Wednesday, November 30, 2011

DOG


Ben Franklin never said: Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. He wrote: Behold the rain which descends from heaven upon our vineyards, there it enters the roots of the vines, to be changed into wine, a constant proof that God loves us, and loves to see us happy.

So, according to Mr. Franklin, wine is a constant proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

Methinks dogs are a constant proof of that.  Definitive proof.  

Truth be told, I am the least obvious person to challenge Mr. Franklin's views determining wine as evidence of Divine affection. When I was a child, I begged for an Old English Sheep Dog for fifteen years. I had to settle for siblings. As a young adult, I was the friend who played with dogs at parties, or brought a card to a heartbroken master who had just said goodbye to his pet. I couldn’t even begin to understand love for a dog, or despair when a dog died.    

But now I have a friend who never speaks; her eyes tell the story. 

So rather than question Ben Franklin, I want to shout-out for dogs. Not for their loyalty, devotion, or intuition; for their vision

Dogs see a problem, they solve it.

Master left the house. I will sleep all day so he will come home sooner.

Master is sad. I will let her pet me until she feels better. Or I will take her for a walk.  

Creatures are using my lawn for a toilet. I will pee on every blade of their grass.    

Master is pulling apart a chicken. She will give me that chicken if I am patient enough to sit here and wait for scraps. I will be patient. And sit here and wait for scraps.

Master is ignoring me. I will stare at him until he notices my tail-wagging cuteness.

Master snapped at me for eating toast and jam that she left on the table. I will sit on my spot and keep my face off the table- until Master leaves more food that smells good.  

Master is busy. I will watch our kids.  I will bark if one of them falls out of a tree.

Dogs speak with their eyes. They talk with their actions. Is there any other species on earth that communicates so clearly and comprehensively without language?  

Just yesterday I took my dog to be groomed. She vaulted up the stairs to the shop, where she was promptly greeted by the groomer’s newest child: a German shepherd.  Ripster was not a strong, silent kind of dog. He was a huge, barky, in-your-face kind of puppy. Ripster lunged at my dog so aggressively that I stepped between them, feeling the very same fear that I saw in my dog’s eyes.  

GROOMER:  Don’t worry. Rippie just wants to play with her.

ME:  No, Rippie wants to tear her apart. Limb from limb, if possible.

GROOMER:  He’s just a puppy who wants to play. They'll be fine. Come back at 6. 

Groomer took the leash of my happy-go-lucky dog who, refusing to budge, looked up at me with those eyes. Dismissed, I left the shop, feeling like I had just deserted my shy, frightened four year old at the Pre-K classroom door. It would have been a great day- had I not been haunted by the image of my dog's eyes, clearly shrieking, "How can you leave me here?" 

Imagine humanity without words. Imagine living in a world where we only communicate with our eyes and our actions.

How much more would we notice?  How much more often would we pay attention?  

Like our dogs.

They are not creatures. They are not people.

Dogs are unconditional love; a constant proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.



Quing Hereby Decrees:  Ask me to choose.  I'll take the dog.    

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

THE GOOD STUFF



I have already admitted that fuss is in my DNA.

I may also harbor lunatic tendencies, but do not worry.  All great rulers do.

Rewind.  My kids are little, Dora-the-Explorer little.

We buy an oak table for the kitchen in our new house. It is not hand-me-down or first-apartment nice. It's Big-People nice.

I am determined that my 1, 3, 6 and 7 year old children will not ruin it.

Enter Glass-Guardian: an 8 ft long by 3 ft wide stupidly expensive plate of glass that sits atop the table.
Every time a little person's juice, milk, applesauce or ice cream topples over, up comes the glass, and out comes the Windex. Two annoyed big people then wipe up the mess; the one with the larger muscles lifts and holds the glass, the other cleans and dries the glass.

True story.

I kept that silly table spotless for eight years. Then we went out of town, and a family who borrowed our house spilled juice, yogurt, and milk on the table, without thinking to lift and wipe the glass. The moment I arrived home from vacation, nine random blobs of curdled, black gunk-trapped and oozing between Glass Guardian and Freshly-Warped-&-Chipped kitchen table shouted at me: "Well, that was worth all those years of time and effort, wasn't it?!"
 
