Welcome to the "-itis" club

As people mature, some like to join a tennis club, others join a country club. Me, I’ve joined the “-itis” club.

Not familiar with the “-itis” club? Well, it’s not at all exclusive. Anyone can join. Yes, we have a strict membership policy, but we don’t exclude based on race, religion or financial status.

A few years ago, on a visit to my primary care physician, I mentioned an ache in my thumbs and hands. I figured it might be carpal tunnel syndrome. Nope. My doctor assured me that what I was feeling was the beginning of arthritis. This was my entry into the “-itis” club.

Last week, I further cemented my membership when I received the results of an MRI. You see, I’ve been having pain in my shoulder and my arm whenever I reach behind me or extend my arm fully. The diagnosis? Bursitis and tendonitis. Whoo hoo, lucky me! Two more status symbols for my “-itis” club membership.

Gee, if I’m really lucky, maybe I can swing dermatitis, colitis and phlebitis. I guess I should be thankful that so far I’ve managed to avoid tonsillitis and appendicitis. Both my young son and my niece contracted cellulitis of the eye, and were lucky to keep their vision. (See, we don’t discriminate by age either!) My friend’s dad (who’s also in the club) has suffered from pancreatitis, which is very painful, so I’m crossing my fingers against that one. Although, with the arthritis and all, that might not be such a good idea.

The suffix “-itis” is derived from a Greek suffix and can be traced back to the Greek noun “nostos”, which means disease. When an organ or body part becomes swollen or inflamed, the suffix “-itis” is added to the end. (I’m starting to sound like the father in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”. Maybe Windex could cure my bursitis).

I’m fairly sure my husband wouldn’t mind if I contracted a case of laryngitis, even if only for a day or so, but I doubt he’d be thrilled if I had hepatitis. Blepharitis is an inflammation of the eyelids (wow, the things you learn on the internet.) Prostatitis is something I’ll never have to worry about (though my husband better watch out). If I don’t bundle up, I could also catch bronchitis and sinusitis.

And who knows, now that I’m firmly entrenched in the “-itis” club, I might try for dual membership in the “-osis” club. (“-osis” is a suffix that refers to a process, condition or state, usually abnormal or diseased.) My father and mother-in-law both have spinal stenosis, and my son has mild scoliosis. If I drink too much, I could end up with cirrhosis. Cook that pork chop thoroughly, or I might end up with trichinosis. And hey, how ‘bout that two for one deal: Diverticulitis and Diverticulosis.

I guess the thing that bothers me most about being in the “-itis” club is that when I complained to my doctor about the arthritis, the bursitis and the tendonitis, her reply was, “Well, that’s what you can expect at this age”.

Ouch. I think that hurts more than all the “-itis” and “-osis” combined.

Last Night I Dreamed of Haiti

The other night, I dreamed I went to Haiti. My companions and I drove there, in a car loaded with food and medical supplies. In the dream, I slept for most of the drive, finally waking when we reached our destination. We stayed in a very large home, which at the time housed about 20 other people. The people were happy to see us, and welcomed us with friendly smiles and open arms. “Thank you for coming, “they said, “Although we’re actually doing quite well, now.”

You can tell this was a dream for two reasons. For one, it’s impossible to drive to Haiti (there’s an ocean in the way). And secondly, the people of Haiti will not be “quite well” for a very, very long time.

I believe this dream was prompted by the many ways I’ve witnessed people coming to the aid of a country that was struggling even before the devastating earthquake of last month. Just this weekend, I watched an interview with Julie Pearce, a Minnesota news anchor who quit her job to go help the people in Haiti. Pearce is also a certified nurse, and moved by the images of the earthquakes devastation, decided to put her career, family and life on hold to volunteer her services.
How many of us could actually make that sacrifice? And if we could, would we? I’m reminded of the book of Luke, which my bible class is studying this year. The disciples who dropped everything to follow Jesus amaze me. They just left their boats, fishing nets and families behind in order to follow a calling. I couldn’t imagine myself having the courage to do such a thing. I couldn’t imagine anyone today having that same strength of purpose.

