Food-filled, family, friend, football day

Thanksgiving is a perfect holiday. Think about it: you get all the great homemade food, time with your family & friends, football in the best season of the year (Autumn!!) and no gifting pressure or crazy social calendar to juggle. It's one perfect food-filled family friend football day.

Last year my husband and I started hosting Thanksgiving at our house, accepting the torch from my parents which they happily passed to me. My Dad got to watch the game and enjoy the wonderful smells of the meal as it cooked rather than slaving over the turkey or (gag) stuffing the bird with my Mom. And Mom enjoyed decorating our feast's table with Lexi, her only grandchild, with pine cones they had collected at the park that afternoon. And my first attempt at the meal? I must admit - it was all very yummy. Don't get me wrong - I fully admit to how much my sister and mother helped me cook. My sister, Heather, made AMAZING gravy. We're talking the best gravy you've ever had. Even gravy haters would have drizzled this deliciousness all over their meal.

This year, we're sharing the cooking again. We divided up the dishes. Mom will do green beans and cranberries. Heather is on gravy (obvs!). Matt will barbecue the turkey. And I'm in charge of stuffing, mashed potatoes and pies. Ah, pies. Yumminess wrapped in butter dough - what's not to like? I'm not the world's biggest pumpkin pie fan, but it's my father's favorite and my husband enjoys it as well, so I make it for them. Plus it smells fantastic when it's baking. I'm a fruit pie girl at heart, and after all my good East Coast apple picking years, my apple pie is pretty rockin'. My house smells like Girls Night In at Better Crocker's right now. Check out these pies!

Notice the moon & stars cut-outs on the double-crusted apple delight. Oh yeah - I made those cute cut-outs! I might have over-cooked the pumpkin by a few minutes, but never fear - Julia Child always advised to NEVER apologize for home cooked food. So I just won't. (YES, I made the crust from scratch too...for those of you who were wondering.)

And the best part for me? No chocolate. Yes people, I'm a chocolate disliker (hater is a very strong word) and I couldn't be more thrilled that there is not an ounce of chocolate that coincides with this, my favorite holiday. No chocolate advent calendars, no chocolate bunnies, not a fun-size chocolate bar in sight. Just stuffing and pie and the game on mute in the background. For this, I am thankful, in addition to the countless blessings in my life this year. I hope there are as many in yours.

Just an FWP

Do you follow the news? I don't blame you if not. The news is shocking. It's so bad that I literally don't allow my young child to watch TV news shows yet. This week's news? A baby was shot dead in Brooklyn. Gang rapes are on the rise in India. Seamus Heaney died. Polluted oceans are contaminating fish populations. And let's not forget Syria. The list goes on and on. Every day. Every minute. People experience suffering on a grand scale.

That said, I've lately been trying to remind myself that most of my problems are merely First World Problems. FWP. Not all of them - I've had my share of job layoffs, financial troubles, illnesses, family loss, relationship woes, etc. Yet I'm trying to take a step back and put my daily problems in perspective, and not let them feel so stressful. Here are some of my most recent problems:

It has taken AT&T 2 weeks, 8 hours of phones calls, 7 customer service reps and 5 installation techs to install and fix my cable and Internet; it's an FWP. My sink disposal exploded water and food (ew - what was that?) and flooded the cabinet with an inch of water, rendering my sink unusable until a plumber can fix it; another FWP.

I dropped leftovers all over the hall floor (really????) on my way in from the meal my healthy, happy family just enjoyed in a restaurant. Add some PMS on top of all that? Still just a Midol FWP.  I got 7 mosquito bites at my aunt's lovely backyard dinner. My car battery died curbside at LAX in the Loading Only Zone with my annoyed preschooler in the car. A family vacation got postponed. I got a ding in my pedicure. Well, you get the drill.

It's not that my problems aren't annoying - oh, they are! - or real to me. But they are small and manageable in the scheme of the world and its horror. Next time you get frustrated when your AC breaks during a heat wave and you have to spend your savings to fix it instead of take that cruise you've been planning, just remember: FWP.

Little Rats on the Prairie

The year I moved to New York City, the Village Voice published an article detailing the extraordinary number of rats on the island. At that time, there were 8 million residents of NYC with 4 million commuters and visitors daily, totally 12 million people frolicking above what can only be imagined as a scene from Ratatouille - swarming, writhing nests of rodents. And their tally, you ask? Ready for this? 60 million. That's 5 rats per New Yorker, people! My very own 5 European brown rats. Only here's the kicker: I have a phobia of rats. It goes past the willies. It supersedes being grossed out. It transcends fear. I have a visceral response to the mere suggestion of rats. Ew. Ew. Ew!

In the 10 urban years I spent loving my city, I grew more tolerant of the rats' presence. I learned to ignore them. I pretended the movement I'd see in my peripheral vision on the subway tracks wasn't a colony of them. I wore rat blinders. I watched and enjoyed Ratatouille, even that scene when the old lady shot guns her ceiling down and they swarm like flowing water down into her house. (Ew. I got shivers and goose bumps just writing those words. Gross!)


