The Meat and Potatoes of Life

Culture or Torture? Lessons learned while traveling with kids

military spouses April 20, 2013 Comments: 9

My column in the April issue of Military Spouse Magazine!

April is the month of Spring Break, and Spring Break is a time for travel!

The possibilities are endless: a Caribbean cruise, camping in the mountains, sight-seeing in Rome, hiking the Appalachian Trail, a B&B in the French countryside. Simple, adventurous or extravagant, a change of scenery takes you from the late winter doldrums into an invigorated spring.

But wait. Hold up. Just a sec . . . What about the kids?

Unless you have a team of well-paid nannies who will keep the kids entertained at home all week (not likely on a military budget) then the kids are coming along. And the presence of children during travel tends to change things a bit …. Ahem, that’s the understatement of the century.

Instead of leisurely lunching on brie and wine at a Parisian street café, you’ll find yourself at nibbling nuggets at the McDonalds on the Champs d’Elysie. Rather than braving class 4 rapids on Pennsylvania’s Ohio Pyle Gorge, you’ll be splashing the sticky cotton candy off your face on the log jam at Wally World. Forget about scheduling your couples massage at the spa, because you’ll be wading in a suspiciously cloudy kiddie pool at a motel off the interstate, asking yourself how this could be happening. Again.

BEEN THERE, ENDURED THAT

Take it from me, I know. While stationed in Germany, I planned family trips to Ireland, Spain, Italy, Belgium, Switzerland, Czech Republic, Poland, Austria, France, England and Scotland during our three-year tour. I wanted to jam-pack our time overseas with cultural and educational experiences that our kids would appreciate for the rest of their lives.

Problem was, I forgot. They’re kids.

Oh, yea. Bummer.

I soon learned that kids — my kids, at least, and very possibly yours — don’t want to wait two hours for traditional indigenous foods at an authentic local restaurant. They could care less about mountain scenery or sylvan country settings. And they absolutely hate lingering in art and history museums.

We discovered the hard way that, unless we were planning a trip to the Threshold of Hell, we’d better figure out how to keep the kids happy. First, we learned the Cardinal Rule of Travelling with the Kids:

LOWER YOUR EXPECTATIONS

Sure, you want to think positive. I’m all for that. But don’t envision life-changing authentic ambiance, edifying cultural experience, thrilling adventure, romantic interludes and indulgent relaxation. Family trips have the potential to turn out to be as relaxing and cultural as chaperoning a fifth grade field trip to Bowl-O-Rama. With that mindset, you’re bound to be pleasantly surprised.

Now, in order to avoid the brink of insanity while traveling with the kids, I’ll share some strategies we learned.

#1 Oh my gosh, gross!

My kids are so cultured, they have thrown up in six states and seven foreign countries. Nothing kills ambiance like the lingering scent of upchuck on your shoes, so keep gallon zip-lock bags and wet wipes in your purse at all times.

#2 Take appropriate steps, literally.

Bell towers, monuments, castles, forts and tall buildings are great places to run the “squirrelly” out of kids. Beware that you may need a portable defibrillator for yourself, but a coronary event may be worth it if it means your kids will be so tired that they’ll sit through dinner peacefully tonight.

#3 Kiddie comfort food.

Pommes fritz, furai, chips, papas fritas – whatever you call ‘em, don’t even think about sitting down at a restaurant that doesn’t have French fries on the menu.

#4 Space out.

No, I’m not suggesting that you take sedatives while traveling with the kids, but find wide open spaces where you and hubby can soak up local ambiance while the rugrats spread their grubby little wings and fly. You can nibble local cheese and bread while they scare pigeons in the piazza, or chase bumble bees in an alpine meadow, or roll in the grass at a city park.

#5 Wet them down while you wet your whistle.

When deciding where to stop for a glass of wine, look for a nearby fountain, stream, lake, pond, or tropical fish tank. If they can splash, throw rocks, feed ducks or tap on the glass, you have a decent chance of sipping your wine in peace.