And yet, look at these people who are called to Haiti.

For those of us who aren’t able to physically tend to those in need, it’s heartening to see the many ways we can still make a difference. In every store I visit, there is an opportunity to make a donation for Haitian relief. My sixth grader was encouraged to bring in a donation, with his teacher urging the class to bring in money that they themselves had earned. My son fretted about the fact that his donation wasn’t as large as some of his other classmates, but I reminded him that what was important wasn’t the amount but the fact that he emptied his wallet and gave every last cent he had to someone in need.

Kerline Tofuri, a Hanover resident, has long been an advocate for her native Haiti, founding the initiative Jou Nouvo, which brings assistance to the people of Bon-Repos. As of this writing, Kerline is in Haiti delivering much needed medical supplies, and her foundation continues to receive donations to help victims of the earthquake (for more information visit http://www.pidonline.org/ and click on Jou Nouvo.)

At church this past Sunday, two fifth grade girls asked if they could organize a fundraising effort, supported by the church, to raise money for Haiti. Local schools are doing “Hats for Haiti” and “Hearts for Haiti”, asking kids to donate a dollar in exchange for wearing a hat to school or purchasing a heart.
One of the more delicious ways I was able to assist Haiti was at a luncheon held by my good friend Jessie Williamson last week. A part-time caterer, Jessie is always whipping up some amazing soup, salad or other delight, which I’m always happy to sample after our Meals on Wheels run on Thursdays. Moved by the disaster in Haiti, she decided to open her home to her friends and host a luncheon with donations to be made to the relief effort. The food was delicious, the conversation entertaining, and at last count the donations totaled over $600 with more coming in.

What I’ve come to realize is that everyone is capable of making a difference in their own small way. Maybe you can write a large check…or just a small one.

Perhaps you can rally friends or neighbors to come together to help. Or dedicate a few inches of column space to the cause. It really doesn’t matter whether you’re a news anchor, a fifth-grader, a caterer or a columnist. Everyone can find some way to help those in need.

What will you choose?

Who Needs Help Cutting the Cheese?

The other day I was walking through the aisles of Stop and Shop when a particular product caught my eye. It’s not new, and it’s one with which you may already be familiar. But for some reason, seeing it on the shelf set off a chain of thoughts in my head that compels me to address it.

Does anyone here like…Cracker Cuts?

For those of you who look at those two words in puzzlement (add my husband to that group) Cracker Cuts is a product made by Kraft foods, the people who bring you Cracker Barrel cheese (one of my favorites…yeah, I know.)

If you’re looking for a tasty cheese snack or cheese for entertaining, you could buy a block of Cracker Barrel. But if you’re ready to take that extra leap into the new technology of cheese, then my friend, you need Cracker Cuts. It’s like buying a block of cheese that has already been sliced for you. Actually, it is buying a block of cheese that has already been sliced for you. Amazing! It’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.

Here’s the description of the product from Kraft’s website: “Snacking and entertaining is made easy with Cracker Barrel Cracker Cuts Cheese. Treat yourself to the great taste of cheese conveniently pre-cut to fit perfectly on your favorite crackers.”
I’ve seen Cracker Cuts before, and have even been served them on occasion. But for some reason, seeing it on the shelf amongst the other cheese blocks prompted a slew of questions. The first being, “How lazy do you have to be that you can’t slice your own cheese?” Did the folks in product development at Kraft decide that there’s a whole market of customers who just cannot be bothered to slice their own cheese? Or am I being unfairly prejudiced about Cracker Cuts?

This started me thinking. Perhaps it’s not a question of laziness. Perhaps it’s a time management issue. Cracker Cuts is actually social commentary on the woman who tries to “do it all”. She holds down a job, is a devoted wife and mother and doesn’t have enough hours in her day to work, oversee homework, cook dinner, clean the house and drive the kids to their various soccer/ballet/hockey practices. When the kids are clamoring for a snack, or the neighbors are popping in unexpectedly for a cocktail, who has time to laboriously slice cheese? Cracker Cuts to the rescue.

