My Christmas Greeting

When the lyrics of O Holy Night implore: fall on your knees—my knees actually buckle just a tiny bit.  I am filled with humility over the greatness of God.

But the song I’ll Be Home for Christmas also plays with my emotions. It is mostly because my Uncle John, a medaled war hero, once told me how he listened to it endlessly during World War II. The melody and words connected him and his fellow soldiers to their loved ones in a way their letters from home could not. The soldiers could feel the snow, presents and mistletoe—if only for a few moments in their imagination. Through music and voice, solace and Christmas grace was received amid the butchery of war.

And I am always moved by another song: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. The line through the years we all will be together if the fates allow mandates that I concede the delicacy of life—and the always uncertain future. It makes me recall all the family members who are now but a memory--people I loved who are relegated to Christmas past. I am reminded that there is value in living in the now—moment to moment.

And what I know for sure is that every Christmas is holy and divine. And if you listen carefully, you will no doubt hear the angels’ voices. Christmas heals and transcends what we think our hearts can hold.  And despite the fates, on Christmas, we are always all home together with everyone we love and have loved—if only in our sweetest of dreams.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas--now

A "Real"-ity Check

Artificial Christmas trees aspire to appear real.

Real Christmas trees aspire to appear artificial.

So even evergreens are not immune to self-esteem issues.

They wish for that which they can never be.

Christmas Thoughts from Brianaland

When my girls were little, cars did not come equipped with DVD players as they do now. In fact, DVDs were not quite invented yet—my children watched movies on VHS tape. And so keeping three little girls entertained while they were in the car required a bit of inventiveness.

And I had a brilliant idea—to record the soundtrack of their favorite VHS tapes on cassette tape to keep them engaged as time passed in transit. I recorded things like Beauty and the Beast and 101 Dalmations and The Lion King. But beginning November first up until New Year’s Day, we listened non-stop to Christmas Eve on Sesame Street, A Muppet Christmas Carol, The Grinch, Rudolph and A Charlie Brown Christmas.

My girls memorized every single word.

And today’s blog post is not as much Thoughts from Karenland as much as it is Thoughts from Brianaland—thoughts from my middle daughter. Briana, age 23, downloaded the soundtrack from Christmas Eve on Sesame Street and The Grinch on to her iphone. And she wrote to tell me that yesterday, in listening to the recording of The Grinch, she became emotionally overwhelmed when the Grinch realized that despite his grandiose attempts to halt Christmas, it came—it came just the same. She thought of the family and friends of the deceased in Newton—and how evil can never stop Christmas from coming. No matter what another takes from you, they can never take what is in your heart.

And I am not embarrassed to say that much of what my children learned about the true meaning of Christmas was learned not in CCD class, or Sunday mass but was instead learned from quality children’s programming. Charlie Brown, Oscar, Big Bird, Rudolph, Scrooge and the Grinch, despite inner conflict, all eventually got the message right—as did my sweet daughter Briana: the love we find does not end at Christmas—it is for us to keep all through the year:

Please watch:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sd5PEVKuAro

Playing Santa

My grandfather Vespo smoked unfiltered Chesterfield cigarettes. And every Christmas Eve when my mother and her sisters were little and gathered with their Aunts, Uncles, and cousins, my grandfather would leave the gathering to walk down to the corner store to restock his nicotine supply.

Amazingly, year after year, when my grandfather was AWOL from the celebration, Santa would show up and hand out gifts. My grandfather without fail missed the entire event.  Santa’s arrival and my grandfather’s absence was never considered suspicious to any of his children or nieces or nephews. At no point did any child ever wonder what corner store might be open on Christmas eve for the expressed purpose of purchasing cigarettes. Nor did the children ever notice the uncanny resemblance in physicality or voice to Papa—or their Uncle Joe.

My brother Mark might be described as the “fun Dad” or the “fun Uncle”. He has always engaged his children and his nieces. He planned silly excursions with them and bought them wonderful gifts. And to that end he got it in his head that it would be his greatest pleasure to play Santa—like our grandfather had done.

