The Year That Was

December 31, 2011

 

Well.  I think I’ve managed to climb out from under the Christmas tornado that has taken over my house.  What a week.

I’ve been busy.  There was, of course, this.

 

 

And this.

 

And this. (More on this soon.)

 

And today, this.

 

Because quality control testing is important.  And it’s midnight somewhere.

 

And here we are, the last day of the year.  The truth is that I always get a little bluesy after Christmas is over.  As much insanity, planning and chaos is involved, I do love it — and I’m sad whenever it comes to an end.

And as 2011 winds down, I’m thinking about the ups and downs of the year and how, as usual, incredibly quickly it flew by.

2011 was the year I stopped working.  The year my kids turned four and two.  The year we began (but did not finish!) the longest basement renovation in modern American history.  The year my family vomited in multiple states up and down the east coast to mark each road trip and vacation.

But more than anything, 2011 will always be the year that I lost my dear friend Jen.  And I have spent more hours than I can count since that last day of May wondering how this happened.  On certain days, I still wonder if, in fact, it’s actually true that my healthy, magnetic 38 year-old friend of 27 years went to bed one night and didn’t wake up.

My mind has turned to Jen every day — multiple times a day — since she passed away.  I keep her picture up on my fridge, which sounds terribly unsentimental, but it’s the highest trafficked area of my house.  I’m forced to walk by it a lot.  And every time, I look at her photo and wish so much that she was here.  For her kids and for her husband and for her parents and brother.  And for all of her friends who loved her so much.

I found myself thinking of her even more during the holidays.  I played my Christmas music, baked my cookies, bought my gifts, asked for my Keurig.  And wondered, every step of the way, how her family was going to get through this season without her.

I’m not the preachy type.  But I’ll ask you for something as you think about the 2011 that was, and the new year around the corner.  Please think about my friend Jen once in a while — even if you never knew her.  Trust me, you would have loved her.  Please think about her six year-old son and her four year-old twin daughters.  Please think about her husband and her parents, who somehow carry on with so much dignity to be there for those kids.  And please think about how quickly things can change.  Because, in a million years, you never could have convinced me that we’d all live in a world without Jen’s unforgettable laughter.

You would think that I’d come out the other side of this whole thing being a better adjusted person.  Not sweating the small stuff.  Having better perspective.  Living for the moment.  All of that.  The truth is, I’m working on it.  And maybe 2012 will be the year I pull it off.  For Jen.

In the meantime, I wish you all full champagne glasses at midnight, and a wonderful year ahead.

And if someone can take the rest of these Christmas cookies off my hands, that would be great.

 

 

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Forget the Cookies

December 22, 2011

It’s T minus 48 hours until the big guy comes down the chimney with some presents.  Hopefully, leading with my shiny new Keurig.  Then, if I’ve been very good, perhaps he’ll ban Lady Antebellum forever.  And maybe he’ll even force all website articles to default to “view as a single page.”  Hey, we all have our Christmas wishes.

Meanwhile, it’s crunch time in Fordeville.  Not a single gift is wrapped.  I am cooking for 20 people on Sunday — and I lose all of Saturday because we are celebrating at my in-laws’ place that day.  Also, I’m considering throwing some Christmas lights on the dumpster and a port-a-john in my driveway — just to make sure I welcome my guests with holiday home renovation cheer.

But don’t worry.  I am fortifying myself with spiked egg nog, Christmas cookies and caffeine.  It’s all good.

As we approach Christmas Eve, I thought I’d recycle this post from last year, so that anyone getting stressed about baking for Santa can feel free to take a less traditional approach.  I mean, the guy can’t eat cookies all night.

* * * * *

Santa’s Sandwich {originally published December 16, 2010}

 

{Photo courtesy NYC Food Guy}

I was thinking about Christmas traditions.  This, of course, brings my mind to cookies (it’s easy for me to bridge quickly from any given topic to baked goods). Did you all leave milk and cookies for Santa as a kid?

We didn’t.  In our house, we were raised to leave Santa an Italian hero on Christmas Eve.  Seriously.

If you’ve never had a real Italian hero, well — that’s a whole other discussion for another day (and you have my sympathy, by the way).  But my mom used to make them a lot when we were kids, mainly because my father loved them.  She piled up the meats, the cheese, some shredded lettuce, oil and vinegar.  Amazing.