Just like stain stick.

Fast forward a few years.  Kids are Sponge-Bob older. We are hosting a holiday dinner. The dining room table is covered with china, silverware, stemware, candles, flowers and linen napkins fanning out of crystal goblets. The other tables are set with every-day place settings, a candle or flowers. In the chaos that ensues as thirty people sit down to eat, I realize that my husband and children are at the kitchen table, or squished between a Tiny Tots plastic picnic table and bench.

Had aliens entered our home and listed the earthlings of importance-purely based on the tables where individuals sat for that holiday dinner- the names of my children and spouse would be listed on lines 1-5 in the 'Insignificant Nothings' column.

That very next day the kids came home from school and noted their dining room in holiday mode. “Who's coming for dinner?” they asked.

“The most important earthlings in the universe,” I answered. (I didn't really say that, but it works here, don't you think?)

My kids had made it to both the Big People Room and the Big People Table. Delight- on steroids. We lit candles, spread linen napkins across our laps, ate spaghetti and meatballs on china plates, and drank milk from martini glasses. I did not say, "Be careful not to spill!" one single time.

Epiphanies occur at the craziest moments. That night, I determined that every stain or chip on our furniture would henceforth be a memory of a great family meal, moment, or conversation. Our good stuff would no longer sparkle behind plates of glass for most of the year- like objects in a museum. Instead, I'd use it-weekly, if possible- for the company I most wanted to feel special; the people I live with every day.

Yes, I cringe every time one of my kids lifts a serrated knife while dining at the Big People table. Then I remember Glass Guardian. Stain stick. Alien lists. And I shut up.
 
Thanksgiving has come and gone. You've put away all your good stuff.
 
Take it out.  Use it on a Monday. Or when it rains. On a school snow day, or a quiet Sunday night.

Sip your afternoon tea from a china cup. It will taste better, honest.

Delight. On steroids. 



QUING Hereby Decrees:  Use the good stuff.  Or give it to me.

Monday, November 28, 2011

ROCKS


They drive me crazy. 

Make me stutter.

Tease me.

Annoy me. 

Break my heart.  

Break it again.  

Ignore me. 

Question my decisions.  

Judge me. 

Give me the look.

Talk behind my back.

Disappoint me.

Fail to appreciate one smidgen of my awesomeness. 

Judge me some more.

A loved one dies. A stranger enters a funeral parlor. Seeking a casket, she discovers the breathing, pulsing drama of family; united to mourn, united to celebrate a life, united, spreading fresh brush strokes across a living tapestry called 'kin'. 

Vibrant.  Subtle.  Maddening.  Rich.  Striking.  Complex.

The stranger sees what the family takes for granted.  Brothers, sisters, cousins, parents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews linked by an invisible, invincible thread of heredity, history, crisis, experience.  

Overwhelmed, the stranger squeezes my hand and speaks: "You are so blessed to be part of a family like this."  

She doesn't know the half of it: the arguments, pettiness, silliness, competition. The drama.

The stranger only sees the bond.  The love.  Immeasurable and real.

She is right to remind me. 

They are my refuge.  

Wings.

Shelter.

Hope. 

Past. And future.

They make me nuts.  

But I love them.  
 
Family rocks. 


QUING Hereby Decrees: Take a good look; through someone else's eyes.

Friday, November 25, 2011

QUING Parties at the Palace with CHILE CON QUESO

The one day of the year when an oven malfunction can be disastrous? You guessed it. I was supposed to arrive at my brother and sister-in-law's house by 4:30 yesterday.  Instead, I sent husband and kids ahead while I waited on roasted veggies and pie. By the time I arrived, a half hour late, the Queso dip we brought for the pre-dinner party was gone. I was stunned.  This recipe makes a whole lot of Queso. My only consolation? The dip is utterly irresistible. If I have a party, guests are disappointed if this dip is not on the table.  Just be sure to make it when there are lots of friends around to help you consume. Gustare!   


