A Grin of Salt

Travel Blog: Jive Turkey

2009-06-28T09:49:00.001-04:00

Travel Blog: Jive Turkey

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Cell Phone Justice

2009-06-23T16:17:00.002-04:00

In the fall of 2005, I changed my cell phone service from T-Mobile to Verizon Wireless because the latter has much better coverage in the U.S. T-Mobile is great for calling home from Heathrow, but for calling home from Kittery, ME? Not so much. As a result, T-Mobile charged me a $200 flat-rate early termination fee, and I've been "in a fight with them" ever since.

What was not clear to me when I changed my service was that I was three months into a new two-year contract - a contract that had been renewed most sneakily when I'd taken advantage of my new-every-two phone upgrade the previous July. I'd thought I'd just gotten a new phone. But no, I had renewed the contract, a fact that was lost on and not made clear to me at the time. My fault for not reading the fine print, for sure, but their fault for only putting it in fine print. (By contrast, when I upgraded my Verizon phone last month, they could not have made it more obvious that I was entering into another two-year contract - a marked change, not unique to Verizon, from three and a half years ago.)

But in 2005, when the poor, verbally-abused T-Mobile customer service rep. told me there was nothing I or he could do about the $200 bill, I did what I always do when I feel I've been wronged as a consumer: I called the Mass. Attorney General's Office Consumer Help Line. I
gave them my name, and admitted I was an idiot. But I also added that I felt I'd been deceived and that if I, who am always on top of my finances, could be duped like this, then it was probably happening to other people as well.

What I didn't know at the time was that my name was added to a class action lawsuit. I got the postcard in the mail the other day informing that the case has been settled and there's a good chance I could get up to $125 by fall.

Here are the lessons:

1) Speak up.
2) Speak up even if you partly to blame.
3) Know that your speaking up could help someone else, even if it's
too late to help you.
4) Only complain to people who can actually help you. T-Mobile
customer service rep.? No. Attorney General Martha Coakley? Yes.
5) Enjoy up to $125 worth of justice.

Nemeses

2009-05-21T10:13:00.007-04:00

My friend, MJ, author of Now is Not a Time, once wrote a blog piece on nemeses, and I thought it was such a good idea, I had to steal it. A nemesis, for those of you who don't have a dictionary handy, is an undefeatable foe or, in day to day life, someone who simply drives you nuts.

For a liberal, East Coast gal like me some of my nemeses are easy and obvious: Ann Coulter, Osama bin Laden, Miss California, A-Rod, Bill O'Reilly, "Real" NYC Housewife Kelly Bensimon, Stephen from Top Chef Season One and Wendy from the first Project Runway. They're so icky, I don't even want to waste the ink on them. Anyone who knows me knows why I would have issues with those people listed (or at least have issues with their personae, since I don't actually "know" them).

The people I'm going to write about are not your average nemeses. These are seemingly nice, normal talented people who, underneath the surface, are actually the personification of the Devil himself. When these people appear in my life or even just in my field of vision, my blood pressure goes up a couple of points and I remember.

And so, without further ado, here they are, in no particular order:

Bob Greene – oh, how I used to love him and oh, how I loathe him now! Bob Greene is the man responsible for making Oprah thin… the second time. Not the time she crash dieted on Slim Fast and dragged the wagon of fat onto her set, but the time she lost all that weight in the late 90s and ran a marathon. Remember? Bob Greene was the trainer she hired to help her, and together they wrote a book called Make the Connection. It's a pretty good book which I still own.

My problem with Bob Greene is not his thoughts or expertise regarding exercise or his insights into the emotional reasons why Americans overeat. I gather that he is an amazing trainer and would probably love him even if he made me jog/walk up small mountains at 5 o'clock in the morning.

No. Where Bob Greene and I part ways is over is his recommendations and thoughts on food. Oh, wait, I don't mean food. I mean food products or reasonable facsimiles thereof. You see, Bob, through his Best Life Program, has sold his name, like a common whore, to every major food company who will have him.

He has endorsed such sickening non-food products as Better 'n Eggs (which apparently are so fake that they even substituted an "'n" for "than"), Slim Fast, a product from which Oprah re-gained all her weight in the 1990s and which gave my friend, Eileen, kidney stones; Benefiber, for those fat-assed Americans too lazy to eat broccoli, greens, apples, rice or whole wheat and who must compensate for a lack of fiber by eating powdered fake fiber; Lean Cuisine, pre-packaged lunches the flavor of which comes strictly from excessive sodium; and Skinny Cow ice cream snacks, which are so bland you'll want to eat two. If Michael Pollan, the author of the best-selling The Omnivore's Dilemma, were dead, he'd be rolling in his grave (but Michael Pollan will live forever because he doesn't eat Bob Greene's Best Life Crap). I also fail to understand how Dr. Oz, another Oprah-discovered-health guru but one who touts "one ingredient foods," can stand to sit on the same stage with Bob Greene when they appear together.

Oh, wait. I stand corrected. Bob Greene does, in fact, endorse "Grapes from California." Not Grapes from New York, Washington or my grandmother's grape arbor, just grapes from California. Woo hoo! Bring on the grapes and my best life ever!

Most Employees of Dunkin Donuts - You know exactly what I'm talking about with this one. I'm sure they're very nice people, but I feel as if the vast majority of people who work at DDs just don't get it. They don't understand what "a little bit of cream" means. I do not want my coffee to look like melted coffee ice cream. A few weeks ago, I was in line with one other woman, and a third woman was at the counter awaiting her order. One employee was obviously waiting on her, and the other three women behind the counter were completing various tasks. I understand that someone has to make the coffee, I really do, but finally, it began to dawn on the other customer and me that all four of the employees were waiting on the woman at the counter. She had four servers and we had exactly none. I passively aggressively said to my fellow neglected customer, "Wow, she gets four employees to help her!" and then someone asked me for my order. Which they promptly got wrong. Happens every time.

Gwyneth Paltrow – ("and her big bag of bullshit," as Kathy Griffin is quick to add). I think Gwyneth is a fantastic actor. She lights up the screen, is engaging and funny and warm. But... have you seen her narcisstic website goop.com? You can log on and Her Royal Highness Gwyneth Paltrow will tell you how to live your life – how to exercise, what to wear, what to say (or not say) to your frenemies, and get this, "nourish the inner aspect." Huh? The problem is, I don't care who her trainer is, and I sure as hell don't care about her recommendations for kid-friendly restaurants in New York City. In fact, I will avoid these like the plague, and HRH GP is welcome to kiss my inner aspect any time any day.

And while I'm ranting, let me also say that I don't want to hear her thoughts on food in Spain. Have you watched that show where she's on the road with Mario Batali? She comes and goes from episodes as she pleases and has absolutely nothing to offer when she's on screen.. I mean, who the hell does she think she is? Bob Greene - telling me how vivir mi mejor vida?? And that Mario Batali's not much fun, either. I keep waiting for him to keel over from a heart attack after watching him indulge in too much food and rioja.

Oh, my God, my blood pressure… Good thing it's on the low side to begin with…

That One Boy Who Holds Up SAT Administration Because He Can't Write in Cursive - When students take the SAT for college admission, they have to hand write, in cursive and in pencil, a statement verifying their identity and integrity. I joke with them that this is the hardest part of taking the SAT, and I always get a chuckle in response. There is always That One Boy, however, who just can't write in cursive and who will simultaneously annoy the crap out of you AND break your heart as you watch his sad, slow efforts. This year, after ten solid minutes, I finally had to move on with the test and discreetly tell the boy he could finish the statement at the next break. For the record, they have to write in cursive because it's a handwriting sample. In case they cheat. Which occasionally one or two of them do.

Jeanne Bice - A fat, elderly entrepreneur, Ms. Bice has made her fortune selling seasonal sweaters to women who obviously don't watch What Not to Wear. She is insane, a little bit anti-Semitic (as seen on clips of her QVC appearances captured on The Soup), and cackling all the way to the bank. Her sweaters are pictured below. I will let her work speak for itself.

Admit it, she's your nemesis now, too, isn't she?

Historical Re-enactors - Last August, I almost went two rounds with an uptight, fake Pilgrim who insulted my 8 year-old nephew at Plimoth Plantation. This non-Equity Puritan wannabe, who acted more like a wiseass version of John Lennon than John Winthrop, took my nephew to task for not really knowing the Bible and if memory serves, for including Star Wars in one of his questions. Now, I understand that these people want to be true to their characters and times, but the REAL reason they are there is to TEACH people about colonial America. Alienating my nephew isn't going to make him want to learn more about early US history. Perhaps our Puritan friend could have been more curious, albeit in a 17th century way, about Jake, "Prithee, what is this war in the stars of which you speak?"

In general, I find historical re-enactors to be lower-quality actors who take themselves, their characters, and their historical lifestyles waaaay too seriously. It's not a docu-drama, people, and I'm soooo sorry if we've disturbed your weaving. God forbid, you actually engage the tourists and make them want to learn about your craft or your lifestyle. You're there to help educate tourists about what this period in life was like; it's important to win them over and engage them, not make them roll their eyes, make fun of you and/or cringe in embarrassment. It's not about you, your funny hat or your costume. I think historical sites would be well advised to hire teachers for these positions, not actors. Let's face it, no one ever got to Broadway via Monticello.

Boston Furniture Store Owners on TV -

“Bernie and Phyll’s – quality, comfort and Yankees.”

My friend Meg and her husband used to sing this version of the Bernie and Phyll’s furniture jingle while they were living in Mass. Transplanted Southerners who were living here temporarily, they could not get over the thick (and dare I say, appalling) Boston accents of Bernie and Phyll, the owners of Bernie and Phyll’s Furniture. I remember asking Meg at one point not to judge all Bostonians by Bernie and Phyll.

Bernie and Phyll are two dumpy, elderly, nasal, store owners who think that they are the best TV “pitchpeople” for their furniture chain. If you’ve seen their commercials, you’ll know they are not. Though I would not go so far as to agree with comedian Gary Gulman that “there’s nobody worse than those two douchebags,” it would only be because I would reserve that phrase for Bob of Bob’s Furniture.

Bob’s commercials are even more obnoxious than Bernie and Phyll’s. One time he ran an ad during which two cartoon faces superimposed into actual human feet had a conversation about recliners. I think. I’ve blocked it from my consciousness, and if I think about it too long, I'll develop post-traumatic stress disorder. Bob of Bob’s Furniture also has the most insane catchphrase I’ve ever heard, which is, wait, get ready for it: “Busted!” I guess this is a step up from his original catchphrase, “I doubt it.” The biggest difference between Bob and every other folksy furniture pitchman on Beantown TV, however, is that his furniture is crap. At least at Bernie and Phyll’s you can actually find nice pieces for your home. The only people who are bigger losers than Bob are his customers.

Boston television has a glut of folksy, middle-aged and obnoxious furniture pitchmen. This dates back to the days when Barry and Eliot of Jordan’s Furniture, began hawking their stores (“in Waltham, Main Street to Moody Street and in Nashua, left on Spitbrook, right on Daniel Webstah”) on Boston radio and then TV. Barry and Eliot, like Bernie and Phyll and Bob, but not quite as bad, annoyed many people at first but then grew into lovable local characters (although I could totally see why they could be nemeses for some of you out there in Readerland). They are aging hipsters with ponytails who have used their money and their fame to raise awareness of adoption of foster children and also offer extensive charitable events at their stores. In recent years, they gained some positive press for taking ALL of their employees from five different stores to Bermuda for a day to celebrate the company’s going public and and from their clever “Monstah payback” promotion which allows customers to get full refunds on furniture if the Red Sox sweep the World Series (this has happened twice).

