Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

The last time I remember encountering her she had towered over me by two feet, so seeing our former babysitter Theresa at eye-level was a jarring and thrilling experience. She walked into the place where my brother was playing with his band, Still Remains, on Thanksgiving Eve, and it was like we instantly went back forty years. She said we were the worst kids she ever babysat, and I took great pride in that because we worked hard for the title (at least I did, my brother would claim it was all me). A little background on my history with babysitters before we return to our reunion with Theresa:

I took babysitters as a challenge. It was a delicate balance – trying to charm them enough so they wouldn’t rat us out, while making sure we inflicted just enough psychological damage to remain indelibly unforgettable in their minds for the rest of their lives. That’s a tough task for any adult to do, yet I managed to make it happen as a wee itty-bitty one. 

For one neighborhood babysitter, we devised a path in our basement rigged with traps and falling debris. After luring her down there, we set her on her not-so-merry way, where she promptly began tripping on strings, and junk began falling in from all sides. As soon as she was entrenched in the mayhem, we shut the lights off and hurried upstairs, leaving her scrambling in the pitch black.

She never babysat for us again. 

A long-time family friend was a last-minute desperate choice as a babysitter by my parents, and we knew him quite well. He’d never babysat for us, so he didn’t quite know what we were capable of, though he found out soon enough. We’d known, and been repeatedly warned, that he was terrified of our German shepherd. My parents also strictly told us to make sure that the dog was kept in the garage at all times, and not let in the house under any circumstances. Rookie errors abounded: first of all, don’t supply me with the weakness of a babysitter unless you want it exploited. Second of all, don’t tell me not to let the dog in the house because that’s the first thing I will do as soon as I see the car round the bend of our street. 

Within minutes of my parents’ departure, I ‘accidentally’ let our giant German shepherd into the family room, while our babysitter ran for his life into the nearest room with a door – the small guest bathroom – and locked himself in. Truth be told, I don’t recall how long we let him stay in there, but I’m almost certain that eventually we got the dog back in the garage and let him out. Almost certain. 

He never babysat for us again. 

When another neighbor was coerced into babysitting for us at the last minute, I upped the torture into the mind-game realm. I collected all my allergy pills and vitamins for the day, along with a few Tic-Tacs, put them in the palm of my hand and declared that if she didn’t do what we wanted I was going to take all of these pills. Before giving her a chance to respond, I shoved them into my mouth and gulped it all down with a glass of water. 

She never babysat for us again either.

And so when Theresa came along, we didn’t expect her to last beyond the usual one-and-done. In some respect, I was probably testing who could love me in spite of my worst behavior, and so far everyone was failing miserably. (I wish I could say the testing ended there, but alas, I’m still working on things.)

Theresa came with formidable resume, being the oldest of sixteen children. There were things she had already witnessed and handled that I could barely fathom, and for two kids who had largely been left to their own devices, without the competition of younger children, or the social graces learned in such situations, my brother and I probably weren’t that much of a challenge, but still I gave her a run for her money. 

She still remembers how I removed an angelfish from our aquarium and let it fall to the floor (hello, serial killer tendencies!) and then tried to blame it on her when my parents got home. Such minor murders aside, Theresa managed to rein us in with discipline and love, getting us to do chores and work without much bother or fuss, and somehow showing us how much easier it would be if we simply behaved, while at the same time illustrating how much fun could be had as well. She was our own Mary Poppins without the up-do or British accent. We grew to respect her, and she became our favorite babysitter, returning many times until we were simply too old for any further watching. 

As she stood before me about four decades later, reminiscing about things even I didn’t remember anymore, I felt the profound and enormous shift of time. She was already retired, and already a grandmother. We moved to a quieter area, away from the crowd, and she paused and asked if I was happy. Such a simple question on its surface, but how much it conveyed, especially coming from someone who once knew me so well as a child. 

I thought about it before answering, wanting to be sure as much for her as for myself: ‘yes,’ I said. It wasn’t the loud or boisterous ‘yes’ like I thought and expected it to be when I was a kid, imagining the day I’d be an adult and free of all the childhood worries that seemed to plague me so much more than everyone else. It was a quiet and genuine ‘yes’, a soft ‘yes’ that spoke of the loss and heartache that could only make a true sense of happiness possible. 

As we shared more war-story remembrances of our babysitting years together, I realized that my brother and I may have had as much of an impact on her memory of that time as she had had on ours. On the eve of Thanksgiving, I felt grateful to re-connect with such a special person who had played such a formative part of my life. 