CHILE CON QUESO
adapted from Todd Wilbur's Super Secret Restaurant Collection


One 16oz box Velveeta, cut into 1 inch chunks
3/4 cup whole milk
1/4 cup white onion, chopped
1 Anaheim pepper, seeded and diced
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded and diced
Juice of one lime
1 tablespoon cilantro, chopped
1/4 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/8 teaspoon dried thyme
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt
Two medium tomatoes, seeded and diced
Tortilla chips for dipping. 

Heat milk on medium/low.  Add Velveeta chunks, stir continuously until melted. When cheese is melted, add remaining ingredients, except tomatoes. Cook, stirring constantly, for 7 minutes.  Remove from heat, gently stir in tomatoes. Serve warm, with tortilla chips for dipping. 

Thursday, November 24, 2011

THANKSGIVING



I returned to Room 209 for a final time. 

The door was closed. I opened it and discovered that my aunt had not moved in the few short hours since I'd last visited. Still, she was gone.  

Death had mercifully spared her: from falls and dementia, starvation and loneliness. Unlike ten days ago, I was not fearful or despairing when I entered Room 209 and felt the presence of Death. I was grateful he was there to end her suffering. Setting her free on the yellow brick road, he had sent her home.

A moment of joy in death; it’s stunning.

But as I packed my aunt’s few belongings, and held Mom’s hand for a final prayer and goodbye, I was overwhelmed; imagining the peace, love, and giddiness my sweet, simple aunt must have felt as- a lifetime of prayers answered-she departed Room 209 and entered eternal life. I felt profoundly grateful to have been the recipient of her unconditional love, to have learned by her example to appreciate and nurture faith, family, and friendships; to have learned by her example to appreciate the simple.

I returned home with a bag for the Goodwill and a lighter heart. Basketball practice, hockey, and pie crusts topped the evening's agenda. Kids were laughing with cousins. They ran to share hugs and consolation as I entered the living room. Surrounded by youth, I wondered what my children, nieces and nephews might learn from my example. I have lived a different life than my aunt and uncles, but I hoped that their example would live on in mine. Appreciate and nurture faith, family, and friendships. Love unconditionally, and appreciate the simple. I have a lot of work to do.

Many of us will celebrate Thanksgiving, missing someone we love.  Most will celebrate the harvest, the mayhem, the many blessings in our lives. I will give thanks for this new day; and for the moment of joy, comfort and insight I received when I encountered Death in Room 209 last evening.   

He sent my dear aunt home, and reminded me that young eyes I love are watching and learning, that every moment counts, and that a life well lived is truly quite simple.  

A blessed Thanksgiving to you and yours.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

CAN-U-COPE-EA?



You may think I make this stuff up. But dictionary says:

cor·nu·co·pi·a [kawr-nuh-koh-pee-uh, -nyuh-]
noun
1. Classical Mythology. a horn containing food, drink, etc., in endless supply, said to have been a horn of the goat Amalthaea.
2. an abundant, overflowing supply.  
Origin:
1585–95;  < Late Latin,  equivalent to Latin cornū horn  ( see cornu) + cōpiae  of plenty (genitive stem of cōpia ); see copious

Can-u-cope-ea? [kan-u-koh-pee-uh-]
noun
1.  Classical Momology.  a query pertaining to stress, anxiety, and exhaustion in endless supply, said to have been born of twin goats Perfection and Cannotsayno.
Origin:
2011; <American slang, spin-off of a Dirty Harry challenge: “…you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”  


The day before the feast of the year.  You’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel stressed? Well, do ya, love?

Emails. Texts. Who brings what? Who brings whom?

The lists begin. 

Clean. Everything. Wash. Everything.

Iron tablecloth. Ignore stains. Search house for linen napkins. Add paper napkins to grocery list.

Cut/assemble Tom Turkey place-card holders and pressed leaf placemats. Let children help.

Depart for Wegmans at 6 am.  Must calm, unhurried citizens hog the left lane?

Search for parking spot. Prepare to battle for last carton of heavy cream.

Wonder. Do the elderly sleep? Do they make their own Thanksgiving feasts? Do they have to dawdle at the front of the line, squeezing avocados and selecting green beans?

Speaking of old people, remember to pick up Granpi Paul.

Speaking of nuts, buy and roast chestnuts for Granpi Paul.  

Rush home. Ignore Karen Carpenter and Shoes-for-a-Dying Mom on every radio station.

