Monthly Archives: December 2010

December 6, 2010 · 9:56 am

Saint Nicholas’ wild ride

Allow me to be the first to wish you a Happy Saint Nicholas Day.

This holiday isn’t as prevalent in the United States as it is in Europe, so if you didn’t execute one of the key St. Nicholas Eve rituals last night, you’re not alone. There’s always next year.

There’s also a first time to hear about Saint Nicholas. And, depending upon the version of history or folklore you read (some of which can be a little frightening), you likely will remember next year.

The first Saint Nicholas Day I recall was memorable because it sent my mother and me into a tailspin, oh so long ago.

My two younger brothers, around ages four and six, attended a Rudolf Steiner school run by German teachers and staff. Late one December night, my brothers had been put to bed and, just before lights out, they both jumped up, grabbed shoes from their closet and ran down the stairs and out the front door. My mother followed them and asked what in the world they were doing.

“Mrs. Schiffer said that if we put our shoes outside before we go to bed tonight, Saint Nicholas will come and fill them with cookies.”

In a fit of panic, I shepherded the boys upstairs and back into bed while my mother made tracks to 7-Eleven in what surely was the fastest trip ever made in a 1972 pea green Dodge station wagon. Keebler elves saved the day.

And that’s what Saint Nicholas Day means to me.

That and it’s the birthday of my one and only child. Happy Birthday, Joe. I hope you got lots of cookies.

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December 4, 2010 · 10:08 am

Yule log me out

Tick. Tick. Tick. If you haven’t noticed, there are exactly three weeks until Christmas. I have trouble hearing carols above the ticking away of the annoying clock against which I work fiercely to accomplish the self-imposed and society-imposed holiday chores.

I’ve become a Grinch about nearly every holiday of the year, mostly because self and society collude cruelly to impose unrealistic expectations and impossible deadlines.

I typically don’t get a lot of sympathy when I complain about the holiday stress because about 85 percent of it is self-imposed. I send out 260 cards and hand address each one. The .001 percent lineage I have to Emily Post won’t allow me to print labels. This year, my dreaded holiday newsletter came back from the printer with a typo that wasn’t in the original, so off it went for a reprint, because Word Nymph can’t send a typo to 260 people.

The upheaval caused by our central air installation, which no doubt by now you are sick of reading, stands in the way of most other tasks—from wrapping and shipping to putting up the tree. Hence, the last-minute scramble will be all the more intense.

By this time in the season, I start to go a little crazy. “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” sends me over the edge, and one playing too many of Mannheim Steamroller’s version of “Carol of the Bells” (one is one too many) has me fighting the urge to crash my car into a Jersey wall at 60 miles per hour.

This year, as an experiment, I’ve decided to pick one society-imposed chore and do away with it altogether. If that works, maybe I’ll pick another in 2011. This one wasn’t a hard choice because my family asked me to nix it.

I won’t be doing any baking. The problem is, I like the idea of baking cookies. I like how tingly Martha Stewart looks when she does it. My friends bake exquisite decorated sugar cookies, reaping great joy. The ritual just seems so appealing.

The sad truth is, I am a terrible baker with a faulty oven. Last year’s attempt at my grandmother’s delicate ginger thins could have doubled as equipment for the NHL. I dream about attempting a Bûche de Noël, but fear it would be seized as a weapon of mass destruction.

Instead I’ll dream of Nancy’s chocolate thumb prints, Mary Lee’s angels, Roxanne’s painted ginger snow queens and the Grady family’s fourth generation cookie ritual, while I head to the store for boxed Walker’s shortbread. Sigh.

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December 3, 2010 · 9:35 am

In hot water

Being criticized for one’s drinking is no fun. ’Tis the season during which there is sure to be lots of both going on–drinking and criticizing.

My choice of beverages seems to generate extraordinary criticism. Restaurant servers, flight attendants, even some friends and family are taken aback when I say what I’d like to drink. Many reply with, “That’s so weird.” Then they usually try to talk me into something else.

What’s my poison? Hot water.