But why? How did a nice suburban girl grow up with a rat phobia?

It's Melissa Gilbert's fault. In Season 1, Episode 18 "Plague" of Little House on the Prairie, there is a rat infestation and subsequently an outbreak of Typhus. When the source of the rats turns out to be a grain shed, the shed is swiftly burned to the ground by Pa Ingalls, our hero. It was violent and shocking, very, very scary, and not to mention super icky. I was only 4 or 5 when I first watched it. I was damaged rats good after that.


A few weeks ago, one of my oldest and best friends sat on my patio, worried that there might be rats in the backyard since we live off a green belt and there are lots of critters creeping around in the evenings. She proceeded to tell me that her fear started after watching (bap-bada-bah!!) Little House on the Prairie as a child. I knew we'd been friends all these years for a reason. We're kindred rat spirits. After all, the year of our birth is the Year of the Rat.

Tangerine Streak

As a child, I often visited my grandmother's house. It was always a wonderful mix of games and food and snuggled books on her lap. But best of all were her stories. Grandma Annie was an immigrant from Scotland and loved telling us about her upbringing, her culture, her memories. She was the red-headed middle child of 5 siblings and talked about her family most of all.

Annie had only an 8th grade education and went straight to work after she finished her schooling. She enjoyed working and sometimes treated herself to the latest fashion with her earnings. Mostly she enjoyed dressing up - a great hat with a plume, shoes polished daily, her tangerine sweater. She loved that sweater. And she wasn't the only one. Her younger sister, Margaret, loved it as well. Margaret was 12 years Annie's junior. Imagine the joy in a little girl's heart when her 20 year old sister was away working, leaving her to play dress-up in her big sister's clothes. Annie did not appreciate her younger sister's playful dress-up spirit and forbade Margaret from touching her things.

But while Annie was working, their mother would allow Margaret to dress-up, sporting Annie's beloved tangerine sweater. The second Annie touched the front door, Margaret would streak down the hall, up the stairs, and into their room to return the sweater to its place in Annie's bureau. Dress-up time was then over. Annie would see that tangerine streak as she entered her home and be livid with both her sister and mother. Fashionistas, however, will be fashionistas.

My 96 year old Aunt Margaret died this week, the exact age my grandmother was when she passed away 12 years ago. She was close to our family and had been very sweet with my young daughter, giving her gifts of dolls and, of course, clothes. She recently gave Lexi a  hot watermelon sweater, with crystal buttons and lacy flowers. When I hung it up from a huge pile of dress-up carnage, I couldn't help but think of that tangerine streak and the fascinating life Margaret led, and how fortunate I am to have heard her stories, which I can now share with my daughter. Lexi will then know from where her fashionista roots stem, generation after generation of girls playing dress-up.

Chirping Birds, Squawking Landlords

I recently moved. Again. Yes, again. We just moved 14 months ago to a little rental house we liked but didn't love, so when the landlord decided he wanted to sell it, we told him we weren't interested in buying it. We then found another house, and moved. We're getting fairly good at it. Boxes, boxes, boxes. Hidden expenses, bills, more boxes, and tape, tape, tape. Don't forget the bubble wrap.

It's done now. Except that it's not. My former landlord still has my deposit. I left his house in impeccable shape -  floors clean enough to eat from, windows washed inside and out, with only the slightest hints of any wear or tear. Yet he expected it back brand new. He's clearly crazy. And now he's haggling. My real estate agent is incensed and dealing with him. I'm om shanti-ing my way through many days telling myself to let it go, let it go, what happens will happen. Crazy man won't win. Justice will prevail. We'll get our money back. This is a First World problem. We have our health. We have each other. We have moved on. Om. Om.

One week later, much of the unpacking has happened. Our daughter is getting used to her huge pink princess dream room. The cat's panic level has decreased along with her generally annoyed attitude. My husband is off to Asia on a business trip. And I am left with...boxes. Clearly we'll be watching more Dora and Mickey this month than is usually allowed. But that's just fine. Another First World problem.

This morning, I woke to the sounds of birds singing. Not the sounds of traffic like I used to hear at the old house. Birds. Chirping birds, frolicking in my tree, in my new yard, the yard without the ill-maintained pool or the poorly landscaped yard. The yard I see when I open my eyes to another great day in what most can consider paradise. First World birds of paradise. Om.

The Jerk

When I was a child, my mom stayed home with us. She held those parenting reigns tightly, and I certainly was not allowed to watch anything R-rated. I had a friend, Tara, whose parents both worked full time. The reigns were a bit looser at Tara's, at least during the day while her parents weren't home. It was at Tara's house where I first watched the Steve Martin classic, The Jerk. Tara and I would perform scenes from the movie, acting like complete slapstick goofballs. We loved comedy. To say Tara was very funny is an understatement. She once told me her favorite actor was Steve Martin. I loved those afternoons at her house.

