AroundTownOnline

Thanks...but no thanks!

2011-11-22T18:38:00.003-05:00

Thanksgiving is nearly here, a time when we reflect on the bountiful blessings we’ve received and give thanks for them. Ordinarily I would write a column listing all the things for which I am thankful. But “been there, done that”, and if there is something I strive not to do in this column, it’s repeat myself.

Instead, I think I’ll share all the things I could do without. I’m sure the Pilgrims had similar sentiments when they sat down to their Thanksgiving feast with their brethren and their new Wampanoag friends. They bowed their heads and gave thanks for their harvest, but silently they were thinking, “Lord, thank you for these new friends and all this food, but we could really do without smallpox and bitterly cold winters and chamber pots and that jerk King James back home. Amen.”

So in the spirit of those Pilgrims…

I can do without people who don’t know what to do at a four-way stop intersection. According to the driver’s manual “At a four-way stop, vehicles must go in the order they stopped. The first to stop is the next to go. If in doubt, give the right-of-way to the driver on your right.” There you go. Learn it. Live it.

I can do without middle schoolers wearing Lululemon yoga pants and Coach sneakers and carrying Vera Bradley handbags. When did twelve-year-old girls start dressing like 35-year-old women?

I can do without a perky computer-voice named Cheryl leaving messages on my answering machine asking me to call immediately to lower my credit card interest rate. Cheryl, you are not fooling anyone. You are a machine taking part in a scam to prompt citizens to divulge personal information to complete strangers. Shame on you Cheryl.

I can do without Christmas music on the radio 24/7 long before anyone sits down to carve their Thanksgiving turkey. It’s bad enough we’ll hear “Dominick The Christmas Donkey” hundreds of times as it is. Do we really need an additional three weeks of “Hee-haw, hee-haw”? Let’s take our holidays one at a time, shall we? Respect the bird, folks.

I can do without cryptic Facebook postings that are designed to tantalize the reader without giving any details at all. Postings like “I can’t stop scratching” or “I hate mean people” tell me nothing. Spill it our keep it to yourself.

I can do without advertisements for the CD “Now That’s What I Call Music 40!” We’re up to 40 now? Isn’t it time to change the name? The first CD, released in 1998, featured “Mmmbop” by Hanson. At this rate we’ll be listening to “Now That’s What I Call Music 99” in 2027. Way to brand, guys. Kris Jenner could take a lesson from you.

I could really do without store clerks wishing me a “happy holiday” next month when what I’m really looking for is a “Merry Christmas”. Heck, I’d even take a “Happy Chanukah” or a “Peaceful Kwanza”. I know many of these clerks are forced to utter the safe “happy holidays” by their employers. Psst, big box stores. In case you haven’t noticed, you are swathed in Christmas lights and menorahs. It’s okay to acknowledge the actual holidays that are filling your pockets.

And speaking of Christmas, I could do without the Christmas letters that will arrive any day. Rather than wasting time listing all of your family’s individual accomplishments, just sign your holiday card, “We’re better than you” and be done with it.

Several weeks ago I posted a message on Facebook asking people to write what they were thankful for. I received two responses. Today, I asked people what they could do without, and I received forty-two responses. Clearly I am not alone in my anti-thankful sentiments. So in addition to my list, add the following things my friends could do without: multiple holiday catalogs, school projects that cost $20 for materials only to be tossed in the trash, illness, ex-husbands who think that attending one of their child’s sporting events makes them Father of the Year, holiday-induced guilt from family members (“you don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t visit…”), professional basketball (wish granted!), crazy drivers, the word “proactive”, stress, the MCAS, internet passwords and Black Friday. Whew!

Of course, for every annoyance there is a blessing. So when I sit down to my Thanksgiving table this year, surrounded by family, wearing my L.L. Bean sweater and listening to “Now That’s What I Call Christmas 17”, I will give thanks for all the blessings in my life including one I absolutely cannot do without. My readers.

Happy Thanksgiving.

A Simple Stick can Strengthen Roots

2011-11-16T07:25:00.002-05:00

I’d like to tell you a story. It’s the story of a stick.

The stick began its journey as a branch. This branch served many purposes. In summer, its green leaves provided shade on hot days. In fall, its leaves turned brilliant hues of red and orange, contributing to a kaleidoscope of colors in the yard. In winter, the branch would bend and sway in the wind, sometimes carrying heavy loads of snow and ice during storms. Perhaps it was one of these storms that caused the branch to finally break and come to rest on the ground.

In the spring, a time of rebirth, the stick was collected and placed on a pile of branches and twigs that had suffered a similar fate. As the air began to warm, other boughs high above sprouted new green buds, but the stick remained in the pile of dried brush waiting for the next stage of its life.

Months later, a boy approached the brush pile. After careful consideration, the boy selected the stick, hefted it in his hands, and brought it across the yard to his back porch. Measuring the stick against his own height, the boy broke off a length until the stick was just tall enough to reach his chin. Under the watchful eye of his parents, the boy took out his pocketknife and began to carefully strip away the bark.

The boy had been given the task to create a walking stick as part of his Cub Scout badge. It was a requirement. This was a boy who preferred to stay inside and play videogames, but something made him to forgo the game controller and instead spend time outside, carefully preparing his stick. When all of the bark was finally stripped off, the boy and his father began the process of sanding the stick.

The boy spent hours rubbing the stick with different grades of sandpaper. The father helped the boy smooth down the sharp knots along the stick with a small hand sander. After hours of work, the boy could finally run his hands along the length of the stick and feel nothing but smoothness.

The father and the boy then brushed the stick with several coats of stain, giving it a warm, honey-colored hue. Weeks later, the boy brought his walking stick to a scout gathering at a local state park. The stick shone like gold in the late afternoon sun, while other boys admired it for its sturdiness and craftsmanship. As the boy walked through the woods, the stick bore his weight easily, supporting and steadying him on his trek across the uneven forest floor. The father walked beside the boy, fondly remembering the hours spent crafting the walking stick.

That boy is my son, his father my husband. The stick now resides in a corner of my living room, amongst other walking sticks, some carved decades ago by my son’s great-grandfather. My son’s walking stick adds a rich, golden glow to the collection, waiting patiently for the next hike, the next campout, and the next adventure.

The stick that began its journey as a branch on a tree has now become part of my son’s family tree. Perhaps one day it will sit in the corner of his home, and he will share with his own children the story of how a simple branch became a symbol of a father and son’s love.

Keeping Up With The Krassness

2011-11-10T06:37:00.005-05:00

This past summer millions of Americans sat raptly before their television sets and watched the Royal Wedding of Britain’s Prince William and Sarah Middleton. Not long after, America had its own “royal” wedding of sorts: The wedding of reality television star Kim Kardashian and pro-basketball player Kris Humphries. Though the wedding took place on August 20, the television special “Kim’s Fairytale Wedding: A Kardashian Event” aired on the E! Network on October 9 & 10. 4 million viewers tuned in to watch a fairytale wedding which had a decidedly “Grimm” ending. 72 days after the nuptials took place, Kim Kardashian filed for divorce. Her husband discovered this fact by way of the gossip site TMZ. The Brits have their royals and we have our royal pains in the butt.

In the annals of celebrity weddings, 72 days is nothing to sneeze at. Cher and husband Greg Allman were married all of 9 days the same amount of wedded bliss as Dennis Rodman and Carmen Electra. Back in 1970 Dennis Hopper and Michelle Phillips made it only 8 days. Britney Spears and her childhood friend, Jason Alexander, were married for all of 55 hours (ahhh, Vegas…) And for those of you who are old school(or just old, like me) Ernest Borgnine spent less than a month married to Ethel Merman. In each instance, many us smiled and shook our heads and chalked it up to immature celebrities and their impulsive actions. Is Kim Kardashian any different with her 72 day marriage?

The answer is “yes”! While these other celebrities may have made mistakes choosing their mates (Nicolas Cage and Lisa Marie Presley? Lisa Marie Presley and Michael Jackson?) they made these errors off camera. The Kardashians have their own network broadcasting their every move around the clock. Somehow the E! Network became the Kardashian Channel, snowballing the success of “Keeping up with the Kardashians” by adding “Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami”, Kourtney and Kim Take New York” and “Khloe and Lamar.” (I guess Khloe decided to settle down after running out of cities to take.) I’m sure another show featuring younger sisters Kylie and Kendall are in the works. The entire network is like “The Truman Show” following one spoiled, overexposed Beverly Hills family.

When Kim said “yes” to Kris, was it because she truly loved him? Because he spells his name with a cutesy “k” like the rest of her family? Because she knew that E!’s ratings would skyrocket and advertising dollars would go through the roof? Or was it the modest, intimate proposal from Kris, conveniently timed to coincide with the season finale of “Keeping up with the Kardashians” that won her heart? That and the 20.5 carat diamond ring?

I purposely opted out of any wedding coverage, but several friends couldn’t wait to take in every detail of the fairytale event: The Vera Wang wedding gown, the $20,000 wedding cake, the $172,000 bridal registry that included a $7,000 vase and $1,600 silver place settings. By contrast Prince William and his bride asked that charitable donations be made in lieu of gifts for their wedding. Those Brits are classy, while our Kardashians are just…”krass”.

Is anyone surprised by this recent turn of events? Will it spawn yet another E! reality show? “Kris and Kim take Divorce Court”? “Keeping up with the Prenup?” Perhaps they can branch out to Lifetime Television for Women with a movie entitled “I Married a Stranger” or “72 days in Kardashian Hell”. It seems more than a little coincidental that Kim filed for divorce on Oct. 31, the day before the November television sweeps period begins. E! already had plans to repeat the two part wedding program on Nov. 2nd and 3rd, but when the divorce announcement was made, moved up the first part to Oct. 31, with part two to follow the next day. Not wanting to appear insensitive to the devastated couple, E! decided to move part 2 back to Thursday night. How thoughtful.

I feel a bit sorry for Humphries who got sucked into the Kardashian machine and was “krushed” in the process. Though Kim’s mother asserts that her daughter didn’t make “a dime” from the wedding, I suspect there might be untold millions made from photographs, interviews, and of course the subsequent airings of “Kim’s Fairytale Wedding”. I have to ask myself, what kind of world do we live in where so much media coverage is devoted to such an insignificant event?

A krazy one.

Let's hear it for the Girls!

2011-11-02T18:00:00.001-04:00

Never underestimate “girl time”.

My life is divided into many compartments, each which demands its own amount of time in any given 24-hour period. There’s “family time, which typically comes first in my life. This may be time spent sitting around the dinner table sharing stories about our day, watching “Survivor” with my sons, or enjoying other activities with my husband and children without interruption from the outside world.

“Work time” is all-encompassing and can include writing my column, food shopping, housework, volunteering and about a thousand other things I do on a day to day basis.

There’s “me time”; time spent alone pursuing my own interests like reading, films shopping or exercise. Often, this time gets pushed aside in the day to day of life. I’ll read a chapter in my book, only to have to put it down to fold laundry, make dinner or drive the kids to one of their after school activities.

“Girl time” is a whole different animal. It’s the time spent with my friends for no other reason than to revisit, if only for the length of a luncheon or a shopping expedition, that girl I once was, before I was married with children. The girl who had discretionary income, to spend on glittery flip-flops or overpriced make-up; The girl who could indulge in an extra martini without worrying about seeming inappropriate in front of her children. A girl who could laugh about stupid things with like-minded friends and not worry whether anyone is judging her for it. Years before we were someone’s wife or mother, we were those girls.

This past weekend, I had a 24-hour stretch of “girl time” at a friend’s Cape house. The group was a mix of old friends, recent friends and a couple of new friends. The host’s invite was for a “Girls Gone Wine” weekend, so armed with bottles of red and white, we headed to Chatham on Saturday morning. Upon our arrival, we found that a couple of the girls had indeed “gone wine” the night before, and were sleeping off their actions. The rest of us headed into town, despite a steadily falling rain and the threat of a true nor’easter that afternoon.

My friends and I spent the next few hours strolling in and out of shops, eating a leisurely lunch, and capping off our afternoon with a cocktail to warm our bodies as the weather turned more cold and foul by the minute. The sheer luxury of being able to base decisions on nothing more than our own whims made a dreary, rainy afternoon feel like a breath of fresh air. We all felt a bit giddy to be free from our usual weekend routines. How nice to enter a store without hearing the inevitable, “Mom, can you buy this for me?” or to choose a restaurant without wondering if there’s a kid’s menu. It didn’t matter that we returned home drenched from the now-imminent nor’easter. By the time we arrived back at the house we were ready to pull on our lounge pants and relax in front of the fire with a glass of wine.

The rest of the evening unfolded lazily as we enjoyed dinner, music, television and most of all, each other’s company. Whether it was Wii Bowling or a viewing of “Poltergeist”, the hours were filled with lively conversation and many laughs. At one point I realized that what I was experiencing was a grown up version of the slumber parties I had enjoyed nearly thirty-five years ago. Though we are all a bit older than those teenage girls who traded nail polish, fan magazines and stories about the boys we had crushes on, the camaraderie remains the same. We’ve just swapped Coke and Tab for Pinot and Zinfandel.

After a night of wild wind and rain, we woke to a beautiful, sunny morning. Though we would have liked the chance to stay and enjoy another day of leisure, there were confirmation and birthday parties to attend, washers and driers to fill, and pumpkins to carve for Halloween the next day. We returned to our regular Sunday activities with some reluctance.

It may be a while before I can enjoy another full day of “girl time”. I’ll have to be content with the occasional lunch or movie. That’s okay. I love my “family time”, my “me time” and even my “work time”. But when the opportunity for “girl time” comes again, the wife and mother will temporarily step aside and let the girl come out to play with her friends.

Remembering 9/11

2011-10-03T07:52:00.002-04:00

On Sunday we will commemorate the 10th anniversary of 9/11. Can it really be that ten years have passed since that dark day in our nation’s history?

Ten years ago, I had a toddler and an infant. Ten years later, one is beginning his first year in middle school and one is finishing his last year there.

Ten years ago, 1,609 husbands and wives lost a spouse in the attack. Ten years later, some have remarried, and some have not, but none will forget the loved ones lost on that day.

Ten years ago, 3,500 children lost a parent in the attacks. Ten years later these children, who are a decade older, will continue to mourn their parents. Those who were too young or perhaps not even born on 9/11 will rely on photographs and videos of their mothers and fathers, listening to stories about the people who gave them life and left them far too early.

Ten years ago, parents lost children, most of them adults. Ten years later, parents continue to mourn the children that are gone, weddings they will never attend and grandchildren they will never enjoy. These parents have aged much more than a decade.

Ten years ago, New York’s tallest buildings became a 1.5 million-ton pile of smoldering rubble, which in turn became a gaping, empty hole, much like the hole left in the families of nearly three thousand Americans. Ten years later, a memorial and museum will be unveiled at the site of the World Trade Center, remembering the victims of the terrorist attacks and honoring the men and women who came to their rescue. The hole in the hearts of those left behind will never be completely healed.

Ten years later, firefighters and police officers will continue to honor their fallen brothers. Many will participate in “stair walks” nationwide, climbing 110 stories in honor of their lost comrades.

Ten years later, Osama Bin Laden has been eliminated, thanks to the unselfish dedication of our men and women in the armed forces. As terrorism continues around the globe, the United States and its allies will continue to flush out its sources, going to any length to protect its citizens.

Ten years later, newspapers, magazines and cable channels will revive and rerun photographs and video footage of the tragedy. We will turn to each other and ask, “Where were you on September 11?” trading stories about the day that changed every Americans life forever.

Ten years ago, ordinary citizens became heroes in New York City, Washington DC and in the air over Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Ten years later, their names will continue to be read and honored.

Children too young to understand 9/11 at the time will ask their parents questions about that day. Parents will reassure their children that they will keep them safe, while silently wondering if they can keep that promise.

The 10th anniversary, appropriately enough, falls on a Sunday. Many will sit quietly in church, praying for the victims and the survivors. They will pray that the world will never forget such an act of hatred. And they will pray that such an act will not happen ever again.

God willing.

Astaink no more...

2011-10-03T07:50:00.002-04:00

At the risk of sounding like some old codger recalling her days of yore, I want to make the following statement:

I remember life before e-mail.

Heck, I remember life before cell phones. When I was pregnant with my now-thirteen-year-old son, I didn’t own a cell phone. Neither did my husband. We had pagers (also called “beepers” for you young’uns). But I digress.

Somewhere around this same time period, my husband bought a home computer and set us up with email. This was when you had two choices of Internet access: AOL or CompuServe (my codger is showing again). During this time, I had to choose a screen name. Thinking myself clever, I chose the same name as my freelance writing business: Asta Ink. Asta is my middle name and Ink because I’m a writer. I even had fancy business cards with images of fountain pen nibs. So I figured Asta Ink would be a unique screen name that would tie in well with my business.

Here’s the problem. As the Internet grew, so did the number of Internet providers. And while it was all well and good that within the world of AOL I was “Asta Ink”, outside of that particular part of cyberspace my screen name suddenly became one word: astaink.

Astaink…it could be “a stink” misspelled. It could be stink’s past tense: stank. It could be a combination of “stink” and “stank”. Add in a “stunk” and I could be a line from How The Grinch Stole Christmas.

In any case, it lost the professionalism and polish I had intended.

However, by this time it was the email address with which all my friends and business associates were familiar. It was on my business cards. It was on my resume. Every online website that had an account for me (eBay, Amazon, etc.) had that name. So the idea of changing my email identification, and all the work associated with it, was daunting. My vanity would have to take a back seat to practically. I stayed “astaink”.

Fast-forward ten years. The Internet is everywhere. My contacts, associates and accounts have increased a hundred fold. In addition to emailing, I’m Facebooking, twittering and blogging. Astaink is everywhere. I’m used to explaining it to the inquisitive and spelling it for help desk professionals overseas: “a” as in apple, “s” as in Sam, “t” as in Tom…” etc. etc. etc.

And yet, my whole history of being “Astaink” was jeopardized with just one wrong mouse click.

I received one of those “phishy” emails, the ones that seem like they might actually be from AOL or Bank of America or one of many other online accounts to which I subscribe. Typically I delete without even opening these emails, or if I think it could possibly be legitimate, I use my family’s Mac computer instead (Macs are nearly impervious to worms, viruses and other nasty creations typically targeted to PCs).
But something about this particular email seemed legit, so I did the unthinkable: I clicked. From my PC. And I have regretted it ever since.

Over the subsequent weeks, nearly every friend or contact in my address book has received emails from “astaink” touting everything from twitter to Viagra. I’ve tried running anti-viral software, to no avail. I changed my email password, twice. I had my friend’s husband, who is a PC mastermind, remove a “Trojan Horse” (that sounds nasty) from my PC and install even more anti-viral software. And I changed my password again.

And still the “phishy” emails are sent from poor, innocent, ignorant “astaink”.

And so it’s time to change to a new e-mail. I’ve switched my provider to Yahoo (appropriate since I consider myself a “yahoo” for falling for that “phishy” email in the first place). And though I toyed with the idea of continuing my use of “astaink” as part of my new email address, I decided it was time to let that part of my past go.

Goodbye “astaink”. It’s time to let the air clear and start fresh as someone else.

The Perfect Summer meal

2011-10-03T07:50:00.001-04:00

I think I’ve managed to create the perfect summer meal.

I start with pork spareribs, the baby back kind. I parboil the ribs for an hour and then finish them on the grill, basting them with barbecue sauce and turning them constantly to avoid burning. We bought our cheapo grill when we moved in twelve years ago and still haven’t replaced it, so sometimes the flame gets too high and things get a little crispy. When this happens I tell the kids I’m serving our food “Cajun style”.

My kids are true carnivores, grunting and moaning with delight as they gnaw the meat off the bones. Apologies to Dr. Mazzocco, our orthodontist. I’m fairly sure that ribs are on the no-no list for kids with braces. These type of ribs should always be served with extra napkins and wet-naps, as hands and faces get extremely messy. Or we can wait till after the meal and use the garden house to spray the kids down, like a scene from a prison movie.

It wouldn’t be a summer meal without a few ears of native corn. One of my first columns was about the joys of summer corn and how local corn really is the best. If I’m up in Hingham, I always stop by Penniman Hill Farm and grab a few ears of their sweet corn. Sometimes I time it just right and arrive as they are unloading their bounty fresh from the fields. Fresh picked corn is sweeter than candy and when it’s in season I forgo French fries, tater tots and all the other starches my kids love and serve corn on the cob every night. Don’t worry Dr. Mazzocco, my son cuts his corn off the cob before eating. We have to draw the line somewhere. Sadly, my husband is allergic to corn, an allergy that reared its ugly head well into his adulthood. As the rest of us gorge ourselves on sweet corn, my husband has to make due with a sweet potato as a sad substitute.

Watering my basil and tomato plants every day has paid off as I prepare a heavenly salad of basil, tomato and buffalo mozzarella. My husband and I discovered this “Caprese Salad” while on our honeymoon in Italy. Though you can prepare this salad year-round, I think it tastes best with fresh ingredients picked right from your own plants, the scents of the basil and the tomato stem still clinging to your fingers. This year’s basil plants have grown especially large, so I make a homemade no-nut pesto for my family (sunflower seeds instead of pine nuts) and prepare a pesto pasta salad.

Our beverage of choice varies from person to person with this meal. My kids enjoy lemonade while I opt for the hard version and enjoy a Mike’s Hard Pink Lemonade over ice. My husband’s first choice is a bottle of cold Samuel Adams beer, enjoyed in the frosty mug he keeps in the freezer.

Dessert is sometimes a trip to a local ice cream stand, whether it is JC’s Dairy in Hanover, Heidi Hollow Farms in Hansen or Dribbles in Scituate. Our favorite, Far-Far’s in Duxbury, is just a little…well…far, so we only stop there when we’re headed home from the beach. Given the abundance of summer fruits, I like to shake things up occasionally and make a pie for all to enjoy. Earlier in the season when strawberries were fresh, my family enjoyed a strawberry-rhubarb pie. I make my own crust from scratch (it’s the allergy thing again). This time I decided on a peach pie, then on impulse threw in some blueberries we had on hand. The combination of the two flavors, lovingly wrapped in a flaky crust and topped with whipped cream, embodies all that is good about the summer.

While the foods may vary, the one element that remains unchanged for my perfect summer meal is having my whole family together around the patio table for a leisurely, unhurried meal. Soon enough we’ll be bundling up and enjoying cold weather soups, chili and stews. But for now the air is warm, the sun sets late, and my family and I can enjoy those perfect summer meals for a few more weeks.

It's Like Riding a Bike...

2011-10-03T07:48:00.000-04:00

Summer is the perfect time to throw your car keys in the key bowl, hop on your bike and enjoy the beautiful summer weather. Grab your water bottle and your helmet and just zoom off on your trusty bicycle.

Ah…if only it were that simple.

When I was a child, my bicycle was my primary mode of transportation. My friends lived within biking distance and most of the roads in my town had sidewalks. I biked to school, to my friends’ houses and, when I was a bit older, to Food Town, a local store a mile from my house that sold cold cuts, booze and hunting rifles. (But that’s a column for another time). Whenever I needed to go somewhere, I’d just grab my bike and be off.

Unfortunately, getting my family out on our bicycles is a much bigger production now. Sidewalks are virtually non-existent in our town and our steep driveway rolls straight down into the very busy street on which we live. When my kids were little, my husband and I would take them through our back yard, out our back gate and into the less crowded cul-de-sac neighborhoods behind us. Traffic is minimal there and the kids would have plenty of warning when a car approached.

But my children are 10 and 13 now, and they’ve long since outgrown the neighborhoods behind us. How many times can you ride around the same circle before you become bored? (The answer is 16 times.) Given that my kids are still not the most confident bikers and the lack of sidewalks in our town, our remaining choice is to load up the bikes and drive somewhere safer to ride.

Not so fast. First there’s an elaborate production involved to getting our bikes ready. Our garage is filled with stuff, including a 1979 MGB convertible that hasn’t run since we moved here 12 years ago (actually, I don’t think it ran even then). So my husband and I keep our bicycles suspended from ceiling hooks, while the boys’ bikes are entangled in the rest of the clutter. Once our bikes have been extracted, inevitably tires will need to be inflated. Apparently just the act of sitting stagnant in the garage allows tires to lose air. My husband pulls out the world’s smallest, slowest portable bike pump and begins inflating our tires.

Two hours later, when all the tires are nice and firm, we’re ready to head to our destination. Except we’ve now got to load the bikes into our mini-van, which only has room for three of our four bikes. So one of the bikes ends up on the roof of the car, lashed down by an elaborated network of bungee cords. In addition to our hillbilly bike rack, these bungee cords have also served as our hillbilly ski rack and our hillbilly luggage rack. My husband still maintains that this is one of the best Christmas gifts he’s ever received from my dad.

An hour later when all the bikes are stuffed inside and strapped to the roof, we’re ready to collect our water bottles and bike helmets and head off to Wompatuck state park, a twenty minute drive from our house. The bike on top rests on an old rubber mat, ostensibly to protect the roof of our van, but provides the added bonus of a disturbingly loud flapping noise throughout the drive. The kids are hungry; I didn’t pack lunch because I didn’t think it would take two and a half hours to prep our bikes and reach our destination. I tell them to drink water and be quiet. Once we reach Wompatuck, it’s another fifteen minutes before the bikes are out the van and ready to ride. But wait…my husband’s rear tire is flat again. Apparently sitting inside a mini-van is just enough activity to deflate his tire. Out comes the world’s smallest and slowest portable bike pump. “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh,” goes the pump as my kids and I sit in the shade, slowly starving to death.

Finally, at long last we are all pumped and helmeted and ready to ride. The paths at Wompatuck are beautiful. It’s a warm, dry sunny afternoon and the kids have stopped complaining. Perhaps it is worth all the time and energy spent when the result is a blissful family ride.

But then bliss turns to blister after my son grips his handlebars too tightly. My other son is trying to get the hang of shifting gears, causing his chain to fall off…twice. After less than an hour of riding, we head back to the parking lot to clean and dress my son’s thumb wound. At this point the kids are hot and cranky and ready to return home. In go the bikes; out come the bungee cords and soon (okay, twenty minutes later) we are headed home.

Pacified with ice cream, my kids thank us for taking them on “a fun ride” and ask when we can do it again. I assure them we’ll schedule another ride soon, wondering whether it would just be simpler to sell my house and move to a bike-friendly neighborhood rather than go through that production again.

What's a Mom to Do?

2011-10-03T07:38:00.002-04:00

What do you do?

You’re a single mom with a child in high school. You work full time to support your child. Your ex-husband lives one hundred miles away. The school-subsidized bus that used to take your child home from school has been eliminated due to budget cuts.

What do you do?

With the economy the way it is, you’re lucky to have a job. You wish your job was closer to home. You can’t leave work to bring your child home from school every day. You scour the want ads and hope that a job opportunity becomes available nearby. But for now, you’re stuck where you are.

What do you do?

You reach out to other parents who are in the same situation. You try to get a bus together on your own. But not enough parents are interested in this option. You’re told that “…most kids don’t want to take the bus anyway…they call it the ‘loser cruiser…”. School officials tell you they assume most kids will get a ride with siblings or friends who are upperclassmen. But your child has no older siblings and all his friends are the same age.

What do you do?

You try to arrange carpools with other families, but their problem is the same as yours: they can manage the morning drop off but can’t leave work in order to pick up their kids at 2 p.m. Some work from home or part-time, but if their child is involved with after-school activities, they may not pick them up for an hour or two past dismissal.

What do you do?

People ask why your child can’t walk or ride a bike the three miles between school and home. With a very heavy backpack and no sidewalks for most of the route home. What happens when it rains? When the temperature dips below freezing and the wind whips through town? What about when it snows? When the streets are covered with ice and slush? When the plows leave a wall of snow, narrowing the roads further and limiting visibility.

What do you do?

You ask the school where children are supposed to wait if they need a later pick-up. If the school library is closed, you’re told that your child can do their homework in the cafeteria. You are told that there are always teachers and janitors “around”. But on the day when your child tries to do his homework in the cafeteria, he’s told that there is a meeting scheduled there, and that he can’t be in any other room in the building without adult supervision due to fire laws. So your child waits outside in the rain for two hours before someone is able to pick him up.

What do you do?

You scramble. You rely on the kindness of friends and neighbors and your father who lives 25 miles away and is willing to come twice a week to drive your child the three miles home from school. You worry about the day when you don’t have a ride lined up. You understand budget cuts; no one wants their child in a classroom with 30 other students. You don’t want your school to cut music or art programs. You realize that the money has to come from somewhere. But shouldn’t getting students safely to and from school be a priority? It may not be “the law” but isn’t it the right thing to do?

This is what friends of mine are dealing with now. And when my child moves up to the high school next year, I will be dealing with it as well.

So…what do you do?

The Orchid Thief...

2011-10-03T07:37:00.001-04:00

I’m a bit of a botanical burglar.

Okay, maybe the term burglar is a stretch, but I have a tendency to covet flowers and plants that grow in places other than my own yard.

I’ve written in the past about my black thumb. My houseplants are frequently in a state of being either over or under watered. Outdoor potted plants stand a 50/50 chance of surviving their season and only then if there is regular rain and sun it’s beyond my capability to remember to water something daily in hot weather. My perennial beds are overloaded with bulbs that haven’t been split in years. Clearly my abilities to keep anything other than my own children alive are limited.

My life of crime began in my last house, which had a small, scraggly, spindly lilac bush in the back yard. This sad little plant usually yielded only a sprig or two of my absolutely favorite, fragrant flowers. Meanwhile, neighborhoods all around me were bursting with the heady scent and purple and white beauty of Syringa vulgaris. I could never bring myself to clip flowers from someone else’s yard without their permission. However…there was an enormous lilac bush which used to grow in the parking lot of my bank. Sometimes, when using the drive thru, I would lean out my left window to stick my ATM card in the slot, then lean out my right window and snip a few buds off the lilac flowers that were brushing up against my passenger window. Coming home, my husband would observe, “I see you’ve made a lilac withdrawal.” When we moved to our current home, my back yard contained not one but two healthy lilac bushes. Finally I could clip my favorite flowers without feeling guilty. To assuage my past sins, I’d even clip extra blossoms and give them to my friends and neighbors.

The next flowers on my oh-how-I-wish-I-could-grow-these list were hydrangea. I fell in love with them on my visits to Nantucket, where my husband has family and we were lucky enough to be married. There is something about those fat, vibrant blue and purple flowers that provides so much visual pleasure. Each summer it lifts my spirits to see hydrangea in bloom. The one small bush my husband planted two years ago has yet to yield even a single bud (surprise, surprise). Luckily I have several friends who have bushes that are flush with flowers. Taking pity on their poor, blossom-less friend, they have encouraged me come share their bounty. Thank goodness, because I’d look pretty ridiculous creeping through their yards in the middle of the night, dressed in black with clippers in hand.

