OH NO! MORE SNOW!

Here they are, the top 10 reasons why it’s great that we keep getting so much snow:

#10: The entire lawn and flower beds are covered in white. No longer am I reminded of the sad state my grass was in at the end of the summer. Ditto for all the weeds that should have been pulled in my perennial beds (but weren’t). Did I remember to rake the leaves, or are they under all that white as well? Hmmmm.

#9: Everyone needs a little practice with their defensive driving. When you hit a patch of ice at 40 mph, do you slam on the brakes? Turn into the skid? Turn against the skid? Scream at the top of your lungs for Jesus to take the wheel? If you’re like me, the answer is; all of the above.

#8: Poor Home Depot. I have to imagine their sales are down this time of the year. Who does home repairs in the dead of winter? Best to keep your local hardware store in business by buying all those replacement shovels, snow blowers and fifty pound bags of rock salt. Pick up a roll of duct tape while you’re at it so you can bind your bumper back to the car after Jesus ignores your request to take the wheel.

#7: Nature intended animals to grow fat and hibernate in the winter. They did not intend animals to risk life and limb by driving to the gym on dangerous, icy roads, or worse yet, jogging on those same roads, causing drivers to swerve into the opposite lane to avoid a vehicular manslaughter conviction. Have you ever seen a bear doing Zumba? A raccoon on the Stairmaster? Next time you feel guilty sitting home on the couch watching “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” just remind yourself that this is what nature intended.

#6: Happy Weathermen. Ever notice how glum the meteorologists seem during the summer months? They just can’t muster the same enthusiasm for heat waves and summer thunderstorms as they can for a really good snowfall. Notice how gleeful they are as they predict the next “Snowpocalypse”, scaring us with bold graphics that say “Super Storm” and “N’or Easter”. Smugly they stand in their comfortable television studios while their miserable comrades huddle by the side of the highway in Natick or hang onto signposts as they brave the pounding surf in Scituate, clumps of ice clinging to their eyebrows and microphones.

#5: The chance to reminisce about “the big one”. Those of you born after 1980 can only sit helplessly by and listen to endless stories about “The Blizzard of ‘78”, when civilization ground to a halt for several days while people holed up in their houses, apartments and dorm rooms, huddling to keep warm (some sucking down schnapps and beer and whatever else was hiding in the liquor cabinet, also on the guise of keeping warm). Every huge dump of snowfall allows someone to proclaim, “Why this is nothing…back in the Blizzard of ’78…” to anyone within earshot. Add earplugs to your winter survival list.

#4: Winter sports fanatics can ski, snowboard, sled, ice skate, play hockey and snowshoe to their heart’s content. Back in the days before children, my husband and I didn’t mind spending our disposable income on $79 lift tickets and $8 bowls of chili at places like Loon Mountain and Sugarloaf. Now we limit our winter sports to shoving our kids down our side hill and hoping they don’t crash their sleds into the neighbor’s basement window. Whee!

#3: There is no better cardio workout than shoveling. Sure, you can pay someone $30 to plow your driveway, but what fun is that? Most winters, 90% of the snow falls while my husband is at work. If I want him to get up our steep driveway, I have to clear the drive before he gets home. Do you shovel before the snow stops, necessitating a possible second pass? Or do you wait for the storm to clear, endangering your heart and your back by hefting a heavier shovel full of snow?

#2: Snow days. Yes, I moan and complain about those rare days when the schools feel it’s too dangerous to ride the bus, but secretly I like the idea that I don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn, make lunches and hustle my two boys into their clothes and out to the bus stop. Sadly, this means that they will have to make up these days at the end of the school year. Happily, this means more time for me to enjoy my friends’ pool before the kids are out for the summer.

And the #1 reason why it’s so great to have so much snow is…lording our superiority over those climate-challenged friends who cower in warmer temperatures during the winter. We endure their snarky comments on Facebook, (“77 degrees in L.A. today!”) but we know they’re just jealous that they’re not as hardy as we New Englanders. “That which does not break us only serves to make us stronger”, we cry as we raise our shovels high. While they…they drive their convertibles to Jamba Juice.

A Nutty Experience at 5 Guys Burgers

My husband thinks I’m trying to kill him…but I swear that I’m not.