And so he purchased a high quality Santa suit---deep red  velvet with a leather, not plastic belt. Santa’s beard was a realistic facsimile to white facial hair. Not even the man sitting in the chair at Macy’s on 34^th street could feign more realism.

And on a particular Christmas celebration, my brother transformed himself into Saint Nickolas himself. The children gathered unknowingly when a jolly old man with a sack full of presents bounded through the front door.

The children—aged 7, 4,3, and 1 at the time were cautious in his presence. And then Samantha, aged 3, said Where is Uncle Mark? And my nephew Andrew, aged 7, in his sweet soprano voice said Dad why are you dressed up like Santa?

It took a nanosecond for these four little kids to figure out what was going on.

And my mother and her sisters to this day claim they were too frightened of Santa to question his identity. They defend their lacking critical thinking skills as innocent belief--they believe that their  blind acceptance was a  better alternative to today’s generation of inquiring minds.

I disagree.

When Samantha and Andrew’s mind deduced and summarized all the Santa facts I giggled. It meant they were paying attention—even at the expensive of my brother’s disappointment. Because it didn’t mean they didn’t believe in Santa, it just meant they didn’t believe that Mark was Santa. 

And Grandpa Vespo smoked his Chesterfields until he was in his late seventies and the ophthalmologist urged him to quit. He had smoked for 60 some-odd years before giving up the habit cold turkey.

And I am sure somewhere in my brother’s attic is a well-preserved Santa suit along  with his dream of Christmas past--- a dream which surely will be transformed  the day his first grandchild is born---the day Christmas future becomes Christmas  present--- and the spirit of giving and belief renews itself for the next generation.

The Newtown Tragedy

My father was teacher as was my Uncle, several of my cousins, and my niece. It was a culture I grew up with. Teachers were a part of my world at home as much as they were in school.

Teachers are more often than not, parents-on-loan for their students.

They protect and nurture.

I think it is difficult for anyone to not to feel saddened by the slaughter of little children and the teachers who bravely sought in vain to save them in Newton Connecticut.

It is difficult not be touched by the surviving teachers who blockaded themselves and their students in their classrooms and made sure to tell their frightened students how much they were loved.

It is difficult not to l think that it is only by the grace of God that the angel of death did not chose our town—our children, aunts, nieces, cousins and friends.

And so we pray for the deceased as well as all those mourning in death’s wake. 

And we hug our loved ones a little bit more tightly.

We are safe—this time.

Is It Still Re-gifting If....?

I am opposed to re-gifting. I believe it undermines what giving is all about.

But what if at Christmas time you purchase an item for person A and then decide to give it to person B instead.  Is it still re-gifting? Especially when person B believes that the gift was intended for them all along? Is re-gifting a sin just for a receiver to re-give or is it a sin for both the receiver and the giver to re-give?

These are the things that keep me up at night.

Especially when I know Santa is watching.    

Cheating at Golf

One September afternoon my husband journeyed to the club to see the final round of the Club Championship. He also planned to watch the award ceremony for the winners—both male and female in all the various flights.

He came home with a trophy. But it was not his—it was mine. I told him there had to have been a mistake. I knew my final score was not very stellar at all and I also knew that there were several people whose score fell well below mine.

I believe golf is just about the only sport where its players feel freely  inclined from time to time to self-interpret the rules---and by the word self- interpret I actually mean cheat.

I played racquet sports for years and other than playing “first in”—the equivalent in tennis or platform tennis to the golf term “mulligan” or “breakfast ball,” people respected the rules. The lines on the court defined the space that was safe for the ball to land—people did not ignore them when ta ball went “long.” No one says I am not playing the service line today.  No one playing tennis would ever not count a whiffed ball or a double hit.

But golf is very different. Not everyone “holes out.” For them, as long as a ball sits “within the leather” it is a “gimme”—which means a player assumes that they would have gotten the ball in the hole with one stroke had they played it. And I have personally watched people “find” a lost ball so they did not have to take a penalty stroke or use their “foot wedge” to give their ball a better lie. I have seen branches “accidentally” snapped to improve a stance or a ball “dropped” farther than arm’s length.

