My Thoughts From Karenland Office Party

Yesterday I had my Thoughts from Karenland office Christmas party.

I ate thinly sliced Boar’s Head bologna on an onion roll as I watched The Chew on my kitchen television set.

That is also where my boss presented me with my holiday bonus: 2 mini Nestle toll house cookies.

She also gave me a can of Diet Coke. I drank it straight from the can.

Not a bad deal. Especially since it is based on my unpaid salary.

Karen's Baked French Toast

While my mother was a wonderfully creative cook and baker, there was one meal she did not prepare: breakfast. Not even on holidays.

 I love a big breakfast. Especially on the holidays. But I also do not like complicated recipes. Especially on the holidays. Which is why on Christmas morning I always prepare Baked French Toast.

I assemble it on Christmas Eve day and then refrigerate it overnight. And as it takes 30 minutes or so to bake we open presents as breakfast cooks itself.

ENJOY!!

Karen’s Baked French Toast

v 1 large loaf Challah bread cut in 1 inch slices

v 3 cups whole milk

v 3 eggs

v 3 heaping tablespoons brown sugar

v 1 -2 teaspoons vanilla extract

v ½ teaspoon pumpkin pie spice or cinnamon (more if you like)

v Pinch of salt

1.     Generously grease a 9 x 12 pan with 1-2 tablespoons melted salted butter

2.     Arrange bread slices in two layers filling in the gaps

3.     Beat all the ingredients and pour evenly over bread

4.     Wrap tightly and refrigerate up to 48 hours

5.     Bake at 400-425 degree oven or until golden and puffed

6.     Garnish with powdered sugar and serve with baked apple slices, REAL maple syrup or whatever fruit or nuts you like

7.     Serves 6-8 people

Christmas Eve at Nonny's

Nonny--my Grandmother Vespo-- was the perfect grandmother. She never criticized you—ever. She only had love. And she loved each of her family members equally. She did not have favorites. And although she was not wealthy in monetary terms she gave unendingly. Nonny’s wealth lied in the abundance of love she felt and shared with her family.

As the youngest grandchild of the youngest daughter, my family perspective and experience differed from my older cousins---especially on holidays---especially on Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve at my grandmother’s 3 room walk up apartment in the Bronx only ever included my Aunts and their families. None of the Zi-zi’s or Aunt Jean’s or Uncle Joe’s families were ever there to my recollection. Nineteen people was enough.

I do not remember a big fish dinner prepared by my grandmother. She was too old to put in all that effort by the time I met my first memories. But what we did eat on Christmas Eve was every child’s fantasy. We ate pizza from Sorrento’s—the local pizzeria-restaurant. It was the best pizza I ever ate. There were boxes and boxes of pizza—some plain, some with anchovy and some that just had marinara sauce because my Aunt Jackie did not eat cheese. And I know that Nonny prepared side dishes of baccala and calamari but little kids do not eat that—that was for the grown-ups to enjoy.

And all the cousins stood around and ate in the tiny kitchen at the chrome and formica table with red vinyl chairs. I got to sit on the special step stool that converted to a chair---it was a prized seat.

And Nonny would only concern herself that we had eaten enough. She would ask how many slices we consumed and then we would lie—we wanted her to believe we had eaten more than our quota just to please her.

And when dinner was finished the grown-ups did a grab bag while we children waited patiently to get to the good part—our gifts. When the gift giving was over we ate pastry from A and M bakery or Prestano’s on White Plains Road.—cannolis,  sfogliatalle and strufoli. Sometimes my mother made homemade cream puffs or cassadettas.

It was wonderful.

And when it was over we drove back home to the suburbs enjoying all the Christmas lights along the way. I often wore newly received flannel pajamas with my patent leather shoes for the car ride.

And then we waited for Santa to come.

But somehow Christmas day always paled to Christmas Eve—even though Santa had not yet arrived. Our greatest Christmas gift was the time spent with family on December 24th. It was the jocular atmosphere and anticipation. It was Nonny’s laugh when she opened her gift. It was the yule log playing on an 8 inch black and white TV sitting on top of the refinished mosaic tiled top liquor cabinet. It was the manger arranged on the TV console cabinet with the empty crèche that Grandpa laid some cotton in so baby Jesus would be comfortable when he arrived.

Christmas was always about Christmas Eve at Nonny’s.

And Christmas is still all about Christmas Eve—although now it is spent at my brother’s house.  We have a traditional fish and seafood dinner followed by gift giving and strufoli and Julia’s cookies. It is still about laughter and anticipation and my brother reading from Dicken’s A Christmas Carol. We enjoy a roaring fire from his electronic fireplace instead of the channel 11 yule log. And when my girls were little they wore their new flannel pajamas home with their black patent leather Mary Jane shoes just like I did.

Christmas Eve is still all so special. It is still all so magical. And while physically absent, Nonny is still there—watching approvingly--- without criticism--- and with endless love.

Merry Christmas to all my friends and family---may you keep Nonny’s  love with you all through the year. And remember: wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas.

A December to Remember

One of the best parts about the month of December is the television commercials. In the past some of them have made me cry—like the Folger’s commercial when the son comes home from college early or when the Clydesdales are pulling the sleigh to the Budweiser jingle.