And now that summer is over, there’s another blossom I’m coveting. This one I’m thankful is not growing in my yard. A floral-minded friend introduced me to the beauty of Bittersweet. These are vines that contain small yellow berries. During the fall the berries shed their yellow skin and reveal a vibrant orange color underneath. As the vines dry out, they are used to make wreaths or can be draped along mantels or placed in vases for a beautiful, autumnal display. My friend has a keen eye for bittersweet, and points them out to me whenever we drive anywhere together in the fall. However, it’s important to point out that there are two types of bittersweet: American bittersweet, Celastrus scandens, is disappearing quickly. Oriental bittersweet, Celastrus orbiculatus, is an invasive vine which can threaten other vegetation. American bittersweet have berries which cluster only at the tip of the vine. Oriental bittersweet produce berries all along the length of the vine. It’s important to make this distinction before clipping any vine in order to preserve the dwindling supply of American bittersweet. However when I see the oriental variety, I feel no guilt about clipping a few vines off and bringing them home to dry. It beautifies my house and I’m doing my part to help remove an invasive species from my town. The idea that something so pretty could also be harmful is…well…bittersweet.

I’m glad that I no longer need to resort to theft to obtain some of my favorite flowers. Thanks to generous friends and a plentiful invasive species, I’m able to enjoy these beautiful buds on a regular basis.

Otherwise, I’d be in withdrawal.

Approaching Senior Moments...

2011-10-03T07:35:00.001-04:00

Does the following sequence of events sound familiar?

I grab the laundry basket from my hall closet and then head into the bedroom to pick up any dirty laundry lying around. While I’m there, I notice that the bed hasn’t been made, so I put down the basket and start making the bed. Once the bed is made, I notice that there’s too much clutter on my dresser, so I start putting things back in their proper place. As I’m doing this, I trip over the laundry basket. Oh right, the laundry. I abandon my dresser and pick the basket back up, grab the dirty clothes and head down to the laundry room.

I start the washer but then notice that I don’t have a full load, so it’s back upstairs to the kids’ rooms to see what needs to be washed. While doing this, I notice my son left his dirty cup from breakfast on his bedside table, so I bring it to the kitchen to rinse and place in the dishwasher. The pots and pans from last night’s dinner are still soaking in the sink, so I give the cup a quick rinse and then start washing the pots and pans. Once those are done, I head back into my son’s room, only to stand there stupefied, with no clue why I am there.

I head back into the kitchen and realize that the counters need cleaning. We’re nearly out of paper towels, so I head back down to the basement for another roll. As I enter the furnace room I again completely forget why I’m there. I notice that the light is on in the laundry room so I walk over to shut it off only to discover that the washer is filled and waiting for the rest of the dirty clothes that are somewhere in my son’s room. Oh right…That’s what I was doing in the first place.
I know I’m edging ever closer to 50, but is it possible that I’ve got both a mild case of Alzheimer’s combined with an undiagnosed case of adult ADD? In my previous life as a video producer I could juggle casting sessions, shoots, edits, script revisions and a hundred other tasks effortlessly. When I had my children, I could still run a load of laundry while paying my bills online and feeding a bottle to my infant. What happened?

Now when I try to multi-task the results are far from favorable. On a recent afternoon I decided to get a jump on dinner by grilling some chicken breasts. I threw the chicken on the grill and wandered back into the house where my focus was immediately claimed by several other tasks that needed attention. Sometime later I drifted back into the kitchen and wondered, “What’s that smell?” only to discover the forgotten chicken breasts outside on the grill. Hey kids, it’s blackened Cajun chicken tonight!

I also find that my brain doesn’t always kick into gear as quickly as it used to. In conversation I often find that key words refuse to make the jump from my brain to my tongue. This also happens with names. A few years back I hosted a brunch for several friends and while making introductions my mind went completely blank when it came to the name of my friend’s husband, someone I’ve known for years. While it was an embarrassing aberration at the moment, it’s happening more and more frequently of late.

Are these instances what my friend calls “menopause brain” or something more serious? When my book club read “Still Alice”, a novel about a woman with early onset Alzheimer’s disease, we were all convinced we had it too. Then again, one friend reassures me that,”It’s okay if you forget where you left your car keys…it’s not okay if you forget what those keys are for.”

I’m wondering if what I’m experiencing is what my parents refer to as “senior moments”. I guess it’s not a big deal that I have to call my own cell phone once in a while to find where I left it (and don’t you wish you could do the same thing with your car keys and the television remote?) It may take me a little longer to remember someone’s name or a word I’m trying to verbalize but eventually they do come. Rather than trying to accomplish multiple tasks at once, I’ll focus on just completing one before moving on to the next.

Thankfully I’m not alone. A friend recently recounted that she tossed her Kindle on top of her laundry and brought the basket downstairs to catch up on reading while doing the wash. She inadvertently threw some towels on top of the Kindle and a short time later dumped the whole load into the washing machine. Three minutes later, when she couldn’t find her Kindle, she realized her mistake. Despite her efforts to revive it, the Kindle was dead. We could chalk this up to a “senior moment” but she’s quite a few years younger than me.

This story made me feel better. I may burn the chicken and lose my keys and forget your name and start and stop a dozen tasks throughout the day, but at least I know that Kindles are hand wash only.

Hop in the Wayback Machine

2011-10-03T07:34:00.001-04:00

This weekend I hopped into my time machine and traveled back 30 years. The time machine was my car and the time travel involved my 30th high school reunion.

Just acknowledging the fact that I’ve been out of high school for thirty years is enough to depress me so I fill the five hour drive to New Jersey with music from the 70’s and 80’s. Shaun Cassidy, Styx and Journey blast from the speakers and a wave of nostalgia hits me as the “Welcome to New Jersey” sign comes into view. My parents have lived in the same house for over 50 years, so I consider myself fortunate that I’m able to revisit my childhood home often.

When I pull into my parent’s driveway I step out and close my eyes, inhaling deeply. The scent of the grass and indigenous trees bring back memories of my childhood, and for a split second I can pretend that it’s a summer day back in the 1970’s and I’m about to spend the day roaming the neighborhood with my friends. Reality sets in and I haul my adult size bags in the house and up to my old bedroom.

One the day of the reunion, I check the Facebook page of the classmate who is organizing the event. There’s a list of those who are scheduled to attend and as I scan this I see the names of classmates from as far back as first grade. My best friend Tracey, who I’ve known since fifth grade and still see several times a year, is my wingman for the evening. We meet for a drink prior to the reunion and make a pact to stick together, rescuing each other from banal conversation if necessary.
I don’t know what to expect from this reunion, having been to both my 10th and 20th previously. The 10th was fun, the 20th was impersonal (a reunion company was used) and the 30th is scheduled to be held at a local Knights of Columbus hall. As Tracey and I pull into the parking lot, we see several middle aged women who look in no way familiar to us. Perhaps this is due to the fact that our graduating class numbered more than seven hundred. We enter the K of C and sign in.

As I wait in line, I notice that the room is filling up fast with receding hairlines and beer bellies. The women look a bit better but many of them are starting to show the same pre-menopausal muffin top that I’ve been sporting. Faces look the same but many (including mine) are surrounded by a few more chins. I whisper to Tracey, “Wow. When did we get so old?” and this is emphasized by the name tag I’m given bearing my senior photo from 1981. Though the face in the photo is much thinner, my hairstyle was thicker; an afro. I console myself with the fact that in the intervening thirty years, I’ve learned about the benefits of hair products and no longer look like a doppelganger for James Caan.

As I mingle through the crowd, I’m reminded of how strange reunions really are. Someone you first met when you were six years old might not have given you the time of day in high school, but thirty years later we are hugging and exclaiming , “It’s great to see you!” We make our way through the crowd, squinting as we try to read each other’s name tags and see if the name or face rings a bell. Since many of us are friends on Facebook now, we already know what some people look like, what they do for work and how many children they have. Instead of whipping out our wallets with photos of our children, we pull out our smart phones and display an entire photo array of our kids.

The evening flows smoothly as the DJ plays hits by The Knack, Styx, Journey and Kansas. The Knights of Columbus are our bartenders for the night, pouring soda and beer and wine from a box. Several people have brought their yearbooks with them, and we pore over the pages, comparing the faces from yesterday with the reality of today. One guy in particular, who was thin and blond and hot in high school (and kind of full of himself) is totally unrecognizable with the addition of an extra hundred pounds and a Grizzly Adams beard. My friend says this makes her feel sad but personally it makes me feel great.

This time around I’m excited to catch up with Kim, a close friend from high school who has not been back to a reunion until this one. We reminisce about the perverted Psych teacher who supervised Driver’s Ed, how we tormented our French teacher, and the time we braved a snowstorm to see Cheap Trick in concert. Kim also tells me about the passing of both of her parents and how proud she is of her three children. Though we are Facebook friends, these are moments best shared in person.
Tracey and I sneak out before the reunion ends and find a quiet bar where we can share a drink and recap the evening. We laugh about the folks who have changed and the folks who haven’t. Though I enjoyed seeing all the faces from my past, I’m reminded of the fact that the most important friends from school are the ones I still see regularly, in particular the one who is sitting next to me at the bar sharing an order of potato skins.

I guess you can go home again after all.

Taking Refuge in the Library

2011-10-03T07:30:00.002-04:00

Last week, on what turned out to be the hottest day of the summer (so far), I found myself with a few blessed hours without my children. One was working as a CIT at our town’s park n’ rec camp and the other at a friend’s house. Rather than spending my few precious hours catching up on the latest episode of “Dance Moms” or luxuriating in a pedicure chair, I chose to run errands.

My destinations included the bank, the transfer station, the pharmacy and a few other stops. In each instance I reluctantly dragged myself out of my air conditioned mini-van and trudged through the hundred degree heat to dump my garbage, pick up prescriptions and cash a check. The extreme heat and humidity were taking their toll on me. With each errand I felt more like a wet noodle and less like a human being. And then I stopped at my final destination before heading home and discovered an untapped oasis in the midst of the baking heat.

The library.

As I walked through the front door, I was immediately enveloped in an embrace of air conditioned silence. The skin on my arms, previously slick with sweat, immediately developed goose bumps. As I slid my books into the return slot, I received a smile and a warm welcome from Judy, one of the librarians who happened to be working at the Children’s Desk. As I climbed the steps to the Adult Circulation area, I congratulated myself on making this the final stop on my list of errands, rather than the first. Had I started my round of errands with the library, I might never have left.

I am a huge fan of libraries in general and Hanover’s John Curtis library in particular. Where else can you find thousands of books, movies, CD’s, magazines and even video games that you can bring home and enjoy without paying a single penny? Unless, of course, you forget to return them on time.

In my younger, carefree days, I used to buy books. Lots of books. But I’m older now and have things like a mortgage and camp payments and a million other fiscal responsibilities. So with a few exceptions, my book-buying days are behind me. Which makes the library that much more valuable to me. Whenever my kids clamor for a new book, my first response is “Let’s see if the library has it.”

I also love that my library is part of the Old Colony Library Network, which means if my library doesn’t have a particular item, it’s a safe bet that one of the other libraries will. From the convenience of my own computer I can log onto the website (www.ocln.org), search for items and put them on hold. The network will even deliver the item to my own library.

There have been times when the library hasn’t had a particular item I’m interested in. Let’s face it, not everyone is as much of a zombie enthusiast as me. When that’s the case, I just fill out a card requesting that they purchase the item I’m interested in. More often than not, the item is added to the library’s collection and I get to be the first person to take it out.

Another godsend in the summer are the library passes that enable my family to visit places like the Peabody Essex Museum, the Roger Williams Zoo, the Museum of Science and countless other area attractions for a discounted fee. Again, from the convenience of my computer I can see when passes are available and place a hold on them. Last summer my kids enjoyed the Institute of Contemporary Art for the first time and have been clamoring to go back.

Our library also hosts author talks, book signings, magic shows, animal shows and countless other events throughout the year. Currently there is a photography exhibit showcasing the work of Matt Gill, former news editor for the Hanover and Norwell Mariner (I’ve seen it, it’s fabulous!) At the end of the summer the library will host an art exhibit featuring the work of South Shore Art Teachers.
If you simply must buy books, the John Curtis library has an impressively stocked used book room which features books, videos and puzzles for both adults and children. Most books are $1 or less and the thousands of dollars raised from the book room goes right back to supporting the programs offered by the library.
With everything the library has to offer, it’s a wonder I don’t spend all my time there during the summer (except Saturdays and Sundays when they’re closed). Much as I’d like to, there are other chores and errands that require my time and attention. But it’s nice to know that when the heat and the noise of summer gets to be too much, there’s a nice cool, quiet respite just a mile from my house.

See you at the library.

Fairwell Harry Potter

2011-10-03T07:29:00.002-04:00

It’s time to say “goodbye” to an old friend.

Actually, make that several friends. This Friday, July 15, audiences worldwide will have the chance to bid farewell to Harry, Ron, Hermoine and Hagrid. Appropriately, the movie posters promoting the film say it best: It All Ends.

J.K. Rowling’s novel, “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,” was first published in 1997. Over the next decade, Potter fans (and I count myself among them) have immersed themselves in a world of wizards, witches and whomping willows. We’ve watched young Harry Potter grow from an 11-year old boy living in a cupboard under the stairs to an adult taking on the most powerful and evil wizard of all time, Lord Voldemort. We know that the spell “lumos” illuminates the tip of a wand, that Berty Bott’s Every Flavor Beans include flavors like vomit and earwax, and that good eventually triumphs over evil, though at a price.

Three summers ago, I wrote a column both hailing and lamenting the final Harry Potter novel in the series: “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows”. At the time, I was excited and apprehensive about the novel’s release. At last readers would know the outcome of the long battle between Harry and Voldemort. Was Severus Snape really evil? Would Ron and Hermoine finally acknowledge their feelings for each other? Would Harry continue to be The Boy Who Lived or would he pay the ultimate sacrifice to free the wizarding world from tyranny?

I could not read that final book fast enough, and yet I tried to savor every word, knowing there would be no more to follow. Once I was finished I passed it to my husband and when he was done we took turns reading it, chapter by chapter, to our children each night before bed. As sad as I was to bring that final epic story to a conclusion, I consoled myself with the fact that there were three more movie adaptations to enjoy.

And now, in less than 48 hours, the last of those three films, “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2” will be unveiled. Once again, Potter fans will line up, this time to buy tickets instead of books. Some will don 3-D glasses (not me), some will stay up way past their usual bedtime to be the first to see the film when it premieres at midnight (again, not me) and nearly all will breathe a final sigh of satisfaction tinged with sadness when the end credits roll for the last time. Since the first film premiered ten years ago, audiences have watched each adaptation with baited breath, hoping the filmmakers could do justice to their beloved story. In my humble opinion, each film successfully achieved that goal.

The first movie captured all the wonder and wide-eyed magic of Harry’s unexpected entrance into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Following the tone of the novels, each film has grown progressively more dark and ominous. Looking back I realize that the film version of “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” was released a mere two months after the events of 9/11. As America battled her own dark forces of evil, Harry began his cinematic journey to fulfill his destiny as “the chosen one” and bring down Lord Voldemort.

My children were just three and six months when the first film premiered and now with the final chapter just hours away, they are thirteen and ten. As audiences have watched the characters of Harry, Ron and Hermoine grow into adulthood before our eyes, I shake my head and wonder how my own son could possibly have grown as tall as me. My husband and children have shared my passion for Harry Potter over the years and I look forward to experiencing this final chapter as a family. Or to quote Harry in one of the film’s oft repeated trailers: “Let’s finish this the way we started it…together.”

Life's a Beach

2011-10-03T07:28:00.001-04:00

Now that summer is here, it’s time to pack our boogie boards, slather on sunscreen and head to the beach.

Or…not.

Actually, I used to love the beach. When I was young, my parents would take my sisters and me to the Jersey Shore for two weeks every summer. Each day we would head out to the beach just after breakfast, setting up camp with our towels and radios and trashy romance novels. We’d smear our bodies with baby oil (yes, baby oil), and bake on the beach till lunchtime. After lunch, we’d troop back to the beach and spend a few more hours baking and burning and bouncing in the surf. After rinsing off in the outdoor shower (is there any shower better than an outdoor shower?) we’d eat dinner, then head back to the beach for a walk along the shore, collecting seashells and rocks and flying the kite we’d brought with us. At that point summer just seemed to last forever.

Do you know why the beach was such an idyllic place to go as a child? I finally figured it out. It’s because our parents were the ones who packed all the blankets and towels and snacks and boogie boards and sunscreen and bug spray and yes, that darned kite! Our parents shopped for the food that sustained us each day, and the drinks that kept us hydrated and shelled out cash each night when we’d hear the ding-a-ding-a-ding of the ice cream truck. I don’t know when that sweet, tinkling bell was replaced by the warped, distorted version of “Turkey in the Straw” but I sure do miss that ice cream truck.

I didn’t mind sand in the house back then because I wasn’t the one sweeping it up each day and shaking it out of the beds and washing it down the drain. I didn’t mind getting sunburned because I knew it would fade to a tan, or peel like crazy and then fade to a tan. I didn’t think about the fact that in forty years my neck and chest would look like the side of Samsonite luggage.

When my kids were little, I loved the idea of taking them to the beach. Notice I say I loved the idea… In my mind we’d sit placidly on the beach, our umbrella shielding us from the sun as we dug sand castles and jumped in the surf holding hands. The reality was much different however. My toddlers thought the beach was a great place to run in opposite directions. It was like “Sophie’s Choice”, trying to decide which kid to run after and which to abandon. And then there’s the stuff. Even if I could get my little ones to carry one small sand pail or towel, that still left me to haul the cooler, the beach bag, the umbrella, two boogie boards and a sand chair. It’s not like I could make two trips. Without my husband along, it was like a family consisting of two small children and one pack mule. After a day of sweating and swearing (under my breath), I’d haul my two little ones and all our gear back to the car and begin the process of de-sanding everyone and everything before loading them into the vehicle. Inevitably, the kids would scream for ice cream on the ride home when all I wanted to do was kick up my feet and open a cold one.
Going to the beach now is still a production, but less of one. Now that my “little ones” are 10 and 13, they get themselves ready. They pack their own goggles and towels and spray themselves with sunscreen. Last week I barked “Make your own sandwich” and to my surprise, they did. They each have to carry their own boogie board and sand chair to and from the beach. And while I still keep a watchful eye on them when they are in the water, it’s nice to know that I can sit several hundred yards away in the comfort of my beach chair and scan a page or two of my magazine. They build sand castles without my assistance and when they ask if they can walk down to the jetty on their own, I’m fairly comfortable saying yes. When we head home I’m the one who suggests we stop for ice cream.

The task of vacuuming up all the sand that finds its way into my house still falls to me. I hang the towels on the back deck to dry and run the bathing suits through the wash while my kids plop their exhausted bodies in front of the television. I still moan and groan when my kids ask if we can go to the beach, but I take them because now I’m old enough to know that the summer doesn’t last forever. Like my children’s youth, it’s all too fleeting.

A Fun Fourth

2011-10-03T07:25:00.002-04:00

The 4th of July is almost here, marking the unofficial start of summer. How will you spend the holiday? Will you trek into Boston to sit amongst a million of your closest friends on the Esplanade? Or will you enjoy the Pops from the comfort of your own living room? Here are just a few tips on how to celebrate your holiday to the fullest.

Get grillin’. Nothing says summer like a good old fashioned barbeque. Invite family or friends over and fire up the grill. ‘Weber’ you prefer gas or charcoal, everything tastes better when it’s prepared over a flame (except maybe jello…and salad). Supplement your meats with plenty of corn on the cob, baked beans, fresh greens and any food that features mayonnaise: pasta salad, potato salad, deviled eggs and coleslaw. Mayonnaise is one of the official condiments of summer, right up there with ketchup and mustard.

Head to the beach. What better way to welcome summer than by digging your toes in the warm sand and listening to the calming sounds of the surf? No one enjoys being a pack mule for the holidays, so stop by Job Lot first to purchase a beach wagon to tote your boogie boards, coolers, sand pails, umbrellas, towels, skim boards and beach toys. Try to forget that the film “Jaws” took place during the July 4th weekend and hope that you don’t see any fishy-looking fins off shore. Reapply sunscreen often; The ER’s will be jam packed with folks who have blown their digits off with fireworks, which means you’ll have a long wait for someone to assess your third degree sunburn.

Find a parade. What would July 4th be without a parade? They are the perfect balance of marching bands, fire trucks, beauty queens, clowns and candy. When my kids discuss favorite parades of the past, invariably the parades where tootsie rolls and Dum Dums are flung are the most popular. But candy’s not the only thing you can get at a parade. Several years ago during a July 4th parade, a group of soldiers in period costume marched by us and fired off a few rounds from their antique rifles. I spied the shell casings in the road in front of us and urged my older son to dash out and grab one as a souvenir. Lesson learned for both mom and son: shell casings are hot. Though the burn on his hand was minor, the memory is seared into his brain forever. Whenever I mentionthe words “4th of July parade”, my son pipes up, “Remember when you made me grab those hot shell casings?” That’s one stellar parenting moment I’ll never live down.

Tap into your reservoir of “friends with…” Friends with pools, friends with boats, friends with beach houses. I have been blessed with generous friends who frequently include my family in their July 4th pool or beach party. Be sure to bring plenty of food, fireworks and firewater to thank them for their invitation.

Regarding fireworks… I’m not suggesting you drive to another state, obtain fireworks, transport them back to this state, and then set them off illegally. That would be irresponsible (Phantom Fireworks, Rt. 95 in Connecticut, just over the Rhode Island border.) I’d rather eliminate the worry, the danger and the potential stiff fine and leave fireworks to the professionals. Many towns still set off fireworks, despite budget cuts. Grab a few lawn chairs and some bug spray and park yourselves under the stars. Be sure to practice your “oohs” and “ahhhs” ahead of time.

Finally, take a moment to reflect on what July 4th means. Our ancestors came to this country to flee oppression. For 235 years we have fought to maintain our freedom. Despite the economy, environmental issues, partisanship and other areas that might divide us, we still live in the greatest country in the world. On July 4th, if you happen to see one of the many members of our armed forces, be sure to thank them for their service to our country. Without them, we might just as well have never left England.

God Bless America. Have a safe and happy 4th of July.

3-Done!

2011-09-09T08:34:00.002-04:00

My husband and I took our kids to see “The Green Lantern” this weekend. The film was mediocre, but as I left the theater I found that I did have one strong opinion about it.

Enough of the 3-D already.

The first movie I remember seeing in 3-D was”Dial M for Murder”. Lest you think I’m much older than I claim, I did not see the film when it first came out in 1954. I went to see a revival of it in 1981 when I was a freshman in college. My boyfriend at the time was a big movie buff, and he insisted we see the Alfred Hitchcock classic in all its 3-Dimensional glory. I don’t remember much of the 3-D details, but I do remember a scene where Ray Milland, the evil husband, takes a key from under the stairs and points it straight toward the camera. Oooo. 3-D.

I rank 3-D up there with Smell-o-vision and Sensurround and all the other kitschy gimmicks geared towards moviegoers. These movie “enhancements” are a novelty…for a while. What begins as something fun and unique quickly becomes tired and tedious. If every movie is made (or projected) in 3-D, what makes it special?

I have to admit that when my husband suggested we see “Avatar” in 3-D, I was excited at the prospect. He and my sons had already seen it in 2-D and gushed about what an amazing experience it was. 3-D could only make it better…right?

As someone who is optically challenged, the idea of having to wear glasses on top of my glasses isn’t appealing. I stopped wearing contact lenses years ago, so if I decide to see a 3-D movie it’s double glasses or nothing. It’s hard to concentrate on the film when I ‘m sitting there literally making a spectacle out of myself.

So I sat through “Avatar”, and yes it was spectacular, though the story was a little too “Fern Gully” meets “Dances with Wolves” for me. As for the 3-D…I found it to be a distraction. Rather than immersing myself in the plot and the visual effects, I was constantly adjusting my 3-D glasses, peeping over them to compare the 3-D images with the regular ones. In all, I would have been perfectly happy seeing “Avatar” the old fashioned way (which I finally did when it came out on DVD, watching it on my sad, 1990’s era 2-D television. And it was great!)

It seems like every movie that comes out now is offered in 3-D. I can understand it for action movies like “Thor” and “The Green Hornet”, but “Justin Bieber: Never Say Never”? I think resurrecting Smell-O-Vision would have been a better choice for that one (and if you’re wondering what Justin Bieber smells like, I’m betting he smells like teen spirit.)

Clearly the studios have decided to hop on the 3-D bandwagon for no other reason than to charge more for ticket prices, thus boosting the box office results of their 3-D films. What’s next? “Jane Eyre” in 3-D? I can’t wait to see the definition of Rochester’s mutton chops. How about the upcoming Justin Timberlake/Mila Kunis vehicle, ‘Friends with Benefits”. If the title is suggestive of the film’s plot, you can bet there’d be some interesting scenes that could be enhanced by 3-D. Or maybe the upcoming adaptation of the bestselling novel, “Sarah’s Key”. They could pay homage to “Dial M for Murder” by enhancing all the shots of…well…Sarah’s key.

Getting back to “The Green Lantern”. I was disappointed that the only things that really looked three dimensional in the film were Ryan Reynolds’ pecs and a desk lamp. Everything else on the screen pretty much blended together and it’s safe to say that the film would have been just as mediocre in 2-D.

With theaters charging an additional $2 and up for 3-D films, I think I’ll save my money and stick with the 2-D versions from now on. Except of course for “Jane Eyre”.

I’m a sucker for 3-D mutton chops.

Tears from The Ice Queen

2011-06-21T06:39:00.001-04:00

My friends call me The Ice Queen.

Perhaps I should clarify. I’m not a cold person. I’d like to think that overall I’m warm and friendly (when I’m not being sarcastic and snarky.) But my friends refer to me as The Ice Queen because I have a reputation for being one of those women who never seem to cry at anything. Movies, books, news stories…not a drop. This is, of course, not true. But I can see how my friends might perceive this.

It’s not that I don’t cry. It’s that I don’t like crying at things that obviously try to manipulate me. For example, those movies that use music and dialogue and dewy sentiments that practically scream “You will cry now” at the audience. I hold it in just to spite them.

My friend and I went to see “World Trade Center” several years ago. Nicholas Cage starred in the true story of two Port Authority officers who were, against all odds, pulled alive from the rubble at Ground Zero. It was an incredibly moving story and my friend sobbed throughout the entire film. I didn’t sprout one single tear until the very end, when the main character is pulled out on a stretcher and he tells his wife “The thought of you kept me alive”. That did it. One solitary tear rolled down my face.

That same friend and I went to see “My Sister’s Keeper” a few years back. This was the fictional story of a girl who has to decide whether or not to donate her kidney to her dying sister. People were bawling all around me as the audience was bombarded with emotional images and maudlin music.

I shed not one tear. In fact, I kind of wished the folks around me would pipe down so I could hear the dialogue.

Thus my reputation as the Ice Queen grew. My book club would discuss books that had everyone in tears at the end...everyone, that is, except me. Even in bible study, while I was touched by the personal stories shared, I would remain dry-eyed while people around me reached for the tissue box. What’s wrong with me? I wasn’t always this way.

When my children were small, they took music classes in Scituate and at the end of every 8-week session, Miss Beth would play “Pomp and Circumstance” and hand out graduation certificates to the children. My eyes watered every single time. The same thing happened when Miss Vicky played the Olympic theme song as my kids showed off their toddler gymnastic skills at TumbleFun and placed medals around their necks. And the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life” always left me in tears. (“To my big brother George…the richest man in town!” Sniff…sniff).

So what happened? Have I become hardened with age? Is it my changing hormones as I approach fifty? Have I run out of tears? Whatever the reason, I’m no longer crying at the drop of a hat. Yet, I don’t think the term “Ice Queen” is completely appropriate.

Where are these people when I’m standing at a baseball game listening to the Star Spangled Banner? As soon as they get to the line “Oh say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave?” and people start cheering, my throat gets tight and tears spring to my eyes.

Or how about when I took my kids to see “Toy Story 3” and had to wipe my face constantly during the last 20 minutes with butter-stained napkins? That scene where Andy reluctantly hands over Woody and all his other toys killed me. My friend looked at me askance over the top of my son’s head as I dabbed at my eyes. Was the Ice Queen really crying over Toy Story?

Worst of all was this past week at 4th grade memory day. The event was my son’s graduation from elementary school and I warned everyone well in advance that the Ice Queen would be bustin’ out the tears. One friend said, “Take a picture for me, I want to see what that looks like.”

For one hour and fifteen minutes, I sniffed and snuffed and dabbed at my eyes. From the first strains of “God Bless America”, the waterworks began. As the children marched into the gymnasium, I cried. When the principal read an emotional speech about giving our children back to us, I cried. When we watched a multimedia presentation featuring our kids, I laughed…and cried. When the principal said, “I give you the 2011 Graduating Class of Sylvester School” I cried. And when she asked the students to turn around and applaud their parents, I bawled. My son caught my eye and mouthed the words “I love you.” I mouthed the words, “I love you too” as the tears streamed down my face.

True to my word, I took a picture for my friend just so I could prove that even the Ice Queen is capable of melting every now and then. I’m only human. But don’t expect to see me dabbing at my eyes in the movie theater anytime soon.

Unless, of course, they decide to make Toy Story 4.

Twist(er) and Shout

2011-06-21T06:37:00.001-04:00

As a parent my job, first and foremost, is to keep my children safe.

This is no easy feat. When our children are babies we lash down car seats and nestle them in beds with crib bumpers. When they are toddlers we install child locks and safety gates. As they grow we insist they ride their bikes on the sidewalk and wear their helmets. We admonish them when they run with a lollipop in their mouths or a stick in their hands.

We do our best right up until the moment they leave us at which point we cross our fingers, say a prayer and hope that all our lessons will be heeded as they climb the kindergarten bus, drive off with license in hand for the first time or enter their college dorm room.

Still, despite our best efforts, as parents we can only do so much.

I still vividly remember the horror of September 11, 2001. I had a 3 year old and a 6 month old. That day my children climbed the jungle gym and dug in the sandbox at a local playground, blissfully unaware of the hate and destruction that was occurring a few hundred miles away. As I watched them play, a sick feeling formed in the pit of my stomach, growing stronger with each passing moment: the realization that no matter what I do, I can never fully protect my children.

This feeling was reinforced last week when my son and 191 other students and chaperones from the middle school band and chorus went on a field trip to Six Flags in Agawam. The trip is an annual event, and my son had been chattering about it excitedly for months. Being a nervous mother, I was worried about his safety on several levels; rides designed to toss his body around at high speed; the park’s proximity to a city known for its crime; a cold which had caused his asthma to flare up.

Still, I knew that part of my motherly duty was to let him go and trust that he would do everything in his power to keep himself safe. He had his inhaler and the chaperones would keep an eye on everyone throughout the day. All the bases were covered.

What I didn’t plan on, however, was a tornado.

The forecast for the day was hot and humid, with the chance of severe thunderstorms in the afternoon. I hoped that perhaps the bad weather would skirt the area around Six Flags or turn foul sometime after they left the park. As the wind picked up in my area, a mother of another child on the trip texted me a copy of a weather alert she had received on her phone: “A tornado watch has been issued for most of Massachusetts”.

