Lisa Smith Molinari

Posts Tagged ‘humor’

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Riding the Gravy Train

In Humor on February 19, 2012 at 1:43 pm

They don’t want to clean your toilets. They don’t want to watch your kids. They don’t want to do your laundry. And they certainly don’t want to give you a sponge bath.

After major medical events such as childbirth or surgery, most neighbors want to help out in one way – by cooking food.

They cook banana bread and baked ziti. They cook chili and chicken casserole. They cook potatoes au gratin and pork chops. They cook and they cook and they cook.

The idea is simple — the neighbors take on the responsibility for feeding the family so the mother can recuperate – but hidden below such seemingly uncomplicated philanthropic events are surprisingly complex group dynamics.

As soon as my neighbors found out about my recent surgery, they quickly mobilized. Like Ralph in Lord of the Flies, one energetic neighbor assumed the roll of leader, and blew her proverbial conch. By the time I emerged from the hospital and my Percocet-induced haze, there were people assigned to bring us ten days of meals. Thanks to the unbridled generosity of my neighbors, I’ve been lazing around like a slug for days, just like the doctor ordered.

This is not the first time neighbors have cooked for us after a hospitalization.  After the birth of my second child, the wives of my husband’s command insisted on providing two full weeks of dinners. I tried to tell them it was completely unnecessary because my mother had flown in and my husband had taken two weeks of leave, but I was told by these military wives, “This is what we do. You have no choice in the matter.”

So they cooked, and they cooked and they cooked, and we got used to it real quick.

There were chicken enchiladas with all the fixins. There were baked potatoes with chili, cheese, and corn bread. There was beef bourguignon with cream puffs and chocolate sauce for dessert.

As the days passed, we started growing accustomed to having home cooked meals delivered to our door. We started checking our watches and saying things like, “Where the heck are they? I’m getting hungry.”  We started scrutinizing and comparing each meal. By the middle of the second week, we were secretly ranking the meals with an intricate rating system based on quantity, taste and creativity.

It may have been thirteen years ago, but I will never forget the meal that received our worst rating. It came in three 8 x 8 foil pans, which we knew right away could not hold enough food for our gluttonous appetites.

Upon peeling back the foil from the first pan, we noticed that it contained a meager casserole consisting of an unseasoned layer of white rice, topped sparingly with crumbled ground beef and green pepper strips, adhered together with what appeared to be cream of mushroom soup. From its weight, we thought the next pan was empty but found that it held a salad of sorts made of the thick colorless center leaves of iceberg lettuce, some carrot disks, and more of those sad green pepper strips.

But the worst was yet to come. The last foil pan contained “dessert.” While it is true that a great dessert can compensate for a bad meal, this poor excuse for a dessert was merely the nail in the coffin. Inside the pan were a dozen pre-fab shortening-laden canned cinnamon rolls. How that qualifies for dessert, I’ll never know, but to make matters considerably worse, they were burnt on the bottom

Without so much as a nibble, we threw the whole meal out onto our compost heap and dug happily into the remaining chicken enchiladas.

Thankfully, our newfound smugness dissipated as quickly as the leftovers, and we realized how fortunate we were to have been treated so indulgently by our fellow military families.

About a year later, another military wife had a baby, and I offered to cook. Apparently, this particular wife was quite popular, and had been inundated with calls. I was referred to her “meal coordinator,” who told me that the schedule was full. I did not make the cut. “Are you kidding me?” I thought, “I can’t even cook a flipping pan of brownies?”  I felt lost and rejected, and secretly dropped off a bundt cake, just to ease my own suffering.

These experiences taught me that there is a basic human need to cook for women who have been in the hospital. The cooking is both healing for the recipient of the meals, and cathartic to the concerned cookers.

So if you have been in the hospital and your neighbors offer to cook, accept their generosity and be grateful. The gravy train doesn’t come around often, so sit back and enjoy the ride.

Potatoes au gratin by sa

Image via Wikipedia

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WANTED: Mom Manager

In housewives, parenting on January 30, 2012 at 2:15 pm

I was late for the meeting. Again.

With an armful of crumpled papers, I pulled my calendar from its tack on the wall, and rushed down the hall. Sheepishly, I found a seat at the table, spread my papers out around me, and began with as much authority as I could muster:

“This meeting is called to order at, let’s see, twelve minutes after nine. If you don’t mind, I would prefer that these weekly organizational sessions start promptly at the top of the hour. Now, without any further delay, let’s get right down to business.”

“The van still needs new brakes, and if you wait much longer, you’ll be paying for rotors too. Hayden has Driver’s Ed on Tuesday at 4:30, but you must somehow get Anna to her orthodontist appointment at 4:45. The checkbook hasn’t been balanced in three months, which might explain why you bounced a check last week,” I continued.

