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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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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Gratitude, Tradition & Pie

November 24, 2011

I am knee-deep in all kinds of goodies and food prep.  And I am wondering, honestly, how did Thanksgiving get here already?

I feel like it was just yesterday I was hatching plots to gain admission to my town pool for the summer.

And yet, here I am, helping my friends in town find a way off the Thanksgiving wait list for the highly in-demand Williams-Sonoma Gravy Starter.  {This was my first exposure to the WS Gravy Starter Scandal — it’s not pretty.  Add this to the list of reasons why I won’t be making the turkey.}

Here I am, wondering who the secret local Extreme Couponer is, because she clearly hoarded all of the heavy cream within a five mile radius.  It’s not nice to put my pies in jeopardy.

And here I am, making a tray of appetizers for tomorrow’s dinner, complete with a friendly PSA that any food item stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in prosciutto is sent from Heaven {figs, in this case}.

So, with the holiday season about to unfold, I want to take a deep breath and soak it in.  I want to say I won’t get stressed out with holiday logistics and preparations.  I want to say I will remember every day to be grateful.  And I want to say I won’t eat too much pie.  But, try as I may, I’m guessing that all of these things probably won’t pan out quite as smoothly as I hope.

But I will do my very best to create new memories for my kids and show them what the holidays are about.  To remember those less fortunate and those who are missing loved ones.  To not sweat the small stuff.  To keep some perspective.

Thanksgiving headgear: Check

 

This weekend I’ll enjoy the small but fun details that make traditions in a family.  Like eating my mom’s famous Pumpkin Chiffon Pie and playing super-competitive/out for blood rounds of Catch Phrase, complete with a tournament bracket construct and accompanying headgear.  And I’ll think about what traditions to begin with my kids, so that they don’t forever associate Thanksgiving Week with “that time when Mom & Dad went apeshit on the general contractor.”

I’m snarky on the whole, as you may know, but I’m a sap at this time of year.  I don’t wish this season away for a moment.

So here’s to you and yours this Thanksgiving — I hope you have a holiday filled with love, tradition and good pie.

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To HD or Not to HD?

November 7, 2011


Every couple has really silly things that they bicker about.  Here in Fordeville, our current ridiculous marital point of contention involves the TV.  Not what to watch (well, sometimes), but how we’re watching it.

Here’s the thing: My husband insists on watching TV in high definition.  I, on the other hand, don’t care.  Mostly because I’m so happy to be watching anything that doesn’t feature Thomas the Train, Dora or Diego.  As long as there is morally questionable content, a nearby glass of wine and non-animated adults on the screen, you could cut off the characters’ heads for all I care.

So, every night after the kids are in bed, it goes like this:

P:  What are you watching?

Me:  A very educational documentary on Middle Eastern politics.  {Or maybe The Real Housewives.  But whatever.}

P:  Oh.  Can you put on the high def channel?

Me:  No.

P:  Why not?  It will look so much better.

Me:  It looks fine to me this way.

P:  But why wouldn’t you want it to look better?

Me:  Can you pour me more wine please?

P:  Can’t you see that the picture doesn’t even fill the screen when it’s not in HD?  Doesn’t that bother you?

Me:  It looks very artsy that way.  Like an indie film.

P:  No, it looks all wrong.

Me:  How can you keep track of where all those HD channels are, anyway?

P:  You just have to add 500 to the regular channel.

Me:  I don’t add after 6pm.  Unless it’s to my Amex bill.  Plus, I’ll be asleep in approximately six to nine minutes, and then you can watch whatever high def you want.

P:  Fine.  Give me your glass.  Red or white?

———-

He’s not wrong.  It’s just far more important to him than it is to me.  And we did go and buy the big old flat screen for optimal viewing.

Could I compromise on my HD indifference?  Sure.  If it means that much to him.

So.  I got to thinking.  And here’s where I landed.  Because I’m a giver.

 

 1)  I am open to the possibility of HD for:

–Food Network shows featuring desserts, particularly molten chocolate cakes.  If you know of any molten chocolate cake episode marathons, definitely drop me a line.

–Any film starring Edward Burns, Javier Bardem or Edward Norton.  For obvious reasons.

–Travel shows, but only if I’ve been to the featured destination myself, or have the possibility of going sometime.  If it’s gorgeous and I can never get there, then forget it — that’s just torturous.