This year in particular the Target advertisements really tickled me—especially the early ones where the frenzied woman was preparing to shop as if she was entering a decathlon. It was an insanity that felt eerily normal.

But the marketing campaign that we (my husband and I ) fell victim to was Lexus’ December to Remember. I just could not get the song out of my head. Nana Nana na na na na…….

I bought into the fantasy as the cell phone with the Lexus song played or the Mom opened the music box. The snow was falling and there was a luxury vehicle with a big red bow in the driveway.

And it was time to condense the Ciccone driveway population. The lot needed some editing. So on Sunday we played let’s make a deal, spun 2 cars into one, and today Santa will be delivering my husband a new car. Just like that. My husband told the salesman that he spends more time in DSW searching for shoes.

So I have already downloaded the music. I  have secured a big red bow. It’s going to be a December to remember—just like on TV.

I love Madison Avenue.

Re-gifting

 I would like to say I have never re-gifted. The truth of the matter is I have---but I have rules. Because fundamentally I believe re-gifting is wrong--unethical. I can’t help but think that re-gifting is modified cheating or lying or a combination of both.

The only items I believe “legally” can be re-gifted are alcoholic beverages or gift cards. That’s it. That is my cardinal rule. And it’s because you may not return bottles back to the liquor store of origin (the law forbids it) and a gift card is equivalent to cash.

I believe that if you receive a gift and either you do not like it or you have no need for it then either it must be donated to charity OR given to someone with the clear understanding that it is something you received from someone else but perhaps they might like/and or be able to use.  But it cannot be done in lieu of buying something new. Items “up” for re-gifting are surplus— freebies-- not wampum.  They are the bonus—like when you purchase Estee Lauder mascara and you get the free mini make-up bag with ubiquitously colored lipstick, nail polish and eyeshadow.

And it is okay to make the surplus item a supplemental gift as long as it does not factor away from the monetary value of the intended gift. So the mailman, in addition to receiving his standard appropriated cash gift also receives that box of Rocher chocolates that I do not like that was in that gift basket I received last May. The chocolates are a bonus.

And here’s the final thing—if you hate a received gift item that much why would you inflict it on someone else? To do so is almost abusive. Besides which the point of a gift is to selflessly elate another with an offering –not force pawned off ugly crap that belongs in a dumpster on a captive recipient.

I have a very close relative who shall remain nameless because she is not always appreciative of the extensive blog-time she receives. That relative and her cronies exchange gifts every year. The exchanged gifts are re-gifted so often that at some point there is a high statistical probability that the gift recipient will receive something they gave someone else two years prior. Their re-gifting cycle is a closed circuit. The only portal of escape is death.

Some people define re-gifting  as “re-purposing” or “going green.” I call it being cheap.

    

Brain Freeze

Rick Perry has been having an awful time remembering things lately—his latest mishap was not remembering the voting age or the date of the general election.

At the  bank the other day the teller was telling me how her youngest son spent Thanksgiving in California eating sushi. Of her 3 sons her youngest is the most adventurous. I laughed and said of my three daughters my youngest is my most adventurous too---and then I attempted to tell her how she planned on taking a business course in  South American in the country of……except I had nothing. I couldn’t remember the name of the country at all even though I absolutely knew which country it was. And the teller tried to help me along naming every country in South America that she could think of—but none of them were it. I was mortified. I could not believe that my brain was that frozen and all attempts to unfreeze it were in vain.

An hour later when I had long left the bank and the information was of no consequence I remembered the country was Nicaragua.

So although I do not know a whole lot about Rick Perry and his political agenda I do feel some pathos towards him. He likely knew the voting age as well as the date of the general election. His brain was just toying with him—making a mockery of his attempts at recall. Brain freezes have no bearing on intellect. They are a function of aging circuits. And even those cans of Prestone de-icer won’t work or Rick Perry would be huffing it by now and having the de-icing company donate money to his campaign.

The Death of Christmas Mouse

Jasper may not have been the friendliest dog, but he was never destructive. The only thing he chewed on a routine basis was food. I never had to worry about leaving him alone in the house. I knew all my belongings were safe—all of them but my calico mini-print and felt stuffed Christmas mouse. Christmas mouse was not safe in Jasper’s presence. I rescued the little felt guy no less than 3 times from the jaws of destruction.

The other night as I went about shutting off Christmas tree and mantle lights, I saw a big pile of fluff on the rug. It was accompanied by a felt tail and felt ears. There was chewed up calico print fabric bits everywhere. And under the table was the perfectly disemboweled shell of Christmas mouse. His felt topcoat was torn next to him. Christmas mouse was no more.

Despite his tainted rap sheet Jasper was not the perpetrator of the crime. He was not ruled out by pawprints or canine DNA. There was no video surveillance or lie detector either. Jasper was ruled out by the fact that it was physically impossible for him to have jumped up and retrieved poor Christmas mouse from the end table. Cosmo was the culprit. Cosmo inflicted the mortal wounds. No confession was necessary. This case was closed.