Pop popcorn and plan Pilgrim Bingo for 25 second-graders.

Set table with non-matching linens, utensils and dishware that are eclectic, ergo trendy.

Squeeze Tom Turkey place-card holders between goblets and glasses without ruffling feathers.

Select music for guests ages 3-93. Granpi will have to deal with Gaga if he gets Frank and chestnuts.

Engineer two appetizers and four casseroles sharing an oven with a 26 pound bird.

Return to grocery store. Purchase ingredients for appetizers that don't need to bake.

Monitor text threats: "Don't even think of seating me next to him." Move Tom Turkeys.

Make dough. Prepare fruit. Assemble pies.Wash veggies, peel, slice and dice. Refrigerate.

Scrub floors. Sleep till it's dark out. 

Remove slimy giblets from neck of dead bird; do not inhale.

Decide expert recommendations to boil, dice, and add giblets to stuffing are insane. Toss in garbage.

Pluck, brine, rinse, dry, stuff, season, roast, baste, cool, carve. Must a dead bird require so many verbs?

Listen to 89 entertainers lip sync while waiting for Rockettes and Santa.

Accept that man you married actually wants to watch the Dog Show.

Send sneezing child to couch to watch Dog Show with Dad. Not contagious enough to cancel. 

Toss marshmallows over sweet potatoes smothered in butter and brown sugar. It's only one day of the year.

Smile at guests who arrive early: Wine? We were supposed to bring wine? Kids? We were supposed to bring kids? Granpi Paul? We were supposed to bring Granpi Paul?

Is that juice clear, or a little pink? Shoo guests away to watch football. Turn oven temp up.

Find counter space for casseroles, veggies, biscuits, sweet potatoes, corn bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, tomato salad, turkey, gravy and cranberry sauce. Make sure everything is ready and served at the same time. DOUBLE DARE YOU.

Shush guests. Say grace. Accept needling, squabbles, praise, complaints.  Chaos. 

Whip cream. Serve pies. Say goodbyes. 

Clear/wash/dry/mop. 

Sneak last piece of pie. It's not sneaking, you're the MOM.

Ignore all thoughts of six weeks of shopping, rushing, spending, decorating, partying, holiday-carding, mailing, trimming, cleaning, baking, wrapping, hosting and merriment to come; and try to sleep.

CAN-U-COPE-EA?  

Well can you, love?


QUING Hereby Decrees:  Pie, wine, and people we love make it all better.  Keep plenty around you this holiday season!

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

LET GO


A committee comprised of twelve members of Congress; evenly divided between the House of Representatives and the Senate, between Democrats and Republicans, would collaborate, compromise, and create a bipartisan agreement to control our nation's staggering debt. 

Reasonable, right?  

Regardless of deep ideological divides and a fierce determination to protect their jobs, members of Congress (and the White House) would somehow work productively to solve our nation's problems. 

Reasonable, right?  

What's most shocking about the Deficit Super Committee's spectacular FAIL yesterday, is that so many Talking Heads are shocked that the Deficit Super Committee spectacularly failed.   

I do not profess to be a student of history, but I'm pretty certain that from Thomas Jefferson to Tip O'Neill, American politics has been characterized by contentious disagreements which were (almost always) resolved through compromise- by individuals, committees, or backroom politics. The "leaders" of today, however, prefer the politics of the playground to the politics of reason: Get off my property. It's my sandbox, not yours.  

So while our country is at war, the economy languishes, millions of Americans remain unemployed, and the chief economist of the International Energy Agency warns- according to the most thorough analysis yet of world energy infrastructure- that the last chance of combating dangerous climate change will be "lost for ever" if fossil fuel infrastructure is not rapidly changed, our politicians again fail to find solutions to critical crises, because they refuse to compromise.  
   
It's kind of like families. For the last couple of days, I have asked friends, colleagues, and acquaintances about their Thanksgiving plans. In almost every instance, I have been entertained with anecdotes of in-laws-who-can't-be-bothered, moms-who-expect-too-much, antisocial-boyfriends, siblings-who-can't-let-bygones-be-bygones, or spouses-who-refuse-to-give-an-inch.   

