New look for the Eggplant

Lovett and I went to [upscale suburban strip mall] tonight after gorging ourselves at [semi-authentic neighborhood Mexican restaurant]. Lovett's plan was to spend his Christmas money from Mama Bennett at [chic teen clothier whose wares look like they should be on yard sale racks in someone's driveway but the price tags suggest they were tailored with thread made from precious metals]. My plan was to try to walk off Combo F (tamale, beef burrito, refried beans), chips, and salsa.

I parked near our final destination, [chain mega-bookseller], so we could walk to [chic teen clothier...] and back. Crossing the parking lot to the sidewalk, Lovett punched me and pointed to the faux-turret of [chain mega-bookseller]. There, hanging twenty feet above the pavement in the cool, fall air, it was.

A Christmas wreath.

Dear readers, I kid you not. A Christmas wreath.

But it gets better. At [overpriced, understocked strip mall garden center whose outdoor implements couldn't withstand the rigors of playground sand], there was a Christmas tree. At [chain soap store where the fumes are so bad they keep the front doors propped open even in winter], the window was filled with Christmas trees and stars and twinkly lights.

Holy crap! I cried. It's not even Halloween yet!

Do we really need two months of any holiday? The only one I would remotely like to celebrate for two months is Thanksgiving, but the thought of that many leftovers takes some of the thrill out of that idea. We come close to celebrating Zelda's birthday that long every year, though this year I suspect the festivities will be markedly curtailed (it's the four-oh, but don't let on like I told you). Did they celebrate the end of WWII for two months?

I'm not ready for this. Usually about mid-November I stock up on toiletries and food supplies so I don't have to venture far from home until January. Right now, I'm unprepared, and I'm this close to blaming Jeb Bush or FEMA or somebody for not anticipating my needs.

The war, the Supreme Court, Katrina, Rita, Wilma, bird flu, oil company profits, indictments at the federal (Rove, Libby) and state (Siegleman, Scrushy) levels, Nick and Jessica's rumored split, Tom Cruise's procreation, Asian tsunamis, Pakistani earthquakes...can't we be a little austere this year?

So, what's that got to do with the new look for the Eggplant?

I just felt like a little redecoration was in order. New wreaths at the mall, new template on the blog. My attempt to feel included. Paying my year-end societal dues. My small sacrifice for aesthetic excellence.

And now I close, for I feel a strong urge to run down to [monolithic discount retailer] to stock up on Valentine cards. Surely they are on display by now.

In the moment

Yesterday was one of those days where I couldn't wait for it to end. Trouble is, I felt that way about it on Thursday. And Wednesday, too.

I got an e-mail Tuesday informing me of a meeting agenda that I had to prepare for. It was to be one of those meetings with twenty people sitting around tables staring at each other, bouncing ideas back and forth. The charge was, "be prepared to share your thoughts on..."

And that's where the problem began. The thought of "sharing my thoughts" with aforethought gave me the hives. Well, not literal, red, splotchy hives, but figurative, internal, churning hives.

Here's a normal scenario: Sitting around the tables, staring, bouncing ideas back and forth, me pondering the conversation. An overwhelming compulsion to interject. Nerves tense, heart pounds out of my chest, voice quivers. Blurt and spew incoherence. Search for a crack in the floor. Find none (darn building codes), wonder if window would break if jumped into, wish I was dead.

That's how I handle it if I have no chance to prepare.

This scenario was different, because I had days to prepare. Rehearse. Practice. Dread. It's the rehearsal that is the problem. I run one possible scenario after another through my mind, trying to formulate responses accordingly. Most of which turn out to be wrong. Hence my trepidation over poor responses.

It's like this: I have a part in Hamlet, and I have rehearsed my lines. I know them cold. Backwards and forwards. Pacing in the wings, I await my cue. The lights come up, I hit my mark, I begin to speak, and then I realize that the play I'm in is Macbeth.

It's that bad. And that was the source of my anxiety, Wednesday and Thursday.

Thursday night I tried to get away from it all. Zelda, Lovett, and Dora went camping, so I had a night to myself. I loaded up my clipboard and trudged to [local chain mega-bookseller with in-store chain coffee shop] to work on the next Maddie's Dress installment. But I couldn't get past the feeling that I was somewhere else.

And thus, I spend a lot of time. Time spent in replay of the past or rehearsal for the future, but rarely in the moment.

I believe it was Col. Sherman T. Potter, 4077 MASH, who said, "If you're not where you're at, you're no place."

Oy.

Wait a minute, Mr. Postman

The Cliff Clavins and the Newmans of the world would probably protest the parade of packages delivered daily to DePaul pad. Today there were four, piled in the foyer when I got home.

They are from out west. Big boxes, wrapped in butcher paper, alternately addressed by Aunt Bee and Aunt Ess, for Mama Bennett. She continues to give all her stuff away.

Zelda gets clothes. A few are fashion pieces. A few are wire-hangered anachronisms with the price tags still affixed. Most of them make the trek up to the attic (not on their own, of course). It's truly the thought that counts.

Lovett and Dora get knick-knacks from Mama B's travels, either foreign mission trips or domestic yard sales. Ironically, most of the stuff was moved out west by Aunt Ess and Uncle Cee, costing valuable moving-van space, only to be mailed back to Alabama, costing valuable postal-van space. Mama B's postal budget rivals that of Capital One.

Mama B is on a mission to divvy out her trinkets. As if she's running out of time. She told Aunt Ess she asked the Lord to let her see one more snowfall. Yesterday, they got a foot. And the packages keep coming.

* * *

Some trivia to ponder as I deal with the above:

1. For extra credit, does anyone know the name of the mailman that Dagwood Bumstead knocks down on his way out the door? It took me 2.5 seconds to find an answer in Google (I misspelled Blondie the first time), so I realize as far as challenges go, this is pretty lame.

2. When mentioning the Clavins and Newmans of the world, should they have been written in the possessive, as in Clavin's and Newman's?

3. Is the scenario of moving stuff out west only to mail it back to Alabama really irony as I declared it, or am I guilty of flagrant and ignorant use of cliche?

4. Am I the only one who receives an average of two pieces of mail a day from Capital One? What's in my wallet? What the heck is in theirs? The Clavins and Newmans must be sick of them too.