I can’t help wonder what it was about Christmas mouse that prompted such violence from two dogs. Perhaps in my absence that mouse became animated and taunted them. Perhaps there was some evil that lurked within that stuffed creature and my dogs were protecting me. Christmas mouse, despite his cute outfit was still in fact vermin. Because all of my other Christmas items—even the ones at eye level: Mr. Snowman, Christmas Angel baby, and Santa-- remain untouched.

All I know is that I have one less Christmas chachka---it’s one less thing I have to pack up and put away. And that is not necessarily a bad thing.

Gift Bags

So while yes, Jesse Weiner was the one who told me that there was no such thing as Santa, I still needed hard evidence. And my mother was not very good at covering up the no-Santa crime scene. She left evidence everywhere that would have made any child suspicious. The least of which was the wrapping paper. I wondered how it could be that both my parent’s gifts and Santa’s gifts were wrapped exactly the same way in exactly the same paper and exactly the same trim. It seemed implausible. Jesse seemed to have  correct information.

When my children were younger I did all my Christmas wrapping in coordinating papers with coordinating bows and coordinating tags.  I even trimmed special gifts with fresh pine or holly. I enjoyed being very Martha Stewart-like. I do not do that anymore. I prefer to use my time in other ways.

Nowadays all my gifts are placed in gift bags. Gift bags have improved holiday task completion as much as pre-lit Christmas trees and premade toll house cookie dough. Gifts can be made aesthetically pleasing in a flash. The added feature is that if you want to add (or delete) anything to the already pre-bagged gift you can do so with ease—no more carefully pulling up the scotch tape and sliding the box out to insert the forgotten or added item. And the best part is if you are thrifty, you can reuse the bag without the shame formerly attributed to people who tear-lessly unwrapped gifts so that they could save the gift paper.

And while the speed of which one can reveal a gift housed in a bag is greater than the speed of ripping open a wrapped present, I am over the consequential decrease in anticipation. And even if the price point of a bag is higher than that of a wrapped gift, I prefer the convenience of the gift bag.

My children were much older than I was before they discovered that there was no Santa. Maybe it was because I was a better covert operator than my mother— I was better at covering my tracks. Santa's wrapping paper was unique. I also expected my girls to be suspicious like I was . But it could also be because there was no Jesse Weiner living next door--- and gift bags hadn’t been invented yet.

A Well-lit Tree

I put up two Christmas trees. The first one is artificial. It is the “children’s tree.” It is decorated with ornaments that chronicle my girls’ life. The story begins with baby’s first Christmas ornaments and then progresses from Sesame Street characters all the way to Family Guy.

My second tree is real—it is mine. I dress it with bows and special glass ornaments from my youth as well as some still left from my father’s youth. I place it in my dining room so we can enjoy its beauty as we eat Christmas dinner.

My mother recuperated after her eye surgery last week at my house. Post-surgery her vision was very limited. Recovery was slow and frustrating. She was trying very hard in the face of her limitations.  And despite her poor vision she went into my living room to “see” the first of my two trees. My mother understands that trees are my thing—I love them. I am precise and deliberate when I decorate them.

And in admiration and support through the visual haze she told me That tree is beautiful! You always do such a good job with the lights—they are always so even! And I smiled and said I hope so. That tree is pre-lit.

And then we both giggled.

Sometimes laughter is the best medicine. It provides a well needed temporary cure.

A Shopper's Annoyance

There have been occasions when I have had to purchase a book at Barnes and Noble and when I directed myself to the area where the book should have been located I found it wasn’t there. But the remedy was easy. I simply went to one of the in house computers and it directed me to either the correct area of the store to find the book myself or a way to purchase it online.

Department stores do not have computers for customer’s access in that way. Many have nothing more than a price scanner. Price scanners know nothing about inventory.

I found myself in Lord and Taylor today in the vortex of their Friends and Family sale. There were people everywhere. And despite the added holiday employees the stock could not be replenished quickly enough nor could the piles of clothing be folded at a rate equal to the rate at which the shoppers messed it up.

All I needed was one final ensemble gift for my mother to give to my husband. It should have taken no time at all. All that was needed was a casual pair of pants, a sweater and a shirt. Shopping for men is typically easy. Unfortunately it took me over an hour.

I kept picking out a style of pants that did not have my husband’s size but the only way to see if the store did have his size somewhere in stock was to have the cashier look it up the computer. The problem was there were a zillion people in the cashier’s line and those in line customers did not consume any rum-laced eggnog before they shopped. Everyone was cranky—and it appeared—coupon less or coupon-phrenic.

So I waited in line with no less than 5 different styles of men’s pants for 15 minutes while the exceptionally rude oriental woman in front of me who spoke little to no English argued with the cashier why Ralph Lauren apparel was excluded from the 20% off. And after mentally choking the woman with a Joseph Abboud tie I learned from the cashier that all the pants I wanted to purchase were out of stock and she had no way to check if they were available online—all she could do was check every other Lord and Taylor store in the tri-state area in case I wanted to drive there and purchase the items.

That wasn’t happening.

So in frustration I searched again and found a pair of pants in his size just like a pair he already owned and then spent way too much money on a silk and cotton blend sweater because I had no more patience and picked out a shirt to match the pants and the sweater which while it matched was never going to be versatile enough and called it a day.