I'm quite certain I have, or will, play most of those roles. I definitely dated the anti-social boyfriend.

So I am thrilled to report that, with the exception of the climate change nightmare, I have found a solution to all of the problems mentioned above.  

The politics. The family-tics. All of it. 

It's a simple, profound solution, brought to you by a magnet I discovered in a stationary store a few months back. 

Five simple words: Let Go or Be Dragged.  

I would like to purchase them, in tattoo-form, for the foreheads of our nation's politicians.

I would like to give them, with a box of girl scout cookies, to my family and friends. 

I will try to remember them whenever I am about to dig in my heels, or open the door to the desolate, destructive dwelling I built with the timbers of 24/7 bad-news cycles, and the stores of annoyances and resentments I have accumulated through the years.  

It's Thanksgiving week. We have many concerns, and much to celebrate.

My wish for all of us is that we can let go.  

Then, unlike the rest of the turkeys, we just might be able to take flight and soar.   


QUING Hereby Decrees:  Read the magnet: Let Go or Be Dragged.



Addendum:  Fowl lovers, I know that wild turkeys can fly.  But that fact didn't work with the ending I fashioned. If you must, you may retype my last line to read, "Then, unlike the rest of the domestic turkeys, we just might be able to take flight and soar!"  Should you choose to make that change, expect a whole lot of us domestic turkeys to be pretty ticked off at you. 


Monday, November 21, 2011

LIVE and LET FUSS

The fourth of six children and mom of four kids; I am blessed to be a member of large families. Most of the time.

My brother and sister-in-law are hosting Thanksgiving dinner. Color me elated that I don’t have to scour ceilings for cobwebs as my dinner guests arrive, or contemplate whether blowing the dust out of the wine glasses before I place them on the dining room table is as effective as rinsing and drying.

Brother’s Thanksgiving invite circulated via email two weeks ago (does anyone use the phone to extend invitations anymore?) Turkey, stuffing, and potatoes would be provided. What would each family like to bring for dinner?

Exhibit 1: I have a AAA personality- so I usually (always) do too much.
Exhibit 2:  I have a AAA personality, so I never fail to think I can do too much- in too little time- without asking for help.
Exhibit 3: No one wants to be in my presence at holiday dinner or party time.

Consider our Thanksgiving-dinner-to-come. I replied to Brother’s email (doesn’t anyone use a phone to respond to invitations anymore?) I offered to bring an appetizer, a vegetable, cut-out cookies, and two pumpkin pies.

Brother replies to my reply: “Sounds good. See you at 4.”

Sisters and Mom view the same response and answer, “You’re bringing too much.  I’ll make a vegetable/pie/appetizer instead.”

Sisters and Mom are being considerate, but there is a method to my madness. Frankly, I am so thrilled to avoid brining, stuffing, trussing, basting and checking the temperature on a saggy-skin turkey for seven hours, that I would quite happily bring every other part of the meal to my brother’s house. Besides, husband likes lots of veggies. Kids and I love baking cookies before the holidays (…we do, don’t we kids?)  And at every Thanksgiving feast I have attended or hosted, I wished I had prepared one more appetizer, because that pink juice still flowing out of the turkey leg inevitably means another hour in the oven- or we eat turkey and die.

You are correct to evaluate the previous paragraph as defensive posturing. Truth is, I cannot help it. Trying a new recipe, baking a different kind of cookie, arranging fresh-cut flowers, and filling counters with candles, houseplants with twinkly lights, and rooms with music and guests makes me happy. That’s my kind of fussing.

Some memorize sports statistics or obsess over bicycles and cars. Others love to scrapbook, accessorize, travel, knit. We all fuss over something or someone.

So, fellow fussers, let’s make a deal- carved in stone for all holidays, dinners and celebrations to come. If you allow me to bring an additional dip to your party, I promise to help you wash all the dishes. If you arrive at my house for dinner and I have prepared way too much food, refrain from addressing me as 'Martha', or you have to wash all the dishes.

That fingerprint on your wine glass? Ignore it; you're drinking grapes, not dust.  

That plug missing from the bathroom sink? Disregard it, too. 

One can only fuss so much.   


QUING Hereby Decrees:  Live and Let Fuss!  