“Francis is on his last pair of clean underwear today, so please put a load of hot whites in at your earliest convenience. Dinghy is due for his monthly flea treatment. You must write two articles this week. The repairman is coming on Thursday between eight and two to fix the washing machine. And you need to get serious about that diet. Now, how do you plan to get all that done?” I finished, and took a slurp of coffee.

Crickets.

No one responded, because no one was there. I was having my weekly meeting with myself, and as usual, I had no idea how to answer my own demands.

I scribbled a “To Do” list, marked a few things on the calendar, and then went about my day, determined to get it all done this time.

But deep inside, I knew the inevitable pattern of my life would repeat itself again. My week would start out OK, productive even. But soon, something would crop up to throw me off track – a school project, a sick kid, writer’s block. One item on my To Do list would collide into the next, and the ensuing pile up would become overwhelming, causing a strange contradictory reaction in whereby I would completely shut down and get nothing done.

By Thursday, my husband would come home from work to find no dinner, the kids run amuck, and me, dazed and unshowered, draped over my computer chair where I have been surfing vintage Tupperware on e-Bay for the last three hours.

Recently, I decided I’d had enough, and set about figuring out: what fundamental flaw in my character has made it so difficult for me to keep up with my responsibilities as a housewife and mother?

After some thought, and half a box of Cheese Nips, I realized that I have always been a follower, not a leader. An Indian, not a Chief. A Workerbee, not the Queen.

I’m not lazy. I’m not incompetent. I’m not disorganized. I just need a supervisor, a boss, a Manager to watch over me and keep me on track.

Ahh, how different things would be with a Manager to offer clear direction and guidance. Of course, I would subject myself to periodic evaluation and take whatever criticism my Manager might propose.

“Ms. Molinari,” my Manager might say, “While it is clear that you are no stranger to hard work, there is room for improvement in the areas of task prioritization, self motivation and personal hygiene. It is my recommendation that you avoid distractions from your daily priorities such as TJ Maxx, free samples in the grocery store, and mid-day reruns of ‘Mob Wives.’ Also, it would be highly advisable that you start showering every morning.”

But I have to face reality. Unless I find someone willing to be compensated in laundry services and meatloaf, I can’t afford a Manager. I am the Manager, and I have to take responsibility, darn it.

Even if it feels like I’m constantly being dragged through life behind my dirty white minivan, I’ll continue this never-ending game of catch up until my job is done. I’ll try to avoid getting tangled in the minutiae – the e-mails, the dust bunnies, the bills, the burnt dinners, the dark roots – and focus on the big picture: Keeping my family happy and healthy.

The value of our shares may fluctuate day by day, but long-term analysis indicates that this family is on an upward trend. Our employees may complain from time to time, but all in all they report excellent job satisfaction. Management lacks efficiency when it comes to goal attainment, but she is dedicated, sincere, and works overtime and on weekends without pay.

Final recommendation: Despite its flaws, this family business is thriving, so there is no immediate need for a change in management.

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The Skittles-Space Continuum

In family on January 15, 2012 at 11:47 am

“Where are the tickets?” I said with a half-panicked gasp. The line was moving steadily ahead, and we were almost at the admissions booth.

My husband searched his wallet, while I frantically fondled my video camera case; my pockets full of gum, tissues, and Dramamine for motion sickness; and my backpack stuffed with water bottles, sunglasses, wet wipes, and brochures

“Found ‘em!” my husband exclaimed with relief, just as we stepped up to the Kennedy Space Center ticket window. Following a wave of tourists through the entrance, our family headed to the IMAX theater to watch a 3-D movie about the Hubble Space Telescope.

Once in our seats, I wondered why humans can put a man on the moon but can’t figure out how to make 3-D glasses look anything less than absolutely ridiculous.

Suddenly, Leonardo DiCaprio’s voice boomed through the theater’s sound system and bursts of stars and nebulae hurtled toward my face. For the next 45 minutes, we were totally transfixed, as unfathomable images of space-walking astronauts, neighboring planets and distant galaxies floated weightlessly before our ridiculously bedecked eyes.

At one point in the film, we saw Hubble telescope photographs of galaxies at the far reaches of our known Universe. Leonardo explained that, due to the speed of light and the mind-boggling distances involved, the images portrayed the celestial bodies as they actually were nearly 13 billion years ago.

As the spectacular images bombarded my senses, my mind struggled to comprehend how mere human beings have figured out how to take detailed photographs of infant galaxies from the dawn of time.

At this very moment, my overworked brain approached maximum capacity. Like some kind of computer crash, the mental strain caused my mind to go blank, and the only thought I could manage was what I wanted for lunch.

We recuperated over hot dogs and soda before heading for the bus that would take us on a tour of the NASA launch facilities. While waiting in line, I occupied my time with people watching

I always enjoyed performing amateur analyses on strangers. I liked to think that I could figure a person out just by seeing what they had in their grocery cart, or what they were reading at the airport terminal, or what they were saying to their friend in the food court.

