Getting to Know You: How to Relate to Your Relatives During the Holidays

Well, the great Thanksgiving pilgrimage has begun and as you head over the river and through the woods to your relatives, some of you may be dreading a turkey day that comes with judgmental relatives, healthy servings of shade, and conversations that rarely progress beyond "can you believe how hot/cold/icy/snowy it is today?" But, I think there's a deeper issue - how little we know our relatives. Whether you're breaking the wishbone with your blood relatives or your in-laws, it's a sure bet that you don't know as much about each other as you assume you do. And I'm not talking about your hopes and dreams and fears, I mean basic stuff like favorite food, favorite color, favorite movie. 

For blood relatives who've known each other for most of their lives, the Thanksgiving table turns into a session of Mad Libs: The "remember that time..." edition. There are certain stories that make up the family mythology and the ritualistic retelling of these tales further cements the familial bond - or something like that! But, these stories sometimes don't allow for the telling of new stories and the family becomes frozen in a narrative loop that doesn't allow the characters in these stories to develop an interior life and to progress. 

Crazy Uncle Duck who accidentally blew up the family barn when he was 12 years old while deep frying a turkey will always be that character, even when he's 20 and in college, when he's 27 and doing his medical school residency, and when he's 45 and is tops in his field as an orthopedic surgeon. There is comfort in hearing this story and in telling this story. But, Uncle Duck - who now goes by Ben - might hate this story, and he might wonder why the family seems disinterested in who he has become and the journey he's taken to get there. 

In studying Biblical literature, the phrase "closed text" is used to describe a list of scriptural books considered to be authoritative, to which nothing more may be added. For instance, the books that comprise the Torah. In our family lives, we can become the human equivalent of "closed texts", not allowing space for the natural evolution that happens in human beings, and greeting these changes at the holiday table with scorn, disgust, derision, or dismissal. 

Years ago, when I was in grad school - broke and hundreds of miles away from home - I had the best Thanksgiving of my life. It was at the Westin Copley Place with a dozen or so other grad students, a couple of whom were my friends and the rest of whom were strangers. We laughed, we talked, we ate too much and over the course of several hours we got to know each other. We were genuinely interested in learning about each other and by the end of the night new friendships were forged and established friendships were deepened. 

So, starting this Thanksgiving, get to know your families. Ask them the who/what/why/where/how questions that a reporter or a stranger in an airport bar would ask. Bypass the family shorthand and truly engage with your family. If you're with your in-laws, don't let them cut their long stories short, assuming that your significant other has given you a pre-dinner briefing about who begat who and whom divorced whom. And if you're the one bringing your significant other into the family fold, let them get to know your family members one on one. Seat them next to a favorite aunt and let the two of them have a dialogue and get to know one another. It's better for your relatives to experience first-hand how wonderful your partner is and not hear about it from you. In short, don't talk about each other, rather talk to each other. The holidays are annual opportunities to check in with each other - don't miss your chance.

Just Keep It To Yourself: Enough with the Public Marriage Proposals!

Well, it's the holiday season - a time when red and green can be worn at the same time on the same person, a time when fat-shaming is traded in for adoration of a chubby man bearing gifts on his long-haul flight around the world, and a time when jewelry is purchased and someone gets down on bended knee and says the two scariest words ever, "Marry me." The engagement ring - the ultimate stocking stuffer - is often the unexpected guest during the holiday season.  The period between Thanksgiving and the New Year is the busiest time of year for marriage proposals, and why not? After all, this is the usual time of year when couples travel to the hometowns of their significant others. And there, in the glow of the family hearth and home, surrounded by loving strangers in questionable yet kitschy Christmas togs, reeking of holiday cheer and nostalgia, things happen and soon you're watching the guy you've fallen in love with making his ugly cry-face while fumbling with an expensive ring while your nana and pop-pop watch in silent horror as their turkey breast gets cold.

As you may have guessed, I'm not a fan of the public marriage proposal, but, in this social media age, I've been outvoted. Instead of a quiet moment between two people, marriage proposals must go big, bigger, biggest, with stories abounding of elaborate proposals involving flash mobs and choreography that's more involved and twistier than a "Scandal" plot line. But, as anyone knows, the bigger the production, the more likely that things will go wrong, which is why a whole sub-category called marriage proposal fails now exists. This past week, a marriage proposal ended in a man dangling from a crane and a hole in the roof of his girlfriend's house. And the pitfalls of the over-the-top marriage proposal are not limited to property damage. Asking someone to commit to spending the rest of their life with you requires that they consider the question carefully, and that consideration might take longer than the few seconds of space after you say the words and spring the ring. Imagine the unbelievable pressure it puts on a person when this proposal of marriage is delivered in front of a roomful of family members and close friends, or on a jumbo screen in a stadium or other large, public event. Is this public proposal a hint of things to come? Will you tell my family at the Thanksgiving table that we're going to try to have children, in fact, we'll be "trying" in the guest bedroom after you serve the pumpkin pie! ?? Will you be live-Tweeting from the delivery room with pithy hash tags like  #cervix or #AhPushIt? 

So just keep it to yourself, please! It will be great practice for the rest of your married life:)

Don't Nobody Bring Me No Bad News: A Field Guide to Aging Parents, Sickness, Health and Other Everyday Occurences

The other night - it was a Sunday night after a grand and glorious weekend of fun with my husband, mom, aunt, and nephews - my mother called. It was around 8:30pm, after a lazy Sunday of church in the morning, a breakfast picnic, my epic post-picnic 60-minute walk followed by an equally epic living room nap. I could tell by the tone in her voice that the reason for her call wasn't going to be fun, and I was right. I'd like to say that this was my mom's first nocturnal data dump, but it's always been her SOP. When I was a little girl, Mom and Grandma would recite the list of injured and infirm from among family and friends. When I went away to college, the dinner recitations became late night phone calls to the hall phone in my dorm. Mom's streak continued while I was in grad school, so much so that I was rendered a nervous wreck anytime the phone rang after 8pm.

After grad school I got my very first cellular phone which I thought would thwart her, but it didn't. It just encouraged her to leave two post-sundown messages of doom - one on my house phone and the other on my cell. When I took a job that required shift work that put me on overnights, the telephone would ring at 7am, when she knew I'd just be getting home. I don't know which ticked me off more - the insensitivity on my mom's part or the fact that she always happily chirped a "sleep well" into the phone after dropping her bomb.

And then I got married and the calls stopped. It was the happiest of times. I mean Mom and I still talked and met up for lunch and  shopping, but the nightly tales of trauma stopped. Well, at least for the first few years. And then, wouldn't you know it? Everyone started getting old, including, apparently, my mom. Soon, she was back working the night shift and telling me all of the ghoulish details of this one's MRI and that one's CAT Scan. So, when my husband suggested that we activate the Caller ID on our home phone, I gladly said "hell yes!!" And then I hugged him. And then I slept, like a baby.

