even talk, but with her (he shakes his head, just thinking of the absent girl) I get so hyper. Why is it that you can never reach your full potential when you especially want to?
Kelsey: I don’t know, dude. (she flounces around in her pyjammas. Daniel turns his face away until he can only half-see her.)
Daniel (squinting): you’re less tempting this way (he falls over backwards from lack of balance).
Kelsey: haha!
Bess (who has taken the bed in the room assigned to the girls, where we happen to be): I’m trying to sleep, you guys.
Daniel: so where do we go?
(good question: even the living room contains sleeping people)
Katie: the bathroom.
Daniel: yes!
(we troop in, the three of us, and decide to amuse ourselves using liquid eyeliner on Daniel, who protests, but concedes it makes him look like he has been fighting)
Daniel: maybe it’s a good thing we don’t reach our full potential when we want to.
Katie: why?
Daniel (gesturing to mirror): because it could be that.

Vocab

The kitchen serves as a meeting place, which means I often sit here and wait for something to happen, such as Gunn wandering in to complain how much I try his patience. The other day he really shot himself in the foot, though. We were talking about the unfortunate name “Tristan Virgin,” who is a real person Gunn apparently knows. “I don’t get it,” said Gunn “Why do people think being a Jew is funny?”

I chortled at him and then remembered that I had made the same vocabulary mistake. My friends and siblings would put on Christmas plays for our parents every year, with the moving climax of us passing a doll dressed in rags around in a circle as we sang “Silent Night.” I was Joseph. As such I would wail and beat the floor after finding out “that my betrothed was with child,” although I wasn’t really sure why. When you’re a kid you do things that make no sense merely because you have a vague knowledge that this is how things go. So the scene of Mary and the Angel would surface (a blonde Mary confronted by a blond Gabriel in a nightgown) and Mary would say in her eight-year-old fake English accent, “but how can this be, since I am a vehgin?”

And I would think, as I’m sure the other members of the cast did: what’s being Jewish got to do with it? As I had only ever heard “virgin” in the context of “the Virgin Mary” and a few Old Testament passages, and Mary was obviously a Jewish girl. (Incidentally, I also grew up thinking “Madonna” was a bad word. Also “Apparatus.” Also “Saxon.” This comes from being home schooled and having no television but two parents who like creative/scientific euphemisms)

So, Gunn: I laugh WITH you. My shrieks are shrieks of nostalgia.

The injury

His tears fouling the grease paint on his cheeks, he sat on the sidelines, his arm bound to his side with an extra jersey. It was not so much the pain of his collar bone lying snapped in half beneath his pads as the knowledge that he was out for the rest of the season. The season. Their chance for State, if they kept this up. Three league games and only one team had managed to even score against them. They had just broken the 4-A record by kicking a 50-yard field goal; not that they needed the points.

The week before, his brother, the quarterback/linebacker, had tackled someone head-on, and knocked himself out cold. Idiots, the coaches told the boys, tackle with your shoulders.

So he had, in the ferocious meeting of the two town loyalties, charging as was his wont full-speed into the body of another.

At least I got a touchdown in, he murmured to the boys wringing his hand. Yes, they told him, it was a great touchdown. A brother-to-brother pass in which he, the younger overshadowed near-emaciated one, caught and ran an extra 45 yards, a horde on his heels, his stride so long it looked as if he were jogging.

Well, he said, football isn’t everything. He sounded unconvinced, or maybe it was the gritting of his teeth, the forced-even tone of his voice.

His teammates murmured among themselves: we’ve got to get him another game. We’ve got to get to State. That’s five weeks away; he can heal by then, can’t he? His dad can work some magic with vitamins and electrodes.

They loved him because he was both hard as nails and frail as glass, and when he spoke, they listened. He was what they wanted to be and what they wished they saw when they looked at humanity. If he could pull through and make it back against all odds, it boded well for them.

He hasn’t slept much tonight. If there is a miracle, I too may find myself weeping, and not because I think football is terribly important. Like those boys; like anyone, I want to see the skinny kid catch the winning touchdown in the State Championship. Not just because he’s my brother. Because I think I am the skinny kid.