I knew the difference between a “watch” and a “warning”; a watch means severe weather is possible while a warning means that severe weather has been observed, or is expected soon. Though the idea of even a possible tornado made me uneasy, it seemed highly unlikely and so I tried to tamp down my fears.

Shortly before the kids were due to leave the park, another mom called and asked if I was watching the weather reports. She said that a severe thunderstorm was 20 miles west of Six Flags and moving fast. The tornado watch had been upgraded to a warning. I called my son, who had just gotten off a ride, and told him to start heading toward the busses. I felt like that scene in the film “The Perfect Storm” where the female boat captain tries to warn George Clooney by screaming, “You’re heading right into the mouth of the beast.”

Over the next hour I divided my time by trying to reach my son on his cell phone, texting and calling other moms with information, and praying. One friend said she received a text from her daughter saying a tornado was going by and the bus was shaking. She didn’t know if her daughter was joking or not. I somehow managed to miss a call from my son, who left the following message: “Mom, you will not believe this. I have literally just seen a tornado form next to the bus and it’s cutting a path of destruction across the road”. Another mother called to tell me that one of the teachers was phoning the same information in to the local news.

Thankfully, the middle school busses were spared and quickly left the area, heading home. According to a friend who chaperoned the trip, the drivers were in constant contact with their superiors who instructed them on which route to take to avoid the worst of the weather. Still, as I listened to reports of additional tornadoes, lightning and hail, I continued my prayers until my son walked safely in the front door.

My son, unaware of the true devastation of the storms, thought the trip was an adventure. He was more intimidated by some of the roller coasters than the tornado that swooped by his bus. It wasn’t until the next morning when news stations reported the extent of the damage and the lives lost that he was truly able to process just how close a call it had been for them.

And for me, this experience served as yet another reminder that, despite my best efforts, I cannot always keep my children safe. Thankfully, the bus drivers, chaperones and God were able to fill in for me on this one.

For Love of the Game

2011-06-21T06:35:00.005-04:00

I have a new appreciation for baseball.

I’ve always enjoyed professional baseball. Growing up in New Jersey, my friends and I followed the Mets. This continued with my first post-college boyfriend who was a hardcore Mets fan and nearly cried with joy in 1986 (sorry Sox fans). I then became a Red Sox fan when I began dating my husband, who actually did cry with joy in 2004 and 2007 (not much crying lately though).

My renewed appreciation for baseball comes from my son’s recent return to a 4th grade baseball team.

Both of my children played t-ball in Kindergarten. I have to admit that I thought the “t” stood for torture. Baseball can be a slow game, but t-ball can be interminably slow. The t-ball field is conveniently located at the intersection of two extremely busy streets, with no fence to keep spectators or players from running out into the road. At the time when my 6-year old son played t-ball, my -3-year old had to remain strapped into his car seat in my van watching videos for the duration of the game. The alternative was to spend an hour and a half chasing after my toddler, trying to keep him from becoming a grease stain in the road.

I did appreciate the tee which allowed my sons to actually hit the ball (most of the time). However, when my kids were in the field, they failed to grasp the finer points of the game. Whenever a ball was hit anywhere near them, they (and about 20 of their teammates) would run in a clump towards the ball, hoping to be the one to grab it. Not that there would be anyone left on base to throw it to (they would all still be in that clump). At the end of every game, just when I thought, “Thank God, it’s over,” the coaches would inevitably say, “Hey, how about one more inning?”
My older son played a year of rookie ball, but after repeatedly being reprimanded for sitting down in right field, he admitted that he found baseball to be too slow and boring. That year he switched to soccer instead.

My younger son never picked up a bat or glove after a year of t-ball. The game was just a little too slow for him, and his frustration level at never actually catching the ball (too many kids nearby) proved overwhelming. We stored our baseball gear in the garage.

Fast forward four years. My younger son is now in 4th grade, and just when I thought soccer was his game, he suddenly announced that this spring he would like to take another crack at baseball instead.

“Are you sure you don’t want to do soccer again?” I asked hopefully. Soccer involved only one practice and one game a week.

“Nope, I want to try baseball.” He said firmly.

Reluctantly, I signed my son up for a baseball skills class at an indoor sports center. The 12-week class taught him the basics of hitting and fielding, while adding in plenty of running and stretching as well. It also included an invaluable private batting lesson and an hour of free batting time every Friday night. He also participated in a week-long skills camp over April vacation. Trying to cram four years of baseball experience into three months wasn’t easy, but when the first game rolled around, I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

He was disappointed with his first at bat: he struck out. A few silent tears rolled down his face as he struggled to keep his composure on the bench. This did not bode well. The next time at bat he walked. The next time… another walk.

After a couple of games, I nicknamed him Walker Texas Ranger since his strength lay in the pitcher’s weakness. A few more games and he started getting hits. He got an RBI. He stole second base. He stole third base. He started chewing sunflower seeds and giant wads of gum. His motivation for playing well is the snack bar next to his field. A game that was once too slow for him is now just his speed.
And my attitude has changed since t-ball. Though I initially prayed for rainouts, I’m now okay spending two nights at the field every week. Game night dinners are casual (hot dogs or pizza). Though baseball games last twice as long as soccer games, there is an unhurried, languidness to the game. What felt interminably long a few years ago now feels like an opportunity to slow down, enjoy a warm summer night, socialize with other parents and cheer on all the players equally.

I’ve come to enjoy watching my son play. I like hearing his infinitely patient and supportive coaches call his name in their thick, Boston accents: “Coop-ah!” I like that he doesn’t get upset if his team loses. I like that he feels good about himself.

And I like his answer when I asked if he wanted to play summer baseball.
“No thanks, it’s too hot.”

Whew!

Wagons Ho!

2011-06-21T06:35:00.004-04:00

Amidst all the rain, drizzle and fog of recent weeks, for one brief day the skies cleared, the sun shone, and Cub Scouts from all over the South Shore enjoyed a day of fun and friendship at the 2011 “Chuckwagon “ , held at Camp Squanto on May 21.

My younger son has been a Cub Scout for three years. As a Webelo, he participated in the Klondike Derby this past winter. For the uninitiated (that would be me), the Derby allows Scouts to demonstrate their skills in fire building, tent assembly, first aid, citizenship and a host of other areas. As they drag their sled from station to station, the scouts earn points, and winning packs are acknowledged at the end of the day. This year’s Klondike happened to fall on one of the coldest days of the winter. Add in all the snow we received this year and it made for a challenging day. My husband, knowing my intolerance for the cold (“You won’t last 20 minutes”) graciously offered to take my son to the Klondike while I enjoyed the comforts of central heating.

Fast forward four months to The Chuckwagon Derby, an event designed purely for fun. Scouts decorate a wagon according to a theme, don costumes and parade through Camp Squanto, and then spend the day participating in fun activities. Given that the event is held in (relatively) warm weather (and my husband’s prior commitment to coach my other son’s soccer team), it was my turn to chaperone.

This year’s theme was Disney. My son’s pack chose “Toy Story”; an ordinary wagon was decorated with a camouflage tank constructed entirely of cardboard boxes and tubes. A large round bin that had served as a recycling bucket in a previous life was painted to look like Andy’s Bucket of Soldiers. Each scout was decked out in army green pants, jackets, helmets and boots, looking for all the world like those plastic soldiers featured in the film. I guess my son isn’t the only one who frequents the Army/Navy store.

I spied a few other Toy Story wagons that day, as well as a group of scouts in white t-shirts with black spots (a nod to “101 Dalmatians”) and several “Maters” from the film “Cars”. However, there was a plethora of pirates. Apparently the release of Disney’s fourth “Pirates of the Caribbean” film inspired quite a few dens to don eye patches and bandanas in hopes of channeling the soul of Captain Jack Sparrow. This was no surprise given that many Disney films revolve around princesses; of course the scouts were going to choose movies that embrace guns and swords.

The boys visited stations throughout the day that combined scouting skills and general kid fun. The “Magic Carpet Ride” had scouts creating a stretcher from a blanket and two poles, toting teammates around to several points where they could answer questions about Disney movies. At “Space Mountain” they built homemade rockets from colored paper and launched them into space with a contraption made of PVC pipe, duct tape and an empty soda bottle. Several rockets got stuck in the treetops, in direct contrast to the “leave no trace” rule. “Mickey’s Monsoon” sounded ominous (we knew water would be involved), and the kids were delighted to find a rig that resembled a reverse dunk tank. Rather than throwing beanbags and dunking an adult in water, the kids attempted to trigger a water balloon to splatter on the grown-up’s head. Had I known that the other parents and I were going to become part of a wet t-shirt contest I would have packed extra clothes for myself in addition to my son’s.

After lunch the boys got down to the good stuff: BB guns and archery. Although many of our scouts were familiar with paintball and air soft guns, my son was a novice. I’m sure that wearing head to toe camouflage fanned the flames of his excitement as he listened carefully to instructions on how to safely load and shoot his weapon. For five glorious minutes the boys blasted away with Red Ryder BB guns (I resisted the urge to yell “You’ll shoot your eye out.”) Upon hearing “ceasefire” they obeyed like good soldiers and waited till it was safe to retrieve their targets. My son proudly held up his paper and showed me his direct hit in the center of the paper. Apparently all those hours spent playing “Call of Duty” on the Wii had paid off.

The packs headed back to the parade field mid-afternoon for the judging results. Each group had been given voting slips at the beginning of the parade with the opportunity to vote for best wagon design and best costumes. The kids in my son’s pack were ecstatic when they heard their pack number called as the third place winners for both wagon design and costume (First and second place in each category went to pirates…surprise).

At the end of closing ceremonies, the scouts and their families were given the option of setting up camp and staying for a campfire and skits. Tired but happy, my son opted to head home to show his older brother his prized BB target and tell about his day. In all, the Chuckwagon was an experience neither of us would forget.

So you still may not see me at the Klondike Derby next winter, (even if it’s a mild winter) but you can bet I’ll jump aboard the Chuckwagon in 2012.

A Few Font Memories

2011-06-21T06:33:00.001-04:00

Throughout my life there have been only a few men who have had a profound influence on me. First to mind is my father who has always been, and continues to be, a steady, stabilizing presence as I navigate the waters of childhood, adolescence, adulthood and parenthood.

My 11th grade Humanities teacher, Mr. Michaud, was a life-loving free spirit who somehow managed to get hundreds of self-centered, hormonal teenagers to share his passion for Federico Fellini films, e.e. cummings poetry and Saul Bellow stories. Every field trip was an adventure; every class was an exercise in absorbing the emotion, beauty and spiritual essence of the world around us. Long before Robin Williams starred in “Dead Poets Society”, Mr. Michaud was urging his East Brunswick High School students to “Seize the Day.” Years later, I would remember Mr. Michaud on my wedding day as a friend read my favorite e.e. cummings poem during the service.

Certainly my husband has been the most influential man in my life. What began as a work relationship blossomed into friendship and then love. He has been my biggest cheerleader throughout our 16 years of marriage, the voice of reason when I fly off the handle, the ever-patient father of my children, my partner in crime and the person who believed in my writing even when I didn’t believe in it myself.
This brings me to the next influential man in my life: My soon-to-be-ex-boss Matt Gill. When my predecessor, Cathy Harrington, chose to retire from writing this column, it was my friend Julianne who pushed me to call and ask for the position. But it was Matt who gave me the job, opening the door and allowing me to find my voice as a writer.

I’m sure I sounded a lot more confident than I felt as we sat down outside the South Shore Natural Science Center for my “job interview”. I was picking my kids up from camp and Matt was heading down to this office in Marshfield. Given that this was my first interview in years, I prepared a resume and brought several writing examples from my blog. I must have said or done something right, because Matt gave me the job and asked me to have my column in within a week.

That was nearly three years and 147 columns ago (but who’s counting?) I have to give Matt credit for allowing me complete creative freedom over my topics. Whether I wrote about pre-sliced cheese, smug Christmas letters, talking to your child about 9/11 or recipes for spam and bean pie, Matt’s feedback has always been overwhelmingly positive. Headlines have never been my strong suit, so I’ve left that particular chore up to him, which yielded such beauties as “Wii are enjoying our new video game system” and (my personal favorite) “My Undying Love for Zombies”.
While I appreciate feedback from family and friends, I look forward each week to Matt’s opinion. There’s something about being critiqued by a fellow writer that carries more weight than anyone else. And I’m flattered that Matt sought my opinion on his articles and columns as well.

Sadly, this will be the final column that Matt critiques as he leaves his position at The Mariner and turns his creative talents to corporate writing. I’ll miss the headlines, the comments, the bad puns and the humorous emails we’ve shared. Though he’ll no longer be my boss, I’m glad that he’ll still continue to be my friend.

Good luck Matt.

Do You Remember Your First Concert?

2011-06-21T06:23:00.002-04:00

Do you remember your first concert?

I put this question to several of my friends this week because I took my son to his very first concert. My friends’ answers ran the gamut of musical tastes. Some were cool: Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, U2 and Jethro Tull. Others were less cool: Andy Gibb, Back Street Boys and New Kids on the Block. Bands like Bob Seger, Charlie Daniels Band and Kool and the Gang fell somewhere in the middle.

My first rock concert was not really rock but pop. It was Shaun Cassidy, brother of teen heartthrob David Cassidy of “The Partridge Family”. I has Shaun’s album (back in the wonderful days of vinyl) and listened to hits like “That’s Rock and Roll” and “Hey Deena” for hours. When his tour came to the tri-state area, someone (my parents?) bought tickets. I have a vague memory of the concert, sitting in nosebleed seats while a tiny white dot the size of an ant belted out “Da Doo Run Run”. I screamed and sang with all the other teenage girls and went home satisfied with my first real concert. I assumed I was 11 or 12 at the time, until my older sister recently burst my bubble. “I took you to that concert, remember?” she reminded me, “I had just gotten my license and we drove all the way out to the Nassau Colliseum”. Doing the math I realized I must have been 15 when I saw that concert. An 11 year old seeing Shaun Cassidy is sweet. A 15-year old seeing Shaun Cassidy is lame.

As I grew older I walked that fine line between cool and lame with subsequent concerts: The Kinks were definitely cool, but Styx (who I still love) falls on the lame side of the fence. Queen was cool, and Cheap Trick was cool and The Ramones were definitely cool (even though they played at Six Flags). U2 and Bruce Springsteen were cool as well. Def Leppard was interesting (saw them in London). Peter Gabriel was quirky. Lyle Lovett, James Taylor and his brother Livingston were all laid back. A recent AC/DC concert was super cool and super loud. Looking back at the handful of concerts I’ve attended, I would definitely say they were more cool than lame. However, I can’t help but think that you are somehow defined by the first concert you go to.

This is why I took such great pleasure in bringing my older son to see My Chemical Romance this past week at The House of Blues. For those of you not familiar with the band, My Chemical Romance’s music, according to Wikipedia, is described as “…a blend of gothic rock, punk, heavy metal, glam rock, metal and progressive rock…” I became enamored with their music when they released their 2006 album, “The Black Parade”, and dragged my husband to the DCU Arena to see their concert. With his tastes trending more towards blues and The Grateful Dead, my husband indulged what he assumed to be a mid-life crisis moment and sat dutifully in his seat as I cheered and yelled and sang my way through the concert.

Fast forward a few years to MCR’s next album, “Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys”. As I perused their website I noticed an upcoming tour date at The House of Blues. I knew either my husband or a friend would indulge me again, so I purchased two tickets. Much to my surprise, in the months between purchasing the tickets and the concert itself, my older son became a fan of the Danger Days album. Back in 2006 he would hold his hands over his ears anytime I’d try to play “The Black Parade” and beg me to put on something else. I guess I couldn’t expect a 9-year-old to appreciate the nuances of their music, but with age comes wisdom and I suddenly found myself living with a full fledged MCR fan. When he asked if he could join me at the concert, I agreed.

After loading all of the band’s music on my son’s iPod, showing him their videos on YouTube and letting him read a few interviews in music magazines, he was frothing at the mouth to go. The bands’ single “Sing” was featured in promos for American Idol and used in an episode of “Glee” (much to Glenn Beck’s dismay). Suddenly MCR was everywhere.

We drove into Boston on the designated evening with my son wearing my Black Parade tour t-shirt (it looks better on him). Arriving at the House of Blues we walked to the end of a line which stretched all the way down Lansdowne Street, through the alley and behind the House of Blues. As we took our place at the back of the line, I noticed many teens and twenty-somethings in the crowd, but also several kids younger than my son and quite a few adults older than myself. As we entered the House of Blues, my son experienced his first security pat-down. We took our place in the floor section, about 50 feet from the stage and waited…and waited…and waited. My son’s concert initiation included not one but two opening acts. He deemed the first “pretty good” and the second “slightly more demonic”. Nearly three hours after we had entered the House of Blues, My Chemical Romance took the stage.
My son and I spent the next 90 minutes jumping, dancing, cheering loudly and singing along with each song. As the band blasted their hits, I snuck a peak at his jubilant face and knew that bringing him had been the right decision. When the music ended, we bought a souvenir t-shirt and walked out of the House of Blues, slightly more deaf than when we walked in. We returned home at midnight, tired but happy.

Years from now someone will ask him about his first concert. Hopefully he will smile and remember the night when he and his mom bonded over a “cool” rock and roll band.

Children are the Heirs to our Hair

2011-06-21T06:21:00.002-04:00

I confess I watched a portion of the Royal Wedding last week. I turned it on shortly before the ceremony began, and as I watched the footage of Prince William and Prince Harry waiting at the altar for Kate Middleton, one thought kept cropping up in my mind.

Prince William is seriously going bald.

Standing next to Harry with his enviable head of thick, red hair, it was obvious to all that William had inherited his father’s balding pattern. My thoughts turned to my own children and the ways that they have become our “hair heirs”.

As a child, I absolutely could not stand my hair. Thick, curly and unruly, I favored my mother’s follicles while my sisters had the same smooth, straight locks as my father. The neighborhood bullies nicknamed me “Brillo”, a name that still brings a shudder forty years later. I suffered through long hair, short hair, a brief period when I tried to curl it into “wings” (thanks a lot Farrah Fawcett) and then settled on what could only be described as an afro throughout my high school years. College wasn’t much better and it wasn’t until my twenties that I discovered the value of a good conditioner and some serious hair control products. After experimenting with hair color (blonde, brunette, redhead, I’ve been them all), I’ve pretty much reverted to my natural brown in a more styled, controlled version of my high school afro. Other than the grey that is creeping in here and there, I don’t foresee a radical change in my hairstyle anytime in the future.

My husband has very straight, fine hair. Growing up in the sixties, he was encouraged to grow it as long as he liked (both his parents had long hair). The only bump in the road was his yearly summer visit to his grandparents in Williamsport NY. Though his parents were borderline hippies, his grandparents were straight out of “Leave it to Beaver”. A career military man, his grandfather’s first order of business each summer was to march my husband straight to the barber for a buzz cut. If his grandparents had known that my husband would start losing his hair in his late twenties, perhaps they would have been inclined to let him keep his lush head of hair during those summers.

Fast forward a few decades to my own children. My older son seems to favor his mother’s hair type. Born bald, his white blond curly toddler locks have settled into a thick nest of coarse light brown curls. He prefers his hair long and while I wouldn’t classify it as an afro, I can see that without proper grooming and hair product it could eventually evolve into one. Long gone are the days of the “boy’s regular” cut he received as a child. The stylists at Just Hair Cuts know him by name, and sharpen their hedge clippers when they see him coming. The result is a somewhat manageable mane which typically gets mashed down due to the baseball caps he insists on wearing at all times.

My younger son, on the other hand, favors buzz cuts and Mohawks. While we try to convince him to let his hair grow in the cooler months (it keeps his head warm) as soon as the weather turns he’s clamoring for a buzz cut. Given free reign, he’d take the shortest setting on the hair clippers. Though he has a lovely scalp and I do enjoy the feel of his “peach fuzz”, the “1” setting makes him look like a post-chemo patient, which unnerves me. I urge him to let the stylist use the “2” or “3” setting on the clippers. For months he has been asking for a spiky Mohawk. My excuse has been, “not till after the school talent show.” Of course, the day after the show, he convinced me to bring him to the hair salon whereupon they shaved his sides down to peach fuzz and waxed the middle till he looked like a rooster. He loves it and I’m getting used to being poked by his spiky points when he leans in for a hug.

So be it short, long, thick, thin, curly or spiky, I’ve learned to let my children express themselves through their hairstyles (within reason). The important part is that they enjoy their hair. Because they need only look at my husband to see their potential future:

Hair today…gone tomorrow.

Royal Wedding

2011-06-21T06:20:00.001-04:00

Don’t tuck away your Easter bonnets just yet. In less than 48 hours, millions of Americans will set their alarms to 4 a.m. in order to don their most regal finery and tune their televisions to the most anticipated event of the 21st century: The royal wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. All across our country businesses will close, allowing employees to stay home and wait with baited breath for a glimpse of Kate’s bridal gown. School children will be kept home in order to take copious notes on every detail of the royal nuptials. Life as we know it will grind to a halt as every man, woman and child weeps in joy for this long-awaited, blessed event.

At least that’s what the media would have you think.

Seriously, I don’t actually know anyone in my circle of friends that plans to watch the wedding. But you’d never know it based on the 24-hour royal wedding coverage that our American news outlets are ramping up as we count down to the big day. It feels like The Today Show’s Meredith Vieira has been in London for about 6 months now, visiting with the royal hat maker and collecting souvenir plates of Wills and Kate. Even our local news reporters have been in the U.K. for several days, looking for new angles on an event that has already been beaten to death long before Kate’s dainty foot has even set foot inside Westminster Abbey.

Why this fascination with British Royalty? After all, weren’t they the reason our forefathers escaped to this country in the first place? Why the change of heart? Is it because we kicked their butts in 1776 and saved those same butts in WWII that we’ve softened towards the monarchy? Or maybe it’s because we invested ourselves so heavily in the last “fairy tale” wedding between Lady Diana Spencer and Prince Charles, only to be disappointed. Rife with adultery, disapproving in-laws, bulimia and the tragic death and subsequent sainthood of Princess Diana, that particular fairy tale ended on a “Grimm” note.

Apparently, the media thinks we can’t get enough of William and Kate’s big day. But how can one royal wedding hope to compete with Lindsay Lohan’s jail sentence, Charlie Sheen’s Torpedo of Truth tour and the ever-changing “who’s dissing who?” on The Real Housewives of New York? I can see why the Brits, who still love their royal figureheads, are willing to put their lives on hold until the last piece of wedding cake has been eaten and the newlyweds have fondly waved farewell from the balcony at Buckingham Palace. But what makes the media think those of us “across the pond” are as interested as our British brethren?

Maybe it’s because we have a soft spot in our American hearts for Diana’s motherless boys. The two young princes appear to have inherited Diana’s playful nature, easy smile and empathetic spirit. Call me a foolish romantic, but the fact that William and Kate have been together for several years indicates real affection as opposed to a carefully engineered merger for the purpose of royal procreation. There may not be any fairy tale ending, but perhaps Wills and Kate have a shot at a loving, happy life together.

So for the sake of international relations, I’ll make time on Friday to enjoy a scone with clotted cream or a healthy serving of spotted dick (Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s a spongy cake-like dessert that has raisins in it. Look it up). I won’t drink tea, but I’ll have a good old American cuppa Joe while I turn on the telly and see if it’s worth all the fuss.

But just a peek.

Disposable Dishwashers and other Appliances

2011-06-21T06:13:00.002-04:00

We live in a disposable society…

This should not come as a shock to those of us who drink bottled water, blow through Kleenex and turn up our noses at cloth diapers (full or empty).

In a time when that same bottled water has an expiration date, (seriously?) we have come to expect a short shelf life from the items we use and consume daily.
But I draw the line when it comes to appliances.

I’ve started to notice that dishwashers, dryers, washing machines and microwaves have developed shorter life spans. One friend commented that it used to be that your second set of appliances was the ones you died with. Not so much anymore. My parents have lived in their home for over 50 years, and they are only on their second washer and dryer. Even those were replaced relatively recently. This begs the question:

At the age of 75 and 80 respectively, will my mom and dad outlive their second set of appliances or will their appliances outlive them? Given the way these machines are now manufactured, my money’s on Mom and Dad.

When we moved into our current house, the dishwasher was working at less than peak performance. Dishes would sometimes come out dirtier than they went in. We called in our friends from George Washington Toma to solve the problem (we were frequent fliers with Toma back in the early days of homeownership). Our service technician advised us that it would be better to purchase a new dishwasher than to repair the old one because, “…dishwashers really only have a life span of about ten years.”

Ten years? Seriously? I’ve heard this phrase repeated often over my time as a homeowner (as ovens and dryers and other appliances have bit the dust) and I immediately defer to my in-laws who have had the same dishwasher, refrigerator and oven since they rebuilt their house in the early 1970’s. Apparently the 40-year old dishwasher is about as rare as the 40-year old virgin (apologies to Steve Carrell).

Granted, my in-law’s appliances are avocado-colored and honestly I have not since seen a stove that has only one large burner and three small ones. Yes, the dishwasher is so loud that it sounds as if the entire house is blasting off into outer space during the rinse cycle. But the point is they still work.

One friend in particular has had more than the usual share of appliance issues. Her refrigerator died and had to be replaced a few years ago. Then her microwave started turning itself on. Sometimes the numbers on the digital readout would convert to hieroglyphics. Not wanting to risk her family’s safety she replaced it. No sooner did that occur when her four-year old front-load washing machine died. The technician told her it would be $1600 to fix (it cost $900 new). Time for a new washer.

If we are a modern, technological society that can create miniature computers that hold tens of thousands of songs in the palm of our hands, why can’t we create a dishwasher that lasts longer than ten years? Were our forefathers from the 1970’s more advanced than we are today? Remember the “good old days” when the Maytag repairman moped through commercials with nothing to do?

You would think in today’s go-go-green society, appliances should last longer instead of cluttering up landfill every 10-15 years. What is the benefit of a new appliance every decade? The answer might surprise you (it surprised me). My current dishwasher, age twelve, had a problem and I brought our trusty friends from Toma in to fix it. “You sure you want to spend $125 to fix this, instead of buying a new one?” the repairman asked me? I assured him that I did. When I asked him why these newer models had a shorter life span than the trusty workhorses of the past he replied that materials used in older appliances are less likely to be able to be recycled. Newer models are able to recycle a much higher percentage of parts, so less goes into the landfill.

That makes sense. I understand the logic. But I still don’t feel like shelling out hard earned cash for a new appliance every decade or so.

So I propose a deal:

Give me a dishwasher that will last me another 40 years, and I promise that my family will bury it with me when I finally go.

That’s fair, isn’t it?

A Head Scratching Dilemna

2011-06-21T06:11:00.002-04:00

The mind is a powerful, dangerous thing.

Last week I had the uneasy feeling that I might have head lice. Or bed bugs. I wasn’t exactly sure which one it might be, but I was nearly certain it was one or the other.

It started with a conversation at work. A co-worker casually mentioned that her daughter had contracted head lice. For the second time. As soon as she uttered the words “head lice” my scalp and skin started to itch. This happens to me anytime someone talks about head lice. Add in the fact that my hair is quite thick and curly, and it’s easy to imagine what a nightmare head lice might be for me.

However, I had not come into contact with anyone who actually had head lice, so I told myself that the chances of contracting it were miniscule. Eventually the itching abated.

A few days later, I had a conversation with a couple of friends about antiquing and buying clothes at secondhand stores. One of my friends who is a bit “germ phobic” said, “I can think of nothing more horrifying than walking through dusty antique stores and trying on used clothing.” She then went on to say that she read an online report stating that clothes bought in consignment stores was three times as likely to be infested with bed bugs. Even if the clothing itself is clean, it hangs in a person’s closet for who knows how long against other items of clothing that might not be bug free.

I laughed off her comment and then went home, at which point my scalp and skin started to feel itchy again. I asked my husband to look through my hair to be sure there wasn’t anything crawling around up there. Sighing with exasperation, he pawed through my scalp like a zoo monkey at grooming time and assured me that there was nothing taking up residence in the roots of my hair.

The next night, still slightly itchy, I settled down to watch a movie. The film was “The Switch” starring Jennifer Aniston and Jason Bateman. It’s a modest enough comedy, predictable and forgettable. However, the part of the film that had the biggest impact on me was the scene where the child of Jennifer Aniston’s character contracts head lice and her friend has to de-louse him. The extreme close-up shots of Jason Bateman running a comb through the kid’s hair and picking out nits nearly sent me into a conniption of itching.

After checking my scalp again my husband wearily explained that my itching could be caused by any number of things including the dry winter air or possible…ahem… hormonal changes.

As I showered the next morning, my gaze happened to fall on my bottle of hair conditioner. I had run out of Pantene, my usual brand, a week before and decided to give Garnier Nutrisse a try, since it seemed a more wholesome, natural alternative. (I’m a sucker for marketing) It didn’t matter that my son thought it smelled “like barf”. Hmmm. Could that be the culprit?

I switched back to Pantene the next day and though my itching isn’t completely gone, it’s back to its regular pre-Garnier status quo. Though I hate to waste a nearly full bottle of conditioner, it’s now relegated to a spot underneath the bathroom sink, in case we ever have house guests that prefer that brand.

I’m no longer convinced that I have parasites living in my hair. Switching back to my old conditioner helped cure the issues on the outside of my head. If only I could find something equally effective for the inside of my head.

And yes, for those of you who are curious; writing this column makes me itchy.
Sigh.

Welcome to the Teenage Years

2011-06-21T06:06:00.001-04:00

I am now the mother of a teenager.

Do you ever get that “how did I get there” feeling? You know, the one when you travel the same route every day, and even though technically you are paying attention to the road and cars around you, your mind zones out and you find yourself miles closer to home thinking “How did I get here”?

That’s how I feel about suddenly becoming the mother of a teenager.

I use the term “suddenly” but this is actually an event that was thirteen plus years in the making. All the morning sickness, labor pains, sleepless nights rocking an infant, car seats, skinned knees, first days of school, recorder concerts, play dates, sleepovers and overdue library books finally add up to that milestone that heralds a whole new era of uncharted territory: the teenage years.

Of course, I vaguely remember my own teenage years, with shifting friendships, awkward moments, acne, insecurity and changes that made me feel as if my body was not my own. It was a terrible, wonderful, painful part of my life and when I emerged safely on the other side, I thought to myself, “Whew…Thank goodness I don’t have to go through that again.”

Except I do. But this time I get to live every uncomfortable, frightening, messy and crazy moment vicariously through my child. It’s amazing how the mind can block out whole chunks of memories. My own teenage years are buried in my mind somewhere beneath the countless seasons of “Survivor” and the plots from every trashy book I’ve ever read. I can’t remember how difficult I might have been towards my own parents (though I’m sure they’ll be happy to remind me once they read this).