I had quite the call-screening operation going until my sister, who had studied at the feet of the master we call "Mom", discovered texting and soon her stressed-out texts filled my phone inbox with cryptic texted tomes of "Call me!!!!" or "Emergency!!!" that covered everything from a broken down car to a nephew at the hospital ER with a sinus infection/allergy attack/school yard scrape.

So then there were two and there was no safe place.

And then Dad got sick and soon I couldn't switch off the family switchboard. After his death, the floodgates opened and every Mom-call was answered, even the after-8pm calls. But, it's been a struggle. Every time the phone rings after 8pm, all I can hear going through my head is that song from The Wiz - "Don't Nobody Bring Me No Bad News". Not familiar with this little ditty, where's here's a verse:

When you're talking to me

Don't be cryin' the blues

'Cause don't nobody bring me no bad news

You can verbalize and vocalize

But just bring me the clues

But don't nobody bring me no bad news!

Maybe this is my punishment for being the good girl growing up, being the one Mom could always talk to about everything. Maybe it's time for me to be as open and honest with my mom as she always has been and continues to be with me, even when I want her to stop. Maybe I can create some sort of Mom shorthand or Morse Code that lets me know that all's clear and it's safe to talk to Mom. Or maybe I can finally provide Mom with a one-word data dump of my own: Stop!! Well, actually, Stop PLEASE!! I mean she is my mother, after all and I'm no fool!  I can't change her, but maybe I can get her to change the subject once in a while.

A Father's Day Wish for the Fathers Who Are Not Here

This Father's Day marks the first Father's Day since my dad's death. It's been a time of reflection, sadness and favorite memories of a man who was learning to live fully but was taken too soon. And while the greeting card racks are teeming with Father's Day cards for first time dads and stepfathers, divorced dads and future dads, there does not exist a space for those of us living in the absence of our fathers. So on this Father's Day, I remember the fathers who are not here. The fathers missing from our dinner tables due to deployment or detention, disease or death. The dads who sent their sons and daughters across oceans and deserts in search of a better life. For the dads we never met, and the dads we choose to forget. I pray for all of the fathers who are not here and for all of us who miss them.

Living Life On Purpose

I'm sure that every parent who read Angelina Jolie's powerful essay in Tuesday's New York Times hugged their own children just a little bit closer. Almost every parent feels that deep sense of connection to their children, but they also feel something more all-encompassing - a deep sense of purpose. A parent might have the world's worst boss, but they tough it out in order to provide financially for their children. You might suffer a two-hour, one-way commute to work if the neighborhood in which you live is in a highly coveted school district that provides access to the special programming needs for your child. These are the choices that you make for a life lived with purpose.

As someone who is married and child-free, I used to think that all of my friends with children, living lives deprived of sleep/sex/money while raising your little ones, had it easy.You have a living, breathing reason to get out of bed every morning (and in the middle of the night, sometimes). You may hate your job/boss/commute, but you love your child, and so with that deep sense of purpose you suck it up and smile when that pint-sized person hugs you and calls you daddy/mommy. Purpose puts you on a flight with a five-year old so that you can visit Disney World and lunch with the princesses. Purpose makes you put on a pair of cargo shorts and become the den mother to your daughter's Brownie troop. Purpose makes you dash out of the house on Sunday mornings in order to get your 4-year old to the Sunday school class that she adores. Purpose, literally, puts you behind the wheel of an unflattering minivan so that can play chauffeur for your three kids and the grind of Saturday sports clinics/swim practices/ballet lessons/karate classes. Want to question your existence?? Try finding the time!

For the first 20 years of my life, I was consumed with getting into the right college and then getting into graduate school. My purpose, then, was about making my parents proud of me and having fun with my friends. But, what happens when you don't have any purpose? Well, it ain't pretty, I can tell you that. It's a bit like walking through a fog, a very dense fog.

The first time I felt this was when I was in seminary. I was single, in my early twenties, and I was discovering that a career in the clergy wasn't for me, while all around me were dozens of my classmates who were happily vibrating with purpose. I had some serious purpose-envy! I felt hollow and lost, and as my old college friends began to find their professional footing and started pairing off, my life felt more episodic and chaotic than ever. They were planning conferences and weddings and what was I doing? From there followed what looks like a parabola, with peaks of purposeful periods followed by steep valleys where I was left pondering the meaning of my life. When I met the man who is my husband, I don't know what I was more excited for - finding a man I loved who loved me, or having someone in my life who needed me.  I had a renewed since of purpose in my life, but was it enough?

Over the past year I've grappled, again, with this question of purpose, so instead of looking at my friends who are parents, I looked, instead, to my unmarried and child free friends. For them, purpose takes many different pathways. Some have found their purpose in their job, working in fields that serve to benefit their community. A dear friend of mine who was trained as an actor chose to become a registered nurse, allowing him to heal body, mind and soul. Another friend is working to find the link between rogue proteins and the diseases they may cause in order to find cures for everything from heart disease to Alzheimer's. Other single friends of mine devote their free time to volunteering with outreach groups who assist those who need a helping hand, or serving on boards of nonprofit groups that seek to solve the crises of hunger or domestic violence or early education. And some find their purpose in taking care of their aging parents.

So where had I gone wrong in my search for purpose? I had assumed that purpose would just come to me, that there would be husband/children/family and, aha!, there would be my purpose. But to live life with purpose means that you live life ON purpose. Finding your purpose is not random, as I had thought. It is, instead, opening yourself to that deep feeling of love and joy that connects us each to one another. I do have purpose in my life. It might not look like it does in anyone else's life, but that's the thing about purpose - it is as unique as we are.

Ain't Misbehavin' or How Cancer Made a Good Girl Go Bad

I've always been a good girl. At least that's what people used to tell me. As a little girl, I was unfailingly polite, speaking only when spoken to, and doing what my parents told me to do. In school, I was the student who got good grades (actually, I got great grades!), who didn't talk/pass notes/fall asleep during class, and who did her homework without parental prompting. I went to bed at my bedtime, and was dressed and ready for school in the morning. Books were my constant companion, as were a series of spiral, college-ruled notebooks into which I poured all manner of short stories and illustrations during car trips or any other time when, as the good girl, I was expected to be quiet and entertain myself.

As the good girl, I worked hard, but accepted whatever fate had in store for me - no questions asked. If someone stepped ahead of me in line, while I might have cursed them inside, outside, I was a sea of tranquility, patiently waiting, a hard smile on my face. If a waiter placed an undercooked steak in front of me, well I just ate the bits that looked the most well-done - no need in embarrassing the waitstaff and the kitchen! Long line at the Post Office - no worries, I'll just read the New York Times on my PDA while I'm waiting.