And I can say for sure, that anytime you ask someone in your foursome at the finish of a hole What did you get? And they answer with the words “Give me” a 6. The actual score is probably an 8. The follow up response with them should be I’ll give you a 6, but what did you really get?

And I received that trophy that year because three people with lower scores were disqualified for failing to record penalty shots—either with or without intention.

And I myself have been disqualified from a tournament that I should have won—not because I “forgot” to count errant shots but because I could not add. I had reported a score 2 strokes higher than it should have been—in my mind, an honorable, if not stupid mistake. And while it was my partner’s job to check my addition and sign the card to prevent such a disqualification, she apparently couldn’t add either. That silver plated tray in turn went to someone else.

And so it was less silverware in my stockpile---and less tarnish to worry about—either on a tray, or thankfully on my reputation.   

Environmental Consciousness

One might think that because I worked as an environmental chemist that I was a diehard proponent of natural substrates and recycling and energy conservation.

But the truth of the matter is that I buy big black garbage bags to hide miscellaneous bottles, cans, and newspapers from time to time in my refuge. I also tip the sanitation workers handsomely at holiday time with the hope that my secret will not be divulged.

I am just not that fastidious about being green.

Last December, in doing an inventory of the outdoor lights I realized that we needed a new supply. So my husband kindly volunteered to purchase new white mini lights at Home Depot. And when he came home he promptly hung them around my round top front door along with some  pine rope—a look I relish every year.

But when he called me outside to view the traditional outdoor décor I was speechless. The lights were blue—they were hideous. So I inquired why did you buy blue lights? And he told me that he did not. I snapped Let me see the box.

The box said Martha Stewart clear LED lights. They were energy efficient.

I did not care. They were ugly.

So I made him pull them down.

And while there is a part of my brain that understands that being environmentally conscious is the right thing to do, in this life there is always something about ourselves that we prefer to be bad-ass about. My vice is not being all that ecologically conscious.

But it could be worse. If I kept those LED lights it would be visual pollution. And maintaining my neighborly environment is my way of being green.

(Not) A Norman Rockwell Experience

Patience was not my father’s middle name. He was easily frustrated when anything did not progress forward in a straight line. He expected brevity, clarity and flawlessness in all things.

And so Christmastime was particularly challenging for him. There were toys to assemble from poorly written directions. Batteries were not included. Inclement weather slowed the outdoor decorating process from efficiency. And then there was the artificial tree, which required him climbing a too small pull down staircase to then navigate a too large box to squeeze through a barely wide enough opening.

Erecting the Christmas tree in my house was hardly a Norman Rockwell experience.

Putting up the tree was the chore that eroded my father’s spirit. He grumbled how the color coded branches had a micron of paint on them such that only those with 20/10 vision could discern between them. The stem of the tree was structured from pine which loosed with age. It caused the tree to list. And the piece de resistance were the lights—which no matter how meticulously were put away the year before required precision-like fine motor skills to disentangle and which never blinked to 100% capacity as they had 12 months earlier.

My father ranted why couldn’t a Christmas tree be structured like an umbrella? He pondered out loud  why couldn’t the branches be pre-wired with lights that did not fail? And then, shaking his head in disgust, he would conclude with these immortal and rhetorical  words: Who was the God damned genius engineer who designed this debacle?

And four Christmases ago I felt melancholy as I assembled my first 2 piece pre-lit tree that opened like an umbrella. I was sad that my father had not lived long enough to see Christmas design at its best.

And last Friday evening as I sat on my living room couch, admiring the fire in the fireplace, the glowing candles on the mantle, and the glory of my pre-lit wonder, I noticed that the lights at the apex of my tree--a tree that had already experienced a blip in the lighting a week before—was shining more brightly than it should have been. And then all the lights at the top went poof—and then black.

I could not believe my eyes.

And then I heard my father’s words with clarity, brevity and flawlessness: Who was the God damned genius engineer who designed this tree?

And while I am sad my father is not still with us, I am happy that he did not live long enough to see that a 2 piece umbrella-like pre-lit tree would not have been a  panacea to his Christmas woes. Nothing in this life is guaranteed to proceed forward  in a  straight line. Nothing is perfect. And patience is a virtue—a God damned poorly designed virtue.