Maybe time isn’t the issue. Maybe it’s perfection. Have we been so conditioned by Martha Stewart and others like her that we feel like failures when we don’t send out handmade holiday cards, make our own mac and cheese from scratch and craft centerpieces for our kitchen table out of chicken wire, corn husks and six different types of wildflowers grown in our own garden? Martha would be appalled if we were to serve our guests cheese slices that weren’t uniform in thickness and size (oh the horror!) The overhang of cheese to cracker must be no more than 1/100 of an inch. And what? You’re going to serve square cheese with round crackers? Heathen.

Oh, the smugness I felt writing this column in my head, until my good friend Julianne popped my bubble by saying, “Well, what about elderly people who have arthritis?” That stopped me in my tracks. I thought of another friend who’s younger than me that suffers from this ailment. Of course Cracker Cuts would be a good product for her. Then a client told me he had Cracker Cuts on a friend’s boat because, “You don’t want to try to cut cheese with a sharp knife on a boat that’s rocking side to side.” (Especially after a few beers). Hmmm. And what about picnics? And soccer practices? And kids who want to get their own snacks? And people with prosthetic hands? Or knife phobias?

I don’t know whether the folks at Kraft considered all these scenarios when they developed Cracker Cuts. Truthfully, they probably just wanted a way to increase market share while charging more for the product (Cracker Cuts are the same price as regular Cracker Barrel cheese, but look closely. Cracker Cuts weigh 3 ounces less. Those crafty Kraft people.) Even if their motives were driven by profit, not altruism, I now see how Cracker Cuts has earned its place in the great circle of life known as the dairy case.

I love it when I learn life lessons from the little things. But let there be no doubt where I stand on purchasing block versus sliced. Personally, I have no difficulty whatsoever when it comes to cutting the cheese.

(Admit it…you were waiting for that)

A Lesson in E-mail Etiquette

Okay folks, it’s time for a refresher course on e-mail etiquette. Like me, you probably get dozens of e-mails each day, from friends, acquaintances, strangers, department stores, online websites and countless others. Most are easily dealt with (deleted, delete, delete) but others can require a bit more thought.

Let’s start with my biggest pet peeve: People who do not understand the difference between “Reply” and “Reply All”. For those who have trouble with this, “Reply” means you are replying only to the person who sent you the e-mail. “Reply All” means you are replying to the sender and everyone else that was sent this e-mail . In most cases, “Reply” is the correct choice. In rare exceptions, “Reply All” is appropriate.

For example, let’s say your best friend Suzie is hosting a brunch. She sends out an email saying, “Please come to brunch on such and such date and time. Let me know if you can make it and what you’d like to bring.” Ah-ha! In this instance, “Reply All” is appropriate. Why? Because you want to be sure that your good friend Gertrude doesn’t bring the same artichoke dip to the brunch that you want to bring. By using “Reply All”, you can let both the host and everyone else attending know what you are bringing so there will be no duplicates.

Now, what if that same good friend Suzie sends you (and all her other friends) an e-mail inviting your child for a play date. The e-mail lists the date, time, and location and asks that you RSVP. In this case, “Reply” is the correct option. Too many times, I’ve received responses from other moms saying, “Little Carlton can’t wait,” and, “Baby Bubba will be there,” because” they hit “Reply All”. Honestly, I don’t need to know if Carlton or Bubba or any other child is thrilled, excited, wetting his pants or dreading this play date. Seriously folks, it’s okay to hit the “Reply” button on this.

Did you know that “Reply All” is one of the most dangerous buttons on your e-mail? Case in point: A few years ago, a friend (she was a friend at the time, we’re no longer friends for reasons soon to be revealed) sent me an e-mail which warned friends about a potentially poisonous hazard in an item most people purchase for their homes. The e-mail sounded a little fishy to me, so I checked with snopes.com, an urban legend de-bunking site, and found that the warning was indeed overblown. I crafted an email, complete with a link to snopes, chastising my intelligent, savvy friend for sending her e-mail without verifying the content first. I then sent the e-mail to my friend, unaware that I had inadvertently hit “Reply All” instead of “Reply”. Her entire e-mail list of friends, family members, colleagues and work contacts got my smug, condescending reply and I ended up losing a friendship. Lesson learned.

