Triumph in Paris

There are more than 200 stone steps in a narrow curving staircase leading up to the top of the Arc de Triomphe, France ’s most famous veterans memorial. We ask the ticket-seller if there is an elevator and he says it’s reserved for the handicapped. At that moment, I shamelessly wish I could grab a crutch and a sling and ride the secret elevator. I’m beat.

It’s our last full day in Paris , and my boots tell the story of our trip. I polished them before leaving Brussels and now they are scuffed and worn by the miles of cobblestones and sidewalks we covered on foot, tracing the steps of modern Parisians and ancient Europeans, peasants and kings, revolutionaries and leaders, soldiers and politicians, ordinary men, women, and children.

No rest for the weary tourist, and no excuses for the over-40 dumpling-thighed woman who would love to take the elevator. With the kids and E-Man ahead of me, I begin plowing up the steps. I hate spiral staircases. While my fear of heights isn’t acute, a turning staircase can stir anxieties and make me feel light-headed. To make matters worse, I’d taken my heart meds about an hour before, and they slow my heart rate and drop my blood pressure, so my cardiovascular system was fighting me every step of the way.

My brain was telling my heart to pump harder and the pills were telling it not to. My lungs complained that they were doing their best to up the oxygen intake but would the heart and brain please agree to get the blood moving? Meanwhile, I was trying to watch my step without looking down through the dizzying spiral formed by the stairs I’d already ascended. Ugh. It was a walk to remember—for all the wrong reasons. As soon as I hit the top, I plopped on a bench, feeling absolutely geriatric and remembering the good old days when I was a distance runner.

I briefly checked out the exhibit in the museum honoring Napoleon and his soldiers, and then trudged up still more steps to see the view from the overlook on top. The Arc de Triomphe is in the middle of Paris ’ most famous traffic circle and the city radiates out from it in a star shape formed by broad, tree-lined boulevards. Look down into the traffic circle and you’ll see what alternately looks like a paved lot full of irregularly parked cars or a Shriner’s parade of circus vehicles zipping in and out.

The skyline is gorgeous, the city’s buildings relatively uniform in height so the vision of Paris extends almost to the horizon. The trees along the boulevards still have their leaves, golden and green. In the distance, Sacre Coeur sits like royalty on a throne on a small mount on the outskirts of the city. The Eiffel Tower rises gracefully—all curves and grandeur against the pearl gray sky. I’m forced to admit the view was worth the hike up. While the Eiffel Tower ’s elevator takes the rider’s head into the clouds, the Arc de Triomphe’s staircases put Paris at your feet.

Once downstairs, we decide to walk along the Champs-Elysees, Paris ’ most famous avenue. I have done very little shopping in Paris —buying only postcards for my scrapbook, a calendar, some notecards, and artsy refrigerator magnets. The big names in fashion are here—Christian Dior, Dolce and Gabbana, Armani, Lous Vuitton, Roberto Cavalli, Gucci, Prada . I peer in one window at the $400 jeans and know I’m not crossing the threshold of any of those shops. The sidewalks are wide and crowded, and the entire city looks like it’s dressed for a funeral—or a theatre party. Head to toe black. I feel like a renegade in my red jacket. I trust I won’t be hunted down by the fashion police--a scarlet woman!

E says, “Hey, isn’t that the store you wanted to go to up ahead?” And sure enough—there’s the Sephora sign, the one I’d talked about visiting in advance of the trip but had resolved to resist. I’m about to tell E I don’t need to go in there when E-Grrrl starts jumping up and down. “Look! Sephora! The most famous makeup store in the world!” Good lord, that Grrrl is WAY too much like her mother.

So for E-Grrrl’s sake, we decide to go in (ha, ha). E and A agree to meet us back at the store in 45 minutes, and then E-Grrrl and I step into “the world’s most famous makeup store.” It’s huge, and it has more gay men per square foot than any place I’ve ever been.

E-Grrrl notices right away and says “Mama! Why are all these BOYS working in a makeup store?” I don’t say anything, and then she adds slyly: “Ha! I know why! They’re here to meet GIRLS. This is a good place to work if you want to get a girlfriend!” Hmmmm. I think to myself, “Honey, you’re a keen observer and a quick thinker but you’re just a little off track on this one.” I save the conversation about gay men and beauty for another day. I’m here for the sights.