Christmas Colors

Colors govern some holidays. Saint Patrick’s Day is green. Valentines’ Day is red or pink. The fourth of July and Memorial day is red white and blue. Halloween is orange and black.

And when I was a little girl, in observing the décor of my friend Jesse Weiner’s house in the month December, it was clear to me that Hanukkah was colored blue, white and silver.

I also observed that Christmas was colored red and green—with metallics of either gold or silver.

There was a holiday decorating segment on Good Morning America the other day. Jonathan Adler was the interior designer charged with giving tips and creative ideas. He showcased trees and mantle centerpieces of purple, royal blue and aquamarine. He espoused the beauty of these colors at Christmastime. 

And what I buy into is this—not everyone’s home design and palate coordinates well with red or green. But there are options other than using completely non-traditional Christmas hues in one’s holiday décor.   There is the winter wonderland look—off white ribbon with branches—natural or sprayed, metallics of pewter, brass or bronze and clear crystals. I am not even opposed to hues within the red and green spectrum—like cranberry or brick or lime or avocado. But I just can’t wrap my brain around anything colored blue for holiday decorating.

Blue is just not a Christmas color---no matter what Jonathan Adler says.

And what I know for sure is I have never seen a red or green dreidel. I have never seen a Halloween witch in pink or a green valentine. No one wear turquoise on Saint Patrick’s Day. And Santa does not wear a purple velvet suit nor is Rudolph’s nose teal.  Frasier firs are green as are pines and holly leaves.

And the only appropriate place at Christmastime for  anything colored blue, purple or aqua is as a gemstone—sapphire, amethyst or topaz, set in silver or gold, and wrapped as a present under my tree.

Everyone is a Foodie

My grandmother Vespo prepared things like snails, cuttlefish, fresh sardines, eel and skate. She also stewed veal shank, tripe and rabbit. Nonny made soups with beans and escarole. She fried sweetbreads.

It was food I learned very early on not to discuss eating with my non-Italian friends.

This was peasant food. It reflected back on my grandparent’s income---which was modest. Such meals also fell outside the mainstream of roast beef, Idaho potatoes and iceberg lettuce—things that most Americans ate.

But the advent of the Food Channel and television shows like Top Chef has shifted American menus.

We considers ourselves as foodies. We use language formerly unfamilar. We speak of the layering of flavors, balance and texture. We notice how well a dish is plated. We critique pairings. We describe seasonings as briny or acidic or smokey.

We embrace all proteins and vegetables outside of the mainstream and wear our willingness to try new things as a badge of courage. We have James Beard award winning palates. All that peasant food I told no one I consumed on a regular basis when I was young is now the signature dish on the menus of the very best restaurants in Manhattan.

 And it is expensive—way too expensive for peasants.

Which gives me pause to think—what do  immigrant  Americans with a limited income eat? Because it certainly isn’t ossobucco or escargot. It isn’t arugula or radicchio either. People of modest means can’t afford olive oil or fresh basil or balsamic vinegar---things my grandparents ate with regularity. Maybe there is no such thing as peasant food anymore. Perhaps the new peasant food is  pot roast with Franco American brown gravy and iceburg lettuce with Wishbone dressing or Swanson’s chicken pot pies—the stuff my American friends thought was gourmet.

Dumping Christmas Decor

I enjoy Joan Rivers—especially on her show The Fashion Police. Joan’s opinion on what to, and what not to wear is completely unbridled. And she, along with her co-hosts, often play a game of “gotta have it” or “make it stop” whereby they look at current fashion trends and judge which direction it ought to go—in or out.

Yesterday my husband pulled two large containers filled with Christmas decorations from the third floor closet. The contents were destined for my living room and parlor. But as I opened each container and pulled out each item all I could only think was—ahh I still love this or Oh my God I am so over that.

The result was I halved my inventory.

And just like my wardrobe receives a bi-seasonal edit, I was long overdue for a Christmas décor redo and dump. With fashion—including that which for the home, one day you are in, and the next day you are out.

Because all things get tired after a while—including me.