Unfortunately, Bob and his tacky wife, Bernie and Phyll, and now Bernie and Phyll’s hideously unhip and bloated "kids," are poor imitations of Barry and Eliot. They are Barry and Eliot wannabees - and, trust me, there’s nothing sadder than a Barry and Eliot wannabe especially without the likeability, the social activism, community generosity and quality furniture.

Actors Who Applaud Themselves at Awards Shows - This is self-explanatory and I was reminded of it while watching the Tony Awards earlier this week. OMG, did no one teach these people that you just don't clap for yourself when they call your name? Someone needs to remind these nominees to sit back, relax and enjoy the moment. They should relish the applause they're receiving but also show a little more class.

So those are the nemeses I can think of at the moment. The worst thing about all of the nemeses I have described, and perhaps about all nemeses in general, is that they show up when you least expect them to. You can be going about your lovely day and boom! a fake Minuteman ruins your trip to Lexington and Concord or the Gwyneth Paltrow lifestyle segment on Oprah is followed by a Bernie and Phyll’s commercial.

I'm sure I'll think of more nemeses as time goes on or more will simply appear in my life attempting to, but not succeeding at, making my head explode. In the meantime, I will continue my valiant attempts, OK valiant rants, to try prevent them from increasing my blood pressure. Namaste.

Gadget is the One For Me

2009-05-07T16:07:00.007-04:00

I bought two pounds of strawberries at Wilson Farms yesterday, and I wanted to make sure I prepped them as soon as possible so that they wouldn't rot in my fridge as so many of my more impulsive fruit and vegetable purchases do.

"Where's my strawberry huller?" I thought as I hurriedly looked through the drawers in my kitchen cabinets. Dammit. I know I have a strawberry huller! Doesn't everybody? Shouldn't everybody? My search revealed that not only do I have one strawberry huller, I have TWO
strawberry hullers.

If you don't have a strawberry huller, you may want to get one (or I'll give you one of mine). It's a silly little gadget but a very satisfying one. You see, if you prefer fresh strawberries to those frozen in a plastic bag, you know that they come with a little green leaf and stem which need to be removed. A strawberry huller is a little piece of metal with rounded tips that completes this process in the most efficient way. The huller lifts up the leaves and pinches the stem. In one motion, you insert it and twist, pulling out the leaves and stem while keeping the rest of the strawberry in tact.

Now, you could always cut the green leaf and stem off with a knife, but you can lose quite a bit of strawberry or end up slitting the strawberry or worse, your finger, with that method. Years ago, I remember being down the Cape at my friend Beth's, and her mom put us to work hulling and cutting strawberries for shortcake. Mrs. Wells was adamant that we not waste any of the top of the strawberry in cutting off the leaves and removing the stems. We were hindered by paring knives, though, and unfortunately for our efforts, it was a task more easily bossed than done.

As a former employee of Crate and Barrel, I've had many opportunities to sample (or be seduced into buying) various kitchen gadgets, some of them wonderful, some of them useless. In any case, over the last two-plus decades since the day I first set foot in one of their stores, I've tried them all, and here is my Best and Worst Gadget List.

For the record, my favorite brand is Oxo and it's also worth nothing that the vast majority of my gadgets are plain and untrendy (no terra cotta-colored spatulas to coordinate with my kitchen rug, thanks). There are no gadgets in my kitchen drawers that I don't use.

"Wait'll you see my gadgets! You'll want'em for your valentines…"

Apple corer – A couple of years ago, my friend Deborah gave me two ceramic apple bakers as a gift. I love them (and recommend them both for oven and microwave use) but to use them you need to core an apple. Have you ever tried coring an apple with a knife? Don't. Use an apple corer instead.

Box grater – If you are Italian, this is "your grandmother's cheese grater." It stands upright in a rectangle shape with different grating options on each side. I like it for grating large amounts of cheese (a better consistency than using a food processor) or for grating zucchini or carrots. Rather than try to soften brown sugar that's hardened into a lump, I just grate it. I actually think it's quicker that way, and the sugar becomes refined and smooth.

Cake and cookie decorating accessories – If you like to bake, even if only occasionally like me, using an inexpensive cake decorating kit or cookie cutters can make a lovely, if sometimes subtle, difference. Fun for kids and adults, even the littlest decoration can make you look like an Ace of Cakes. BTW, piping bags are great for neatly stuffing cherry tomatoes, celery or mini quiches with filling.

Immersion blender – A phallic, metal "mixer" that purees soup right in the pot. No pouring a gallon of hot liquid into a food processor any more! I know it's not really a gadget, but I had to give it a mention. This is my new favorite kitchen item, and I wish I'd invented it. What a time saver and my soups are perfect! (And like many gadgets, it's got kind of a sexy vibe to it. ;)

Knives, knives, knives – OK, again, not gadgets, but invest in your knives and keep them sharp. (There's no such thing as a quality knife that never needs sharpening. That is hype.) Good knives can do everything and cut down (get it? Cut down?) on the need for silly gadgets.

Lemon reamer – My second favorite thing about this gadget is its dirty name. If you like lots of citrus flavor and a little pulp mixed in with your lemon or lime juice, this is the gadget for you. Simply cut the lemon or lime in half, insert the pointy end of the reamer into the flesh and squeeze and twist. Lots of juicy, pulpy mush and a bit more innuendo. Yummm.

(Lemon) zester – Some recipes call for a little bit of the colored part of a lemon, orange or lime peel to provide that extra bit of "zing." It's important when zesting to only zest the colored part of the peel, not the white. I prefer the zester to the small grater because there's rarely a risk that you'll go too far deep into the white of the peel. I also enjoy dragging it across the lemon or orange and seeing the little curlicues. It's a slower process but somehow more satisfying.

Narrow spatula – I love spatulas, but the long, narrow one can make all the difference if you're trying to get that last little drop of mustard out of the jar because it's all you have left and you need one more teaspoon for that salad dressing recipe and the company will be here any minute!

Paddle grater – Ah, the paddle grater. Just hold it over the food and grate the cheese. No fuss, no muss. It's also easy to clean and takes up very little space.

Pastry wheel – If you like making pastry, this little gadget will make even your poorest effort look pretty. Spray a bit of Pam on the wheel and spin, and the dough will be less likely to stick as you "wheel" it. (Thanks, Martha, for that tip.)

Stainless garlic press – After having bought and disliked several types of trendy garlic presses during my lifetime, I returned years ago to the stainless steel, one-piece garlic press – just like Nonna used to use. If it's all one piece, it will never warp, and the press part will never break off (as one of my trendier models did once). Your garlic press doesn't need to be pretty, just effective.

Vacu Vin – The best!! This is also called a wine saver, but the brand I've had and loved forever is Vacu Vin so hence the plug. If you haven't finished a bottle of red wine (Haven't finished? What?!?), you can insert the little plastic plug into the bottle and pump, pump, pump the air out with the Vacu Vin. This will keep the wine from oxygenating any further and keep it available to you for a few more days.

Gadgets that seemed like a good idea at the time but just don't do it for me:

Cheese plane – Maybe you'll eat less cheese by scraping this across the top of the brick, but the slices are too long and thin. Ultimately your pretty cheese and crackers display will have this warped, bowed hunk of cheese in the center. Slice the cheese in advance and fan it out to make things easier and less awkward for your guests.

Citrus peeler – This is a $.75 waste of time. It's a small plastic stylus that cuts through citrus to make peels. Don't let the name fool you; you still have to peel your own orange...with the fingers God gave you. (And even if you don't have fingers, this gadget still isn't going to help you.)

Corn picks – Maybe these are helpful for kids, but when I was little all I remember about using corn picks was that I'd go to bite into the corn and one pick would come out, or be at an angle, or wouldn't go into the ear. By the time you get settled with the corn picks, the corn is cool enough to pick up with your hands.

Egg separator – Um, yeah, it's also called the 'shell of the egg' and it's free. Crack the egg over a bowl and pour it egg back and forth while allowing the whites to fall over the shell. The yolk remains inside. It ain't brain surgery.

Honey dipper – What a mess! It should be called a honey dripper. Just buy honey in a squeeze bottle and you'll be good to go.

Horizontal peelers (They look like cheese planes.) – These simply do not peel as well as peelers on which the blade runs vertically.

Lettuce knife – If you must cut your lettuce, any serrated knife will do. You don't need one specifically designated for lettuce. How about tearing your lettuce by hand? Or grating it on your Box Grater? Or buying salad-in-a-bag? Seriously. Get a life.

Mini tongs – Unless you still have a toaster in which the toast repeatedly gets caught, I'm not sure why anyone would ever need mini tongs. If you do find you have a need for them, go with wooden ones.

Mortar & pestle – My sister loved her mortar and pestle in the 80's although I hardly know what she was grinding with it. Unless you're a doctor/barber circa 1450 or a practicing witch, there is no need to give up counter space for this heavy item.

Mouli grater – I used to love the Mouli grater when it was all the rage in the late 80s/mid 90s. This grater allows you to insert a wedge of cheese which is then grated by a rolling grater inside. It's not as convenient as it may seem though. First, you have to slice off a piece of the larger hunk of cheese to insert into the grater. The cheese often remains inside the barrel, forcing you to tap or hit it until it falls out in a lump onto the plate. Also, when you're done grating, there's that little piece of Parmesan left over which is too small to be grated; too big to throw away. This grater also requires two hands, so it wouldn't be of any help to a person with arthritis or other "grasp issues" either.

Tea bag squeezer – Ah, yes, another naughty name... If you're drinking tea brewed from a bag, there's no need for a "fancy" tea bag squeezer. Just pick the bag up with your teaspoon, wrap the string around it and squeeze the liquid into your tea cup.

Tea infuser – I've never met a tea infuser that didn't leak loose leaf tea into the cup! Arrgh! My former Crate and Barrel co-worker, Mary, who was off-the-boat-from-Ireland finally helped me solve my problem when she said, "Just hold a small strainer over the cup and pour the tea through it. That's what we do in Dublin." So I did and still do – with nary a loose leaf in me cuppa.

Wine openers – Again, unless you have arthritis, these are a complete waste of counter space. I was given an upright bottle opener for my last birthday (clearly a re-gift from the now defunct Linens 'N Things, which is in my car awaiting donation to the Salvation Army.

You can have it, along with my second strawberry huller.

Way too Much Food

2009-04-13T11:43:00.012-04:00

I have spent the better part of the last six weeks assistant directing The Wizard of Oz at the high school at which I work. My prior experience with high school drama clubs includes both having been in them and having advised one at my alma mater ten years ago. As in any profession, when you start a new job at a new place, comparisons are inevitable.

The production values of this show are certainly some of the most extraordinary I've ever seen. I'm impressed with the semi-computerized light board and with the fact that all of the sound cues are generated through iTunes. The full-cast cheer at the end of the show behind the curtain is something I'm not pleased with, but I can appreciate the sentimental value it holds in the hearts of the kids. The outrageous (and yet outstanding) level of videotaping and photographing would probably rival the amount of press generated by a Broadway show.

But of all of these characteristics that define what goes on behind the scenes of this and any BHS production, none is more shocking to me than The Snack Table. The Snack Table is the brainchild of the drama parents, OK, the drama moms. At some point, someone thought it was important and necessary to make sure the kids had plenty of "nosh" available backstage during each performance. And when I say, "nosh," I mean NOSH.