Even before before I gave up coffee, hot water has been my drink of choice during the day and after dinner. In a mug or cup, boiled or microwaved. No additives. Plain hot water. I love it.

Often my request is followed by “Do you want tea?” No, thank you. “Wouldn’t you like a slice of lemon?” No, thanks; just the water. “Nothing in the water?” No!  “That’s so weird.”

I get the same reaction when I order a glass of water with no ice. “Surely you’d like ice.” No. Nine servers out of 10 bring it with ice anyway, as if it’s a matter of conscience. I appreciate everyone’s concern, but no means no.

Why is hot water perceived the beverage of Martians?

Hot water is simple. It’s healthy. It’s pure. And it’s better for you than cold water. I’ve heard that drinking hot water improves blood circulation and produces less acid during digestion than cold. This time of year, it helps warm you up without the caffeine or excess acid of coffee, tea or hot chocolate. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’ve read that cold water can aggravate kidney problems and pain, while hot water can be good for the kidneys.

As a public speaking trainer, I bristle when I see a speaker take a glass of ice water to the podium. Cold water constricts the throat muscles and can actually exacerbate a tense or tickly throat, while warm water relaxes the throat.

Health benefits aside, I find hot water warming and comforting. I almost said guilt free, but when people look at me as if I have three heads, I feel like I’m in, well, hot water.

Would I be less of a social outcast if I sipped my beverage out of a martini glass?

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December 2, 2010 · 7:43 am

All shook up

I blog today with a broken heart. In fact, my hands are shaky and my knees are weak, I can’t seem to stand on my own two feet.

Some time ago, I introduced you to Elvis. As cheesy as this might sound, my family and I fell hopelessly in love with Elvis, a 19-year-old deaf, arthritic cat when, about two months ago when, for whatever reason, he left his family and came to live on our side of the street. We suspected that he suspected that his long life was coming to an end.

I pretended that Elvis came to me, the hospice lady, for comfort and end-of-life care. The reality is, I fed him, as did our next door neighbors, who also provided him with a warm bed on their front porch. We all know what animals do when you feed them. But I took Elvis on as my latest hospice patient, giving him as much food as he wanted and wrapping him in a towel when he was too confused to take cover from the rain.

Yesterday, while away on a business trip, I received a message from our neighbor that Elvis had returned home to his family, where he died. According to the note, Elvis “spent the last several nights curled up inside, comfortably on a pillow.” As with most hospice situations, and as it should be, the patient died surrounded by family.

When I get home, I will kneel at the spot under our bushes where Elvis made his temporary home and remember how he brightened my life with his sweet purr and the meow that sounded like a duck quacking.

I can only hope that, wherever animals go when they die, Elvis lives on in his own Graceland.

Godspeed, Elvis. Love ya, buddy.

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December 1, 2010 · 9:18 am

Senior secrets

How long do you suppose you’ll live? Why? Have you ever known anyone who has lived 100 years or more and attributed a long life to a particular ritual or lifestyle?

If you are lucky enough to be fêted by NBC’s Willard Scott, then you have an opportunity to tell the world your secret to longevity. These secrets can be contradictory—some centenarians attribute their advanced years to eating bacon at every meal and a taking a nightly nip of gin, while others tout a life of temperance.

One of my recent favorites to receive a Smucker’s greeting from Willard was a woman whose secret to staying young is “using Crisco every day, on her face.”

Yesterday, a Jamaican-born Washingtonian turned 107. She has proudly has enjoyed a lifelong relationship with red meat, and shared a few other secrets in a Washington Post interview over the weekend.

Having had a milestone birthday of lesser proportions last year, I now pay attention to long-living seniors, and check to see how my own lifestyle matches up. Betsy Stanford, the 107-year-old honoree, is fastidious. Check. She plays Scrabble and works crossword puzzles. Check, check. She carries the phone numbers of family and friends in her head. Check (in my case, I am afraid I’ll misplace the list).

I’m not quite sure what I think of the key ingredient in Betsy’s daily diet—a Guinness and Ensure smoothie. I may have to give it a try.

What lifestyle secrets have carried you as far as your most recent birthday?

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