This brings me to my next e-mail pet peeve: online urban legends. Let me just state now that Bill Gates is not going to send you a free laptop computer or $10, or a Gap gift certificate or anything at all if you forward his e-mail to everyone in your address book. You do not need to register your cell phone with a Do Not Call list, you won’t get any free dinners at Applebee’s and little 9-year-old Craig Shergold is now 30-years old, cancer-free and no longer in need of any get well cards, business cards or any other card. (He’s already in the Guinness Book of World Records, so it’s time to move on.) There are several great debunking sites online, but www.snopes.com is my personal favorite. Bookmark it, use it, and stop clogging my-inbox.
Last, but not least, are e-mail chain letters. I don’t mind getting jokes, prayers, movies, cartoons, inspirational poems, or warm, fuzzy sentiments. What I don’t like is the threat of bad luck if I don’t immediately send that same e-mail to twenty of my friends. So be warned. If you send me one of those emails, instead of sending it to twenty friends, I will send it to you, the sender, twenty times.

Oh, and while we’re speaking of warnings… Remember that anything you write can be forwarded to anyone from anyone. So be careful what you say and to whom you send it.

Here’s hoping that this lesson in e-mail etiquette was helpful to you. I certainly feel better clearing the air. However if my hugging column is any indication, I’ll probably receive about ten times more “Reply All” messages from this point on. So be it.

The Dirty Dozen...with Donuts

I love the smell of pinesap in the morning. It smells like...money.

This was the thought running through my mind this weekend as I volunteered for my son's Cub Scout pack fundraiser. Each year the pack picks up discarded Christmas trees and hauls them to the DPW, where they are ground into mulch. The money collected ($10 per tree) goes to running the pack and paying for all those camp-outs and marshmallow roasts and other fun activities (so parents don't have to open their wallets.)

Would I have preferred to be somewhere else at 8:00 a.m. on the coldest Saturday of the year? Of course. Given my druthers, I would have remained in my nice, warm, cozy bed, snoozing between fluffy flannel sheets and dreaming of a tropical vacation with George Clooney. But then I thought about my friends from the other side of town. Their pack requires them to climb into the bottle bin at the transfer station in all types of weather, dumping out other people's swill and organizing redeemable bottles. I've seen friends in 90-degree heat with gloves up to their elbows, swatting bees.

I guess a few hours on a cold Saturday morning is a small price to pay after all.

The DPW office was filled with moms, dads and scouts, all crowding around the table laden with coffee, donuts and other baked goodies. Our fearless pack leader stood at the head of the table, laying out maps and spreadsheets like an army general about to send troops into battle. As we stood around the table, listening to instructions, it felt like a scene from the movie "The Dirty Dozen" (only with donuts).

Each team was comprised of a flatbed truck driver and a parent riding shotgun with a route map and a list of pick-up sites. Following close behind was the "chase car", which contained another parent (or two) and a passel of cub scouts, by this time all hyped up on (yes, you guessed it...donuts).

As we received our assignments, the mom standing next to me gave my outfit the once-over. She was dressed in several layers of fleece, with warm, waterproof boots on her feet. I was in sweats, a fleece top and sneakers. "Are you going to be warm enough?" she asked with concern. I assured her I'd be fine as I slid into the heated front seat of my minivan (now known as the "chase car"). I guess she had the idea that I would be the one hopping out from stop to stop and hauling trees into the truck. Really. That's why I volunteered my husband.

Another scout's dad (my designated navigator) hopped into the passenger seat ("Is this seat heated?" he asked with wonder) and we were off. Our list of pick-up sites was in alphabetical order, but within minutes my co-pilot and I had plotted the most time-efficient route. The van rolled through town like a Sherman tank (a Sherman tank with a DVD player blasting "Star War: Clone Wars"). At each stop, we'd check for traffic, then open the side door as the kids burst out shouting, "Move! Move! Move!" like a team of commandos. One would grab the money in the attached Ziploc bag while the others would grab the tree and tug it, grunting and heaving, to the flatbed truck. At this point, my husband and my co-pilot would heft the tree up onto the flatbed. The commandos would throw themselves into the back of the van; swing the door shut and we'd be off to the next stop. Mission complete.

