It would be so easy for me, as a moderately cynical and non-gifty-type person, to abhor this time of year. I also don’t love the smell of cinnamon and Christmas carols sung in Chipmunk voices. But, oddly, I don’t hate it. I love it. I don’t love everything about the holidays – I just love certain aspects quite a lot.

There’s a Dutch word – gezellig – that is untranslatable in English, but as far as I can tell begins to describe exactly what I love about Christmastime. It means cozy, homey, pleasant, convivial and fun. It’s about having your people around you in a warm and lovely environment. It means holing up and eating and drinking and laughing. It means togetherness and twinkle lights, roaring fires and long conversations. It means merry and bright.

We all trim our homes and string up lights and create the spaces to accommodate this cozy time of year and there is something really comforting about it. Whether the party be a grown-up-dress up affair with rivers of booze or a long afternoon at home with just the family, some tunes and some games – it just feels good to preen the house, to hibernate, to be together, to cook and to take stock in the passage of time.

Apropos of time passing, there is honestly no better marker of time for me than the annual Christmas concert. You sit in a pew, shoulder to shoulder with your honey watching as each class performs their little songs. Your friends’ kids who started in kindergarten angel wings are suddenly gigantic 8th graders. You watch chubby cheeks grow progressively slimmer as each grade takes the stage and you marvel at the changes over time. The constant (the church, the lights, the songs, the pews) allows the change (the children) to jump into focus and it is always staggering and beautiful.

And so, with fresh reminders of how quickly it’s all going and how lucky we all are to be going at all, we gather in our homes with each other and try to stop time, for just a little while. We pull out all our tricks to get ourselves to stay still long enough to feel the wonder again, to spread it around, to fill our cups for the rest of the year.

Merry Christmas, my friends.

I’m a Detroit girl. Well, not actually Detroit, per se – I just like saying that – but a suburb to the north. Still, Detroit was my sun as far as cities go. I orbited around, obliviously taking care of the business of growing up, with increasing plunges into the city itself as I started high school. Our brother school was a Jesuit high school called University of Detroit – U of D – and surprisingly, there was little effort to keep us Academy of the Sacred Heart girls away from the boys on Seven Mile Road. Not that it would have worked anyway.

Detroit is a fascinating city and in August when I went to visit my family with the kids, I got to bushwhack a little and experience it as a curious grown-up as opposed to a silly, clueless girl. Normally when I go home I sort of regress to my adolescent state – overcome by inertia, I feel like coccooning at my parents’ house, grazing my way through the pantry, watching tv and twirling my hair – maybe letting out a long dramatic sigh every once in a while.

I’m only partially joking. The truth is that now that the kids are older, I was able to see our visit home through a different lens. Detroit, in parts hopeless and beautiful, is no longer just a place to be ignored, the backdrop for youthful (and dangerous) shenanigans – it’s a place to explore. Just like any other city we would visit. And in this city, we’ve got contacts.

My siblings live in town and as young adults figured out the city – the hidden gems, the rhythms, the fingerprints. My fairy godmother, Gretchen, is a veritable historian. Curious, intrepid and knowledgable – if there’s an interesting nook or a cranny with a story, she has found it, explored it and can tell you all about it. Sweet Juniper, a blog that’s been in my blogroll from the beginning, has been a lyrical yet honest peek into what it’s like to raise kids in the city; he describes a burgeoning arts and food scene, feral homes being engulfed by nature, mom and pop businesses thriving because of corporate America’s aversion to a high risk markets, empty lots being turned into bountiful and nutritious gardens.

She may be a broken down beauty, but she’s got plans.

So this time, in addition to long wine-soaked meals with my family, boat rides and swims in Pine Lake, celebrating two birthdays and squeezing my delicious niece, Manzanita, we did a little exploring. My top three highlights:

Eastern Market: The mac daddy, grand poobah, god father of all farmers markets, this is the oldest market in the country. It’s colorful and urban and cool  - I liked it so much I went twice. Also Supino’s. Best pizza ever. Worth the wait.

The Heidleberg Project. Detroit was literally burning and out of the ashes rose the Heidleberg Project. Artist Tyree Guyton started to fight back with art and created an indescribable polka-dotted neighborhood. Watch this short movie about it – SO FASCINATING! I can’t believe I never went there before. This on my permanent and forever lists of places to visit when I go home.

Fairway Packing Company. My favorite thing of all. Thanks to Fairy Godmother’s hubby, Cabezon, we got to go inside this temple of meaty beauty and see how it’s done. We wore white butcher’s coats and toured the dry age room with all the best cuts hanging out for the area’s best restaurants and clients. The Himalayan salt wall is stunning – a glowing work of art in and of itself. We bought gorgeous steaks, pork shoulder and brisket for the week’s dinners and parties and watched as they were broken down for us. Saint James was all eyes and quiet appreciation. Boy knows his good meat.