Courtship Prep

A crowd of good-looking lads and lasses sat at a bar, dressed in sweaters, funky socks, and ironical hats. A few smoked roll-your-owns. A few more sipped drinks (coke and rum, martinis, and microbrew). The girls outnumbered the boys, and the boys, instead of cashing in on this, leaning into the table to shout down the blushing eardrums of their friends, sat with crossed ankles and listened to the wafting jazz. The girls stragically vied for their attention… gorgeous girls, touseled blondes, happy brunettes, pale blue-eyed creatures and limpid brown-eyed gossips. Something rang hollow… and yes, there it was; the guys still just sat there lackadaisically, like they were used to it and could expect it for the rest of their lives until they decided to reach out and take whichever of the girls they chose. From across the room the scenario had ConservativeChristianese stamped all over it.

On the way home persons A, B and C griped over this phenomenon thusly:

A: Blah. Did you notice that? Blahhh! Non-Christian guys at least are chivalrous.
B: I know, I hate it, but it’s a vicious cycle that you have to play.
A: Well, I don’t want to play it any more.
C: Yeah. I think Christian guys really just don’t know what to do. I mean, what are you going to do?
A: Seriously…

Ok, petty ranting aside, there is still something a bit amiss. The way (in my humble and probably ignorant opinion) a Christian guy typically sees courtship is like a game of chess. He waits until he has been checkmated by one of these lowly pawns, all the others which he has sidestepped and eliminated, and then he admits defeat. The way a non-Christian guy sees courtship is like a game of ping-pong. He serves, she returns, no hard feelings if one of them loses. I mean, hey, it’s ping-pong.

In a way this culture of avoidance is even worse than Victorian constipation, because in Victorian times, it was acceptable to dance with, escort, and speak with women you were not engaged or related to. Now, however, any invitation, however minor, is seen as pursuit; any slight brushing of the fingers in passing a pen across the asile as sexual. This could just be me being paranoid, but… if most of the female Christian population is paranoid about this, maybe we have something to be paranoid about. So, we walk the line between waiting around and trying to get some idiot’s attention, and meanwhile, half a dozen marginally intelligent, good-looking, but spiritually retarded boys are asking for our number.

It occurs to me that almost every Christian girl I know who has dated anyone has had some sort of involvement with a spiritually retarded male. Girls I never thought would look at someone unworthy of their charms have spent years with such men. Why? Because these guys actually give them the time of day. Not that we’re bitter, mind you.

Cannon AE-1

Being newly bored, since school just got out, I have just gone and bought a camera — a Cannon AE-1 Program. I’ve wanted one for a long time, and have regretted not owning one during my travels to China and Europe. The amazing subjects are a little degraded by the fact that they are now captured in my photo albums with disposables… so it was high time, and I’d found a good deal. My first experiment was to stalk bighorned sheep in a friend’s pasture, which didn’t have the most amazing results. They ran at the mere sight of me. I don’t know how National Geographic does it. I’m sure they have zoom lenses (which I don’t). I even tried to lie in the dung and wait for one to wander over, to no avail.

Non-police state

Yesterday night (after telling my friend I didn’t want to drive because I might get pulled over) I got pulled over for the second time in my life. For crossing the center line and otherwise driving like someone switching the radio station/driving drunk/checking my milage to made sure I wasn’t going to run out of gas/ correcting for a weird pull to the left, all of which I was doing (except for the drunk part). Anyway, the very second that I stopped, my hubcap flew off and rolled across the road. Lovely, I thought. The officer must be a prophet. He strolled over with his flashlight, after retrieving my hubcap, and I handed him my liscense only, since I couldn’t find my registration. “If you notice,” I said “that expired two days ago, on my birthday. I’m getting another one tomorrow.”

“Have you had anything to drink tonight?” asked the officer.

“No,” I said, as seriously as ever I could.

(this is technically a lie: I’d had a lot of water to drink, having just played ultimate frisbee for a few hours)

The officer meandered back over to his car, having asked a few questions of me such as how old I was (had to think about that one) and what I was doing in Oregon with an expired Idaho liscense. While he was occupying himself behind his brilliant lights, flashing like a sleazy dance hall, I chuckled at the irony of my life. I’d just been telling people it might be ok to drive without liscense, since I rarely speed and never get pulled over. He was gone for quite awhile. When he came back, he informed me that he had found no record of my liscense, expired or otherwise. That made me a bit nervous. I was strunk dumb, in fact.

“I’m sure it just means our computers aren’t working,” said the officer “you’re free to go.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said “Do you want to see my insurance registration?” (I had finally managed to locate it in my stuffed glovebox.)

“Nah,” he said.

So I drove away. I had enough gas to make it home, too. My hubcap is still off. I’m driving to the DMV later this afternoon to ask for an Oregon driver’s liscense. Hopefully I won’t get pulled over between here and there.