The snack table is actually three tables in a row containing a little or a lot of any of the following: brownies, Sun Chips, Tostitos, Smart Food, cantaloupe, strawberries, green & purple grapes, apples, chocolate chip, oatmeal or Oreo cookies, cheddar and Monterey Jack cheese and crackers, salami, pepperoni, potato chips and onion dip, three kinds of salsa, a heated three-layer nacho dip, Fritos, chocolate chip banana bread, Twizzlers, Hershey's kisses and miniatures, crumb cake, dip for the fruit, vegetables - carrots, celery, broccoli, cucumbers, grape tomatoes, dips for the vegetables, a 12" x 16" x 7" box of Italian cookies and macaroons, three bowls of pretzels in different shapes, Chex Mix, a chocolate cake, a complete setup of different kinds of teas, both herbal and caffeinated complete with sugar and honey, and bottles and bottles and bottles of water.

There are 105 kids involved with this production and about 30 adults, both paid and volunteer, so for a production such as this one, I concede that a lot of snacks would be needed on any given night to feed the whole cast and crew. When I asked the students about the reasoning behind The Snack Table, one senior explained that they've "always had" it. I have never been one to believe that "because we've always done it that way" is a justification for anything. It's not a reason. An alumna who was volunteering said that another reason they have the snack table is "because we get bored." When I suggested that perhaps they listen to music or read or do their homework, they stared at me blankly. As a guidance counselor, I'm well aware of the huge dip in grades many students involved with plays experience during the third quarter. Perhaps they'd be better served spending some spare time reviewing vocabulary rather standing at The Snack Table comparing brands of tortilla chips.

I'm also surprised and a bit shocked that the costume designer would allow eating in costume! "When I was drama club advisor" I wouldn't allow the kids to eat in costume. The vast majority of our costumes were rented and couldn't be returned with chocolate or salsa stains on them. Despite the fact that the current costumes are mostly home-sewn, a big greasy stain from French Onion dip is not appealing or acceptable either. Just because it belongs to us doesn't mean the actors should take a chance on ruining them.

"We have some fat people in England, but you (America), like everything else, have the gold medal in that." ~ Ricky Gervais

The big question, however, is: do we really need the snacks at all? At the risk of starting off a sentence with "when I did drama in high school, we never had snacks," I have to say, when I did drama in high school, we never had snacks during a show. There was also no snack table when I did summer stock and even more ironically, no food backstage when I did dinner theater! (Occasionally, a bus boy might score an entire lobster claw or tail and offer it to his favorite actress in exchange for sex, but that was a rare event, to be sure.) To the best of my knowledge, they don't have snacks on Broadway. I know that Mariah Carey and Usher, et al, have odd and often bizarre demands for food when they're on tour, but hey, they're musicians and they're dancing around a lot. They need to pretend that they eat (well, maybe not Mariah) and make sure everyone knows how diva-licious they are (especially Mariah). Movie crews have a craft services table, but that's because the hours on a movie set are long and unpredictable.

A quick visual scan of the kids in the chorus room at this very moment reveals 1/3 of them are overweight. Even the serious dancers are what you would call "healthy." There are very few of the skin-and-bones-kids a flip through your own high school yearbook would recall from your own generation. The actors' call for the show is 6 p.m., so one can presume that they may have, or should have, eaten something resembling dinner before they left the house. Then, they will snack backstage. If that isn't enough, they'll all go to Jade Pacific at 10:30 for post-performance Pu-Pu platters.

Everywhere you go in America, there is food, food and more food. The Snack Table is one small example of a huge problem in this country. We simply don't go anywhere or do anything without eating or drinking… I mean, can't it wait? It's not like any of us are starving or anything. We're not Darfur, for God's sake.

There has always been food in theaters and at sporting events, but now you can buy chocolate bars or cookies in Macy's or have a bagel while waiting for an oil change. Used to be you went to the movies and shared a bucket of popcorn with your date or friends. Now, you can get nachos (with cheez whiz!), a hot dog, ice cream, candy by the pound, etc. It's like combining the dinner with the movie. Trouble is, too many people go out before or after the movie and still eat all the junk in between, just like the drama club kids on their way to Jade Pacific. Our local US Army recruiters bring cookies to the guidance and main offices here for the holidays (as if we'd send our best and brightest to Afghanistan solely because we got a plate of Easter cookies from Shaw's). And just yesterday, Easter Sunday, there were two girls with cups of Dunkin Donuts coffee, aka 'coffee bisque,' in church. Church! It was a Unitarian Universalist church, but still...

The bottom line is that there is too much food and that it's far too readily available. We make it too easy to pick, pick, pick. I mean, if the food is in front of you, don't you pick at it? Isn't that human nature? Having too much food available 24 hours a day supports two cultural ideas: the notion of comfort and the notion of always being on the go.

I recognize that the "drama moms" feed their children because they care about them. Food is a lovely way to express caring, and yet, opening a bag of corn chips and pouring them into a bowl does not show love. Make a fruit salad, make personalized labels for the water bottles. Buy your kid flowers or bring grandma to the show as a surprise. The Army would get far further with our all-female staff if they sent us a bouquet of flowers rather than sweets. Supplying people with endless amounts of food is not the same as nurturing them. It's not the same as putting your skills and care into creating something delicious and/or permanent.

As for being on the go, I like to think that the national economic downturn might actually cause some people to slow down and reassess their priorities. Let's face it; many Americans go-go-go on the job in order to afford a big screen TV. They go into debt for them and think that they are "necessary." Ironically, the more you sit in front of your big screen TV, the more you might snack, but that's not the point. The point is, stop! Sit down and eat with your family. Have a cup of tea. Don't eat in the car. Save the eating for meals, and make meals events. You know, like they do in Ireland or Italy.

And finally, there is one more radical idea to consider...

Last fall, in anticipation of a high school reunion, I decided to go on a crash diet. It worked. I lost eleven pounds in two months. When my doctor marveled at how much weight I'd lost and asked me how I did it, I simply said, "I stopped eating so much food." I still ate and I still ate healthily. I just stopped eating way too much food. Once we admit that we just don't need to eat as much as we do, we can find other, more productive, more meaningful, and hopefully more delicious, ways to occupy our time.

Defriended

2009-01-31T23:59:00.016-05:00

On April 14, 2008, an event occurred that sent me into a tailspin of insecurity: I was defriended on Facebook. Now I know what you're thinking. "Stephanie, why in the world would anyone not want to be friends with you?" I know. I kept thinking the same thing, "Me?!?" So I guess you could say I didn't go into a tailspin of insecurity but instead felt the overwhelming shock of excessive self-esteem.

My Defriender was a "boy" I had known while doing children's theater camp. I was 14, then 15, and he was 13, then 14. We were in this camp for two summers, and he dated my sister. I sometimes found him annoying. He had this odd habit of exhaling loudly through his nose, and his voice had a honking quality to it. He was very preppy and lived in Brookline. I had not seen him since a camp reunion in 1983 and didn't hear from him or even keep tabs on him until he friended me that April. (I use the term 'friended' instead of 'befriended' because the former implies becoming a friend on Facebook, and the latter implies becoming friends in person. It's a whole new virtual vocabulary.)

He was very careful to write, "I ran out of high school friends and thought I'd move onto…" Wow. How very flattering. But I shouldn't complain; at least he remembered me after 28 years! As I started to write back to him, going on and on about our mutual friends at the Boston Conservatory, it suddenly dawned on me that I was confusing him with another Jeff. Oops. Sorry, dude. How very flattering to him...

We exchanged a few "hey-how've-you-been-over-the-last-three-decades" type emails, and he actually seemed very interesting: he is a witty writer and an environmental activist. He eventually disclosed that he was already showing some "addictive behaviors" where Facebook was concerned and that his girlfriend thought he was spending too much time on the site. I then happened to mention that I was going to be in New York, where he lives, in a week or so, and would he (and his girlfriend) like to meet for a drink.

I was defriended before I ever got a response.

I went into a mini-tizzy and asked both my brother and sister to search for him on the site. When we discovered that he was no longer on Facebook at all, I relaxed. He had left the site, not specifically defriended me. I'm sure I cared about this so much at the time because I only had about 30 friends on the site total.

Now that I have 162 friends, it's a different story entirely. I am the one who wants to do the de-friending. I could defriend 41 people on my Facebook right now and never miss them. I then could defriend another 11, have mixed feelings about it but still move on with my life. My Facebook has become unmanageable and it's losing its lustre. Checking status updates used to be an indulgent, voyeuristic pleasure. Now, between reading all the comments, stupid status updates and the like, it has become more of an obligation/pain in the ass. I have to scroll through quite a bit of junk in order to read the updates in which I'm interested.

In the fourteen months since I have been on the site, I've learned that there different categories of Facebook Friends. The first is People Who Are Already in Your Life whom you know and love. My brother and sister fall right into this category, as do David, Kim, Alyson, Molly, Gloria, John, Wendy, Lorryn, Bob, Nancy, Susan and more. This group is easy and obvious. There will be few difficulties hanging out with these people online because it's already been established that there are few difficulties hanging out with them in real life.

The next category, however, is more tricky: People Whom You Knew Once Upon a Time. These are people you never expected to see again in your lifetime after you graduated, moved away, or ended the run of that show. Now, thanks to the miracle of being friended on Facebook, the friendship has been given a second chance! This is a group that bears watching over time, like any new relationship. As your acquaintance with this group grows, the individuals in it will start to fall into sub-groups:

A. People I Didn't Know Well With Whom I Now Have Nothing in Common.
B. People I Didn't Know Well Who Now Seem Really Cool.
C. People Who Were Once Cool and Remain Cool.

The people in sub-category A, in my opinion, are damned to that position first and foremost by boring Status Updates, and the vast majority of the people I want to defriend fall into this category.

Each of these folks may have written that he or she is...
"knitting socks for her love."
"getting ready to do Q4 estimated taxes," followed by "is still doing taxes."
"configuring an HTL router."
"is so sick of the snow!!" followed by, "What's with all this snow?"

You get the idea. To me, the Status Update is the most important part of the Facebook. It connects us in our daily lives, and behind each of these updates lurk hearts and souls full of heartbreak, anxiety, hope and humor. Much humor, I might add. Each update might be a good or a gripe, a vent, a warning, a political opinion, an exclamation or a brag. It's through these little snippets of everyday life that I can glimpse into a person's mind and heart and decide whether or not I want to know him or her better. Relationships exist in the details, and if the details don't interest me, I'd prefer to move on.

In addition, people in subcategory A may have joined groups that I find offensive or stupid such as "Pray for the conversion of Barack Obama," "1,000,000 Against the Freedom of Choice Act," "1,000,000 for Defending Prop. 8," or "Fans of Sarah Palin." Now I'm not saying that I should have everything in common with my friends, but it would be nice to have something in common with them. Beyond that, I'd like to hope that my "friends" don't belong to organizations that step on my or anyone else's civil rights. That's a dealbreaker, in real life and online.

The next sub-category B, People I Didn't Know Well but Who Now Seem Really Cool, is by far the most fun. Tom (aka "please call me Tommy"), Damon, Erick, Justine and Jay fit into this one. Who knew Damon and Erick were so damn funny, especially with their references to pop culture? Who knew that Justine was into yoga and the books of Ruth Reichl and that Jay is so passionate about the rights of greyhounds? Not me, and I never would have had I not been able to engage various virtual dialogues with them.

Here's a story to further illustrate my point. I was on the phone with my friend Kevin, who is neither on Facebook, nor in possession of an email address (!) We were supposed to get together, but instead, he was now asking to bring me as his "crash date" to a pre-Christmas party at Tom's. I initially balked at the suggestion.

"Kevin," I said, "I haven't seen him in 26 years, and you want me to just go over his house uninvited??"

"Yes," he said. "I'm sure he would love to see you."

"You know, it's RIDICULOUS," I said, sounding like one of my students. "I read the stuff that he writes on Facebook and he is so funny and cool that I would love to get in touch with him or hang out with him more but it feels SO STUPID because it's been 25 years! And it's all online!!"