Sometimes at Christmastime I do not feel all that merry. And even my black card which allows me 20% off on Ralph Lauren attire despite the exclusion cannot make me happy.

Jasper Lives!

I spent the last week nursing my 2 favorite geriatric patients post-surgery. The first one was my 81 year old mother—she had eye surgery.  The other was Jasper, my 16 year old dog—he had 6 infected benign cysts taken off of his body, groin and leg and 1 melanoma taken off of his lip. And it is with a clear conscience that I can say---the dog was a better patient.

By either dog or human terms, Jasper is ancient. I have owned him for nearly 15 years and he was not a puppy when we adopted him. The shelter believed he was at least a year old.

As a young dog Jasper would not exactly be described as “nice”—he was tentative, protective, and untrusting. I believe he suffered some abuse before we adopted him. In his old age he has mellowed. But what Jasper was then and still is now—is a survivor.

Around a week before Thanksgiving I noticed that Jasper was slowing down. He also began to drool. I googled “old dog drooling” and discovered that he was likely in pain and that drooling was often associated with liver disease or melanoma—both diseases of which are prominently flagged in his medical chart. I feared this was it—the end--which was why I took another week to bring him into the vet. I was happy in my world of denial. I was afraid she (the vet) was going to recommend me putting him down—especially since I detected a lump on his lip.

Yet the vet happily told me that Jasper was in good shape—for his age at least-- the drooling was because of an infected gum and yes he had a melanoma growth on his lip but it appeared to be encapsulated. He also had several large benign yet nagging infected epidermal cysts-- which while causing discomfort were never going to kill him. Jasper was overall too healthy to put down---but the lip tumor had to go.

And so we made a decision that despite the danger of anesthesia to a 16 year old dog—Jasper was no ordinary dog. And if the anesthesia killed him, he was at least dying with us trying to help him—no one made an active decision to send him to his maker.

And not only did Jasper survive surgery but as soon as he came home he hobbled to the door to go out—his mind was still sharp—and he was not willing to endure the embarrassment of peeing on the floor. He was going outside like a dog—no doggie diaper for him. And despite the stitches on his lip and lanced abscess in his gum—he was eating that homemade cooked chicken I had prepared especially for him.

It is day 3 post surgery and so far Jasper is progressing way better than many humans under similar circumstances.  He does not feel sorry for himself or begrudge the onset of  illness. He does not curse the things he cannot do anymore. He does not whine to his peers.He gets up and does his job. He does not worry about tomorrow. He lives moment to moment.   

And although I cannot predict how much longer Jasper will live, I know this surgery has extended his already expired warrantee. He is not ready to give up yet. It is inspiring to watch. He is a lesson in tenacity and resilience. And like Tiny Tim in Dicken’s A Christmas Carol---he did not die—instead he is our Christmas miracle—and I thank God for the blessing.

Prayer

I was waiting for a funeral mass to begin the other day when my mother leaned over and said did you know they changed all the prayers? And I said no. To which she replied well you better go learn them in case you have to recite them. But I told her I had no intention of learning the new prayers—the old ones were perfectly fine.

Here’s the thing—a prayer is a prayer. It is not the words so much as it is the intention. New prayers are not like the improved version of Cool Whip nor or are they like New Tide with Oxi-clean. Prayer changes do not make them work better—they just make the intention more understandable to the reciter. As long as the intention is pure, the language is inconsequential.

When I lived in Yonkers and attended Christ the King school I learned the act of contrition prayer. When I moved to Dobbs Ferry Sister Grace required me to learn the version of the prayer Sacred Heart School taught. And when my girls learned the act of contrition at Saint Joseph’s School in Garden City I relearned the prayer again---just so I could quiz them . I learned the act of contrition three times but all three times fundamentally the prayer did not change—it can’t. An act of contrition is a constant. Which is why if I were asked to rewrite the prayer it would simply say:

Sorry God. I screwed up. Sin is wrong.  I offended you and others and I deserve consequences. With your grace I promise to do better next time. Please forgive me.

And I can guarantee you if I said that in a confessional booth God would get it, even if the priest did not.  

Pacifiers and Trees

Kara was the only one of my children to use a pacifier. She was magically self-soothed. It’s not that I didn’t try to coax my other 2 into using a blinky—they just had an aversion to it. They preferred my arms to a plastic odontic nipple.

Unfortunately my father became gravely ill during Christmastime. And the thing about death is that it waits for no one---and I was acutely aware of that at that time. So I had to be prepared for the worst during the busiest time of the year—because that is the other thing—Christmas arrives on the 25^th—it waits for no one either.

And my children were little—8, 6 and 4 years old. They waited all year for Santa and the tree and all things Christmas to come. And while yes Christmas is all about family and being together, it is also about the “stuff” too. It was a little overwhelming. I didn’t know what to do first.

I needed to prioritize. I needed to develop a plan. And what I realized was that all we needed was a wreath on the door with a spotlight shining on it, a tree, and a few presents underneath it—the gifts didn’t even have to be wrapped, and Christmas could arrive—no matter what the circumstances. I didn’t need to decorate the fireplace or bake cookies. I didn’t need to send cards or polish the silver. Ribbons, bows and spectacular wrapping paper were just a perk. A tree and a wreath and a key present or two was all that was needed.