The other night, my older son invited four of his friends to sleep over. The mother of one of the boys generously offered to take us all out to dinner first at Pizzeria Uno’s. Not wanting my younger son to feel left out, I planned for my husband to take him to dinner at the new Five Guys Burgers restaurant that just opened in town, followed by a movie.

I was a bit nervous about the dinner at Uno’s in that one of my son’s friends has severe food allergies. Luckily, the manager, servers and kitchen staff all treated our request for an allergy-free meal with the utmost care, and our dinner went off without a hitch (unless you count the number of free Mountain Dew refills the kids drank, ensuring enough caffeine to keep them up till 3 a.m.)

As we were waiting for our table, I fell into conversation with another couple waiting to be seated. Turns out, they had just come from Five Guys Burgers and decided not to wait on the extremely long line but opted to try their luck at Uno’s instead. Immediately I felt guilty for suggesting that my husband take my son there. I hoped that the crowd didn’t put a damper on their evening plans.

After dinner, I drove my “five guys” back to my house, listening with amusement as they sung along to the new Black Eyed Peas album blasted at top volume. “I’m sorry if we’re giving you a headache,” one of the boys apologized. Once home the kids made a beeline for the basement where they spent the next twelve hours shooting each other with Nerf guns, quaffing down yet more caffeinated soda, and watching videos on YouTube. Sleep was not part of their plan.

About an hour after we arrived home, my husband and younger son came back from the movie. I asked my son how he liked the movie (he did) and how he liked the new Five Guys Burgers restaurant. “It was very crowded, but good.” He wandered off to find the rest of the boys, inadvertently providing them with a moving target for their Nerf war. Then my husband walked in and I asked him the same question: “How was Five Guys Burgers? Was it crowded?”

“It was a death trap.” My husband replied, in all seriousness.

Okay, a little background information here. My husband also has severe food allergies. Quite a lot of them. The list is too long to print here, but two of the many items on his list are white potatoes and peanuts. Had I done my research, I might have suggested another restaurant for him to try. But I inadvertently sent him in blind.

“First of all,” he began, “they have peanuts everywhere. People are eating peanuts at every table, there are peanut shells everywhere, and there are cases of peanuts stacked along the walls.”

“Uh-oh,” I replied, not liking where this was going.

“There were also sacks of potatoes all along the wall, and it turns out that all their handmade, fresh French fries are fried in peanut oil. It’s right there on the menu in big letters.”

My husband explained that at that point he immediately popped an antihistamine and waited in a very long line to order food for himself and my son. Luckily, the burgers were safe for him, but he couldn’t even touch the French fries back from which my son was eating, soaked as it was in peanut grease. He added that they finally found a seat at a counter, right next to a tower of peanut boxes stacked on cans of peanut oil.

I apologized to my husband and reassured him that I was not trying to kill him; that I had just neglected to research this new restaurant everyone was talking about. The only thing I knew about Five Guys Burgers was that the food was fantastic and that our town was lucky to get one. I can’t imagine why a restaurant would feature peanuts when there are so many folks today who are allergic, but I guess they are successful enough without that particular consumer segment.

Thankfully my husband emerged unscathed, but for the grace of God. From now on, he can stick to Uno’s and other allergy-friendly restaurants. If my sons want to go back for more Five Guys Burgers, I’ll be the one taking them. I won’t send my husband back to that place.

Because that would be nuts.

And the Award for the Best Award Show Goes To...

Awards season is here!

People’s Choice Awards…Golden Globe Awards…The Academy Awards…the list is endless. For those of you who just can’t get enough of celebrities getting all gussied up, honoring each other and themselves, and pre-empting your favorite programs then this is the season for you.

Sadly, the People’s Choice awards have already passed. This is one of the few awards programs where you, me and Joe the Plumber can all cast their votes and make their voices heard. Who cares if the categories are somewhat inane: Favorite TV Crime Fighter? Favorite TV Chef? Favorite Viral Video Star? For those of you who neglected to tune in (I didn’t) the winners in those particular categories were Tim Roth, Rachael Ray and “Single Ladies” Devastation (must have missed that last one). Katy Perry took home Favorite Online Sensation (really?) and predictably Favorite TV Guilty Pleasure went to “Keeping up with the Kardashians” (was there ever any doubt?)
No worries. You still have the Golden Globes to look forward to (Jan. 16) and the Academy Awards as well (Feb. 27). If you are a movie freak like me, then these are the two award ceremonies you don’t want to miss (not including the MTV Movie Awards, but that’s not till June).