#6 Capture the memories.

Be sure to take lots of photos, because no matter how torturous family vacations may seem, someday you’ll look back and wish you could do it all over again.

Pick up a copy today!

Revival of the Fittest: Marriage and the common cold

marriage April 8, 2013 Comments: 10

I’m about to make a highly inflammatory, clearly sexist, certainly offensive generalization. Readers will undoubtedly gasp at my insensitivity, and offer a myriad of anecdotal evidence to the contrary.

But deep down in the recesses of our hearts and minds, in the spaces not corrupted by contrived societal notions of “equality” and “fairness,” we all secretly know these words to be true: Men are total wimps when they get sick.

Several years after getting married, I began to notice a recurring behavioral pattern every time my husband caught a cold. Unnecessary sniffling, dramatic coughing, flamboyant sneezing – each occurrence followed by a moan, groan or whimper, along with a pitiable declaration such as “I don’t feel so good.”

My husband’s pathetic actions while sick did not appear to be natural and spontaneous, but seemed intended to garner the maximum amount of attention (also known as “milking it.”) Additionally, when he got sick my husband would never simply approach me directly and say, “Honey, I think I’m coming down with something, and would appreciate you making me some chicken soup while I take it easy for the next couple days.” Instead, my husband would put on a dramatic display in hopes of indirectly compelling us all to run and get him a blankie and a fudgesicle.

“Why would my otherwise responsible, straightforward, masculine military husband resort to such childish passive aggressive tactics?” I wondered.

At first, I thought his germ-induced plea for attention might have something to do with him having grown up in a big family. One of five siblings, my husband was flanked by the smartest kid and the funniest kid in the family, so he had to do whatever he could to get his parent’s attention.

Occurrences which might otherwise seem unfortunate to a child were savored in my husband’s large family. For example, normally a kid would hate going with their mother to get orthopedic shoes, a tonsillectomy, allergy testing, and speech therapy; however, these were precious moments in my husband’s childhood when mom showed him special attention and bought him ice cream.

My “big family” theory seemed to explain my husband’s theatrical reaction to the common cold, but then I started talking to other wives. Apparently, my husband isn’t the only one — every man on the planet exhibits pathetic, overly dramatic, attention seeking behaviors when ill.

Ironically, just as otherwise strong husbands become groveling weaklings when stricken with the sniffles, their otherwise nurturing wives universally roll their eyes and find it impossible to muster sympathy.

We wives feel guilt and wonder why we find our husbands’ childish ploys for attention so patently unattractive. We wish our natural nurturing instincts would kick in, but instead of making soup, we find ourselves muttering insensitive remarks under our breath such as, “He should get an Oscar for that sneeze” or “Building the groundwork for another afternoon nap, are we?” or “Grow a pair, would ya?”

But perhaps all this irony and marital discourse during illness serves a higher purpose. Consider this: if sick males were babied by their female companions, the males might find it so enjoyable, there would be no reason to get back to the work of hunting, gathering, and mating to keep the tribe strong.

So, nature has built in an automatic trigger — men who get sick become so pathetic, their women find them repulsive and cannot produce sympathy. This motivates the men to recover quickly so that they will become attractive to women again and can thereby resume their main goal in life: mating.

So when my husband recently came down with a case of bronchitis, I decided that it was my wifely duty to be repulsed, to show no sympathy and to roll my eyes as much as humanly possible. It wasn’t easy to completely ignore my husband’s childish pleas for attention. But, I figured — it’s the least I could do.

Happy Easter to our deployed soldiers and sailors!

Humor, military March 30, 2013 1 Comment

God Bless our soldiers and sailors this Easter!

Courtesy of Grigoriy Kogan at http://www.gagcartoons.com.