And now every year that is the mindset I put myself in. Because it is really easy to get caught up in all the things we think we need to do at Christmas. It is really easy to get so consumed with the details that you forget to be in the moment. It is really easy to become the Grinch and Scrooge rolled up into one.

So a day or 2 after Thanksgiving I put up my children’s tree—which is artificial—and then hang the wreath on the door. And then I exhale. I feel better. I am self-soothed. Life can hit me with her best shot and Christmas can still arrive. No binky is necessary.

Christmas vs Hannukah

Jesse Weiner was one of my best friends when I was growing up. He lived next door. Every December we engaged in the same debate—which was better: Christmas or Hanukkah.

We both agreed that a tree trumped a menorah---that was never a sticking point. The sticking point was about gifts. He was guaranteed 8 of them. I had no such guarantee. And the thing is that little kids fundamentally do not care about how much oil was left in the lantern or how many wise men arrived at the stable. Little kids care about toys—and how many they will get. Little kids at holiday time are consumed with anything related to the Toys R Us Catalogue—it’s their bible—not the Pentateuch or the gospel according to Matthew.

But not only was Jesse guaranteed 8 gifts he also did not have to work for them like I did. No one held a lump of coal over his head. There was no psycho fat guy in a velvet suit watching him every minute of the day and night for an entire year waiting to yank his booty from a big bag drawn by a magical sleigh. And Jesse was getting those gifts no matter what the weather brought either. No matter how foggy it was on Hanukkah eve his gift would arrive—Jesse had no concerns about a red nosed reindeer’s ability to navigate. Ruth, his mother, provided all the navigation his gifts needed to get from the top of her closet downstairs to their menorah.

So while yes I had a tree and more holiday songs than Oh Hannukah Oh Hannukah and Dreidel Dreidel Dreidel, I am still not sure Jesse had it all that bad—even though I made him believe he did.

I think the luckiest kids in the world are those who celebrate Chrismakah: candy canes and gimmel, a Christmas tree and a menorah, eight gifts plus whatever you get for Christmas. It’s too awesome to contemplate—unless you want to ruin everything by remembering what the two holidays are supposed to be about—faith, miracles and trust in God.

The Smarter Person

I had to drive Briana early to the train station one morning and when I got closer to home I noticed that a blown truck tire was blocking the right lane of a soon to be busy road. So I called the Garden City police to report it. I was being a good citizen. I wanted to prevent accidents.

When the policeman answered the phone I said Yes Officer. I would like to report an obstruction on the west side of Clinton Road between Locust and Poplar. I felt good about how well I described the location. It was very Law and Order-like.

But the officer said On the west side coming from which direction?—Garden City towards Hempstead or Hempstead towards Garden City? I was confused. West is always West on a road that runs north/south. Only left or right matters if you are traveling north to south or south to north. East or West is a constant---that is the point. But because he was an authority figure and I wanted to be respectful I overlooked his comment and said the obstruction is on the right side going south on Clinton from Garden City towards Hempstead.

My mother had cataract surgery on her left eye the other day. She wore a patch over it. My mother’s right eye has macular degeneration. She is legally blind in that eye. And when I drove her home from the hospital post-op she said Why are you going home this way? I was confused. How could she tell which way I was going? She couldn’t see. She couldn’t see yet she was giving me directions. But as my mother is an authority figure and I wanted to be respectful I overlooked her comment and simply said this way is faster.

Sometimes being the smarter person means keeping your smarts to yourself.

Evening Out Gifts

When my girls were little I would line up 3 glasses when pouring their beverages and virtually used  a graduated cylinder to make sure no child received one more drop than the other. Because if the amount was not equal, a brawl would break out.  

One Christmas I arranged the gifts such that two of the piles were physically taller than the other one. Each of the three piles had the same number of gifts. The child who had the shorter pile began to cry. She thought her sisters got more than she did.

 I never made that mistake again.

I spent all of Black Friday Christmas shopping with various permutations of daughters. I have given up surprising them with gifts. I take them shopping so that no one experiences disappointment.

Scratch that. I take them shopping so I will not have to deal with their experiencing disappointment. It is all about me keeping my sanity and a peaceful kingdom.

  And on Saturday morning I set up an excel spreadsheet accounting every gift and its monetary value. And of course the columns were not equal. They never are. So we spent all day Saturday shopping together trying to hit the target budget number within a dollar or two. The only child who was successful was Samantha—the accountant. She completely zero-ed out. She was not a penny over or under. Briana--the finance major went over budget within a standard deviation—finance people view budgets as guidelines. And Kara, the management major is under budget—she is still exploring her options. All attempts at evening things out between the 3 of them resulted in failure.

When I went to Weight Watchers my leader warned the group of falling into the trap of evening out the cake syndrome. She warned that feeling the need to cut and consume the uneven cake slices led to a person to obesity. She offered the concept that it was okay if the cake looked a little crooked. Straightening it out was self-sabotage.  A cake will never look even no matter how much trimming you do. And so the lesson here is trimming cakes and budgets is a recipe for disaster. At Christmastime the only thing you should be trimming with certain success is your tree.