I can barely take five steps without being Mama-ed by E-Grrrl. She is so excited! She has her hands in the makeup testers and in minutes her cheeks are sparkling and opalescent. “Don’t put that stuff on your face!” I tell her but she’s caught up in a big beauty moment, ready to try all the scents next.

Things are expensive. Even discount brands like Maybelline are high-priced by American drugstore standards. There’s nothing under $10. The better-quality and designer cosmetics are three to four times the price of the Maybelline. I pick up a big tin of Cargo lip gloss that I’ve admired online and spend the rest of my time comparing the other makeup lines, taking mental notes for future purchases.

Meanwhile, the little E-Grrrl has grabbed a basket and is loading it up in the Sephora Girl’s section with items for herself and her best gal pal in the States, Hannah. I check the basket to make sure there’s nothing inappropriate in it: some hairbrushes, soap, clear lip gloss and nail polish, and a travel bag. Good Grrrl. When we check out, her purchases total twice as much as mine and her whole face is sparkly! Her cheeks look a little green, like some eye shadow landed where the blush should be. It makes me laugh—she looks like a sprite.

There’s a Gap farther down the street. I haven’t been in one in at least 10 years. I decide to take a quick stroll through, and I buy a crushable angora hat with a brim. I flash back to a photo my mom took of me when I was about four. I was wearing a white angora beret and a fur collar and holding a book, grinning broadly for the camera. I have ALWAYS loved hats.

I have the clerk cut the tags off, and I pop it onto my head for the walk back to our apartment. I dip a finger in my new lip gloss and slick it on. Tomorrow we head back to Brussels , but for today I can pretend I’m at home in Paris .

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 5, 2005

Excitement After Midnight

The morning after our second night in Paris , we awoke in the wee hours to shouts in the street and the sound of people running. When the smell of smoke seeped into our room and we heard sirens in the distance, our first thought was that the recent riots and car burnings outside Paris had erupted in the center of the city. We didn’t show our concern for fear of alarming the children, who were excited to see a posse of emergency vehicles and fire trucks gathering in the street beneath our apartment. We were privately thinking we might have to find a hotel or worse yet, go back to Brussels .

Like characters in a movie, we opened the casement windows and hung our heads out to see what we could see. People were walking calmly down the street and while the number of fire fighters and police was rising, no one seemed to be displaying a sense of urgency. I didn’t see a crowd or evidence of rioting, but what was burning? Is it a car?  Several? Why were they closing down the street?

Craning our heads in the opposite direction, we can see a ladder truck illuminated by neon lights preparing to reach a window on the third floor of the adjacent building. The firefighters don silver helmets and carry long batons. A small group of people huddles in the street, one woman is in pajamas and they’re all being questioned by the police. They look to be in their 20s. A brown-skinned man is carried away by two officers, and I wonder if he is injured, drunk, or under arrest.

Fairly certain we’re dealing with an apartment fire and not a riot, we decide to get dressed and hit the sidewalk just to be safe. The fact that no one has been systematically evacuating our building is encouraging, but E doesn’t want to take any chances. We hastily pack our bags but leave them in our apartment, not wanting to have them marking us as tourists on the dark street.

In the stairwell we can smell smoke but don’t see any signs of fire in our section of the building. We exit the building, expecting to be approached by emergency workers directing us somewhere, but we’re ignored. We see that the restaurant below our apartment has been turned into a triage area of sorts, but only two people seem to be receiving medical treatment, one is an old man getting oxygen, the other a young woman wrapped in a blanket. The rest look like college students taking a coffee break after a long night of studying (or partying).

We wait dutifully outside, chilled in the pre-dawn cold. So many sirens and flashing lights and yet so little drama. There’s just one blackened window oozing smoke. We’re amazed there seem to be pedestrians on the street who are just passing through. What are they doing out at 5 a.m. ? We thought New York was “the city that never sleeps.” Clearly Paris can also claim that title.

Finally, when it becomes apparent that the emergency workers are winding down operations and starting to fill out paperwork, E approaches a police officer and speaks to him in French. Is it safe to go in the building?

“Oui, oui, oui. C’est bon. C’est bon.”

No further explanation. He returns to his clipboard and radio and we head to our apartment.