Kevin breathlessly responded, ala Jack McFarland, "OhmyGod, he said the exact same thing about you!!!"

So I crashed the party, and we had a grand old time. Tommy was as upbeat, witty and funny in person as he was online. Oh, and Phil joined us at 11, was a blast to hang out with, and so add him to sub-category B as well. A key to moving into sub-category B, by the way, is that the Facebook relationship is moving off of the computer and into real life. If it does, then you've struck Facebook gold with a new old friend.

The third and final sub-category C, the once-cool-always-cool people, includes Joanne, Doc, Nat, Nick, Thom, Abigail, Roy, Christopher, Rob, et al. They may or may not Facebook enough to my liking or the online relationship has not picked up steam. No matter, I like what they write when they write it. They seem not to have changed at all, since we graduated, moved away or ended the run of that show, and this is very reassuring.

Additionally, I have created a Friends List on FB called Close Friends. It's made up of people from the group, People Who Are Already in My Life and folks from sub-categories B (people who now seem cool) and C (once cool always cool). I don't necessarily define these Close Friends as people I'm actually close to. We may not live near each other. We may not have seen each other in 25 years, but something about YOU makes me feel that I can trust you. I can write about the goings-on in my life, share my thoughts and opinions with you, and you may actually be interested in reading them. If you, dear reader, can link to this blog from my Facebook Info tab, then guess what? It's because you made it into my list of Close Friends. (You didn't think I'd share that essay about my period with just anyone, did you??)

But let's get back to that first group and the point of this essay: the about-to-be-de-friended.

In a recent Boston Globe article about the idea of getting in touch with people via Facebook and then running out of things to say (see sub-category A), the author noted that on the Japanese equivalent site, Mixi, the goal is to have fewer friends, not more. I tried to verify this information online and found this random quote:

"... the Japanese people don't add you as friend just so they can have 300 online friends or more. On the other hand, (Facebook is) full of 'friends whores'. And when people on Mixi add you, they tend pay more attention to you, like for example, send you messages, comment on your blog entries, etc. Surely not the case on (Facebook, Friendster, MySpace) where they just add you and that's the end of the story."

I don't understand why Americans feel this need to be Friend Whores... especially at "our age." I can understand why my students have 595 friends. They're 15 years old, insecure and still unsure about their identities. They have as many friends of convenience as they have friends by choice. Hey, I was "friends" with my lab partners in high school, too; doesn't mean I want to go out for a beer with them now.

Because of the concept of having fewer friends not more, because of the boring status updates, and because my Facebook is becoming harder to handle, I'm considering the idea of Mixi-ing It Up. I'm debating defriending. I am keenly aware, however, that if I felt a sting of insecurity when I was defriended by a slightly-honking, loudly-exhaling, pussy-whipped boy/man whom I barely knew 28 years ago, what message could I perhaps be sending to the 50+ folks with whom I no longer wish to remain in contact? It feels like an odd combination of liberation and mean-spiritedness. I mean, it shouldn't hurt anyone's feelings, should it? I mean, it's just a stupid social website isn't it? I mean, it's not REAL.

Or is it?

The truth, as my story about Tommy illustrated, is that it is real in its own way. It is, in fact, a community of real people with real lives. The only thing that's changed is the medium with which I engage that community, but I don't have to hang out with everyone in the community just because we all find ourselves on a common website. If being "friends" with everyone who asks me interferes with my enjoyment of Facebook, then something's got to give. On the one hand, it seems a little insulting to defriend someone or not accept his or her friend request in the first place. On the other hand, there's an utter ridiculousness to the idea of being offended that someone you haven't spoken to or even thought about in twenty years doesn't want to keep in touch.

And so I admit, there are those I want to run out of my community. Run'em out on a rail! Since initially drafting this essay over two weeks ago (yes, I work on these pieces for weeks, days, hours at a time), I took a chance and defriended 17 people. I'd love to add them to subcategory d, Those Whom I Wish Well but Have Defriended, but I can't remember their names, nor have I heard from any of them again... which is probably just as it should be.

Just Beachy

2009-01-25T14:14:00.007-05:00

I wrote this essay in September after my last weekend of summer but didn't finish it until now. I promised myself I'd post it on the coldest day in January, which believe you me, is today.

If the weather forecast is hot and sunny, I will be going to the beach. This summer I have been bound and determined to make the most of every possible beach day. We had a fair amount of rain as well, which made me appreciate the sunny days all the more. I have a core group of friends, all around my age and almost all without kids, who love to go to the beach as much as I do, so a few days before the weekend, depending on the weather, an email will go out with the subject "Beach Day" inviting any or all of us to go to a nearby beach. Could be Good Harbor, could be Crane; could be Saturday, could be Sunday, who knows. The anticipation is part of the fun. "Anyone interested in the beach Saturday? Thinking Good Harbor and dinner on Rocky Neck after. Meet at REI at 12:30. W/B if interested."

Like a firefighter or a pregnant Laura Petrie, I keep a beach bag packed and ready at all times. This bag contains essentials such as my beach towel, which I put right back into the bag as soon as it comes out of the laundry, and yet another bag, a Zip-loc, containing sunscreen, lip balm, allergy pills, some band aids and hand sanitizer. The bag just stays there, you know, in the bag. I keep the beach bag in my bedroom so when the beach day arrives, I can stick whatever book or magazine I'm reading, clothes, etc. right into it and GO! I also keep my beach chair and styrofoam boogie board in the car. I'm ready for any beach contingency, ready to fly out the door to Good Harbor or Crane, or even Rye or Humarock at a moment's notice.

"Beach Brain"

Despite the fact that I do read books and magazines at the beach, I have to confess that when I'm on my way there, my IQ seems to fall below a 70, and for those of you who aren't familiar with either educational testing or the term Hegna, a below-70 IQ isn't, I mean ain't, good. Here are some examples of what I affectionately call my "beach brain."

Throughout this past summer, I have been late to the carpool meeting spot 90% of the time. When I've arrived, I've had to use the ladies' room or buy iced coffee further delaying me and my posse. I've not packed mascara or a headband for going out afterward. I've forgotten snacks or my phone. I've forgotten to bring cold drinking water and have had to hope that the water I haphazardly dispensed from the tap might miraculously chill propped up against an ice pack, as my cooler sits baking in the sun. Today, I forgot both my T-shirt and my wallet! Last week, I had to turn back because I was convinced I'd left the iron on.

I have no idea why someone who is normally as organized and punctual as I am has so much trouble getting to the beach. I cannot seem to get my shit together on beach days! No wonder all those blondes in California seem so dippy. It's the overwhelming challenge of beach prep... or the sun, or the peroxide or a combination these.

They say that some people are late either due to arrogance or because they don't want to go where they're intended, but I assure you I love the beach too much to not want to arrive there on time and risk pissing off my beach peeps. I suspect that when faced with the prospect of spending an afternoon at the beach, some mechanism in my brain thinks that I'm already there, and my normally conscientious self just up and takes the day off. For example, I can sit at the beach and just sit. I can stand and look out to the horizon and not say a word for minutes on end. (For both me and the people around me, this is highly significant.) I guess that going to or being at the beach makes me a little stupid, and I have to say that I like it. No worries, no cares, no pressure. I'm thrilled to drop everything to do nothing in the sun.

"I look like the Wreck of the Hesperus"

My friend Kevin first turned me on to this phrase in college, 20+ years ago, and it still makes me laugh. Leave it to an intelligent, elegant man from New England to turn a heartbreaking Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem about a fatal shipwreck into gay slang. (When you use this phrase, btw, you can weed out the intellectuals, New Englanders - OK Cantabrigians - and I guess, Brits, based on their response to it. Most people just say, "you look like the what??" Plebes and morons, the lot of them. But for the one or two people who immediately get it, it's a fabulously smart line.) Naturally, I adopted this phrase as my own, and it's a particular favorite during beach months, when I look like a complete and total MESS.

The Wreck of the Hesperus beautifully illustrates just how bedraggled and waterlogged I look after a day at the beach. The irony, though, is that I simply don't care how bad I look. I see that water and go right in, hairstyle be damned. The sad part is that even though my hair is naturally curly, it doesn't really dry that way without assistance. It dries in a combination of waves and curls from root through shaft but straightens into harsh points at the tips. Picture Medusa with shorter snakes. In addition, because I'm in the water so much, I use sunblock intermittently, so my skin becomes overly pink. I've lost weight, so I'm constantly adjusting the top of my bathing suit because it rides up, exposing more of my white belly than I care to share. I get sand all over my legs, salt in my hair and mouth, and develop more freckles as the day wears on. The wrinkles around my eyes are more pronounced. I don't wear any makeup. And despite the fact that I look like the Captain's daughter lashed to the mast off the reef of Norman's Woe, I think I'm gorgeous. If I don't look in any mirrors and avoid cameras, I can pretend I'm a nymph all day long.

"Middle-aged women on boogie boards"

I must admit I don't understand people who don't go in the water. I don't understand girls who won't get their hair wet. I don't know how these people can resist the lure of playing in the waves or riding on a boogie board. They certainly don't know what they're missing.

In New England, 'boogie board' is a catchall term for both an actual boogie board, which one balances on vertically in the surf at water's edge and a body board, on which one lies to ride waves. When I was a kid, we body-surfed. Today, it's "in" to use the styrofoam board for a better ride. And it's really, really "in" for the parents and other assorted grown-ups to use them at the beach more than the kids.

For these reasons, Susan D. is my favorite beach buddy. Though she's almost a decade older than I am, which is hardly relevant when it comes to waves and friendship, she and I think alike when it comes to beaching it. We certainly are more adventurous when it comes to the ocean than most of my friends in their 30s. Neither Susan nor I are able sit down for ten minutes without wanting to go in the water. She is more daring than I and dives in immediately; I am about two minutes wussier. If there's been a tropical storm or hurricane off the East Coast, she and I will exchange a couple of two-sentence emails prior to Beach Day, "Can't wait for the waves this weekend!" "My board is in the car!!" I like to think that when she and I are old ladies, we'll still be like this. Even better, we'll be retired, have more beach time and we'll already be old and won't care about getting wrinkled in the sun. Sounds like heaven.

While editing this post, I've been able to spend a precious hour at my imaginary beach. The room has been warmer. My smile has been brighter. I still look like a nymph (albeit a nymph in a sweater), and I think I've even gotten a tan. Though my mind, fortunately, has not defaulted to "beach brain," I do feel much that much more relaxed, lucky to have been able to dream of the beach in August on the coldest day in January.

Nonna's Christmas Knickknacks

2008-12-17T19:06:00.000-05:00

By popular demand, I've decided to post some additional pictures of my grandmother's home decorated for Christmas. As I mentioned in a previous post (Ghetto Beautiful - 10/30/08), my paternal grandmother, Nonna, decorated a cactus, not a tree. Sadly, we don't have any pictures of the Christmas Cactus, nor do we have any pictures of the thin string clothesline hung from the top to the bottom of the bannister on which were clipped (with mini, multi-colored, plastic clothespins) all of the Christmas cards she received each year. Here, however, are pictures of a few more items from Nonna's that always said Christmas to us.

Here is a picture of Jake with Nonna's "abominable" snowman.

This plastic snowman made its debut on the stairs around the time I was, well Jake's age in this picture - around 2.

The Snowman, as we called him, scared me to death!! I would refuse to go up the stairs alone while he was there, and the only bathroom was on the second floor. It didn't matter to me. I hated that snowman.

