Category Archives: Family and Friends

Relationships and personal interaction

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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November 25, 2010 · 10:15 am

The little things

Drip, drip, drip. That’s what I awoke to this morning. Cold rain against the window on a dark morning. My sore nose that kept me awake all night in need of Kleenex.

I went to bed angry at the woman who sprayed me with mucus on a four-hour bus ride from New York City on Sunday.

So I woke up this morning in a really bad mood. My throat hurt and my head was pounding. The 40-degree, rainy morning slapped me in the face.

Then I remembered it is Thanksgiving.

After a steaming cup of white tea, appreciation washed over me. I became thankful for tea, Sudafed, Tylenol and for generic-brand cherry-flavored throat spray that expired in 2002 but still brought relief.

Now I am ready to give thanks. Most people will honor the day by expressing their gratitude around the dinner table. Mine would take too long, so I’ll do it here.

Today I am thankful for:

  1. A couple of hours of alone time, while my husband and son run a 10-kilometer race. I will be even more thankful if they return free of injury and colds.
  2. The fact that, even though it was my turn, and yesterday was my stepmother’s birthday, she and my father are hosting dinner today. If I had to do it feeling the way I do, I’d be crying right now.
  3. My son’s safe arrival home, on 420 miles of angry interstate and foggy mountain roads.
  4. Community—my church community, my family and friends, colleagues and clients, the Jazzercise girls and my neighbors
  5. The best weekend ever in New York, and the 25 years of marriage that led to it
  6. Running water, a toilet that flushes, light that comes on whenever I flip a switch, heat (and I hope within the next three weeks, the installation of central air conditioning)
  7. Punctuation
  8. Medication
  9. Elvis, the homeless cat who brightens my life once or twice a day.

Now, let’s watch the parade.

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November 24, 2010 · 9:46 am

Fowl play

A year ago, three days before Thanksgiving, I facilitated a medical  meeting at a large urgent care center. As I was setting up for the program, the meeting coordinator and I were exchanging pleasantries, mostly about the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday.

I asked her if the center was expecting to be busy on the holiday. I thought this was a logical question. She just looked at me as if I had three heads and said, no, that she couldn’t imagine why that would be the case.

Huh. I would have thought, based on our family’s experience, that urgent care centers would be staffing up and stocking up with extra bandages, sutures, balms and epinephrine.

I recall a time when one kind of accident or another defined Thanksgiving tradition. One year it was a severe oven burn. Another it was a deep laceration caused by a broken glass concealed in a sink full of dish suds. Once—though on a different holiday, perhaps July 4th—someone drank bug spray. Another time one of my cousins nearly lost a toe, though I can’t recall exactly how.

When I look back, one memorable Thanksgiving springs to mind. Thankfully, no humans were harmed.

My mother had just moved into a house in Arizona with slick terra cotta floor tiles that ran from the kitchen to the bedroom area.

We were roasting a large turkey, which neither of us could lift alone. When it came time to remove it from the oven, my mother and I each took an end of the roasting pan. On the count of three we would lift it to the stove top. One, two, oops, one of us dropped her end. The roasting pan toppled and the turkey was ejected, landing on the slick tiles with such force that it turned the corner and slid down the hall toward the bedrooms.

That might have been the first time I heeded the 10-second rule; hey, what’s a little desert dust?

Bon appétit. Et soyez sûr.

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November 23, 2010 · 9:11 am

Hi ho silver

This is a big week. In addition to Thanksgiving, my husband and I are celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary. That’s the silver one.

It’s been a great run so far, but frankly I don’t think I am old enough to be celebrating 25 years of marriage.

My husband and I celebrated last weekend in New York City. We stayed up late, walked for miles and hung out with our young peers. We saw a Broadway show, had great meals and hit some swanky night spots. Very different from  any prior mental image I’d had of such an occasion.

The first silver anniversary celebration I remember was that of my Aunt Mary Lee and Uncle Henry. And they were ancient; I think Aunt Mary Lee was 43. From what I remember, the party room was full of old people dancing to old people’s music. I wore about six inches of crinoline and wondered if I would ever live long enough  to be married 25 years.

Here. See for yourself.

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November 22, 2010 · 9:21 am

Work stoppage

Here is a suggestion for office managers all over the United States. You might as well close up shop this week because little is going to get done.

I admit it has been a while since I worked in a traditional office setting. But for the 20 or so years that I did, what I remember about the week before Thanksgiving—except for the occasional harried lame-duck Congressional session—is the fervent exchange of information pertaining to food for three full days preceding the holiday.

I predict that, for the next two and a half days, the majority of office computers will be connected to Epicurious.com or the Food Network and that cookbooks will be pressed against the glass of copiers churning out recipes to be shared among staff members. Conversations normally confined to the lunch room will spill generously into working hours, as colleagues seek other’s advice for the best way to satisfy Aunt Minnie’s taste for goose liver pâté.

Just walk down the hall and you’ll hear the great debates—stuffing cooked inside the turkey or out? Roast turkey or deep fried? Giblets in the gravy or not? Pumpkin pie or pecan? How many fruits and vegetables can be slipped into stuffing without the children tightening their lips? (In my house, the answer is zero.)

More e-mail will be generated between employees and their families than within the company, so as to make expectations clear about arrival times, covered dishes and football schedules.

One person (there’s one in every office) will be attempting the latest Martha Stewart centerpiece and individual place decorations and feeling the need to draw her colleagues into the challenge.