Velvet Jeans

No matter how much I run around in the month of December I start to resemble Santa. And by that I do not mean the ho ho ho—ing or the fluffy beard part—I mean the increased girth.

Because even though I tend not to be an over-eater under ordinary circumstances holiday season is not ordinary. I do not have the time to shop for or put together healthy meals. And there is too much temptation—even if you only take a single bite. And if you add all those single bites to the extra glasses of Pinot Griglio the sum is the need for more than control top pantyhose.

I tried on my velvet jeans today. They fit well and looked great. They did last year at this time too. But by the time I needed to wear them in late December last year I had to lie down to zipper them up. And even my silk blouse was a little too voluminous to tuck in. Plus I could not sit down without fear that the seams would split.

With certainty I can predict the same thing happening again this year.

A friend of mine wrote on Facebook that since her fat jeans no longer fit she was contemplating buying some of those pajama jeans they advertise on TV for $19.99 if you buy now. I wonder if they come in velvet? Because I would pay money for those for sure.

Fruitcake

I remember when I was young, sometime in mid-November my mother started collecting ingredients: candied fruit that looked like chopped up gummy bears yet tasted like medicine, cans of glue-like Bordens sweetened condensed milk, and jars of minced meat that had a disturbing resemblance to the aftermath of a lower intestinal illness. All those ingredients plus a few others conspired to become my mother’s famous fruitcake.

I hate fruitcake. So does my mother. Baking it was a sacrifice—a labor of love for all those crazy enough to think it tasted good. And because so many relatives thought my mother’s fruitcake was the finest in the world, she multiplied the recipe it seemed  4 or 5 times. She made a vat-ful. She baked it in all sizes. Loafs and rings flew in and out of the oven all day. But no matter what pan she used, it still tasted like fruitcake to me.

Now one would think that when fruitcake was baking it would at least smell wonderful. Most baked goods do. But I assure you fruitcake does not. No one would ever walk into the kitchen and say mmm are you baking toll house cookies or pie? A baking fruitcake smells like burnt molasses flambéed with rum. It is most unappealing. Noxious is the best word.

And there are some unusual characteristics of the fruitcake too—the first one being that it is a misnomer. There is no cake-part. It is merely yucky stuff held together with a little flour and egg. There is no way you can pick out the stuff you did not like and eat the cake-part—like I do with Irish soda bread (I hate raisins). The other uncanny thing is that fruitcake never dries out, turns rancid or gets moldy. It seems even the spores and bacteria do not like it. Fruitcake baked at Thanksgiving is just as fresh on New Year’s Day. And no matter how much fruitcake gets eaten the supply seemed endless—as if during the night it undergoest mitotic division. Jesus had less success turning water into wine.

And year after year my mother and I would put on out gasmasks and perform our fruitcake chore until finally the audience dwindled down to one—my brother. Every other fan of my mother’s fruitcake  now either lives far away or has passed on.

One year-- soon after my father died-- my mother brought a little piece of fruitcake to my father’s grave. My mother, fully engulfed in sorrow, in between her tears said I hope the squirrels or birds do not eat it. I secretly thought---Are you kidding? Even the squirrels and birds would rather starve first before eating that. But as it was a somber moment I said nothing. I simply hugged my mother and handed her a tissue. Some things are better left unsaid. And some traditions—like fruitcake--- are better left unbaked.

Outdoor Christmas Decorating Peeves

One of the things I loved best about moving to Garden City 26 years ago was the traditional way the homes were decorated at Christmastime—tiny white lights, a spotlight shining at the front door, and candles in the windows. It looked like a Hollywood set.

As I drove through town today it was clear many people did not get the same Outdoor Christmas Decorating Memo as I did when they moved in. In observing many outdoor decorating faux pas, my disdain nearly prompted hyperventilation.

Here is a list of outdoor Christmas decorating offenses that make me angry:

·       Mixing metallics—pick one—silver or gold.

·       Mixing red and burgundy velvet ribbons or mixing plaids. Here’s an instance where you cannot get too matchy-matchy.

·       Premade Home Depot bows. Wired ribbon is so easy to manipulate—either make your own bows or have the florist make them for you.

·       Not matching the wire of your Christmas lights to your house. In my case since my house trim is dark bronze/brown it is inappropriate to staple white corded lights on it. It looks awful.

·       Any colored and/or blinking lights. Unless your landscaped trees stand next to the skating rink in Rockefeller Center, stick to tiny white non blinking lights.

·       Anything stuck to your window—unless it is dirt.

·       Silk poinsettias. Poinsettias are tropical flowers—if you must have them, put them indoors.

·       Giant lit plastic candy canes lining your walk. Enough said.

·       Blow-up anything. If you insist, and you want to make your children happy, put the blow-up thing in your backyard where only you (and they) will see them.

·       Animated figurines. Unless you live in the Saks Fifth Avenue store windows, do not showcase them. They are creepy.

·       Inappropriately proportioned window wreaths. Get the right size---not too diminutive or too gargantuan-- or do not hang them.

·       Uneven window candles. I love window candles—but they must be placed in all the windows—not just the ones with easy access. Symmetry is key.