The picture to the right is of Nonna's creche. We called it, "the manger." Nonna lovingly set it up each year and even more lovingly, let us play with it, within reason of course. The scene was not complete without the white cotton batting draping the manger and the "ground." Clearly she wanted to give the image of snow, forgetting that Jesus was born in the desert.

The glitzy Christmas mobile below probably was not made by Nonna. She could cook, but she wasn't particularly crafty. Perhaps it was made by a friend or relative. I'm guessing it was someone Italian. Who else would incorporate so many sequins into each Christmas ornament hanging from the shiny gold wreath? Who else would spray paint each pine cone blue and then paint its tips in gold? It hangs proudly over my kitchen table as I type this. I LOVE this mobile, in all its sequined, spray-painted, gold glory.

When I worked at a previous high school, I hung it over the doorway to my office. One of the secretaries, Lucille, a good-natured, generous Italian woman really admired it. One day, as she walked by, she reached up to the mobile, gently touched it, looked me straight in the eyes and said knowingly, "Made with love." Indeed.

Merry Christmas!

Nonna’s Cranberry Orange Bread

Confession: This recipe doesn’t always work, can take forever to cook and sometimes comes out too moist in the center. BUT the flavors are always GREAT! Feel free to experiment with the amounts of flour and cooking time or cook in a pan other than a loaf pan.

Preheat oven to 350.

2 C flour
1 C sugar
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 C magarine (Fleishmann’s*)
1 egg, beaten
1 tsp. grated orange peel
3/4 C orange juice
1 1/2 C golden raisins
1 1/2 C fresh cranberries, chopped

Mix first 8 ingredients. Cut in margarine until crumbly. Add egg, orange juice and orange peel all at once. Stir only until evenly moist.

Fold in raisins and cranberries. Bake in greased 9x5 loaf pan at 350 for 1 hour, 10 min. If using a 9x9 brownie pan, watch the time carefully.

Wax paper on bottom of pan.

*Note from Nonna: Do not use Promise margarine, butter or low fat oleo.

It's Only Words

2008-12-14T20:18:00.010-05:00

And while we're on the subject of Galway Kinnell...

A couple of posts ago, I quoted a poem, Blackberry Eating, by Galway Kinnell. What I didn't mention in that post is that one of the reasons I like that poem so much is its creative use of language in comparing blackberries to words.

the ripest berries
fall almost unbidden to my tongue,
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words
like strengths or squinched,
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps,
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well
in the silent, startled, icy, black language
of blackberry-eating in late September.

"Certain peculiar words like strengths or squinched, many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps." Delish. That line makes my mouth water - not so much because I like blackberries but because I like those words. My lips and teeth and tongue are only too eager to say that sentence out loud. This is a feast of language.

Stealing an idea from Molly, of "Now is Not a Time" fame (to read her is to love her), here are some words I love to say and hear, as well as words I hate to say and hear. No, 'strengths' and 'squinched' didn't make the list (along with words that foment racial or cultural hatred), but that's only because they "go without saying."

Feel free to say them out loud. You know you want to.

Words I love:

luscious
blow
misogynist
lulu
quesadilla
bouquet garni
bastard
half-assed
putz
trannie mess
Vidalia
radioactive
skulk
slink
Linus
marshmallow
dude
tramp stamp
Mai tai
Les liaisons dangereuses
allegedly
grimace
languish
testicular
celebutante
sapphire
intuition
yikes
chagrin
Iditarod
gazillion
retarded
gorgeous
crikey (with Australian accent)
snarky

Words I hate:

repo
lovey (n. as in a cuddly toy for a child)
pus
vino
slacks
queer
yum-o
diaphragm
spigot
petting
pancreas
soil
midget
widget
dungarees
ecru
Margaret
l'orange
wicker
mucus
mucilage
papyrus
Arthur
jojoba
"tatt"
lactate
tolerant or tolerate
cuke
maverick
lawn
sherbet
percussion
Betty
boo-boo
Yule

Oversinging

2008-12-14T19:44:00.018-05:00

Music is the space between the notes.

~Claude Debussy

The BHS drama club held auditions for The Wizard of Oz last week. The audition panel, consisting of the director/musical director, John, the assistant musical director, Amanda, and I, the assistant director (note, that's assistant director, not assistant "to" the director), were very pleased and quite relieved that only two students indulged in singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" as if they were contestants on American Idol. You know what I'm talking about: the "trend" toward making a song into too much: too much volume, too much vibrato, too many extra notes, too much melisma. I call it oversinging.

If you're still not sure what I'm talking about, consider any pop rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner" that you've heard at a championship sporting event in the last decade. It's gotten to the point that the singing of our country's national anthem has become almost as competitive as the game it precedes. "The Star Spangled Banner" is a challenging song to sing. It's a way to show respect to our nation and our flag. It is not a rock 'n roll number, and it's most definitely not about the person singing it! Not that you would know this with the, dare I say, masturbatory way in which so many people belt it out. And yet the crowd cheers. We encourage it. We think that these exercises in vocal self-indulgence are "amazing," but in reality most people can't tell the difference. It's like applauding a fake orgasm.

A good artist knows that white makes as much of a statement as color. A good comedian knows that the pause is often more important than the joke. A good writer knows that fewer words can be more effective. The space between the notes leaves us wanting more.

Note to singers: don't fill those spaces with crap. Don't try to be someone you're not. And stop showing off!

"Oversinging for the sake of oversinging," in my opinion, originated in the early 80's, you know, like the AIDS epidemic. (Oh, I'm sorry, is that a tasteless comparison? Well, too bad.). The first person to spawn a generation of oversingers was Jennifer Holliday of Dreamgirls fame, and fleeting fame it was. When my father came back from an out-of-town-tryout (back when they had out-of-town tryouts... in Boston...so for us it was an in-town tryout), he was effusive in his praise of her. "If the audience could have given this girl a standing ovation after that number, they would have!" Holliday won a Tony Award for the role and yet as it turned out, singing "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going" turned out to be all she could do. She was a one-trick pony (and apparently still very bitter about it).

The other "culprit" was Sam Harris, a vocalist who blew everybody's mind (and by "everybody," I mean all the gay guys at the Boston Conservatory) with his rendition of, you guessed it, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" during the first season of Star Search in 1984. His voice was amazing, but it's not like I ever bought his albums or anything, or yearned to see him perform. Once I heard him hit his money notes, I was pretty much done. There wasn't much else about him to keep me coming back for more. His recent Tony nomination notwithstanding (and don't get me started on the Tony Awards as a way to judge quality; that's another blog for another day), he can still be heard overdoing it and listening to himself sing on his website. Check it out if you don't believe me. And don't watch him. Turn away and just listen. A good singer will compel you to look at him; you will not be able to not pay attention.

To be fair, both Harris and Holliday have successful careers as singers. They do have great voices, but what they triggered in America was this tendency for singers to show off and ONLY show off. People thought they "had to" sing like Sam Harris, not understanding that the way Sam Harris sings is his style and his alone. If you don't sing with an excess of melisma, you can still be talented. You can still get the lead in a Broadway show. You can make thousands of dollars singing jingles in voice-overs. You could be Jennifer Lopez.

As a former hirer of good voices and as a person who possesses a good voice of her own, let me assure you that good voices are actually a dime a dozen. Several years ago, I was in Kappy's Liquors in Malden on a Saturday afternoon. The radio in the store was tuned to the now defunct AM 1430, which at the time, only played old standards. Frank Sinatra was singing "Witchcraft," and so apparently was everyone else in the store. Every time I went down a new aisle, another person was singing along, and not badly either. I was impressed. Many people can sing. Most don't. I think some are afraid to sing because it won't be "good enough." Like, if you can't sing like Barbra Streisand, why bother? Ridiculous!

Consider The Divine Miss M, Bette Midler, in my opinion one of the greatest singer/actors of the last 30 years. Her voice is pretty. It's fine, but the way she sings a song is superb. She is barely five feet tall, and yet from the mezzanine of Radio City Music Hall, it's impossible to miss her, impossible to take your eyes off of her. Everything she sings comes from her heart - and only from her heart. Every pause, every breath and every note that she sings is there for a reason. She's able to communicate something about humanity through the art of song. When people connect through art, they go to a place that is not of this world, and Bette Midler has the rare ability to take us there. I don't think it's unfitting that one of her nicknames is "divine."

So where does this leave us as a nation of fans? Do we continue to encourage, reward and applaud every wannabe that Oprah or Ellen trots out onto the stage? Is there any way to teach people the difference? It heartens me that I'm not the only person I know who hates oversinging. It also heartens me that so far, everyone I've mentioned this peeve to (John, Amanda and two co-workers) are seven to nineteen years younger than I am. Perhaps the solution is to simply continue to expose people to quality music and encourage them to share their unique gifts via the arts, rather than use the arts to make themselves into something they're not.

Habits (or We are Boring Mostly)

2008-12-06T13:00:00.011-05:00

"We are boring mostly. We live ordinary lives. We want to get the food on the table. We want the children to be happy and healthy. Very boring. I mean, it's ordinary."

~Maya Angelou

The other day, as I was pulling the comforter up over my bed and arranging the pillows, it occurred to me that this is something I cannot not do each day. It got me thinking about habits and what they mean to us. They're basically the stuff of life. I mean, seriously, our lives just aren't that interesting every day of the week. Most of us are not "glam," and even people who are glam still have to brush their teeth every day, moisturize, get on the treadmill (boy do they ever).

In addition to making my bed every day, I brush my teeth twice. I check my email. I put on earrings and makeup. I exercise at least three times a week. I pay my bills on time. I get the oil in my car changed every 3,000 miles. I tend to make food for the week on Sunday afternoons. Oh, and I make my own coffee. Don't forget the coffee! With half and half and two Equals, or Splenda if it's what I have. I LOVE my coffee.

This is not the stuff of legend, and I'm fine with that.

Excellence is not a singular act, but a habit. You are what you repeatedly do.

~Shaquille O'Neal and Aristotle

OK, so if Shaqistotle's philosophy is true, then conversely, am I also that which I repeatedly do NOT do? I am a person who does not floss daily. I don't drink enough water. I don't obey the speed limit. I don't take calcium. When I say I exercise three times a week, there is no consistency or predictability to it... unlike Shaq's routine, I'm sure. I spend way too much time on the computer. I don't write for a half an hour every day. I don't read for a half an hour every day. I have a stack of unread magazines laying on a table, begging me, pressuring me, double-dog-daring me to read them. And I got another one in the mail today, which I also intend not to read. I do not go to church and have yet to seriously practice the principles of gratitude or prayer on any regular basis. God forbid I affirm anything daily or even weekly for that matter. I do not practice yoga or the law of attraction, but I think about it. This must change, or must it? Can it? Does it have to? Oy, the pressure.

Five years ago, I took a series of online courses and teleclasses through Coach U to get an initial certification in personal coaching. I have the certification, am not a professional coach and yet several of the exercises have stuck with me. One of them was a lesson in creating habits, which I will share.

Write down ten habits that you would like to complete each day. Go ahead; do it. I will wait. Do not read ahead until you've written your ten new habits.

Got them?

Seriously?

OK. Here's what you're going to do next. Throw away the list. And re-write it as ten habits you would LOVE to complete every day. Go ahead. I will wait. In fact, I will re-write my own list. (If you can't come up with ten, try three for now and add to the list over the next few days.)

It's a different feeling, isn't it? I bet you feel more relaxed already. This is the Ten Daily Habits exercise, and I strongly encourage you to try indulge yourself in these habits for the new year. Pick ten things that you would LOVE or even just prefer to do each day, not ten things you HAVE to do. Rid yourself of the guilt and pressure. When you put such pressure on yourself, you drain even more of your energy by beating yourself up. I suspect that "beating yourself up" is not one of the habits you chose, am I right?