As I looked up and down the line of space enthusiasts, I noticed a lot of foreigners — Asians, Indians, Persians and Arabs in particular. Everyone looked highly intelligent, and I started feeling a bit intimidated.

I glanced self-consciously at my own little family. Our teenage son was scraping off and eating the plop of hot fudge that was in the middle of his Steeler shirt. Our teenage daughter was twirling her hair and looking at her nail polish. Our youngest daughter was staring cross-eyed at a bubble she just blew. My mother was playing peek-a-boo with a nearby toddler, and my husband was yawning.

Compared to this crowd of intellectually superior science enthusiasts, we looked like a bunch of simpletons.

Just then, I saw another average middle class American family in line, searching for their bus tickets. The husband (or baby-daddy) was wearing a t-shirt that read “Bacon is Meat Candy,” and the mother was clad in a lace crop top that allowed the exposed parts of her tattooed fleshy mid-section to bulge over the top of her short shorts. The daughter was wearing Minnie Mouse ears, and the son was picking his nose.

As they anxiously searched their camera bags and pockets for the tickets, something dropped from the mother’s purse. Colorful candy balls scattered everywhere, and the kids scrambled to retrieve the fallen Skittles. Despite some slight differences (I wouldn’t be caught dead in a crop top and prefer Junior Mints to Skittles) I felt a certain kinship with the family and empathized with their plight.

Later that night after touching moon rocks, riding in Shuttle simulators, and gazing at launch pads, we laid in our hotel beds, still struggling to fathom that a group of chain-smoking, coffee-drinking, Bryl-cream-wearing math and science geeks from the 1960s sent men in a rocket to the moon in an age when cutting edge technology still included black and white console TVs, rotary dial phones, and transistor radios.

The next day, I found myself people watching again while waiting in line for 90 minutes at nearby Space Mountain. Most were wearing silly hats, at least half were eating turkey legs, none looked particularly intelligent, but all seemed happy.

I realized that the people of this world are incredibly diverse. Like space and time, human beings fall on a vast continuum, and whether one is a rocket scientist or dumb as a rock, it is our similarities rather than our differences that define us as humankind.

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The Annual Holiday Letter

In Humor on December 12, 2011 at 4:28 pm

Dear Friends and Family . . . [oh boy, I can’t even get past the salutation without a dilemma. “Friends and Family” or “Family and Friends?” Better lead with “Family” unless I want to tick off our Italian relatives.]

Dear Family and Friends,

Merry . . . [almost forgot, the Weinsteins are on our mailing list] . . . Season’s Greetings! We hope our Annual Holiday Letter finds you and your families . . . [hmm, Frank’s cousin Gilda never married and I don’t want to send her into another tailspin of depression] . . . finds you happy and healthy . . . [Uncle George was just diagnosed with diverticulitis] . . . happy and mentally stable . . . [definitely doesn’t apply to our family] . . . happy and with all of your teeth . . . [darn it, Uncle George again] . . . happy and prosperous . . . [Frank’s college roommate just had his car repossessed] . . . happy and human [close enough.]

This year has been an eventful one for our family. After those greedy blood-sucking scoundrels at Green and Green laid Frank off . . . [hmm, might come off a tad bitter.] After nine years as a successful litigator [he did win that one case, after all] with Green and Green, Frank was offered a prestigious new position [mail boy with potential for promotion if Frank brings in some clients] with The Law Offices of Bernie Slawitschka.

When Frank isn’t busy with high profile mergers and acquisitions, he’d love to carve out a bit of time for family and friends. So please call him now at 1-555-SO-SUE-ME, if your breast implants are crooked [my sister,] you’re going bankrupt [Frank’s college roommate,] or you got another speeding ticket [Grampa.] Or feel free to stop by – the offices are located just above Izzy’s Body Piercing Emporium on 13th and Vine – ring at the back entrance by the dumpsters and bring cash only.

Our son, Buddy, 19 [aka “Bed Head,”] still lives at home while he patiently awaits various college acceptance letters [it is called “Acme Online Small Appliance Repair College” after all] while using his gap year [parole] to gain valuable experience in the carnival sciences [that’ll explain why he’s been the Caterpillar operator at Bob’s Amusements since getting his GED.]

It took a bit of convincing, but Frank and I have finally decided to allow Suzie, 16, [here goes nothing] to pursue her dream of gender reassignment. She’s happy to report that hormone therapy has enabled her to grow sideburns, and she’s almost saved enough money from weekend caddying for her surgery. Oh, and she now prefers to be called “Floyd.”

And our little munchkin, Robbie, 11 [aka “Lucifer,”] has made explosive progress [thank God that Molotov cocktail he made didn’t detonate in the cafeteria] since being identified as “delayed” by his teachers. He has advanced so much in his Industrial Arts class, where he recently constructed a missile launcher out of nothing but our gas grill [charcoal is better anyway] and the neighbor’s lawn mower [so relieved they agreed to drop the charges,] that his doctor has agreed to reduce his meds if there are no other incidents at school.