Addendum.  Daughter-home-from-college is reading over my shoulder.  "What do you think?" I inquire. “Don’t ask me," she says."I still pray before parties." She pats my shoulder. "And don’t ask the other kids, either. They just hide.”

Friday, November 18, 2011

QUING Parties at the Palace with PUNKIN MUFFKINS



At our house, Thanksgiving is spelled P-U-M-P-K-I-N- P-I-E.

I bake four pumpkin pies every year: two for family and company, one for husband, and one for our Friday morning breakfast. This fall, I fiddled around with favorite muffin recipes, trying to create a muffin that  tastes like pumpkin pie, and is super simple to make for Thanksgiving breakfast. My kid-critics adore these muffins, with or without the streusel topping. I usually bake half a batch with the streusel topping, and half without. For a true pumpkin-pie-at-breakfast-experience, serve these muffkins like scones, with a dollop of whipped cream. This year, we might just eat Punkin Muffkins for breakfast on Friday morning, and give that fourth pie to husband- to consume while we go shopping. GUSTARE!


PUNKIN MUFFKINS

MUFFIN BATTER

·         2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
·         1 teaspoon kosher salt
·         2 teaspoons baking powder
·         1/2 teaspoon baking soda
·         1 teaspoon cinnamon
·         1/4 teaspoon ginger
·         1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
·         12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
·         1 1/2 cups sugar
·         3 large (or XL) eggs, at room temperature
·         1 cup canned pumpkin (Libby's 100% Pure Pumpkin or the like)
·         1/4 cup milk ( Whole or 2% )


STREUSEL TOPPING

·         1/3 cup lightly packed light brown sugar
·         1/3 cup granulated sugar
·         2 teaspooons ground cinnamon
·         1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted and cooled
·         Optional: 1 cup pecans or walnuts. Pre-bake at 350 degrees for eight minutes, cool and chop.


Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Line 16 muffin pans with paper liners.

Sift together the flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger and cloves. Set aside.  Prepare the streusel: mix sugars, cinnamon, and melted butter together into coarse mixture; stir in nuts and set aside.

Cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy, 3- 5 minutes (I use a Kitchenaid mixer with the paddle attachment.) With the mixer on low, add the eggs-one at a time. Add pumpkin and milk, and mix until incorporated.  Add the flour mixture to the batter and beat until just mixed.

Fill muffin pan cups almost to the top with batter.  Sprinkle each muffin with 1-2 tablespoons of streusel topping, if desired. Bake 20 to 25 minutes, or until muffins are lightly browned and a cake tester comes out clean.

NOTE: If you have muffin cups that will remain empty when baking, be sure to fill them with a little bit of water before placing in the oven. Or, you can make 18 smaller muffins, and shorten the baking time a couple of minutes.

To make Whipped Cream: In a chilled bowl, combine 8 ounces of heavy cream (one small carton) with 1/4 cup of powdered sugar and a splash of vanilla. Whip till creamy.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

GIRL SCOUT COOKIES

I do not have to pause 16+ seconds to answer the question.

Yes, it's true. I adore children. 
 
Love them.   

They are, in fact, my favorite kind of people.  (No offense.)

Until Girl Scout cookie time. 

From early October till late November, my hermi-tendencies go into overdrive. I hide in the house, leaving the door, phone,  and email unanswered.  I venture out for emergencies only - to the grocery store, school, or church- making certain to keep my gaze at boot level and thus avoid all eye contact with Girl Scouts (or their moms, dads, troop leaders or grandmas.)

Before you judge me, consider: I was a Girl Scout until I grew out of being a girl. I was a Girl Scout leader until my girls grew out of being girls. For most of my life I have ironed badges, planned field trips, and gorilla-glued my fingertips together with insanely complicated crafts.  

Allow me to explain.

I cannot stand Girl Scout cookie time precisely because I love Girl Scout cookies.

Thin Mints: you slay me.

I abhor Girl Scout cookie time because when my kids were little, knocking on doors and asking friends and neighbors to sponsor their charities, or buy cookies, Band subs, Chorus Crunch bars, or Brownies for Haiti, I promised myself that I would always support children raising funds for a club or charity.

Promises-Made-Out-of-Guilt, you slay me.