The Golden Globes are presented by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, an organization about which I knew nothing. According to their website “…founded in the 1940s during World War II, the HFPA was originally comprised of a handful of LA based overseas journalists who sought to bridge the international community with Hollywood, and to provide distraction from the hardships of war through film information and material.” (Who knew?) In addition to hosting a ceremony widely known as a precursor to the Oscars, the group donates money to entertainment-related charities and film scholarships. If you want to get a sense of which films, actors and directors will win an Oscar, settle in on Jan. 16 and watch The Golden Globes.

And then there’s the Oscars…the big Kahuna of award shows. The night when film buffs all over the world suffer through Joan Rivers asking everyone “who” they’re wearing, all the while looking like someone is standing behind her pulling a sheet of Saran Wrap tight over her face. I have a friend who works for the Academy, and he’s told me that sometime in the next five years I can expect an invitation to join him for the ceremony. Given that this is probably the only way I’ll ever be invited to the Oscars, you can be sure I’ll accept. And if Joan Rivers asks me who I’m wearing, I’ll tell her “Jaclyn Smith for Kmart.” Imagine how that will go over.

If you’re a real film freak, like me, you can wedge in the Independent Film Spirit Awards, held just one night before the Oscars. Hosted by Joel McHale, perennial snark-master of E’s “The Soup”, this is the awards program that honors all those other films you’ve never heard of. I don’t remember “Daddy Longlegs”, “Jack Goes Boating” or “Tiny Furniture” playing at Patriot’s cinema alongside “Yogi Bear” and “Little Fockers”, do you?

Of course, then there are the Emmys, the Tonys, the Grammys, the CMAs, the American Music Awards, the MTV Movie Awards and the MTV Music Awards to keep you going throughout the rest of the year. With any luck, you won’t have to endure a month without some kind of award show. But the one I’d like to see is the award show that hands out awards for award shows. Think of the categories: most overblown production number; longest “in memoriam” sequence (or as we call it in our house: The Dead List); stiffest host; worst chemistry between co-presenters; most inept at reading a teleprompter; lamest joke written by Bruce Vilanche (Bruce would sweep this category).

And if there happened to be an award for the viewer most likely to fall asleep before the end of the show, I’d be a shoe-in.

Muriel's Wedding

New Year’s Eve at my house was a flurry of activity. As my family unpacked from our Christmas visit to New Jersey, we were simultaneously cleaning and preparing for my best friend’s impending visit the following day. Over the clatter of my husband vacuuming and my children cleaning up their Legos, I heard the phone ring.

“Hello?” I answered, trying not to sound as stressed as I felt.

“What a lovely greeting,” the voice on the other end replied. As I tried to place the unfamiliar male voice, he continued, ‘Is this the young woman who writes the weekly column in the Mariner?”

At age 47, anyone who calls me a “young woman” is an instant friend of mine (I so cherish those infrequent times people call me “miss” instead of ‘ma’am”).

I assured the voice that I was indeed that columnist and he introduced himself to me as “Dick” and then continued with the purpose of his call.

A frequent reader of my column, Dick was moved by the piece I had written earlier this year in honor of my father’s 80th birthday. “It seems these days that kids have little or no respect for their parents, “he declared, “and I thought the tribute to your father was very heartwarming.” I thanked him for his kind words.

He then proceeded to tell me a little bit about himself. He and his wife have lived in Hanover for 55 years. They married on New Year’s Eve in 1955, in the middle of a blizzard. Dick was a State Trooper at the time, living in the Weymouth barracks, and his fiancée, Muriel (“like the fine cigar”), lived in Canton. I could hear the pride and love in his voice as he spoke of his bride of 55 years, who was, among many other things, a national champion roller skater. He told me about taking Muriel out for roast duck on New Year’s Eve at The Alamo. He spoke of their three children, who all went through the Hanover school system, and his two grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

Dick then shared with me the story of his wedding. He and Muriel decided on a quiet ceremony at the home of Reverend Sewell, former pastor of the First Congregational Church in Hanover, with a few friends attending as witnesses. They agreed to meet at Reverend Sewell’s home, which at the time was on the corner of Pine and Union Street, at 8 p.m. on New Year’s Eve.