I’m sure I was disrespectful and arrogant and a know-it-all when I was a teen. My days were spent alternately fighting with my parents and my siblings. Without cell phones, Facebook or the internet, the social dynamics at that time were certainly less complex, but turbulent just the same. Through junior and senior high school my core group of friends evolved and settled, but still contained dramatic incidents warranting teary phone calls and frantic scribbling in my journal. My body went through changes that I found both fascinating and repulsive. If I only knew then what I know now about the even more horrific changes thirty years in my future, I would have appreciated that teenage body more than I did.

But what good is all this knowledge and experience when my own child is sure to eschew my wisdom and turn to his friends, the media and pop culture for guidance? Eventually I’ll be relegated to the role of the ignorant parent who can’t possibly know what her teenager is going through.

I’m steeling myself for that day when my own newly-minted teenager decides that he’s just too embarrassed to be seen with me. When instead of greeting me with a smile and a hug he brushes past me with a grimace and a grunt. He’ll spend endless hours holed up in his room, iPod blaring in his headphones instead of recounting every detail of some ridiculous program he saw on Cartoon Network.

We’re not there yet, but I can see him inching his way ever closer. Until then I’m going to focus on the benefits of having a teenager in the house. Someone who (occasionally) helps shovel snow in the winter and mows the lawn in the summer. Someone who can watch his younger brother when I’m not home. Someone that still comes out to the car and offers to bring in my grocery bags. Someone who shares my love of British comedy and zombie movies and doesn’t mind sitting next to me in the theater instead of four rows behind me.

So if you see me around town and I look a little more frazzled than usual, just remember; I’m the mother of a teenager now.

Dispatch from the Pinewood Derby

2011-06-21T06:05:00.002-04:00

There’s a feeling of excitement in the air. Pit crews are standing by and crowds hold their breath as the flag drops and the wheels hit the track. If you breathe deeply, you can catch just a hint of…graphite.

The Pinewood Derby is in town.

For the uninitiated, The Pinewood Derby is an annual event for boys in Cub Scouts. Tiger Cubs up to Webelos receive a kit containing a block of wood and some wheels and must design, carve and paint their vehicle into whatever shape they desire. Google “Pinewood Derby” and you can find a treasure trove of images of vehicles from past years. The Derby also has very specific rules about size, shape and weight of the car. No springs can be added, and the wheels and axle provided in the kit must be used.

Typically the kits are passed out to the scouts several weeks before “Race Day”. This gives the kids ample time to dawdle, tarry and procrastinate, ultimately rushing to finish their car mere hours before the start of the first heat. At least, that’s how it goes in my house.

On race day, the entrants bring their cars to the race location for the official weighing. Pity the poor scout whose car is over the 5 oz mark. At this point, fathers frantically pop off any additional lead weights that have been added to the car, or drill holes in the vehicle to remove unwanted ballast. The race itself lasts for approximately 6-8 hours (ok, that’s not quite accurate, it just feels that long). All the cars are given a chance to race in all four lanes so that everyone’s car has fair advantage. As the day winds down, the winners from each heat face each other until there are just a select few who take home the much coveted trophies. Everyone else goes home with a snazzy medal.

A great part of the Pinewood Derby is that the children are supposed to do most of the work themselves with minimal parental assistance. However, much like the annual science fair, it’s easy to tell whose projects have had more than a little “help” from an overeager parent. A friend of mine wrote a hilarious blog about The Pinewood Derby last year in which he opined that the young scout with the winning car must have had a father who worked for Boeing, given the aerodynamics on their extremely well-crafted entry.

This year was my son’s third year of racing in the derby. His first year’s car was a pretty basic design. He sawed (with my husband’s help) his block into a triangular shape. He then sanded it and painted it a forest green color, then added a white smiley face with a demonic expression. He christened it Mr. Happy. Though he didn’t do so well in the various heats that year, it was fun to listen to his den mates chanting “Mr. Happy! Mr. Happy!” as it rolled down the track.

Last year he chose an hourglass shape, painted orange with yellow flames. The car had the impressive name “Inferno” and though he came in first and second place in most of his heats, his average was dragged down by the fact that his car flew off the track in one of its runs. Trying to assuage his disappointment, I pointed out that his design was just too fast for the race.

This year’s car was shaped like a drop of water, painted electric green and titled “Acid”. My husband and son headed out to the Derby and I promised to follow in an hour to see his car run. Twenty minutes later my husband bolted back in the door. “What’s wrong?” I asked as he brushed past me and headed straight for the garage. “It’s one tenth of an ounce over!” he wailed as he grabbed his tool kit and drill and raced back out the door.

A short time later, I arrived to find the derby in full swing. With two four-lane tracks running simultaneously, the scout leaders were able to keep the action going as the crowd of scouts and parents cheered from the sidelines. In addition to my son’s car, I noticed some really interesting designs including several that contained Lego decorations (which didn’t always stay on the vehicle), a car that looked just like the DeLorean from “Back to the Future” and what looked to be a mostly unfinished block of wood on wheels.

Sadly, Acid did not fare well this year. It came in third (out of three) in three heats, moving up to second place during its final run. While my son was disappointed that his hard work didn’t yield more favorable results, I hugged him and told him that my most proud moment of the day had nothing to do with his car’s performance. At one point he had noticed some younger scouts were laughing at a car that had gotten stuck not once but twice at the track’s halfway mark. Knowing their laughter might hurt the feelings of the car’s owner, he firmly said, “Don’t laugh at that. It’s not funny.”

So while his automotive designs may not earn him any trophies, his compassion that day definitely made him a winner in my book.

Charlie's Sheen is Starting to Wear Off

2011-06-21T06:03:00.001-04:00

Gee, I wonder what Charlie Sheen is doing today?

I say that because apparently nothing else is happening in the world right now. I mean, it’s not like we had not one, but two earthquakes (one in Christchurch, New Zealand and the most recent in Japan), a tsunami, an overthrow of one Middle Eastern government and civil unrest in several other Middle Eastern countries resulting in an increase in oil prices. We have our own “civil unrest” in Wisconsin, and a repeat of The McCarthy Hearings with Muslims as potential targets in place of Communists.

But forget all that, because what I really need to know is what Charlie Sheen is up today.

I admit that I am as guilty as any of my friends who have been watching with fascination the train wreck that is Charlie Sheen rocket out of the station and head full-speed towards a destination of self-destruction and mayhem. I’ve seen the parodies on Saturday Night Live, Jimmy Kimmel and Regis and Kelly. I’ve been sent links to the “Charlie Sheen Quote Generator” and been solicited to buy t-shirts that say, “Duh. Winning!” on the front. My own children have roamed the house parroting that phrase over and over until I want to scream.

But I’ve had enough. There’s no reason to beat this dead horse anymore. I was never a huge fan of “Two and a Half Men”. The few episodes I’ve watched seemed to revolve around the Charlie character’s lecherous, drunken behavior. Is the program that brilliant that it warrants Sheen’s million dollars per episode paycheck? Is he really irreplaceable? Some of you may not remember “Bewitched” but those of you who do know that the character of Darren was played by two different actors. As was Catwoman on the television series “Batman”. When Suzanne Somers chose not to return to “Three’s Company”, another blonde actress stepped in without pause and the show continued. Cheryl Ladd easily replaced Farrah Fawcett in “Charlie's Angel’s”

But this is not just about a television program. It’s about watching a pop culture icon implode. We can’t resist staring as public figures like Brittany Spears and Lindsay Lohan take one misstep after another, landing themselves in jail, rehab and, unfortunately sometimes, the grave. We’re fascinated when Mel Gibson begins spewing racist, misogynistic rhetoric, or when Christian Bale has a temper tantrum on the set of his new movie. Can you blame us? These clips are played over and over on television, the radio and via the web. We can’t escape it.

There was a time when the name Charlie Sheen brought to mind an actor with decent films to his credit (“Platoon”, “Wall Street” and “Major League” to name a few). Now he will forever be associated with words like “Tiger Blood”, “Adonis DNA” and “Vatican Warlock Assassin”. His children have been taken from him, one of his “goddesses” has moved out, he leaves a trail of unhappy ex-wives in his wake and he has taken to the internet with a series of entertaining, horrifying rants that leave many of us wondering whether they are fueled by drugs, mental illness or both. I can’t look at him now without feeling sympathy for his parents and siblings. I keep hoping he’ll pull a Robert Downey Jr. and turn his life around, but that seems unlikely at this point.

The latest gem is that Charlie Sheen is taking his madness on tour, performing live “comedy” shows in Chicago and Detroit. Entitled “My Violent Tornado of Truth/Defeat is not an Option”, the program promises more of the same craziness we’ve seen in recent weeks, albeit in a live setting. If the show comes to Boston, I’ll opt out. Call me a troll but my life is crazy enough.

Winning? Well Charlie, I guess if you call racing towards an inevitable finish line of humiliation, degradation and possibly death, then yes, you are indeed winning.

Lessons learned from vandelism

2011-06-21T06:02:00.001-04:00

I’ve lived in my town for twelve years, and for as long as I can remember there has been an ongoing battle to build a new high school for our children.

The idea has been proposed, vetoed, proposed and approved. The construction was temporarily halted due to issues with the chosen contractor. And yet, despite these setbacks, the new high school continues to grow, inching closer to its projected opening of September 2011.

And now the latest setback. Last week, three teenagers were arrested for vandalizing the interior of the new school. Glass was broken and walls were spray painted. The incident made the front page of the local paper and many town residents are buzzing about the identity of the perpetrators (two were from our town, one from a neighboring town). Since the kids are underage, their names have been withheld.

I’m glad I don’t know who the kids are. It would be too easy to point fingers and pass judgment. When something like this happens, I try to say “There but for the grace of God go I” and hope that my own children will avoid making a similar mistake when they hit those difficult, teenage years.

As a mom, I’ve tried to instill the idea that my children should respect the property of others. Every time I sent one of them off to a play date, I would remind them to play nicely with the other person and be especially careful with that friend’s toys. I’ve also tried to emphasize that they need to be respectful of each other’s possessions. Still, I’ve lost count of how many times one has complained that the other has “ruined” their Lego set.

Yes, it’s a bit of a stretch from breaking down a Lego set to breaking windows and tagging walls. But these same teenagers were kids once too, and though I don’t know them personally, I’m willing to bet that their parents tried to instill the same values in them when they were children. Despite our best efforts, our kids sometimes make poor choices.

My oldest is on the brink of his teenage years, which means that he may soon morph from my sweet, good natured son into a sullen, moody, unrecognizable teen. When that happens, will he remember his lessons from the DARE program or will he ignore them? Will he continue to pursue a place on the honor roll or will social relationships become more important? Will he remember to respect the property of others or will he give in to peer pressure and damage someone’s property?

One of my good friends is the mother of two teenagers and as we discussed this week’s incident, she commented, “Raising teenagers is like being on an amusement park ride. You just have to hold on tight and hope you all get to the end safely.” Though her children, in general, make good choices, they’ve also had their share of mistakes and missteps. During our conversation, she and another friend revealed some poor choices they made when they were teenagers. I think many of us cringe over at least one thing we’ve done during that time in our lives

Getting back to the high school. I’m sad that these kids chose to vandalize something that has faced so many setbacks already. I can’t begin to guess what might have motivated their actions, nor would I want to try. It’s not my job to place judgment or grant absolution. That’s for the courts to decide.

But I have hope. I hope that those teens will use this incident as a life lesson and put that type of behavior behind them. I hope that when the new high school finally opens, all of our children will take pride in what they have been given. I’m hoping that the new halls and classrooms that surround them will give them a sense of ownership about something that their community has worked so hard to
provide.

One can hope.

Boredom "On Ice"

2011-06-21T06:00:00.002-04:00

There are many things I miss as my children get older. I miss participating in activities in their classroom. I miss naps. And I miss the sweet smell of the tops of their heads as they dozed on my shoulder.

But the one thing I will not miss is sitting through anything that ends with the words “on ice”.

Don’t get me wrong. I love hockey. As a teenager, I was a huge fan of the New York Rangers, and though I’m still a little sketchy on the term “off sides”, I still enjoy the fast paced action of a good hockey game.

I also really enjoy figure skating. When the winter Olympics aired last year, I was riveted to all the figure skating. Even ice dancing.

No, the words “on ice” that I refer to are those skating revues that sprout like mushrooms at our local sports arena each year during winter vacation. This year’s production: “Toy Story 3…On Ice”.

Something‘s happened to these ice revues over the years. When I was a kid, there were no movie tie-ins for the ice show. It was simply called “The Ice Capades”, and usually it featured an assortment of B-list skaters and possibly a former Olympian or two. And yes, it took me 40 years to realize that the title “Ice Capades” is a play on the word “escapade”. (What can I say? I’m slow to catch on.)

I have a vague memory of my parents taking my sisters and me to see “Ice Capades” at Madison Square Garden in NYC. I can’t remember how old I was, but I remember being transfixed by the sparkly costumes, the majestic music and the grace and beauty of the skating. I also remember my father purchasing a small souvenir flashlight on a string. The trick was to swing the flashlight around in a circle, and if you looked throughout the audience you could see thousands of circles of light in the darkness. It took me less than a minute to hit my dad in the face, at which point the flashlight disappeared into my mother’s purse for the remainder of the performance.

Fast forward 35 years to a February vacation where I was the mom and my own children were begging to see the ice show du jour: “Disney’s The Incredibles On Ice”. As I mentioned, ice shows have morphed over the years to focus on one central theme for the program. The year I took my children, the theme was Disney/Pixar’s “The Incredibles”. Since I have two sons, it seemed a more appropriate choice than “Disney Princesses On Ice” or “The Little Mermaid On Ice”.

As my family waited for the program to begin, I noticed several vendors walking through the stands hawking popcorn and cotton candy. Apparently, inflation has severely affected cotton candy prices, because the vendors were asking an astronomical $10 each. Popcorn wasn’t much better, and purchasing a Slushee for each child would have involved a second mortgage. Each treat was housed in some sort of “commemorative” packaging, so when the actual snack was finished, kids would have a cheap plastic cup or wand to remind them of that special afternoon that sent their parents into bankruptcy.

I ignored my children’s cries of “I’m hungry” and “I’m thirsty” and reminded them to focus on the ice skating instead. As the lights dimmed, I leaned forward in my seat, anticipating the “incredible” skating ahead.

90 minutes later I realized that “The Incredibles On Ice” was basically one big commercial for Disney World, thinly veiled in a story featuring the characters from the movie: Syndrome, the villain from the film, chases The Incredibles throughout Disney World, as the family checks out all the featured rides at the theme park. The skating was adequate, but what I remember most about the program was deflecting the million dollar question as we exited the arena: “When are we going to Disney World Mom?” Gee, thanks Disney.

The other day I was relaying our “Incredibles on Ice” story to a friend of mine. He laughed and suggested that perhaps they should base an ice show on a different movie: “The Expendables”. If you’re not familiar with that film, Sylvester Stallone leads a team of mercenaries to South America to overthrow a dictator. The film also stars Jason Statham, Dolph Lundgren, Jet Li and a handful of other tough guys. I can just imagine “The Expendables on Ice”. A combination of mixed martial arts and ice skating. Pyrotechnics and triple Salchows. Cotton candy hanging from plastic souvenir Uzis.

Now that’s something I would pay money to see.

Surviving School Vacation

2011-06-21T05:57:00.002-04:00

If you’re like me, you are probably wondering how to style your hair…or what’s left of your hair after pulling out most of it in frustration because it’s February vacation week.

Now February vacation is a challenge under the best of circumstances. There’s a week off at Christmas. Then two weeks later a long weekend for Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday (and if you live in my town you have an exceedingly long weekend since a professional day was tacked on the Tuesday after MLK day. Thanks.) After MLK weekend, it’s just a few short weeks until President’s Day, heralding yet another week of vacation.

So you can see how parents might be a little bit punchy with all those vacation days under normal circumstances. However, this winter has been anything but normal. With four snow days thrown into the mix (and a couple of early dismissals as well), we’ve had only two full weeks of school this year. I heard rumblings about possibly eliminating some of either February or April vacation, in order to make up snow days, but so far, no such luck.

By the time this column reaches your hands we will have all heard the following phrases more times than we can count:

“I’m bored.”

“I’m hungry.”

“What are we doing today?” (Also rephrased as the statement, “There’s nothing to do.”)

“He/she is hogging the television/video game system/computer/iPad/iPod/iTouch.”

Sound familiar? Here are a few survival tips on responding to these phrases allowing you to regain a small amount of sanity over these last few days of vacation.

A friend has a brilliant solution whenever her kids say “I’m bored.” She whips out the vacuum cleaner, toilet brush, dust rag and directs them to whatever needs to be cleaned. As you can imagine, the words “I’m bored” are rarely uttered in her presence. Give it a try. The first few times your kids utter this phrase, you’ll end up with a sparkly clean toilet bowl or kitchen counter. Stock up on extra Lysol and Windex so everyone can have their own bottle. After they catch on, your kids may only think or whisper “I’m bored” under their breath, but as long as you don’t have to listen to it, who cares?

My nearly-teenage son frequently says, “I’m hungry”. I helpfully reply, “Well, what are you hungry for?” to which he usually says, “I don’t know.” At this point I start to list everything in the refrigerator and pantry, all of which gets rejected. From now on the phrase “I’m hungry” will be countered with the response, “So am I. What do you feel like making me?” It’s a great opportunity for your child to learn how to prepare your favorite goodies. Watch it come in handy when Mother’s Day rolls around.

The question “What are we doing today?” sets my teeth on edge. As it is, I hear this most weekends, not just school vacation week. It’s as if I’m Julie McCoy and I’ve created this mysterious agenda for each non-school day, but just haven’t shared it with them yet. Rather than respond with “Well, we’ve got shuffleboard on the Lido deck and Isaac is giving bartending lessons at three in the Coconut Lounge”, I’m going to give them an honest answer: “I’m cleaning out the fridge and I could use your help. Can you taste these items and let me know if they’re spoiled? (This might actually tie in with the aforementioned “I’m hungry” complaint).

When the inevitable “there’s nothing to do” comes up, counter with all the things you have on your agenda: “Sure there is! Can you pull the stove out and clean that little area I can’t reach where all the food falls down between the stove and the counter? And when you’re done, can you clean the grout in the shower? Just grab your toothbrush and use it to scrub, that’s what I do when you’re at school.”

Inevitably one of my kids will complain that the other is hogging the television, Wii or computer. Distract them with something shiny, and then surreptitiously throw the circuit breakers on those items. Explain that sometimes there are partial blackouts that only affect these items and suggest they read a book….in their room…with the door closed. Be aware that this does sometimes backfire. Be prepared to get sucked into a marathon game of Monopoly or Clue. When you can’t take one more trip around the board, excuse yourself and throw the circuit breakers back on.

And for those of you lucky enough to be relaxing on a tropical shore or schussing through the mountains of New Hampshire, I wish you a wonderful vacation week with just one word of warning: Your day will come. Perhaps during April vacation week.

Good luck.

Down for the Count

2011-06-21T05:55:00.003-04:00

The cold and flu season is upon us. I don’t consider myself to have a super immune system. I try to prevent colds by practicing good hand washing and taking vitamins (when I remember). Typically, at the first sign of a cold, I pop extra vitamin C or those immune-boosting tablets you see advertised on television. Still, with all these precautions, I did find myself coming down with a cold this week.

Even when I succumb to a nasty cold, I find myself continuing with my daily routine. The advice “get plenty of rest” doesn’t apply to moms. If we were to suddenly plop ourselves down on the couch with a box of tissues and a cup of tea, who would drive the kids to taekwondo and baseball practice? Who would pack lunches in the morning, run five loads of laundry, do the food shopping and make dinner? Who’d crack the whip over the kids as they do their homework, find their AWOL baseball glove or the head from their Lego Star Wars clone trooper?

Yes, we ignore medical advice and continue with our daily routines because we know that if we didn’t, civilization as we know it would grind to a halt.

Or would it?

My husband has a similar ethic when it comes to being sick. Unless he is at death’s door, he will drive 60 minutes to work and put in a full day, despite looking and sounding like the creature from the black lagoon and potentially infecting every co-worker within a five cubicle radius. However, on those rare occasions when he is just too sick to work, he stays in bed for the entire day and sleeps, rousing himself only for bathroom breaks or a bowl of chicken soup.

Since my current cold presented itself near the end of the week, I decided to forgo my usual routine of blundering through my daily chores, embrace my sickness and take to my bed. Fortunately, my husband works half days on Fridays. He was home in time to take one of our boys to his taekwondo practice, and then drive the other son to his school dance that evening. But what about dinner? Under normal circumstances I would go ahead and cook, adding a smidge of germs to whatever dish I was making. This time, instead of picking up a skillet I picked up the phone and ordered Chinese takeout. A breakthrough! Besides, we all know hot and sour soup is good for a cold, right?

The next day was Saturday. One son had baseball while the other son was scheduled to participate in a service project at church (for which I had volunteered to drive). Luckily, my son caught my cold, and was sniffing and coughing as much as I was. As I was about to call the project coordinator, my husband walked into the room. “Can you call him?” I asked, using my diminished strength to hand him the phone (I hate making those calls under the best of circumstances). I added a few coughs for good measure. “Of course I can,” he replied as I fell back against the pillows and reached for the television remote. I was starting to get the hang of this.

I spent the entire day in bed, surrounded by tissue boxes, throat lozenges, magazines and my television remote. I watched “The Godfather” in its entirety and dozed on an off through a marathon of “American Pickers” on the History Channel. I drank orange juice and ate leftover Chinese food (“feed a cold”). I read an entire book, cover to cover. And when it came time for dinner, I sat back and let my husband whip up a chicken casserole. Who knew that being sick could be so therapeutic?

Still, all good things must come to an end. Tempted though I was to spend another day in bed, it was my turn to teach Sunday school. On the way home from church, I stopped to buy groceries for the week. As I type this I’m baking Valentine’s cupcakes and helping my son create cards for his classroom. There’s laundry in the dryer, the house needs a good vacuuming, and there’s youth group this evening.
Though I’m still sneezing and blowing my nose, I feel like a human being again. Had I not spent the entire day in bed, I’m pretty sure I would be feeling worse today, not better. Though no one likes being sick, I did enjoy absolving myself of all my regular duties for that one day. Still, I doubt I’ll have the chance to repeat it anytime soon.

Unless…unless I catch that stomach bug I hear is going around. Hmmmmm.

Happy Valentine's Day

2011-06-21T05:53:00.002-04:00

Valentine’s Day is nearly here. Have you bought your chocolates? Booked your table at a fancy restaurant? Snuck red-faced into Victoria’s Secret looking for that special item for the woman in your life? Well, what are you waiting for?

Some people love Valentine’s Day, others hate it. Is it really a day to cherish those people we love most or a day for Hallmark, Teleflora and most restaurants to suck all the money out of our wallets?

Well...it’s both. Valentine’s Day can be the most wonderful day of the year when you are in love. If you’re not in a relationship, it can be torture. The day is filled with love songs, roses, romantic movies and retail specials geared towards everyone and everything: “Show your car how much you love it…bring it in for an oil change on Feb. 14”.

After reading “Waiter Rant” a tell-all memoir by a professional waiter, I learned that Valentine’s Day is one of the absolute worst days to dine out. Restaurants create “special” menus which feature the priciest items and service tends to be less than stellar. Get take out and bring it home, or better still, prepare a special meal for your loved one in your own kitchen (men, I’m directing this to you, since I’m willing to bet that a large portion of the women reading this do the bulk of the cooking on a day to day basis. Does this make me sexist? Yup).

And then there’s candy. Forget the Whitman sampler. The best part about Whitman chocolates is the map that tells you how to avoid the nasty ones. However, I find most of them are nasty, so go for the good stuff: Ghirardelli, Godiva or Lindt. Avoid the candy conversation hearts like the plague. One year my son handed me one of those cute little candies with the phrase “I Luv U” on it. “Eat it mommy,” he urged, and like a good mother I did. Crack. That sound you heard was my tooth breaking apart. The only one feeling the love that year was my dentist, who was more than happy to replace my crown.

Somehow Valentine cards spiraled out of control at my house. Growing up, we bought cards for each member of our family. I continued this tradition when my children came along. But then one year I finally realized that I was sending cards from myself, my husband and my kids to my mother, father, in-laws, sisters, brothers-in-law, niece and nephews. It was like some kind of crazy math problem from my son’s homework:” If you have 15 people and each person sends a Valentine to each of the other people, how many Valentines will you have sent in all?” I may not be a math whiz, but when I added up all the cards and postage, I realized Valentine’s Day was becoming almost as expensive as Christmas. That was the year I discovered the one-size-fits-all photo card. Much like a Christmas card, I could customize it with photos of the entire family and send one card to each person on the list. This year I’m going to get creative with e-cards. By the way, the photo card also works well for those kids who don’t want to hand write their name on their classroom valentines. For the last couple of years my son has given classmates snazzy photo cards preprinted with “Happy Valentine’s Day from your friend Cooper.” They cost a bit more than Hannah Montana, Justin Bieber or “Toy Story 3” boxed cards, but the time you save…priceless.

Remember mix tapes? What better gift to give than a customized CD of music for the one you love? I did this one year for my husband. I compiled a playlist of romantic songs, each one designed to express my feelings for the wonderful man in my life. The mistake I made, however, was choosing romantic songs by artists that I liked: James Ingram, Celine Dion, Styx, and even a few show tunes made it onto the CD. I couldn’t figure out why my Grateful Dead-Beck-and-Stevie-Ray-Vaughn-loving-husband didn’t appreciate the gesture more. Next time I’ll look through his iTunes library before compiling a musical tribute.

Finally, why not wrap up your Valentine’s Day snuggling on the couch with a romantic movie? Sure you can limit yourselves to the obvious choices like “Sleepless in Seattle”, “Casablanca” or “The Princess Bride” (my husband’s personal favorite). Why not cast your net a bit wider and try a less conventional film? “Truly, Madly, Deeply” stars Alan Rickman (aka Severus Snape) as the deceased lover who returns from the grave to hang out for a bit with the woman he loves (and no, this is not a zombie flick. Think “Ghost” before there was “Ghost”). Want your man to get in touch with his feelings? Sit him down to a double feature of “Field of Dreams” and “Brian’s Song”. Have Kleenex nearby. And for those who are looking for something truly bizarre, may I recommend “Boxing Helena”, the story of a surgeon who becomes obsessed with a woman and removes her limbs in order to keep her close, in a box. Now there’s someone who should have stuck with the Whitman Sampler.

However you choose to celebrate, I wish you all a very Happy Valentine’s Day.
XOXOXO

Date night for Mom and Dad

2011-06-21T05:51:00.001-04:00

The other night my husband and I had dinner together.

We had talked for quite a while about getting out for a “date”, just the two of us. There were no movies we were dying to see, so armed with a gift certificate to a local restaurant, we both looked forward to reconnecting as a couple for just a few short hours.

Naturally, our children tried to derail our plans.

I think my first mistake was telling our two boys exactly where we were going for dinner.

“We’re going to The Fours in Norwell, “I said, hoping to reassure them that we would be close to home and able to return quickly should some unforeseen reason arise.
“The Fours?” they chorused in disappointment. My kids associate The Fours with good food and fun. How dare their parents decide to dine there without them? Had I been smart, I would have told them we were trying a new French restaurant that specializes in frog’s legs, sweetbreads and escargot. The idea that their parents were venturing out to the place that served their favorite burgers and nachos was unthinkable; practically treason.

A short time after our announcement, the kids tried to play the guilt card. My younger son attempted to school my older son in the nuances of passive aggressiveness. “Say it this way, “he instructed, continuing, “Oh well, I guess we’re not going to The Fours with you for dinner tonight. We’ll just have to stay home and eat stale bread and water instead.” Not bad for a nine year old. A few more years and he’ll be even more skilled than his mother.

A bit later, I called the two boys to the table for their dinner. They trudged up the stairs with heavy footsteps, their shoulders slumped and their heads hung low. Clearly they were trying to use body language to convey their displeasure with our plans.

I gently explained to the boys that moms and dads need time alone to reconnect. Time to talk about everything and nothing. Time to laugh at each other’s jokes and enjoy a quiet dinner without having to referee fights or remind someone to sit up straight or stop picking on their brother.

They countered with this logic: “You know you just went to your friend’s house for dinner a couple of weeks ago.” (True). “And you went to see “The King’s Speech” while you left us home with Nana and Grandpa!” (Yes…at Christmas).

My nine year old decided it was time to pull out his final trick, the ace in the hole: “You mean to tell me you don’t want to stay home and spend time with your own children? What’s wrong with you?” This phrase is a running joke between us, yet I knew there was an underlying note of truth in his jest.

Time to pull out my own lethal weapon: “Do you know, “I asked them, “what happens sometimes to moms and dads who don’t get to spend enough time together as a couple?”

“What?” they asked.
“They get divorced. “ Silence.

I continued, “Think about it. Do you really want to spend every other weekend and Wednesday nights with your father?”

“No,” they answered grudgingly as my husband murmured that Tuesday nights would actually work better for him. Resigned to an evening with no one to monitor their video game playing and YouTube viewing habits, they waved goodbye as we headed to The Fours.

Less than two hours later we were home, sated by a good meal, a couple of drinks and enough time to laugh and remind ourselves exactly what we love best about each other. Aside from a depletion of cookies from the cookie jar, our children were no worse the wear for our brief evening out.

There will be more opportunities ahead for my husband and I to enjoy our “alone” time. However, if we decide to visit The Fours again, this time we might have to bring our passive aggressive, guilt-inducing, nacho-eating children along too.

OH NO! MORE SNOW!

2011-01-27T10:26:00.000-05:00

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

2011-01-20T07:20:00.001-05:00

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...

2011-01-13T08:09:00.001-05:00

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

2011-01-13T08:06:00.002-05:00

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

2011-01-02T09:54:00.001-05:00

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

2011-01-02T09:52:00.000-05:00

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!

2011-01-02T09:51:00.000-05:00

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...

2011-01-02T09:50:00.000-05:00

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!!

2011-01-02T09:48:00.000-05:00

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

2011-01-02T09:44:00.000-05:00

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.

TV's Version of "History"

2010-12-27T14:59:00.000-05:00

My children are huge history buffs.

“History”, of course, being defined by what they see on television’s The History Channel. You might be familiar with this channel. When it first aired on cable, people used to refer to it as The Hitler Channel, since 90% of their programming seemed to be documentaries about World War II.

Over the years The History Channel has broadened its programming to include an enormous assortment of shows, many which I question as being relative to “history”.
True, there are still the documentaries about WWII. Last week the channel held a Veteran’s Day marathon of the program “Patton 360”, a series which focuses on the battles led by “Old Blood and Guts” himself, mixing archival footage, interviews with veterans and state of the art 3-D animation. My kids were riveted, and I must admit that I got sucked into the Battle of the Bulge episode.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that my kids have an interest in history. Last year, my younger son was given the “class historian” award from his third grade teacher. She commended him for knowing so much about history, to the point where she learned from him. Often, my kids will spout some piece of information about the Mayans or Pompeii or the San Francisco earthquake or some other historical reference and when I ask them where they learned that, the answer is almost always, “From the History Channel.”