Pickles, our miniature poodle-blood hound mix, continues to bring joy [incessant barking] and constant companionship [we can’t leave him alone or he’ll eat all our shoes] to our lives, so we have finally agreed to forgive him for the tragic death of our beloved cat, Hairball.

As for me, [better make this good] I continue to fulfill my life by donating to charity [daily purchases at the Salvation Army Thrift Store] but am excited to announce that our home will soon be profiled on the hit show “Hoarding: Buried Alive.” I plan to use the proceeds from the show to fund my creepy doll collection and penchant for boxed wine.

We love [gross exaggeration] and miss [like a hangnail] you all and invite you to come visit us at any time [we’ll just turn the lights out and hide like we do on Halloween.] Have a wonderful holiday and a terrific new year!

Frank, Buddy, Floyd, Robbie, Pickles and Me.

[Done. Now where is that boxed wine?]

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Costume Psychology 101

In Humor, Memories, modern culture, self-image on October 30, 2011 at 10:50 am

Many studies have been done on the psychology of Halloween costume selection. What does it say about a person who picks a sexy, scary, political, whimsical, heroic or funny costume?

Some say that people who dress up like hot French maids, saucy pirates and sexy cats, want to express their sexuality without the consequences of violating social norms. That might be true, but it bugs me when someone sexualizes people or things that were never sexy to begin with.

The few maids I’ve encountered in life were sturdy women with thick backs and calloused hands. None of them wore flouncy miniskirts, and I’m pretty sure one or two had facial hair. Although I’ve never met a pirate, I would imagine the real life female version would be missing teeth, eyes and limbs, and probably have horrible breath. And whoever thinks cats are sexy has never scooped out a litter box or watched a cat up chuck a hairball.

I think people who put on sexy costumes are simply using Halloween as some kind of carte blanche pretext to strap on a push up bra, fish net stockings, and pumps.

And that goes for you women, too.

Psychologists also say that those who choose gory or scary get ups find it empowering to dress as something that frightened them when they were a kid. I’m more inclined to believe that all the blood sucking zombies and mass murderers you see marauding on Halloween night are trying to repel other people because they’re afraid of intimacy.

Or, quite possibly, they’re just weird.

Experts also claim that other costumes indicate psychological issues. People who dress like politicians enjoy provoking conflict. Those who portray nuns, priests, school teachers and librarians are shy and unapproachable. Cops, firefighters, doctors, cowboys and heroes desire to be taken more seriously. People who choose storybook or cartoon characters like Snow White and Sponge Bob want to recapture the innocence of childhood.

I’m not sure what it says about me, but I’ve always gone for a costume that was funny. While I’d like to believe that it means that I am mentally secure and don’t mind being the butt of a joke, I’m sure a clinical psychologist would diagnose me with some kind of personality disorder and recommend long-term therapy.

It all started in the fall of 1978 when I was in the seventh grade. My junior high school was having the first dance of the year, a costume dance, and I was determined to make my mark on the social scene.

Like other girls my age, I laid in my bed at night dreaming of cute boys who might ask me to dance, and how that dance would turn into a whirlwind middle school romance replete with love notes, locker visits, and hand holding. [Heavy sigh.]

But unlike other girls, I had not quite figured out what I needed to do to attract a young suitor. The only thing I knew was, when I did something funny, it got people’s attention.

It took me hours to prepare my costume for the dance. I spray painted my Pumas green to match my leotards, and inserted my legs into a large white sheet through which I had cut two holes. I gathered the sheet around my neck, tied it tight with string, and stuffed my torso to create a bulging tear-drop shape. I painted my face and hair green and wore a crown of long green pipe cleaners.

Voila! My Human Onion costume was complete!

Upon entering the decorated gym on the night of the dance, I could see that no one else’s sense of humor was as sophisticated as mine. I noticed lots of tiaras and bunny ears, but no other vegetables or even fruits for that matter. I knew the boys would be amazed at my comedic genius; it was only a matter of time before I was asked to dance.

As my tiaraed and bunny-eared friends were called out on the dance floor one by one, I waited. And waited. And waited.

Strangely, not one boy asked me to dance that night. Just as I began to question my strategy, the costume contest results were announced.

Although I would have preferred a cute boyfriend to the Boomtown Rats album I received as my prize, winning first place in the costume competition served to confirm my belief that my sense of humor was my best asset, and I’ve been wearing funny costumes ever since.

Scary, funny, sexy, political, heroic or whimsical — any costume we pick seems to reveal some deep-seeded narcissistic, paranoid, psychotic, attention-seeking, rage disorders and gender issues. So, unless you plan to sit at home compulsively gorging on your kids’ rejected Almond Joys — not that I’ve ever done that – you really don’t have a choice other than to put on your costume and let your freak flag fly.