A worker or two will try not to get caught missing of an afternoon, while dashing out to buy napery.

Okay, so the word is out. But am I wrong?

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November 17, 2010 · 9:13 am

’Tis taboo

If my September 25 post reminding you that you only have three months to write your holiday letter didn’t send you straight to the keyboard, that’s good—because I’ve found a great set of tips for how not to write your letter.

I am not biggest fan of Christmas letters, and yet I can’t refrain from writing them. What’s more, I can’t keep myself from slipping into what I know are bad habits. In my 2006 letter, I actually listed all the things I felt people shouldn’t say in a holiday letter, mostly because they are cliché or cover topics in which only the writer is interested. Then I turned around and used one.

In my opinion, the most cliché way to open a holiday letter is by asking, “Where has the time gone?” or “Where did the year go?” I also prefer to omit unseemly medical conditions that might spoil a reader’s cup of Christmas tea. A letter we received one year actually contained the words “rectal prolapse.”

I could go on and on but I will let John E. McIntyre of The Baltimore Sun do it for me – and more eloquently at that. In a recent blog piece, McIntyre offers tips for making a letter less cheesy than it might be. He suggests refraining from any and all holiday metaphors, analogies and parodies of the Twelve Days of Christmas. He also reminds us that the 12 days begin on Christmas and run through January 6th. This is especially important to me, not just as a Christian but also because my birthday falls 12 days before Christmas, and I’d like a little time to celebrate the occasion (and observe Advent) before the big day hits.

McIntyre also helpfully points out that, while Hanukkah comes close to Christmas, “they are not twins.” Nevertheless, is it still all right for me to use my holiday card to wish a happy Hanukkah to all my Jewish friends?

He advises letter writers to avoid ‘Tis and ‘Twas and to back away from the Dickensian: “No ghosts of anything past, present or future. Delete bah and humbug from your working vocabulary. Treat Scrooge as you would the Grinch, by ignoring him. Leave little Tiny Tim alone, too.”

If you’re interested in cutting the cheese from your holiday letter, then before you put pen to pad, or fingertips to keyboard, try heeding John McIntyre’s advice. I promise to do the same.

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November 12, 2010 · 9:17 am

Clay pigeon

While on a plane this week, I finished up my November issue of Vanity Fair. Having read all the good stuff, I swept back through my less favorite features, including one called “My Stuff.” Each month this feature asks a celebrity to list his or her favorite clothing items, household furnishings and gadgets.

November’s celeb is Amy Sedaris, author, actress and comedian. In case you were dying to know, her favorite dessert is angel food cake stuffed with ice cream. Another item on her list caught my eye.

Favorite Discovery: Romertopf Clay Pot.

This evoked tremors in me, going back decades, when my parents made their foray into the realm of health food, 10 years before anyone else did. While everyone else was eating Charles Chips and Twinkies, we were eating alfalfa sprouts and carob. Our family swore off salt, refined sugar, bleached flour and any grain that wasn’t in its whole form.

For me, the most dismal piece of this lifestyle was the dreaded Romertopf. Any role this godforsaken pot played in dinner guaranteed a nearly inedible meal—one I thought (but did not dare say) should immediately be Fed Ex’ed to the starving children in Bangladesh.

The Romertopf remains immensely popular to this day, though I can’t imagine why. The pot is designed scientifically to eliminate the need to cook one’s chicken or vegetables in fat, salt or any seasoning for that matter. Purportedly, the clay cooking method brings out the natural flavor of the food. The meal gets its moisture not from butter or olive oil, but by immersing the pot in water before cooking, so that it releases steam while in the oven. Basically, your meal tastes like chicken and/or vegetables and water. Mmmm.

According to the Romertopf’s official website, “If you intend baking bread or sponges, then lining the base with foil or parchment paper will aid easy removal.”

I thought that eggplant tasted like something out of the sink.

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November 6, 2010 · 8:20 am

Pussycat pussycat

There was a side angle to yesterday’s Word Nymph post that caught the attention of a few readers who know my family. Several people commented on and off line about the fact that we are cleaning out our attic. One reader referenced our attic by its given name, the Pussycat Lounge.

I guess it’s time to come clean about our dirty little secret. Besides, we are going to have to do something about it eventually if we are ever to sell our house or save our son from having to deal with it on his own.

I may have mentioned that we live in historic Kensington, Maryland, incorporated in 1894 and preserved as a small town of Victorian homes and antique shops.

Our house, built in 1912, is still quite in character. From the gingerbread out front to the lace curtains, wood floors and flowery wallpaper, our home appears to be inhabited by prim and proper residents.

Until you get to the third floor. The Pussycat Lounge is my husband’s man cave. It’s also his treasure chest, his scrap book, his museum, his “art” gallery. It’s a monument to his childhood, adolescence, adulthood and his second adolescence.  It’s where cigars are smoked, whiskey is sipped, hundreds of carousels of old slides are viewed on a large screen. Some nights, the mirror ball spins, the lava lamp bubbles, tiki lights twinkle and, before it almost caught the house on fire, a commercial sized neon bar sign glowed. It’s also where old nursery furniture and baby clothes were stored and, until recently, where a turn-of-the-century clawfoot bathtub, not connected to any pipes, held hundreds of stuffed animals.

Oh, and it’s also command central, where the business of the household is managed.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. There are no words for the Pussycat Lounge. As with any significant monument, it must be experienced.

Some day we may offer tickets to the closing of the Pussycat Lounge. Everyone who comes can take a souvenir, which might just be a picture of you.

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