“For the love of candy” (www.themeatandpotatoesoflife.com)

To heel or not to heel, that is the sandwich

Humor, marriage March 24, 2013 Comments: 10

Image via eatingbender.files.wordpress.com

“Welcome to Subway, may I take your order?”

“Sure, I’ll take a tuna on wheat, toasted, please.” While the polite but pierced teen prepared my favorite sub, I chatted with my husband, who was next up. “So Hon, did you like that new club deli meat I put in your lunch today?”

“That sandwich had meat in it?” he asked sarcastically.

“What are you talking about? I made you a nice big sandwich with that new club deli meat I got at the commissary. You know, the one made of both ham and turkey with bacon wrapped around it. Geeze, I thought you’d like it!” I declared incredulously.

“Well, Hon, it was kind of hard to taste anything inside the sandwich because the strong flavor of the two heels of bread you gave me overpowered everything else.”

I grumbled, but he was right. After making the kids’ sandwiches that morning, I noticed that two heels of bread were left. I could’ve opened a new loaf and thrown the heels away, but my mother had instilled a certain frugality in me.

I thought my husband would appreciate the fact that I was not wasting two perfectly edible bread heels that his hard-earned military salary had purchased. Besides, I thought, he must be grateful that I’m the kind of wife that gets up every morning and packs him a nice lunch, right?

“What would you like on your tuna, Ma’am?” As I selected toppings that were salty, sour, crunchy and spicy, all I could taste was bitterness. “That’s it,” I ruminated. “He can make his own stinking sandwiches from now on.”

As my sub was being salt-and-peppered, I remembered a conversation I’d had with a salt-and-pepper-haired lady in the YMCA locker room two tours ago in Virginia. We had just finished our morning exercise classes – I, advanced step; she, senior water aerobics – and the women’s locker room was steamy and abuzz with conversation.

I regularly got a chuckle out of listening to the water aerobics group as they pulled on their support hose, stretch gabardine pants and embroidered tops. All the old women would cackle away about their ailments, medications, aches and pains. I always noticed that the salt-and-pepper-haired lady would listen and show concern for her friends’ self-absorbed grievances, but never complained herself.

I thought she was a real class act, and made a mental note to myself to try to become that kind of old lady, rather than the kind that went on and on about things like glucosamine and condroitin.

On this particular day, she and I found ourselves simultaneously brushing our hair at the shared vanity. “Are there any decent car washes around here?” I asked, after some cursory remarks about the weather.

“Well,” she started, with that Old World throw-back southern accent common in Richmond and Norfolk, “I must admit I’m not very familiar with automotive services around here.”

“You see,” she went on, “my husband died last fall, and don’t you know, during our entire 45 years together, I never once put gas in my own car.”

It took me a minute to process the significance of what this tasteful elderly lady had just said. “Wait, you mean he always put gas in the car for you?”

“Why yes, he certainly did,” she said, somewhat melancholy.

Of course, my immediate reaction was to get mad at my own husband, who never put gas in my minivan. Just as I was mentally making plans for real doozy of a husband-wife argument, the salt-and-pepper-haired lady continued:

“I never asked him; he wanted to do that for me, so he did. And there were things I always did for him – cooking his meals, gardening, and such. I must say, we loved taking care of each other.”

I stood, mouth half agape, staring at the lady in the shared mirror. Like a scene from “Cocoon,” it was as if she had just bestowed upon me the secret to a happy marriage.

“Will that be all?” the bolt-studded Subway employee said, jolting me back to the present. I realized that making my husband’s sandwich every day didn’t render me subservient to him. It was something I did to take care of him because he takes care of me.

With a fresh outlook on my marriage and a fresh tuna sub in my hand, I decided that there was no reason for me to dig my heels in. I’d continue making my husband sandwiches for the rest of our lives, and hopefully he’ll endure a heel or two along the way.

“What’s up with the bread heel sandwich? (timesunion.com)
“The Sandwich Queen” (themeatandpotatoesoflife.com)
“War of the Roses” (themeatandpotatoesoflife.com)

She’ll do it

parenting March 18, 2013 Comments: 15

Grrrrrrowl……..