Apparently, signals got crossed (as so often happens with newlyweds) because Dick went to the home that he and Muriel had purchased on Plain Street instead. I can only imagine his state of mind as the minutes ticked by, thinking that his bride had stood him up.

At nine o’clock, Dick decided he had waited enough, and headed out into the blizzard with no real destination in mind. He got as far as the DPW before he was stopped by the two town police officers. They convinced him to forgo his trip in the swirling snow, stuffed him in the back of their cruiser, and brought him straight to the Reverend Sewell’s home, where Muriel was waiting.

Apparently, after several moments of conversation with Muriel, the wedding proceeded, with friends and the Hanover Police standing up for the bride and groom. Dick said, “I don’t remember a thing the Reverend said, but I do remember saying ‘I do’”. He also recalled feeling embarrassed about the puddle of water which was pooling around everyone’s snowy boots on the Reverend’s floor. Somehow the media got wind of the story and several days later the Patriot Ledger ran a story about a…” State Trooper arrested by Hanover Police and driven to his own shotgun wedding…”

55 years later, Dick and Muriel Jennings are still happily married and now living on Main Street. Dick asked if I could put something in my column this week to wish his lovely bride a very happy anniversary. I can think of no better way to honor his request than to relay our wonderful conversation to all of my readers.

So here’s to you, Dick and Muriel. May you have many more happy years together and may the story of your wedding and marriage inspire the rest of us for years to come!

How to Spend New Year's Eve

How will you spend New Year’s?

Are you planning to attend a fancy party? Will you select the perfect outfit, complemented by the perfect accessories and stand around with a hundred other friends and strangers at an upscale restaurant or a yacht club or a ballroom, dancing to the strains of a jazz band or a cover band or a DJ, waiting till the hands inch towards their fully upright position?

Will you travel into Boston and celebrate “First Night”? Personally, I never understood why it was called “First Night”, being the last night of the year, but I’ve gone into the city on several New Year’s eves to wander the streets listening to those obnoxious horns, looking at impossibly complicated ice sculptures and enjoying the camaraderie of thousands of other Bostonians gathered together for the simple act of bringing one more year to a close and welcoming another.

Will you celebrate at home with friends and family? This has been one of my favorite ways to ring in the New Year. My children are of an age where they are able to stay up till midnight without being pumped full of soda and sugar and other caffeinated treats. They are actually the ones that rouse me when I’m dozing through the 11 o’clock news, urging me to hold on so I can see the ball drop on television. Last year we had a Wii-a-thon, facing off against each other at tennis, bowling and baseball, finally coming together as a family just before midnight to play Rock Band (we take turns on drums, vocals and guitar, being extremely careful never to hand the microphone over to my tone-deaf husband).

Will you make the pilgrimage to Times Square in NYC and squeeze your way in amongst the revelers? I imagine Times Square on New Year’s Eve feels a little bit like a can of sardines or a pen of cattle, one giant swirling mass of bodies wearing silly hats and glittery glasses in the shape of 2011. I’ve never celebrated New Year’s in Times Square but I imagine that the memory would last long after the confetti is shaken out of your coat pockets and shoes. I prefer to celebrate vicariously through my television, tuning in to Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, which has recently been taken over by Ryan Seacrest, though they still wheel out poor Dick Clark at midnight so those of us at home can see that age has finally caught up with him. Performers for this year’s program include The New Kids On The Block and The Backstreet Boys. Wait a minute…this is 2010, right?

Will you spend New Year’s Eve alone? Is someone you love serving in the armed forces overseas? Are your children scattered throughout the country, attending college or spending the holiday with families of their own? Are you struggling with the loss of a spouse or a parent? Perhaps you’re overwhelmed by all the chaos of the holidays and just prefer to ring in the New Year with a little peace and quiet.
Are you working on New Year’s Eve? Are you a nurse on shift at the hospital, or a firefighter or EMT on call for the evening? Are you a police officer who needs to patrol the streets of our town, keeping watch that revelers who have overindulged are not a danger to themselves or others? Will you ring in the New Year saving a life? If so, then your community thanks you.