·       And my favorite----Do not hang Christmas wreaths or pine boughs or any other holiday decoration without first ripping out the dead Mums or removing the pumpkins, cornstalks and hay bales. Never overlap seasonal decorations.

So. If you have committed any of these aforementioned offenses please correct them immediately. And if you have neighbors who haven’t received this Garden City Christmas Decorating Memo please feel free to forward them these simple guidelines. We all need to pull together on this one.

Empty Nesting--It's Pretty Good

One summer night around 11:30 pm one of my daughters called me on her cell phone. She was nineteen at the time. She whispered with her hand partially covering the speaker: Mom. I am going to be a little late. I am stuck in John’s (not his real name) attic with a few random people.

Remaining calm I asked—How and why are you stuck in John’s attic? I knew she had planned to be at John’s house---I dropped her off myself. She and a few college friends were in his backyard hanging out. When you are under 21 there is not a whole lot else you can do on a Saturday night. And while the parents were not home, this was not a rager by any means.

She said the neighbors called the cops and when we saw the cop cars pull up we ran into the house--but then the cops came into the house to investigate. So we ran upstairs and someone pulled the attic steps down so we could go up there and hide. The cops didn’t look up here, but now they are camped out in front of the house and we can’t leave until they do.

And I thought Gee this story sounds awfully familiar. Oh yeah it sounds like the diary of Ann Frank. Yes Ann Frank was stuck in the attic with some random people when she was hiding from the Nazi’s.

People worry about what life will be life when the nest is empty. They anticipate being lonely. They are concerned about all the free time that can now be shared with their spouse. They fear the alone-time. They fear that life will become dull.

I assure you all that worry is for nothing. Because while yes, you miss the company of your children—you only miss their company during the daylight hours. You do not miss parenting them once the sun sets.

There is something really wonderful about going out with your husband on a Saturday night and not checking your cell phone every ten minutes for text messages. And it is more wonderful still when you get home after dinner and you may lock the door with full knowledge that you do not have to go out again.

Because worrying that the Nazi’s will jail your college age child is not fun. And picking them up after the Nazi’s have left their stakeout is counterintuitive to what you have been taught as a parent. You realize that the policeman is not your friend or theirs—and it is best not to learn it the hard way.

And while all this parenting nonsense is somewhat suspenseful and exhilarating—I prefer the peace of my empty nest--even if my nest is a little bit dull yet very very neat. I prefer a quiet dinner with no worries. I prefer chasing my dogs to chasing after exiled children.

Holiday Blog Hours

The best part of being self employed as a blogger is that I can set my own hours. My income is redeemed as pageviews accounted by Google. I am both employer and employee. Which is why I have made an executive decision to set holiday blog hours. I am taking Thursday through Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend off and all Saturdays until New Year’s. I will probably take a few days more around Christmas.

I am in a panic that once the Christmas frenzy has set in I won’t either have the time to get the thoughts out of my head and into my computer or my thoughts will be too disjointed to publish. And I am pretty sure that my readers will be so wrapped up (no pun intended) in their own holiday storm that perhaps my writing might not even be missed.

Or at least that is what I think I am going to do. I may need to write and post to maintain my sanity. I may need to write and publish to remain connected.

So.  I will have the next few days off. My boss approved my abbreviated schedule. She is pretty good that way. She lets me take time if I am nice to her. But my commission may be impacted---I may have to work twice as hard in January to make up the deficit. But that is okay. If I exceed my weekly work hours I get paid time and a half.

Thanksgiving---Then and Now

Thanksgiving was my mother’s holiday. At maximum capacity we were 22 for sit-down dinner. That didn’t count the relatives that either stopped by before dinner or the ones that stopped by for dessert. It was an all-day event in our house. Company arrived around 1 pm and didn’t leave sometimes until midnight.

My mother was and still is a great cook. She enjoyed pleasing everyone’s palate. But it came at a cost. A week prior to Thanksgiving my mother turned into Gordon Ramsey and I was the sous chef in Hell’s kitchen. It wasn’t her fault. Back in the day females were responsible for all the holiday preparation, service, and clean-up. My father’s only job was to set up the bar and bring up the folding chairs. He also was in charge of music. That was it. And as far as I can remember my brother was not required to contribute anything at all except for occasionally throwing out the garbage.

And since our ethnic background was Italian the menu included items I am certain the Pilgrims never served: an antipasto with pickled pig’s feet, homemade Sicilian olives that my mother had brined herself weeks in advance, and prosciutto cut so thin you could see through it. Our secondi piatti was fresh lasagna--then the turkey and all the accompaniments. For dessert we always had birthday cake for my father, pies, Italian pastry and chestnuts roasted by my grandfather Vespo.

Everything was prepared and served to my mother’s specifications.  My cousin Gary who was a psychiatrist once remarked whoever rolled the salami this tightly must need therapy. I had rolled the salami. I had rolled it under my mother’s watchful eye.  I guess that would mean both of us had a touch of mental illness.   

And I feel free to admit that I do not miss all that work. I do not miss setting the table(s) or folding the napkins or making sure there was not one water spot on the silverware.I do not miss running downstairs and up between the two refrigerators and the 2 ovens.  I do not miss the culinary mess or clean-up. And I especially do not miss the torture of leftovers or my mother’s exhausted demeanor.