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My Hips Don’t Swing That Way, But My Stomach Does

In Humor, Middle-Age on October 23, 2011 at 1:55 pm

Out of sheer boredom and motivation to reduce my ever-expanding waistline, I somehow found myself trying a Zumba class at the gym this week. An old veteran of the now out-of-style step aerobics craze, I figured, “How hard could it be?”

“Zumba,” a Latin-inspired dance aerobics program, is the latest thing to hit the fitness world. Gyms across the nation are now offering Zumba classes, which incorporate salsa, meringue, hip-hop, African beats, samba, reggaeton, cumbia, Bollywood and belly dance moves into group fitness routines.

I had seen a Zumba DVD infomercial once, with spandexed men and women writhing and jumping to Latin, Caribbean and tribal beats, claiming that you could “party yourself into shape.” It made exercise look more like a wild night out in Tijuana than a workout, so I was intrigued.

After placing my keys and water bottle in the corner of the cramped little exercise room, I tried to find a spot where I could remain anonymous. The rest of the participants, which ran the gamut from a buxom African American teen to a tiny Filipino lady in her seventies, seemed to know what they were doing. I, on the other hand, did not.

I was relieved to find that our instructor looked like a middle-aged mom just like me, and did not have a figure that screamed, “I am obsessed with fitness and I am about to kill you.”

She put on some catchy Latin music, and next thing you know I was kick-ball-changing, single-single-doubling, and body rolling my way around the room as if I had been doing it all my life.

But after about 30 minutes, the mild-mannered instructor bid us all adieu and told us that our “warm up” was finished. The real Zumba class was about to begin, and the real instructor would arrive momentarily. What?!

I had only a moment to wipe the sweat from my brow and slurp some water from my bottle, when in walked our torturer, er, I mean, our instructor. She had Beyonce’s muscular thighs, Pamela Anderson’s generous bust, and Charo’s wild hair and rolling “R.”

Suddenly, driving African beats blared from the sound system and, using only crazed facial expressions and minimal hand motions, Charo ordered us to rhythmically gyrate and flail our arms while in a semi-squat position.

A few minutes later we had moved on to reggaeton, whatever that is, and were ordered to stick out our rear ends and rotate our hips in complete circles from right to left while pumping our hands out in front of us. For some unknown reason, I was able to rotate my hips counter clockwise, but as soon as we were asked to go the opposite direction, I was unable to maintain the fluid roll of my hips, and could only swing them jerkily from side to side.

I thought, maybe this was due to the magnetism of the Earth’s polls – and perhaps, like the water in the toilet bowls, I can only swirl one way in the Northern Hemisphere, and would have to go south of the equator to be able to rotate my hips in the other direction.

Halfway through the class I was soaked with sweat and we hadn’t even gotten to salsa and meringue. The rest of the participants seemed excited to move on to these classic Latin beats. I thought maybe I’d fare better with something that I’d at least heard of before.

Despite the fact that everyone around me seemed to have the basic salsa steps down pat, I was so confused I just started marching in place. We moved on to meringue, which for me, was more of a lesson in how to sprain one’s ankle. I prayed that it would all be over soon.

Somewhere between the Brazilian samba and the Columbian cumbia, Charo started jumping three feet into the air. Like lemmings, we followed. Finally happy to have a dance move I could understand, I leapt like a gazelle. But then I remembered – I am 45 years old and have given birth to three large babies. My innards are not where they used to be, and might decide to drop out onto the floor at any moment.

Thankfully, the jumping routine ended before my uterus broke loose, and we moved onto our final dance – a Bollywood belly dance. At first, it seemed that Charo was merely putting us through a cruel endurance test when she demanded that we get into a deep plie squat while holding our arms out in a sort of King Tut position. Just as my quads were about to snap, she began to twist and turn her torso back and forth, rising like a cobra from a basket.

I left the class feeling exhausted, sweaty, and somewhat humiliated. My northern European genes had made it nearly impossible for me to perform the sexy writhing movements required to do Zumba correctly, but I was proud that my stomach, at least, performed its own wiggling dance, all by itself, and had kept perfect time to the beat.

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When Strangers Marry

In Humor, marriage, Memories, Middle-Age, military on October 16, 2011 at 3:52 pm

On this day, eighteen years ago, I promised to love, honor and cherish a man I really didn’t know all that well at the time.

In fact, prior to committing ourselves to each other until death, my husband and I were pretty much clueless. We had no idea what kind of husband or wife we might turn out to be. As long as we were in love, we thought, nothing else mattered, right?

Time marched on, and with each passing year, we made new realizations about each other and our relationship.

Most significantly, our vastly different childhood experiences forced us to redefine our pre-conceived notions of “man” and “woman.”