Being a good girl meant that I was always on my best behavior, but being polite doesn't always mean being honest. And when a truth like cancer enters your life, being a good girl doesn't seem so important, because, let's be honest, cancer is a nasty little bitch whose face I want to slap every time I see her - no offense. She has brought my dad to his knees in agony, and made him scream in pain while doctors poke and prod at him. For the past month, she has ripped a hole in the blue sky that was my family. And she  has forced me to act in ways that no good girl should - questioning authority, demanding more time, more attention, more options. In short, I may have surrendered my title as good girl, but I am becoming something more, someone different - a good daughter and a good woman.

Make It Stop: The Attack of the Stick Figure Family Car Stickers!!

It started innocently enough - a Christmas card from some distant family relation arrived in our mailbox, and in the top left corner of the envelope there it was, actually, there THEY were - 4 stick figures - one shaped like "mom", the other like "dad", and a boy and a girl. The name of the family appeared underneath in jolly Comic font, along with their address, so that I could know just where to find the merriment. And thus, I was thrust into the world of Family Stickers - a multi-million dollar business with various sales outlets. On a typical car ride from my home, I spy dozens of mini-vans, steroidal SUVs, and station wagons with a trio, quartet, or quintet of stick figure family members in their rear windows. And you know something - it's annoying the hell out of me!

I know, I'm raining on someone's parade, but these stick figures are as irritating an addition to the backsides of cars as are those "my child is an honor roll student" bumper stickers that shot to fame in the '90s! When a few people had them, I'll admit, they were quirky, a bit off-beat, but now, they've become like a battering ram, like a requirement for the well-adjusted, all-American, nuclear family. 

I guess in this age of the over-share, letting complete strangers waiting at the traffic light know the size and make-up of your family seems a harmless indulgence, but seriously, I'm just waiting at the traffic light, not trying to strike up a friendship! I mean, what do you need all of the attention for, anyway?? Why do you require windshield validation for your life choices??

If you're proud of your family, then awesome, post their cute pics on Facebook, start a blog for your closest friends and family members. Oh, you're already doing that?? So then why the stick figure family?

I've seen one car in the grocery store parking lot for the past four years. They began with 3 stick figures - mom, dad, baby. Then they upped it to 4 - mom, dad, baby, dog. Then the 4 became 6 - yep, you guessed it - TWINS!!! So - mom, dad, 2 new babies, son, dog. But, I guess that wasn't enough because the last time I saw that car it had a new figure - number 7 if you're having a hard time keeping up. This latest figure - a cat, yes, that's just what that family needed, one more life form in need of care and upkeep, and ordering more damn stickers!!

So, look, I'm going to try to be a bit less bitter about this whole thing, and to do this, I propose a line of stick figure stickers for people in single and non-traditional lifestyles. There's the female stick figure with a briefcase and a cat. Or maybe the two dads, their two babies, and the surrogate.  What about the single guy who's a serial monogamer - this stick figure would come with a dozen female stick figures and big red "Xs" to delineate a break-up. What? You find that too extreme and a bit TMI - well, welcome to my world! I'm just saying:)

My Year of Yes: The Chronicles of a Church Volunteer

This month marks the completion of a year-long experiment in my spiritual life to engage more deeply with my church. It began last June when I accepted Rev. Erika's (that's right, I'm naming names!) invitation to participate in my church's annual Vacation Bible School program - a one-week religious day camp filled with daily worship, classroom instruction, and fun activities for children 4 years old and up. It seems my ADD was a good match with the high-energy demands of the pre-school set, and so Rev. Erika asked me to continue on, this time as a Sunday school teacher for the September through May cycle of classes. Well this I really had to think about. I mean one week during summer was easy-peasy, but the thought of having to turn up every Sunday morning was a challenge to me. And while I'm not a serial church-skipper (among my group of friends, I've definitely logged more in-church hours than most!), I have that Gen-X Existentialist streak which makes "obligation" a four-letter word. Saying yes would mean having to consistently think up something to do, something interesting and educational.

And did I mention that the class would consist of 3-year-olds?

That's right, toddlers - the most feared group of children, well, other than teens. Known for their cunning and guile, 3-year-olds (known in the Sunday school biz as "3s") were notorious for their short attention spans, pre-verbal run-on sentences, and their inability to color inside of the lines and use scissors. It would be like entering into the lions' den, you know, if all of the lions were just above your knees. But Rev. Erika offered me some assurances - the kids would be potty-trained (check!), I'd be part of a team of teachers for my class (check, check!!), and, I wouldn't be responsible for planning a lesson every week (check, check, check!). So, I said yes.

Any good journey into uncharted territory begins with, of course, the right accessories, and so a series of shopping trips was in order. I found a wonderful religious bookstore in my neighborhood. I'd been there before on a mission to find birthday cards for some of my born-again relatives, but I'd never really hung out there. I found the children's section and hit the jackpot, scoring Bible story coloring books, as well as a book on creative projects for toddlers. I found a children's Bible with a cartoon Moses and cartoon Jesus, and an interactive, magnetic big book that told the Advent and Christmas stories. The next stop was the craft store where I went hog-wild in the felt department, and found sheets of construction paper featuring every color under the rainbow. By the time I finished, my shopping cart was full and I was on my way.

I quickly met with the other two teachers in my team and we set about planning for the first part of the Sunday school year. It was then that I realized that, oh my God, I just signed up to teach Sunday school - what the hell was I thinking??

Soon the first day of class arrived and in a brightly lit carpeted room in my church's parish house, the 3s started to arrive. One by one, they arrived, clutching their mommy or daddy's hand, bottom lip quivering and then, you guessed it, the crying began! I wanted to be like Tom Hanks in "A League of Their Own" and tell these kids, "there's no crying in Sunday school!", but, instead, I sat down on the floor and started to talk to them, and I knew I was hooked. I felt such empathy for these little ones, I mean, here they were on a Sunday morning, and instead of just being able to play and watch TV, they were forced to get dressed and go sit in a building with a bunch of adults, oh, and they had to be quiet AND not pee their pants. And, to top it all off, they had to go to another room and pay attention, (whatever THAT means!) and be separated from mommy and daddy!!! It was almost inhuman.

Soon, we were getting to know each other and we developed a routine that consisted of free play and coloring, then group clean-up, an opening prayer and story time, a craftivity (my word!), snack time with a closing story, and then the arrival of mommies and daddies. Some days, it felt like "Daddy Daycare" when the kids were especially revved up and suffering from a case of the "can't-sit-downs". On other days, I felt like "Auntie Mame", a pied piper with unconventional ideas and a dedicated following.