This cycle would repeat itself 44 times over the next three hours. By lunchtime, more than three hundred trees were collected, thanks to the combined efforts of the scout leaders, volunteers, truck drivers, moms, dads and, of course, the scouts themselves. As we drove back home with the scent of pine clinging to my children's clothes, I thought of all the future camp-outs the kids will enjoy as a result of that morning's work.

Of course, while they're camping out, I'll be home in bed, dreaming of George Clooney.

To Hug or Not To Hug?

Okay, confession time: I'm not a hugger.

You know those people who can't say hello or goodbye without enfolding you in a warm, loving embrace? I'm not one of them.

I enjoy hugs. I could hug my children forever. (I try, but they somehow always manage to wriggle free). I love hugging my husband too. I'm comfortable hugging my parents.
But as far as everyone else is concerned, hugging is out of my comfort zone.

Why? Well, for one thing I'm not a germaphobe (actually, the term is mysophobia, a fear of contact with dirt). I have no fear about catching someone's cold, flu, Ebola or dandruff. Germaphobes don't sit in hotel hot tubs for hours and hours. (A friend of mine who is slightly mysophobic is probably gagging as she reads this.) I'm not afraid to be touched (aphenphosmphobia, to be accurate, and does that even look like a real word? Too many letters.). I don't jump out of my skin if someone lays a hand on my shoulder or my arm.

I guess I just find social hugging to be awkward. We standoffish Americans have somehow adopted the more European custom of full-body greetings. In a nutshell, the handshake is out and hugging is in. Not that I've ever been all that comfortable with the handshake either: One pump or two? Loose grip or firm? And how do you handle that one person who lets their hand sit like a dead fish while yours does all the work? Clammy hands? Don't get me started. But I digress.

If the mechanics of the handshake are difficult to master, think about what's involved with the hug. Where do you put your arms? Around the neck, like a high school slow dance? Around the waist, like someone about to perform the Heimlich maneuver? Maybe just one arm up, and one arm down to be safe. But what if they put up the same arm? Uncomfortable colliding ensues, which necessitates someone having to readjust his or her arm position, which makes the hug even more awkward.

And lets say you get your arm positions right on the first try... How hard to hug? Do you give a big squeeze ("Gosh I've missed you!") or apply light pressure ("What's your name again?") Who releases first? If you do, and the other person is still hugging, you're an uncaring jerk. If they release first and you're still holding on, you're clingy. As if huggers aren't bad enough, watch out for holders. These are the folks who keep their arms encircled around you for an uncomfortably long period of time, for agonizing seconds or minutes after the hug has ended. One friend confided to me that another friend (a holder) hung on so long she thought she was going to be rocked to sleep.

Making the social hug all the more complicated is the addition of the social kiss. Within a split second, you have to evaluate whether the hugger is coming in for a kiss as well. On the lips or on the cheek? Left cheek or right? And is it a real kiss, or an air kiss? God forbid someone comes in for an air kiss (it's really just your ears kissing at that point) and you plant your lips on their cheek. I'm not comfortable kissing anyone on the lips (other than my husband) so if someone looks like they're coming in for the real thing, at the last minute I shift to plant it to the side of their mouth (more than an air kiss, but not the full lippage).

How do men handle all this? They've got to evaluate whether to do the hug, the handshake, or that freakish combination of handshake that turns into a chest bump (not quite a hug since the arms don't always encircle the back). If men do go for the full hug, do they add the back slap, or just leave it be? And what's with the fist bump? It's like the human version of mountain goats ramming their horns together. The male-male social hug seems to have endless variations over the female-female variety, but for some reason kissing doesn't seem to enter that mix.