My husband grew up going to private school as the son of a neurologist in the affluent DC suburb of Chevy Chase. At weekend cocktail parties and crew regattas, parents chatted over canapés about politics, world events, and their children’s prep schools. They drank bottled water and bought their food from overpriced grocery stores. They had things like capers and pate in their refrigerators, and drove imported cars.

I, on the other hand, grew up in a town with only one high school, where we thought every one in the world had two days off for hunting season. To the people of my small town, “Chevy Chase” was not necessarily an affluent neighborhood, and it was perfectly normal to get your water from a well and your meat from the woods. Our refrigerators frequently contained bricks of Velveeta, cans of Hershey’s syrup, and in the spring, fish with the heads still on. My parents’ vehicles were pre-owned, and other than one Volkswagen Beetle, none of them were imported.

My husband grew up believing that all women can throw sophisticated dinner parties at the drop of a hat, while being charming and looking fabulous in the latest styles from Lord & Taylor or Talbot’s. He did not realize that he had made a lifetime commitment to someone who shops at Target and whose idea of a party is opening a bag of Fritos and watching a Steelers’ game. My poor husband has had to redefine “woman” to include those, like me, who would prefer a hot poker in the eye than the obligatory social events required of a navy officer’s wife.

Similarly, I have had to adjust my definition of “man” to include those who don’t own any thing that is fluorescent orange. I’ve had to realize that there are men out there who actually prefer white wine to beer, and not all men demand space in the garage for a work bench. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my husband is afraid of tools, guns and knives, and shudders at the mere thought of putting a worm on a hook, much less eating a fish with the head still on it.

I’ll admit – I have felt somewhat guilty that I’ve never fulfilled my husband’s expectations of what his wife might be. I’ve often wished that I was more sophisticated, more formal, more “fancy.”

And I’ve seen self-consciousness in his eyes too, like the time I had to put the barbecue grill together because he couldn’t understand the instructions, or the time I snorkeled on a beach vacation for four hours alone while he sipped a Pink Squirrel and read an Oprah Winfrey book selection under an umbrella.

If we knew back then what we know now, would we have eternally promised ourselves to each other before the altar of Graystone Church eighteen years ago today?

Without a doubt, I say “Yes.”

When we first met, the one thing we knew for certain was that neither of us was perfect, but we instantly gave each other the pure and unconditional acceptance that had been missing in our lives. Unless one later discovers that one’s betrothed is actually an axe murderer or a spy for the Russians, unconditional love and acceptance is a powerful thing that can transcend unknown personality quirks.

Besides, I’ve also discovered along the way that my husband is incredibly disciplined, dedicated, and hard-working. Better yet, he is fiercely loyal and his love for our family is deep and sincere. Best of all, he makes me laugh.

We may not be the husband and wife we thought we’d be eighteen years ago, but deep in our hearts is the underlying truth that we love and accept each other just the way we are.

So, Happy Anniversary, Honey. Always be yourself, and I will always love you for it.

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Irreverent in Blue Jeans, Babe

In Humor, Memories, modern culture on October 10, 2011 at 7:57 am

On Sunday mornings, I can usually be found in a bathrobe with wild hair and a cup of hot coffee, staring into my closet. I dig through the denim and cottons I wear all week, and grab a dress or skirt, and a pair of low heels, hoping I won’t be limping in the next two hours.

Despite the fact that I am normally a slave to comfort, my predisposition to dress up for church is deeply ingrained from years of being crammed into frilly dresses, lace-trimmed bobby socks and Mary Janes, before my family headed off to Graystone Presbyterian for the Sunday service with Reverend Cassel.

The dark wooden pews were polished to a gleaming shine from years of contact, and reflected the faceted colors of the massive stained glass windows among the cavernous Gothic arches. The Venetian blues, the blood reds, the flickering candles, the golden chalice, the smell of my father’s aftershave, the glint of my mother’s charm bracelet, and the prickle of my church dress were all essential parts of the whole experience, without which, it would not feel as solemn, as sacred, as special.

Despite the fact that I spend most days in work out clothes and jeans, I don’t give dressing up for church a second thought – I just do it because that’s what I’ve always done and it seems right. However, not all of the God-fearing population shares my attitude on church couture.

I try to refrain from audibly gasping when I see cargo shorts, jeans and t-shirts come waltzing into the pews, and think to myself, “Would it have killed you to put on a pair of khakis for Heaven’s sake?”

Eighteen years of attending Catholic mass with my Irish-Italian husband have not diminished my astonishment at the outfits I see in the isles on Sunday morning. In fact, my repugnance seems to be growing.

At our new parish inFlorida, I am appalled that spaghetti straps, short skirts, sunglasses and flip flops are acceptable for Sunday worship. I think I may have spotted a bikini top peeking out of one young woman’s scanty dress a couple Sunday’s ago, and looked to see if she stayed for the final hymn before heading off to catch some rays.