Here are ten of mine (actually, "mine goes to eleven"). I came up with this list after having fallen out of the habit of doing it a few years ago. Interestingly, four of these are the same as they were when I made my first list.

Blog for half an hour.
Read a book or magazine for half an hour.
Practice yoga for 20 minutes.
Wash dishes (I love to wash dishes.)
Eat a piece of dark chocolate.*
Have a second cup of coffee or decaf in the afternoon.
Maintain nails.
Put on lipstick in the afternoon.
Wear a bracelet.
Sing Christmas carols in the car.
Call one of my siblings.

*Note: the habits should make you feel good about yourself upon completion. If you don't feel good about yourself afterward, perhaps that habit could be more constructive. For example, eating a piece of dark chocolate every day can be enjoyable and even healthy, but eating an entire candy bar every day could result in mixed feelings.

Consider this exchange from Seinfeld. It's from the episode "The Keys." George and Kramer are sitting in a coffee shop, and Kramer has just asked George if he ever yearns ("George, do you ever yearn?" "Yearn?? Do I yearn?"). Kramer wants to go to California and is trying to convince George to join him.

Kramer: Do you have a job?
George: No.
Kramer: You got money?
George: No.
Kramer: Do you have a woman?
George: No.
Kramer: Do you have any prospects?
George: No.
Kramer: Do you have any action at all?
George: No.
Kramer: Do you have any conceivable reason for even getting up in the morning?
George: I like to get the Daily News.

"I like to get the Daily News."

I think this is one of the great lines in television. In the true Seinfeldian spirit, it's honest, it's mundane, and, most of all, it's real. Those small daily habits or rituals are sometimes all that we have, and getting the Daily News is a significant habit, perhaps even an accomplishment (well for George, anyway).

I was once trying to convince a student of mine to keep coming to school and not drop out. (Legally, he was too young to drop out, so there were some steep consequences if he persisted in being truant.) I told him/pleaded with him to try to get him to understand that he really had to try to find some small reason to get to school in the morning, even if it was to see just one friend. I shared that occasionally in my own life, the only thing that gets me up in the morning is the prospect of coffee. That's it. That's all. Sometimes I have no conceivable reason for even getting up in the morning other than to have a cup of coffee. I remember feeling a little pained admitting it at the time, but it's true. Especially in winter. Especially with Christmas vacation looming and yet so far away...

On the days, even weeks, when nothing exciting is happening or there doesn't appear to be a major event to look forward to (or even when there is), embrace the daily rituals. They are your habits, after all - your pattern, your routine, your unique, idiosyncratic way of being in the world. And this can be more than enough.

This is one of the meals of the week I make on Sunday afternoons. I am, in fact, making it today.

Tuscan Casserole

15 1/2 oz canned cannellini beans, rinsed and drained
10 oz chopped frozen spinach, thawed
3/4 cup part-skim ricotta cheese
1 egg
Olive oil
1 medium onion(s), chopped
2 medium garlic clove(s), chopped
8 oz mushroom(s), sliced
2 slices whole wheat bread, torn in small pieces
2 Tbsp grated Parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper to taste

Instructions
Heat oven to 350°F. Line 9 x 9-inch pan with aluminum foil. In bowl combine beans, spinach, ricotta, salt and pepper to taste.

Over medium-high heat, heat olive oil. Add onion, garlic and mushrooms and saute until mushrooms are almost dry and begin to brown, 10 minutes. Add to bean mixture. Spoon into pan and even out top.

Sprinkle bread over mixture; top with cheese. Bake until bread is toasted and spinach is warmed through, 25 minutes. Let stand 10 minutes before serving.

I Am Vertical

2008-11-30T11:02:00.004-05:00

Every day at work I have the option to stare mindlessly at two poems hanging on my wall: "I Am Vertical" by Sylvia Plath and "Blackberry Eating" by Galway Kinnell. I fell in love with these poems years ago when I lived in New York.

In the late early-90's (got that?), the New York City Transit Authority piloted a program on the subway system called "Poetry in Motion." In various ad spaces throughout the trains were published excerpts from works by prominent poets. I loved to meditate on the poems, either consciously or unconsciously; they were a welcome diversion from looking at actual ads or from reading whatever script I was carrying to or from work. Each also offered a brief escape from the often grueling commute on the run-down rails.

"Blackberry Eating" by Galway Kinnell, was short enough to be put "in motion" in its entirety. I think it begs to be read aloud, but I never was remotely crazy enough to do so on the train (not that anyone would have noticed or cared).

Blackberry Eating

I love to go out in late September
among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries
to eat blackberries for breakfast,
the stalks very prickly, a penalty
they earn for knowing the black art
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries
fall almost unbidden to my tongue,
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words
like strengths or squinched,
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps,
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well
in the silent, startled, icy, black language
of blackberry -- eating in late September.

The second poem was much more profound than the former, and struck me at my core. I can't tell you how many times I stood gazing at this poem and wished that I, too, were horizontal. That first line is one of the best opening lines of a poem ever.

I Am Vertical

But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Here's the rest of it, which did not make the Transit Authority's cut, and I apologize for the interruption:

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them --
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

(Poor Sylvia Plath. If this poem ain't a cry for help, I don't know what is.)

Before my roommates and I broke up our apartment, we each decided we wanted our favorite NYTA poems to take with us as mementos of our lives as commuters on the F train. I suggested (or maybe it was Rebecca's idea) that we contact the Transit Authority and offer to buy the "posters," and so began my mission to track them down. My method in those pre-Internet days was to relentlessly keep calling numbers and extensions until they put me in touch with the right office. The "office" as it were, was one guy who made us a deal immediately. For every letter we brought him praising the program, he would give us two poems. We each placed our orders. I would take Galway Kinnell and Sylvia Plath. Either Rebecca or Megan would take Sylvia Plath and the poem by the Japanese guy. They didn't like Galway Kinnell's poem as much as I did. Letters in hand, I proceeded to Brooklyn (far Brooklyn, compared to where we were) and picked up the posters.

After I moved back to Massachusetts, one of my first orders of business was to have my posters custom-framed. Despite the fact that I had no income other than unemployment, I was undeterred. I took them to a craft store, chose my frames and $100+ later, had two beautiful pieces of art. They were to remain mostly closeted for close to 14 years until I finally decided to bring them to work. Like the china that is only reserved for company, I had a stupid notion that the poems must be preserved... protected. They represented EVERYTHING to me about my years in New York.

I rode that subway every damn day I was there. It was a way of life. The poems represented a break from the monotony, the waiting and waiting for the train to come, the screeeeeeching of the brakes, the stifling heat of the 14th St/Union Square station in the summer, the unforgettable aroma of candied peanuts and urine, the kisses and hugs - both hello and good-bye - on the various platforms throughout the city. There were encounters with the random, the ragged, and the raging, the smelly, the loud and even the well-to-do. I once ran into James Lapine on the subway and later had to justify the meeting to a snobby agent. ("James Lapine takes the subway?" he asked snottily, and in the back of my mind I thought, "I hate this fucking business.")

One time on my way home, I was so amused while reading The Gilligan's Island Handbook prior to giving it to my sister for Christmas, that I completely missed my stop and added another half hour to my commute by staying on the train until I could reverse directions without having to pay again. God that was annoying! And let's not forget the drunk guy who started masturbating in his pants in front of me and sent me tearing out the door and up the stairs three at a time, or the time I screamed when the plastic shopping bags of two Chinese women started hopping across the floor of the train... because they contained live fish. There was also this ancient Hasidic man who pressed himself next to me in the seat, and in a voice like Artie Johnson on Laugh-in asked me, breathing heavily, told me how pretty I was and asked if I was a nice Jewish girl. (I was tempted to respond, "Isn't that hat on your head to show your respect to God? Because I don't think God approves of your behavior right now.") Last but not least, let's all pause to remember the kid who brandished the .44. Ahh, good times on the F train, let me tell you.

It is said that a good poem lies somewhere beyond the words, that they capture the unsayable, and explore the nature of the human condition. Despite the uncomfortable and often comical realities of a commuter's life on the rails, these poems always brought me back to myself, and allowed me to transcend my surroundings. For a minute or two every day, among the noise and smells, I found solace.

Ghetto Beautiful

2008-10-30T20:38:00.042-04:00

They're tchotchkes. They're sentimental. They're junk. They're home. They were Nonna's knickknacks, and I've decided to pull them out of obscurity and share them with the world.

Welcome to my tour.

Nonna, as I've shared in a previous post, is my paternal grandmother. She will turn 100 years old on November 27th. "Nonna" is Italian for Grandma. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, there is no Italian word for knickknacks. Or worse, there is no Italian word for "Italian-American knickknacks." Come se dice, "Somewhere Jonathan Adler's head is exploding?"

Exhibit A. That old familiar Italian-American standby, plastic fruit. What you can't see in this photograph is that there is a small plastic bug on one of those apples. 'Cuz that makes it look more real. Even more curiously, check out, if you haven't already, the Brady Bunch tiki idol pencil cup to the left. And for those of you kids under 10, that white thing coming out of the phone is a cord.

The perfect complement to plastic fruit: plastic flowers...

Continuing on the bad pencil cup theme, check out the plastic Labatt's guy. My grandfather was employed for years by Mr. Carbone, who owned a liquor store. My grandparents, for some strange reason (perhaps all too obvious) enjoyed keeping alcohol-related knickknacks around the house.

Three staples of any nonna's home: pictures of the family, palms from Palm Sunday (maybe Palm Sunday, 1973?) and the Infant of Prague. The Infant of Prague is an odd, usually plastic, icon of Jesus-as-King-of-the-World-but-Still-a-Baby. He has a ring on his right hand and the whole world in his other. From left: my father, me, my uncle Jimmy and my cousins, Jimmy and Joey (back when they were still called Jimmy and Joey). My siblings and two other cousins apparently did not warrant a place in this display, leading me to the obvious conclusion that Jim, Joe and I were the favorite grandchildren.

Footnote on this particular Infant of Prague: Alicia and I sold it at the Salem Common Association yard sale for $10. We sold it to a lovely young Latina woman whose eyes lit up when she saw it. "Oooh," she said, "the baby Lord Jesus. He's so beautiful." We knew that Nonna's Infant of Prague was going to a loving home. I still regret having taken that woman's money.

Not all of Nonna's stuff was crap (and who said it was, anyway?). This art deco aqua ceramic horse lamp/planter was a huge hit among visiting art lovers and homosexuals for years. At the height of its popularity, it had a large, pleated, rectangle shade, and on either side of the base, two small
square bowls that served as planters. Outrageous, I know, but that's what made it sooooo, freakin' fabulous.

Some of the glass on this hutch is beautiful, too. I'll admit it's a screaming sea of blue, but the dark blue pedestal candy dish in the front is lovely. The 'I Dream of Jeannie' vase in the back? Not so much. To the far left? Another alcohol bottle. You know, from Carbone's.

"L'Ultima Cena di Jesus."
This bas relief in pewter is absolutely stunning in person, if a little over-the-top. When we cleaned out Nonna's house, this was the first thing my sister and I tried to "call." Unfortunately, it was promised to Yvonne, my grandmother's incredibly devoted niece and our first cousin once-removed who took Nonna in when she was 95 and Yvonne was 70. How could we begrudge her this? Although if Yvonne leaves it to one of her kids and they try to sell it on ebay, heads will roll.

Viola! Nonna's girly bathroom. My grandparents didn't buy their first house until my father was 21 years old. After having lived in an apartment with her husband and two sons, Nonna was adamant she have some "girl space." Pink, pink, and more pink. She even had fluffy, hot pink throw rugs on the floor, around the toilet and of course, covering the toilet lid! One time, Alicia took those rugs home to launder, and upon returning to Nonna's and pulling them out of her car, held them out to us and said sadly, "How many Muppets had to die??"