Forgetting to Leave Work Behind

My brother—who I love dearly---spends most of his work week in court empowering the powerless.

He is a lawyer.

He is skilled in seeing flaws in other people’s arguments and uses their own words to support his claims.

My brother is quite successful at his profession.

But sometimes it is difficult to leave the world of work behind. So last week when my brother called an 800 number to make a purchase and the sales representative asked him if he wanted to donate $1.00 for the victims of Hurricane Sandy, my brother responded I AM a victim of Hurricane Sandy. You might have surmised that had you noted my address when I gave it to you. I have incurred thousands of dollars in property damage much of which is not recoverable. So, with all due respect, I would not like to donate the requested dollar to Sandy relief, but please feel free to take one dollar off of my bill.

   

The sales representative had no response. But I am sure she never asked another person residing in New York or New Jersey for a Sandy donation again---or at least, without trepidation and forethought.

Pulled Muscles

The comedian Dana Garvey, as part of his stand-up routine, does a bit about turning 50 and how the littlest thing leads to physical injury. One discovers aches in parts of the body that have no business calling themselves to attention.

And on Friday morning while I was in bed and chose to simply roll over from my right side to my left, I pulled the muscle that begins just under the arm pit and swings down diagonally to the spine. It is a muscle that has remained silent for 52 years.

I believe it is called my Latissimus dorsi but I am not sure--it’s been too many years since I studied anatomy. All I know is it hurts to breathe—and turn—and do anything with the left side of my body. And had someone been standing outside my bedroom door they might have mistaken the sounds that emanated from my larynx as sounds of passion—but I assure you they were not. They were sounds of pain and downright annoyance.

And so I self-medicated. Because I am of an age where anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxants are within arm’s reach at all times---the heating pad too.

And Dana Garvey ripped the tendon in his arm simply by reaching over and answering the phone. He got tennis elbow by sitting on his couch. That answered phone call warranted him wearing an air cast with weeks of physical therapy.

 So I can only imagine what life will be like after age 60 or 70 or 80.

 I will probably pull the muscles in my eyelids waking up from a midday nap by then.

A Parents Weekend Dinner

When my husband and I went to our first Parents’ weekend at Lehigh we went to dinner with her roommate, one of her new friends, and that friend’s parents. My daughter’s roommate as well as the other friend grew up in very affluent towns in Westchester--- towns known for their highly rated school systems and liberal political views.

But when we met the  parents of the friend for the first time, they were a bit too excited to meet our acquaintance.

It seemed that these parents had just returned from visiting their older daughter for her Parent’s Weekend. That daughter attended the University of Michigan where the student body was and is much more diverse than that of Lehigh.

And the parents told us the following story:Their U of M daughter had arranged for a dinner with her two roommates and their parents. And the daughter felt obliged to give them a little inside information before arriving at the restaurant. The daughter feared some awkwardness and sought to diffuse it. It seemed that one of the roommates’ parents was divorced and the two parents did not get along well as the Dad remarried a much younger woman who was nearly the same age of the daughter. Another of the roommates was bi-racial: the Mom was Japanese and the Dad was African-American. And the third set of parents was gay—two Dads and no Mom.

So while the two parents from the liberal town in Westchester had prided themselves on being liberal minded—this was a bit too much diversity sitting all at one dinner table --even for them. Making certain that every word uttered was politically correct was positively exhausting.

And I laughed and said No wonder you exhaled upon our introduction.

I grew up in a world where people were put into boxes based on their race, religion, gender, and sexual orientation. There was little integration.

But the world has changed.

And while I think this change has been for the better and I applaud the way my children and their generation see the world as a blend and not a box, there was comfort in the boxes. You always knew which end was up. And the box was clearly marked: fragile or open with care.

A Time for Giving

Maybe it's my Catholic guilt, but there are some things I cannot help myself from doing at holiday time:

1.        Emptying my pockets for The Salvation Army volunteer standing outside
           in the cold ringing the bell.

2.        Donating a children’s book at Barnes and Noble for an underprivileged child.

3.        Toys for Tots.

4.        Buying a $1.00 item for the children of the military at The Dollar Store.

5.        Purchasing a can of dog food at Petco for the animals in the shelter.

Because sometimes charity does not begin at home.