As we push our weary bodies up the curving staircase, it occurs to me that the children will probably forget most of the famous art and architecture they’ve seen in Paris , but they will ALWAYS remember the fire trucks, police, and excitement of a smoky street scene on a winter night. There’s more than one way to have a memorable holiday.

E-Grrrl must have been reading my mind. She turns to her brother and says wistfully, “Our first real fire!” and then looks at me and says, “Can I have a croissant?”

No emergency is big enough to stand between her and her appetite. We know we should go back to bed but instead we unfold the wax-paper bakery bag, grab the croissants, put the kettle on to boil, pull yogurt from the refrigerator, and wait for the sun to rise.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

The Road to Notre Dame

Not many people get to Notre Dame by way of the red light district, but this is the path we took in Paris .

I like to think this was an ACCIDENT and that the E-Man had no idea we’d be passing by strip joints, brothels, and adult bookstores on our way to CHURCH. Surely he didn’t plan to take a walk on the wild side before confessing all in a church pew, but hey, there are some things a Grrrl never asks.

I like to look on the bright side: his alternate route showed us another VIEW of Paris . We got a good LOOK. Unlike the previous day's trek to the Louvre, I kept my camera in my pocket, even when we passed a fabulous photo opportunity: a large chocolate-skinned woman in a mini skirt standing in a doorway under a flashing sign that said “Pussy.” (Sex and English: the universal languages!)

If my 10-year-old had noticed the sign, he might have dashed across the street, thinking it was a Parisian pet store. OK, so it WAS a pet store of sorts but you all know what kind of pets I’m referring to. Straighten up will you! We are on our way to CHURCH, and it’s snowing and we’re attempting to think pure white thoughts.

Have you all gotten yourselves together yet? OK, let’s move on to the serious stuff now because as soon as my feet passed into the softly lit church, I was overwhelmed.

******

Europe ’s medieval cathedrals always make me cry. I’m awed by the sheer scale of them as well as their beauty. It’s humbling to stand small in these cavernous spaces and consider they were built by hand with wheel barrows and pulleys and scaffolding, not cranes, power tools, or heavy machinery. The marvel of the builders’ engineering is overshadowed for me by the depth of their dedication to honor God.

To take on a project that would take lifetimes to complete, to make it as ornate and glorious as possible, to hold back nothing and sacrifice everything in pursuit of a divine vision moves me. Always. To tears.

Standing in Notre Dame, I’m reminded it has been exactly 24 years since Thanksgiving 1981, the last time I saw my sister Louise. My memory of that visit is jogged by the crucifix in a recessed chapel on my right. The figure of Jesus is golden and virtually faceless, the eyes slits in a shapeless head, the limbs limp and sagging. I see Louise in that agony, unrecognizable and deformed by pain, isolation, by the via dolorosa she walked while we watched helplessly from the sidelines. She died of cancer of the sinuses, and was blind, deaf, and senseless in the end. She was only 33.

I light a candle to honor her memory and the memory of my parents, and I share my tears with that forsaken Jesus, so formless and yet so explicit in translating human and divine suffering. I take it all to heart and pull tissues from my pocket.

I offer small prayers as I wander through the dim cathedral, reaching out to touch the stone, to feel the permanence of faith through the ages, to consider the dim gray quality of our lives caught between the sacred and eternal. I’m pleased the children are reverent and quiet and caught in the moment. They don’t push and shove, giggle and joke, or complain about being bored or hungry. They take their time moving through the church, pausing when the spirit moves them.

They stop and pray for E’s mom. They ask to light candles for the grandparents they never knew. My son holds my hand at one point and tells me he wishes he had met my sister. He knows, even though I haven’t spoken, that her memory is heavy on my heart.

We spent last Thanksgiving with E’s mom, a devout Catholic and a native of Belgium . This Thanksgiving I buy her a French prayer card with Pope John Paul’s photo on it and a devotional candle to light at home, souvenirs of where she’s been that are wrapped in the promise of where’s she’s going.

I try to carve out a place for myself away from the crowds but I don’t always succeed. I ’m offended by the way visitors chat and explore the church as if it were an historic site and not a place of worship. They’re so busy photographing the interior and posing with the art that they miss the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the sacred. They have passed through Notre Dame and yet not been touched by it. How sad.