So how stupid were my sisters and I not to put the pieces together?  It’s like a basic 2nd grade workbook problem:

  • Dad loves Italian heroes. 
  • Santa loves Italian heroes. 
  • Dad and Santa were under the same roof Christmas Eve. 
  • Therefore, Santa must be…
  • (Come on, girls, you can figure this out)

Nope, we were clueless.

Maybe my parents billed it that Santa couldn’t run on cookies all night and needed a real meal (or sandwich) at some point in his travels.  Maybe it was about food for the reindeer.  But, if I’m really honest with myself, I don’t think they had to sell it at all.  I think we just believed them because leaving that Italian hero on Christmas Eve was what we always did.

 And that’s what I like about tradition — you don’t question it because it’s just the way it’s done your family.  It’s not until we’re older that we compare notes with the real world and realize that our way might have been wonderfully different, a little quirky, pretty naive or — in some cases — just a bit off kilter (see Competitive Post-Thanksgiving Gaming).

But I like the story of Santa’s sandwich and, as my kids grow up, I wonder what variations we’ll bring into our own Christmas traditions — and whether I should buy some sopressata, cheese and a 6-foot roll this week.

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Anatomy of a Holiday Card

December 21, 2011

The holiday cards are piling in every day now.  It’s one of my favorite parts of this season — hearing from so many people and seeing the cute pictures of their families.

The photos on these cards are always so interesting to me.  Mainly because I wonder how tough it was for each family to get their kids to cooperate.

As far as I’m concerned, holiday card photos fall under the Parental Amnesia category.  This is a serious condition that causes parents to forget about the mental or physical pain associated with certain aspects of having and raising kids.  The most obvious example is childbirth.  If women remembered, in detail, what they endured in that process, nobody would have siblings.  Ever.

Parental Amnesia also applies to other things like sleep deprivation and potty training.

And yes, holiday card photos.  It’s true.  I should know.

You see, had I remembered how utterly painful it is to attempt to get a decent photo of my kids for our annual holiday card, I would have just hired a photographer.

But no, I figured — how hard can it be?  {Anyone with small kids is laughing with an evil snort right now.}

**Classic Parental Amnesia.**

Before you call me crazy or high maintenance, let me first define what I mean by the term “decent photo.”  To be perfectly clear, my requirements are minimal.  I would like my kids to:

–both appear in the frame

–have more than half of their respective faces showing

–be generally in focus

–have their eyes open (this does not apply when they are infants)

–not be crying

That’s it.  I don’t care if they are in holiday outfits, or if there is a lush seasonal backdrop in the photo.  {Where is that mystical Christmas meadow in these photos, anyway?  I don’t think my town has one.} Two kids who look generally clean and not ready to cry is really all I want to show family and friends in this season of joy.

These photo sessions never go well when planned — I have learned this  much.  So, this year, I decided to wing it one day in November when both kids happened to be dressed decently and looked generally photo-ready. I took them out to the front lawn, where it was oddly 70 degrees that day.  They were in good moods and had full stomachs. Figuring these were the best odds I would get all year, I sat them down in front of a few plants in the yard and just went for it — snapping away with my iPhone and using my best cheerleader voice.

In the span of 36 seconds, the following photo shoot and general commentary transpired.

“OK, you guys, have a seat right here in front of the plants.  It’s so nice and sunny out, isn’t it?  Let’s take a few nice pictures!  Put your arm around your sister! Here we go!  Smile!”

“OK, OK, let’s try to look at Mommy!  No, it’s not a bug on your finger — just put your hands in your lap, OK?  Over here!  Look!”

“Guys, I’m up here {snapping fingers}!  Looooook over here!  Say — cheeeeese!”

“OK — again please.  Cheeeese!”

“Wow, that’s a lot of cheese.  Hm. How about ‘Christmas?'”

“Yes, that’s the neighbor walking her dog over there.  Look back at me.  No, the dog can’t come up here to play right now.  Back over here, guys!  Look at Mommy!  {Now jumping up and down.}  It’s warm out here, isn’t it?”

“Wait!  Where are you going?  No, no, we’re not done yet — almost!  Grab your sister’s hand and tell her to sit by you.  Look back over here. Pleeeeease.”