In this Year of Yes, I learned a lot - like the finer points of glitter application and I also (hopefully) settled the debate between glue stick vs. liquid glue. I learned that 3-year-olds are a handful, but they're also honest and bright and yearning to understand how this world I take for granted fits together. I learned that on days when I felt overwhelmed and feared that I wasn't perfect, that 3-year-olds don't care about perfection, they care about moments and consistency and commitment. I also learned that when a 3-year-old refers to "yesterday", they mean last week, but let's not quibble:)

Anyway, with the completion of my Year of Yes, I'm keen to find another project. While I'm not term-limited to one year of the Year of Yes, I have a lot to consider. But, I must admit, I'm going through a weird Pepperidge Farm Goldfish withdrawal, so you never know...I'm just saying:)

Cleaning House or Playing House

Political pundits and other talking heads making the media rounds this week haven't been the only people talking about Governor Schwarzenegger and his household help. My mom has been burning up my telephone, feverishly sharing every new twist and turn of the story that she's learned from the ladies of "The View" or on "Extra" or "Entertainment Tonight." She's been giddy over this scandal, and I shouldn't wonder why, for this scandal does several things for Mom:

1. It involves politics AND Hollywood;
2. It proves her theory that Schwarzenegger was a womanizing pig who should never have been allowed to breach the gates of Camelot;
3. It proves my mom's theory that you should never have another woman clean your house!

Mom's always been anti-maid, well, by "always" I mean for as long as I've known her which is all of my life! Her actual words were these, "Don't let another woman in your house." As any good daughter would do, I asked my mom for clarification, I mean did this extend to dinner invitations for women, and what about UPS drivers of the fairer sex. She told me not to have such a "smart mouth", but she did offer a further explanation. She meant that if I were to one day find myself married, that I should never have another woman cleaning my house, cooking my food, or engaging in any other domestic tasks usually done by a wife. Now, my mom worked full-time in an office throughout my childhood and when she got home, her workday continued as she straightened up the house - schlepping dirty laundry to the basement, putting away the dinner dishes. Surely, she could have hired a cleaning woman at a reasonable rate, but she always refused, saying, "Don't let another woman in your house," so I knew that this was something close to her heart, but why?

In my mom's mind, cleaning and cooking connect you to the most intimate parts of a person. The act of doing isn't just a necessity, but it's an intimate dialogue. I used to think she was a bit kooky, until I started dating the man that I eventually married. Now, I'm not vacuuming the house in high heels (we've covered that already!) but marital intimacy is built on a daily diet of little things - loading and unloading the dishwasher, folding the laundry, putting out the garbage. So now, insert a stranger into the mix, a strange person who loads and unloads the dishwasher, who folds the laundry, who puts out the garbage, a person who does this for pay in the intimate space of your home. Things can get twisted!

Now, I'm not saying that we should hold the Feminist movement over the balcony by its ankles. No, I think that each person in a household should contribute to the upkeep and care of the home through their physical effort. Heck, "The Walton's" all pitched in and they sure as hell loved each other (I know, it was television, but just work with me!). I am saying, though, that sometimes a load of dirty laundry is more than the sum of its smelly parts. There are some days when everything that can go wrong does go wrong and yet the thing that makes me happy is my husband thanking me for picking up his favorite cheese from the market. These little acts make a marriage and make a home, and let no man or maid put asunder. I'm just saying:)

Cleaning House: How a Hoover and some Lysol Brought Me Back to Sanity

I'm typing this post with achy arms, a sore back, and a sense of satisfaction because yesterday I cleared my calendar and took the day off from work to clean my house. I know, it sounds crazy and a bit backwards to hear a woman praising her domestic side, but I'm not writing this as a woman craving to bring back the days of "Leave it to Beaver" and the high-heeled pump posse who vacuumed the living rooms of yester-year, rather, I'm writing this as a human being who finally had it up to here with my mess. The catalyst for this wasn't a specific event, nor was it the result of a marathon viewing of "Hoarders" or "Clean House." It was, instead, a call to order the disorder that's surrounded me.

For the record, I've always liked certain aspects of the housecleaning experience. Dusting the furniture was always cool because of the shine and the lemony scent of the wood polish that was left behind. The best was walking back into the house and getting two nostrils full of Lemon Pledge - it was like all was right with the world. I took to mopping for the same reason because who doesn't dig the fresh clean scent of Lysol. Growing up, Saturdays were devoted to Mom, my sister and I cleaning the house. Out would come the bag of dust rags - mostly old t-shirts - the vacuum (in which I once caught my dead dog Tory's tail - go figure!), the brooms, dustpans, mop and bucket, trash bags, and all of the liquids and polishes needed for the tasks at hand. We would pick our desired area of dust-busting and hop to it, with the Metropolitan Opera broadcast blaring on the stereo. A few hours later, our work complete, we'd head out for some fun, and, returning home, we'd be greeted by the smell of clean.

Cleaning the house wasn't a political act when I was growing up, but it easily could have been. My maternal grandmother earned her living cleaning the houses of others, and my paternal grandmother was still cleaning office buildings well into her 70s. For these two women, cleaning for money was what they had to do for their families' survival, but there was also personal pride and peace of mind in keeping their own homes spotless.

By the time I got to college, though, a clean house was the last thing on my mind. I blithely made piles on top of piles, creating a mighty tower of shirts, skirts, and pants that was architecturally impressive but structurally unsound. When my parents visited me on campus, the state of my room was tops in all of our discussions. Fueled by the feminist thinkers who demanded an end to the rituals of cooking and cleaning that had imprisoned women, I made my mess my mission.

My rebellion continued through graduate school, and, by then, I was joined by several of my girlfriends, all of us questioning the value of Windex in our post-grad lives, but already cracks were beginning to show in my hardened stance. In an effort to reduce parent-child tensions, I'd taken to cramming my clothing piles into a bedroom closet whenever Mom and Dad visited. After they'd leave, though, I started to notice the extra square footage and I liked what I saw. Soon, I started thinking of making my temporary solution a permanent state.

Bit by bit, I made my way back to a clean house, until I got married. It seems that somehow, through some freak hiccup in the Matrix, I, a former maker of piles, had inadvertently fallen in love with a serial stacker. Backsliding was inevitable, and epic. My husband suggested getting a maid, but I resisted, and not because I like my mess, and not because I had come to believe that it was my duty as the lady of the house to clean. No, I resisted because getting into the habit of having someone else clean up the mess that I've made is a dangerous habit. It can produce a thoughtlessness, an unconcern for the consequences of my actions.

We give children chores because it teaches them responsibility and shows them the value of contributing to group living, but as adults we shirk these duties. In the nuclear family, it's the woman who cleans while the men folk and the children make the mess. I have lots of friends who, in order to keep their sanity, happily fork over money for a cleaning lady. They figure it's better than the argument they'd have with their husbands. And maybe they're right, but it still doesn't solve the underlying problem of the mess that your mess leaves behind.

Which brings me to my clean-a-thon the other day. When I finished cleaning, I walked from room to room, inspecting my progress and I felt calm. My mind wasn't racing, I was relaxed and I cracked open a book. My physical connection with my space had resulted in peace of mind. I could smell the Lysol and the memories of my childhood, and I was home:) I'm just saying.