We step out through the heavy doors and into a full blown snow storm. The air is oh-so-cold and the wind fierce, but we carry the warmth of the church with us and forge on ahead, searching for the right path home.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 1, 2005

At the Louvre

We’re surprised with good weather on the day we’ve set aside for exploring the Louvre. Our walk to the museum takes us through a textile and garment district, and E-Grrrl and I are wowed by the fabrics and fashions brightening the store windows. The sun is low and highlighting all the beauty of the architecture in the second arrondissement. As we wind our way through narrow streets toward Rue du Louvre, I stop frequently to take photos. A red door. A huge mural of tulips. A charming café with a broad awning. The ornate frieze on a government building. Click. Click. Click.

When we walk through an archway and into the courtyard that is at the center of the Louvre, I’m absolutely blown away. It’s stunning. Magnificent. Bathed in golden light, the Louvre is perhaps France ’s greatest treasure. We enter through the huge glass pyramid, into the most remarkable art museum I have ever encountered.

The Louvre, a former royal palace, is art in itself. Floors of inlaid marble and walls of carved stone. The gold leaf and fancy plaster ceilings. Domes, arches, columns, and vaults—every aspect of architectural detail imaginable. Frescos, murals, painted ceilings, ornate brick, and medieval stone are all a fitting backdrop to some of the best and most recognizable art created through the ages.

There’s the Venus de Milo, the Mona Lisa, La Grande Odalisque, the Coronation of Napoleon, Liberty Leading the People, Victory, and Wedding at Cana .

I lose track of time surrounded by all the dreamy madonnas, children, gods and goddesses of the Italian renaissance period. Botticelli is the master of this state of bliss. With colors that are soft and brilliant at the same time, his paintings exude a heavenly luminosity. I laugh at the thought that he is the original airbrush artist—idealizing women’s skin and beauty as well as any modern Adobe PhotoShop master. His subjects have round stomachs and full thighs and suddenly the extra ten pounds I’m carrying seems luxurious and beautiful and not jiggly and loathsome.

I stare with awe at the crown jewels of Louis XV, the diamond and pearl earrings of the Empress Josephine, her diamond and emerald tiara. E-Grrrl and I marvel over the cases and cases of decorative enamel boxes, many encrusted with shells and jewels. I wonder at about the secret lives of the patrician women with round children and flushed cheeks.

Some rooms vibrate with the drama and heroism of historic battles and revolutions. Other rooms are studies in religion. Roman and Greek mythology depicted in a world beyond our own, scenes from the life of Christ, tranquil madonnas, holy martyrs, icons of every variety--idealized forms from across the ages.

What if Jesus was an endomorph—fat, short and bald? What if Mary had bad teeth and acne scars? Undoubtedly they were not the fair-haired, pale-skinned Europeans the paintings and statues revere. They are nearly always depicted as both physically perfect and serene, as if they never wrestled with grief, exhaustion, and doubt. Where is the humanity touching the divine? It strikes me how these forms and images handed down through time are entrenched in our subconscious, how art both reflects and creates reality on so many levels.

The Mona Lisa attracts crowds like a rock star, and her soulful eyes seem to meet the gaze of every face in the room. I love her long Italian nose and am less enamored with her dingy complexion. Her décolletage is the only part of the painting that catches the light and displays some mysterious luminosity. Maybe behind her coy smile is the knowledge that Da Vinci is staring at her breasts, not her face. Maybe her husband wanted him to.

Mona Lisa’s luminous cleavage is just another reminder that this is a man’s world. Drifting from one masterpiece to another, I wonder about the women who could only be the girlfriends, wives, subjects, or patrons of artists and not artists themselves.

What would the world have looked like if women had the power of the pen, the paint, the palette, and the pencil in their hands? What would women have created with chisel and stone, brush and canvas? How would they have colored the world of art and history? What would be imprinted in our subconscious if they had been allowed to be artists and not art? We’ll never know.

When I see Michelangelo’s slave rebelling against both his human bondage and the block of stone he’s emerging from, I think of all the women through the ages who were silenced and corseted and placed on pedestals to be traded and admired, whose worth was determined by the men they married and served, the children they produced. How far we’ve come and how far we have to go to be truly free and a force to be reckoned with in history and culture. 