All of this was a round about way of getting to this recently released documentary. Detropia explores Detroit’s complicated and painful history, its rise and fall, mingled with the exciting, grass roots, outsider art fringey changes that are happening right now. I can’t wait to see it. I don’t think this sugarcoats anything, which is good – Detroit is better salty anyway.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Yes, I am lazy, but I do also believe we aren’t doing our kids any favors by rushing to help them at every turn. I still make their school lunches, but I haven’t put frozen waffles in the toaster for months. I’ll still pour the milk in the cereal for Devil Baby, but only if the carton is too full for her to do it herself. I only tie skates and cleats for the youngest. Unless it’s dangerously cold, I don’t even nag about wearing a coat anymore.

But I realize that teaching them to help themselves is actually a separate thing from teaching them to help me – and I’m failing miserably at the latter. Right now I’m staring at a muddy yard covered in the white fluff of a disemboweled stuffed lamb that Foxy went to town on. I sent the girls out to deal with it yesterday and frankly, they did a terrible job. Finger pointing, and so and so not doing her share ended up in exactly nada. They came into the house in a swirl of muddy shoes and loud recriminations and I let it drop. Because it was easier.

Earlier in the day, I had found myself picking up handfuls of disintegrating dog crap out of the garden because Saint James didn’t do it on the last cold day when I told him to. He had picked up a fair amount, but again, the complaints about it being stuck in the snow and impossible to pick up got him off. And it it got me elbow-deep in warm, wet dog shit. Was it easier than listening to Saint James gag and whine? Arguably.

How can I expect them to do anything for me if I don’t even make them finish the things I have specifically asked them to do for me? As the article points out, parents have no one to blame but themselves for this. I cannot expect that my kids would have any clue of what needs to be done around here, and even if they did, that they’d have any sense of responsibility to pitch in, if I’m not putting this into play in a more consistent way. Helping to set and clear the table just isn’t going to cut it anymore. Watch out, kids! Mama’s got a bee in her bonnet.

I clean in flurries. Today I had a flurry. Not the kind of flurry that would be detectable to the book club ladies who came over last night. This was a flurry of unsung cleaning – behind the scenes, non-showy, back to the way it’s supposed to be cleaning. And during my flurry, I got to musing.

I cleaned walls and in doing so I discovered hand and FOOTprints in places that can only mean one thing: my children are secretly training to be ninjas.

I did laundry and there is no longer any point in denying the fact that my first born has reached the age where his dirty clothes stink. Like stink stink. Like sweaty locker room, cheese feet, body odor funk-a-nasty.  I’m afraid the innocuous biscuity sweat smell of a kid is a thing of the past. P.U., child!

It really does help to time yourself. It sounds silly, but Lady Tabouli turned me onto this little trick. You’d be amazed at how much you can get done in 10 minutes. If you had asked me how long it takes me to empty the dishwasher, I would have said 20 to 30 minutes. I HATE emptying the dishwasher. It is an exquisite torture to me. But when I looked at the clock I was shocked to discover it takes less than 5 minutes. If I’m flying, I can do it in 2. Two minutes! Sometimes I race the microwave heating a cup of tea. It seems I am not too smart for myself and quite susceptible to all manner of self-administered tricks and mind games.

I am a frustrated perfectionist – a  term I picked up from a birth order book that Gigi the Animal Whisperer lent me years ago. Being a first born, I have all the makings of a Type A personality. I have high standards, I like order and perfection. But I’m a titch lazy, so I don’t have the goods to back it up. I’d like every thing to be perfect and clean, but it’s just so boring to get it that way. Boring. BOOOORRRRRING! Ug. So boring. So I sort of wallow around in limbo, wishing it could be so, but dreading making it so. There are so many better things to do with my time, so I just do them.

And wait for a flurry.

I probably would have done the same thing had there been a hundred jonquils in my garden, but the fact that there is ONE just makes it so much worse. First of all, we work hard for our spring here in these parts – March and April are a bitch and the first crumbs of spring we get are these bulbs that start to crop up against all odds. This one flower, probably because there is just one flower, becomes a symbol of spring, of warmth, of hope, of change, of new beginnings. And by eating it, the squirrel is basically saying,You don’t even get to enjoy this one measly thing to the natural end of its short measly life, peevish mama. (Actually, the squirrel is probably saying something more like, Come closer my crumpet, I wish to ravish you, so ravenous am I after this long winter with nothing but a handful of bitter acorns for sustenance. But you know what? This blog is about me. Screw the squirrel.)

And as quick as the flick of a furry tail disappearing through the fence, this one flower also becomes a symbol of my failings. Do you remember this post? Just in case you ever read this blog and feel like, wowee, she’s real neato and thoughtful and motivated, rest assured that I’m not. I’m a lazy slacker. If I had simply followed through with my impulse to plant more – what were my words? “bulbs of joy” (insert eye-roll here), then I guess I wouldn’t be in my current predicament of hating on myself and hating on a squirrel. It makes me ornery that I’m so lackadaisical about every thing. Why didn’t I just plant some more damn bulbs like I said I would? Where is my follow through? What was I doing with my time? Honestly, I don’t even know. I really shouldn’t be this lazy. I come from very motivated, conscientious, busy-bee stock. What’s my excuse? I have no excuse.