An 18th Birthday To Do List

When my God son turned 18, I started to remember my own 18th birthday.  On my 18th birthday, the most thrilling thing I did was register to vote. That may sound boring, but for a kid born with Potomac Fever, I was majorly happy. I felt like I knew it all, although I had seen nothing. But after waiting so long to be 18, I also found myself asking, "so now what?" There were so many questions that I had, then, about life and the world, and my life in the world. Looking back, I wish that someone would have given me some rules for living, so here are my 18 Things that every 18 years old should know:

1. Always say please and thank-you, no matter how cranky you are, no matter how bad of a day you're having, and no matter whether or not the recipient of your good manners is deserving.
2. Always have a camera with you and take photos of the places you go and the people you meet because one day those experiences will be fuzzy memories.
3. Keep your mouth shut about your romantic entanglements. True intimacy is built on trust so zip those lips!
4. Volunteer! Even with a full college course load, and fraternity parties and intramural football games, don't forget to give your time and energy to those in need. It will remind you that it's not always all about you.
5. Call your mom and dad just to ask how their day is. That means no asking for money for that spring break trip to Cabo or more gas money.
6. Treat the friends that you've made and the friends you will make as if they will be your friends for life.
7. Read one book a month that has nothing to do with your studies and listen to music that you've never heard of  - these things will stretch your mind.
8. Travel, travel, travel, while you're single and free because it's much harder to do when you're married with children and mortgage and job!
9. If your friends are headed down a wrong or dangerous path, tell them. They may be angry with you and give you the silent treatment for a while, but they'll also know that you love them enough to be honest and that's the true mark of friendship.
10. Learn to waltz - it'll come in handy when you least expect it!
11. If a relationship with a girl, or a friend or a school or a job is making you miserable, and talking it out doesn't help, then don't be afraid to leave. Sometimes it takes more courage to walk away from a bad situation than to hold your nose and remain.
12. Take naps!
13. Always keep a $20 bill - you never know when you'll need it for cab fare, gas, or a meal.
14. If you don't understand something, then speak up and ask a question. Don't let your pride or embarrassment prevent you from learning.
15. Attend as many family events as you're able - baptisms, weddings, birthday parties - because this is how you will deepen your connection to your family.
16. Don't watch so much TV or spend too much time on Facebook or Twitter or whatever the social media flavor of the month! Go out and live life instead of observing it from the safety of your sofa.
17. Make frequent visits to your school's career counseling center and make a plan for life after undergrad.
18. Say what you mean. It might make your life harder in the short term, but it will also make your life richer in the long term.

There you have it!  I'm Just Saying:)

Top Chef: The Grandma Edition

This week, we saw the end of another season of Bravo's Top Chef, with a new Celebrity Chef wannabe crowned as winner. The romance of the chef lives on, and on and on. It's a world of foul-mouthed, tatted-up boys unleashing their vast mental stores of culinary whoop-ass on each other. There's trash-talk, moments of self-doubt, and triumphant, tasty brilliance. I've seen the chef-testants (Bravo's word, not mine) make a dish from the contents of the lowly vending machine. I've seen them fashion potatoes into pasta, and magic fois gras hamburgers. But for all of their creativity and ingenuity, the best Top Chef I've ever known was my Grandmother.

Grandma was a visionary. Long before we started praising those daring French chefs and their use of organ meats, Grandma was serving up her own Southern-fried charcuterie - basically, whatever was on sale at the grocery store that week. The dish made its debut at the Sunday family dinner. If there was a sale on whole chickens, then chicken it was for Sunday and chicken it would be for the rest of the week!

Sunday - chicken, mashed potatoes, and vegetables
Monday - chicken and potato pancakes (made from Sunday's mashed potatoes)
Tuesday - chicken and dumplings served with Sunday's vegetables
Wednesday - chicken soup with biscuits
Thursday - chicken casserole
Friday - No chicken (Grandma was a pre-Vatican II RC, so no meat on Fridays, ever!!!)

My sweet little grandmother managed to do all of this in her floral, zippered house dress and scuffs, instead of chef's whites and expensive clogs. Instead of bravado, she served up daily brilliance with a smile and we were all well fed and happy. She didn't "stage" with the likes of Eric Ripert, but she learned her killer culinary techniques from some of the best cooks she knew: from her sister, Alice, she learned the art of the bundt cake. From her sister, Hilda, she learned how to make the best sheet cake I've ever tasted. From her sister, Lucille, she learned to make the fluffiest and most buttery dinner roll on this earth. And from her mom, she learned everything else. In her younger days, she had been a line cook, actually the cook, for my Uncle Joe and Aunt Helen's small luncheonette. She'd occasionally work there when I was a little girl, and during my summers, I'd accompany her there and watch her in action.

Having never attended The Culinary Institute of America, my grandmother learned by holding her feet to the fire, or should it be the meat to the fire (I know, bad pun! Bad pun!!). She may not have been able to tell you what a brunoise (food cut into a very fine chop) is, but she had the technique to execute it.  Her only kitchen knife, which she used for cutting vegetables and butchering meat, wasn't anything you'll see in a Williams-Sonoma catalogue.

As for food and wine pairings, well just forget that. My grandmother only liked one wine and it was Manischewitz (with one ice cube added). Even now, when I have a bit of port after dinner, I think of Grandma with her juice glass of Manischewitz, and the sound of the lone ice cube clattering to the bottom of the glass as she finished. And so here's a toast to you, Grandma, for every breakfast, lunch, and dinner that you cooked with your own hands just for me. Yelp and Zagat's may have overlooked you, but you have 3 Michelin stars in my heart - I'm just saying:)

Baby Mama Drama during Movie Night!

Silly me, thinking that a late movie on date night would be a child-free zone! I found out 15 minutes into the film how wrong I was when the first "wa-wa-wa's" erupted from the nosebleed seats. The outburst lasted for 3 minutes, that's 180 seconds - an eternity in movie years! A secondary eruption followed 20 minutes later, this one accompanied by the hurried steps of Baby Mama darting towards the exit carrying the irritated infant. I could see the outline of Baby Mama and child, as she attempted to rock the baby into better humor. It seemed to work, and so Baby Mama and child began their assent back up to their seats.

All was quiet, save for the rustling of hands into tubs of buttery popcorn and the onscreen happenings of Adam Sandler and Jennifer Aniston, when the little one had another meltdown, exploding into a torrent of tears and ear-splitting shrieks and that's when the Mothership LOST. HER. MIND!! Only, it wasn't directed towards her baby, rather it was aimed at someone else in the nosebleed section who must have made a comment about the baby because Baby Mama responded with a very loud, "Well, just MIND your damn business, then!!"

Now this isn't the first time a stranger has sought to intervene when a baby has gone nuclear. We've all been there when a pint-size terror throws a toddler tantrum while mommy and daddy stand stricken and humiliated. Some of us coo at little Kiddie Kaboom in a vain attempt to quell their madness with kindness, but there are times when, frankly, no one wants to hear your child.

There are different schools of thought on how best to deal with a child-gone-wild. Some opt for immediate removal and containment, taking the little one out of the situation at the first whimper. You'll notice these people, as they'll insist on sitting nearest the exit with their coats on, in a perpetual state of high alert. These, I must admit, are some of my favorite people!