"And a partridge (that used to be) in a pear tree."

Actually my grandmother didn't own a pear tree. She didn't even decorate a Christmas tree. She decorated a cactus. When I was little, in order that his grandchildren be able to reach the kitchen light, my grandfather hung this partridge from the cord. Both practical and attractive, this photo does not do justice to the amount of its glitter. We loved that partridge. Last year at Christmas, I sent this photo to my siblings and cousins with the caption, "A Very Ghetto Christmas." Still, however, we really find that partridge to be beautiful.

For all their eccentricities of interior design, my grandparents' home was one of the most loving spaces I've ever spent time in, and while I'd love to wax poetic about home being where the heart is and how they were poor but generous (all true), I won't get into it here. You can love people and still speak the truth about them, and the truth about my grandmother was that her knickknacks were horrifying.

Taste the Rainbow

2008-10-21T19:47:00.012-04:00

My friend Kevin, a 40-something (whoops, I mean 30-something), gay man, never ceases to be amazed by the idea that today's teenagers can be openly gay in high school with few, if any, repercussions. He's also awed by the fact that they would have the "presence of mind" to own their own sexual identity at such a young age. For teenagers today, sexual orientation is largely a non-issue, and even students who are uncomfortable with homosexuality, at the very least, ignore it.

It wasn't like that for Kevin, and it wasn't like that for me, a 40-something-who-looks-30-something, straight ally. Kevin would have sooner died than come out in high school, and I would have sooner died than have openly supported him for it. Of course, in the early 80s when we met, you literally could die for being openly gay. Before the era of AIDS, "gay bashing" was likely the second cause of death for gay people, after suicide.

I'm here to tell you that things are different now, especially here in Massachusetts where gay people have had full civil rights since 2004. What I want you to understand is that things are different at the grass roots level. Things are different with the kids.

This is not your gay friend Kevin's public high school.

One of the main reasons for this change is the Gay-Straight Alliance. GSAs are after-school clubs which offer a supportive environment for gay students and their straight allies to meet, socialize, vent and educate. The first Gay Straight Alliance in a public high school was formed at Newton South in Massachusetts in 1987. How safe your school is and how big your GSA may be dependent on both geography and rulings of your local district courts. I don't think that it's a coincidence that Massachusetts was the first state to allow GSAs in public schools and that we were also the first state to allow gay marriage. (It's also worth noting that there are GSAs in Salt Lake City, so keep your fingers crossed for gay Sealing Ordinances in our lifetime.)

The GSA at the high school at which I work is less than ten years old, and I became a co-advisor of it this September. My involvement with the BHS GSA, also called Spectrum, came about through a series of coincidences. Last year, two of my co-counselors and I decided to attend a Spectrum meeting to show support from the guidance department. We meandered down the music hallway and found the meeting taking place in the In-School Suspension room. Huh?!? The In-School Suspension room is an ugly, faded room, curiously lit by dull fluorescent lights. It's not well-maintained and for good reason: it's where kids are sent to be punished. But why were the gay kids and their straight allies living the gay man's nightmare by meeting in a room with no paint and bad lighting?

We counselors were concerned. I immediately offered the conference room in our department as an alternate space, and they leapt at the offer. Our new boss, much more gay-sympathetic and 30 years younger than our previous boss, barely blinked an eye when we ran this by him. (Though our former boss had been a counselor and was respectful of all students, he came from a don't ask/don't tell generation, - ironically comprised of hippies and flower children - and would not have supported this move. Our former principal, also 60ish, was of the same mindset: tolerant only, but not openly supportive or encouraging.) Because my office was next door to this new meeting space, I often checked in with the students, especially if John, the advisor, had drama rehearsal after school.

Despite my years in theater and being the daughter of a gay man, I confess I didn't always know what to make of these kids. Well, I knew what to make of them: they were the same fringe element that you'd find in the social margins of any high school, half of them "misfits" and half of them in the band and/or drama club, i.e. "talented misfits." But I didn't always like their attitude. I couldn't abide their continually self-identifying as victims. I sometimes got the impression that they were reveling in the idea being outcasts and got a palpable sense of annoyance when they talked about how unpopular the club was. "One kid told me," a student said, "that she'd join GSA if it weren't social suicide."

Social suicide? I thought to myself. Why are they buying into this mindset? Gay people pave the way for all things cool in this country: fashion, music, movies, advertising, hair styles and theater. (I include theater, not because it's considered "cool" but because it's generally an accurate predictor of social change and where you will find the most cutting edge ideas about politics and cultural issues before they become mainstream.) In any case, I didn't understand the paradox of why coolness in the real world is considered to be "social suicide" in high school. I believe, with every fiber of my being, that negativity only buys you more negativity. If you decide you live in a hostile universe, it will be hostile. If you choose to live in a friendly universe, it will be friendly. As the saying goes, "If you want a friend, be a friend," and if I may add a second part to it, "If you don't want any friends, be an asshole." It's your choice. But you can't preach to teenagers. (Duh!) You can't "tell" them how it should be or God forbid, tell them how they "should" be. So I let them vent and gently tried to challenge their internal beliefs, hoping that eventually the collective energy of the club might shift.

Then came "Day of Silence," and everything did change, but from the outside in.

"Day of Silence" is a national "student-led day of action when concerned students, from middle school to college, take some form of a vow of silence to bring attention to the name-calling, bullying and harassment -- in effect, the silencing -- experienced by LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) students and their allies" (www.glsen.com). Yes, the act of students' not speaking in school is frustrating to teachers (no more frustrating to anyone than the GSA advisor, John, who teaches frickin' chorus). Parameters were drawn up by the GSA, in cooperation with the principal, to help facilitate written communication between students and teachers in class, if need be. I was cautiously optimistic about how the day would go, mostly because there had been no backlash or questioning at the faculty meeting when the principal informed the staff about the upcoming event. Still, it was anyone's guess. With only a handful of students in the GSA to begin with, they were truly in the minority of minorities.

With the encouragement of this new and more enlightened school administration, Day of Silence was held. Students put up signs, made announcements and about 10 of them pledged to be full, silent participants. The kids had also made about 150 rainbow ribbons, and I offered put some in the teachers' room for staff to take and wear. The rest would be distributed to students who might want to support the effort. We were not overly optimistic as to the response but had our sights set on merely raising awareness. The Spectrum students were happy that they were going to be allowed to have a Day of Silence, regardless of the level of its success.

But something happened that changed the gloom and doom predictions of the students who'd assumed they'd be made fun of/harassed/ bullied/teased/embarrassed, etc. WE RAN OUT OF RIBBONS. Despite an emergency run to a craft store, and the creation of 100 more, we still didn't have enough ribbons for everyone in the school who wanted one. Can I say it again? We ran out of ribbons. Because more people supported these students than we'd anticipated.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when our high school held its annual Activities Fair. This is an after-school event during which all the clubs in school set up tables in the cafeteria and let the freshmen, newly enrolled students, and curious upperclassmen explore what the clubs are all about.

I stood at our table with my co-advisor, John, and about 5 students. There was no missing the Spectrum table. John and the kids had hung a giant rainbow banner on the wall which was visible from across the entire caf. They'd also hung a glitzy "Mystic Players-esque" tube of colored streamers from the ceiling that fell right in the center of the table. We had a basket of Rainbow Twizzlers and fun-size Skittles to pass out to students. The kids had made yet another 150 ribbons to distribute as well. The principal took a ribbon and wore it on his lapel. The superintendent of schools took a Mass Equality bumper sticker and immediately hung it in the window of his office. Despite the support of these school leaders, what we really wanted was the support of more students. Optimistically, we were ready with a sign-up sheet for any students who might want to join our club (should they be brave enough to put it in writing).

There's an interesting phenomenon that occurs around the Spectrum table at an Activities Fair. Prospective members look at our table curiously, and then when they realize what the club is, turn away. Avert their eyes. Blush and look to see if anyone noticed. After 10 minutes, I got fed up with this, so I decided to meet these prospective members where they were at, meaning I was going to embarrass them even more. I acknowledged that they didn't want to come over by throwing Rainbow Twizzlers and Skittles at them and then eventually, to them. "You don't have to join our club," I said, " but you can still have our candy." Soon the kids joined me and began throwing candy to their peers saying, "Taste the rainbow! Taste the rainbow!" (Witnessing my lobbing candy directly into eager students' hands, John said, "Wow, you're good at sports." Sardonically, I replied, "Well, someone in this club has to be.") John and I then stepped back and let the students work their quirky, charismatic, artsy magic with their more reluctant classmates.

Much to the horror of conservative right-wingers, our recruitment tactics have worked. I'm happy to report that 36 students signed up to join the club, email addresses and all. About half of them have been showing up to meetings on a regular basis.

It's still not as easy to be "out" in a politically moderate, suburban, 'bedroom community' as it is on, say, West 44th Street between Broadway and 8th, but it's easier than it used to be. And more often than not, it's just fun.

Moroccan Style Chicken Phyllo Rolls

This recipe is dedicated to my aforementioned friend, Kevin, who first showed me how to work with phyllo dough in 1990. Though this recipe isn't mine, it rocks. At your next cocktail party, it will make you a hit among your gay friends and/or straight allies. Difficulty level for Kevin and me: easy peasy. Difficulty level for everyone else: potentially challenging and time-consuming but worth it for its fabulousness. Click on recipe to link to Epicurious.com.

Nonna's Advice for a Bad Economy

2008-10-08T20:14:00.007-04:00

In these days of economic uncertainty, I wish my grandmother were "with it." You see, if Nonna had better hearing, better vision and a better memory, I would love, love, love to hear her expound on the mortgage crisis, the bailout, "the Wall Street fatcats," the maroons in Congress and the ordinary Americans who spend more than they earn. All equally to blame in her eyes, I'm sure, for this big, bad economic mess.

Nonna is 99 years old. She'll be 100 in November. She was sharp as a tack until about three years ago, and since then has begun a slow decline. Because of her compromised hearing and sight, she is not really able to keep up with current events, and if you ever knew Nonna, she kept up with current events and was not afraid to share her opinion(s) around her kitchen table.

Nonna was a first-generation Italian American and one of six children. After high school, she was employed as an Italian translator and then as a bookkeeper. Nonna was 21 years old when the stock market crashed, and in part because of the Great Depression, she did not marry my grandfather until she was 27. Like my maternal grandparents, who were engaged in 1927 but did not marry until 1937, couples in the 30s tended to postpone marriage until they were able to save any amount of money. (They sure as hell did not go into debt for the wedding reception either.) She and my grandfather had two boys, my father and my uncle. (My uncle was trained as a plumber and my father was a lawyer. He worked to pay his own way through law school, through Boston College and even more shockingly, through Matignon High School. If my grandparents were able to help him financially, I'm sure they weren't able to offer much.) When Nonna was middle-aged, she became a "salesgirl" at Sears and Roebuck until she was forced to retire in 1973 when she turned 65.

For 27 years, we visited Nonna every Sunday at her house just outside Davis Square in Somerville. For my siblings and me, and for our cousin Rob, visiting Nonna was a constant in our lives and was especially meaningful because on those Sundays, our respective fathers, no longer married to our respective mothers, took us to hang with their side of the family. It was our Italian family connection, and around that table was where we learned where our family stood regarding any issue of the day: economics, saving money, marriage, food (and more food), cooking, drinking, racism, romance, etc. We didn't always agree, but that was half the fun.