So the truly historical information they are retaining is wonderful. My younger son is talking about wanting to become a historian when he grows up. Although their interest in history is being sparked by a television channel, they are expanding that interest with books and other resources. All well and good.

However, it’s the other programming on The History Channel that I question. For example, they can identify almost every type of military weapon, modern or antique, from watching shows like “Lock and Load with R. Lee Ermey” and “Top Shot”. There’s something about my nine-year-old being able to tell an M16 from an AK-47 that makes me uneasy. This is history?

And then there’s “Monster Quest”, the program that delves into the history of Bigfoot, Birdzilla, The Jersey Devil, giant killer snakes, dragons and the Chupacabra (not to mention several other monsters I’ve never heard of). “Ice Road Truckers” follows truckers in Alaska who haul supplies across a 350-mile highway made of frozen lakes and permafrost. Since the frozen highway lasts for only 8 weeks, a spin-off series entitled “IRT: Deadliest Highways” takes these truckers to India to let them drive trucks along the narrowest mountain passes. When I ask my kids how this pertains to history, they parrot back the History Channel’s catchphrase, “Mom, it’s history made every day.”

Personally, I do enjoy “Pawn Stars”, a series about a family-owned pawn shop in Las Vegas. It’s kind of like PBS’s “Antiques Road Show”, only not as classy (Hey, it’s Vegas). People bring in items ranging from old motorcycles to Pez dispensers, though the items are secondary to the grouchy banter between the three generations of men who run the place. In each episode, Chumlee, a bumbling employee, is guaranteed to break something or screw up in some way. Hilarity ensues.

For those who like their antiques on the less seedy side, there’s “American Pickers” which follows antique store owners Mike and Frank as they travel cross country in their van searching for found treasure to be “picked” from other people’s attics, basements, barns and sheds. My big mistake was watching this show before heading to the Brimfield antique fair. Every dented, oil can and rusty tin sign caught my eye, practically shouting “What, you’re going to pass me by? If Frank were here, he’d buy me.” My in-laws have several buildings full of stuff. I’m tempted to drop a dime on them with the Pickers.

I guess we’re a History Channel household. There’s something for everyone, whether you prefer the gloom and doom of “Nostradamus” and “Life after People”, the Ragin’ Cajun folk on “Swamp People” (“...Clint Landry owns a turtle farm and camp where he and his buddies like to swim in the alligator-infested bayou and play pranks on each other…”) or just a good, old-fashioned documentary on the Third Reich. And though I sometimes question the “historical” aspect of some of its programs, it’s a heck of an improvement over the tripe being shown on Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network.

Hmm. There’s an idea. Maybe we can get the cast of “iCarly” or “The Suite Life of Zack and Cody” to go bayou swimming with the Swamp people. Now that would make history.

What Moms Do

2010-12-27T14:58:00.001-05:00

Last week I read a news story about a political candidate’s mother stealing a lawn sign bearing the name of her son’s opponent. My first reaction was to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Then I imagined the embarrassment the mother must have felt, being caught red-handed. Add in the embarrassment of the political candidate, who will now be known as “… that guy whose Mommy stole a sign for him on election day.” How do you live that down in your political career?

After reading the entire article, it became clear that the mother was embarrassed, the son disavowed any involvement in the incident and I was left thinking about the things that we mothers do for our children.

Granted, I have never stolen a political sign for my child (I did take one once just for fun, but I had had a drink or two and the name on the sign was just too tempting: Herb Lemon. Political candidate? Or chicken dish?) I’ve also never hired a hit man to bump off the mother of one of my child’s sports rivals, as Wanda Holloway did in Texas in 1991. Holloway thought that if she killed the mother of her daughter’s cheerleading rival, the girl would be so overcome with grief she’d drop out of the competition for a coveted place on the cheerleading squad.

The movies are full of female characters that go to great lengths for their children: Barbara Stanwyck as “Stella Dallas”, Joan Crawford’s “Mildred Pierce”, and of course Shirley MacLaine’s frantic turn around the nurse’s station, screaming for her daughter’s medication in “Terms of Endearment”. Though I haven’t had histrionics in the middle of a hospital, I do try to be the “squeaky wheel” when it comes to being an advocate for my child.

Here’s the problem. We all want to do everything we can for our children. But each day is a balancing act of just how much is too much? We don’t want to be classified as a helicopter mom, the ones who hover constantly over everything their child does. But childhood can be a minefield of tricky situations. When should we step and in when should we step back?

For example, if my child has an issue with another child, my first inclination is to let them work it out themselves. As long as my child isn’t being bullied or abused, it’s healthy to let them try to work out the situation without parent intervention. However, if that other child crosses the line, I have no qualms about picking up the phone and speaking with the teacher, or the other child’s parent. I would expect that parent to do the same if their child was on the receiving end and my kid was to blame (and guess what…I have gotten those phone calls. They are not fun.)

Homework is another issue. My friend, who is a mom herself, always asks me how many hours my parents spent cracking the whip while I did my homework. My parents were always available if I needed help, but they operated under the general assumption that I was completing my homework each day, on my own (I was). There was no constant redirecting of my attention to the books; they simply asked me if my homework was finished before I went to bed. Maybe this hands-off, sink-or-swim approach would work better than the constant badgering directed at my 7th grader each night.

When it comes to academics, social situations, sports and other activities, we just want our kids to do well and feel good about themselves. But what about those times when they do poorly? What about those times when they don’t feel good about themselves? When a child gets cut from a sports team, receives a poor grade on a test, or is not invited to a birthday party, do we step in and try to “fix” it or do we use it as a teaching moment? The road ahead is full of challenges. Do we soften the blow now or do we let them toughen up for those situations in their future when they will really be challenged.

There is no right or wrong answer. Some of us will hover. Others will let their kids tough it out on their own. I try to look to my own mother as an example. She didn’t steal lawn signs or hire hit men or call my teachers every week. She didn’t demand to know why I wasn’t invited to birthday parties or try to scrounge up some long lost cousin for a prom date. She didn’t chase the neighborhood boys away with threats, but she did visit my 8th grade principal to stop a classmate who was bullying me. She didn’t hover, but in everything she ever said or did for me, she let me know just how much she loved and supported me.

What better example to follow than that?

Trying to Live in the Moment

2010-12-27T14:57:00.000-05:00

I love the fall. It’s my favorite season. Every year at this time, I drive through the streets of my town and marvel at the incredible palate of colors on display. Each day brings more beautiful colors than the one before, and I consider myself truly blessed to live amongst such a breathtaking display of nature. There’s something about an October sky that sets off these leaves to their best advantage. It seems as if the outline of each leaf stands out against the sharp, blue sky. Indian summer is always nice, but my favorite part of the season is the crisp cool air with just a hint of wood smoke. The air is also filled with the scent of dried leaves, and they make a crunching, shushing sound as you walk through them.

It’s true that I complain about our bitterly cold winters and our hot, humid summers. But I know that if I moved to an area with a different climate, I would miss those few weeks each year when the trees change from shades of green to rich hues of gold and red and orange.

Alas, I’ve noticed lately that there are now more leaves on the ground than on the trees. Thanks to a few rainy, windy days, many of the trees have shed most of their leaves. My front lawn is completely covered with leaves. At this point in the season, the beauty of fall suddenly becomes tinged with a bittersweet sadness. Rather than enjoying the last few days of nature’s unique art show, I begin envisioning bare branches, icy cold weather and a winter that seems to last for eternity.

Why do I have such a hard time appreciating the “now”? Why can’t I just live in the moment and not try to rush whatever might be in store for me tomorrow?

This is a common problem for me. I prepare a meal and, rather than taking my time to enjoy it, I rush through it to get to the next item on my “to do” list (in this case, clearing the table and loading the dishwasher). When I go to the theater to see a much anticipated movie, I check my watch several times throughout, wanting to get this experience “done” rather than just enjoying each minute of it. When my children were little I wished that they could be just a little bit older, so they could do more for themselves. Now they’re rapidly approaching the age where they won’t need me for much more than a ride to the mall and some cash for their wallets.

Maybe I should blame it on society. My first column dealt with the fact that people consider July 4th the mid-point of summer. Before the true mid-point of summer arrives, stores are touting their “back to school” items. This year I saw my first Christmas commercial on October 10th. We hadn’t even reached Halloween yet and suddenly it’s time to get ready for Christmas. We worry about our third grader’s MCAS results because one day (ten years in the future) that same score may prevent them from graduating high school. So can you blame me for having a hard time appreciating the “now”?

My friend Julianne is a Health and Wellness coach. Part of her mantra is to focus on the moment. Don’t dwell on yesterday (it’s gone) and don’t worry about tomorrow. The most important thing is to concentrate on this moment in time.
Julianne’s good advice applies to more than just exercise and eating habits. Rather than worrying about how to pay for my child’s college tuition in six years, why not just enjoy the progress report that came home with all “A”s? Instead of worrying about my parents’ future health, why not be thankful for their current good health and enjoy all that it allows them to do? Instead of beating myself up for the junk food I ate yesterday, why not embrace the healthy choices I’m making today?
And instead of picturing cold, icy roads and barren branches, why not enjoy the spectacular display of colors that is right in front of my eyes until the very last leaf falls to the ground?

Hey, it’s a start.

Get Ready For Halloween

2010-12-27T14:56:00.000-05:00

Halloween is Sunday. Are you ready? Have you draped your house in cobwebs, set-up fake gravestones and dusted off your favorite Spooky Sounds CD? Have you been to the Spirit Halloween store countless times to see what new and disgusting items are available this week? Have you scoured the internet looking for that obscure piece of your child’s Halloween costume, a character so below the radar that not only is the costume impossible to find, but your child is guaranteed to prompt endless inquiries of “And what are you supposed to be?”

If not, you better get going. Halloween was a big deal when I was a kid, for the sole purpose of the pursuit of candy. Yes, we wanted cool costumes, but that took a backseat to the potential trove of sweets awaiting us on Halloween. Back then, costumes were limited to the ones that came folded in cardboard boxes with clear plastic fronts, all the better to see the cheaply made masks of Wonder Woman or Superman. There were no specialty party stores where you could chose from hundreds of clever (and crass) costumes. It was either a boxed costume or your own imagination (and your mom’s sewing machine). When all else failed, we raided our father’s closets and went out as bums (what my kids now call hobos).

The costume selection has changed significantly over the years. During the fall, party stores devote a huge amount of floor space to elaborate costumes for both children and adults. And speaking of adults, since when did Halloween become more of an adult celebration than one for kids? I don’t recall my parents ever dressing up and attending Halloween parties. This year I was invited to three adult gatherings, each mandating that attendees come in costume. Adult parties prompt the dilemma of what type of costume to choose: Funny, clever, scary or sexy?

I enjoy the funny and clever costumes the most. A friend’s husband attended a party with what looked to be a large magnet around his neck and little yellow chicks glued to it (chick magnet.) A friend of mine once dressed in a grey sweat suit with shipping labels, packing peanuts and bubble wrap glued to him. He was a shipping magnate. It’s also fun when couples coordinate their efforts. One year my friend and her husband bought matching tacky tourist costumes, but added a twist: she dressed as the husband, complete with mustache and he dressed as the wife, with anatomical (ahem) enhancements. That same year my other friends decided to tap into pop culture crafting their own coordinating costumes: Britney Spears and K-Fed. It was frightening how well they nailed the look, she with a cheap blond wig and a baby doll hanging precariously off her waist and he in a white tank top and porkpie hat. I give them props for creating their own husband/wife costume, rather than resorting to the tired plug and socket combo from the party store.

Last year I attended a party dressed as a midwife from Hell, complete with bloody scrubs, surgical mask and a two-headed baby doll in tow. When it comes to Halloween parties, I’d rather have a silly or scary costume, but many women prefer to go the sexy route. Check out Iparty or ItzAParty and you’ll find that 90% of women’s costumes are short, skimpy, sexy outfits that have little to do with their subject matter. Lucky us! No longer are we limited to being Naughty Nurses or French Maids. Now you can be a High Speed Hottie (NASCAR), Caddy Shack Cutie (Golf), Naughty Wizard (Harry Potter) or the worst offender of all: Sexy SpongeBob. Imagine leaving your kids with the babysitter as you sashay out the door in your Sexy SpongeBob outfit? At least the manufacturers have thoughtfully included plus-size versions of these costumes so those of us who aren’t a perfect size 4 can join in the madness.

Why the flood of risqué costumes? My friend Jessie claims its all part of what she calls the “Snookification” of America. Too many hours spent watching programs such as “Jersey Shore” and “Rock of Love”, resulting in a warped view of how women should dress and act. Think I’m kidding? Iparty has a “Jersey Shore Snooki” leopard dress costume this year. Just add your own barf bag and arrest record and you’re all set to party.

Sexy or scary, clever or crass, or simply chaperoning your little princess or goblin, here’s hoping that no matter how you choose to celebrate Halloween, you give yourself over to the spirit(s) of the season.

Trick or Treat.

Happy Birthday Dad!

2010-12-27T14:54:00.000-05:00

Recently I wrote about the milestone birthdays I’ve helped celebrate this year. This weekend, I will celebrate one of the most important of all.

This Friday is my dad’s 80th birthday.

You might know my dad from the bits and pieces I’ve included in my columns over the years. He’s the man who crafted my favorite Halloween costume of all time; a pack of Tareyton cigarettes. It was also my dad who took me to scary movies when I was a teen, though he would always see the movie first to be sure I could handle it. (“The Exorcist” when I was thirteen? What were you thinking Dad?)

It’s my dad who likes to order Christmas presents from the “Everything 3 for $20” catalog (I have two sisters…). Speaking of Christmas, it was my dad who happened to be standing next to my younger sister in church on Christmas Eve when she set her hair on fire during the candlelight service. Luckily, Dad beat out the flames before anyone noticed. You may also recall that my dad has eaten countless servings of Spam and Bean pie as well as the black jelly beans that no one wanted at Easter. Dad’s the one who tapes the Thanksgiving Day parade, so we can play back any mishaps ad nauseaum.

Dad’s the one who clued me in to our real family history, complete with gravediggers, jugglers and prostitutes. He’s the one who gave us rides on his back in our swimming pool, took us to the Jersey shore for two weeks every summer and who sent me a letter shortly after my college graduation telling me just how proud he was. He’s the man who still does the NY Time crossword puzzle in about 20 minutes…in pen.

These are all tidbits about my dad that you may or may not remember from my columns. But those are just a fraction of the things that make up my dad.
My dad was the first kid on his block to own a television. He charged his friends comic books to come and watch it. He has a divot in his forehead where one of those friends hit him with a rock.

My dad can build or fix anything. Our house is filled with bookcases and cabinets built by my father. When something breaks, the first person I seek out is my dad.
My dad is smart, MENSA smart. Yet he still enjoys watching “America’s Funniest Home Videos” and “Kung Fu Theater.” A doctor of education, he spent more than 30 years working as an elementary school principal in a tough neighborhood. After disciplining unruly students all day, my dad came home to three unruly daughters. But he stuck it out, year after year, in order to provide for his family.

Somehow my dad managed to send all three of his kids to college, including his middle daughter who chose a fancy, private college which didn’t offer much in the way of financial aid (hint…it’s me). He then proceeded to pay off that same daughter’s student loans. He bailed me out when I proved myself unable to manage my first credit card. He loaned money on several occasions and held me to a payment schedule to teach me the responsibility of paying back a debt.

My dad was the one who went driving around at 2 a.m. searching for his teenage daughters who ignored their curfew and didn’t think to call home. This was long before cell phones, and now that I’m a parent myself, I can’t imagine how awful that must have felt.

My dad gave each of us away at our weddings and danced with us at the reception, though he wasn’t much for dancing. He surprised us by joining an amateur theater group and played small roles in productions of “The Crucible” (as a magistrate) and “You Can’t Take It With You” (Mr. Kirby). He laughed about a reviewer’s assessment of his “wooden” performance. After he retired, he surprised us again by becoming a Mason. Zooming up the ranks of the order my agnostic father was appointed the group’s chaplain. He assured me this was proof that even God has a sense of humor.

Dad slices pizzas with scissors, loves licorice All Sorts, and once scared the hell out of his 2-year old grandson by plunking a Santa hat on his head and booming “ho ho ho” (we have it on video). He is generous beyond belief, devours library books by the dozen and is nearly deaf as a post. His back deck is the world’s largest buffet for the neighborhood birds and squirrels. He is on AOL Instant Message almost every day, and I chat with him every chance I get (it’s easier than shouting over the phone). He has been married to my mother for over 50 years, and has been a steady, stabilizing influence on his three daughters for nearly that long.

What do you get for someone who has done so much? A gift just seems inadequate. So Dad, this column is my gift for you.

Happy 80th Birthday, Dad. I love you.

Friday Night Lights

2010-12-27T14:53:00.000-05:00

This weekend I got my first real taste of “Friday Night Lights”.

Let me be clear up front: I am not a football fan. Though I hail from the land of the Giants (and the Jets), football was never really a sport that interested me. I’m married to a Patriot’s fan, so I’m willing to give up television time for the sake of my spouse. Occasionally I’ll watch the Super Bowl, but only for the commercials.

I do enjoy watching other sports. Baseball is fine, though a little slow. Basketball, hockey and soccer are fast paced and exciting. But watching football at home, on television is my equivalent to watching paint dry…or grass grow. It’s just oh so slow.

Perhaps the problem lies with the fact that I have no idea how the game is played. This is what I have learned from watching football: One team has the ball. They go five feet. They stop. They go ten more feet. They stop. Somehow, someone else gets the ball and they go ten feet the other way. They stop. The referees have microphones so everyone in the neighboring state can hear what kind of penalty is being issued. And they dress like Foot Locker employees. The cheerleaders have perpetual smiles pasted on their faces and double stick tape on their short-shorts to avoid unpleasant wardrobe malfunctions on national television. And the commercials are all for mass-produced American beer, Doritos and Chevy trucks.

Granted, I’ve seen exciting moments in football. For example, the Doug Flutie “Hail Mary” pass. Imagine if Gerard Phelan hadn’t caught that ball? Talk about the agony of defeat. Speaking of defeat, how about the moment that ended Joe Theismann’s career? Whenever I mention the words “Joe Theismann” in my husband’s presence he winces in pain and tries to think of something else. Then there was the Patriots’ Super Bowl win over the St. Louis Rams in January 2002. I remember that game well in that it was one of the rare times that I’ve seen my husband cry (a feat to be repeated a few years later when the Red Sox won the World Series).

My kids have never had much interest in football, neither watching nor playing. Both of them enjoy soccer instead. However, many of my fourth grader’s friends are playing football this fall, and he asked if sometime we could watch a game so he could cheer his buddies on. Most of the football games conflicted with our Saturday morning soccer schedule, but this weekend’s game was scheduled in the evening, so we bundled up in warm coats and boots and headed off to the game.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for football, there’s something about sitting on freezing cold bleachers on a crisp, autumn evening that seems so right. As we walked to the field, the setting sun filtered through the red and gold leaves while a teenage girl sang the national anthem. Since we were the visiting team, our hike to the visitor’s bleachers was lengthy. Our opponents that evening were the Scituate-Cohasset Sharks, a team with the unlikely nickname of “Sci-Cohs” (pronounced like the Alfred Hitchcock film.) I guess that’ better than being known as “Sickos” but it still seemed odd every time the announcer made a comment about a member of the “psycho sharks”.

We don’t have announcers in soccer. When my kids play, no one is sitting up in the booth giving shout outs to players over a loudspeaker. Given my ignorance of the game, the announcements were quite helpful to me. Whenever one of my son’s friends got a mention, I’d let out a huge cheer. Luckily, none of them were injured or taken off the field on a stretcher as that might have made my cheering a bit embarrassing.

My sons discovered another bonus to football: the snack shack. Dollar after dollar found their way into my kids’ hands for popcorn, hot chocolate, Swedish fish and Reese’s peanut butter cups. I consoled myself with the fact that the walk from the visitor’s bench to the snack shack was long enough to burn off the calories of anything they ate.

Did I learn anything from watching the 4th and 6th graders play? Well, if anything it was more difficult to understand the game itself, without the advent of overhead cameras, telestrators and instant replay. But from sitting in the bleachers, I could feel the camaraderie of the parents as they cheered for each other’s kids. I could see the devotion of the coaches as they rotated players in and out, trying to insure that each kid had his fair share of playing time. I watched the younger brothers running up and down the sidelines, tossing footballs to each other and anticipating the day when they could become part of a team. And I marveled at the way my son, who has no real interest in football, jumped up and down, cheering and waving to his friends on the field as they each played their part in an hour of glory under the stadium lights on a crisp October night.

I get it now.

When Kids Can Watch Themselves

2010-12-27T14:52:00.000-05:00

Last weekend my husband and I planned a movie date. Like many couples, we spend most of our weekend time with our children, shuttling them to sports activities, overseeing weekend homework and sharing that rare family occurrence when everyone sits at the dinner table at the same time.

So “Date Night” seemed like a good idea. We chose the movie, checked the theater times, fed the kids dinner, bid them goodbye and were off.

Do you recognize what’s missing in this series of events? The noticeable absence of a babysitter. Until recently, any outing that involved both my husband and me required a babysitter to watch our two children. Unlike many of my friends, my husband and I have no family in the area to help with the kids, so we’ve relied heavily on sitters over the years. Most of my babysitters began sitting for me when they were twelve. Now my own “baby” is twelve, and over the past year I’ve been allowing him to take responsibility for watching himself and his younger brother without a sitter.

I tried to calculate just how much money I’ve spent on babysitters these past twelve years. $ 5 -$8 per hour multiplied by all the hours spent at book club, Newcomers, my Pampered Chef business, dates with my husband, weddings and funerals equals enough to purchase a luxury vacation for my husband and myself (a vacation we couldn’t take because that would require…a babysitter).

This led me to reflect on my own experience as a babysitter. As an early teen, my Saturday nights were spent sitting on a scratchy couch keeping an eagle eye on Adam Gilbert, age 4. Surrounded by metallic wallpaper (this was, after all, the 70’s), I’d watch “Love Boat” and “Fantasy Island”, sneaking chips or cookies from the pantry in unnoticeable increments, despite the Gilbert’s admonishment to “Help yourself to whatever you’d like.” Sometime after midnight I’d be roused from sleep by the sound of the garage door opener, at which point Mr. Gilbert would drive me home as quickly as possible, always in silence, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of making conversation. For this I earned the princely sum of $1 per hour, an amount that seems like slave wages compared to today, but one that paid for a steady supply of candy necklaces, Tiger Beat magazines and worthless trinkets from Spencer Gifts.

Now that my son is the same age that I was when I began sitting, I’ve eased him into the idea of being home alone. At the start of fifth grade he was given a key to the front door and strict instructions to call my cell phone if I’m not home when he gets off the bus. In sixth grade, he graduated to getting himself in the door and getting his brother off the bus shortly afterwards. I would always arrive home soon after, since leaving these two boys together was like leaving a lit match in the company of a powder keg. On the rare evening when I needed to go to book club or a school event before my husband arrived home, I would entrust my boys to watch each other for the overlapping hour. Even this resulted in no panicked phone calls to my cell phone or bloodshed.

Then last month, the true test: We left our kids home on a Saturday night in order to attend a friend’s party. The party was five minutes from home, and our children had already been fed dinner, minimizing the risk of cooking or choking incidents. From 7-11pm, we mingled with other grown-ups without worrying about how much the evening was costing us in babysitter fees. A friend at the party whose kids are older than ours, said, “It’s great when the kids are old enough to watch themselves. See, it was totally worth having them!”

We arrived home that night to find the house and children still intact, and that’s when it dawned on me that my husband and I could now get some of that all-important alone time that was sacrificed when our kids were little. We no longer have to wait for a “special occasion” to get out for a few hours on our own. We don’t have to go to the bank or make change to pay the babysitter, or take turns driving her home. We don’t have to take out a second mortgage in order to pay for dinner, a movie and a babysitter.

We do, however, have to figure out a way to get the kids to put themselves to bed before we arrive home past their bedtime.

Baby steps.

On Milestone Birthdays

2010-12-27T14:51:00.000-05:00

This has been a year of milestone birthdays.

Thankfully, none of these milestone birthdays have been mine. My next “big” birthday ushers in a whole new era, allowing me to apply for membership in AARP and checking off that box on surveys for people “50 and above…” But that’s three years from now, so let’s return to the milestones I helped celebrate this year.

In June, my mother-in-law celebrated her 70th birthday. On the last day of school we picked up our kids and drove to central New York to share this momentous occasion. As a child I thought 70 to be a particularly ancient age, but my in-laws run their farm, volunteer and participate in several social organizations in their community. I’m often exhausted when I read emails from my mother-in-law Sara, detailing the myriad of weekend activities. If I’m this tired on the dark side of 40, how does she manage to stay so active at 70? Maybe Sara can clue me in to the secret of increasing your energy as you get older. Good clean country living…or Geritol?

In September, my nephew turned 21. Sadly, the emphasis of this milestone birthday is the ability to drink alcohol legally. Since you can drive at 17 and vote and serve in the armed forces at 18, the one remaining activity restricted to age 21 is drinking. Visiting the party store last weekend, I noticed that all the “milestone” themed items for ages 30, 40 & 50 were very different from the “21” items. The majority of these novelties revolved around alcohol. My nephew is a smart kid, his one vice an excess of video games. I’m hoping that now that he’s “legal”, he’ll stay smart and drink only in moderation.

Recently, my sons’ taekwondo teacher invited my husband and me to a local pub to celebrate her husband’s 30th birthday. 30? An unpleasant truth settled in my brain: I was old enough to be his mother. Pushing that thought aside, I tried, without success, to recall how I spent my own 30th birthday. I have no memory of it whatsoever. I can, however, remember my husband’s 30th. Vividly. It was my first visit to his parents’ house. His stepfather had planned a barbecue for the occasion, but as he fired up the hibachi, it began to rain. Undeterred, his stepfather brought the hibachi inside, setting it on top of the woodstove. Smoke filled the house as my future husband ran from room to room opening windows: A truly unforgettable milestone birthday.

Last weekend, I helped organize a party for a friend who turned 40. She accepted this milestone with good grace, though she looks about 25 so perhaps that makes all the difference. On my 40th birthday I spent the day in my bathrobe, crying and feeling sorry for myself. Then the two dozen roses arrived from my husband and I managed to pull it together. When he arrived home with a spa gift certificate and tickets to the musical “Mamma Mia”, 40 suddenly didn’t seem so bad. The day ended with several friends taking me to dinner, and I finished that milestone on a high note.

Next month I travel to New Jersey to celebrate my father’s 80th birthday. This milestone is bittersweet: my dad is reaching it but many of his friends and past acquaintances did not. Though his mind is as sharp as ever (he still does the NY Times crossword puzzle in about 20 minutes…in pen), his body is feeling its age, something that concerns us both. I’m thankful that he is reaching this birthday, but then again I am grateful for every year that he and my mother bless my life.
Which brings me to my final thought: Isn’t every birthday a milestone? Is 30 that different from 29? Will 50 be that much different than 40? All of the milestone birthdays this year had one thing in common: they reinforced the notion that time passes all too quickly, and we need to appreciate every day, every hour, every minute that passes, regardless of whether this particular birthday happens to have a zero on the end of it.

So when my next milestone birthday comes, think I’ll be okay with it. I’ll celebrate with a smile, a prayer of thanks and a cup of coffee purchased with my senior citizen discount.

Antiques Roadshow

2010-12-27T14:49:00.000-05:00

It’s comforting to know that there’s a place where you can buy a prosthetic leg, a stained glass window, or an ammunition container, if you need one.
And that place is the Brimfield Antique Show.

Brimfield Massachusetts is home to three thousand residents. But for one week each May, July and September, the town welcomes over 250,000 visitors and 5000 antique dealers. True antiques muscle for space with found objects, collectibles, knickknacks, clothing, tools, books and pretty much anything else you can imagine.
Let me just state for the record, I’m not an antique aficionado; I wouldn’t know a priceless antique from a worthless piece of junk. But with the advent of programs like “Antiques Roadshow”, “Pawn Stars” and “American Pickers”, my interest in secondhand treasure has piqued.

I inadvertently purchased a “collectible” in 1987, buying a sealed copy of a limited edition Stephen King novel. “I can’t wait to read it“, I enthused to the bookseller, causing him to literally look down his nose at me and reply, “You don’t buy this book to read it.” At which point I shrank to about six inches in height, paid for my “collectible” and slunk out the door. The book is still encased in plastic, buried in my attic, now worth about $250. I read the paperback instead.
I first visited Brimfield 15 years ago, with an interior designer friend. As we trolled through trash and treasure, I noticed a vendor displaying what looked like large wooden hatboxes. This was during my hatbox-collecting phase (they’re all in the attic now too). The vendor explained that these were, in fact, cheese boxes, once used to store giant wheels of cheese. While I debated about whether to buy one or two, (there were three for sale) my friend offered up this interior design nugget: “You should only group things in threes and fives.” Who knew? I bought all three and they still reside in my living room (not the attic).

I haven’t been back to Brimfield since, though a friend and I often talked about going. Bad weather cancelled an attempt last fall, but this year the week’s weather turned out sunny and cool.

My friends picked me up at 5:30 Saturday morning and we were off. As our coffee kicked in, we talked non-stop all the way to Brimfield, to the point where we completely miss our exit, necessitating an 8-mile backtrack. Riding up Rt. 20 into Brimfield, we marveled at the lack of traffic. Apparently everyone else decided to sleep in. As we drove along the main road, flanked by fields of tents, we could see someone already rolling an early morning purchase to their car, an antique claw foot bathtub. We parked our car in the middle of town and began to wander through the vendors. Some were still closed, others just opening for business, but many were ready to bargain with eager customers.

Not wanting to spend great amounts of money, a friend suggested I play “the dollar game”. She had been to Brimfield many times and always tried to find the best item for one dollar. As we walked through the stalls, my cohorts began racking up purchases: a tin wall decoration ($20); a decorative tree made from twigs ($25); and the one item my kids would have fought over: an authentic army ammunition box ($20). I debated about that one, but suggested my friend purchase it for her son instead. Not wanting to lag behind, I bought a mason jar with the words Queen Wide Mouth and an old anesthesia bottle for my 9-year-old’s bottle collection. Vintage comic books, one for each son, depleted another two dollars from my wallet, but who can resist a title like “Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos”? I bought a metal “X” for my son Xander and a two-dollar wooden shoe last. My friends found other bargains, such as a stained glass window for $50 and a wooden wall carving for $30. And my “dollar game” purchase? A magazine from 1960 entitled “Calling All Girls” which lent a peek into the decade in which I was born.

We spent the day laughing over items like the single-legged-lion-head-end-table and the abundance of scary clown art. As we headed home, our bodies tired from miles of walking, we recapped the events of the day and declared it a huge success.
But the best part of our excursion wasn’t the items packed in the trunk of our car; it was the time we spent together. Our wallets may have been a bit poorer, but we drove home rich with memories.

