Kisses are Y-U-K-E

Wow, last weekend turned into a sickly one. Come to think of it, this entire late winter season has been sickly. And, in turn, it's been really expensive, since our "for-the-purpose-of-staving-off-medical-emergency-related-bankruptcy" crap plan isn't covering much. Thanks, Highmark. You healthcare people make me want to start smoking and gain plenty of weight, so I can push my prediabetes over the edge and become disabled like everyone else.

Anyway. People here were sick again last week. And I won't even mention today's wet, hideous snow. On April 1st, for cryin' out flippin' loud.

So. Sickness. Bills related to sickness. And TAXES. And then, snow. Good times.

But this post won't address any of those things. Frankly, talking those points deeper into the ground would only further foul my mood. Instead, I'll address why kisses are yucky.

Because that's what Y-U-K-E means. It's the Marcus spelling for yucky. Kisses haven't been cool here for awhile, but they've recently crossed the threshold into really undesirable territory. Marcus is 6 now, you see. He's quite grown up (unless he loses at a game, in which case he resorts to 3-year-old behavior again). And he has these little guy pals, among whom no girls are allowed. Even the recent birthday party was a boys-only club. They're quite tough, this crowd of swaggering, running, jumping, playing 6-year-olds. And kisses—well, they're barely tolerated by my son most days, and often merely mentioning a kiss will send the child scurrying away at top speed. (It does serve me well when I want him out from underfoot.)

Hugs are also spurned, unless the boy initiates it. Which, thankfully, he sometimes still does. But it's becoming less and less frequent.

That's why I saved all those little notes he made me last year when I was away working, and why I save the occasional note that I get these days. There's a tote bag full of them hanging on our linen closet doorknob, and there it will quietly stay. Eventually, I'll probably have to remove it and hide it somewhere; the bigger and tougher he gets, the more fearful I'll become that he might just find and destroy all those darling, misspelled mementos of his once-strong love for me.

I'll keep them safe. How could I not, when they'll be so perfect for his embarrassing teenage moments?

My love/hate relationship...with Legos

Here are some facts which you may already know about me, and which will help you to better understand the rest of this post:

1. I am a slightly obsessive neatnik.

2. I love order, despise chaos, and fight clutter everywhere I go.

3. I might be slightly weird.

3. I have a young son.

4. The young son has amassed an impressive collection of Legos.


Legos are awesome. I had them when I was a kid. They inspire creativity and flexibility in thought. They teach design and also give ample opportunities for re-design; they encourage children to explore their engineering tendencies, and they nurture the need to build stuff. They might even help kids develop a better understanding of spatial relationships.

Let's not forget, too, that Legos make a splendid gift for a little boy. They're the fail-safe idea, the sure-to-go-over-well item. Even duplicate sets don't really pose any problems, because everyone knows that after the initial construction of the prescribed toy, all those carefully assembled blocks will be torn apart and re-used over and over again, never in the same way twice.

But it's the dead of winter, the temperatures have been downright bitter, and we've spent way more time indoors than I would like. Which means that the Legos have barely had time to rest in their big plastic bin before some hand has been riffling through them roughly, searching for just the right piece.

Maybe I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, and maybe I've been experiencing some PMS moments worsened by little daylight and even less fresh air. Maybe. All I know is that lately, the sound of Legos, and the sight of them filling the living room floor, is enough to make me want to run away and hide somewhere. Honestly, it's mostly the noise they make. When the Legos are still, they're silent—but they're rarely still. They're usually being moved quickly and often, which means they're exceptionally loud and unsettling to a freaky person such as me. I can handle the mess, because we pick up the worst of it and store it at night, but that rattling sound of brittle plastic being raked repeatedly against more brittle plastic... sometimes, I can barely endure it.

Please don't think I am too strange. Some days, I am the one responsible for that very sound as I'm poring through the piles of blocks, searching for tiny tools or miniature propellers or such. Then, I hardly notice the noise because I am so involved in the search. Other days, I'm completely immersed in some other activity and immune to that annoying racket.

And then, there are the times of which I am speaking right now.

Can I get an Amen, Sister?

Oh, Turn It Off (I mean, Oh, Tannenbaum)

Okay, I need to blow off a little steam. Please bear with me. (The pic? The Star Wars Christmas Album. Stoooo-pid.)

One of the Pittsburgh radio stations has begun to play Christmas music. Already! Thanksgiving has not yet arrived, and still I turned on the radio in the car (yes, people, I listen to the radio, not an iPod or XM Satellite radio or any other odd, mutated form of music-related entertainment) and, lo and behold, Christmas music blasted out at me.

And it was terrible music. Terrible. It was the worst Christmas carol ever, as voted by the hubby and me in past years: It was Gloria Estefan’s version of “Let It Snow.” If you haven’t had the displeasure of hearing it for yourself, say a quick prayer that you are spared such punishment forevermore. Another possibility is that you may have heard it and simply not recognized it as that particular little ditty, because it is so very awful and corrupted from the original that it could easily be mistaken for a new and horrible song instead of the horrible remake that it is.

I don’t mind that Christmas carol, nor do I mind most of them. Honestly, I really like quite a few of them. It’s the gut-wrenchingly bad renditions of them that hurt me. Whatever moved Gloria to participate in such an attempt? Blaring horns, escalating to loud, honking musical peaks, strangely discordant vocals instead of blissful harmonies… It’s just the worst. Although, in fairness, I was never a big Gloria E. fan…

I suppose it’s kind of mean to harangue Gloria for her Christmas song. Why would I pinpoint her? There are so, so many bad Christmas songs to choose from. And while they’re not all bad, gosh darn there are SO MANY of them. And how many of these recording artists have ever uttered the name Jesus except to snarl curse words at someone? I’d surely like to know.

I did a quick search on Amazon and found quite an eclectic mix of Christmas albums to choose from. You could be crooning along about the Savior with any of the following: Andy Williams (of course), Amy Grant (of course), Jethro Tull (huh? the flutist rocker?), Jessica Simpson (the cover of this one makes you wonder what Jess has on her mind for Christmas), Nana Mouskouri (remember her? the lady with the glasses?), Raffi (who is this guy? Should I know?), Burl Ives (a given), Ella Fitzgerald, Gladys Knight (nothing bad to say about these ladies), Michael Bolton (cornball), Al Green (I’d like to hear this one), Billy Idol (yep, THAT Billy Idol), Beach Boys, Jackson 5, Air Supply, Tiny Tim, Twisted Sister, and so on, and so on. Moody Blues and Jethro Tull got creative and penned mostly new songs for their efforts, but I’m not even sure whether that’s a good idea… I mean, how many really good, fairly recent Christmas songs can you think of? One? Two? Five at most. It’s a tricky business, writing new carols.

Anyway, don’t take my word for it; check it out for yourself and see what absurdities await you in the land of Christmas listening. And be warned—I’ll be working on my own Christmas album for release soon. If I miss this year, I can always shoot for next Halloween, since that’s likely when they’ll begin spinning the Christmas tunes. I’ll call it “Mel Gives You the Christmas Blues.”

(Get it? A little double entendre there? I can sing the blues for you, and I can also give you the blues by my singing them…?) Okay, then. See you around.