 

 2)  I am completely opposed to HD for:

–Sports of any kind.  I don’t want to see the beads of sweat.  Or the spit.  And we have officials who are well-paid to make any close calls.  It’s not my job.

–Children’s programming (see examples above).  There’s  just no need to take my Brain Melt to another level.

–Any appearance, no matter how brief, of the following television personalities:  The Duggars, Teresa Guidice of RHONJ (as well as her husband and children), and Kathie Lee Gifford {full disclosure:  I am also totally opposed to seeing Kathie Lee in standard definition.  In fact, I’d like to have a word with the TV exec who decided to bring her back on the air.}

–All programming involving child birth.  I lived through the HD version (complete with audio), so I’m all set with those visuals, thankyouverymuch.

–Forensic/crime shows (CSI, Law & Order, etc.).  Basically, anything that has a crime scene, an autopsy table and a Medical Examiner.  Except Castle.  Because of, well, Castle — he looks really good in HD.

 

I think this represents progress and a good degree of compromise on my part.  If only my husband wanted to watch any of the shows in my “possibly pro HD” list.  I guess this means he’s just going to have to rely on how consistently I fall asleep about two hours before he does.  Then he can watch Storage Wars, UFC, the NFL and How It’s Made in HD.  Every night.

{“Tonight on How It’s Made:  The history of dust.  Brought to you in high definition.”  Why, yes, I’ll completely regret sleeping through that.}

What about you guys?  Are you all “Give me the HD channel” like my husband?  Or are you more of the “Where’s my evening cocktail, and I don’t even know where the HD channels are located” type?

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Lawyering Up

November 2, 2011

NOTICE OF LEGAL ACTION

TO:            Residents of Fordeville

FROM:       Señor, Head Household Pet and Chief Bacon Officer

DATE:         November 2, 2011

SUBJECT:   Options Related to Legal Emancipation

* * *

Please be advised that I have retained an attorney to seek legal emancipation on the basis of breach of contract.

Specifically, we had an agreement pursuant to Halloween 2010 (see Exhibit A) that I would no longer, as a middle aged dog, be subjected to unwanted holiday gear, costumes and the like going forward.

Exhibit A

Following the recent events of Halloween 2011 (see Exhibit B), it has become abundantly clear to me that you have purposefully and flagrantly breached our agreement, at the expense of my personal character.

Exhibit B

If necessary, I am willing to dig up previous examples of the indignities I’ve suffered and further evidence of my costume disdain, like the Santa collar of 2006 or the Señor Halloween costume of 2005, complete with sombrero and cape.  I think you know what photos I mean — and they speak for themselves.

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that and we can settle our differences amicably, based on our past history.

 

Exhibit C

Because I generally like you, despite the fact that you have brought two human children into the house to live without my consent (see Exhibit C), I am willing to postpone filing for legal emancipation if you agree to meet the following conditions:

–Submit to a restraining order that prohibits you from coming within 100 feet of any pet costuming stores.  Similarly, you agree to block all related websites from your computer.  Holidays included in this demand consist of Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day and Easter.  {Note:  Sweaters and related canine apparel are generally acceptable, as long as they exude good taste and functionality.  I’d be particularly grateful if you could resurrect my winter faux fur camouflage jacket.}

–Agree to provide me with an acceptable amount of treats — preferably of the bacon or chicken variety — on a twice daily basis.  Said amount will be at my discretion and only overridden if health issues arise.

–Enforce a Zero Tolerance policy with regard to the human children riding me like a pony.

–Allow me to sleep in your bed — all night, every night — despite my snoring, drooling and shedding.

It is my hope and expectation that, given my loyalty and charming personality over the years, you will agree to my conditions without reservation or modification, effective immediately.

My attorney is currently somewhat pre-occupied with a high-profile Hollywood divorce case (something about an absurd 72-day reality TV union), so please feel free to communicate with me directly during my waking hours near my water dish.

Thank you for your immediate attention to this matter.

 

_______________

{Addendum:  October 29, 2012.  It appears I slipped and have violated the terms outlined above, as demonstrated by this weekend’s photos below — soon to be known in the public record as Exhibits D & E, respectively.  The pug and I will be speaking with a mediator as soon as the wrath of Sandy passes.}

 

 

 

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Survivor

October 19, 2011

 

I love October for its fall colors.  The greens that slowly turn to oranges, yellows and reds. But today I want to talk about the pink that is all around us.

As you likely know (which is a good thing), this is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  And, unfortunately, it’s also likely that you know someone whose life has been affected by this terrible disease.

