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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