There are others, though, who take a more wait and see approach, preferring to let a few whimpers and unhappy gurgles go unchecked, and using a mixture of techniques, including rapid leg bouncing of the tiny tot and shifting the little one between parents. They'll stay until the frequency of nasty looks and the chorus of throat-clearing from observers drives them into sudden awareness that their child's behavior might be a bit annoying.

But the worst are those who dig in, and, even while their child is in the midst of an epic foot-stomping rage, they are steadfast and immovable. They seem dulled to the hysterics of their child, or maybe they've become so accustomed to it that they're like the Borg from Star Trek: "resistance is futile!" 

One of my friends who's a mother of two falls into the immediate removal and containment category. Her philosophy is that there are certain situations where it's not a good idea to have baby on board. During the toddler years, she and her hubby had a no fancy restaurant policy - unless they had a baby sitter at home with the little one. Kids were left at home with one parent while the other made the weekly grocery store trip - in fact, the same policy was in place for mommy's hair dresser appointments and trips to the mall and the movies. I'd tell you her name, but she doesn't exist:(  But maybe, just maybe, she will one day. In the meantime, when you find yourself staring down a one year old on a mission to ruin your trip to see the latest R-rated thriller, just make a note of the nearest exit - you're going to need it! I'm just saying:)

Come Join the Anti-Multi-Tasking Movement!

As I sit here at my computer writing this, I'm also watching a presidential documentary on TV, reading email messages, and checking out Huff Post while a house cat rests on the arm of my chair. Across the room, my husband checks his emails, archives data while twisting around to watch that same presidential documentary when it sounds like there's something interesting. We are the Multi-Taskers and, I suspect, you are, too.

How did we get here? When I was a little girl, I came home from school and did my homework to the sounds of the evening meal being cooked - no iPod, no radio, no television, emails, tweets! Homework time was a sacred and singular pursuit. Friends knew not to visit or call during homework time. That's not to say that I didn't get to see my friends. On the contrary, we friends would spend hours outside, jumping rope or just flat-out running as fast as our legs would take us. After friend time, there was meal time, spent with the buzz of conversation instead of the buzz of the Blackberry. Dinner was eaten at the dinner table, without a television in sight, and if the telephone rang, well, it just kept ringing because there were no phone calls allowed.

So what changed? Well, the rapid development and deployment of technologies for one. Technologies have grown ever more portable, and they've served to erode the artificial barriers that we erected in our orderly little pre-megabyte world. I can put the finishing touches on my boss's speech on a device the size of a cassette tape all from the comfort of my family room while Snooki smooshes with a Juice Head on the Jersey Shore and iTunes updates this week's pod casts. I can Skype from my kitchen to my best friend in San Francisco while fixing dinner and listening to my favorite Boston radio station online while reading the recipe I downloaded to the PDA in my apron pocket.

But it can't all be technology's fault - right?? Right, it can't be. I have to take some responsibility for where I currently find myself. Technology can be a bit like that character in my favorite movie, "All About Eve." The character "Eve is an upstart young actress who, upon meeting her idol, an older Broadway star played by Bettie Davis, insinuates herself into her life,  acting as wide-eyed innocent errand-girl while wrapping her tentacles round poor Bettie Davis. In the end, Ms. Davis fends off her younger rival, and defiantly breaks free of "Eve." I may not be able to defeat technology, and, to be honest, I don't really want to. I merely want some balance back in my life.

So here's my Anti-Multi-Tasking Movement Manifesto:

• I will ignore the urge to update my Facebook status while standing in line at the store/Post Office/grocery store, etc. Instead, I will talk to the person in line with me instead.
• I will sit next to my husband and watch a television show or movie with my PDA in silent mode.
• When sitting next to my husband and watching a TV show or movie, I will resist the temptation to look up a relevant piece of trivia on said PDA and will, instead, make a mental note to look it up at a later time and deal with the temporary unease of not knowing.
• I will sit at the kitchen table and read the hard copy of the daily newspaper.
• I will eat all meals at the kitchen table or dining room table with only conversation and light background music as our accompaniment, and with my PDA in silent mode and shoved into my briefcase.
• I will not read the NY Times, Huff Post, Thomson Reuters from my PDA while in bed.

So there it is. I know, you may not get that same flag-waving feeling like in "Les Miserables", but it's a start. I'm just saying:)

If You're Happy and You Know It then ask Oprah

So I've just taken Oprah's Happiness Quiz, and, according to her, and guest Goldie Hahn, I'm happy enough, but I could be doing so much better. One of the questions was do you think that happiness is genetic? According to Oprah, 50% of our happiness is genetic. Does anyone else find that a troubling statistic?

My dad is the high priest of pessimism. Got a new job, Dad will worry over how long you'll keep it. Got a promotion at work? Dad will wonder how long before the stress from all of that work will kill you. So are my genetics my destiny? Well, the good news, for me at least, is that my Mom is little miss sunshine. Got a new job? Wonderful, let's celebrate and figure out what you're going to wear!! Just got that promotion you've been working so hard for? Awesome, let's celebrate some more and figure out where you're going to invest all of that extra money!! Two parents, two different takes on the same event - it's like my own personal Rashomon effect! If 50% of my happiness is genetic, then what portion of that 50% comes from Dad and which from Mom?

As for the other 50% of my happiness, well, according to Oprah and Goldie, having children may or may not make me happy, having sex definitely will make me happy, knowing my neighbors will make me feel happier and safer (although I think it all depends on who those neighbors are), and having time alone every day will "CHANGE MY LIFE!!" (that's my Oprah voice, but la Goldie readily agreed so it must be true).

Now I don't mean to sound snarky, and I think it's sweet and lovely of Oprah and Goldie to show me that, even without their Emmy Awards and millions of dollars, there are ways for me to, as Oprah says, "up your joy" (that sounds slightly naughty, doesn't it?).  But my spirit guides usually aren't sporting Cartier rings and LV bags, and so it's a little hard to take when Oprah tells me how much money I need to be happy (hint: its a figure much lower than her personal worth).

The one pearl that I gained from Oprah and la Goldie was what happiness comes through our connections to one another, so that no matter how much of a Debbie Downer my Dad can be, our connection to each other brings him some happiness, and that makes me happy, too:)

I'm just saying.

How to Marriage-Proof Your Friendships

They were there for you when you dated what's-his-name, and when you dumped what's-his-name. They leaped for joy when you got The Big Job and crossed their fingers when you went for The Big Promotion. They ooh-ed and ah-ed when he put a ring on it, and they bustled your big white dress before you took to the floor for your first married dance. These are your friends, and while they survived through thick and through thin, they sometimes bite it after "to have and to hold." So what gives?

Numerous studies have talked about the health benefits of coupling and the stability that a legal union brings, but the negative toll that marital bliss takes on friendships can be measured in more emotional ways. Want proof? If you're married, take a look at the people who were your bridesmaids and your groomsmen and ask yourself when was the last time that you talked to them, had a meal with them, shared a confidence with them.