Of the 2.5 million breast cancer survivors in the US right now, one of them is my Aunt Debbie.  My mom’s youngest sister.   A woman who, my entire life, has been nothing but generous and unassuming and modest and lovely.  I’m so grateful that she is allowing me to share her story with you.

Her journey down a road she never wanted to travel entails being diagnosed twice.  The first time, she was 41.  Her kids — my cousins — were 10 and 8.  The breast biopsy was done on a Friday afternoon and she had to wait out the weekend to hear the results.  Since 80% of biopsies turn out to be benign and she was so healthy, she wasn’t worried.  As she tells it now, “It wasn’t going to happen to me.”

Monday.

Results.

Cancer.

Devastation.

Thankfully, early stages.  No lymph nodes impacted.  She was relieved to know that the recommended treatment for her case was a lumpectomy, followed by seven weeks of radiation.

After her treatment, she followed up with her doctor every three months.  Life returned to normal — as much as normal can be at that point.

Fast forward four years, when one such follow-up mammogram indicated the need for biopsies.

This time, she said, “I wasn’t so sure it wouldn’t happen again.  I wasn’t surprised when the biopsy came back showing malignancy.”

Both breasts, though more advanced on the left side.  It was stage 2B/3A.

The doctor definitely recommended a mastectomy of the left breast and said it would not be unreasonable to opt for a bilateral mastectomy.

Aunt Debbie said it was an easy decision.

“At this point I was going all the way.  At the first diagnosis I was so relieved I didn’t need a mastectomy, relieved to not need chemotherapy and relieved to not be put on Tamoxifen.  After the second diagnosis, I wasn’t looking to get out of anything.  This was serious this time.”

And it was.  12 out of 13 lymph nodes tested positive.  This news came several days after the bilateral mastectomy.

My cousins were now 14 and 12.

Then came the question of high dose chemo with stem cell transplant versus regular chemo.  At that time, it had not been proven if a stem cell transplant would give a better prognosis in a case like hers (where there were positive lymph nodes but no metastasis, or spreading to vital organs).  There were clinical trials going on to determine this, and she had the opportunity to join one.

Her doctor felt her prognosis with regular chemo was about 15-20% chance of five-year survival.  With the stem cell transplant, he felt it could go up to 30%.  Up to 30%.  To survive five more years. At 45 years old.  

She opted to go with the high dose chemo and stem cell transplant. This entailed a three-week hospital stay, during which time her entire immune system was completely wiped out and then rebuilt again (through the transplant of her own previously harvested and frozen stem cells).  It put her body through the wringer.

{Interestingly, after the clinical trials were over, it was determined that a stem cell transplant does not improve the prognosis in cases like my aunt’s.  But she says that she’s glad she went through it, regardless, because she knows she did everything possible to fight the cancer.  And her husband, my Uncle Dave, is convinced it made a difference.  It’s something no one can ever know with any science, but she has no regrets.}

So.

13 years have passed.  As have eight surgeries, three rounds of regular chemo, the high dose chemo/stem cell transplant and two courses of radiation.  And my Aunt Debbie is great!

How does she feel today about her ordeal?  In her words:

“Being a breast cancer survivor is so much a part of who I am.  I don’t dwell on it or worry about it.  Each year without recurrence gives more reason to not worry, although I am still on a medication which I may be on for the rest of my life because I am still considered high risk.  But I feel very proud of myself for going through what I did and feel that I am stronger than I ever thought.  At this point, the good things that came out of it:

1.        I know I am strong.

2.       The phrase ‘don’t sweat the small stuff ‘ is so true now.

3.       Support of family and friends is so important — Uncle Dave was my rock!”

 

And my uncle’s perspective:

“Debbie was/is the strongest and bravest person I have ever known through those many years. She stayed strong for the kids and they never really knew how serious it was until years later. Even when given a low survival rate beyond five years, she made it her life’s mission to survive  — to first see her kids graduate, and then maybe someday marry. After 17 years of living with cancer, we rarely think/talk about it now, but for more than ten years, a day never went by without thinking about it.  She is a true hero.”

When I asked her if I could write about her story and if she could jot down some of the key facts of her case, I can say that I truly never knew her prognosis was so negative until now.  I knew about her treatment and her surgeries when they were happening, but I never knew from her outlook, her attitude and her bravery how serious it was and how scared she must have been.  I always looked up to my aunt for what she went through, but hearing her whole story really blew me away.