Sometimes charity begins at the doors of the mall at Christmastime.

And we are reminded that there are too many Bob Crachetts, Tiny Tims and unsaved Scrooges still in the world. And we are lucky enough not to be one of them.

Canine Cuisine

My brother-in-law Jack has been telling this story for years. I am certain that it is based in fact but has meandered a bit from the truth as time has gone by to enhance its theatrical and humorous qualities.

The tale is this: On a particular Sunday when he (my brother-in-law) was courting my sister-in law Susan, Jack was invited for a family dinner. Upon arriving, he could smell that my mother-in- law was in the kitchen frying meat for her Sunday sauce. So he went into the kitchen, intent on stealing a meatball or two. But as his hand hovered over the plate, my mother-in-law, sensing the impending theft, quickly turned around smacked his hand and said Those meatballs aren’t for you, they are for Buddy!!

Buddy was my mother-in-law’s beloved Yorkshire terrier.

Jasper (God rest his soul) would eat anything. He was a rescued dog. He learned to eat whatever food was put in front of him as he never knew where his next meal was coming from.

Cosmo on the other hand, is not terribly interested in food.

In order to coax him into eating his kibble I have resorted to adding some additional protein.

“Adding some additional protein” is my euphemism for I cook for him. 

Mostly I roast some chicken thighs with a little lemon juice, fresh parsley, and a dash of Bell’s Poultry Seasoning. Sometimes I sauté some ground beef. But today I made his favorite: chicken livers. I seared them in a little olive oil and sea salt and then finished them off in the convection oven.

And while many might think I am crazy, I defend myself by saying that cooking for Cosmo is cheaper, more organic, and more nutritious than canned dog food. It also produces the desired effect—he eats quickly and appreciatively. And my only regret for my behavior is that my mother-in-law did not live long enough for me to disclose my little habit to her. Because she would not think what I do is bizarre in any way---and it would have given her ammunition to fire back at my brother-in law: See-- even Karen cooks for the dog.

The Grinch--and me

Cosmo followed me into the living room—a place ordinarily prohibited for him to enter. He was to be my companion as I put up the Christmas tree.

He then bore witness to my litany of God damn its as I realized that my pre-lit tree had a section near the top as well as a few random branches on the bottom that would not light.

It displeased me.

And so I went up to the third floor closet to find a string of lights to insert into the unlit sections to correct the problem. But the stored lights also had lighting flaws.

And thus Cosmo heard a few more God damn its uttered from my lips.

So in yesterday’s sweat clothes I drove in the slushy cold rain to the nearest box store to buy some new lights—which I accomplished quite quickly.

But I was still angry. The point of a pre-lit tree is that it is pre-lit. And I calculated that for the price I paid for that guaranteed to light realistic beauty from the high end holiday store I could have bought five live 9 foot Frazier firs from Hicks Nursery.

And then something caught my eye. It was an ornament of the Grinch standing next to his faithful dog Max.

It uncannily looked like Cosmo and me—so I bought it.

And suddenly I wasn’t angry anymore. My heart grew three sizes--- just like in the story.

I was reminded that Christmas meant a little bit more.

And when I returned home Cosmo was happy that I had not been out purchasing some plastic antlers for him to wear while we went out and stole Christmas. Relieved, he curled up in a ball near the base of the tree and slept.

So I inserted those missing electrified twinkles and sang to my faithful canine friend:

Fahoo fores dahoo dores
                   Welcome Christmas bring your light.

The Hangover

I have a hangover.

It isn’t from dehydration or too much alcohol.

It isn’t from digestive excess either.

It’s from holiday shopping.

I have a shopping hangover.

Beginning at 7 am Black Friday until Sunday at 2 pm I overdosed in Christmas expenditure.

I signed my name away to the point of carpel tunnel distress.

The fruits of my credit cards lie on my dining room table.

And today, in between the clicks of Cyber Monday I will lumber and re-organize.

Because tomorrow is tree-day.

It’s time to begin work on another seasonal ill--the decorating hangover.