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 30, 2005

V-Grrrl in Paris: Day One

We arrived in Paris by high-speed train on Thanksgiving, a trip that took just a bit more than an hour from Brussels —enough time for me to doze off and drool while surrounded by serious business travelers cracking brief cases, reviewing documents, and tapping laptops with self-importance.

Our plan was that when we arrived in Paris, we’d catch a ride from the train station to the small apartment we’d call home for the next six days, but at the station the taxi driver turned us away, telling us it would only be a five-minute walk to our rental. I should have known that what he really meant was that he was holding out for a better fare, and we were on our own, thank you very much. But being naïve and hopeful, the four of us set out like a Brio train, pulling our suitcases behind us along the crowded streets and sidewalks of Paris .

It was NOT a five-minute walk. The cobblestones were hell on the luggage wheels. We were forever lifting suitcases up and over curbs, and I felt more than a little conspicuous toting my belongings through the city. But even if I felt like a dork, I was a dork in PARIS and would not let my wobbly luggage or my creaking shoulders ruin my mood.

Finally after one false stop, we arrived at our place and immediately felt at home. The apartment was small but charming, located close to the center of the city in an older building on a busy street. Situated on a corner on the third floor, it had 16-foot ceilings, wood floors, white walls, huge windows, and modern furnishings, all in my favorite color—garnet red. Black and white photos of Paris decorated the walls. In an instant I mentally transformed myself from suburban mom on vacation with her husband and kids to a chic and cosmopolitan writer on the verge of a new life. I was ready to move in and never move out. I had my Levis , my black boots, a pile of turtlenecks, my silver hoop earrings and my laptop—all the essentials. I’d buy new clothes in the spring at the shops I’d passed in the neighborhood.

My fantasy of living the life of an artist in Paris was short-lived as the kids buzzed with excitement, and we debated what to do next. Despite the clouds and cold, we opted to tour Paris ’ most famous landmark: the Eiffel Tower . E-Grrrl has been desperate to visit the Eiffel Tower since she was a kindergartener enthralled with the Madeleine books, and the adventures of Eloise further whet her appetite for Paris . She was ebullient over the prospect of finally seeing the place she’d experienced only in books. And so with parkas zipped, gloves on, scarves wrapped, and cameras in hand, we set off. E-Man, ever the amazing navigator, charted a scenic course.

The journey surpassed the destination. Of all the things we saw in Paris , I’d rate the Eiffel Tower at the bottom of my list. It’s one of those things that is best admired from afar—grand at a distance, disappointing up close. I can understand why so many Parisians thought the tower should have been torn down after the World’s Fair was over. Why it became the city’s defining landmark is a mystery to me.

Sure, the scale is impressive, there’s some fancy scroll work, and it’s a feat of engineering but basically: it’s big, it’s brown, and it’s surrounded by a plain Jane park with a wide muddy promenade. With all that Paris has to offer in art and architecture, it’s ironic that this chunk of metal is considered its visual legacy. (And why did I expect it to be Statue-of-Liberty green? Did it used to be green? I was in Paris 20 years ago and that’s what I remember.)

Standing at the pinnacle with our heads in the clouds, I was astounded that this was the place where Tom Cruise proposed to Katie Holmes in April. Clearly, the man lacks taste and imagination. With all of the truly romantic places in Paris , he chose a steel tower topped with antennae. All I can say is if you start your marriage plans at the top of the Eiffel Tower , there is no place to go but down, down, down. But then again, we already knew that about Tom. Everyone but Katie knows that. Poor girl. But I digress.

E-Grrrl, who had been a little nervous in the glass elevator going up was even more anxious on the ride down, burying her face in her dad’s parka and begging to take the stairs instead. The height was getting to her.

I hated to see her missing the view or losing the magic of this moment she’d looked forward to for so long. With my hand on her shoulders, I told her to forget she was in an elevator and instead imagine she was a snowflake drifting down from the clouds over Paris , ready to land in the heart of the city. This image entranced her and soon she had her eyes wide open, forehead pressed to the glass, mesmerized by the sparks of light beginning to punctuate the gathering dusk. The elevator slid down in slow motion and soon we were back on the streets.