“Can you try holding hands for me please?  And sitting just a little closer?  Come on.  Santa is watching, you know.”

“Great — you’re sitting closer and holding hands!  Thank you.  Just.  Look.  Over.  Here.  For.  The.  Love.  Of.  God.”

“Both of you!  Loooooook heeeeere!  {Waving frantically now.  My construction crew has emerged from the basement to see if there is a crazy person on the premises.} I have candy inside.  Who wants candy?  Look here for candy.  And your college money.  All eyes on me for tuition.”

“Get your sister!” {I lunge for her, now breaking a full sweat.}

“It is so HOT outside.  What’s with the 70 degrees?!  Yes, I know, you are losing patience.  Just another minute.”

“Guys.  Stay with me.  One more — I promise.  Let’s make it a good one and then we’ll have candy and an extra TV show.”

“Oh thank you.  That’s a wrap.  Mommy needs wine now.”

* * *

OK, maybe my son looks slightly medicated in the photo, but I took what I could get.  And really, does anything say festive holiday season quite like a pair of camouflage pants?  I think not.

So this is where you guys come in.  Next year, if I appear to make any attempts at the holiday photo again, please remind me of this post.  Save me from Parental Amnesia.  And feel free to refer a good photographer in the greater New Jersey area.

 

 

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Girls’ Night In

December 15, 2011


Thanks to Duncan Hines for sponsoring my writing. There’s no limit to the baking possibilities, so grab your favorite Duncan Hines mix and Comstock or Wilderness fruit fillings and Bake On! www.duncanhines.com.

 * * *

 

After my recent baking mishap that led to the spiked egg nog-scented holiday cards, you may wonder why I am hosting a little holiday cookie baking party next week.  Have I finally lost my mind once and for all?

Not entirely.  At least not on this point.

It’s simple.  I had to lure the female members of my family together for a Christmastime gathering.  And if someone told you to come over for holiday cookies and wine, wouldn’t you show?

Yeah, I thought so.

This all started when I found out that, this year, my cousin and her husband have rented a ski house for Christmas — which means that I won’t get to see her part of the family that day.  Or even that week.  Which just doesn’t work for me.

So, first I tried reasoning with them.  I told them they would freeze to death up at the ski place.

Then, I tried scare tactics.  I reminded them of when we all did a ski getaway for Christmas in 2003.  Due to the extreme height of the snow banks, the bitter cold and the middle of nowhere vibe — as well as the lack of hot water and our slow descent into insanity — it is forever known as Misery Christmas (as in the Kathy Bates movie).  Did they really want to make the sequel?

They weren’t budging.  Something about it’s already paid for, they’ll have lots of fun, blah, blah, blah.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.  My mom and I agreed on the plot, which I hatched during the Annual Day After Thanksgiving Catch Phrase Tournament.  I was on a losing team and about three wines in.  My cousin and I were screaming at some inept member of our family for the poor clues he was giving out.  And, because timing is everything, I decided to give my plan a go.  I think it went like this.

Me:  “I can’t believe you guys are going skiing for Christmas.”

My cousin:  “Yeah.  Sorry.”

Me:  “But when will we get together?”

My aunt:  “Did you bring more red wine?  And why did your team lose the first round of Catch Phrase so quickly?”

Me:  “Wait.  That’s coming from the woman who somehow turned the clue for Uncle Tom’s Cabin into Uncle Ben’s Tavern.”

My aunt:  “Did I do that?”

Me:  “Yes.  Anyway. What if we just get all the girls together?  We could, uh, bake cookies or something.”

My aunt:  “We’re not really a group of bakers.  You know that, right?  I mean, we could do a mean lasagna production line, but the cookies are not really my thing.”

Me:  “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine.  But my mom has good recipes and I’ll ply you with wine.”

My aunt:  “Ohhhh.  Wine party?  Of course.  Which day?”

—–

And thus, a sentimental holiday tradition for the ages, in the true spirit of Christmas, was born.  Much like you see in those Lifetime movies or Hallmark TV Specials.  Plus it works well with my aspiration to become a better baker.

In reviewing the essentials, I’m almost ready:

–Mom’s fabulous cookie recipes:  check.