And it’s not even December yet.

New York Jets--Really?

My father had a placard on his desk. It read: God so loved the World that he sent his only son—not a committee.

Elementary school classrooms have just one teacher. And when a substitute teacher is charged with running that classroom, the children intuitively know that the supervision is suspect. So even the most well-behaved and intellectually gifted students often feel no obligation to be in accord with the substitute teacher’s directions.

Canines too have a solitary leader. And if death befalls the alpha dog, another animal from the pack is selected—not a stray. There is a social hierarchy that excludes outsiders.

Sport teams are no different.

And while I do not claim to be an expert, I must say that when I heard that the New York Jets had traded some really good players for Tim Tebow at the end of last season, I thought What are they doing? There is no such thing as co-quarterbacks?—especially when quarterback #2 isn’t homegrown. No one has confidence in multiple leaders—including the multiple leaders themselves.

And so week after week this football season the Jets fans have cringed. There has been no rhythm. There has been no cohesiveness. At all times fans could sense the ambiguity. No one knew who might be  in charge from play to play.

There is a reason an orchestra has one conductor, a nation has one president and the Pips just had one Gladys. Effective leadership requires a solitary leader—not a committee.

It’s something God and my father understood.

The Jets management needs to pick one guy and ditch the other. And at this point I really do not care which quarterback they choose just as long as they pick one.  It’s the only way to salvage the team.

Because the Jets  are no longer gang green---the envy of all, they are gang red—the butt of embarrassment and ridicule.

Thanksgiving Day Mass

On the eve of Thanksgiving 1972, my best friend Elissa got a great idea—we should go to Thanksgiving Day mass.

It had nothing to do with religious devotion. It was about the fact that it took a half hour to walk to Sacred Heart Catholic church, an hour for mass itself, and a leisurely 45 minute walk home with a stop at Johnston’s florist to buy a few mums for our mothers.

We were wasting time. We sought a respite from our Thanksgiving Day chores. And the best part of Elissa’s idea was that our mothers would not refuse us permission. What mother could say no when their child asked to go to mass?

And while I did not realize it at the time, the entire experience was good for my soul. There was something unifying and exalting as we sang We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing.

I found tranquility before the holiday chaos. And the long walk home with a best friend expanded my heart. The intimacy of our conversation shaped the person I have become.

It was time well-wasted.

And I am thankful.

And so on this Thanksgiving, before the frenzy sets in, take a few minutes to decompress. Remember all those who made you who you are and be glad. You received the Lord’s blessing when you gathered together.  Your Thanksgiving prayer was indeed answered. 

Twinkies

Israel may be on the brink of a full-scale war. Our economy may fall off the fiscal cliff. But thing in the headlines most troubling to too many people seems to be the demise of Hostess Twinkies.

Personally I have never been much of a Twinkies fan. I have always preferred Drakes’ Devil Dogs, Ring Dings and my favorite: Yodels.

Chocolate is my drug of choice. There has never been anything about me but for my skin tone that could ever be described as vanilla. And I have never heard of anyone ever referring to themselves as a vanilla-holic—Hallmark does not create a line of cards dedicated to vanilla lovers.

So while I am genuinely sad for the now unemployed Hostess workers, maybe it’s time they switched teams to make Ring Dings instead. Likewise the Republicans will have to surrender to the fact that to keep the country from falling off the fiscal cliff they might have to sail on the Democratic ship and raise taxes for the most wealthy of Americans.

Because the truth of the matter is, inside and outside of the snack world, vanilla does not rule.

What Women Want

I may have some of the details incorrect but the bones of this story are true. A girlfriend of mine brought her new boyfriend to her family’s Christmas Eve celebration. Later in the evening, when it came time for the friend to open the boyfriend’s gift, the Grandpa, who was well into his eighties at this point, observed that his very style conscious granddaughter had received a very ugly sweater.

As everyone kissed each other good-bye at the close of the celebration, the Grandpa turned to the boyfriend and said It was nice meeting you. I hope you have a nice life.

My oldest daughter once brought a very good-looking boy home during her freshman year of college. He was kind hearted and very much infatuated with her. But in an effort to show his affection he invited her to a culinary experience at his favorite Italian restaurant-The Olive Garden.