If you're not pleased with the results of this walk down memory lane, you're not alone. A lot of us, both married and single, received bad advice. Newlyweds are expected to be sequestered in connubial bliss for the first year of marriage. Writing thank-you notes, finding a home for all of the wedding loot, and, of course, making mad, passionate love are what you're supposed to do. If you come out of your love den to attend the odd family event, you're greeted with knowing smiles and snickers, especially when asked "so, what have you two been up to?" You almost expect to see Benny Hill pop up and deliver a "hello, hello" in his best Cockney accent!

After the Honeymoon Year, the married couple continues to settle down, maybe buying a new home or beginning home improvement projects to the home they already own. I call years 2-5 The Project Years, which can include redoing a kitchen, a bathroom, an entire house. There will be many hours spent at Home Depot or Lowe's, as well as Benjamin Moore, and your kitchen table will become a repository for paint samples, floor and tile samples, and an Ikea catalogue, in case you scrap the whole DIY thing altogether.You're also supposed to be making mad, passionate love, but this is part of another project - making babies.

By the end of year 5, if you've successfully completed The Project Years, then it's time to raise your children with that newly remodeled kitchen/bathroom, or, if you haven't done so already, move into a more child-friendly home and/or neighborhood. Now it's at this point that you will meet other parents or parents-to-be, either in the neighborhood or at yoga class, and you'll become friends.

By now you should be asking, "But what happened to my old friends?"

The answer to that is complicated. If you had an amazing sense of timing, then you and your friends went through this cycle of engagement and marriage around the same time. But, if you're like most people, then while you were in the Honeymoon Year, your old friends, who were also following bad advice, were giving you your space.

Space. Let's think about that word. When people are in a romantic relationship and they say they need their "space", you don't have to be Phi Beta Kappa to know that you're at the end of the line. So if you say that you're giving your newlywed friend space, does that mean you're throwing in the towel on your friendship?

Well, sort of.

Let me explain. As the old friend, I am supposed to be understanding of the needs of my newlywed friends, and I'm supposed to amend my expectations for our friendship lest I be called "needy" and, worse, jealous of their coupled happiness. As the old friend, my job is to be undemanding, which means tossing out the unwritten rules of what friendship actually means. Phone calls, lunches, dinners, trips to museums, trips to the movies/flea market/shopping mall - these are all optional now. Don't get me wrong, these activities were optional before marriage, too, but they didn't feel optional. They felt vital. And at some point, your old friend finds a new friend - someone whom they can call without guilt or reservation. In essence, they hit the "delete" button on your friendship before you do.

Some friendships limp along with interactions confined to group dinners or holiday open houses with sprawling guest lists, and the quality of the friendship declines. Once the children begin to arrive, along with a move further out to the bigger home, then you're down to holiday cards and occasional telephone calls. But it doesn't have to be this way and here are some tips to help your friendships survive the marriage trap:

1. Leave the Significant Other at home (or, "Guess Who's NOT Coming to Dinner) - You love your spouse, and your spouse knows that, so you don't have to spend every moment with them, and neither does your friend. Going out to dinner sans spouse might seem odd, at first, but if you want your friendships to grow and deepen, then you must provide for the ability of your friend to share new and fun experiences with you alone. I'm not saying that you can't invite your friend to a family dinner, too, but if you make that your only interaction, then you're making a mistake.
2. Zip the lip (or, "Put it in the vault") -  I've never bought into the bunk that says that spouses must share everything with each other, including their friends' personal business. Why? Because, guess what, YOU'RE  MY FRIEND, NOT YOUR SPOUSE! A friendship is an intimate relationship which means it involves trust. If I know that you're blabbing away to your husband about what I've told you in confidence, then I'm not telling you anything more.
3. Phone NOT Facebook (or, Don't "Friend" Me, Just be my Friend) - Facebook has made lots of things more efficient, but true friendship is more than efficiency. While you may post about your new car, don't forget to call your best buddy during the whole car-buying process. Think that something like that's too trivial to call and tell your friend about? Well, you just posted it for hundreds of other pairs of eyes - think about it!
4. Let Your Friend Play Hostess (or, Su Casa, Not Mi Casa) - So you've got all of the pieces to your wedding china, as well as that Tiffany's serving dish and you can't wait to show them off, but if you want to keep your friendship from becoming a perpetual "away game" for your friend, then do them the courtesy of visiting them at their home. They love their home as much as you love yours. They have favorite recipes they'd love to cook for you. Let them, and love them for seeking to share this most personal part of who they are - their home.

It may not be easy, at first. Instead of giving each other space, think, instead, of redefining the space of your friendship.

I'm just saying:)

The Dinner Dance

As I speed towards the fourth decade of my life, I've become increasingly obsessed with the everyday rituals of life. The trivial things, such as when I sleep, when I wake up, and when I eat, and what I eat, are all suddenly important. I never gave these things much attention when I was growing up, mostly because I didn't have much choice. Bedtime was set by Mom, as was the morning alarm. Mealtimes were set by Grandma, who lived with us and was our family's executive chef, and the menu was a balance of meat, vegetables, and a starch, all consumed at the dining room table once Mom arrived home from the office. Once in a while, we kids could make a special request for hamburger night, but that was all of the input we were allowed. And life was good, uncomplicated and good.

Now, it seems like that kind of approach is no longer the norm. I know of families where the dinner table is a constant battlefield, where kids refuse the food on offer, and the parents throw up the white dinner napkin of surrender and settle on a feast of take-out pizza and fast food. I've dined at one home where a picky 6 year old refused to eat the homemade dinner and was then served the fried bologna sandwich he requested. Have it your way? Hell to the NO!! I've even had people show up to our home for Thanksgiving dinner armed with microwave corn dogs (you know who you are!) because their kids are so used to processed foods that real turkey and vegetables aren't to their liking - HUH??!!

So what gives?

While I could write chapter and verse on the need for discipline in the parent-child relationship, the real issue is our over-reliance on fast food and dining out and how it's changed our perceptions of taste and of time. This is one of those chicken vs. egg type arguments. Cooking at home requires a lot of steps - research recipes, plan meals, make a shopping list, go to the grocery store, cook the meals. Trips to the grocery store are time-consuming and meal prep times can vary between 20 minutes to several hours. Compare that to the 30 minutes it takes to get a pizza delivered to your home, or the 5 minutes waiting at the drive-through for a bucket of fried bliss and it's clear that in the home cooking vs. fast food time challenge that fast food emerges the winner.

But what about taste? Well, fast food has some advantages, but they're all unfair advantages. Fast food companies have an army of chemists and taste-testers at their disposal making sure that their food products achieve the highest level of yummy to appeal to the majority of taste buds. I'm convinced that the more you eat fast food, the more acclimatized you become to the taste so that you crave that food and that taste.