A Different Sort of Homecoming

2010-12-27T14:48:00.000-05:00

This past weekend I attended Homecoming. Often when you hear that word, Homecoming, your thoughts turn immediately to football. Homecoming brings to mind images of a crisp, autumn day; cheerleaders shaking pom-poms, their cheeks rosy from the cold as heavily padded football players take the field; pretty girls wearing pastel gowns and cheap tiaras, smiling and waving to a crowd of cheering onlookers, bundled up in LL Bean and North Face jackets, a cup of steaming coffee or cider warming their hands.

But this weekend was a Homecoming of a different sort. This Homecoming was held at my church, The United Church of Christ in Norwell. For many, Labor Day is the official end of summer, but for me it is my church’s Homecoming Weekend. On that day, our Sunday service returns to its regular 10:00 a.m. time slot. Those of us (and I consider myself one of the worst offenders) who spent summer Sunday mornings sleeping in, reading the paper and making our leisurely way to places like Canobie Lake Park, Duxbury Beach or the New England Aquarium now set our alarm clocks in order to be showered, fed and in our seats by 10:00 a.m.

Summer is a time for vacations. Families take vacations from their everyday lives. Workers take vacations from their jobs. Kids take a vacation from their studies. And I, unfortunately, despite my best efforts, tend to take a vacation from the things that are good for me: healthy eating, exercise and religion.

During the summer I have every intention of eating fresh fruits and healthy salads. I tell myself that I will bring the kids with me to the gym, or go while they are in camp. And I will absolutely, without a doubt, continue to attend church every Sunday. Unfortunately, burgers and margaritas are awfully tempting, and when the kids are in camp it’s much more fun to go to the beach than the gym. And though our church’s summer service lasts only 45 minutes, most Sundays I just couldn’t seem to get myself out of bed in time.

Muscles that are not worked regularly become flabby, and the same holds true for my soul when I skip church for too long. It doesn’t help that my weekly Wednesday morning bible study takes a break during the summer months. While tidying my bedside table, I was disheartened to find a thin film of dust on my bible. A friend and I had decided to do a bible study together on our own this summer, had even gone so far as to order the workbooks online. We made it through one chapter.
That’s not to say that God wasn’t present in my life during the summer months. I found myself praying all summer long; for friends who needed strength; for my husband as he lay in the emergency room with acute appendicitis; for my children as they traveled on the bus to and from camp. Still, it just wasn’t the same

So clearly, Homecoming was an event that could not be missed. As I parked my car, I wondered if anyone would reproach me for being away so long. The first face I saw was my friend Cathy, who runs the church school program. “There she is!” she cried exuberantly as she threw open her arms wide for a hug. We caught up for a few minutes on our respective lives before I walked up the stairs and into the sanctuary. I nodded and greeted other familiar faces as my sons and I settled in our seats.

Throughout the service, I realized just how much had I missed the sounds of our impressive choir, the sweet strains of the organ, the steady sureness of our minister’s sermons. I missed hearing the sincere prayers voiced by other members of the congregation, reciting The Lord’s Prayer while holding hands with the person on either side of me, and greeting those around me with a warm handshake and the word, “Peace”.

It was all so familiar, and yet there were subtle changes as well. A young couple sitting behind me had a new baby in tow. There were new faces in the choir. Friendship Home, which was still a construction site last spring, is nearly complete. And my older son, who used to enjoy going up to the front of the church during the “time for children” opted to stay in his seat instead, whispering ,”Mom, I’m too old for that.”

When the service was over, I collected my things and made my way to the back of the church. A woman came up to me and said, “I haven’t seen you in such a long time!” There was no reproach in her voice, just a warmth that told me she was genuinely glad to see me again. I admitted that I had been the invisible woman all summer. “However,” I said, “I’m back now.”

With a smile, she replied, “That’s all that matters.”

I now know why they call it Homecoming.

Food Fight

2010-12-27T14:45:00.002-05:00

There is unrest brewing in my town. People are taking sides and there is a line being drawn in the sand. And sadly, that line is made up of…hot dogs.

Each September, the start of the school year brings new teachers, new friends and new adventures in learning. This year, our town also introduced a brand new school lunch menu. With childhood obesity growing at an alarming rate, a group of concerned residents and school staff members created a Healthy Kids Initiative with the goal of providing our children with better food choices during school hours.
In general the whole buy-lunch-or-bring-lunch debate splits right down the middle at my house. My older son prefers to bring lunch every day, while my younger son prefers to buy it. Though it takes me very little time, I don’t enjoy preparing the older one’s lunch each day (Yes, he’s old enough to make his own lunch. Perhaps it’s time to suggest that). So the lazy part of me has always enjoyed the fact that my younger son prefers to buy. True, I sometimes have to scrounge through seat cushions or the bottom of my purse to come up with the change for lunch each day, but it’s a small price to pay for having one less task in our usual chaotic morning.

The downside to my son buying lunch each day is the possibility of him living on hot dogs and bagels. He’s the type of kid who likes to try new things, but on days when he’s unwilling to risk his taste buds on something exotic, a hot dog or bagel is his trusty stand-by.

The night before school began, I looked up the lunch menu online and immediately noticed that hot dogs were no longer an option. The plain bagel is now replaced by a whole wheat bagel. I told my son that the menu option was ham and cheese on a croissant and that hot dogs were no longer available. His response: “Okay, I’ll bring my lunch instead.”

The next afternoon, while on Facebook, I was surprised by the volume of comments posted on multiple friends’s pages regarding the new lunch menus. No hot dogs? No plain bagels? Some kids chose to skip lunch all together, rather than trying one of the healthy options, and came off the bus starving. Parents who were ready to pay for the entire year in advance were ripping up their checks. It was incredible to see people prepared to eschew an entire year of school lunches after just one day.
You would think that our new lunch menu consisted solely of Brussels sprouts and tofu. Not true. Nachos, chili, hamburgers and meatball subs are still part of the menu. However in each instance the food is prepared with lean meat. Nachos and tacos are served with fresh shredded cheese instead of canned cheese product (If you look at the list of ingredients on the old cheese used for nachos, cheese is the fourth ingredient listed. Not first. Yuck) Not every kid will want to try a grilled chicken Caesar wrap, but some might and actually find that they like it. And though hot dogs are not part of the menu at this time, perhaps a healthier version will reappear in the future.

Believe me, I’m not a health food guru. I keep a supply of fresh fruit and healthy snacks in the house, but I have bags of chips and cookies in the pantry as well. I want my kids to make good food choices, but I don’t always make good choices myself. It’s a tricky balancing act for parents and children alike.

Kids are hard to feed, starting from the moment they begin solid foods. Remember that toddler sitting in his high chair, shaking his head from side to side to avoid a spoonful of applesauce, yogurt, or something equally healthy? We didn’t give up on the first try. We stuck to our guns and continued to encourage healthy foods instead of throwing up our hands and feeding them just Pepperidge Farm goldfish instead.

The second day of school, the menu item was “healthy pizza”. My son bought it and enjoyed it. A friend mentioned that the kids in her neighborhood got off the bus talking about how much they loved the pizza. Perhaps if we give it a little time, we’ll find that our children actually like the new choices. They might surprise us. And if they absolutely refuse, there’s always the brown bag option.

So let’s give the new menu a chance. Let’s see how our kids respond to it for more than just one day. Let’s find out if we can live, temporarily, without hot dogs for lunch.

Because when it comes down to it, do we really want our town divided because of a few weenies?

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2010-09-07T07:30:00.002-04:00

Today is the last day of summer vacation (for my town, anyway). It seems like just yesterday I was lamenting the end of the school year and worrying about how I was going to fill the hours and hours stretching ahead of me. And yet, in a flash, the summer is gone. While parents are humming the holiday tune “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year”, children are humming “It’s The End of the World as We Know It.”

Now is the time when we ask ourselves, “Did we do enough over vacation?” Did we go to the beach, sleep late, watch movies, camp and ride our bikes enough? Did we take enough day trips and weekend trips? Did we see enough family members (Or in some cases, too many?) Did we grill enough burgers, drink enough margaritas and swim in our pool (or our neighbor’s pool, or our friend’s pool) enough?

The answer is yes, yes and yes. We had hot days (too many), cool nights (too few), the occasional passing thunderstorm (not nearly enough of those) and every type of weather in between.

I have mixed feelings about the end of summer. Once school begins, I have more time to myself. However, the time when the kids are home will be filled with cracking the whip over homework, chauffeuring them to after school activities and mediating fights.

There are many things that I will miss about summer: letting my kids stay up late and sleeping in the next morning; surprising them with day trips to unexpected places; no homework; spending time with friends; stopping for ice cream on our way home from the beach; crowding around together on a rainy day and watching a “Pawn Stars” marathon on television.

But there are an equal number of things I will not miss about summer: the phrase “what are we doing today?”; fighting over whose turn it is to play the Wii, use the computer or choose the television program; listening to a constant refrain of “He touched/punched/kicked/breathed-on me”; trying to pry my kids away from the aforementioned Wii, computer and television; hot days that make you want to camp out in the freezer section of the Hilltop Butcher Shop; and motorcycles that zoom past my open bedroom window at all hours of the day and night.

Looking back I feel it has been a satisfying summer for our family. We celebrated two milestone birthdays with family and friends. We went to the beach a number of times and spent many afternoons lazing at a friend’s pool. We reconnected with old friends from work, college and elementary school. We read several good books and watched way too many hours of television. We saw good movies and bad movies. We took our annual trip to Canobie Lake Park and toured Castle Island for the first time. We cheered at the Brockton Rox and stood in awe at the Westfield Air Show. We lost one appendix but gained a set of braces.

Best of all, we spent approximately 1,700 hours together and still love and respect each other. So fire up the grill, pour one last margarita and think back to all the things you did this summer. Was it enough? Did you fill it with as many adventures and memories as you had hoped?

I’m willing to bet that you did.

Up In The Air

2010-08-29T12:14:00.003-04:00

Have you ever seen a jet powered school bus?

No, that’s not a rhetorical question. And no, I’m not about to launch into some futuristic, “back to school” rant (not yet).

The funny thing is I have seen a jet powered school bus. I saw one just the other day, along with 200,000 other folks. It was one of many highlights at the Westfield Air Show.

Recently, our Cub Scout leader made arrangements for our den to attend the air show with an overnight campout squeezed in between. My kids were crazy about seeing fighter planes, bombers and every other type of aircraft (including the aforementioned jet powered school bus). Me? Not so much. I’d never been to an air show before and camping is just not my thing.

I recall a co-worker once telling me about her childhood air show experience. At one point during the performance, a pilot lost control of his plane, causing it to crash in a ball of flames. Her father announced, “Okay, show’s over”, and hustled the family back to the car. Since hearing that story I’ve been apprehensive about air shows.

The plan (oh, we love plans, don’t we?) was that my husband was going to take the kids to the show, camping out afterwards. I, on the other hand, would stay home and revel in peace and quiet. But you know what they say about the best laid plans? My husband’s appendix had plans of its own, (more about that in another column). Suffice it to say, he was in no shape to take my kids anywhere, and so my son turned his sad, puppy eyes to me and said, “Can’t you take us mommy?” Grudgingly, I agreed to take them to the show, on the condition that I would be spending the evening, not in a tent, but in my own comfortable bed.

I regretted this decision when my alarm went off at 4:45 a.m. the morning of the air show. Given that Westfield is a good two hours away, we needed to make an early start if we were going to get there on time. We met up with our scout leader and another family at one of the rest areas on the pike and followed each other the rest of the way.

About three miles east of Westfield, the traffic suddenly stopped. This did not bode well. After crawling for a mile, a state trooper began to wave us out of the right lane and ordered us to move around the stopped cars. This we did, only to find that we would need to merge back into the stopped traffic at the State Police barracks, which was the temporary exit for the air show (it leads to the back of the airfield and an alternate parking lot). Several cars in the right lane made their displeasure known both visually and verbally as my cohorts and I had to merge back into their lane. Despite my protest that it was the police who ordered us to do so, my children got to hear a few choice swear words (prompting me to wonder if there’s a merit badge they can earn for that).

Finally we parked and then lugged our blankets, bags, chairs and coolers through the gates. This being a National Guard base, our bags where checked by uniformed guards. (One called out “Anyone without any bags or pockets knives can come through this way.” Pocket knives?)

We claimed our spot as planes began zooming all around us. My boys were in heaven, alternating between pointing out planes they recognized and holding their ears as the roar of jet engines shook the earth. In addition to the planes in the sky, huge assortments of military aircraft were stationed on the ground, allowing spectators to touch and even climb aboard. My boys were thrilled to walk through a Sea Stallion helicopter (“Mom, this is what they used in the movie ‘Transformers!’”) and peek inside the cockpit of a fighter jet. As we walked the midway, surrounded by corn dogs, funnel cake and t-shirt vendors, I couldn’t help but think, “It’s like the Marshfield Fair…only with fighter jets.”

The afternoon was a blur of F-16s, C-130’s and A-10 Thunderbolts (there was supposed to be a stealth bomber, but for some reason we never saw it.) As the show drew to a close, I had to admit that I had a lot of fun. Though I may not know the difference between a Sea Dragon and a Sea Stallion, I do know that there is only one thing more entertaining than a jet powered school bus:

A jet powered outhouse.

The grass is always greener...

2010-08-18T09:12:00.002-04:00

Recently, I published a column listing some of my pet peeves and random thoughts. Since that time, I’ve seen two people turn left on red, one friend driving with her dog on her lap, and received a photo from another friend vacationing in New Hampshire, showing off her new “This Car Climbed Mt. Washington” bumper sticker. Thank you all.

One response I received from that column offered up another random thought. A friend wrote, “What about those people who feel the need to keep their lawns watered despite the major water ban in town? It is like they have no idea how they can possible control the automatic sprinklers that were installed in their yard! This is probably one of my biggest pet peeves....those people who feel the rules do not apply to them.”

Great suggestion, but I hesitated to address it since several people in our town have private wells, thus allowing them to water to their heart’s content. Why make a big stink about scofflaws if the majority of folks are actually obeying the ban? I guess I’m one of those people willing to believe the best in other people, willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Except…I’m actually not one of those people (as much as I would like to be). Like my friend who made the suggestion, I do think that there are people in our town who don’t have private wells, but have decided to ignore the ban and continue to water their lawns. And now there’s proof.

My husband called my attention to an article in the Patriot Ledger last Friday about the water restrictions in our town, and several neighboring towns. There was even a handy table which listed the average daily use of water in each town, both before and after the ban. Some towns had reduced their water consumption by 22%, 33% and 36%. Now take a guess which town tied for last place, reducing their consumption by only 14%?

Yup. My town.

I’d like to be that person who gives others the benefit of the doubt and suggest that perhaps these people are taking several showers a day, or have a toilet that just keeps running and running no matter how much you jiggle the handle, or went on vacation and left the faucet in the sink drip-drip-dripping, but the green lawns sprinkled throughout my town tell me otherwise. I’d like to think that maybe these folks just don’t have the wherewithal to deactivate their sprinklers (or as my friend said, maybe they don’t know how!) But that would mean me being a non-judgmental type of person and folks, we just don’t live in that world.

So what should we do about this? Do we drop a dime on our neighbors when we see their sprinklers go off? Who do we call? The police? The DPW? Dateline NBC? (If Keith Morrison can’t frighten them into shutting off their sprinklers, no one can.} Do we form a neighborhood lawn watch? I can just picture it, like a scene from “Frankenstein”, but instead of villagers with pitchforks and axes we have residents with watering cans and Poland Spring bottles tied to their bodies. Perhaps we need to go all PETA on these people, throwing gallons of red paint to mark their pristine green lawns, like a big scarlet letter.

Or…maybe we do nothing. Wait it out. Let the wheels of justice turn at their own pace. Sooner or later, these people will be forced to pay for their wrongdoing.

When the water bill arrives.

Rock Lobster

2010-08-12T16:33:00.002-04:00

The other night my family indulged in a summer tradition: we had lobster for dinner.

True, lobster is a food that can be enjoyed any time of the year. But there’s something about these warm summer days that makes the idea of a lobster dinner seem that much more appetizing. Perhaps it’s the beach sand that’s infiltrated every corner of my house, despite my best efforts with the vacuum. Or maybe it’s the perfect pairing of boiled lobster with freshly picked corn that appeals. Whatever the reason, when the circular from my grocery store advertised lobsters for the bargain price of $4.99 a pound, I couldn’t resist.

I haven’t always been a lobster fan. For that matter, I haven’t always been a seafood fan. Growing up in New Jersey, my exposure to seafood was limited to breaded fish sticks. On the rare occasion my mother would serve these, I’d turn up my nose at those deep fried tubes that looked like chicken but smelled like the aquarium. After moving to New England to attend college, my roommate’s father treated us to dinner at Legal Seafoods. Predictably, I was the only person at the table to order steak.

I’ve been living in New England now for 30 years, and over time I’ve learned to enjoy a variety of seafood. Shrimp cocktail led to broiled scallops which gave way to swordfish, salmon and catfish. Clam chowder is another favorite, though I suspect it has more to do with the copious amounts of butter, heavy cream and potatoes involved and less about the clams. Though I pride myself on appreciating a variety of items from the sea, I still can’t get on board with oysters (too much like snot), calamari (french-fried rubber bands) or any really fishy tasting fish.

My husband was the one to introduce me to lobster. Something about these crustaceans always gave me the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it’s because they look like giant bugs and I hate anything that crawls (or creeps or flies…) Shortly after we began dating, my husband brought me home to meet his parents, who live in Central New York. His long-standing tradition was to bring lobsters home with him. Throughout the drive, I kept glancing at the back seat, wondering if these lobstrocities were working their way out of the travel pack, preparing to hijack the car. When we arrived at his parents’ house we were greeted with open arms and a pot of boiling water on the stove. My apprehension at meeting his parents quickly faded within minutes of meeting them, but my apprehension about eating lobster for the first time remained. What if I hated it? Could I ask for a hamburger instead?

Thankfully, the dinner was a success. Aided by a tutorial in claw cracking (as well as a veritable ocean of melted butter), I found the lobster to be mild and pleasant. Subsequently, my appreciation for this delicacy has grown over the years and there have been many lobster dinners since. I do, however, have my own set of rules when it comes to lobster. I never order it in a restaurant (too expensive). I never eat it as a lobster roll (lobster and mayonnaise? Blech!) Lobster can be enjoyed on the day it is cooked, but not as a leftover (see previous reference to lobster roll). It is acceptable as a filling for ravioli (but only with cream sauce, never tomato). It’s great in bisque, but when my husband ordered a lobster omelet at a favorite restaurant, I had to move to another table. And though some people enjoy it, I will never, ever eat that nasty green tomalley (I don’t do liver in any shape or form).

Unfortunately, my husband and I have done ourselves a disservice when it comes to enjoying lobster. We’ve introduced our kids to it. At first, they turned up their noses and refused to even try it. Oh well, more for the rest of us. But little by little they’ve come around, asking for a piece here and there. At dinner the other night they each ate their own, whole lobster. We have only ourselves to blame for exposing our children to champagne tastes (on our beer budget).

So if you have not yet enjoyed boiled lobster this summer, remember; there’s only a few weeks left.

You better get crackin’.

A Summer Tradition

2010-08-12T16:31:00.001-04:00

Summer vacation is officially more than half over. As we shake our heads and marvel about how quickly the time passes, we must now buckle down and start crossing off all those items on our “to-do” list before the leaves turn gold, the air turns cold and the school bus doors unfold.

Time for a trip to Canobie Lake Park.

This has become a summer tradition for my family. Having grown up in New Jersey, I missed having my formative years revolve around “Story Land” and “Santa’s Village”. (We were too busy going down the shore, enjoying the rides at Seaside Heights long before Snookie and The Situation ever heard of the place).

Canobie Lake is the perfect day trip. It’s located just an hour from home and reasonably priced (with discount tickets from Costco, our family of four managed to get in for under $100). The park is large enough to never feel crowded, yet small enough to negotiate even with little kids. And it’s our family’s benchmark for measuring when my children are ready to visit Disney World.

As my kids are quick to remind me, we are the only family they know who has never been to Disney World. To which I reply,”When you can go on all the big rides at Canobie Lake Park, then we’ll consider taking you to Disney.” So far, no go.

My favorite ride in the park is the Canobie Corkscrew roller coaster. Each year we go directly from the park entrance to this ride so I can get my fix of being flung upside down for thirty seconds. On our last trip to the park, my oldest son successfully took the plunge with me (twice). This year, I was hoping for my younger son to join me. Would he make it? Or would he turn tail and run back down the ramp at the last minute? After watching his mom and older brother survive a run, he bravely, quietly accompanied me up the ramp. He solemnly climbed into his seat and pulled the restraint down over his head. I could tell the anticipation of the initial climb was making him anxious, so I reached over and held his hand. As we plummeted down the steep drop, the terror on his face turned to wonder as the coaster gracefully snaked its way through the corkscrew, turning his world upside down and back again. By the ride’s end, he was beaming. As we exited the coaster, I told him how proud I was of his accomplishment. He smiled and said, “It was scary, but fun.” “Want to do it again?” I asked, to which he replied, “No thanks.”

After several hours of rides, my kids decided it was time to visit “Castaway Island”, Canobie’s water park. Our very first visit to the park was on a cool day with a steady drizzle of rain, making the freezing cold water that spurts out of Castaway’s climbing structure even more miserable. But this year, we chose a warm, sunny day. As my husband and I relaxed on lounge chairs, our kids climbed up and down the enormous jungle gym of Castaway Island, spraying other kids with water hoses, dodging the giant bucket of water that dumps every thirty seconds, and sliding down the assortment of slides.

I’ve often thought that a visitor from another planet would be able to see just about every type of human specimen by visiting a water park. I’m pretty modest when it comes to my swimsuit; I wear one with enough coverage and spandex to keep everything essential covered and in place. Not everyone at Castaway Island subscribes to this same school of thought. The prevailing mentality was “If you’ve got it, flaunt it” (sadly, most of them didn’t have it, or they had too much of it). My friend always says if you want to feel like a supermodel, go to a water park. As an added bonus, we saw an incredible array of tattoos and body piercings (okay, I understand the pierced lip and the ear discs, but what’s with the black spikes that came out of that guy’s nose?)

Being frugal, I packed my family a lunch, which we enjoyed outside the park, but that didn’t stop my kids from commenting on every salty, fried concoction that went by. I treated each of them to a caramel coated apple (hey, it may be covered in sugar and sprinkles, but at least there’s fruit underneath). Before we left the park, I had to indulge in my own personal favorite: Funnel Cake. This treat is often hard to find, replaced by its New England cousin, Fried Dough. “What’s the difference?” my husband asked. Fried dough is a wad of bread dough deep fried and covered with butter and powdered sugar, while funnel cake is batter drizzled through a funnel into the fry-o-later, plopped on a plate, and also covered with powdered sugar. They sound the same, but in my opinion, when it comes to fried treats, funnel cake is clearly the victor.

As the sun set, we packed up our swimsuits, brushed off the powdered sugar and headed home. Recapping the events of the day, my youngest son overcame his fear of the corkscrew coaster while my older son tried out new rides like the Turkish Twist (centrifugal force at its best) and the Wave Blaster (guaranteed to jolt the lunch right out of you). However, both children refused to accompany us on the old wooden roller coaster, The Yankee Cannonball.
I guess Disney can wait.

Around the World in 80 Books

2010-08-12T16:29:00.002-04:00

Summer is the perfect time for travel. Each summer I enjoy spending weeks on end traveling to locations both exotic and familiar. So far this summer, I’ve traveled to Sweden, Louisiana, the San Fernando Valley, Cambodia and Africa.
Ah, if only my bank account allowed me to really travel to these places. Instead, I content myself with traveling only as far as my couch, the YMCA pool or a nearby beach. Once comfortable, I pull out whatever book I’m currently reading and let my mind travel to the places inside.

I’m a voracious reader by nature, but without the distractions of homework, after-school activities and soccer I am able to spend that much more time lazing around with a good book. I may not be able to physically jet off to parts unknown, but with the help of my local library, I can experience the next best thing.
When school let out, I transported myself to Sweden to enjoy the first two books of Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy: “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” and “The Girl who Played with Fire.” I became well acquainted with two fascinating characters, journalist Mikael Blomkvist and computer hacker Lisbeth Salander, while learning about many places throughout Sweden, the country of my ancestors. There was even a mention in the first book about the tiny island of Arholma, where my grandfather was born.

Leaving Sweden I traveled to rural Wisconsin at the turn of the century to experience the story of a mail order bride and her wealthy husband in Robert Goolrick’s “A Reliable Wife”. Nothing is as it seems in this twisty, juicy read. From there I jetted to the heat of Africa where I found myself enthralled by the epic novel, “Someone Knows My Name” by Lawrence Hill. The novel follows Aminata Diallo, a young girl kidnapped in Africa, sold into slavery and transported to South Carolina, Manhattan, Nova Scotia and, finally, back to Africa. Blending real events and historical figures, the story gives a harrowing account of Aminata’s struggle to survive, eventually aiding the British in the Revolutionary War and supporting the Abolitionist Movement in London.

Needing to lighten up, I then traveled to The San Fernando Valley to hang out with “The Girls from the Revolutionary Cantina” by Mike Padilla. Though I’m not Latina, I recognized plenty of myself and my friends in the novel’s characters as they struggle with female friendships, romantic entanglements and trouble in the workplace. This lighthearted story was the perfect bridge between the heavy “Someone Knows my Name” and the next book on my list.

Just this morning, I finished “First They Killed My Father” by Loung Ung. Forced to flee her home in Phnom Penh, Cambodia in 1975, the author describes in horrific detail the five years her family spent traveling from village to village, hoping to escape imprisonment and death at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. Completely engrossed in the story, I often forgot that the writer was only five years old at the time of the events.

Last, but not least, I’m joining my family on yet another adventure this summer. The required reading for my son entering fourth grade is “Treasure Island” by Robert Louis Stevenson. I wonder what the school was thinking, assigning such a weighty book for a 9-year old. After watching my son struggle for a few days, my husband and I decided that each night we would read a chapter or two out loud to our children. My favorite comment so far is when my son said, “Hey, this character is named after a restaurant… Long John Silver.” We’re hoping to finish our pirate adventure before school begins.

With a mere five weeks left until school starts, I’m looking forward to taking a few more trips through the pages of a beloved book. If you can’t swing the money or the time off for a real vacation, why not join me?

Feelin' Hot! Hot! Hot!

2010-08-12T16:25:00.003-04:00

It’s too darn hot.

Okay, I know it’s summer. I know it’s supposed to be hot. I know that, technically, the “dog days” of summer start in early July and run through September. But I am not mentally or physically prepared to deal with so many super-hot days in a row in mid-July.

Did you ever see the Twilight Zone episode called “The Midnight Sun”? In this episode, the earth has changed its elliptical orbit and is inching closer to the sun. Throughout the episode, the few remaining residents of New York City suffer as the temperature climbs higher, thermometers explode and paintings melt.
These past few weeks feel like that episode.

My thermometer is not in danger of exploding, but watching it hit temperatures in the high 80’s and low 90’s every single day is getting old. Though we don’t have central air conditioning, we do have window units that cut the humidity and keep us cool enough to sleep at night. It’s not fun weighing my family’s comfort against the impending electric bill. We have air conditioning in the car too, though I hate to use it for short trips around town. There are my FWPs (friends with pools, remember them?) and my FWBS (friends with beach stickers) and that helps too. But for one day, I’d like to not have to strategize about how to stay cool in extreme heat. I’d like to weed my perennial bed, sleep with the windows open and mow the lawn without dropping dead from heatstroke.

I’m conflicted on hot, sunny days. A part of me feels that my kids and I should be outside enjoying the sunshine. After all, before we know it, there will be frigid temperatures and bitterly cold winds (though not soon enough, in my opinion). But when its 90 degrees with high humidity, all I want to do is hunker down inside my house, the mall or a movie theater and wait for the heat to break.

Last week we had a cool, rainy day. It was still quite humid, but the temperature never rose above 80. It was wonderful to wake to cloudy skies. For once there was no pressure to “…get outside and enjoy the sunny weather…” I’d forgotten what it was like to have grey clouds overhead, with no hint of blue sky. The rain did not come in a torrent, as is so often the case during summer thunderstorms. Rather, it misted and dribbled and dripped, teasing our water-starved lawns and flowers. ‘Hooray’, I thought, ‘lousy weather at last.’

And then it was gone, only to be replaced with another hot, sunny, sticky day. Sigh.
You might wonder how the Twilight Zone episode ended. As it turns out, the main character was suffering from a fever, which caused her to dream that the earth was moving closer to the sun. In true Twilight Zone fashion, the earth was in fact moving farther away from the sun. As the main character sweated through her delusion, the frigid cold snow swirled outside the window.
Sounds lovely to me.

Random Thoughts

2010-08-12T16:19:00.001-04:00

The television show Saturday Night Live used to have a segment entitled “Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey”. I used to love that segment because the thoughts were anything but deep; they were downright bizarre. Every now and then, a random thought will pop into my head and I’ll think, “I should write about that in my column.” Enough of these thoughts have crowded around the junk drawer of my brain, and I think it’s time to let them out.

So here they are: Random thoughts…by Laura Anderson.

What possesses people to drive with their dog on their lap? When I see this my first thought is, “What happens to the dog in the event of an accident? You wouldn’t drive with your child on your lap?” (Unless you’re Britney Spears). Are these dog lovers so attached they can’t bear to relegate their pets to the back seat? Is the dog programming the GPS or changing the radio station? Or are these drivers hoping that, in the event of a stroke or heart attack, their dog will instinctively take the wheel?

When did the red light become a stop sign and the stop sign become a yield sign? On several occasions I’ve had the driver in front of me suddenly turn left or charge through the intersection while the light is nowhere close to changing to green. I took Drivers Ed more than 30 years ago, but I’m fairly sure you’re still supposed to wait for the light to turn green. And more often than I care to count, drivers no longer stop at stop signs but roll through with hardly a tap on their brakes. Are they in a rush or are they just distracted by the dog on their lap?

This afternoon, I parked behind a large minivan with a bumper sticker that read, “This Car Climbed Mount Washington!” Should I be impressed? After all, it’s a car. I assume that Mt. Washington has a paved road for just this purpose (or did the car outfit itself at REI and climb up instead?) If the bumper sticker said, “This Car Climbed Mt. Everest”, then that would impress me. Ironically, the car’s driver was exceptionally well padded, which made me think that perhaps he would have benefitted from climbing the mountain himself instead of letting the car do all the work (at least he gave the car full credit).

What’s nearly as frustrating as entering a public bathroom stall with no toilet paper? Entering one with no hook for your purse. Sorry gentlemen, this random thought only concerns the ladies. More often than not, the smooth, shiny door has two holes where the hook used to be. Did someone’s heavy bag pull the hook from the door? Did a frugal woman unbolt it and bring it home for her own bathroom? Without a hook, where are we expected to place our handbags while attending to business? The floor? Our laps? The holes are already drilled. Replace the hook.

