Merry Ugly Christmas Sweaters for All and to All a Good Night!

I used to wear puffed-paint sweatshirts as a child. No, let me correct that. I used to make puffed-paint sweatershirts. I particularly enjoyed wearing them long, over my favorite lavender, blue, and green flowered leggings. All of mankind breathed a relieved sigh when I eventually learned decorated clothing isn’t actually acceptable fashion. But then my husband, Nick, reintroduced scenic wear one Christmas with a dazzlingly ugly Christmas sweater ensemble.

And so ugly Christmas sweaters became a part of our life together, and each year, we hunted for just the right ones to don with Yuletide pride. It was in the spirit of this holiday hunt that I contacted Claire, the earnest 50-something mom selling her Christmas sweater collection on CraigsList. 
 
Just $7 each! Want to buy two or more? They’re yours for just $5 a piece!

That’s when I knew. No irony-addicted hipster would part with a Christmas sweater for less than $20. This woman earnestly, honestly, deeply loved her sweaters.

Venturing deep into the suburbs felt like a holiday quest for our Christmas holy grail. Her house sat squarely in a row of identical brick and vinyl two-stories, but inside, it was hardly ordinary.

After we entered her home and made awkward small talk about city mice, country mice, and the hazards of young coupledom, the tiny lady disappeared. While she was gone, we slowly took in the giant exotic plants that lined the walls from the dining room to the living room, cream and mauve wallpaper peaking through their leaves.

She quickly returned, huffing and puffing like she was carrying the toy bag of the jolly man himself. “The sweaters are in these tubs,” she pried open a lid. “And then there are these!” She held up a few prized specimens hung from satin hangers, beaming, and laid them lovingly on the back of a kitchen chair. She clearly adored every single one in the collection of 30 some-odd sweaters that she had tenderly and carefully curated and stored away.

“So just look through them!" "Take your time!" Claire twittered on as the sweaters carried her away. "Don’t you just love this one! I remember when I wore it to a wonderful Christmas party in 1987!”She pulled them out, one by one, describing all they had to offer. There were red ones and green ones, blue ones and white ones. There were black ones with neon patchwork and cream ones with purple Christmas bows. There were winter scenes, glittery snowfall, beaded starshine and giant teddy bears patched in among wrapped gifts and glowing fires.

“Ooh!” “Aah!” “Wow!” I managed just enough interest to encourage her on.

“Just look at the beadwork!” she squealed, holding up an elaborate white sweater with a golden horn wrapped front to back, around the padded shoulders.
 
I smiled and took the sweater from Claire, admiring it as she had urged. Then I held it up and turned to Nick, who was so afraid of what he might say that he said nothing at all.

“Honey, just look at this beadwork! This sweater is just AMAZING!”

He smiled largely enough to contain his laugh and agreed, but his eyes begged me to just decide already!

After sifting through the huge pile of "maybe" and "almost definitely" sweaters, I chose four, yes four, of my own, parted with $20, and thanked Claire for everything.

“You’re just such nice young people," she smiled. "You know, you can never be too careful with these CraigsList things. Me? I always keep this ready just in case. I’m here all alone, you know.” She pulled a small chrome revolver out from behind a scattered stack of mail.

“You know, one time, this man came to buy some jewelry from me and I wouldn’t even let him in. No sirree, I wouldn’t let him cross the threshold. He was Russian, I think. Up to no good, I’m sure about that much. He was a bad man . . . You kids are just so nice. But you can never be too careful!”

“Wow, that’s amazing!” Nick offered as we backed toward the door. “You really can never be too careful!”

“Thank you so much for everything!” We quickly walked through the garage.

“You have a Merry Christmas!” I locked the car doors and waved goodbye.

We had found our Christmas grail and then we claimed our Christmas miracle, too. Shortly after surviving Claire’s suburban shoot-or-be-shot jungle, Nick took the prize for Best Sweater at the annual Ugly Christmas Sweater party for his finely crafted choice, complete with plaid bows and brass bells in the shape of a Christmas tree.

“And the beadwork!” everyone said, “Oh, just look at the beadwork! It’s AMAZING.”

A Case for Adoption

Some people adopt children. Some adopt cats. Some adopt dogs.

I aspire to adopt houses.

Just think of poor, abandoned mid-century modern beauties with their textured fireplaces, paneled ceilings, and windowed walls! I want to scoop these bedraggled homes up and grant them a second life.

I would be such a proud mother.