But I do miss the people. I miss the way my Uncle John could make my father laugh. I miss my cousin John complaining that he wanted manicotti and not lasagna. I miss my cousin Richard tying my mother in her apron strings to the refrigerator so she would be held hostage. I miss my grandmother not helping out and hearing my mother complain about it. And I miss seeing my Aunt Fran slice the turkey with the skill of an orthopedic surgeon. I miss everyone I no longer see because either life has changed or they are no longer here.

But I also love my own family’s Thanksgiving tradition. I enjoy making a big breakfast for my children and dressing up to go to the club for dinner. I enjoy the leisure of the day. And even though Thanksgiving is different than that of my youth it is equally wonderful. I am surrounded by people I love and people who love me. And ultimately that is all that really matters. It’s not about water spots or tightly rolled salami. It’s about giving thanks for all the people in your life and being in the moment. Because life is always uncertain. We may never pass this way again.

Sorting out Sorority World

When I entered Manhattan College in 1978 there were no sororities. The school had only recently become coed so the female population was not large enough to warrant one. So I had no real understanding of Greek life but for my male friends who were in fraternities and my watching the movie Animal House.

When Sam—my oldest daughter began looking at colleges, she seemed to gravitate towards schools that had a sorority and fraternity system. I was concerned. I questioned the social structure and  consequences of Greek life.

But Samantha ended up at Lehigh and accepted a bid from Alpha Chi Omega. And even though Sam was excited at the prospect of Greek life I remained skeptical. If nothing else I was confused with the new language she spoke—I needed to learn about “rushing” and “bumping” and “pref-ing” and “bigs.”

Early in the pledging process I asked Sam what she had planned for the upcoming weekend. And she excitedly said On Saturday night I have my first 4-way. I felt immediate panic—it sounded like a ménage a trois plus one. Was she being forced into some sick sexual hazing practice?

But I thought maybe I had misheard her so I gently said  I think your cell phone went out a little bit just now—what did you say you were doing on Saturday night?. And she repeated herself: I have my first 4-way . And I fell silent. And Sam noticed my silence and said What’s wrong? And I responded with You have a 4-way on Saturday? And she said Yes--Why? What are you getting so freaked out about? What do you think a 4-way is?  So to be sly I answered her question with a question and said What do you think a 4-way is? And she said it’s a party between 2 sororities and 2 fraternities. So I said with atonement  Oh. Okay. Never mind.

And when she told me later on that she was going to a hotel party before her “anything but clothes” party I did not jump to conclusions. I knew better. I asked her to clarify. It didn’t mean anyone was going to the Holiday Inn Express to play pin the tail on the donkey first—it meant that alcoholic beverages were being served  in several sequential  rooms prior to the “registered” party. And the required attire for the party’s entrance could not be made from fabric—which is why Samantha wore a dress she made herself from newspaper and duct tape.

And despite Briana and Kara also joining panhellic groups in college (Alpha Chi Omega and Kappa Kappa Gamma) the fact that I had no personal knowledge of Greek life was a detriment---it was a world I could only appreciate by proxy. Its structure and nomenclature was and still  is unfamiliar. Which is why my understanding remains incomplete—it is a world that will forever be Greek to me.

Saying "No"

For the last ten years or so my mother has been asking me to help her clean out her coat closet. Every time she asks me I refuse. I do not feel that that is my job—no matter how much she tells me that she is my poor old widowed mother. I don’t mind doing lots of other important things—but the coat closet is not one of them. I feel absolutely no guilt in my refusal. I feel no need to please her. I tell her I will do it when she dies—when I have to.

When Sam was a senior in high school there was a plan to spend the day at Belmont Park for the Belmont Stakes. About twenty or more of her friends were to meet late morning at the LIRR strain station and then take a subway to the racetrack. It sounded like fun to everyone but me. To me it sounded like an all day opportunity to imbibe. And I had hoped that the plans would have fallen apart on its own but it did not. And when Sam protested and said everyone is going she was correct. I was the only one who said no. And not only did Sam think I was a mean mother but I got that same impression from some of the other parents too. And part of the pressure came from the fact that one of the horses that was running in the Belmont Stakes had the opportunity to win the triple crown. Whomever attended may have seen history happen before their eyes. The pressure and guilt was compounded. Perhaps I should have pleased her instead of myself.

And the entire day of the race Sam sat home because there was no one to hang out with---and I questioned my decision—especially at race time when the horse nearly won the race.

But it turned out that the police at Belmont Park that day were particularly restrictive. Lots of citations for underage drinking were issued. Some of those citations went to her friends.

Many people have the disease to please. Some people like me only have a mild case. For the most part I have no trouble saying No to things I really do not think I am comfortable with. It’s why I walked away from the presidency of PTA and a host of other things. 

It is said that one of the fundamental reasons Steve Jobs became a success is that he understood the value of the word “no”. He executed the “no” swiftly and regretlessly. It is how he built his empire. It is also how I build mine. Although I will probably take my mother to the Dollar store this week even though I do not want to—there are a few hairline cracks in the empire.