–Cookie press:  check.

–Cookie cutters and decor:  check.

–Cookie tins and gift bags:  check.

–Butter, eggs, flour, sugar:  check.

–Chocolate (because these Dark Chocolate Espresso Cookies have to be in my immediate future):  check.

–Two eager mini-helpers:  check.

–Wine: check.

–More wine:  check.

–Emergency nuclear incident backup stash of wine:  check.

It’s pretty much going to go like this:

My mom will be the only good baker in attendance.  But she can’t eat gluten, so it will be an exercise in torture for her.  She will likely oversee the operation and probably save us from ourselves.  Thank goodness for her.  20 times over.

I will do my best to assist  my mom, but I can’t neglect the wine opening either.

My youngest sister will probably be playing with the kids in an effort to secure the title of Favorite Aunt.

The dog will be inspecting the ground for scraps, quickly identifying and sticking with the group’s weakest link.

My aunt and cousin will be in charge of wine refills and will probably ask, more than once, “What’s with all the cookies?”

And, in between, we’ll get to have that amazing holiday catch-up after all.  Who knows — maybe we’ll do it every year, even if I have to compete with Misery Christmas sequels.

* * *

 

Remember to check out Duncan Hines’ website www.duncanhines.com to find some great recipes for your holiday get-together! I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective.

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Cookies, Egg Nog and Consumer Confidence

December 13, 2011

I screwed up a batch of cookies tonight because I wasn’t paying attention.  I mean, there is no bad cookie, per se.  So of course I am still eating the defective batch.  But I’m annoyed.

And this annoyance led to my first spiked egg nog of the season.  That’s right, folks:  I hereby declare The Egg Nog Restraint Period to be over.  Have at it, I say.

But not this way:  Not by purchasing the low fat egg nog that I picked up.  I had heard it was pretty good on Twitter.  But this was clearly tweeted either by a) undercover members of The Low Fat Egg Nog Association, or b) very drunk people who put a near-fatal dose of rum in there and didn’t know the difference.

Then I spilled the crappy low-fat-but-still-heavily-spiked egg nog on the holiday cards I was addressing.  So, my husband and I will now be known as the people who send out cards with photos of their kids who smell like booze.  Awesome.  I think that works particularly well with the season’s greetings we’ve now sent to P’s boss and colleagues.

All of this occurred after 11:30pm.  But, in the first 16 hours of my day, I was a rock star.  Mostly because I survived both the UPS Store and the Post Office today.  Back to back.  That’s serious business, people.

And then I single handedly revived the economy and increased consumer confidence. Like this:

–First, Starbucks.  There were gift cards to purchase.  Mainly for me, so that I can still visit after my Keurig arrives.  No, I’m kidding {mostly}.  The gift cards were, in fact, for others.  But I totally threw the cashier off his game with my purchase.  He was clearly wondering why I was not there to consume my weight in steamed milk and espresso.

–Then, more gift cards at a department store.  What’s with all the gift cards, you ask?  Am I really such a thoughtless person that I buy generic plastic cards for people?  Uh, sometimes, yes.  But mainly because we have an army of teachers who deserve a gesture of our thanks.  And I mean army.  Between my two kids’ pre-schools, we somehow have 13 teachers in the mix.  Morning teachers, afternoon teachers, lunch bunch teachers — on and on.  They are all lovely — they deserve more than my inconsistent baking, and so the gift card thing.  I believe the Dow started to tick up at this point.

–Next, Trader Joe’s.  Because I hear that the hot holiday items go quickly and I, for one, am not going to be stuck without a fix of dark chocolate peppermint waffle cookies.  Oh and I really wanted to pick up that ill-fated low fat egg nog.  And of course there’s the wine section.

–Let’s not forget the 38 pounds of laundry I had to drop off at the wash & fold place while my shiny new washer and dryer sit in my garage, unable to be hooked up for several more years weeks.  But the good news is this:  Now that the machines are on my property, I can go to the garage and visit with them.  We talk about our future together and all the fun we’ll have once the renovation is over, the laundry is restored to its rightful place of glory and the Fordeville Condiment Ban is lifted.  Meanwhile, I’m starting to think the laundromat owner is in cahoots with my General Contractor to keep this thing going as long as possible.  He practically squeals with delight when he sees me, the dream client:  No laundry machines, two young kids and utter desperation for clean clothes and linens.