I guess what it boils down to is that while I'm not adverse to hugs from friends (or even modest social acquaintances) I'm not going to be the instigator. When encountering someone at the store, the library or a party, I'm perfectly content with a friendly smile and a hand raised in greeting. Physically, I feel no need to take it to that next level.

I have a close friend who feels the same way I do. She had me over just before Christmas and as I was leaving, I wished her a happy holiday and said I would see her in a week's time. We looked at each other for a moment. I said, "Should we hug?" to which she replied "That thought never entered my mind."

Ironically, I could have hugged her for that.

Not Your Typical End Of The Year Column

Well, it’s the end of another year. Heck, it’s the end of a decade. I’m surrounded by newspapers, magazines and websites publishing their “Best and Worst” lists, letting readers know which books, movies and music they should seek and avoid. They’re gathering up their lists of the year’s highlights (and lowlights) including the inauguration of a new president, an empty hot air balloon, a pair of presidential party crashers, and the release of an epic, $300 million film that took 15 years to make.

Though I am tempted to do the same, I’ll try to refrain. I mean, does anyone really care to know what my favorite books (“The Help”, “Columbine”), movies (“The Hangover”, “Zombieland”), or television programs (“Modern Family”, “Glee”) are this year?

You’ve heard me rant about the Henne family, who fooled an entire nation into thinking that their boy Falcon (really…Falcon?) was free-floating in a homemade hot air balloon. Do I need to rehash it again? (Ok, does anyone else notice that their last name is pretty close to a word that is a slang term for buttocks? Coincidence? I think not!) And while we’re on the subject, can I just applaud the fact that both mother and father were sentenced jail time for their little stunt? If only someone can hand them an invoice for the personnel and equipment utilized for the “rescue effort”, I’d be a happy woman.

But I digress. Getting back to the fact that I’m not going to write one of those “best of” columns, doesn’t everyone love the new Target? That sure was a highlight in our year, especially when it came to Christmas shopping. And speaking of new construction, this year also saw the groundbreaking of Friendship Home, a respite facility for adults with developmental disabilities, located on the property at the United Church of Christ in Norwell. We also saw the groundbreaking for the new Hanover Senior Center, being built just a stone’s throw from my own home (so convenient for when I pick up my Meals on Wheels). And hey, how ‘bout that new high school? We were thrilled to see construction begin. We were devastated when an injunction stopped it. We were thrilled (again) when the injunction was lifted. Never a dull moment where this high school is concerned, is there?

And by the way, was anyone surprised by the fact that Cathy Harder-Bernier won the Spirit of Hanover award this year? (No? Neither was I). Aside from all the other volunteer work that Cathy does, she maintains one of our most valuable resources, Around Town on the Web. Nice job, Cathy.

While Swine Flu (sorry, H1N1) was certainly a lowlight of the year (those darned Mexican pigs spoiled spring break for everyone), I can’t help but be impressed by the way our town responded with their vaccination clinics. While other towns (most other towns, I might add) reserved their vaccine supply for their own residents, our town generously shared our supply with others. Who’s up for adopting the motto, “The Town That Cares ”?

If I were going to write one of those end-of-the-year columns, (which I’m not) I’d have to include all the famous people who died this year, like Patrick Swayze, Farrah Fawcett, and of course, Michael Jackson. Somewhere, the King of Pop is singing while Johnny Castle twirls one of Charlie’s Angels ‘round the dance floor. (Nobody puts Farrah in the corner).

I’d also have to mention how 2009 was a sad, sad year for Red Sox fans. Not only did our boys not make it to the World Series, we had to watch those devils in pinstripe waltz off with the trophy. And speaking of sports, was this the year to knock sports figures off their pedestals? As if it wasn’t bad enough that Aquaman Michael Phelps was photographed with water pipe in hand (performance enhancer?), we had to endure the whole Tiger Woods saga (Who knew that Elin Woods could slice, hook and chip as well as her husband?)

Yes, those year-end columns are so clichéd, I’m certainly going to avoid writing one at all costs. Because when it comes right down to it, it’s much better to look to the future than to dwell on the past, right?

Happy New Year!