Now that I’m a mother myself, I can’t imagine how she felt when she had to tell her kids.  Or when she had to wonder what the future held for all of them as a family.

Her journey is truly heroic.  And it’s one with far too many women on the same road — some with better outcomes than others.

This year, 200,000 women will be diagnosed with invasive breast cancer in the US, along with 50,000 non-invasive cases.  40,000 will die from the disease this year alone.  {Source: Susan G Komen Foundation}

I know I’m not telling you anything you haven’t heard.  Or perhaps, unfortunately, you know first-hand from a loved one on some level.  But I think it bears repeating, no?  For my aunt.  And everyone else who has walked in her shoes.

So listen to The Susan G Komen Foundation’s message this month.  Less Talk, More Action, they say.  And they’re right.  Visit them to see what you can do.  I’ll get us started, OK?  I’ll supplement my existing donation to my aunt’s Breast Cancer Walk team by $1 for every comment on this post (up to $100).

Come on, you guys — help me reach the $100 goal.  You just have to type, and I’ll pay.  Not a bad deal.  I so appreciate it.

And if you didn’t think highly enough of my Aunt Debbie already, I’ll leave you with this.  When she sent me the photo below from last Sunday’s Breast Cancer Walk, she closed her email by thinking of all the other women in our family: “If there’s something I DO worry about, it’s my daughter…and my sisters…and my nieces.  My history affects all of you.  Have you had your first mammogram?”

I have, indeed.

Thanks, Aunt Debbie, for showing us so much courage and character.  For being the face of survival.  For becoming an involuntary role model in a fight you never wanted.  Your journey is beyond inspiring.

 

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Party Planner For Hire

October 5, 2011

I have read several times over the years that October 5 is the date with the most American birthdays.  Mostly because of New Year’s Eve.  You know, people liquored up, jumping under the covers in the chill of December.  And voila, a baby arrives around October 5.

My husband is one of these babies.  And now I have unfortunate mental images of my in-laws on a cold winter’s night that I’d prefer to block out forever.

But anyway.  Today is my husband’s 16th annual 29th birthday.

I like to tease him about his age.  Not just because he’s older than I am (though this is most of the reason).  But also because he doesn’t care.  And because he looks about 34 and acts feels about 27. Which is probably why he doesn’t care.

In honor of his birthday, I won’t pick on him.  Much.

I’ll instead say how grateful I am that he puts up with me.  Which is the purest truth.

And what better way to show him how loved he is on this special day than by taking the family out for — wait for it — Back to School Night.  Because nothing says It’s a Party like cramming the halls of a pre-school with your kids right as the bedtime/meltdown point on the clock approaches.

Except for one thing:  It was a parents-only event.  Which I somehow overlooked.  Somehow.  In my Type A-ness, this kind of big detail escaped me.  Don’t ask me why I thought kids were supposed to attend this thing.  It makes no sense at their age.

My brain should not be donated to science.  Clearly.

So, there we were in the parking lot of the pre-school, with this revelation upon us — the birthday man, me and two kids who weren’t supposed to be there.  To really put the evening’s party effect over the top, I went into the school alone and he circled the neighborhood with the kids in the car until my 30 minutes of pre-school mingling were over.

Yes, he’s a lucky man.  It’s true.

But don’t you worry.  I’ll take him out for dinner and copious drinks one night soon.  So that we can catch up on other exciting things — like why our living room floor is now buckling from the endless basement renovation.

And in the meantime, we had cake.  Baked by my awesome sous chefs and me.

There was palpable anticipation as they waited by the oven.  And, during which time, I began to wonder if I should have eaten my weight in uncooked cake batter.

 

Then there was the frosting process.  We might have eaten more than we used.

 

And, if you’re four years old, it’s important to be a good cake eater.  Like a world record setting, where-the-hell-did-that-piece-of-cake-go eater.

 

So, as you can see, all was not lost.  Our kids got to cruise the neighborhood after dark to check out Halloween lights.  And our son showed us his future in competitive cake eating.

My husband?  He totally rolled with it.  Which is what makes him the best.

Happy Birthday, P.  I promise to give you a proper celebration that doesn’t entail construction paper, toddler meltdowns and wife dipshittery real soon.

 

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1 in 3,200

September 20, 2011

In 48 hours, I will be landing in Bermuda for a lovely three-night getaway.  No kids.  Just my husband, me and some very close friends.