–After picking my daughter up from the pre-school with 179 teachers, I took her to Target.  And that’s when things started to fall apart.  You know that shopping fatigue you get after a while, when you don’t even know what you’re looking for anymore?  It’s like a combination of dehydration and delirium.  Yeah.  In the moment, I totally thought that Scotch Tape Christmas tree had a certain artistic je ne sais quoi that someone would love to unwrap and take home.  It’s not clear to me at this hour who that someone is.  But I think I hit a new personal best at the Target cash register.

So, sorry in advance to family members who get gifts that make no sense.   And double sorry if my cards smell like booze.  I would offer you a cookie to make it up to you — but perhaps a gift card instead?

 

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Listen Up, Santa

December 8, 2011

Dear Santa,

Unless you have finally started to suffer that inevitable hearing loss after years of screaming kids on your lap, you’ve undoubtedly heard my kids’ Christmas requests.  In fact, I’m pretty sure everyone in a 25-mile radius has heard them cite, at the ready, what they would like you to bring down the chimney for them in t-minus 17 days.  Correct me if I’m wrong, Santa, but that’s really soon and, presumably, you have your house in order.  Right?  I hope so, because I sure as hell don’t.

Anyway.  Enough about the kids.  Can we move on to me for a second?  Because it has been a long year and I’ve been a good girl.  Mostly. Well, relatively.  Whatever.  The point is that I’d like to make sure I don’t get overlooked in this whole down-the-chimney endeavor.  Alternatively, I can leave the front door wide open if it’s easier, because the last thing I need is to be sued for your injuries on my property.  As you may know, I am already up to my scalp in an endless renovation that is sucking the life out of me.

Back to my list.  It’s short.

No, I don’t want expensive clothes or that ribbon-wrapped Lexus.  And please, whatever you do, don’t go to Jared.

Since you can’t deliver my youth or four extra hours of sleep every night to me, I would like this:

Yes, Santa.  Bring me a Keurig coffee machine.  Check your damn list twice — or more, if you have to — and get me some K-Cup action {this sounds dirtier than I intended}.

What’s that?  You’re confused by my request?  Yes, I know — I am a Starbucks junky/loyalist/quasi-shareholder.  And I don’t take my FourSquare mayorship over there lightly, as it took 108 visits (also known as approximately $378) to reach this notable achievement.  Without my leadership over there, who will make sure that the line forms to the right?  Who will see to it that the Crazy Super Fit Moms don’t suffer a fat overdose and, by extension, a nervous breakdown by erroneously being served — gasp — whole milk in their drinks?

But, as much as I enjoy my daily stops at Starbucks, it’s not always convenient.  Or easy.  Or cheap (see figure above).  So I’ve been considering the alternatives.  First, there was the obvious intravenous drip of espresso solution.  And, although highly appealing, I guess it would appear unseemly at my weekly playgroup.  Another option would be to give up caffeine entirely.  But that won’t work either, since there is not a local methadone clinic where I can detox before picking up the kids from pre-school.  One of the many drawbacks of suburbia.

Plus, I hear I can now purchase Starbucks blends in K-Cup sizes, so I don’t lose my entire Starbucks buzz experience if I convert to the Keurig.  I know, it’s not the same as a latte, but I’ll bet that, for a premium, I’ll soon be able to purchase an upgrade to the Keurig model that comes with its own barista.  And that’s really the win there, Santa.  In fact, I bet Keurig has that in the works to coincide with their Mother’s Day marketing plan.

So.  I want the Keurig for Christmas.  Please.  I think my reasons are clear and compelling.

Is that all?  Well, since you’re asking, there are a few other things:

–A case of wine.  Or five.  Ask my husband which kind I like best, since he is in charge of tracking my fickle taste.

–A new General Contractor.  Oh hell, skip that and just give me a shiny new basement, like the one that was supposed to be finished in late September.

–Oh, and a lifetime supply of Purel.  Since my two year-old is about to start potty training — and I so love a public restroom.

All of that would be great.  But, to be clear, the coffee is the priority.