 

Abandoned Mid-Century Modern Homes on Lushpad.

An Epiphany for Democracy

Freedom is a peculiar thing. We claim to value it. We claim it as a virtue, one uniquely or particularly American. But those who are truly free, truly without encumbrances and truly committed to being and doing precisely as they are convinced they ought are pariahs in our society.

So we also believe in containment, fences, boundaries, demarcations, and after all, lines in the sand. We want to know for certain that you are or are not one of us. We want to hold you and our moral and ethical definitions up to the light in search of a match.

The phrase "Don't tread on me," and its kin, is not about freedom in any sort of real sense. Don't tread on me, but do tread on someone else, preferably the person whom I disrespect and devalue. Don't tell me what to do; I've got this. But him, he's doing it differently, wrong. So make him stop and help him see the (my) light.

And democracy? We only believe in it, it seems, if the vote goes our way. Otherwise, it's a sham, a fraud, a conspiracy. We believe that WE are educated and informed voters, but everyone else? They're dupes, deceived, evil, self-interested, greedy, and foolish. And if we're honest, we wish they would, or could, just never vote at all.


This past Tuesday, as I stood in line to cast my vote, I struggled with these fears and prejudices. At first, I looked around at my fellow citizens with suspicion and willed those who disagreed with me to grow impatient with the long line and go home. But then something strange happened. For the first time in the 12 years since I've been a voter, I looked around at people completing their information sheets, casting their ballots, and leaving with the "I'm a Georgia Voter" sticker boldly affixed to their lapels, and I was overwhelmed.

I stood among men and women who cared enough to take an hour out of their day to be a citizen. I was grateful that my one vote counted exactly as much as their one vote counted. After all of the gesturing and opining, the strong arming and chest puffing that marks election season, it comes down to this: you and I, doing our duty and doing our best to make the right decision for ourselves, our families, our communities, and our country. This past Tuesday, I finally saw how democracy not only protects equality but is also, in the end, a great equalizer. I was so proud.

So often in this country, we are defined by our lowest points and our most selfish drives. We're no more than our craving for prestige, power, and wealth. And so often, these definitions are fair. But on (or before) November 6, we were the greatest version of ourselves, no matter what guy we voted for. The polling place was by far the most prestigious and powerful place to be.

Terminal West aka The Bait Shop

My suspicion is that I'm dating myself when I make a "The O.C." reference.

I'm dating myself as much as when, say, I compared a client to Jimmy Stewart and my 18-year-old intern stared at me blankly before asking, "Who's that?"

But still, kids these days probably don't know the prime time melodrama that sought to define the much-coveted, over-privileged existence of Newport Beach teen-somethings. And this is why I felt particularly old when I first walked into Terminal West, a new-comer venue in the trendy King Plow Arts Center on the west side of Atlanta. The soaring ceiling with exposed beams, the recovered wood bars, and most of all, the small balcony gave me a rush of teen angst and confusion. I immediately began searching the room for the jealous make-out sessions and the alcoholic, drug-addicted rich girl.

In true O.C. fashion, Terminal West has become something of a hang out for us recently. We've seen three shows there in the past few weeks, and we've quickly made our home the front row of the balcony. For one recent concert, I sat on the floor during the headliner (I was there to see the opener, after all) and just made myself at home. It was a great time; if only Seth Cohen had made an impromptu appearance, the night would've been perfect.

Terminal West seems to be one of the few venues in Atlanta where the artists truly determine the crowd. No matter the show, more legendary spots like The Tabernacle and The Fox Theatre, which are overrun by corporate sponsors and branding, attract season-ticket holders or middle-aged and pre-teen suburbanites uncertain of how to be cool. The Masquerade holds court for the teenaged rebellious set, and The Earl, of course, is a haven for "hipsters," or as my husband likes to say, "those trendy people who can't be named."

But Terminal West, for the time being, is a blank slate for those who are truly fans of the artist playing. Take, for instance, the wonderful Damien Jurado set we caught the other evening. The crowd was so enraptured and quiet during his solo acoustic set that the bartender was vigorously shushed when he tried to make a shaken martini. Only a few nights later, at the always-entertaining Features show, the crowd was a bit less low-key, chatting, dancing, and singing along.

I'm excited about our new hang out with fancy train pictures and largest cans of Miller High Life I've ever seen. As long as it continues to get great artists, I'm excited to make Terminal West my Bait Shop. Here's hoping it's not my foray into a teen life only possible on a Newport Beach pier.