Husband comes home from work, carrying dirty coffee cup. Entering kitchen, he sees that everything is neat, tidy, and put away. Sink is empty, Counters are wiped. The aroma of dinner emanates from the oven. Standing equidistant to dishwasher and sink, husband thinks, “She’ll do it.” He puts dirty cup in sink and heads for his Barcalounger.

Teenage son enters bathroom to take shower. In one Houdini-esque fell-swoop, he heaps his clothing on the floor as follows: socks bunched up, jeans with phone and various wrappers still in pockets, belt still in loops, boxers still inside jeans, sweatshirt, and t-shirt still inside sweatshirt. Some items need to be washed and others are relatively clean. Approximately one foot away is the laundry basket, and son’s dresser is down the hall. Son thinks, “She’ll do it,” and throws entire lot into laundry basket.

Teenage daughter comes home from school and bursts in the front door with backpack, gym bag, and Vera Bradley lunchbox. Her mother has considerately provided bins with children’s initials on them on stairs inside front door, a basket in nearby laundry room for emptied lunchboxes, and a shelf for each child’s school books in nearby office. Standing only a few feet from each of these organizational aids, teenage daughter thinks, “She’ll do it,” and drops all of her belongings in the middle of the front hall.

Note the handy but conspicuously empty tote on the stairs.

Grrrrrumble……

Middle school daughter runs into kitchen after tennis practice, famished. Everything is put away, and there are no crumbs or other debris on counters. Taking out a pot, she proceeds to make a batch of her all-time favorite, mac-n-cheese. When finished, she carefully puts the leftovers in Tupperware bowl in refrigerator. Remembering that her father likes to confiscate her precious leftovers, she takes at least 5 minutes to find construction paper, a marker and tape, and affixes a homemade sign to her refrigerated bowl that reads, “Do Not Kill.” Before plopping onto the couch to watch reruns of “Dance Moms,” middle school daughter glances at her cheese-sauce enameled dish, fork, pot, wooden spoon, and measuring cup laying on the formerly clean countertop, and thinks, “She’ll do it.”

Grrrrunt…….

Mom comes home from grocery store to find dirty dishes in kitchen, backpacks in hallway, and laundry in bathroom. Growling under her breath, Mom wonders why, despite years of stating otherwise, the family still thinks she’ll do everything. She contemplates blowing a royal gasket, telling everyone to go pack sand, and leaving town for a week; but thinks it might be easier to just clean up the mess and go microwave herself a cup of coffee.

Later the same week, Husband needs reassurance after a bad day at work. Teenage son wants someone to come watch him receive an award at school. Teenage daughter needs a shoulder to cry on about her biology test. Middle school daughter needs a Band-Aid and a kiss for her freshly scraped knee. And the family dog wants a snuggle.

There is no hesitation. No need to think twice. Without doubt in hearts, they know, “She’ll do it.”

Weeeeee!!!!

I can’t wait to move!

military spouses March 10, 2013 Comments: 10

My column in the March Issue of Military Spouse Magazine!

Well, first, there’s the heat. The year-round, thick, hot, humid, gnat-infested, sweat producing, Florida heat. The lousy palm trees certainly don’t do much to shade us from the relentless sun around here – I swear, it shines about 300 days a year! I don’t know how the locals can take it.

And then there’s the sand. Not just any sand, but that fine, sugary Florida sand that you don’t feel until you’re back from the beach and you find out it’s all over your house. It’s a real hassle, I tell ya.

Of course, we can’t forget the local culture, and all its slow cooked “southern charm.” I swear, if another person opens a door for me or calls me “ma’am,” I’m gonna lose it! I’m sick and tired of sweet tea, cornbread, barbecue, fried chicken, coconut shrimp and tropical drinks!