I choose to spend the night with family, reflecting on the blessings we received in 2010: My husband’s new job, his recovery from appendicitis and my children’s good health and good performance in school.; my faith that is reinforced by my wonderful church and my bible study; my friends who listen without judging; my job which allows me to share laughter and tears each week with my readers.

However you choose to celebrate, I wish you a safe, peaceful and joyous New Year.

Christmas in Perspective

Recently my husband had lunch with a friend and discovered that she and her husband are expecting a baby. My husband was thrilled and effusive with his congratulations. This being their first child, he was also more than happy to share some advice: Go to the movies. Read books. Go out to dinner. Cherish every moment as a twosome because in a few months your world is going to change forever.

This being the week before Christmas, I got to thinking about another newlywed couple expecting their first child. It’s hard to imagine any of Mary and Joseph’s friends imparting that same advice as they prepared for the birth of their son, Jesus. Joseph was a carpenter, so perhaps he fashioned a cradle for the baby. But before Mary could choose paint colors for the nursery, they were commanded to make a trip of more than 100 miles to register in Joseph’s ancestral home, Bethlehem.

What’s 100 miles when you can just slide into your heated leather seat, kick back to some tunes on your satellite radio and enjoy the winter scenery? 100 miles is a mere two-hour trip. Unless of course you are nine months pregnant and have to walk the entire way over unpaved roads with no convenient rest areas or Dunkin’ Donuts nearby. Or better yet, ride a donkey. That way you can really feel every jostle and bump of the journey.

I know most of my friends didn’t dare venture far from home during the final weeks of their pregnancy. Imagine how frightening it would be to go into labor in a strange place, not having the comfort and support of your favorite obstetrician, the familiarity of your local hospital or the network of friends and family to surround you with love and hope. Still, you’d have to make the best of a bad situation, calling the number on the back of your insurance card to be sure that the hospital nearby is considered “in network”, and then going through the most intimate moment of your life surrounded by unfamiliar faces. It could be worse.

You could be delivering a baby in a small town by yourself, with only your husband to help. You could find yourself with no Courtyard by Marriot in which to recover from your labor, just a stable full of animals and a feeding trough for your child’s bed. I checked the 7-day forecast for Bethlehem, and on Christmas Eve it will be clear and 40 degrees. Not nearly as chilly as our neck of the woods, but not a temperature you’d want to endure in a drafty stable with a new baby in tow. No North Face jackets, no Carter’s sleep sacs, just some strips of cloth for your child and perhaps a woolen wrap for yourself.

My husband’s friend will soon make her list of “necessary” items for her child which is likely to include a Boston Baby crib with matching changing table, Diaper Genie, Baby Bjorn, Peg Perego Stroller and a Graco car seat. I remember that list well from my first pregnancy. You see, you always want the best for your child. It’s part of being a parent. Because our children are precious. They are special. In our eyes, they are the hope of the world.

In that aspect, I’m sure Mary and Joseph were no different. However, there were no bouncy seats or Exersaucers in Bethlehem, no crib monitors or even cribs for that matter. Just a mother and father’s love for their newborn son and the willingness to do whatever necessary to keep him safe and protected.

On Christmas Eve, gather your children close and remind them that they are special and precious and the hope of our world. And then say a prayer of thanks for that other child born more than 2000 years ago, who is precious and special and the
savior of our world.

Merry Christmas.

All Hail The Yankee Swap!

Now that the holidays are here, people all over New England will be participating in that venerable tradition, The Yankee Swap. Ah, what better way to spread warmth and good cheer than by joining in an innocent gift exchange that is supposed to embody the spirit of the season, yet often leaves participants with feelings of jealousy, ill will and bitterness.

Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating. We didn’t have the Yankee Swap in New Jersey, we had “The Grab Bag” . One would bring a wrapped present to a party and when it came time to choose, you had to rely on your keen sense of sight and any spoilers your friends might have shared. Each person, in turn, would choose a gift, unwrap it, say thank you and then wait for the next person to select. The phrase “You get what you get and you don’t get upset” applies here. If two people felt it was mutually beneficial to swap presents, it was done in a low-key, quiet manner.

