Don’t even get me STARTED on rude cashiers.

(Shhhhhh….)

(Quietly now…)

(**CRASH**)

(What was that?...)

(You knocked over the damn lamp, that's what.)

(**sneaking in on tippy-toes, ever so quietly, so as not to call attention to the fact that I haven't written a thing in five months.**)

(**leaning against the wall unobtrusively, whistling, trying to make you think I've been here the whole time.**)

(**unsuccessfully.**)

So my latest beef? Beef. Or, rather, grocery-related products.

The persona I now assume upon returning home from any trip to the store, whether it's for nine bags of groceries or ice cream cookies flax-infused tofu bars, is that of a grumpy old woman. One who will drive 30 miles out of her way to save $2 on gas, one who complains about the noise, oh the noise, oh the noise noise NOISE NOISE. One whose voice rises to levels previously reserved for discussing war criminals, when ranting about the price of CEREAL.

In other words, my mother.

So, my mother (me) returns from the grocery store, mumbling under her breath about the price of groceries, and WORSE, how the manufacturers think we're IDIOTS, as if we're not going to NOTICE that every product in a cardboard box or plastic BAG has shrunk by at least 25%. BUT THEY'RE CHARGING THE SAME PRICE.

"Hey, folks, our prices have been the same since 1947!! We're here to save you money! (except the joke's on you--we're actually giving you 25% less product for the same price. More money for us…MWAH HAH HAH HAH HAH!!!)

This week, however, I returned home from the store, unpacked my [overpriced] groceries, and pulled out the package of chicken breasts to make fajitas. I cut it open and proceeded to slice them into strips.

Only, here's the thing, oh irony of ironies. These boobies babies were so huge, I felt like I should be carving them to serve with a dish of jellied cranberry sauce* and a side of family drama. I counted the number of breasts in the package, looked at the total weight, and after a lengthy mathematical thinking session complete with fingers, toes, and a calculator, deduced that these chicken breasts weighed, like, a pound each.

(once more, in caps, for emphasis)

A POUND EACH.

Aren't whole chickens, like, 3 ½ - 4 pounds altogether? So either these are some seriously giantess chickens (which would haunt my dreams) or these are normally-sized chickens who are really, really well-endowed. Raised by some perv farmer, to boot, who like his chickens to be 50% breast.

"…yyyyeeeeaaaaahhhh, girrrrll…have some more of this chicken feed…thaaaaat's right..." *creepy clucking noises*

In summation, food manufacturers: ripping us off, royally. Chicken farmers: weird freakos who raise unnaturally large chicken breasts.

Which, this week at $top & $hop, were $1.99 a pound!

****

Manufacturers who get my thumbs-up this week? Bausch & Lomb, for putting out a clear, nay, opaque bottle of multi-purpose saline solution. It's salt water you can see!

It's like having an ocean view every time I open my medicine cabinet! See? Even the toothbrush is excited!

*jellied only, please. No whole cranberries allowed on Guwi's plate.

Ornaments and Hope

Is there any more hateful task than taking down Christmas decorations? And if you have a short memory, as I do, you forget that while having two Christmas trees in the house may look fabulous and festive and you can divide the ornaments so you have a kids' tree and a grown-up's tree (my husband would argue it's the kids' tree and Carolyn's tree), dismantling two trees is not twice the work, but actually five times more work than taking down one. This is an actual scientific fact, backed up by much science-y-type research. By me.

Putting away Christmas ornaments is also, surprisingly, the one task at which I truly excel in the house. I've been collecting for a number of years, and each ornament is wrapped individually and packed away with precision. (Those of you who've ever been to my house may think to yourselves...hm. It's a shame she squanders all of her housekeeping energy to that one area...perhaps if she spread the wealth to other tasks throughout the year, there would be more of an overall benefit. And if you thought that, you would be correct.)

I do find, though, that wrapping each ornament is a mindless task suitable for much soul-searching, especially at a time of year that practically begs for it. (C'mon...it's almost New Year's! Don't you want to think about what you've done with your life this year? What you've achieved, what you haven't? What your goals are for next year? It's required! 'People' magazine says so!)

I find myself wondering, Next time I take out these decorations, where will I be?

Will I be unpacking them in the same house?

Will I still be home full-time or will I be working outside-the-home?

Will everyone I love still be here, still be happy and healthy and well?

Will I still be happy and fulfilled? What can I do next year to ensure that I will be?

What, for that matter, would I consider fulfilling, besides my terrific home life?

Will I be depressed because I'll be (gulp) 40?

Do I have any band-aids, because I just cut myself on the &*^% reindeer ornament?

I realize I can't shake the tree for an answer, like some green, prickly magic eightball. Though seeing an ornament read 'Signs Point to Yes!' just as I'm wondering if I'll finally hit Powerball would make for some sweet New Year's dreaming.