Please don’t let me down.  I promise to leave your Italian hero sandwich in its usual place on Christmas Eve –– I hope you enjoy it.  It’s so funny, my dad has always liked those too…

Thanks in advance, big guy.  See you soon and good luck with the last-minute prep.

* * *

{This post was part of Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.  The prompt was “An Open Letter to Santa.”}

Mama’s Losin’ It

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2011 Christmas Music Confessional

December 6, 2011

Remember when I said I would try my best not to get stressed out this holiday season?  And then remember when I said it probably wouldn’t work?  Guess what?  I know myself well — I’m getting all stressed out.

I decided I needed a distraction, so I resurrected a post (below) that I wrote around this time last year.  Perhaps I’ll make it an annual blog tradition.

Because, if you listen to any Christmas music at all — and I know many of you do, even if you won’t say so — you have some cheesy favorites that you sing, at full volume, when driving in your car or at home alone.  And you’d never own up to them at a party.

So, I bring you a public service — The Fordeville Christmas Music Confessional.  I’ve owned up to all my holiday favorites — shamelessly — and now you have a place where you can do the same.  And we’ll never speak of it outside this blog.

Come all ye cheesy and tell us what you’re singing when nobody is around.

_______________________________________________________

 

Christmas Music Confessional

It’s true — I love Christmas music.  But that’s not the confession — the confession is that some of my favorites are cheesy.  Extremely cheesy.  And I know I’m not alone — it’s just something nobody talks about openly.  A dirty little secret, if you will.

But, look, I think we all get a pass when it comes to Christmas music.  And I’ll go out on a limb and tell you my favorites if you tell me yours.  Deal?

(This is feeling like a precarious one-way agreement right about now, but I’ll go ahead and trust you to play fair.  Here we go.)

  • I’ll start out safe and lead with John Lennon’s “Happy Christmas (War is Over).”  This song kills me.  Tears — every time.  Gorgeous and sad and sweet.  As long as John & Yoko weren’t singing it naked in bed — that would ruin it for me.  If you want to veer this song into cheesy territory, it’s just one remake away with Neil Diamond’s cover (I’m not a fan of that one.  Trust me, I can do cheesy — as you’ll soon see — but I need the original in  this case).

 

  • “Do They Know It’s Christmas?”  As a child of the 80s, I won’t even bother apologizing for loving this song.  It’s my birthright.  I remember my sister getting the 45 single (gulp) and we played it over and over.  And the video — Sweet Jesus.  I. Loved.  It.  My friends and I would make sure we knew which artist was singing which part and we especially held our breaths for the killer solos by Simon LeBon and Bono (the latter still being my favorite part of the song).  I just looked online at the full Band Aid roster of singers and I think I feel my leg warmers falling down.  Kool and the Gang?  Really? YouTube Preview Image

 

  • Apparently nobody comes home for Christmas and there are all kinds of ways to sing about it.  In that theme are two of my favorites — similarly titled yet very different songs:  “Baby Please Come Home for Christmas” and “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).”    Both of these have multiple versions, but on the first song I like the Eagles and the Aaron Neville covers the best.  On the second, there is no comparison to the old Darlene Love version  — but the U2 version is also great.

 

  • Veering further into total holiday depressive mode — I love, love Joni Mitchell’s “River,” even if it makes me want to jump out of a window in utter despair.  And — cheesy alert:  There is a little-known remake of this song that is sung by, of all people, Robert Downey, Jr.  Apparently, he sang it during one of his guest spots on Ally McBeal and it’s fabulous (the cover, not the Ally McBeal episode).  The man can sing — and I just love him overall, so there’s that.  Say what you will.

 

OK I’m saving my truly cheesy favorites for last.  And I’m really hoping someone is going to come to my defense on these.

  • I can’t even talk to you if you can’t get behind Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne.”  No, I’m not joking.  “Met my old lover in the grocery store — The snow was falling Christmas Eve…”  Yes, that one.  Fucking kills me.