The Yankee Swap is a whole different animal. Not only is swapping allowed, it’s mandatory. The odds of going home with the gift you choose are fairly slim. For those who have never participated, the Yankee Swap is a present exchange with a twist. Numbers are randomly assigned designating the order in which people choose gifts. The first person chooses a gift and then opens it. The second person chooses a gift, opens it, and then decides if they would like to keep that gift or swap it with the first person. The first person has no say in this. The third person opens a gift, and then decides whether they would like to keep their gift or swap it with one of the first two gifts. And so on.

A little online research yielded several variations on the Yankee Swap. In one, people can only swap for a previously unwrapped gift before unwrapping your own, in which case the person whose gift you took gets to select a wrapped gift, or a gift that was already unwrapped by someone else. Some people only allow a certain gift to be swapped a set number of times and then it is considered “dead”. Some allow the first person to choose again once everything has been unwrapped, in which case the person who drew the second position has the least desirable position of all. The key to a successful Yankee Swap is to be sure to spell out all the rules ahead of time, lest hard feelings ensue. Oh who are we kidding? Hard feelings ensue no matter what you do.

I say this because for every Yankee swap there is a “choice” gift and a “dud”. The dud gets foisted off again and again at which point the person who purchased this particular gift feels like a leper (Tip #1…don’t tell anyone what you brought). The choice gift is snatched away multiple times throughout the swap, lorded over the assemblage until the moment when it is snatched away again. (Tip#2…do not get too attached to anything.)

My first Yankee Swap turned out well for me. I don’t remember what I brought but I do remember that the choice gift was a beaded bracelet and the dud gift was a small votive candle which was originally intended as a teacher’s gift but was brought along at the last minute because the participant forgot to buy a swap gift. I was the last person to pick, and as chance would have it, the person who was holding the bracelet at this point was the same one who brought the dud gift. So I went home with a lovely bracelet and she went home with her teacher’s gift (Tip #3…don’t bring anything to the swap that you’re not happy to take home yourself).

In one swap, I drew the last number and used it to help someone who had not fared as well. My friend chose a lovely snowman candle which would have delighted her daughter. Sadly, this became the choice gift, and was snatched away several times. With the last pick, I determined there was nothing I couldn’t live without, and then acquired the snowman candle, handing it back to her when the swap was finished. Swap powers used for good, not evil! In another swap, a person offered to swap a bracelet I was coveting for the wine gift card I had received. By the end of the swap, I was in possession of a Barnes & Noble gift card instead, which didn’t hold the same appeal as the wine card. Clearly my friend preferred booze to books.

Despite the competitive nature, I do enjoy Yankee Swaps; though I prefer the anti-swap my book club holds every January. Friends bring the worst gift ever given to them (or the worst thing they can find for under $5). Past items have included a cookbook of Velveeta recipes, a subscription to Our State magazine (the state is North Carolina…the recipient lives in Massachusetts) and even a turnip (an annual gift from a friend’s mother-in-law). The great thing about this type of swap is that you’re prepared to go home with something awful. That’s what makes it so much fun.

The best part of any Yankee Swap is that it gets a group of friends together to laugh, share stories, create memories and spend just a few moments of each other’s time during the hectic holiday season.

And I wouldn’t swap that for anything.

An Apple A Day...

Last week I happened to catch a story on the news about a company in British Columbia that is genetically modifying apples and hoping to market them in the United States. The newly designed “Arctic Apple” is unique in that it doesn’t turn brown when you cut it. Researchers have figured out a way to “turn off” the gene that produces the enzyme that turns the apple slices brown when cut. Having successfully created Arctic Golden Delicious and Arctic Granny Smith, they are now turning their efforts to Galas and Fujis.

This bothered me on so many different levels; I don’t quite know where to begin. First and foremost is the idea that this was something that someone considered news, to the point where it was given airtime on the 11 o’clock broadcast. When stories like this crop up, my husband invariably rolls his eyes and mutters, “Slow news night.” Granted, it’s a break from the usual murder, monstrosity and mayhem that most news programs serve up with glee, but the Arctic Apple story seemed a waste of thirty seconds. Witty anchor banter would have been as informative.

My next thought was this: Scientists are experimenting with fruit genes in order to make the fruit more cosmetically appealing. Did someone suddenly cure cancer, Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s without my knowledge? Millions die each year from these and other terminal illnesses. Wouldn’t it be better for the scientific community to conquer human ailments first, and then move on to fruit? Without scientific intervention, the apple just turns brown. The human dies.