So why should I even make dinner? Why fight against the tide of golden arches or the oily scrumptiousness of a $1 taco allegedly comprised of less than 30% of actual beef?

While the obvious answer is for the sake of better health and nutrition, the better answer is that the whole exercise of making our meals and eating them together creates a sense of community and family. It feels good to watch people enjoy something that you cook - it's like you're giving them a gift. Even on those nights when a dish isn't as successful, all is not lost because the act of preparing a meal for others generates those same good feelings. Now, I'm not ignorant to how busy and fast life is these days, and I'm not advocating a return to the days of high-heeled, crinolined skirt wearing ladies of the house cheerfully whiling away the day in the kitchen. But there are ways to have a more convenient style of home cooking. My Grandma used to prepare the largest meal on Sundays, portioning and freezing or refrigerating the leftovers which would be used for meals throughout the week. Sunday's whole-roasted chicken became Monday's chicken legs and vegetable, Tuesday's chicken thighs and dumplings, Wednesday's chicken stew, and Thursday's chicken pot pie.

And while my Grandma had more than 60 years of recipes in her head, today there are all sorts of online resources, like my favorite, Recipe.com, as well as websites for The Food Network and its' shows. Epicurious.com is another great place to get inspiration for menu planning.

Now, if you're observant, you'll notice something missing from this discussion, and that's dear old dad. While this may be 2011, I suspect that the steady march toward fast food and delivery food was created from a sense of frustration on the part of the wives and moms who were saddled with the lions share of menu planning and preparation, and dads and husbands who wanted a way out of feeling guilty for that imbalance. But, that's a discussion for a different time! I'm just saying:)

Do Sisters Have to be Friends?

While I usually love the "Real Housewives" franchise for its botoxed vixens, flaxen weaves, and scandalous feuds, I've been particularly fascinated with this season's Beverly Hills edition because of the relationship between two of the ladies - Kyle and Kim. The two are sisters and their love/hate relationship teeters towards hate more often than not. Kim is the mercurial former child, teen, and young adult film and TV star who harbors deep-seated feelings of resentment towards being the family's meal ticket. And Kyle is the younger sister who feels saddled by her co-dependent older sister. Their interactions with each other are painful to watch. They're sisters, after all, so shouldn't they be expected to "get over" their issues and just be there for each other?

It's not always that easy. While some may have a relationship with their sisters that's reminiscent of that wonderful old show tune, "Sisters", where the two sisters sing of their devotion and care for one another, some of us relate to our sisters more like Jan from "The Brady Bunch" relates to Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!! Some sisters may even take the voyage to Hater-ville, going after each other like Tanya Harding went after Nancy Kerrigan. So what gives?

The simple and ugly truth is that sometimes, sisters don't like each other. Sound harsh? Well, the truth isn't pretty, that's why it's got such an ugly name! We don't choose our siblings. In the workplace that is our family, siblings are the co-workers placed in the office opposite ours, or, heaven forbid, in the same cubicle! And older siblings are even worse, getting all of the perks, including the bigger office, and, when they turn 16, a company car!

So who's to blame? Well, we can always blame our parents, and sometimes, that's actually the case. Mom and Dad can sometimes, unwittingly, create tension between siblings - overly praising the so-called "perfect" sibling, while constantly criticizing the not-so-perfect sibling. But, really, it's just simple chemistry. I hate to refute you, Rodney King, but sometimes, we can't all just get along.

I think it's time to let us off the hook, so here goes:

Just because you're sisters doesn't mean that you have to be each other's intimate other.

Any relationship that has an assumption of intimacy is doomed to failure. If your parents said that because you're sisters you have to get along, then they were wrong. Relationships are constructed of not just shared experiences, but also trust and a concern for another person that is freely given.

So, what if you're raising your daughters right now and you want to make these sisters into friends? Some sisters will naturally bond with each other and be each other's best friend for the rest of their lives. But some will need to have the space to build a relationship on their own terms. As parents, it may not be the ideal that you dreamt about, but it will be authentic.

I'm just saying:)

The Post-Holiday Blues:(

So the party's over. The eggnog has been drunk, the needles on the Christmas tree are starting to stiffen,  you're wondering what to do with all of those damn candy canes and, if you were one of the lucky ones not snowed in, you're trying to find space for all of the goodies that Santa left for you. The day after Christmas is always a bit of a letdown because, really, Christmas is all about anticipation. I remember that old Heinz ketchup commercial where the camera is fixed on a bottle of the gooey red stuff and, as Carly Simon's "Anticipation" plays in the background, we all stare, transfixed, awaiting the arrival of the precious drop of ketchup. It's, seriously, the longest 60 seconds!

The Christmas build-up starts around Halloween, and by the time we get to December 1st and see the growing stack of Eddie Bauer and L.L. Bean catalogues on the family room floor, you wonder if December 25th can come any sooner.  

Anticipation is one of the more seductive emotions. Yes, I said seductive. It's this delicious tension that results as a by-product of waiting and fulfillment. We've all waited for some big thing: that first kiss, the big job offer, the walk down the aisle, the birth of a baby. And that waiting is pregnant with possibility and every wild imagining. But what about the moment after the BIG MOMENT?

Once the tension of waiting is broken, what to do next? How do you deal with the emptiness that results when your One Shining Moment limps to conclusion?  Well, since you asked, here are a few simple suggestions:

1. Start a new project - One of the most time-worn, post-holiday projects is the diet/fitness/weight loss military industrial complex. Why do you think those Jennifer Hudson/Weight Watchers commercials have increased ten fold in the past few days?? I know, it's so un-original as to be cliche, but it'll keep you busy and, with each drop of a pants size, you'll be able to celebrate each inch of success with a "Pretty Woman" style revenge-shopping spree at all of the boutiques that gave you the stink-eye when you were a larger size!
2. Share those holiday photos - Chances are that if you're feeling a little post-holiday depression, then other people may be feeling it, too. So release those photos from your camera's SD card and let your friends and family relive those magic moments. Bonus points if you leave the embarrassing pics off of your Facebook page!!
3. Leave your Christmas lights up - There's something so festive about watching the dazzling display of Christmas lights, so why take them down just because it's January 1st?? In my household, we've been known to leave our Christmas lights up and on until May. And if it ticks off your neighbors or home owners association, well, just tell them you wanted to beat the rush for next year. And, speaking of next year...
4. Start shopping for next year - The days after Christmas are way better than Black Friday if you're looking for good retail karma. You've just been with your relatives so you've been able to focus group test their reactions to this year's loot. Also, by the time Christmas rolls around next year, they'll have forgotten what was in stores this year and they'll be thrilled that you remember their tastes so well. You'll amaze them by your super-durable, heavy weave wrapping paper, purchased at 75% off from the Container Store post-Christmas sale. Just remember to store everything discretely and you can savor all year long the anticipation of how much they'll love everything on December 25, 2011!

Remember, sometimes the feeling of wanting what you want is better than getting what you want. I'm just saying:)