And while we’re on the subject of women’s accessories, I recently found an eBay store called Single Shoe Outlet. This store sells single high end shoes. I wondered, other than someone with a prosthetic, who is buying single designer shoes? Luckily their website provided the answer: People with severely mismatched feet (oh my). People who have lost one shoe of a pair (Cinderella?) People who have damaged one shoe of a pair (pit bull attack?) People who are part of the trend of wearing different shoes on different feet (seriously?) And my personal favorite: “Folks who cannot afford these expensive shoes can have one in their closets.” Imagine how proud these folks are when their friend asks for a tour of their closet and they toss off this phrase in a devil-may-care way: “That Christian Louboutin pump? Yes it’s lovely, isn’t it? I must have kicked the other one under the bed last night when I came home from sipping champagne at the Four Seasons.”

Thank you for indulging me in sharing my random thoughts. I expect that as a result all dogs will now travel in the back seat, all stop signs and red lights will be obeyed, hooks will be immediately replaced in all restrooms and cars will stop bragging about climbing Mt. Washington.

Now if only I could find that other Louboutin pump…

Friends With Pools

2010-07-07T10:01:00.003-04:00

As the temperature creeps towards 90 degrees on the first of many hot days, I turn my thoughts inward and count my blessings:
I’m blessed to have an air conditioner in my bedroom. I’m blessed to have air conditioning in my car. I’m blessed that I’m in generally good health that’s not threatened by extreme heat and humidity. But most of all, I’m especially blessed to have FWPs.

That’s Friends with Pools.

In the high heat of summer there is nothing better than a friend with a pool. And I’ve been blessed with several.

Yes, there are other ways to beat the heat. You can hide in the movies. You can cruise through the mall. You can head to the shore in hopes of a cool, ocean breeze. But as far as I’m concerned, these options all pale in comparison to being invited to a friend’s pool.

I’m not knocking the beach, but overall I am definitely more of a pool person. The beach usually involves travel. Currently, it’s only 20 minutes to the beach, but growing up in New Jersey, it took me at least an hour to go “…down the shore.” (In New Jersey you don’t go to the beach…you go down the shore). A day at the beach involves sand chairs, umbrellas, coolers, towels, bug spray, sun screen and boogie boards. Parking is expensive (unless you have a sticker) if you’re lucky to find a space at all. You have to time your visit carefully (high tide for surfing or low tide for the little ones) and heaven forbid you get all the way to the water’s edge only to discover that the beach has been closed due to a “red tide” or, in the case of beaches closer to Boston, something much, much worse. And if the beach is open, the tide is right, the green heads aren’t biting and there’s no great white shark swimming off shore, you have to stay for the whole day to make the whole exhausting production worthwhile. And then there’s that pesky part of the trip that stays with you forever: Sand. When I get home from the beach, there’s at least six pounds of sand in my car, my bag, my hair and eventually every corner of my house.

The pool, on the other hand, requires little more than a beach towel, some sunscreen and a token offering to the pool gods that invited you (bags of chips, Starburst or Oreo cookies will do). Even if your host’s pool is not heated, it’s guaranteed to be warmer than the frigid New England ocean. There are no rocks to hurt your feet and no crabs to bite your toes. At the pool, it takes only a glance to verify your child’s whereabouts. There’s no undertow or riptide that might carry them off to parts unknown. FWPs usually have lounge chairs conveniently located poolside, and a patio set with umbrella if you choose shade over sun. The pool has amenities like telephones, refrigerators and best of all, clean bathrooms mere steps from the water’s edge (at the pool there’s no question where your kids will pee. At the beach? Well, that’s anyone’s guess). When your kids get unruly, you can threaten to take them home and actually mean it, because home is only a mile down the road and you don’t have to spend an hour packing up all the paraphernalia you brought.
Yes, it’s wonderful to have friends with pools, but it’s important not to abuse the privilege. They’ll throw out that blanket phrase, “Come swim anytime,” but a wise friend waits for an invitation. Remember, they are the ones who spent untold amounts on concrete, liners, landscaping and fences. They are the ones who had their lives turned upside down for months while backhoes and dump trucks invaded their yards. Think about everything you do to prepare your house for a friend’s visit, and then imagine doing that every single day. That’s what it’s like when you own a pool.

So be respectful of your FWPs. Wait for an invitation and leave before your kids become a nuisance. Bring snacks, extra towels and the occasional bottle of Patron. Remove snapping turtles from their pool when they call you in a panic. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have a cool place to hang during the hot days of summer.

Intellectual Discussion

2010-07-07T09:56:00.001-04:00

It has come to my attention that there are certain arguments which can never be settled. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Evolution or creation? How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
And of course, the argument that ensues in the back seat of my mini-van every time we travel through town:

Pet Smart? Or Pet’s Mart?

They are building one of those pet supply superstores here in town. Every time we drive past the construction site, my kids spy the store’s logo on the banner hanging from the fence.

“Is it Pet Smart…or Pet’s Mart?” one asks.

“It’s Pet Smart,” the other answers. “See how the word Pet is in red and the word Smart is in blue?”

“Yes, “the first argues, “but see how the bouncing ball in the logo looks like an apostrophe? I think that means that it’s Pet’s Mart. You know, like a mart for pets.”

“But,” comes the rebuttal, “because the word smart is all in blue, it means that it’s a store for smart pets. Get it? Pet Smart.”

Now, I’m all for heated debate, but you would think after driving past the construction site daily, and having this same discussion over and over, one child would concede to the other. But no, they each have their mother’s stubborn streak.
While holding an instant message conversation with my out-of-town sister, my kids started in on the debate at the adjacent breakfast table. I typed, “My kids are having an intellectual discussion about whether it’s Pet Smart or Pet’s Mart”.
My sister immediately typed back this response: “It’s Pet Smart. Their website is petsmart.com.”

To which I replied, “Yes, but if you look at the bouncing ball logo, it looks like an apostrophe, which would make it Pet’s Mart.”

Good God, it’s hereditary.

The advertising executives that created the Pet Smart/Pet’s Mart logo must be geniuses, devising a name designed to spark repeated heated debate in cars all across the country. And yet, no one has answered the most important question of all: With Petco a mere one mile from the construction site, does our town really need a Pet’s Mart, a PetSmart or whatever the heck you want to call it?

I’m still waiting for my answer to that one.

Happy Father's Day

2010-06-16T10:27:00.001-04:00

About a month ago, I wrote a column about motherhood. With Father’s Day just a few days away, it’s time to give the dads their due.

The saying “Anyone can become a father but it takes someone special to be a Dad” is corny, but dig down beneath the corn and you’ll find a kernel of truth. By nature, a father is someone genetically linked to you. A dad is someone who may or may not share your DNA, but shares your upbringing, your discipline, your triumphs and your setbacks.

My husband has two fathers, but only one is his Dad. His biological father, though physically present for his first nine years of life, was absent in my husband’s upbringing. My husband considers his stepfather, Bob, his dad. Bob helped my husband with his homework. He was there for his high school graduation and when he went off to college. Bob taught my husband about antique cars, Edison players, every type of beer from around the world and that there is nothing that cannot be fixed by some sort of “kluge”.

Some dads show their affection with hugs and kisses and effusive praise. Some show their love in other ways. My dad wasn’t one to show his emotions physically, but in everything he did there was love for us. My father was an elementary school principal for over thirty years. I know that wasn’t his dream job, but he had a family to support, so each day he would drive 45 minutes to a job where he would have to discipline unruly children only to return home to...well…discipline unruly children (my sisters and me).

I remember my father giving us rides on his back in the swimming pool. Each year we took a two-week vacation to the New Jersey Shore, even though my dad spent most of the time in the beach house. He didn’t particularly care for the beach, but he took us there because we loved it. On those afternoons when my dad did come down to the water, we’d beg him to cover our legs with sand, sculpting our lower bodies into racing cars. My dad didn’t love sports but he did love the movies. He would scare the daylights out of my sister and me, taking us to see films like “The Exorcist”, “Carrie”, “Burnt Offerings” and “Demon Seed” (after watching the movie first himself to be sure there was nothing we couldn’t handle). Though we didn’t have a lot of money, if one of us had an opportunity to do something, whether it was a trip to a Broadway show or a ski weekend, my father would find a way to send us. Shortly after receiving my college diploma, I received a letter from my dad, recounting how proud he was to witness that milestone. It was the first time I could recall my father saying the words “I’m proud of you” and I cherish that letter to this day. I’m blessed to have my dad in my life.

My husband is one of the best fathers I know. He spends far too much time commuting to a thoroughly unpleasant job. But he does it so that our children can enjoy summer camp and Tai kwon do and all the other extras that crop up. True, he misses many of the activities that enjoy as a stay at home parent, but he makes up for it when he is home with us. One of the best parts of our day is when my husband sits down to read to our children before bed. Though they are long past the age where they can read easily on their own, there is something soothing about the routine of my husband’s animated voice bringing life to Bilbo Baggins, Harry Potter and The Cahill Kids. On weekends, when many dads are lurking the aisles of Home Depot looking for new toys, my husband stands at the sideline of the soccer fields, shouting encouragement to our boys.

My brother-in-law is a stay at home dad, and I do not envy him the job. As a stay at home mom, I enjoyed the support of other mothers, relationships made through Gymboree, playgroup, pre-school and play dates. It’s different for stay at home dads. Even those who pursue these activities with their kids find that the dynamic is completely different for a man. All you stay at home dads (especially you, Don), have my respect and admiration.

Television is full of stereotypical fathers, from upstanding Ward Cleaver of “Leave it to Beaver” to lovable goof Phil Dunphy on “Modern Family”. Jim Anderson of “Father Knows Best” earned the love and respect of his three kids, Princess, Kitten and Bud. At the other end of the spectrum “Breaking Bad” father, Walter White, upon discovering that he has terminal lung cancer, decides to secure his family’s financial future by resorting to criminal activity. The difference between these TV dads and the real ones is that very rarely are real-life dads able to solve all our problems in the span of thirty minutes. But that’s okay. Because being a father is a lifetime job.

To my husband, my dad and all those other dads out there: Happy Father’s Day.

Career Day

2010-06-08T06:16:00.001-04:00

Recently I was invited to participate in “Career Day” at our middle school. I was told that I would meet with approximately 18 to 25 eighth graders for 45 minutes to discuss the merits of being a writer. These would be students who had an interest in meeting a writer.

45 minutes? What could I possibly talk about for 45 minutes? Although I spent years demonstrating kitchen tools for Pampered Chef (for much longer than 45 minutes at a time) my hands were always busy chopping onions or pressing garlic. Could I fill that much time with eighth graders? And more importantly…would they like me?
A friend of mine participated in Career Day last year and told me not to worry. She assured me that the kids would have so many questions there would probably not be enough time to answer them all. Still, I figured it was best to be prepared. Better to have more information than risk any dull, awkward pauses.

In preparation for my talk, I found a comprehensive list of writing professions from a writing website. The list described the different career paths a writer could follow, including columnist, journalist, songwriter and novelist among others. Prudently, I decided to omit the paragraph about writing Erotica (with my luck, that would be the thing that prompted the most questions, not to mention a few angry phone calls from parents). I compiled a list of websites for young writers, places where their work could be posted and critiqued by other teenagers, adding a few sites where they could start their own blogs. And finally, I bought 25 pocket-sized notebooks, an essential tool for any budding writer who wants to keep track of ideas.

Finally, Career Day arrived. I set up all my materials in the front of the classroom as the kids filed in. Once they were seated, I decided to break the ice. “I had a dream last night, “I began. “In my dream, I talked for about 5 minutes. The next 40 minutes went something like this…” At this point I pressed a button on my iPhone which played a sound effect of crickets chirping. I expected this would crack them up.

Instead all I heard was…crickets.

Hmm, tough crowd. Moving down my agenda, I talked about my background as a writer: creative writing classes in college, scriptwriting for film and video, my blogs and my weekly column. I asked them to share their favorite writers (most said “pass” but several listed J.K. Rowling, Stephanie Meyer and J.R.R. Tolkien.) I shared with them the five things I felt were important to becoming a writer (Read, Write, Edit, Share and Publish). I handed out my lists of writing professions and the resources I had compiled. I did everything but sing, dance and stand on my head, hoping to get a reaction from the students.

And still…crickets.

Finally, with 15 minutes left and still no questions for me (I was going to kill my friend!) I said, “Ok. Take out a pencil and a sheet of paper. You’re going to spend 10 minutes doing what I do every week. Pick a subject and write about it.” I could almost hear the internal groans. As the kids worked to fill their paper, I sought out their English teacher and expressed admiration for his ability to do this on a daily basis.

With just five minutes left in class, I asked if anyone would like to read their paper aloud. As you can imagine, those pesky crickets began chirping again. I told the kids to pass their papers to the front, and then read several of them aloud (keeping the writers anonymous). At the end of class, I told the students they could retrieve their papers or leave them for me. Not a single student took their paper back.

As I left the middle school, I commiserated with another parent about how tough it was to elicit a reaction from the kids. The other parent was a Special Ed teacher who showed her kids how to read and write Braille. She brought candy buttons in for the kids to write their own names. “What a great idea.” I exclaimed to which she replied, “Yeah… they ate them.”

That afternoon, I sat down and read every essay. Some were funny (the ups and downs of assembling a gas grill), some were poignant (admiration for a friend who suffered the loss of a parent). One student admitted to having a blog, a place where they could anonymously share thoughts and feelings. What amazed me was that despite evidence to the contrary, each of these kids had something to say. Though they were hesitant to even raise a hand in response to my questions, they were able to let their thoughts and feelings flow from the end of the pencil.

I’m glad I participated in Career Day. Although I heard crickets for 45 minutes, the voices on those pages will stay with me forever.

Mishaps and Misadventures at the Registry

2010-06-08T06:13:00.001-04:00

The RMV has a bad rap.

Seriously. Mention the words “registry of motor vehicles” and you’ll see people respond in a variety of ways (none of them good). You’ll never hear someone say, “I’m so thrilled, it’s time to renew my license. I can’t wait to go to the RMV!”

My odyssey involving the registry began about 6 weeks ago when I lost my license. Before you jump to conclusions and think I drove north bound on Rt. 3 south or led police in a high speed pursuit down Main Street, I use the term “lost” in the sense that I misplaced it. It either fell out of my wallet, dropped out of my purse, or migrated to that spot in my house where single earrings, car keys and my iPod headphones like to hide.

I assumed I would find my license somewhere, so I didn’t rush to replace it. I wasn’t sure what the penalty was for driving without it (I mean, technically, I was licensed to drive…it just wasn’t physically with me.) After a couple of weeks, the issue came to a head when my registration came due. Typically, I like to renew my registration online. But in order to do that, you need to have…your driver’s license number. Since my license no longer had my social security number on it, I resigned myself to a trip to the RMV.

Bright and early on a Thursday morning, I drove up to the registry in Braintree, since several friends had told me that though it was a small location, the lines moved really fast. I arrived at 9:20, wishing I had left a bit earlier to get there right when the office opened. To my surprise, there were a handful of folks hovering outside the front door. Apparently, that particular location didn’t open until 10 a.m. on Thursdays (how was I to know? I could have called.) Rather than wait outside for 40 minutes, I drove down the street for a coffee. When I returned at 9:55, there was a line of about 75 people stretching from the front door into the parking lot. Hmmm. Maybe the coffee wasn’t worth it after all.

Luckily, the line moved fairly fast, and after grabbing a number I sat down on the bench with my 75 new friends and waited my turn. Being a Thursday, I needed to deliver Meals on Wheels at 11:30, but I was sure I would get out in plenty of time.
When my number was called, I approached the window and handed my paperwork to the clerk. My license was in the system, but the nice lady let me take a new picture since I was 22 pounds lighter than when I last renewed. After rejecting the initial mug shot for a smiley one, I handed my credit card to the clerk and got my temporary replacement. However, when it came time to renew my registration, I was unable to pay for it with a credit card (cash or check only). Due to my Meals on Wheels commitment (and my refusal to wait in line again after going to the bank) I decided that I would renew my registration online where I could pay by… credit card. (Who loves irony? Quick show of hands!)

By this time I was late heading home for Meals on Wheels, so I dashed out of the RMV and headed to Rt. 3 Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for charitable work caused me to yield improperly at the Braintree rotary, and wouldn’t you know It, a state trooper was right in the rotary when I did it. Several minutes later I was really late for Meals on Wheels and $100 poorer. Luckily I had my temporary license with me. Imagine if I didn’t? But then again, if I hadn’t gone to the RMV in the first place, I wouldn’t have been pulled over.

Fast forward two and a half weeks when it came time to pay my citation. It needed to be paid within 20 days or risk a fine on top of the fine. Looking at the fine print, I noticed that the citation could be paid online. Within minutes, I had logged onto the RMV website and paid my fine. Hooray. At least one thing was easy about this whole mess.

Twenty minutes later, I received an email telling me that my online RMV transaction had failed. The reason given was that the citation number was not in the RMV system. Either it was incorrect (it wasn’t) or it had not been entered into the system yet. Wait….what? The email urged me contact the RMV’s call center immediately.

I called the RMV and spent the next 40 minutes listening to bad hold music. Finally, an employee came on the line and told me that the reason my citation didn’t exist in the system was because the officer had not yet entered it. Here it was, two days before I was due to accrue penalties and the officer hadn’t bothered to enter it? The employee asked me for all the pertinent information (at this point I was paying $100 not just for my failure to yield but for the luxury of doing the trooper’s work for him). Finally, my citation was paid.

Oh by the way, guess what came in the mail? Yes, my new license arrived in the midst of all this RMV ugliness, but right around the same time, my old license came back to me. It arrived in a hand-addressed envelope from a local gas station. It must have fallen out the one time I decided to pump my own gas. If only they had sent it to me sooner, I could have avoided the whole ordeal.

And miss all that fun? Never.

Finding My Roots

2010-06-08T06:06:00.001-04:00

In 1977, over 130 million Americans spent eight nights glued to their televisions watching the mini-series “Roots”. The true story of a young African man, kidnapped and sold into slavery in the United States, Roots held most of America in a grip of fascination.

At 14, I believe I was the only American alive who didn’t tune in. I was probably too busy reading Stephen King novels, or watching “Battle of the Network Stars”. The reason I skipped this entertainment phenomenon was because I had absolutely zero interest in roots. Mine, or anyone else’s for that matter.
This changed recently when my son announced that he needed to do a genealogy project for school. The project involved creating a family tree that included great grandparents, finding out where his ancestors came from, and bringing in some family artifacts.

I’ve known bits and pieces of my family’s history, but had never put it all together into a cohesive story. To gather information for his project, I enlisted the help of my father for the Anderson side of the family, and my mother and sister for the Rockwell side (my mother’s maiden name).

My mother’s family tree has always held the more impressive history. Deacon William Rockwell sailed from England on March 30, 1630, on the “Mary and John”. His great grandson, Jabez Rockwell, was reputedly in the boat with George Washington while crossing the Delaware River on the Christmas Day attack on Hessian troops. (As a child I visited the Valley Forge museum, where my mom pointed out Jabez’s powder horn on display.)

According to family legend (and published accounts), Jabez Rockwell and some friends walked from northeastern Pennsylvania to New York City in 1826 to see their former comrade-in-arms, The Marquis de Lafayette, who was having dinner with statesman Henry Clay. Upon reaching Lafayette’s hotel, the doorman initially refused entrance to Jabez and his friends, at which point my ancestor complained quite loudly. The doorman finally relented and sent a message to the Marquis who immediately invited Jabez and company to join the party. So the next time you hear me raise a stink about something, remember this: It’s genetic.

And then there’s the Anderson side of my family. My grandfather, Albert B. Anderson Sr., arrived from Sweden at Ellis Island on Nov. 1, 1916 at the age of 19. My grandmother, Asta Jensen, arrived several years later from Denmark. Asta’s history reads a bit like a soap opera. Her mother Martha Jensen, married a man named Alfred Jensen (A relative? Possibly). Alfred was a grave digger by profession. However, in those days in Denmark you rented your grave for a specific number of years. When your time was up, your remains were moved to the foot of the grave to make way for the next “tenant”. Alfred had the unenviable job of moving the remains. But Alfred was actually Asta’s stepfather. Her biological father was a juggler of some distinction, known to us only by the stage name “Edy”. He and Martha never married. It’s strange to learn that, way back in the early 1900’s my own great-grandmother had a …well, a baby daddy.

My father volunteered other Anderson family lore. His Swedish cousin married a woman who bore him a son, then discovered that his wife was a reformed (or possibly not) prostitute, and divorced her after two years of marriage (The son is now a policeman). My grandfather Albert, a New York City tailor who catered to Wall Street bankers, had a client named Henry Rudkin, whose wife, Margaret, began a little baking business during the Depression which would eventually be known as Pepperidge Farm. My dad’s upstairs neighbors brewed bathtub gin and would frequently be raided by revenue agents. I advised my son to be selective in which Anderson family nuggets made it into his presentation.

War heroes, grave diggers, prostitutes and jugglers. The lesson I learned from my son’s genealogy project is that you never know what you might find in your family history until you look.

But be warned. If you shake your family tree too hard, you’re bound to have a few nuts fall out.

I'm Lost without "Lost".

2010-05-21T15:24:00.002-04:00

It is a widely held belief that all good things must come to an end. I understand and accept that. But it still does not lessen the pain I will be feeling this time next week when something in which I have invested six years of my life will finally end.

In short, I’ll be lost without “Lost”.

Six years ago, I tuned into the pilot episode of a program about a group of survivors whose plane crashes on a tropical island. The survivors include, among others, a doctor, a fugitive, a rock star, a con man and a lottery winner. The premise sounded ordinary. However, by the end of the pilot, the introduction of a polar bear, an unseen “monster” and a distress signal broadcasting for more than sixteen years firmly set the tone for a television show that was anything but ordinary. The last words spoken in this episode hinted at the roller coaster ride ahead: “Guys…where are we?”

Six years later, those of us who tune in faithfully have been treated to a flood of plot points including a smoke monster, a man living underground in a hatch, a button that needs to be pushed every 108 minutes in order to save the world, and characters whose lives have intersected off-island (in ways unbeknownst to them but revealed to the viewers). We’ve seen flashbacks, flash-forwards and flash-sideways. We’ve witnessed miraculous healings, time travel and alternate universes. The common complaint I hear from people who don’t watch “Lost” is that they tried to watch but they got…well…lost. (I feel the same way about “24”). Take heart. I have watched every episode multiple times, have read hundreds of postings online, traded theories with fellow “Losties” and I still have no clue what it’s all about. Clearly “Lost” isn’t just the title of the program. It’s a state of mind.

The title “Lost” doesn’t just refer to the fact that the characters are stuck on some mystical, uncharted island (kind of like a Zen version of “Gilligan’s Island, a show I loved as a kid. Uh-oh. I’m sensing a pattern here.) In their own unique way, the show’s characters are all “lost”, whether they are seeking love, faith, acceptance, redemption or peace. Lately, the show has leaned heavily on spiritual parallels, with viewers pondering concepts such as good versus evil, free will versus destiny, and where we fit in the tapestry of the universe.

It’s always funny when someone who doesn’t watch “Lost” asks me what’s going on. A typical response might go something like this: ” Well, the smoke monster inhabited John Locke’s body and is now trying to leave the island in the submarine. Jacob is dead but he still appears to Hurley, who can see dead people, and Desmond returned to the island but was thrown down the well by Sayid. Oh, and in the alternate timeline…” At this point I start to feel like a jackass and shut my mouth. There’s no way to succinctly sum up what’s happening on “Lost” without sounding like a complete lunatic.

I appreciate that the “Lost” producers decided to end the series while still going strong. Nothing is more pathetic than a television show that exceeds its freshness date. (Can you say “Will and Grace?”) Perhaps you’ve heard the phrase “jumping the shark” (referencing a show that has lost all credibility, as when Fonzie decided to water ski over a shark tank on the program “Happy Days”), “Lost” was one of the few shows that was unable to “jump the shark” since the premise was completely outrageous to begin with. I’m sure there are millions of fans that would love to continue watching “Lost” for years to come, but after watching a similar fan favorite, “The X-Files”, spiral down to mediocrity, I’m okay with “Lost” going out while they’re still on top.

On Sunday night, at 11:31 p.m., television sets all over the country will be turned off and fellow “Lost” fans will shake their heads, perhaps dab a tear, and begin the process of living without “Lost”.

To which I say: It is better to have loved “Lost” and lost, than to never have loved “Lost” at all.

Fitness Challenge Survivor

2010-05-21T15:18:00.002-04:00

I am a survivor.

Some survivors prefer to not discuss their experience, while others find it a form of catharsis, a way to free the soul. I prefer the latter. If I am able to influence even one person by sharing my story, then I I’ve achieved my goal. So here goes:

I survived a 9-week fitness challenge at The Workout Club in Marshfield.

Scoff if you will, but until you have walked a mile in my athletic shoes, I respectfully ask that you hold your tongue. A little background is required. I’ve struggled with my weight since college. When I married my husband, I bought a wedding dress two sizes too small, then went to Weight Watchers so I could fit into it. The birth of my two children allowed me to eat without guilt (not a good thing), and I’ve been trying to get down to a healthy weight ever since. The advent of middle age has not helped, as each year makes weight loss more difficult. And though I had once been a frequent visitor to the gym, lately my attendance has fallen off. I needed motivation. I needed inspiration. I needed a kick in my ever-widening butt.

A friend had participated in a fitness challenge at The Workout Club in Marshfield and lost 28 pounds. She mentioned that she was going to sign up for the next challenge, and encouraged me to join her. Though my regular gym is the YMCA in Hanover, I thought a change of scenery might be just the thing. In the weeks leading up to the challenge, I indulged in my favorite foods, like a dying man eating his last meal. Indian food? Bring it on. Sour cream and onion chips? Pass them here. Entennman’s chocolate covered donuts? Don’t have to ask me twice. At my first weigh-in, I was dismayed to find that I was up several pounds from my already unhealthy weight.

Our team leaders, Wendy and Caitlin, explained the challenge: We would split into two teams of 15 women each. Over the nine weeks, we would be required to participate in at least 25 workouts. Special classes that qualified for the challenge were highlighted on the club’s schedule (names like “TOTAL INSANITY” and “THE FORCE TIMES 4” gave me a sinking feeling in my too-large gut). In addition to these workouts, we would need to adhere to a strict nutritional plan. The initial two-week “fat flush” eliminated any breads, refined sugar, potatoes, rice, pasta or alcohol. Though I had recently given up alcohol for Lent, several of the ladies groaned when they learned this. I left the club with my challenge notebook, workout schedule and nutrition plan in hand. The challenge was on.

I arrived at the gym the next day for my first challenge workout: Total Insanity. There’s an infomercial for this exercise where hard-bodied men and women do a relentless amount of aerobics nonstop: jumping jacks, lunges, knees, football runs. Total Insanity was all that, except that instead of watching from the comfort of my couch, I was smack in the middle of it all, praying I wouldn’t lose all the egg whites I had eaten for breakfast. You know those drill sergeants the military uses for basic training? I think these Aerobic instructors train those drill sergeants. When the class was finally over, I hauled my exhausted, sweaty body home and collapsed.

Each day, I diligently followed the challenge’s nutritional guidelines, avoiding “bad” carbs like bread and pasta, and choosing good ones, like fruits and vegetables. Each meal and snack was a nearly equal balance of good carbs, protein and fat. Instead of a handful of chips, I would have a few almonds and a piece of fruit. Instead of pizza, my dinners consisted of grilled chicken, steamed broccoli and homemade coleslaw. At night I dreamed of ice cream and donuts, but my days stayed “clean”.

As the challenge progressed, I was amazed at how great I felt. My body had detoxed from all the junk I had consumed before the challenge. Though I was down to just one cup of coffee a day, I no longer needed a nap in the afternoon. Best of all, I had started the challenge with an injury, a shoulder impingement. By the middle of the challenge, all the exercise I was doing, combined with physical therapy, brought my shoulder’s range of motion back to normal.

Every Monday I was back in “Total Insanity” and though I struggled every time, I no longer felt like I was going to lose my breakfast. I added in other cardio and free weight classes at The Workout Club, and supplemented them with my favorite spin classes at the “Y”. Best of all, I was getting to know the other challenge participants. Though we were all vying for the top spot, the camaraderie and support these women offered kept me on track and motivated along with weekly weigh-ins, e-mails and support meetings.

The challenge finally ended on May 2. I lost 22.5 pounds and 9% body fat. My team lost a total of 176 pounds while the other team lost 147.5 pounds. My “before” and “after” photos are incredible. And though I still have many more pounds to lose, I am off to a great start. I am thankful for every hungry, sweaty, sore, exhausted moment I spent in this challenge because it changed my life. I’ve even decided to continue working out down in Marshfield, since no one kicks butt like those women.

Though I think I’ll skip “Total Insanity” from now on. (C’mon, I’m not crazy.)

On Motherhood

2010-05-06T15:36:00.003-04:00

What is a mother?

The definitions listed on Dictionary.com range from the succinct (…a female parent) to the technical (…a term of address for a female parent or a woman having or regarded as having the status, function, or authority of a female parent).

Singer/songwriter Kate Bush sings, “Mother…stands for comfort” but Roger Waters of Pink Floyd disagrees by saying, “Mama’s gonna make all of your nightmares come true. Mama’s gonna put all of her fears into you.”

Michael Keaton played “Mr. Mom”, Kathleen Turner racks up a high body count in “Serial Mom” and Danny DeVito wanted to “Throw Mama from the Train”, but Barbara Bel Geddes recalls that “…first and foremost, I Remember Mama.”

Whether you’re Mom, Mommy, Mother, Mama or Ma, this Sunday you will be honored alongside millions of other “female parents” for Mother’s Day.

I have a very vivid memory from my earliest days of motherhood. My husband and I brought our newborn son home from the hospital. Our drive home from Boston took twice as long as usual due to my husband driving 25 mph on the Southeast Expressway. “Slow down!” I hissed from the back seat as I hovered over my baby. Was his head tilted too far to the left? Were the straps too tight? Good God, was he still breathing? Phew.

Entering the house with new baby in tow, I heard a distinct popping sound. What’s that? Oh, right, that’s the sound of my safe haven, baby-hospital bubble popping. Taking in the disarray, clutter, hungry cats and recently delivered flower arrangements, my overworked hormones exploded. “What have we done?” I wailed, “We’ve made a huge mistake. We’ll never watch TV or read a book or eat dinner out or go to a movie ever again.”

Thankfully, twelve years later I’m happy to say that eventually we did do all of those things, and more. Last night I even left that “baby” in charge of his younger brother while my husband and I went to a friend’s party. But in those early days of motherhood, it seemed like someone had stolen my previously carefree life and replaced it with a duffle bag of insecurity, fear, anxiety and exhaustion.
What saved me? My own mother, of course. She timed her arrival from New Jersey to coincide with our arrival home from the hospital. And though she was initially nervous about handling my infant son (after all, more than 30 years had passed since her baby was born), she pitched in with rocking, singing, cooking, cleaning and most importantly, soothing (the soothing was for me, not the baby). When it was time for my mother to return to her own home, my mother-in-law arrived to continue the rocking-singing-soothing process.