I knew I was never going to see him again.

My middle daughter, who has dripped in fur and shiny things since the age of two, once received a necklace of oversized brown and green beads as a Christmas gift from a boy.

She broke up with him the next day.

It is not that women are shallow—it’s that the value of a gift for them is more about being understood, than the monetary worth of the thing itself.

And the reason I am still married is that when I was pregnant my husband routinely brought me home take out  from Fianona’s Restaurant---escarole and potatoes--without ever being asked. One Christmas he bought me 5 pairs of flannel pajamas because he knew I liked cozy rather than sexy sleepwear. Recently he bought me a license plate cover that said I Love my Dog.

He gets me. 

It’s the glue of all relationships.

Gas Station Freebies

I was visiting my daughter Briana at her new apartment and I needed a knife to open something. Her roommate went into the kitchen drawer and handed me one. And when I saw it I was transported back in time. The handle was dark brown plastic--molded to look like wood. The blade was thin, serrated and bendable-- yet still sharp after 40 or so years. It was a Shell (brand) Steak knife---the kind given away for free during the 1960’s every time one filled up their gas tank.

Because there once was a time when gas stations actually needed to solicit your business.

Gas stations do not give away anything for free anymore. The energy crisis of the 1970’s halted that little perk. Rarely can you even get your gas pumped for you while waiting in the car—and if you do, the station charges you a few cents more per gallon. No one routinely cleans the windshield or checks the oil or measures the air your tires.

 It is something you must ask for, or do yourself.

Maps are no longer sold. There is no pay phone or a filthy bathroom to use for emergencies only. I do not even know the name of the man who owns the station near me. But I do know, it isn’t Jim or  Sal—the men I remember from my youth.

There is no more service with a smile.

But last week the world changed--everything old was new again—and I am not talking about  the S&H green stamps from Texaco,  a green plastic Brontosaurus from Sinclair, steak knives from Shell, or some amber glasses from Esso. It was the odd/even gas rationing. It was the hour-long lines and the “cash only.”

I didn’t exactly feel all that nostalgic about it.

And I asked Kelly, Briana’s roommate where she had gotten the knives—they were a treasure—a collector’s item of sorts. She told me that the knives had belonged to her grandmother. And I smiled. Not only did my family have those same steak knives but my grandmother did too—she got them every time she filled up her 1962 Rambler and then her 1968 Dodge Coronet--- back in the day when people put a tiger in their tank and trusted their car to the man who wore the star.

Getting Back in the Game

I walked off the court with annoyance after a tennis practice. And the expression on my face must have revealed that emotion because Van, the tennis pro, looked at me and said What’s going on? So I told him: I do not want to play with that woman ever again. Her incessant point analysis throws me off my game.

Van shook his head.

The recent storm was traumatic. I was stuck in Florida when it hit and was unable to fly home.

Orchestrating the safety of those I love was challenging to say the least from a remote location. And when I finally was able to touch down on the one open runway at LaGuardia the Thursday after the storm, I was met with no electricity, a gas shortage, no phone and no internet.

As a consequence my normal day to day activities either came to a screeching halt or required more time than it would have taken had all the creature comforts been in my life. Among the things that I was distracted from was my writing. Finding the time to sit down was one issue. Another was a lack of focus—I was too concerned with gas usage and daily shopping and a lack of refrigeration to have “thoughts.” And while I did have a laptop I needed to save the battery for other things like watching DVD’s at night to prevent my husband and I from hours of boredom.

The storm threw me off.

But I got a wake-up call. My girlfriend Elissa texted me and said When are you going to write your blog again? You have too many excuses and I am in withdrawal.

She was absolutely correct.

I needed to alter my game. I needed to write again.

And Van told me The fact that that woman annoys you is exactly why you should play with her again. You need to figure out how to play your game despite the distraction. It will make you a better player and an even more formidable opponent.

Adversity elevates strategy. And an elevated strategy yields success. Or better put:  that which does not kill you makes you stronger. I just hope that that which does not kill you, just doesn’t kill you.