During football season, the men seem to think that the sanctuary is a perfectly appropriate place for a pep rally of sorts, donning sportswear emblazoned with the logo of their favorite football team. I keep waiting for someone to blow an air horn or show up in full body paint with a foam finger.

I also wince when I see four-inch stilettos, low cut tops, and God-forbid, exposed midriffs. I can’t help but look to see if there’s a bouncer at the door or a disco ball hanging from the balcony to make sure I haven’t accidentally wandered into a nightclub.

Many people accept the new casual standards, rationalizing that more people will come to church if they don’t have to dress up. That’s all find and good, but how far are we going to take this?

In a few years, will people be shuffling into the sanctuary in pajama pants and hot rollers with a cup of Starbucks? Maybe we should do away with those hard pews and scatter bean bags around to make everyone more comfortable?

More people would squeeze a service in before the football game if churches mounted flatscreen TVs behind the altars and aired the pregame shows. Why not authorize tailgating in the church parking lots, and replace the coffee and cookies in the rectory with chili dogs and draft beer?

Furthermore, let’s capitalize on people’s tendency to wear inappropriate night club clothing to church by offering gospel karaoke or electronic bull rides. I might even do a hip hop rendition of “The Old Rugged Cross.” That would bring ‘em in the door.

Unfortunately, there is no biblical evidence to support my stuffy Presbyterian propensity to dress up for church. To the contrary, 1 Samuel 16:7 reads, “For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the soul.”

It is certainly true that the fibers on one’s back are not a true measure of one’s moral fiber, but the act of carefully dressing oneself for church is a sign of selfless respect and focus on religious devotion rather than post-church events, sex appeal or mere comfort.

I know, I know, Jesus never shaved and wore a robe and sandals everywhere, but I don’t recall any cargo shorts in Canaan or Calvins on Calvary. So next Sunday, leave your flip flops and football jerseys at home — let your fashion reflect your faith.

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The Sandwich Queen

In family, Humor, Middle-Age, parenting, self-image on September 26, 2011 at 1:49 pm

About a million years ago, I had a career. I had a briefcase, an office, a secretary, and a view from the 24th floor. I did research, argued motions, interviewed clients and attended the firm holiday party. My name was on the wall in the lobby.

But then, when I least expected it, something happened.

That something was an incessant, unrelenting thing called life.

Two years after being unexpectedly blindsided by love, I found myself sitting on my Navy husband’s bachelor couch in our dumpy base house, in a state that did not recognize my law license, nursing our new baby while watching Maury Povich interview people who’d been abducted by aliens.

At first it was kind of fun, getting to relive all the times I played house as a kid, except that the babies really filled their diapers and I also had to do the boring stuff like making sandwiches and cleaning toilets. I never really thought it all through, and truly believed that I’d get back to my career at some point.

Fifteen years, seven moves, and two more babies later, I’m still making sandwiches and cleaning toilets, and the opportunity to get my career back simply never came.

In the meantime, I’ve discovered that long term housewifery does not always provide one with the obvious sense of achievement that a career offers. In fact, the daily drudgery of housework and mothering is highly susceptible to being completely taken for granted. We do not get bonuses for sparkling floors, pay raises for fresh laundry, or promotions for perfectly steamed green beans.

So, we veteran housewives must seize our ego boosts where we can get them.

Recently, my son, Hayden, started his sophomore year at his new high school, and I pack his lunch every day as usual. But this time, I decided to bump it up a notch.

My usual routine was to roll up three slices of deli chicken breast and place them onto two slices of whole wheat with a leaf of lettuce and a slice of Swiss cheese. To reward my son for working hard at football practice, I decided to double the meat, adding tender slices of ham and roast beef to the chicken. Two slices of pepper jack and extra lettuce made the sandwich so thick that I had to put it into a quart-sized storage bag.

On our way home from football practice that evening, Hayden, who is firmly entrenched in that infuriating stage of teenagedom characterized by an almost complete lack of normal conversation, said, “Hey Mom, I really liked that sandwich.”

My heart nearly skipped a beat.

Over the next couple weeks, I continued crafting thick, meaty sandwiches, sometimes substituting cheeses, adding spicy slices of pepperoni, or a fresh sub roll. Instead of waiting for accolades, I had taken to eagerly asking him how he liked the sandwich on our ride home from football practice. He would answer in typical teenage brevity, but always communicated his appreciation.

Then one day, Hayden told me that his football buddy commented on how meaty his sandwich was, and that he wished his mom made sandwiches like that. I couldn’t believe my ears and was exhilarated by my new sense of culinary superiority.

Call me pathetic, but the seemingly insignificant compliments gave me a renewed sense of purpose, and a slight spring in my middle-aged step as I packed the lunches each morning.

Sometimes, I’d receive a bonus with my son’s usual mumbled words of praise. Like the day he told me that the school security guard noticed how thick his sandwich was, and ordered Hayden to bring in an extra one for him sometime. And the time his JV football coach called him over during practice and said, “Hey, I heard your mother makes you a big deli sandwich every day for lunch; so when are you going to bring one in for me?”