There will be a lot of relaxation.  And wine.

Am I excited?  Not just yet.  The truth is that I have to wonder if the trip will actually happen.

Because, let’s be honest, the residents of Fordeville have not had the best luck recently with the Travel Gods.  Lest we forget (I know I never will) — in July and August alone, someone in our family vomited in every state along the Eastern Seaboard from Rhode Island to North Carolina.

So far, I have seen no signs of stomach issues in the house to thwart our travels.  And, to be safe, I’ve made the executive decision that nobody is having any ground turkey in the next two days, as the recall continues.  Sorry, Taco Night — you’re on hiatus for now.

Next, I feared that a post-Irene September might bring more hurricanes and tropical storms — and that surely one would end up squarely at our resort.  Mercifully, that appears to be a non-issue.  The forecast looks dreamy.

So.  Dare I say, I have finally begun to allow myself to relax and look forward to this trip — which will be a nice break from the basement renovation chaos and just life in general.  I even began to browse the spa brochure — because that’s something I won’t be missing.

But then, I noticed something on the news.  Just a funny little headline about a satellite barreling towards Earth.

Seriously? That sucker is going to fall to the Earth in a fiery ball?

Sometime “between Thursday and Saturday.”

Somewhere “between Canada and South America.”

Somewhere “more than very likely over the ocean.”

Yeah.

Somewhere on my head, methinks.  In Bermuda.

The odds are 1 in 3,200 that someone will “suffer an injury from the debris.”

I mean, call me a skeptic but I think the chances of an “injury” from the debris are more like slim to none.  Unless by “injury” they actually mean “certain fiery death.”  Because you’re not going to get a little flesh wound from something falling on you from space.

Also, 1 in 3,200 wasn’t particularly comforting to me.  Especially after seeing this table of one’s odds of death by various means {source:  www.livescience.com}.

 

Cause of Death Lifetime Odds
Heart Disease 1-in-5
Cancer 1-in-7
Stroke 1-in-23
Accidental Injury 1-in-36
Motor Vehicle Accident 1-in-100
Intentional Self-harm (suicide) 1-in-121
Falling Down 1-in-246
Assault by Firearm 1-in-325
Fire or Smoke 1-in-1,116
Natural Forces (heat, cold, storms, quakes, etc.) 1-in-3,357
Electrocution 1-in-5,000
Drowning 1-in-8,942
Air Travel Accident 1-in-20,000
Flood (included also in Natural Forces above) 1-in-30,000
Legal Execution 1-in-58,618
Tornado (included also in Natural Forces above) 1-in-60,000
Lightning Strike (included also in Natural Forces above) 1-in-83,930
Snake, Bee or other Venomous Bite or Sting 1-in-100,000
Earthquake (included also in Natural Forces above) 1-in-131,890
Dog Attack 1-in-147,717
Asteroid Impact 1-in-200,000
Tsunami 1-in-500,000
Fireworks Discharge 1-in-615,488

Am I a one-woman party, or what?

And can we refer to some of the examples in bold type for a second?  So NASA is telling me that the falling fireball of satellite debris is more likely to kill me than electrocution, or a snake/bee/other venomous bite/sting?  Seriously?  I mean, science is not a strength of mine, but I have to wonder if NASA might consider a different approach to satellite re-entry in the future, other than The Cosmic Crapshoot.

{Also, just for kicks, I find it odd that there’s a likelihood of death associated with legal execution.  I’m no statistician, but I would think one could significantly lower one’s odds by not committing a crime worthy of Death Row.}

Just when I started to raise an eyebrow toward outer space, I then came across this headline:

FEMA Ready With “Just in Case” Scenarios For Satellite Crash {source: CBS News}

Which sounds an awful lot to me like “Brace yourselves.  Especially people and tourists of Bermuda.”

So, while all of you take solace in the prevailing theory that this thing will make impact in the ocean — picture me sitting on a lovely beach, drink in hand, thumbing through the spa brochure again.  And looking upwards with a  nervous eye.

Come on Travel Gods — throw me a bone this time.  Spare my family from any vomiting, natural disaster and falling satellite debris.  Thanks a million.

 

 

 

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Remembrance

September 10, 2011

Everyone says “Never forget.”

It’s impossible to forget what I heard and saw and felt that September morning, when I lived and worked in Manhattan.  I’ve never written it down before.  But I know what I remember, though some of it has gaps in between, and the sequence may not be intact.  Some parts are crystal clear and others inexplicably muddled.  But I know what I remember.