I detest Girl Scout cookie time because Facebook, Droid and Twitter have made it all but impossible for me to hide from children attempting to raise funds for a club or charity.  

Technology, you slay me.  

I despise Girl Scout cookie time because when little girls look up at me-smiling, eager and hopeful- and ask if I will buy cookies, I never have the heart to say, "Sure, honey. I will take one box. Can I write you a check for 3.50?" 

Weak Personality and Empty Pocketbook, you slay me.

I hate Girl Scout cookie time because by the time our family has wolfed through six boxes of Thin Mints, Samoas and Peanut Butter Patties purchased from one girl scout-leaving the house blissfully cookie free- yet another adorable scout knocks on the door and hands me six boxes of cookies that I have ordered and will fail to resist.  

Girl Scout Recruiters, you slay me.   

The single most compelling reason why I loathe Girl Scout cookies?

When I was a child, silvery sleeves of Thin Mints contained 36 cookies and cost $1.50.  Each box I sold could last a week, and 64 treats cost only 2 cents per cookie. When my girls sold cookies, silvery sleeves held 24 cookies and cost $3. We received 48 cookies in a box that lasted half a week, and cost 6 cents per cookie. Today, silvery sleeves of Thin Mints hold 16 cookies and cost 3.50; which means I can eat a whole sleeve of cookies in just a few hours, and it will cost me 11 cents a cookie and 55 dollars for a new pair of jeans.

Inflation and Girl Scout Cookie Price Adjusters, you slay me.

The good news? I have four children who eat more cookies than I do (frightening,) and never fail to answer the door and purchase raffle tickets or treats from traveling saleskids.   

"Mom would want us to support you, and she loves Girl Scout cookies," they say, reaching into the change jar and counting up fourteen quarters to hand over to a child who'd prefer dollar bills.

Daughters and Sons, you slay me.


QUING Hereby Decrees:  Resistance to saleskids is futile.  Give in and eat the cookies, understanding that each calorie and gram of fat consumed is for a very good cause.



Wednesday, November 16, 2011

SHRINK TO SIZE



I was mean to a middle school teacher.

Challenging is a better word.  But snippy also works. 

Disclosure: I fervently believe that there are few jobs more demanding and vital than educator.  If it is your job, and not your calling, choose a new profession. 

Back to snippy. It happened a few months ago during Back to School night. A teacher was sharing the information she planned to teach about human reproduction and teen sexuality. I inquired about why she would not include other critical information in her lecture. Noting her squeamish response, my temples began to pound, and I feared my head might begin spinning as I foamed at the mouth. 

What our children are learning-or not learning-in schools is a topic for another day. Basically, I overreacted (also a topic for another day.)  As I reconsider my response to the teacher, I realize that my reaction had less to do with critical information being withheld from our children, and more to do with a small poster that she had displayed beside the chalkboard. Five words typed below the photograph of a very cute puppy: It's Okay to be Smart.

Teacher talked and I considered the poster. I considered my daughter, and other students like her who shrink to size; not answering questions in class because they get picked on for being brainiacs, not being too effusive when discussing Faulkner, Virgil, or Aristotle, not admitting the scores they achieve on tests, the names of the colleges they apply to, or that they'd rather spend an afternoon with Math, Literature and Physics than Football. 

I thought about all the kids I know who shrink to size because they are smart, and I wanted to march across the room, tear that poster off the wall, and toss it in the recycle bin shouting, "It's not okay to be smart, educator! It's awesome to be smart! It's a gift to be smart!"

Disclosure: I find smart individuals who condescendingly spout their brilliance to be almost as annoying as unimaginative, uninspiring educators who phone it in year after year. I'm not referring to those smarty pants- be they kids or adults. I am talking about intellectually curious students who are consistently given the impression-in our Reality TV World and our oftentimes One-Size-Fits-All schools- that brilliance should be concealed or apologized for, rather than celebrated.