And, finally, some real risky choices to tie this up.  Strangely, both of these last two songs have the same name but are entirely different.  So, under the category of “All I Want for Christmas Is You”…

  • This one is a family favorite but not terribly well-known, unless you are one of the five global members of the Vince Vance & the Valiants Fan Club.  I have no idea what else they sing — I think they are a country outfit — but what a great song, released in 1989.   It’s got a twangy, sort of retro feel.  And it’s pretty cheesy.  Bring it!
  • Lastly, yes, I’ll say it.  I love the Mariah Carey song.  I know, I know.  Cheesy.  But I’m owning it.  I’m not typically a Mariah fan but there is something about this song.  It reminds me of the old Phil Spector Wall of Sound  (and if you don’t know what that is, then you have no business shaming me for my song choices — that’s a fair deal, I think).  And after all the other downer songs I listed, it’s nice to have an upbeat, (almost) happy one in the mix.

So there you go — those are some of my holiday favorites, in no particular order.  Honorable mention to The Ramones’ “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight),” Ella Fitzgerald/Louis Armstrong’s “Baby It’s Cold Outside” and The Beach Boys’ “Merry Christmas Baby.”  I may add more later.  But in the meantime, who’s going to play nice and tell me theirs?

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Sweet Justice

December 3, 2011

With the holiday season in full swing, out comes the abundance of food and drinks.  It’s a tough time for anyone trying not to double their BMI in the course of six weeks.

And then there are those people who can eat whatever they want, do no exercise and never gain a pound.  You hate know those people, right?

I’m not one of them.  But my husband is.

Well, he was, until very recently.

With his blessing, I can tell you that my 5’10” husband has consistently weighed between 151 and 158 pounds since he was twenty years old.  When I say that he was always able to eat anything he wanted and do zero exercise without suffering any consequences, I’m not exaggerating at all.  He’s a really thin guy and he eats like three grown men.  {I mean, not in a disgusting, gluttonous, or competitive eating way — he just has a really big appetite.}

I, on the other hand, have worked very hard for every pound I’ve ever lost and also seem to possess the unique genetic ability to gain weight merely by visualizing junk food.  I have my weaknesses but, on the whole, I eat a balanced and healthy diet.  I work out at least three times a week, often more.  Just to avoid gaining weight.  Losing any is a bonus.  Or a fluke.  Or a stomach virus.

So, you’ll forgive me if I feel a little giddy about my husband’s recent dose of metabolic justice.  It’s about time, I say, to live like the rest of us.  After all, he has made it to his mid-40s without ever once having to think about his weight.

To be clear, P has not fattened up.  He looks great to me.  But, at his recent physical, he was surprised to learn he had put on about ten pounds, even as he had noticed his pants were feeling a little snug.  And he was pissed.

I want to offer him my empathy, because I know how it feels to gain some weight.  But I can’t.  I’m too busy thanking the forces of nature for finally giving him a constitution like most of us mere mortals.

But I know I should support him.  So I did a few things.

First, I waited until he left the room to raise my fist in the air in some sort of gesture that expressed both joy and victory.

Second, I put together a short list of things he may want to change if he’s looking to drop a few pounds. Having lived with him for seven years, I have some suggestions.  No more of the following:

–Adding these items to my grocery list:  Ring Dings, coffee cake, Entenmann’s donuts or the ever-broad “just get us more snack food.”

–Calling my entire dinner the size of an appetizer and then mumbling about how I must be starving.

–Snorting in disgust at the widely accepted idea of substituting beef with leaner meats.  This includes hot dogs, tacos and meatloaf, for starters.  Turkey is not the devil.

–Entitlement to several courses of desserts throughout the day, always capped off with the late-night slice of cake.  While I sit there with a cup of tea topped off with a Splenda and skim milk.  Good times.

–Responding with seemingly genuine surprise when confronted with the fact that we own a scale.

–Having a pre-dinner before we go out to dinner.

–Ordering General Tso’s Chicken.  Even if you’re not trying to lose weight.  Unless you plan to make it your caloric intake for an entire month.

–Requesting another form of starch as a side to one’s pasta dinner.

 

I think this is a good start.  Although I totally wouldn’t be surprised if we find out that his doctor’s scale was broken and he, in fact, lost twelve pounds.  Even though he was weighed right after a three-course lunch.

With any luck, my kids will win the DNA lottery and take after P in this sense.

In the meantime, let’s all nod our heads in a moment of silence for the Fordeville Ring Ding box.  It’s time for P to say goodbye.

 

 

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Filed Under: Family, Food & Drink 14 Comments