My seventh grader’s robotics team just presented a research project as part of this year’s First Lego League tournament. The team focused their efforts on finding a way to treat and possibly cure Cystic Fibrosis. These kids really did their homework, diligently researching online, Skype-ing with an expert in the field, and brainstorming unique methods of eradicating the disease. The kids were even won FLL’s award for Excellence in Research. If twelve-year olds are trying to look for a cure, shouldn’t the scientific community be fully focused on humans as well? (In an ironic twist, next year’s FLL challenge is called Food Factor).

Now, I could understand if the Arctic Apples were somehow altered to provide additional nutritional benefit, boosting the amount of vitamins and minerals received from these foods, enhancing the body and lengthening the life span. But Arctic Apples were developed for purely cosmetic reasons. Our society worships at the altar of perfection, as evidenced by the movie stars, sports figures and supermodels we idolize. Arctic Apples send the message that even our fruit has to be perfect, or suffer the consequences. Picture the scene in lunchrooms across the country: “Ewww, did you see Lisa’s apple? It’s so brown and yucky. Here, sit with me and have some slices of my perfectly white, genetically modified apple.”

I’m sure that once apples have been conquered, scientists will next turn their attention to bananas, pears and oranges. Given the choice, I could live with brown apples and bruised pears if it meant losing less friends and family to serious diseases. So Mr. Wizard, when you’re done perfecting every item in the fruit bowl, could you perhaps focus your efforts on Alzheimer’s and cancer?

How do you like them apples?

Look Out! Here Comes Christmas!!

Close your eyes. Brace yourself. Because ready or not, it’s coming.
Christmas is on its way.

Now that Thanksgiving is officially over, it’s time to turn our full attention to the next major holiday coming up in just a few weeks (and for my friends who celebrate Hanukkah…time’s up. Hope you’re ready).

Why is it that Christmas, a holiday which signifies such joy, produces so much stress? We find ourselves getting caught up in the cooking, the shopping, the wrapping and the baking. Can’t we hearken back to a simpler time, when the most exotic item in a Christmas stocking was an orange and a shiny new penny? Girls would squeal over dolls made from corn cobs and boys would hoot with joy over a hoop and stick.

Okay, I’m stealing scenes from the “Little House on the Prairie” books I used to read. But isn’t there a way to simplify our holiday “to do” list? Is there a way to reduce our stress levels while focusing on the true meaning of Christmas? I have a few suggestions.

Stay out of the mall, Target, Wal-Mart, and most of all, Toys R Us. There were no malls or super stores back in olden times, your gift choices were limited to what was carried by the kindly old gentleman who ran the general store. Hmmm, a stick of horehound candy or a set of silver buttons for Ma’s new dress? Decisions were quick and easy. Nowadays, going to any store after Dec. 1 means stress looking for a parking space, finding that perfect gift and standing in long lines at the checkout. If you enjoy feeling your blood pressure creep up as you shop, by all means, hit the stores. Otherwise, take advantage of that thing called the internet and do all your shopping online. Many sites have free shipping during the holidays, and if you’re traveling (like my family always does) you can have your presents shipped directly to your destination. (Horehound candy is available on amazon.com!) If you truly enjoy the act of shopping, try smaller, independently owned toy, book and gift stores. You’ll stimulate the local economy and get better service too.

The type of Christmas music you listen to can have a huge effect on your stress level. Anything by Mannheim Steamroller or The Trans-Siberian Orchestra is guaranteed to send your heart rate through the roof. I don’t know who loves these frenzied instrumental renditions of “Deck the Halls” and “Carol of the Bells,” but whenever I hear them on the radio I have the urge to run my car straight off the road. Better to create your own personal playlist of Christmas tunes from artists like Bing Crosby, James Taylor and Harry Connick Jr. But if you just can’t resist, The Trans-Siberian Orchestra is playing the TD Garden on Dec. 15. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

A word about baking. Martha Stewart would like you to think that everyone bakes their own cookies, pies, cakes and goodies for the holidays. How else would she be able to sell all her cookbooks, baking pans and other items available at your local K-Mart? If you enjoy the act of baking, (and I do) by all means, go for it. Otherwise, there are these fabulous places called bakeries, where bakers rise at 2 a.m. for the sole purpose of creating armies of gingerbread men, legions of cupcakes and countless other holiday treats perfect for gifts, holiday bake sales and Christmas concerts. Instead of spending time in the kitchen, why not enjoy a relaxing massage or facial?