Which is why I have a new hero. His name is Freeman Hrabowski, and he is the President of the University of Maryland-Baltimore County.  Profiled on 60 Minutes for the important and inspiring work he’s done with science and math students, Hrabowski recalls being arrested at a children's march during a Civil Rights demonstration in 1963. Questioned by Sheriff Eugene "Bull" Connor when he was just twelve years old, Hrabowski responded that he only wanted to kneel and pray for freedom, and thus found himself incarcerated for five days. That traumatic experience taught him that "even kids can make decisions that can have an impact for the rest of their lives." Admitting that math gives him goosebumps, Hrabowski discusses the alarming lack of science, engineering and math majors in U.S. higher education. He laments how the attitude of both students and educators, and a lack of commitment to hard work have resulted in a majority of SEM majors transferring to simpler courses of study. Hrabowski stresses that hard work, attitude and support from each other- rather than smarts- is at the heart of success, and encourages his students, and all who watch this interview, to 'keep dreaming of the possibilities.'  

Penn State and the Herman Cain saga have captured the news, but Freeman Hrabowski and his students should be in the headlines. Consider this: The video of Kina Grannis singing in front of a changing diorama of jelly beans has had 2.5 million hits. The video of Freeman Hrabowski on 60 Minutes has had 1400 views. 

I encourage you to watch this ten minute segment; share it with your kids, friends, colleagues. It is a call to all of us to embrace hard work, believe in our abilities, and refuse to shrink to size. Our kids' success and happiness, and our nation's future depends on it.    

QUING Hereby Decrees:  Check out the video here!

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

ADDICT



I am an addict living with a dysfunctional family.

Some people drink. Smoke. Buy shoes. 

I buy holiday decorations.

It's an illness, I am well aware. But I cannot help myself. 

My addiction has affected my kids. 

When asked- a few years back-why we relocated from New Jersey to Buffalo, Daughter told her teacher (and everyone else who asked,)  "Our house was too small to hold all of Mom's Christmas decorations. So we had to move to a bigger house."   

You read that correctly. My child actually thought we moved to Buffalo for our Christmas decorations.

My addiction has affected my marriage. Husband, who returns to the coffee pot eight times every morning without noticing his cereal bowl-half full of leftover milk and three bloated cheerios-on the table, has embedded a virtual Just-Purchased Holiday Decoration Tracking System in his brain. "Do we really need a new fiber-optic glowing pumpkin head?" he asks, the very instant I finally find shelf space to display my latest treasure. Or a new snow globe? Cupid?  Bunny? Uncle Sam?

Youngest child has been forced into the role of defender. "Mom bought that three (six, two, four) years ago, Dad. 80% off, at a sale after the holiday. I was with her." I love that kid.

In the old days, my addiction was under control. I employed the Holiday Decorating System to deal with it:  1. Take out decorations for approaching holiday. 2. Decorate. 3. Remove after holiday and replace in attic/basement/garage. 4. Repeat for approaching holiday. 

The HDS worked for eighteen years. But now I am getting sloppy: ignoring older decorations, leaving chicks, monsters and clovers on the ping pong table for months before returning them to their shelves, buying decorations and giving them to friends instead of bringing them home, procrastinating before every holiday so I don't have to spend all that time taking out and putting back holiday decorations. 

I have begged for help. "C'mon, everybody!  If we work together to decorate the house, it will only take a couple of hours!" 

Husband (Ipad addict) answers, "I am not going to be your enabler. You bought 'em, you display 'em, and you put 'em back." 

Children (sports addicts) grab their sneakers, blow me a kiss, and run.

This past weekend I accepted that I am doomed. With Thanksgiving looming, Halloween decorations still littered our house. Certain that I had time to employ the the HDS on Friday afternoon, I pulled Halloween off our shelves, tables and counters. I left it on the kitchen table, fully intending to make the swap for turkeys and pilgrims before bedtime. Life happened, and Saturday morning I entered the kitchen to the chaos you see in the photograph above (note- that is only one third of the table.) 

"I need HELP!" I shrieked. It was a long, low moan mixed with agony, tears, frustration and regret. 

Husband, walking to the coffee pot with Ipod tucked under his elbow, glanced at the table and then at me. "You're just now figuring that out?" he asked. Then he patted my shoulder and left the room, repeating, "Baby steps, honey.  Baby steps."

I can't wait until Christmas. 


QUING Hereby Decrees:  All things in moderation: except chocolate, twinkly lights, and holiday decorations.