Shortly after we arrived back at our apartment the visualization I gave E-Grrrl became a reality--it began to snow, big flakes swirling in the streetlights outside our windows. Cradling a cup of tea and watching umbrellas bloom on the street, I remembered it was Thanksgiving, and in that moment my blessings seemed as innumerable as the snowflakes floating like angels down from the gray skies.

Paris Day One. We were off to a good start.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 29, 2005

V-Grrrl Kisses Her Cursor Goodbye......

V-Grrrl is headed to France for the holidays.  It is with great reluctance that I'm prying my fingers from the keyboard and abandoning my blog for a few days. I'll be back---soon--with stories to share. Until then, check out the archives. Au revoir and  Happy Thanksgiving!

Note to Self: How to Enjoy Thanksgiving

Tomorrow you head to Paris for Thanksgiving. Feast on the architecture, the history, the art, the cosmopolitan vibe. Take a boat ride on the Seine, lose yourself in the Louvre, worship the Impressionists at the Musee d’Orsay, eat dinner in the Eiffel Tower, think along with the Rodin sculpture, drink coffee in a café along the Champs Elysee, pause and count your blessings at Notre Dame, and take the kids to a marionette puppet show and watch their faces.

As much as you want to wear your gorgeous camel-hair Calvin Klein jacket, remember the six-day forecast: cold and rainy, rainy and cold, gray and grayer with a chance of snow, rainy with a 100 percent chance of cold, cold with a 100 percent chance of rain—you get the picture. Remember you will be walking from Metro station to destinations, all day, in this miserable weather. You do not tolerate cold well. Forget the fashionable coat, felt hat with the brim, and the cashmere scarf that will look oh-so-sharp. You will freeze. You will get wet, and once inside the museums, you will not want to haul all that around in your arms.

Take your Columbia parka. It’s not hip but it’s oh-so-practical. Warm. Waterproof. Attached hood. Zip pockets. It’s what a Grrrl needs even if it’s not the first thing a Grrrl wants to wear in Paris.

And let’s talk about the shopping. Buy yourself an ornament for the tree. Pick up something cool for Susan and Hannah. Get Emily a beret. Maybe treat yourself to a new hat. But do not go into Sephora. Repeat after me: I will not go into Sephora, I will not go into Sephora, I will not go into Sephora, I will not go into Sephora, I WILL NOT GO INTO SEPHORA! Are you hypnotized yet? Are you in a mind-altered state? Remember, you have all the skin care, bath products, and makeup you need.

Don’t cross that threshold of temptation. Don’t part with another euro for beauty products. As Mark Darcy famously said to Bridget Jones, “I like you. Just the way you are.” There is nothing in that store that will make your life better. Inhale. Exhale. Keep walking. When the Sephora sign beckons, be strong!

And don’t forget the fabulous leather journal your pals gave you before you left the States. Remember the V-Grrrl creed: live to write, write to live! There are some things you can’t leave behind without compromising your truest sense of self.

Have a wonderful time! Live well and be thankful. Hug Em and Andrew and channel their excitement. Hold hands with E-Man. Take lots of pictures. Savor the moment. And stay warm….

November 23, 2005

November

Late November and so many leaves still cling to the trees, some still green, others a soft gold. The blue skies and warm days of September and October have faded to gray skies and chilly rain.

Often the fog embraces the forests from daylight to dusk. Cars crawl cautiously through the mist, their headlights peering at shapes rising along the road. Red brick and red tile homes artfully punctuate the landscape, and the grass resists a wash of sepia. The hedges guard each garden with green, refusing to bend to the turn in the season

Winter solstice is a month away, the days curling up in the cold, the nights stretching in languor. We rise from our beds with effort in the dark and sink into them with delight under bright stars or soft rain on the roof. We turn collars against the cold in the morning and pull quilts up high at night. Our hands cup the comfort of hot mugs; our hearts turn to holidays and those we love and those we’ve lost.

Soon it will be December, and we will light candles against darkness and hang evergreens with hope, each wreath a reminder of the enduring circles of family, of life, of seasons. But for now we cling to the vestiges of autumn like the bits of gold and green still peppering the trees. Winter will come. We feel its breath on our necks, its frost nips at our heels. But for now, autumn lingers and sends one last sigh up to the pearl gray sky before sliding into slumber with resignation and relief.

The Room Mom Hates Me

My son’s room mom is organizing the class Thanksgiving feast for Wednesday, assigning food for each parent to bring.