And now the biggie: Christmas cards. I know one friend who makes her Christmas cards by hand each year. Whether or not she actually pounds wood pulp to craft her own paper is unknown, but her cards are a work of art, complete with bits of ribbon and other embellishments which leave me with feelings of awe mixed with a nagging sense that I’m a slacker. Photo cards really stress me out, not sending them but receiving them. I feel guilty throwing away photos of other people’s children (yet they inevitably end up in my circular file). This year, why not try sending an e-card for Christmas? Buy a small box of cards to send to those family members who have not yet heard about the internet, and let everyone else enjoy a digital greeting that takes up very little space on their hard drive, should they choose to save it. Save a tree, save a stamp and save yourself a trip to the post office.

These suggestions may not be for everyone, but I encourage you to take whatever steps you can to reduce your stress and enjoy the holiday season. Will I take my own advice? Maybe. I’ve already sent one shipment of gifts to my parent’s house in New Jersey. My iPod is playing gentle holiday tunes as I write this and my husband is exploring ways to turn a recent family portrait into a holiday e-card. And though I may bake some of my own homemade cookies this season, you can bet I will stay far away from the TD Garden on Dec. 15.

The True Meaning of Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving. Ask anyone what it means and it’s likely you will get an assortment of different answers. To children, it is remembering the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag. Thanksgiving is also turkey, stuffing, cranberry jelly, pumpkin pie and green bean casserole. It is stuffing yourself (along with your turkey) until you feel the need to unbutton your pants or lie down on the living room couch. It’s tryptophan, making you sleepy as the afternoon wears on. It’s football, played for endless hours, both on television and in backyards across America. It’s a parade in New York City, with overblown floats, giant balloons and smiling television personalities making inane banter in between holiday commercials.

Let’s get back to the real meaning of Thanksgiving. Break it down to its most simple terms: Giving thanks. How many of us take the time on this holiday to really give thanks for our blessings? We might do a quick survey around the dinner table, asking each person what they are thankful for, but who really wants to delve deeply on this when there are mashed potatoes and pearl onions and gravy getting cold.
I’ve been thinking about my blessings a great deal lately. Three years ago, I joined a woman’s bible study group. We meet every Wednesday morning and discuss a designated lesson (this year’s lesson is Genesis). Each year my group has changed, and though I miss some of the people I’ve been grouped with in the past, I enjoy the opportunity to meet new women, each of whom gives a unique perspective on the lessons.

What’s grown out of this weekly bible study is my willingness to pray for others. In the beginning, I felt awkward telling people that I would pray for them when a family member was sick or a job was lost. It was “safe” to say that to the women in my group, but to my friends and acquaintances? To strangers? Would they think I was a zealot? A “holy roller” or a “bible thumper”?

With each passing year, the phrase, “I’ll pray for you” has become easier to say. No one looks at me sideways or thinks less of me (and if they do, I really don’t care). People are now asking for prayers on behalf of others. Even my agnostic husband is offering up my prayers to help his friends in need.

What does this have to do with giving thanks? I’m getting to that. With so many prayer requests, inevitably I find myself saying a prayer of thanks for my own blessings. Currently I’m praying for several friends who are out of work, which reminds me of how blessed my family is that my husband found a better job situation this year. Praying for children who are sick or undergoing surgery makes me thankful that my own children are relatively healthy. People who ask for prayers due to an unhappy marital situation reinforce the blessing of my own marriage. Praying for friends who have lost a parent prompts me to thank God for every day that my own parents bless my life.

Don’t get me wrong. I complain about my life. My husband and I argue, we stress over money, my kids drive me crazy at times and I often grouse about the state of my life. But when someone I know takes a minute to ask me to pray for them or someone else, I can’t help but pause and reflect on just how blessed I really am. That oft used phrase then comes to mind: There but for the grace of God go I.
Because it isn’t luck or good fortune or good works that gives me the blessings I have. It’s grace.

So on Thursday, when you take a break from football to gather around the table, take a look at those around you, take a moment, and reflect for just a moment on all that you have to be thankful truly for.

Happy Thanksgiving.