A lot of people use the phrase 'what a difference a year makes' and that couldn't be more true. I've had many years that have been unbelievably wonderful, and just one in particular that was particularly difficult to muddle through. I'm hesitant to discount an entire year as being terrible, even if there were some rotten times. I usually manage to count my many blessings, even during the low times.

Though I have had an overall great year; my blessings of love, health, family, warmth and relative prosperity do not go unnoticed, there are a few people in my life who have had more than their fair share of obstacles and loss to contend with this year. I am an optimist, and I speak now to them in particular:

Friday is a clean slate. The first of the month, the first of the year, and the first of a new decade. The turning of a calendar page does not guarantee an instant bright outlook, but I do believe that having a fresh start counts for something. For these people I love, who have suffered loss and heartbreak, my New Year's wish for you is that when you're unpacking your decorations next year, you feel peace. That you feel hope. That you reflect back on 2010 as the year with more good than bad, more happiness than tears, and a fuller, unbroken heart. I hope that, a year from now, you're reflecting back on 2010 as a year better than the last, in all of the ways that truly matter.

And to all of my friends, I wish the same. I wish you food on your table, a roof over your head, love in your life and peace in your heart. I hope 2010 is a year of promise and fulfillment, and success on your journey, wherever you're headed.

Happy New Year!

A Sort of Homecoming

I've had a constant eye twitch for the last three weeks.

I've been at rehearsal every night this week till 11:00, which, for someone whose idea of a long night is tucking into her Snuggie for back-to-back tv viewing of Sons of Anarchy and Mad Men, has been exhausting. Muscles hurt that I didn't even remember I had.

I wake up humming numbers from the show, which have been looping through my dreams all night. (And speaking of dreams, I had one that Justin Timberlake accidentally ripped my costume during my opening number, but was kind enough to repair it backstage with his sewing machine. Which he evidently travels with.)

I had false eyelash glue stuck on my eyelid for most of yesterday.

I haven't had a conversation with my husband in well over a week that's lasted longer than 15 minutes, at which point, my head drops to my chest in a puddle of drool.

But. Tonight is opening night. And that, my friends, is the big payoff for all of the madness that precedes it.

It's been an adjustment getting my theatre groove back. At one time in my life, it was all I knew, both for amusement and social purposes. I knew every word to A Chorus Line and Les Mis. Life was divided into pre-show and post-show chunks of time, and I had a vast collection of tights, leg warmers, and detritus from previous productions: gloves full of confetti, a giant lollipop stapled to my wall, and dozens of programs signed by fellow castmembers, pledging eternal fanhood and friendship.

Then came life, and my children, more precious treasures than the Oscar or Tony award I had dreamed of clinching for years. I hung up my character shoes ('hanging them up' is just a figure of speech--I think I lent them out. If you have them, I could really use them back) put away my Stein's pancake sticks, and filed away the books of sheet music and boxes of cassettes. (Yes, cassettes. Shut up.)

It had been awhile since I dreamed of the big time, and I was very happy performing in community theatre productions. It always felt like home to me: the smell of Aqua Net and musty costumes, fresh paint on sets, the tape spikes on the stage for positioning, opening night jitters and closing night tears and champagne. Friendships grew over long breaks between scenes during Hell Week, and there was cattiness and diva behavior, but always there was common ground, and a love for performing.

I missed it. I missed the applause, the costumes, the makeup, the cameraderie, and the part of myself that thrived on all that wasn't dead, but was hibernating like a bear after Thanksgiving dinner. So last spring, I cowboyed up and went for an audition.

And five months later, almost to the day, I'm sitting here on the morning of opening night, with the beginnings of a few jitters (could be coffee, could be jitters. Either way, the false eyelashes should wait until my hands are steady). We ran through the whole show last night for the first time. Watching the scenes I'm not in was such a thrill: the huge sets are truly magical, the spotlights hit their marks, and sitting in the audience just behind the live orchestra, seeing it the way as many as 900 people will see it tonight, gave me chills and left me a little verklempt. There are some astoundingly talented people on that stage, and I'm proud and humbled to work alongside them.

But the biggest thrill of all? How excited my children are for me. They've been singing along with me for months, and now they know the whole show by heart. (Apologies to my fellow castmembers if you hear two young children singing along with you. They know better, but you must admit: the music is tres catchy, non?) My husband has been wonderfully patient and supportive of the long nights of rehearsal for the past few months, (even if he did watch Sons of Anarchy without me this week) and the first thing Sassy said when she woke up this morning was: "Mommy! It's here! It's opening night! I can't wait to see you on stage!"

*tear*

I've heard it said that you can't go home again, but you can find a new house, and bring some of your old furnishings with you. There are features about the new house you'll love, and there are things you'll miss like crazy about the old house, so they'll just have to live on in your memory and a few snapshots. But at some point, the new house is decorated, your pictures are up and there are lightbulbs in every socket, the kitchen stuff is put away and you've found a home for all those random boxes that you packed haphazardly just before you moved. And one day you unlock the door and walk in, take a look around at everything you've created, everything where it should be, and it hits you.

You are home.