I remember the sky — the clearest, bluest morning sky.  It was gorgeous and warm, but also crisp — one of those first mornings each year when you realize that soon it won’t feel like summer anymore.

I remember watching The Today Show and getting ready for work.  Just like every morning.  On that day, P was with me — we were just dating back then — and we were watching a segment about a Howard Hughes biography.  It was interrupted to tell us a plane had hit the WTC.  We thought it was a small plane.  We thought it was an unfortunate accident.  And we thought it was incredibly odd that one couldn’t avoid hitting a building that prominent on such a clear morning.  But, strangely, we didn’t think much more about it.

I remember the second tower being hit.  We were still in my apartment, about to leave for work (we worked in the same office).  And, for some reason that I can’t explain, P and I — still not realizing the enormity of what was happening — got on the subway to head to midtown for work.  It seems ridiculous now, but we didn’t know what else to do.  We’d later find out that we were among the last folks on the subway before the system was shut down.

I remember people on the subway talking about it.  Some had boarded the train before anything had happened, and had no idea.  Others, like us, knew about both WTC hits.  There still wasn’t much panic.  I think, because, again, there wasn’t yet a full grasp of what was happening.

I remember arriving to my office building and hearing that, while I was underground on the subway, the Pentagon had been hit.  I then saw on the lobby’s television the downfall of the first tower.

I remember thinking how sad it was that there would only be one left.  There would only be one tower left. It’s strange how your brain works in the midst of disaster.  I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that the other would also fall.  I went up 40 floors in the elevator to my office.  Again, because I didn’t know what else I was supposed to do.   And I didn’t know what was next.  I wanted to be around the people I knew.  Around my routine.

I remember the hysteria really building in my office when the second tower fell.  And when there were reports of Flight 93 off the radar.  It was unclear how many more planes would come down.  Or what else would happen.  People were coming undone.

I remember the phone lines going dead in our building.  And the cell phone networks quickly getting overloaded.

I remember a senior leader in our company, with tears streaming down her face, gathering all of us together and telling us to go.  Anywhere.

I remember walking with colleagues through Central Park because we felt we should stay away from tall buildings.  We gathered around a parked car to listen to its radio — hundreds of us, standing around this guy’s car.  Moving but paralyzed.  Streets began to close to make room for the steady stream of police and ambulances, sirens blazing, speeding downtown.  One after the other.

I remember sitting in my friend’s apartment watching the coverage all afternoon.  Because we all felt my building was too tall, too exposed.

I remember the ongoing spotty cell phone coverage.  Trying to reach my parents, my sisters, my friends.  And the people I knew were downtown.

I remember feeling both trapped in Manhattan and not wanting to leave my beloved city.

I remember people everywhere in the streets.  The images of the doctors lined up at hospitals, waiting to treat the rescued.  Who never came.

It was the longest day I’d ever known.  And when it was over, we awoke to a different world that wouldn’t begin to feel normal again for so, so long.

One where quiet replaced the hum of the city.  When I went back to work some days later, there were no working phones for quite a while.  There were no planes flying over my 40th floor office.  Just silence — except for patrolling military aircraft.

One where, for weeks, months and years later, every conversation in New York started with “Where were you?”

One where I received an email about a month later, asking people in midtown — anyone — to stop by St Patrick’s Cathedral as often as they could.  Because each day, there was at least one funeral for a fallen firefighter.  The bagpipes echoed through the streets every afternoon.

One where the “Missing” fliers draped walls and fences downtown.  Most of them in vain.

One where I no longer had a southern compass on that island.

One where we read the “Portraits of Grief” section in the New York Times for months, and often realized we knew some of these people through mutual friends.

One where we couldn’t quite see straight for a long, long time. Where we took a deep breath for months going through tunnels in and out of the city, and certainly getting on planes.

One where, every year, right after Labor Day, there is an odd space between summer’s end and the 9/11 anniversary.

***

Though I was in Manhattan and close to the attacks in many respects, I know that I was worlds away compared to those downtown.  Their reality and their memories are ones I can’t imagine holding onto.

I was incredibly fortunate not to lose anyone I knew personally that day.  For the many others who can’t say the same, I hold them in my heart.

I was physically unharmed on 9/11. But my soul was irreversibly scarred.  And a city that I will always call home was forever changed.

 

{photo credit: Bob DeAmbra}

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