Thank goodness, we got orders out of this place! Good riddance!

Part and parcel of the military experience is The Military Move. Every few years, we are forced to “pull chocks” – say good-bye to what has become familiar and settle in a new place. It’s tough, and sometimes we develop subconscious strategies to help us cope with the stress.

We settle our families into every duty station – be it Kentucky, California, Alaska, Arizona, Italy, Japan, or Florida. Even if it’s difficult at first, we eventually find our groove. The kids make friends, we get jobs, we find a pizza place and join bunco groups. As time passes, we incorporate local foods into our meals, we adopt local customs, we use local lingo such as “Yes Ma’am,” “You betcha,” “Prego,” and “Aloha.”

And just as we begin to embrace our new lifestyle, we get orders to someplace else. It never fails.

However, military spouses won’t allow themselves to wallow in self pity for long. After shedding a few tears – usually over a little wine and copious amounts of chocolate, or vice versa – we pick ourselves up and simply start seeing things differently. Our new orders may dictate that we must move from Paradise to Poughkeepsi, but somehow, we convince ourselves that we need a fresh start.

As for me, our new orders say that we have to move from the secluded southern beaches of Naval Station Mayport, Florida, and settle in the chilly north, at the Naval War College, Rhode Island. In the coming months before we pull chocks, I’m sure I will shamelessly blubber and hug my Mayport friends at a neighborhood fire pit. I will most likely feel no guilt as I gorge myself one last time on southern fried chicken and biscuits. And I’m pretty sure I will get misty when I take one last shell walk on what has become “my beach.”

However, to ease the pain, my subconscious mind will say, “This duty station is the threshold of hell, and the new one will be WAY better. Seriously.”

So, I can’t wait to move to Newport. The quaint little towns. The ocean-splashed cliffs. The lobster. The quirky New Englanders with their funny accents and old-school mentalities. The Technicolor falls and the frosty white winters.

I’m 100 percent certain. There’s not a doubt in my mind. No question about it: our new duty station will be WAY better than this one . . . [gulp, sniff] . . . Seriously.

Why I like being ordered around (themeatandpotatoesoflife.com)
My Styrofoam cup runneth over (themeatandpotatoesoflife.com)
The stuff families are made of (themeatandpotatoesoflife.com)

Look for my column about traveling with kids in the April issue!

When the lights go out at Disney . . .

Humor February 25, 2013 Comments: 7

The following is a daydream I had while waiting in line for 90 minutes at Space Mountain . . . .

An hour after the last mouse-eared, turkey-leg-filled, balloon-carrying tourist leaves the parking lot, the Magic Kingdom is cloaked in darkness and silence.

But at the forested edge of the park, muffled voices gather, a flame is lit, and low music can be heard in the woods on Tom Sawyer Island.

“D-D-Dawg? Did you bring th-the winecoolers for the Princesses?”

“Shh! Keep your voice down, Piglet,” Pluto warns, “I haven’t gotten the call that maintenance is gone yet!”

While the Dwarves gather more wood for the bonfire, Bella whispers, “Listen, Girlfriend, you need to kick that no good cheater to the curb once and for all.”

“I know, I know,” replies Cinderella, anxiously awaiting Buzz’s arrival. The rest of the gang have grown tired of their on-again, off-again relationship, and they can’t understand why Cinderella keeps putting up with Buzz’s constant philandering and verbal abuse.

Pluto’s ringtone suddenly cuts the silence and he fumbles to answer his cellphone. “Yea? They’re gone? You sure? Ok, c’mon over and don’t forget to bring more ice.” Pluto snaps his phone shut and bellows, “Crank up the tunes, Donnie Boy!”

Much like Tony Bennett, Donald Duck is one of the originals who has been able to reinvent himself as “hip” and “old school” to stay relevant in today’s social scene. “The Don” flips his hat backwards, plugs the extension cord into his portable DJ booth, and the speakers jump to the beat of LMFAO’s “I’m Sexy and I Know It.”