This red Thanksgiving cactus understood the assignment, and deigned to be in bloom on Thanksgiving Day. Mine is not always so disciplined. 

I love how these plants act so quietly unassuming most of the year, then develop their buds (if unassisted by artificial light in the evenings/afternoons) and burst into bloom seemingly overnight. It’s always a surprise – and always a welcome one. 

Mom’s holiday wreaths arrived this past week, and this one hangs in her living room. We decorated it for Christmas this weekend, transforming the space into a sparkling holiday wonderland – subdued and simple, but warm and seasonally cozy. It will form a lovely backdrop for our Sunday dinner and holiday gatherings over the next two months ~ an ideal way of making a healthy head start to the winter. On with the weekly recap…

It started with some shirtless male celebrity shenanigans. 

Billy Porter’s latest masterpiece.

The boughs of November.

A Christmas wish list no more.

Kindness cookies from the Beekman Boys and Nestle.

Gathering to find gratitude.

Ahh, those fancy napkin folds.

Holiday, masturbation, come together in every nation!

These stocks ain’t stiff.

Holiday salvo.

My bucket is about to burst, and the holidays have only just begun.

Take off that shirt, Shawn Mendes!

‘Tis the season to sleigh.

An ass-blast from the past.

Dazzlers of the Day included Barry Keoghan and Steven Sanchez.

My typical first-thing-in-the-morning action after hitting the snooze button is to groggily scroll through my phone to the blog post of the day, copy it, and send it out on my social media outlets, then go back to sleep for another ten minutes. On this morning, I realized I hadn’t even gotten around to writing the blog posts for the day, so I sent out some random memory that popped up on FaceBook then went back to sleep for another half hour since it’s Sunday. 

In the spirit of such laziness, I am writing out this intro to a post that will be largely about the past, hence these photos from well over a decade ago. Having reached the point where I could basically populate this blog from photos and stories that have already happened, it seems foolish not to take advantage of that now and then. It would allow for greater presence in the moment. 

To that end, here’s a brief list of some of the November 26ths that have come before – and it’s interesting to note how one’s insufferability can remain largely intact despite the tick of time. Happy Sunday to you – click the inks below at your own risk…

On November 26th in 2012, I was apparently much more put-together, as that was the date I premiered the Holiday Card of that year (these days I wait until at least December). I mean… Christ!

On November 26th in 2013, all I cared about was grooming.

On November 26th in 2014, it was all about getting bred.

On November 26th in 2015, it was Thanksgiving! (And there will likely be another one…)

On November 26th in 2016, we raised our glasses of Christmas cheer.

On November 26th in 2017, the spell of Savannah was pulling us all under.

On November 26th in 2018, there was this pre-holiday recap. And this wretched trip to Joann’s.

On November 26th in 2019, ice cracked in clay and the curtain went up on a host of new holiday traditions.

On November 26th in 2020, things got thankful and poetic.

On November 26th in 2021, we presented vibrant florals on Black Friday and Harry met Santa.

Finally, on November 26th last year, there was holly but no ivy, and this shirtless glimpse of the diabolical. 

… because I want that shirt for myself. 

Also check out these other Shawn Mendes posts:

• Shawn Mendes in his underwear
• Shawn Mendes shirtless
• Shawn Mendes heading into the shower
• Shawn Mendes in more underwear
• Shawn Mendes and his big stick
• Shawn Mendes naked and dazzling
• Shawn Mendes and his armpits

My therapist once likened one of my perplexingly over-wrought responses to a relatively minor event to a bucket that had reached its maximum fill level: a single drop would set such a bucket  splitting apart. These days I feel that proverbial bucket nearing its capacity, and more, I feel the little things about to start busting all its seams open. 

I’ve explained to those around me that whatever grief I’ve been feeling has shifted into a general state of agitation and annoyance, mostly funneled into the bothered brusqueness of being rude to strangers, swearing at motorists, sighing at slow check-out lines, and other signs of dissatisfaction. I’m a little bit angry at a lot of the world, and lately I’ve felt it better to be by myself, holing up in the attic, steering clear of the news, and disengaging from social media aside from the regular blog links that keep this place bookmarked lest anyone forget. Having done so for twenty years, I can do such updates in my sleep, and much of my life feels like it’s on autopilot anyway. 

As for how to navigate this tricky terrain as the holidays swing into full motion, I’m torn between channeling Ebenezer Scrooge and the Grinch, and hiding entirely away until the desolation of January – and a brand new year – is at hand. 

There has never been a War on Christmas.

You believe what you want to believe, and I’ll pray to keep my sense of humor.