Sure, it’s true that the closest thing I have to an office has a washer and dryer in it. And yes, it is rather ironic that I used to have a secretary but am now Secretary of the Football Boosters Club. And even though my name is no longer posted in an office lobby, my name is the one my kids utter when they want a tissue, help with their homework, a snack, someone to hear about their day at school, or a hug.

While I may never make Senior Partner of a Law firm as I had planned over 20 years ago, I’ve attained a status I never expected. I’m Head Nurse, Accountant, General Manager, Commander in Chief of the House, and thanks to recent events, The Sandwich Queen. Sure, my scepter may be a toilet bowl brush and my carriage a mini-van, but I don’t mind, because I know I am loved by my people.

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Farewell to Rinse and Spit

In family, Humor, Memories, Middle-Age, modern culture on September 17, 2011 at 9:46 pm

I placed the magazine nonchalantly in my lap and covered it with my purse. With one hand pretending to grope for a tissue, and the other hand secretly holding the desired page, I began to tug.

I stopped, fearing the man across from me heard the initial tear, but just then, the doors to the waiting room opened, and a bulky woman entered in a boisterous rush. “Sorry I’m late!” she bellowed in the direction of the receptionist’s window. I took the noisy opportunity to finish the deed.

In one fell swoop, I tore the page out of the magazine and slipped it into my bag. Grabbing lip balm to give supposed purpose to my shifty movements, I tried to look bored.

Yes! I always wanted a good recipe for peach cobbler and now I’ve got it, I thought. Feeling a little guilty as I always do when I compulsively tear recipes out of waiting room magazines, I tried to accept this tiny tendency toward kleptomania as a minor personality flaw.

A few minutes later, a young hygienist with a fluorescent white smile called my name. The exam room had the usual dental décor – reclining chair, rolling instrument cart, torturously bright light suspended from robotic hinged arm, pamphlet rack, and poster with ghastly photos of gum disease.

She adorned me with a paper bib and laid the lead x-ray vest over my torso. One after the other, she jammed those uncomfortable little x-ray slides into my gums, each time asking me to open wider. After a dozen or more x-rays, I felt as if my lips had exceeded their elasticity and might droop down past my chin like one of those Ethiopian tribal women.

The hygienist then gave me the run down: first I’d meet the dentist [how nice of him to grace me with his presence,] then he’d take a look at my gums [poke me with a sharp object while shouting secret codes,] then she’d clean my teeth [most likely with a chisel, ice pick and sledge hammer,] then he’d come back [and try to sell me some expensive cosmetic procedure I don’t need.]

Soon, the dentist loped into the room and flashed a huge toothy white grin. “Hi there, I’m Dr. Altenbach!” He was wearing blue scrubs as if he’d just performed heart surgery in the other room and looked to be all of about 19. During some initial chit chat, he noticed my Smart Phone beside my purse and blurted, “Hey, my dad has the same phone; do you like the keyboard? Cuz if not, I can show you an app that he really likes.”

First of all, I am still not quite sure what an app is, but more importantly, why is this guy putting me in the same category as his father?

As Dr. Altenbach poked my gums with his fish hook on a stick, my mind wandered back to my childhood dental exams. I recalled the taste of soap in my mouth from Dr. Petras’ freshly washed bare hands as he cleaned my teeth using the sterile instruments laid out on a blue paper towel on top of a rolling metal tray. He polished my teeth with the ticklish little rotating pencil eraser tool. I had to rinse and spit many times into a swirling sink that looked like a miniature toilet bowl, and always had trouble disconnecting myself from a long string of saliva.

The goggle-protected hygienist woke me out of my daydreams to jab me with her own set of weapons. I could not help but marvel at her sparkling white straight teeth. Dr. Petras had his share of coffee stains and fillings, but today, everyone in a dentist’s office has unnaturally white, perfect teeth. It’s nothing but a high pressure sales tactic, I thought.

At a pause in the cleaning, I looked around for the little toilet bowl, but there was no where to rinse and spit. Instead, the hygienist hooked me like a catfish with a curved plastic tube that magically sucked my mouth dry.

When it was all done, I sat up and tried to put my lips back into place. As promised, Dr. Altenbach showed me how to download the new app, and while he was demonstrating, I noticed that his phone’s home screen had a running surf report. Also, I thought I saw him wiggle his hand with his thumb and pinkie extended in a “hang loose” motion a couple times when he was telling me where to get good fish tacos.

As I checked my teeth in the rear view mirror on the way home, I realized I’ve entered that phase of life when doctors, news casters, and even presidents are younger than I am. I learned that, although may be difficult to take direction from someone who you are older but not wiser than, it’s part of the natural progression of life. Besides, I thought, who’s the one with the peach cobbler recipe, hu?

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