We were around 11 years old in 1978. Her name was Tammy. Out in the rural noman’s- land between Seagoville and Combine, she was the only other kid on the street. We weren’t neighbors, mind you. There was a good 1.5 miles between our houses. In a time before boogeymen stole children and pre-video game invention, we were left to our own devices most days. On the other hand, I can’t recall a single time Tammy rode her bike to my house. Maybe I liked her mom’s name brand snacks better than the boxes of scratch and dent things my father magically procured from the unclaimed freight house in downtown Dallas. I digress. With our tiny fingers, we were the original origami artisans, intricately folding wide rule notebook paper into complicated triangles of lotus flower petals. The game was called MASH, I believe. M was for mansion. A was for apartment. S was for shack. H was for just a plain old house. But, before we could determine who we would marry, how many children we would have, and where we would live, a series of questions would ensue. “What’s your favorite number?” I would answer – 8. She would insert her fingertips into the tiny triangles, pulling them apart and pushing them back together 8 times, revealing a world of details written inside every fold and crevice. Tammy counted under her breath in a whisper, lips barely moving. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Ok. You’re going to marry Robby Benson.” We shrieked with laughter. “What’s your favorite food?” We would continue asking questions about favorite this and favorite that, counting letters and moving fingers, little papyrus fortune-tellers that we were. I’ve been thinking about the MASH game lately, especially at Christmas. I’ve gone to a few parties this season where “bring a gift that represents one of your favorite things” was the direction. I thought maybe we could tell each other about some favorite things. I’ll go first, ok?
My favorite color is pink. Now, I detest hot pink. I almost didn’t live through that early aughts phase where all daughters’ rooms were decked out in electric pink zebra patterns. I like a muted pink, like an old rose. Imagine if you took a burgundy velvet ribbon – a silk ribbon, not some rayon imposter, or something made from nylon. Anyway, the ribbon gets tied in a bow, Little Women hairdo style. Except, it is forgotten in a sunny window for, oh, maybe 25 years. One day, you find that ribbon, but it isn’t burgundy anymore. It’s faded to a whisper of its former glory, more like a blush color. That is my favorite pink.
Speaking of pink, the superior lipstick is nude pink. I am addicted to buying nude lippies. There are generally 15 in my purse at any given time. My favorite shade is L’Oreal’s Petal. Don’t go looking for that at Walmart. They stopped making it in the late 80s. Coming in a close 2nd is MAC’s shade called Hue. Oh but, they stopped making that one around 2005. That’s okay, though, because then I found Maybelline’s vinyl lip gloss in the shade Tease. If you guessed that it lives no more, you have guessed correctly. I have one of the last remaining tubes of Tease in my purse right now. I am the glossy kiss of death for all good nude lipsticks. Still, the eternal hunt continues. The tubes are black, gold, or occasionally silver. They have names like Blankety, Nude Attitude, Zaddy, and Cannes. They are my favorite little potions.
I love tiny taxidermy. Show me a mouse dressed up like a Victorian gentleman and I will practically hyperventilate with delight. I’ve even made a few in my day. Without horrifying you with the grizzly details, let’s just say that everything from the stuffing to the stitching to the little black beads used for the eyes make me giddy with happiness. My dream is to find a thrift store Victorian doll house and renovate it into a mansion for fancy mice. Imagine, harlequin floors in formal bedrooms, a tiny faux fire in a fireplace, and a Dickensian mouse wearing a nightcap sitting up in a tiny four poster bead, stretching his tiny mouse arms in anticipation for a grand day full of adventure. Every room would be staged with a dapper rodent gent or grand dame. Finely dressed mice, forever preserved – now that is definitely a favorite thing.
I love things that smell nice. Freshly mown grass reminds me of my first boyfriend, who wore Geoffrey Beene’s Grey Flannel. Do they still make that? I love the scent of roses, cinnamon, and patchouli mixed together, like my mom’s Estee’ Lauder Cinnabar from the 80s. No one else smelled like my mother. I love the scent of my poodles when they leave the groomer. I tell them, with my nose pressed so deeply into their topknots that I risk leaving a permanent indention, they smell like angel wings grazed their fur. And, I love the scent of my children’s heads. All so different and all so unique. Even all these years later, I could sniff hundreds of heads and pick their scents out immediately, especially my firstborn: sweat, fruit loops, dill, and a touch of baby powder. My favorite smells pluck me from the place I exist and transport me to better times, simpler days.
I love grandchildren and cats that need homes. I love old houses, old horses, old people, and old dogs. I love Christmas and Pad Thai and summer days when it’s so hot your lungs try to melt when you breathe. I love dirt roads and horse apples and leather-bound books. I love Rita Coolidge songs and Stevie Nicks lyrics and Joni Mitchell’s voice. I loved my parents. I love my husband. I love Jesus. I love you, dear friends. These are a few of my favorite things. How ‘bout you? Merry Christmas.
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