Pluto, Piglet and the Princesses start to dance, just as Huck Finn’s raft arrives with the rest of the gang. With the tunes blaring, drinks flowing and bonfire ablaze, the party on Tom Sawyer Island is in full swing.

“Hey Baby, what’s shakin’?” Buzz says as he grabs Cinderella’s drink and takes a huge gulp.

“You’d better say your prayers that Winnie doesn’t show up tonight,” Bella cautions, glaring at Buzz with contempt. “Ah, you can tell that honey licker I said to get some pants,” Buzz declares with a confident scratch.

But everyone knows Buzz doesn’t want to see Pooh Bear tonight. Pooh, ever the idealist, has been increasingly disappointed in the gang’s inappropriate behavior, and despite his kind-heartedness, even Pooh has his limits.

Last month, Pooh found Buzz making out with Snow White afterhours in the Mad Hatter’s Teacups. Buzz had cheated on Cinderella one too many times, and this time he was going to pay for it.

Out of nowhere, Pooh went into a rage and jumped Buzz. When the dust settled, Buzz had a broken nose, and Pooh was ordered to undergo anger management classes or lose his job.

“Is Goofy coming?” Sleeping Beauty inquires. “I d-d-don’t think so,” Piglet answers with sadness in his eyes. For years, Goofy had been the life of the party, but Management had him neutered after tourists complained that he was mounting the Dumbo cars and Alice in Wonderland filed a sexual harassment suit.

Minnie and Mickey arrive separately, as usual. Their tumultuous split is yesterday’s news, and the two have only been able to maintain a working relationship through court appointed mediation.

Minnie, fresh out of rehab for addiction to Xanax and Percocet, was scanning the crowd for Doc in hopes that he might write her new prescriptions. Mickey had always been the King, The Leader of the Club, The Master of Ceremonies, but nowadays he’s a washed up, old, has-been, pathetically sipping Boone’s Farm out of a brown paper covered bottle.

Jack Sparrow weaves his way through the crowd, handing out leaflets. “Aw, Jack, give it up and come party with us like the old days,” pleads The Little Mermaid. But ever since some Jehovah’s Witnesses got a hold of Jack and his crew, he’s been on a mission to convince the others to repent and see the error of their ways.

Buzz looks up from canoodling Cinderella to exclaim, “Uh oh! Looks like Beast and Woody are on one of their secret walks again!” Buzz obnoxiously doubles over laughing. “HA! How much you wanna bet they are headed for the Log Ride! No, wait, I know! I can see it now, a new hit movie starring Woody and the Beast entitled, ‘Brokeback Space Mountain!’”

Despite Buzz’s repulsively pompous ego, the gang erupts with laughter.

Bashful arrives late with Jasmine. Her hair was a bit disheveled and her olive cheeks were flush with pink. “Sup,” Bashful says to the other Dwarves with a wink. Despite his soft-spoken demeanor, the word on Main Street was that Bashful was a real Casanova with the ladies, and he never came to a bonfire without a Princess on his arm.

The Don starts beat boxing, when Mickey stumbles into the DJ stand, spilling wine all over the turntable. “Gimme that microphone you old quack!”

An ear-piercing tone blares from the speakers as Mickey struggles for the mike. After a hiccup and a muffled belch, Mickey puts the mike to his lips and slushily croons, “Who’s the leader of the Club that’s made for you and me….M-I-C…”

“Dude!” shouts Jiminy Cricket, “Go find a rocking chair Old Man!” To keep Mickey from further embarrassment, Genie slings Mickey over his shoulders and carries him down to the riverboat to sleep it off. “I usta be somebody!” Mickey wails.

The Don mixes the beats, the Princesses dance, and the party rages on. When it was all over, the gang agreed: Although it may not be the Happiest Place on Earth after all, it had been a magical night indeed.

The Meat and Potatoes of Life