With both families living out of state, I quickly realized that friendship with other mothers was the key to keeping my sanity. Over the years, I’ve relied quite heavily on my girlfriends, soliciting advice on every subject from rashes to fevers to the color of poop, on teachers and sports and whether my occasional use of an expletive will scar them for life. When your child is puking and there’s no way you can run to the store for ginger ale, a girlfriend always has your back.

The more I experience as a mother, the more I appreciate my own mother. She too was a stay-at-home mom, and I don’t ever remember her having girlfriends over or going to Gymboree or story time at the library or any of the other activities I did to help fill the hours until my husband arrived home and could give me a break from the kids. When my sons forget to pick up after themselves, or leave dirty dishes on the table, or chase each other around the house screaming, I think about how my mother must have felt dealing with the very same issues, except she had three shrieking girls instead of two loud boys. God bless her.

When do you stop being a mother? Never. You are a mother from the time your child is placed in your arms until long after your body has left this earth. I’m blessed that my mother is still with me (not everyone is as fortunate) but I know that long after she is physically gone, the memory of her love and the lessons I have learned from her will stay with me forever.

To all the moms who might be reading this (especially my own): Happy Mother’s Day!

A Trip to the Boston Institute of Contemporary Art

2010-05-06T15:34:00.002-04:00

And so another school vacation comes to a close. How was yours? Were your plans cancelled by a giant cloud of volcanic ash? Did it rain the entire time at your tropical destination? Did your airline unexpectedly move your flight up an hour, resulting in your driving 1,500 miles to get home?

If you answered “no” to any of these questions then perhaps you fared better on your vacation than some of my friends. One of the benefits to staying local (other than some mighty fine weather) is that the cosmic gremlins are unable to put much of a monkey wrench in your meticulously planned vacation.

My sons and I spent a few days with family in New Jersey (luckily, there was no previously dormant volcano spewing ash out of the Hudson River, otherwise we might never have made it over the Tappan Zee Bridge). Upon returning home, I pondered what other activities we might find to fill the remaining vacation days (helping me maintain a grip on my sanity).

I finally settled on the one place I had been meaning to take the children for months: The Institute of Contemporary Art. I always meant to take them on a Thursday night (admission is free, thanks to Target), but somehow homework, soccer and Tae Kwon Do practice always took priority. Lucky for me, our local library now has a pass available, so my admission was $5 (instead of $15) and my sons were free (my favorite discount).

This unique museum sits right on Boston Harbor, next to Anthony’s Pier 4 on Northern Ave. The building’s architecture reflects the unusual artwork within. My kids were unnerved by the giant glass elevator (you could park a car in it) that allows you to see all the way down to the lobby as you zoom up to the galleries on the fourth floor. My children started their exploration with a visit to the Poss Family Mediateque (a media center with multiple computers in rows that step down, stadium style, towards a wall of glass that looks out over the harbor). This room, which looked like the bridge of some futuristic space ship, allowed each child to view any number of animated short films on their own computer (complete with headphones). The unanimous favorite was a film entitled “Never Live Above a Psychic”, in which a man is tormented by the children of the Psychic who lives downstairs.

“Art in the Making” was another exhibit which captivated my kids. Artists used ordinary materials like sugar cubes, oil, pins and scotch tape to create their pieces. An enormous cube was made entirely of silver straight pins. A museum employee explained that the artist had poured thousands of pins into a square mold, and then removed the sides. The pins held their cube shape entirely by friction and weight, with no glue or epoxy to keep it together. Of course my first question was “How do you move it?” She went on to explain that when the exhibit was over, the cube would be dismantled.

Another room held what looked to be a mist of fine clouds floating upon the floor. On closer inspection, we discovered that the mist was made from scotch tape. One artist had a whole exhibit dedicated to water, complete with sculptured glass, photographs and an ant farm (with real, live ants. Would that be considered performance art?)

My favorite moment of the day was when my children discovered a film entitled “Sugar and Oil #2”. The film shows a block made entirely of sugar cubes. The artist then pours crude oil over the cubes, and as the oil seeps into the sugar, the block crumbles and dissolves. When my twelve-year-old said, “Oh I get it. The sugar is like the purity of mankind and the oil is what happens when we get corrupted by greed,” I nearly fell over.

One of the last exhibits we visited was a collection of art by a Mexican tattoo artist who goes by the name Dr. Lakra. Rather than tattooing skin, the artist uses his skills to tattoo vintage printed materials, found objects and even baby dolls. Some of the images were funny, some were scary and some were a little disturbing (they involved the human anatomy. Use your imagination). Though it didn’t have the same cache as the block of pins or the scotch tape clouds, my children did appreciate the artist’s talent.

As we left the museum, one of my kids blurted, “They should call this the IACA: The Institute of Awesome Contemporary Art.” Though I was happy to kill a few hours over vacation week, I was thrilled to reinforce the lesson that everyone’s concept of art is different. Art can be a Monet painting, a Rodin sculpture or even a giant block of pins. For more information, visit www.icaboston.org/

And don’t say I didn’t warn you about Dr. Lakra.

Can You Love A Machine?

2010-05-06T15:31:00.001-04:00

Is it possible to love a machine?

That sounds like the opening line from some romance-science fiction novel, doesn’t it? If you’re a fan of The Twilight Zone, you might remember the episode entitled, “The Lonely” where Jack Warden plays a convict serving time on a remote planet. His only company is a robot designed to look like a beautiful woman. When his sentence is up, he is devastated to learn that he has to leave his companion, “Alicia” behind, since there’s no room in the rocket ship for her. True, she’s only a machine, but the two had formed a deep, emotional bond.

I have similar sentiments about several machines in my life. At the top of the list is my new Saturn Aura. Of course, “my” is a relative term. Though my name is on the title and the insurance, it’s used primarily for my husband’s commute to Providence each day. Our last Saturn, a ’93 SL2, finally conked out after 16 years and 345,000 miles. And while I enjoyed that car, it’s nothing compared to the love I feel for our new Saturn: Leather seats, sunroof, XM radio (how did we survive with just AM/FM?), On-Star, MP3 jack and heated seats. Our last Saturn smelled like an old man and sounded like a New York City taxi. The new one still has that pristine-just-out-of-the-showroom smell and rides oh-so-smoothly. Though I only get to drive it on weekends, I revel in those few moments when I can open the sunroof, blast XM radio and forget that I’m actually a middle-aged, suburban soccer mom. The rock band Queen had it right when they sang “I’m in Love with My Car…got a feel for my automobile.” Really, as hard as I try, I just can’t form the same emotional attachment to my mini-van.

Running a close second on the list is my new Keurig coffee maker. I admit I resisted this one for quite a while. My husband and I had just converted from a French press to an automatic drip, when these single-cup, pod machines hit the stores. Too expensive, I thought, and those k-cups can’t be recycled. What would Al Gore say? Our grind and brew had a programmable timer and a carafe that would keep the coffee hot all day. Still, it was a pain to clean, and my husband and I were at odds over what type of coffee to brew (he loves extra bold, I like extra wimpy). Soon most of my friends had a Keurig in their kitchen and I couldn’t help but be impressed by the assortment of coffee pods available: Decaf, Mudslide, Buttered Toffee or Blueberry Crumble. (My resolve was starting to crumble). When my husband developed reflux and had to reduce his coffee intake to one cup a day, I took it as a sign. It was time to pull the trigger. The Keurig is now firmly ensconced on my counter and I’ve willingly joined the ranks of the pod people (sorry Al…)

Third place is a tie between my iPhone and my Tivo box (though I’d be hard pressed to decide which I could live more easily without). Prior to purchasing my iPhone, a friend and I went out one Friday night. Upon discovering that her iPhone was left at home, my friend immediately went into a panic. Though I assured her I had my cell phone, she responded “I’m crippled without the internet!” How could we check movie times, search restaurant reviews or Google pictures of Josh Holloway? At the time I chuckled and shook my head, but now I’m the one who can’t bear to be separated from my iPhone. No longer satisfied with just making and receiving phone calls. I have to fill every moment of downtime checking email, Facebook and surfing the internet. My Tivo box was a gift from my husband’s co-worker, and sat unused in our attic for nearly two years. When our ancient VCR finally bit the dust, I decided it was time to forgo videotape and head over to the digital side of town. Oh the wonders of watching one program while recording another. The joys of my season pass manager, which records all the episodes of my favorite programs with just one touch. The thrill of skipping over commercials, or instantly stepping back three seconds to catch that missed moment. Who came up with this brilliant idea, and how can I get in touch to thank him?

So yes, I guess to answer my original question, it is possible to love a machine. But as you know, love and hate go hand in hand. Therefore, with the capacity to love comes the potential to hate a machine as well.

Just ask anyone who owns a computer printer.

The Price of Beauty

2010-05-06T15:07:00.001-04:00

Let’s talk about the price of beauty, shall we?

First things first. I am not talking about the VH-1 program hosted by Jessica Simpson which explores the whys and wherefores of beauty rituals around the globe. I could certainly write plenty about Jessica and her BFFs drinking cow urine in India and being buried up to their necks in Tokyo. But that’s a column for another day.

Recently, I won a free rejuvenating peel and microdermabrasion from a local spa. The peel refers to a “chemical peel’ where salicylic acid is applied to the skin to slough off old skin cells. The microdermabrasion then uses light abrasion to remove the outmost layer of dead skin. I’ve heard that these treatments can work wonders in bringing a fresh, vibrant look to the face, but at almost $200 a pop, it’s low on my priority list.

I’ve never been one to obsess over aging. Still, I can see how women who were beautiful their whole lives might pursue Botox and face lifts and other cosmetic treatments to maintain their looks. Having always been average, my beauty regimen is minimal at best. I indulge in pedicures during the summer, when my icky toenails aren’t falling off (I’m like a lobster…I shed body parts on a regular basis). I’ve also enjoyed facials from time to time. Manicures last about five minutes before they chip, so I don’t bother. But overall, I tend not to spend much money on beauty treatments; I like a decent return on my investment and this face just doesn’t give it.

Lucky for me, my peel and dermabrasion were free. I arrived at the spa at the appointed time and filled out a very detailed medical questionnaire and waiver. I was thrown by some of the questions, including the one which asked for my genetic background. (Were they checking to see if I’m a mutant? Was a DNA test required?) The receptionist assured me they just needed to know if I burn easily (I’m Scandinavian…so that would be a “yes”).

After signing away all rights to my face, I met with the nurse who would be performing my procedure. This was reassuring, because when someone is putting acid on your face, you want it to be a medical professional. After several more questions regarding my skin care regimen (what regimen?) she instructed me to lie on the table. Pushing thoughts of the Phantom of the Opera from my mind, I lay down.

Now I want you to picture what it’s like to have a relaxing facial. The room is usually quiet, the lights are dim, and typically there’s some kind of new age, pan flute music playing in the background. As the skin care professional gently cleans and massages your pores, any stress or tension just melts away.

A peel and dermabrasion is not like that. In the bright lights of the examining room, the nurse went to work. “I’m applying the peel now, it might feel sting a little bit,” she warned. Within seconds, I wondered how my face had caught fire. My face felt as if I’d fallen asleep in the sun for six or seven days. Luckily, the burning sensation soon took a backseat to the acidic fumes filling my nostrils. “It smells a bit,” the nurse admitted as I silently gasped for air. I squeezed my eyes shut against the flames and fumes as the nurse fanned my face. My skin temperature returned to normal as the stench dissipated.

On to the microdermabrasion. Those of you who’ve had cavities filled are probably familiar with the tool my dentist calls “Mr. Thirsty”, the one that sucks up all the excess water in your mouth. The dermabrasion tool felt a lot like Mr. Thirsty as the nurse rubbed it across my skin. “So this is what it’s like to have your face vacuumed,” I thought. After a quick rinse of water (Ow!) and some calming moisturizer, it was time to head home. The nurse cautioned that my face would be red for a couple of hours, and then flake two days later.

Sure enough, 48 hours later I woke to a face full of flakes. It was like everything south of my nose had developed dandruff. Washing my skin and slathering on moisturizer, I rushed to my aerobics class, only to discover that sweat stings a lot more when your face has been chemically flambéed and vacuumed. Ever swim in the ocean after getting a cut? It’s like that…except it was my whole face…for an hour.

Three days after the treatment, my flakes have diminished, my face feels nice and clean and I’ve received several comments on how fresh my skin looks. All in all, it was worth the minor discomfort I endured. And though I don’t have the money for another such treatment, I’d certainly be opening to trying new things should the opportunity arise.

However, I draw the line at cow urine.

The Sounds of Spring

2010-04-06T07:39:00.001-04:00

One evening last week, my son and I were driving to church when suddenly he said, “Mom, listen!” I slowed my car and rolled down the window. “Peepers!” he shouted. Sure enough, there was the telltale chorus of “peeps” coming from those tiny little frogs that herald the beginning of a new season. Spring is officially here.

Coincidentally, that same week both a friend in Hanover and my mother-in-law in Central New York sposted similar sentiment on their Facebook pages. My friend said, “I hear the peepers. Spring is here”, while my mother-in-law posted, “Spring is officially here when I hear the peepers, and they are just peeping their hearts out right now.”

Peepers (not to be confused with those nasty marshmallow Peeps that are also found this time of year), are “…small tree frogs found in woodland areas in the Eastern United States and Canada.” The Encyclopedia Brittanica goes on to say, “The spring peeper, with its high, whistling call, is one of the first frogs to vocalize and breed in spring.” After the breeding season, the peeper is seldom heard.
We may see daffodils and crocuses springing up in flower beds all over town, and smell the scent of damp, warm earth coming alive, but it is the sounds of the peepers that solidify spring’s arrival.

Of course, peepers are not the only sound that comes with warm weather. Now that my windows are open, I can hear an entirely different animal sound on my street; the call of the wild hog. Or more specifically, the Harley Davidson motorcycle. Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote, “In the spring, the young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.” What he didn’t mention was that the love in question was for a Harley CVO “Fat Bob” with a twin-cam Screamin’ Eagle 110 engine. I can appreciate the avid biker who excitedly stows his or her winter wheels in order to spend the summer gliding through the streets of my town. But damn, those bikes are loud. Still, they’re here to stay till the first flakes of winter, so I better get used to hearing those engines roar. Or perhaps it’s time to switch bedrooms with my son and sleep in the back of the house for a change.

One of the more pleasant sounds of spring is the song of the returning birds. True, I’ve heard many a chickadee and blue jay throughout the winter, but their chorus always seems a little thin. The full orchestra of spring birds have returned from their southern winter engagement, complete with the woodpecker playing percussion on the side of my house. What better way to awake in the morning than to the sweet harmony of birdsong?

And then there’s the lovely droning buzz of the lawn mower(such a happier sound than the dark, bleak, hopeless sound of its cousin, the snow blower) The lawn mower brings to mind images of lazy spring evenings, kids running bases at t-ball, moms and dads sitting on bleachers, cheering them on. The lawn mower represents Saturday soccer games and friends coming over to share a beer while you fire up the grill. The only caveat is that the lawn mower sound should be absolutely verboten before 9 a.m. in the morning. Yes, that includes Saturdays. Especially on Saturdays.

And then there is that one spring sound which fills me with both anticipation and dread. My stomach turns flip-flops when I hear this sound, and I have to slow my racing heart, take a few deep breaths and settle myself.

Have you guessed it yet? It’s the sound of my kids asking, “Mom, how many more days till summer vacation?”

Could This Be The End?

2010-04-06T07:36:00.001-04:00

It is with a heavy heart that I write this, my very last column. I want to let all my readers know just how special this job has been to me. My editor and I had a very nice lunch last week, laughing and chatting about some of our favorite columns from the past nineteen months. Nineteen months? Has it really been that long? Time flies when you are doing something you love.

What a difference this column has made in my life. Writing about the funny (and sometimes not-so-funny) things that have happened to my family and me has helped me grow not only as a writer, but as a person. Being a columnist has allowed me to see humor in the little things in life, whether it’s brushing your teeth with antifungal crème, cringing over a smug Christmas letter or trying to boot your houseguests out after an extended visit. It’s also made me more aware of how much my own experiences mirror that of my friends and fellow readers.

If there’s one thing I’ve enjoyed more than anything else, it’s receiving all your feedback via phone or email (and often in person too…who knew I’d be recognized at Stop and Shop?). Your kind words of encouragement have been more precious to me than the small paycheck I receive for all the hours of writing I do each week. If I’ve entertained, informed, or even just made you stop and think for just a moment, then I’ve been successful.

It’s been my pleasure to announce your birthdays, anniversaries and academic accomplishments. I feel as if my town is an extension of my own family. You have included me in the events and achievements which make you most proud, and for that, I am grateful.

Still, all good things must come to an end. It’s time for me to follow other dreams, chase other rainbows, and close this chapter in the book of my life. And so, dear readers, I bid you a fond farewell. I wish you nothing but the best.

Oh, and one more thing…

Happy April Fool’s Day!

A Life Lesson Learned from a Pencil

2010-04-06T07:34:00.002-04:00

This week, the student council at my son’s elementary school held a pencil sale. Kids were encouraged to bring in money and purchase pencils to send to their friends. My son asked if he could have a dollar to purchase a pencil and send it to a classmate. These weren’t just any pencils. These pencils change color when exposed to heat and cold (same premise as those straws you get at Friendly’s).

The day of the sale, my son came to me after school and showed me the pencil he had received. On the slip that came with it was a message from the student council, wishing him luck on his upcoming MCAS test. His face crumpled as he sadly told me that none of his classmates had sent a pencil to him. His pencil was a kind of consolation prize (anyone not receiving a pencil from a friend got a pencil from the student council). My heart broke as he mentioned several kids in class who had received 10 or 12 pencils each. I recognized the names: the popular kids. (Amazing, there are “popular” eight-year olds) I hugged him, comforted him and told him I would buy him a hundred pencils if it made him feel better. As I dried his tears, I thought back to a similar incident in high school.

Every Valentine’s Day, our high school would sell carnations. You could purchase a carnation and send them to friends, girlfriends or boyfriends. White was for friendship, pink was for love and red was for something else that I can’t remember (Passion? Lust? I doubt the school would have emphasized those emotions to the under-18 crowd.) My friends and I were not usually recipients of the pink or red variety. Not wanting to be the only ones in the class to receive zero carnations, we schemed ahead of time to send each other as many white flowers as we could afford. Better to have a bouquet of white carnations than none at all. But still, as the flowers were distributed, we secretly hoped that one unexpected pink carnation might make it into the bunch. (I’ll end the suspense right here…it never happened).

Ah, the life lessons learned from pencils and carnations. Looking at my son, I knew that there would be more lessons like this throughout his life: Parties he might not be invited to; girls that may not want to go out with him; colleges that might waitlist him; jobs he may apply for and not get. None of it because of who he is (or isn’t) but simply because that’s just the way life is. As a parent, I’m torn between knowing these experiences will toughen him up for life’s challenges ahead, yet wanting to shield him from hurt or rejection whenever possible.

As my son settled down, I asked whether the friend he sent a pencil to received any other pencils. No, my son said, just the one pencil that he had sent. I told my son to think about how sad he felt, right at that moment. I said, “Your friend might be feeling sad just like you, if you hadn’t sent him that pencil. You made someone else feel happy instead of sad.” He nodded his head as he thought about that and a tiny hint of a smile appeared. Another lesson learned.

Because when it comes right down to it, the value of our lives is not measured by pencils or carnations. It’s measured by the person we know ourselves to be, and how we treat those around us.

At least, that’s what I’ve learned.

How to Celebrate St. Paddy's Day

2010-04-06T07:30:00.001-04:00

Erin Go Bragh!

My last name is Anderson. My father’s parents were right off the boat from Denmark and Sweden. My mom’s maiden name is Rockwell (English). In her family tree there are Flints (also English) and Knouses (German) and Tillous (France). There’s even a thread of Buchanan (Scottish). So I it’s safe to say that I’m one of the rare folks living in the Boston area that doesn’t have even a drop of Irish blood.

But I’m not about to let that stop me from suggesting the top 10 ways you can celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Sure, my friends with the last names McAuley, McWade, McLaughlin and O’Toole might be better suited to suggest how to spend this homage to St. Patrick. But I’ve lived in Boston now for nearly 30 years, and after careful observation, I think I can manage a few suggestions. So here we go:

10. Enjoy a slice of Irish Soda Bread. Raisins? No Raisins? Icing? However you like your bread, you can’t beat something that can be used as both a mid-day snack and a doorstop. How is it that soda bread is so delicious, yet weighs a ton? It’s like fruitcake (only edible).

9. Watch “The Quiet Man” with John Wayne and Maureen O’Sullivan. Growing up in New Jersey, in a predominantly Jewish community, this movie was the closest thing to hearing an Irish brogue. Ah the quaint villagers. The sweet old lady, handing the Duke a stick with which “…to beat the lovely lady.” And who doesn’t love that climactic fight scene? Classic John Wayne. But in Ireland.

8. Wear an Irish fisherman’s sweater. Once again, here’s something Irish that weighs deceptively more than it appears. And if you’re allergic to wool, or can’t stand the itching, you’re out of luck. Pray that it doesn’t rain, because if you pair the sweater with a yellow slicker you’ll look like the Gorton’s of Gloucester fisherman. While you’re at it, add a jaunty cap, the type cabbies wear. Now you’re getting it!

7. Read “Angela’s Ashes”. Wallow in misery. Thank God that you weren’t raised in a poor Irish home having to share one pair of socks amongst fifteen brothers and sisters. Or you can lighten up and read a Maeve Binchy novel instead. Less misery, more romance.

6. Drink Beer. Lots of it. Green Beer, pale ale, stout, lager, it doesn’t matter whether you get it on tap, in a bottle or in a can. Beer is the official drink of St. Patrick’s Day. When you run out of beer, switch to whiskey. When you run out of whiskey, call the ambulance.

5. Listen to Irish music. Start off with some rousing standards from The Clancy Brothers. Move onto the hardcore stuff, the more “deedlee-dee” the better. My friend’s husband (who is Irish) lovingly calls it “puppet music”. Bring on the bagpipes. Turn the volume up to “11”. When you can’t stand it one more minute, switch to The Dropkick Murphys and U2.

4. Dance a jig. So what if you look ridiculous, this is St. Patrick’s Day and if you’ve had enough beer by this point, you won’t care. Tie a ribbon around your forehead, jam your arms to your sides and pretend you’re Lord of the Dance. Fall down. Pick yourself up. Sadly note that your 5-year-old niece can kick your butt when it comes to step dancing. Have another beer.

3. Eat corned beef and cabbage. Who thought of this amazing idea to cook the living daylights out of a hunk of meat, a head of cabbage, potatoes and carrots for a week until its one lovely, pinkish gray pot of mush. Not into corned beef? Try shephard’s pie. Not into shephard’s pie? Time for another beer.

2. Wear green. This should be obvious. Green is the official color of Ireland, due to the lovely rolling green hills. Kelly green, sea green, spring green, forest green, it doesn’t matter what shade you wear, it just matters that you clothe yourself from head to toe in green. When you get to looking like the Jolly Green Giant, paint some shamrocks on your face. It’ll look cool. Really.

1. Go to South Boston. If you’ve never been to Southie’s St. Patrick’s Day parade, you’re missing out. Where else can you see marching bands, fire engines, soldiers, politicians and even Darth Vader (because really, what’s St. Patrick’s Day without Star Wars characters?) And speaking of characters, check out the ones lining the sidewalks on either side of the parade. They’re much more entertaining than the parade itself. Its one big cheering, weaving, staggering, boisterous crowd of happy Irish (and Irish wannabe’s). Watch out for public urinators. Nothing puts a damper on your St. Patrick’s Day celebration faster than having to explain to your child why it’s okay for that guy to pee in public. Marvel at the number of people drinking from open containers on the train ride home.

Here’s hoping you all have a safe and fun St. Patrick’s Day. And remember: May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face;the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Sticks and Stones

2010-03-11T15:04:00.001-05:00

I have a hard time remembering 8th grade. I can’t remember which classes I took or who my teachers were. You might think this is because I’m getting on in years and my brain cells are starting to become clogged with 46+ years of memories and information.

The reason I don’t remember much of 8th grade is because I was hardly ever in school. Due to a series of “illnesses”, I was absent more than I was present. Stomach aches were the most frequent cause of my absences. And I can tell you with all honesty that this had nothing to do with a defective digestive system. I missed most of 8th grade because I was bullied.

A friend of mine from 7th grade (let’s call her Elise) was in most of my 8th grade classes. Someone must have thrown a switch in her brain over the summer because early on in 8th grade she decided it would be more fun to torment me than to be friends with me. Or rather, she pretended to be my friend, yet would punch me, write on my clothes and threaten me on a daily basis. She’d sit by me in math, tearing off my book cover and scribbling on my pants in ink. I would bring an assortment of candy, gum and other items to school in the hopes of appeasing her. When the final bell rang on Friday afternoons, I felt like a prisoner released from confinement. On Sunday nights the dread would start to creep in, and I’d find myself going to bed later and later, hoping to delay sleep because of the Monday morning hell that awaited me. Often, I’d plead a stomach ache or a headache, until my mom let me stay home.

Finally, with only a few weeks left of school, I confessed to my parents what was going on. They immediately went to see the principal and my guidance counselor. I don’t remember everything that was discussed, but I do remember that in 9th grade, Elise was in none of my classes. And my best friend Kathy was in all of them.

I wish I had told my parents about the bullying when it first began. Now that I’m a parent, I worry about my own children being bullied. Or bullying someone else. When my kids complain that someone is teasing or taunting them, my husband and I try to dispense practical advice (after I’ve suppressed my first impulse of wanting to track down the offender and really show him what it’s like to be bullied.)

In the movie “A Christmas Story”, Ralphie, the main character, is being bullied by Scut Farkus (yellow eyes!) and his sidekick Grover Dill. At one point the narrator declares, “In our world you were either a bully, a toady or one of the nameless rabble of victims.” After being tormented by Scut Farkus throughout the movie, Ralphie finally snaps and whales the tar out of him. Defeated and deflated, the bully slinks home with a bloody nose and his tail between his legs. While I don’t advocate violence against others, I always feel a sense of satisfaction when the bully is diminished in the eyes of his victims.

In the good old days, bullying was something you might have to endure at school, on the playground or on the bus, but at least you were safe once you arrived home. In the digital age, this is no longer true. I hear many stories from other parents about their children being bullied by text message, via online chat or on Facebook. God knows, I enjoy Facebook as an adult (every day’s a high school reunion), but in the hands of a tween or teenager, it can be a dangerous weapon. If words hurt at the moment they’re spoken, they continue to hurt and fester indefinitely on an online post. Just ask Phoebe Prince of South Hadley. After a combination of physical, verbal and cyber bullying, Phoebe decided the best way to end it was to hang herself. God forbid it comes to that for one of our children.

As parents, what can we do? That’s not a rhetorical question. Seriously, what do we do? I try to keep an open dialogue with my children about what’s going on at school, soccer and their other activities. I know this will only get more difficult as they get older. Many schools address the issue with special assemblies and classroom discussion. And this week, the Massachusetts Senate is set to debate and vote on a proposed anti-bullying bill. All steps in the right direction, but is it enough?

When I heard the story this week about an incident of cyber-bullying going on in my own town, I thought, “There but for the Grace of God go I.” It could just as easily be my child being bullied. Or doing the bullying. I don’t accept bullying as a rite of passage, something that all kids go through as a part of growing up. If my child is being hurt (or doing the hurting), I need to know so I can take steps to stop it.

Remember that old saying, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me”?

If only that were true.

I Want Candy!!!

2010-03-11T15:03:00.000-05:00

Hear that sound? The doorbell is ringing. Who could it be? The UPS man? Edible Arrangements? Avon calling? No! It’s your favorite Middle Schooler standing on your doorstep, brochure in hand. Ahh. The Camp Squanto Candy Sale has begun.

Last year I wrote about Camp Squanto, a rite of passage that every Hanover sixth grader experiences. The kids spend a week in Plymouth doing activities that enforce not just science and math, but self-esteem, social relationships and more. Sixth graders are asked to sell candy to help defray the cost of the trip. As if a free trip to Squanto isn’t enough of an incentive, other “prizes” are offered to sweeten the deal.

My sixth grader came home with his catalog and order form and wailed “But Mom, I’ve never sold anything before.” Now, this isn’t quite true. Back in pre-school, he sold cookie dough…and pretzels…and pizza kits. He doesn’t remember it because I was the one doing the selling. (Imagine pre-schoolers going door to door selling candy? “Hi, would you like to buy some candy? Uh oh, I pooped!”)

When Sally Foster entered our lives, we took a break from selling (given that every other school on the planet also sells Sally Foster wrapping paper. And really, I have a hard time spending $10 on something that is going to get ripped up and thrown away…but I digress.)

Getting back to Squanto candy, I suggested my son set a goal and try his best to reach it. His goal is 200 boxes. Apparently this is the minimum number needed to win a Sony Playstation 3. Given that the least expensive item is $6.50, I’m skeptical about reaching that goal, but I’ll encourage him nonetheless.
This whole experience takes me back to the time when I sold Girl Scout Cookies. Back in the day, Girl Scouts didn’t sit at tables at the grocery store, blocking the exit and forcing shoppers to run the Thin Mint gauntlet before they could get to the safety of their car. There were no flu clinics for enterprising young scouts (nice one, girls.) We had to hoof it from door to door. The literature from GS headquarters suggested we wear our uniform, knock politely and say (in a sing-song voice), “It’s Girl Scout Cookie time. Will you place your order with me?” Right. I lumbered from neighborhood to neighborhood, knocking on strange doors, all by myself, saying, “So. Want to buy some Girl Scout cookies?” Strangely, I was not the top seller of my troop.

My husband went through the same process, though he sold peanut brittle for his high school Environmental Study Team (a fancy name for his Outing Club.) Growing up in Central, NY, he had to walk farm to farm in order to raise money. (Or maybe he just took the tractor?)

I also remember advertisements in the back of my comic books that said, “Make money. Sell Grit.” There was a photo of an old tyme newsboy, satchel slung across his chest emblazoned with the word “GRIT”. I found out years later that “Grit” was a newspaper, (now a magazine) that “celebrates rural life”. If cookies are a tough sell, imagine knocking on a door and saying, “Hi! Would you be interested in Grit?” Slam. Still, there were those hardy young men who refused to give up. Some would say they possessed True Grit (ouch).

This weekend, my son and I went through the neighborhoods behind our home, trolling for candy sales (rather, he made the sales while I sat in the car and played with my iPhone). I watched him slowly shuffle from house to house and marveled at how much faster moved on Halloween when he was trying to get candy, rather than sell it. Still, his persistence paid off. I proudly watching him smile, inquire politely, and then thank each person, whether they made a purchase or not. Though he’s nowhere near his goal of 200 boxes, he’s off to a great start. I have to admire him for it.

So if you hear a knock at the door, be sure to answer it. There’s a 6th grader out there hoping to raise money for camp. And if no middle-schooler happens to come to your house…let me know.

I’ll send mine over.