And lest you think I’m being too hard on myself over a flower, rest assured that this is just one example of many. Look at my car, look at my house, look at my baby books. It’s all going to hell in a hand basket. But don’t worry, I’ll manage to forget about all of this by tomorrow and be back to my free wheelin’ lazy-ass ways in no time flat. In fact, I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out how to turn this into a business – there must be a market for someone who can lounge around and shoot the shit, drink wine, listen to hip hop, over-analyze everything, peruse fashion magazines and make pretty good chili. Someone hire me! Quick!

I think this is all percolating because of an article I read in the New Yorker last night. First of all, let me pause for a moment. The New Yorker. The first magazine I subscribed to after college. The only magazine to which I’ve had a consistent subscription since then. The magazine that makes me feel smart and entertained at the same time. The magazine that I share with Doctor Dash. The mother of all magazines – for me – my best me. OK, so I open it up in bed last night and there’s a huge article about this blogger who goes by the name Pioneer Woman. I’ve been to her blog a handful of times over the last few years, but I had no idea she had reached the level of being worthy of an article in the New Yorker. Basically, she was a city slicker who fell in love with a cattle rancher and it changed the trajectory of her life.

She seems sweet and engaging enough, but also, suspiciously, like one of those people with extra arms and hours in the day. She home schools her kids, cooks all sorts of fancy cowboy food, takes gorgeous pictures of all of it, teaches photography, oversees monster additions to her home and ranch, decorates it all, grows a garden, writes cookbooks, writes memoirs, writes children’s books and writes a blog. All of it with a wink and a smile. Which is fine. Obviously this is really compelling to a lot of women. I think her story and lifestyle are what people would consider aspirational. To me it’s kind of demoralizing. She makes Martha Stewart look like she’s in my league, which leaves me looking like I’m barely more animated than that piece of stucco that chipped off our house over the winter that I walk by every day and haven’t picked up.

I think you, my readers, are better served by hearing about how much I DON’T get done. My laziness is not only my gift, it is my gift to you. Tomorrow you can vacuum your cars with the satisfaction of knowing that I won’t be vacuuming my car. Or my house. What can I say, besides . . . you’re welcome.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all you lovers out there. And, of course, to mine. This will be my Valentine’s present to Doctor Dash. Unorthodox, admittedly, to post before purchasing, but what can I say? It gets the job done, no? What a cute print! And where to hang it? Mudroom? Bedroom? I suppose we’ll decide together.

xo

Here are some cool things I’ve stumbled upon in the recent weeks that seemingly had no connection up until the point when their connection was utterly undeniable. For lack of a better term, these all involve the “mash up.” Worlds, aesthetics, genres, technologies and moments in time colliding to create something new, and for me, irresistible.

Peevish Mama loves herself some cross-pollination.

The Bronx is a hard core punk band out of L.A. who just put out a mariachi album. For real and legit and totally catchy.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Art, architecture and technology = large scale mesmerization. Is that even a word?

Click here to view the embedded video.

This line of fabrics and wallpapers by a Scottish design firm called Timorous Beasties, is sick, subversive and sublime. The name alone is something I want to wallow in. I especially love the toile, which at first glance looks like the bucolic vistas stamped across tablecloths and throw pillows in the most proper of homes, but upon closer inspection reveal some serious heavy, sad, violent urban decay. Crack addicts, prostitutes and blighted landscapes on toile! So cool.

Men’s fashion meets ganstah swagger for the most clever thing I’ve read in ages. This tumblr feed called Fuck Yeah Menswear is seriously my newest favorite discovery and quite possibly my first web crush. Who are you FYM? I am intrigued, to say the least. Here’s just one of many brilliant examples:

You think I give a fuck about chambray?

Just make sure you bring my critters, bitch.

Tryna get WASPY.

Lilly P belts with the guns still tucked in them.

Volvo station wagons with boarding school girls still getting smashed in them.

Prepset.

Prepset.

Prepset.

Fuck with me real quick.

Turning out VIP with my squad.

Rugby’d out.

Wrist on bling.

Making herbs Kiel over.

Left and right.

Bow ties.

Bow ties.

Bow ties.

They can load up if they want.

Aim atcha boy.

Take shots at the throne.

But these workwear goons should know.

I never leave the cape without protection.

Patchwork Kevlar.

Unabashedly Teflon.

Cardigans.

Cardigans.

Cardigans.

Got my hater blockers on too.

Warby Parkies.

Clear lenses on smash.

Always watchin’ that money.

New or old.

I don’t give a fuck.

As long as I stay stacking cheddar.

Boat shoes.

Boat shoes.

Boat shoes.

Go to hell pants hand sewn by demons.

The same beasts.

Who haunt you.

When you flip through the pages.

Of that one Free & Easy.

Your cousin got you.

Because he lives near a Japanese bookstore.

The same beasts.

Frankie exorcised in ‘08.

When he took over The Crew.

Vampire Weekend.

Vampire Weekend.

Vampire Weekend.

Me and my clique.

Leavin’ chalk outlines.

Outside of the Pop Up Flea.

Peep these rugged clowns.

They soft.

They shook.

They leaking.

They sleeping.

Forget The Bloods, son.

You got bigger problems.

We bleeding madras up in this motherfucker.