In 6th grade, Tara and I had a disagreement, as kids often do. During lunchtime one day, she'd gone into the girls' bathroom at school only to come out wearing her all her clothes backward. I made some snide remark to a friend who promptly passed it along, getting back to Tara as quick as you can imagine. Our fight that afternoon in the back field behind our school was broken up before it could start by our furious school principal. Parents were called, apologies made, and we all moved on. What I never told Tara was that I really thought it was a hilarious move, very Steve Martin-esque. Everyone thought it was funny. My snide comment had been spoken out of jealousy. I worried too much about how others viewed me, and didn't have the ability to just be funny for funny's sake. I didn't have the guts to wear my clothes backward, and for years I envied her that she did.

This past Sunday morning, I heard the terrible news that Tara had died in her sleep. She leaves a loving husband and children who adore her. She has many friends who loved her boisterous laugh and silly sense of humor. She was only 40 years old. Shocking. Horrible. And while I hadn't seen her in years, we were back in touch via Mark Zuckerberg's magic time-sucking reconnection tool, Liking pictures of each others' kids and commenting on the moments of our lives that had been deigned worthy for social media.

Tonight as I write this, The Jerk is on cable. I'm transported to her family's bonus room with the big TV and the pool table and her dad's UCLA pennants. I can hear her laugh and am reminded to just be silly for silly's sake. And maybe even wear my clothes backward once in awhile.

The Thief Among Us

Each week, I go to the same store, and I steal their merchandise. It's not a lot. It's just a small item. No one even notices. The price of it is a tiny fraction compared to the amount I spend in that store, so really, what's the harm? Right?

The problem is, my 3 year old daughter sees me do it week after week. In fact, she steals it with me. It's almost part of our shopping ritual. We scope out the item, choosing it carefully, then I hand it to her, and she takes care of it.

Once I confessed my crimes to the checker, but instead of charging me for the past stolen merchandise, she laughed, telling me she knew I was a frequent customer of the store, and considering how much I spent there monthly, it probably worked out in the end. I was stunned and filled with a small bit of disappointment. I was hoping for absolution AND penance.

I suppose some guilt is what I deserve, allowing my little monkey to eat one $.19 banana while we do our weekly shopping at Trader Joes. Thankfully the magic of that banana prevents my kid from being the screaming toddler in the store. And one of these days I'll actually remember to pay the checker for it.

Fireman Deli

It has been scientifically proven that all firemen are hot.

As a young girl, I was always thrilled when we'd pull up to the grocery store only to see that shiny red engine parked in front. The firemen were shopping! I'd flee from my mother's side to roam the aisles, searching for them. And when I'd spot them? I'd act shy, ignoring their smiles and waves and hellos. That's what girls do.

Years later while in high school, my mom and I were at the drug store and ran into a guy we'd known my entire life, Sean Kale (name changed ever so slightly in case he doesn't want to be labeled as "hot" or "dreamy"). Sean was a few years older than me, and was the homecoming king, a great athlete, a cool guy, etc. He had become a rookie for the (wait for it...) fire department. He was so sweet, hugging both my mom and me, making our day. As we drove away, my mom commented, "Aren't all firemen hot? That's a perfect career for Sean." Yes, mom, you're totally right.

I dated a Yonkers fireman, albeit briefly, in New York City. I met him at a swing dance club back when that was cool. He was painfully hot, so I got his number. He even drove a Harley. Fireman. Dancer. Harley. Yikes. After a few dates and one very strange night we called it quits, but it was fun while it lasted. I never knew what happened to him during 9/11, but I assumed he was one of the many heroes that day and in the months and years to follow.

These days, my love of those heroes continues. We live one block from a deli where the local firemen like to grab lunch. My daughter calls it "Firemen Deli" and if that hot red engine is parked in front after her ballet class each Friday, it's a given where we end up having our lunch. Once we were seated right next to them, and what did they do to my cute, pink, tutu'd toddler? They smiled and waved and hello'd us, I mean, her. Each one of them was hot, from the rookie to the captain. And what did she do? She acted shy, ignoring their smiles and waves and hellos. That's just what girls do.

First Time

When I was 3 years old, I had my first trip to the dentist. My older sister, Heather, was there for her check up too, so I got to watch her exam before undergoing my own. I was relieved to know what to expect. It was the first of a lifetime full of great check ups for me. I proudly wore my No Cavities sticker on my sundress lapel so my dad could see it when he got home from work that night. I was so proud of that sticker, and in years since have often wished dentists gave adults No Cavities stickers. I would still rock that sticker.

Tomorrow is my 3 year old daughter's first dental check up, and I'm nervous for her. I know her teeth are healthy and that she'll be fine. We've talked about what to expect during her exam with Dr. Suzi and she knows mommy will be there at her side the whole time. But she doesn't have an older sister to blaze the trail for her, and I don't know if she'll be frightened or worried. I guess I'm the one who is frightened and worried, at least a little. It's a first for both of us, like many more to come as she grows up. And I love it. I hope I get a sticker.