I’ve been assigned turnips.

Yeah, TURNIPS.

I have been laid low in the worst way. Clearly our social stock has FALLEN if I have been handed the piece of paper with the message “Please bring enough turnips to serve 10 children.”

My only hope for ensuring my son’s upward social mobility in the elementary school hierarchy is to work my way up the Thanksgiving food chain to mashed potatoes, corn pudding, sweet potatoes or apple pie. But don’t you just know the women with those assignments are hanging on to them for dear life. Not one of them would trade assignments with a turnip bringer. Just ASKING would be humiliating. I may as well paint a big “L” on my forehead.

And so I’m resigned to my fate. My son and I will forever be remembered as the freaks that brought the turnips to the Thanksgiving lunch. There will be sly chuckles and raised eyebrows at PTA meetings. Backstabbers will ask me about my “fabulous turnip recipe.” None of my son’s friends will come over to our house, “Dude, your mom serves TURNIPS. Like, I only play with Pop Tart eaters!” And you just know when we enter the school restrooms, people will smirk and hold their noses---ewww, the turnip people are getting ready to cut loose!

We can only pray this debacle all blows over by 5^th grade, which could happen--but only if I don’t get asked to bring a raw vegetable platter to the class Christmas party.

November 21, 2005

Hallmark Whore

Admitting I’m a Hallmark whore is pretty embarrassing. Hallmark? It’s cheesy! It’s sentimental! It's commercial! It’s too much of everything!

And I love it.

I became a Hallmark regular when I got hooked on Shoebox Greeting Cards. They were the first edgy, humorous line in the store, and many times I’d be stuck in front of the display with my purse breaking my shoulder because I couldn’t tear myself away—or keep from laughing out loud. I couldn’t resist their offbeat, quirky approach and bought some cards whether I needed them or not, knowing I couldn’t leave the store without that setup and punch line in my bag. I totally got into finding the right card for the right person. In the process, I developed a reputation for sending the funniest cards, and subconsciously lived up to Hallmark’s slogan: “When you care enough to send the very best.”

Soon, the cards were not enough. About 15 years ago, I got sucked into the Keepsake Ornament vortex. There were a lot of children in my life that I wanted to remember at Christmas, and sending them a boxed ornament geared to their interest and age became my tradition. Building them a collection year by year would reinforce their holiday memories and give them a starter set of decorations to take with them when they left home. Soon I was buying ornaments for friends, co-workers, and relatives and spending hundreds of dollars on them at the big ornament premiere every July. Yes, Hallmark should be proud of the genius of their cross-marketing strategy! They reeled me in.

Once I was lured into the store by the cards and ornaments, anything was possible. Soon I was sniffing candles and soaps and ooohing and ahhing over the Caswell-Massey bath products. Baby photo albums became a regular shower gift for expectant moms. I started buying photo frames for new couples. I was always charmed by the unexpected—funky reading glasses, nice costume jewelry, beautiful pens, French provincial totes and bags. I even picked up an occasional inspirational book, full of wise words and great photographs and illustrations. Whodathunk I’d buy one of those? For myself, no less!

My children adored Hallmark too. When the kids were small, I eased their toughest medical moments with trips to Hallmark to get a Ty stuffed toy. The pain of shots, dental procedures, and stitches were all eased by beanie babies and silky soft pastel bears. And the fudge they sold from a glass case at the checkout helped a lot too.

I’m thinking of Hallmark because my local store in Virginia is hosting its annual after-hours, invitation-only holiday open house tonight. Naturally when I lived there, I always got an invitation and tucked it safely away in my purse, waiting for the big event. Not only did they offer refreshments, new merchandise, and special prices, but they also gave out BIG goody bags loaded with all sorts of great products. Unpacking that bag at the end of the evening was such fun.

So Hallmark, I salute you for worming your way into my heart and checkbook. I’ve been wooed and seduced by your clever campaign. I thought I was way too cool to be a Hallmark Grrrl but here I am, a Hallmark Whore, just like the rest of the chicks queuing up at the store door tonight, waiting to get in, load their baskets, and grab their goodies. I hope they miss me. I miss them. Happy Holidays to the Hallmark Posse! May you always care enough to send the very best.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 18, 2005