I have been thinking about those days a lot lately and wishing I could "go to Nonna's" these past few Sundays. Ironically, I'm not being sentimental about this. I would just love to hear her go off! In fact, I spent so many Sundays at Nonna's, I can tell you the lessons she'd likely want to impart about this economic mess if she could.

Know Who You Are
Nonna was extremely intelligent, and only graduated from high school after a concerned teacher begged my great-grandfather to let her stay in school. My great-grandfather hadn't believed until then that girls should go to school beyond the eighth grade, but for Nonna and because of her teacher, he made an exception. Nonna used her 'formal' education as a starting-off place for the rest of her lifelong learning. She did not assume that "everything she needed to know she learned in high school," and I don't think she'd blame public schools for the financial mess we're in. She continually educated herself. She read the newspaper every day. She went to the library and read voraciously. She was a whiz at crosswords. She double-checked her receipts and counted the change that the clerk handed back to her. She understood her bank statements. She wrote letters of complaint when she was displeased with products. And she never replaced anything that still worked just because it was out of style. She relied heavily on her common sense, and unfortunately even the best teacher in the world can't teach common sense.
Nonna knew that a person's life was worth more than the "stuff" we own, although Nonna did have a lot of stuff (another blog for another day). Having a roof over one's head, friends, family, a glass of wine (or scotch), making really great gnocchi, tending a garden of cacti and succulens which would have impress Martha Stewart, and babysitting the grandkids were all she needed. She didn't know much about acquiring wealth, but she knew a lot about not going into debt, about breaking even, taking advantage of offers, paying back, and most importantly about the concept of "choosing not to afford" things. Her values were in tact, and her spending habits reflected those values. She was all about personal accountability.

Trust your instincts
On a recent Oprah Winfrey Show, and while explaining the current economic mess we're in, Suze Orman and CNN correspondent Ali Valshi criticized banks for having assured home buyers that they "could" afford to buy more house with less money, thus setting the stage for thousands of foreclosures. I can see how people would have been seduced by an offer of a larger loan, I really can. I'm just not sure my grandmother would have been one of them. She would have gotten out a pencil and pad, recalculated the interest, measured it against both her and my grandfather's wages (note, I wrote wages, not salaries) and decided it was too risky. The end. Nonna would have suspected that the bankers had something to gain by offering her a loan with more interest. I believe she would have said, "Thanks but no thanks."

Take the Butter and Run
When African-American comedians like Bernie Mac and Chris Rock talk about government cheese in their standup routines, you will hear chortles of laughter from the my siblings and me. Why? Because we, upper-middle class white kids, enjoyed our fair share of government rationed butter and cheese during our teen and college years.

You see, my grandfather died when I was 19, and my grandmother transferred the deed to her house to my father and uncle so that she could eventually qualify for senior housing. Despite the fact that she still lived in a house, Nonna was technically considered poor. Not po', but poor. And in many ways, she was. The house was all they had. Davis Square was still a pit of despair, and my grandmother was living off Social Security. (I believe my father paid a lot of her bills as well.) As result of this slightly unethical deed transfer and of Ronald Reagan's trickle-down theory of economics, Nonna qualified for free butter and cheese from the government. Yum!

Each 5 pound brick of butter or cheese was about the size of, OK, a brick, and she got these bricks once a week. 5 lbs of butter plus 5 lbs of orange imitation cheddar cheese is way too much for one old lady, so she very generously offered much of it to her college-age granddaughters. (If you ever came to a cast party at 591 Beacon, you may have sampled said cheese on a cracker, paired, I'm sure, with a lovely $3.99 Gallo chablis.)

Nonna was not afraid to stand in line for her free butter and cheese. She didn't look at it as a handout; she looked at it as something she had earned. She had worked hard all her life and raised two sons. She paid her taxes, voted, and left a very small carbon footprint by never learning how to drive.

I'm sure she also looked at the opportunity to live in senior housing as something she'd earned, too, but when the day came and she was offered an apartment, she turned it down, preferring to stay in her house until she was 95. During the final years that she lived alone in that house, she took advantage of subsidized services from various agencies: a part-time home health aide, a part-time health care worker and a pick up and drop off service from the Somerville library. She did not, however, get Meals on Wheels. For someone of Nonna's calibre as an Italian chef and cook, Meals on Wheels would have brought shame and disgrace, not to her family, but to her palate.

Learn from her example(s):
Family legend 1: In the 1950's, Nonna bought a canned ham from the Hormel Company. When she opened it, she was dismayed by how much fat was on the ham. She wrote a letter of complaint to Hormel, and by way of apologizing, they sent her a giant box filled with Hormel products. Lesson: if something you've paid for is not of good quality, let the company know.

Family legend 2: During World War II, all families got food rations. Somehow, my grandfather and his "associates" always managed to get more than their share of steak and roast beef, I mean "rations." Sometimes the rations were, um, "rationed" from the trunk of a car. The joke was that our extended family ate better during World War II than at any other time of their lives. Was the meat stolen? Probably. Would other people have taken advantage of this opportunity? Probably. Lesson: If your country is in a world war, take the free meat.

Memory: Nonna was taking Alicia and me on the bus somewhere, maybe to the Museum of Science, I don't know. I was probably only 5 or 6. We got on the bus and paid our fare. I noticed that Nonna only paid a dime, but I knew that my mother paid a quarter. Concerned that she might get in trouble, I whispered, "Nonna, you only paid a dime!" And she looked at me, pleased as punch, "I'm a senior citizen!" Cool! Nonna's old and she only has to pay a dime. Way to score, Nonna! Lesson: Nonna enjoyed her discounts.

Ah, yes, the coupons. Clip coupons. And then actually bring them to the store and use them.
Traumatic memory: OK, here goes... the coupons and the receipts from Star Market. Nonna did all her grocery shopping at Star Market in Porter Square. She was in infamous character there, not quite Ebenezer Scrooge, but close. You see, Nonna had a reputation for cross-checking her receipt with the advertised specials. She also double-checked the math on the receipt, the change and the price per pound. Then she went back to the store for the difference.

"You charged me $.69 per pound and the flyer said $.59 per pound. You owe me thirty cents." By the time we were young adults, a Sunday visit to Nonna's often included a run to Star Market, and every visit was twofold: to buy groceries and rectify a mistake from a previous transaction. My cousin Joey's sad response to my uncle after returning from one of these trips was: "What did I ever do to you?!?"

In addition to checking her receipts, Nonna clipped coupons like a nutcake, and don't kid yourself, Alicia and I would rifle through those coupons and help ourselves to $.40 off here and $.75 off there, especially back in the good old days of "double coupons." Occasionally, the conversation around Nonna's kitchen table sounded like this:

Alicia: Nonna, this coupon is for $.20 off a bottle of New Coke.
Nonna: Can I use it for another tonic?
Alicia: No, just New Coke. Oh, wait, it expired in 1986.
Stephanie: 1986? Nonna, it's 1990!
Nonna: Oh. In that case, you can throw it away.
Rob: Damn! There goes $.20 down the drain!
Peter: Jesus, we'll have to go on the welfare!

(Laughter, laughter, aaaand "scene.")

Great Christmas present for Nonna: new coupon file. "But I already got Nonna a new coupon file!" "No, I got it first!" "Oh, God, what am I going to get her then?"

A lot of the above is written with humor, but if you stop to think about it, there is a scary undercurrent to this: the Star Market Company apparently made a mistake EVERY SINGLE TIME my grandmother shopped there. How many people do not check their receipts and ask for their thirty cents back? And are you currently being ripped off by your grocery store? If you took advantage of sales and specials and cents off here and there, how much money would you have saved by now? There is a saying, "Take care of the minutes and the hours take care of themselves." I like to paraphrase it as "Take care of the nickels and the dollars take care of themselves." And that, my friends, is pure Nonna.

Stephanie's Federal Cheesy Pasta
I created this dish in college out of necessity. You can update it with whole-wheat pasta and low-fat cheeses and it will taste fine, but not as good. You can also use name brand ingredients, and it will taste even better.

2 C pasta (whatever's on sale)
1/2 C ricotta cheese
1 thin slice federal butter
1/4 C grated orange federal cheddar cheese
Sprinkle generously with parmesan cheese.

Take cheeses and butter out of the refrigerator before putting the water on to boil. Boil pasta and drain. While pasta is still hot, add the butter and cheeses and mix well. You can microwave the pasta again to make it hotter.

September 11th, not 9/11

2008-09-23T19:18:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks after the seventh anniversary of September 11th, the timing feels appropriate to write about something I have always found completely offensive and unacceptable.
I hate the term 9/11.
9/11 is the media shorthand that many Americans and the press use to describe one of the most horrific acts of violence ever perpetrated against this country. In short, it's my opinion that to continually refer to that hideous day as "9/11" is to trivialize the enormity of the loss and the atrocity of the act. Thousands of people died that day - almost instantaneously - and they deserve more dignity with reference to the day they died than this ubiquitous code word, 9/11. September 11th is a more thoughtful, somber, compassionate and mature term. Period.
In writing this entry, I couldn't come up with a single, similar example of the casual use of a term to describe something profound. (Christmas vs. Xmas is the best I can do. ) I'm not sure why we've adopted slang to refer to September 11th, when I can think of no other American history horror story that's also described in jargon. Though it was an act of war, the Battle of Gettysburg was even nastier than September 11th, resulting in the deaths of almost 8,000 American men over a two day period. But we don't call it the B.O.G., nor do we refer to the Trail of Tears as T2. (I hate to even put these terms out there for fear someone will adopt them!) I can't imagine Franklin Delano Roosevelt saying, "12/7, a date that will live in infamy,"and while we're on the subject, google 12/7 and see what you get. There will be no references to Pearl Harbor. If we did start using the term 12/7 instead of December 7th, I would have to respond with the two favorite words of my 5 year-old nephew, Anthony and my 9 year-old nephew, Jake: "sick," and "tragic." I fear, sadly, that our citizenry is becoming increasingly sloppy, anti-intellectual and "acronymistic," and unfortunately, this isn't exactly a shock.
All this said, I do understand that some people may prefer to say '9/11' because everything that day represents is so raw, frightening and present in our minds, even seven years later. It's much easier for some people (mostly immature people) to use slang than it is to use "real" words. It affords us some distance from whatever it is we're describing, whether it's a bodily function, a body part or even just a way of making something sound cool. The problem is, though, that when we use slang terms to mask our own feelings of awkwardness, we sell short whatever it is we're talking about. We diminish the human body; we make light of sex; kids drop the F bomb in the mall (in front of old ladies), and as a society, we simply become less and less polite.
In terms of September 11th, we say 9/11 because we want to lessen the weight of the phrase and the tragedy of the day. Saying 9/11 helps us on a certain level to pretend that it didn't really happen. I fully understand and empathize with people's wanting to keep up protective barriers for the sake of their mental health (hey, a little denial can go a long way), but I also believe that in comforting ourselves by using 9/11 slang, it's at the expense of every person who lost his or her life that day. It makes light of heroism, denies sorrow, and absolves us from having to think seriously about the international conflicts that continue to keep us fearful. It keeps us immature.
The thing is, though, September 11th did happen, and in memory of those who died, the day deserves to be elevated, not degraded. The man who stayed behind with the guy in the wheelchair, the firefighters who kept going up when everyone else was headed down, the co-creator of "Cheers," the brother and sister who worked in the kitchen at Windows on the World, Mr. Trentini from BHS, my dear friend Gloria's cousin Carlos Montoya, the staff of Cantor Fitzgerald, the people who held hands before they jumped, and the passengers who purposefully crashed flight 93 deserve far, far more than a dismissive, casual remembrance in slang.

A Bouquet of Newly Sharpened Pencils

2008-08-27T00:02:00.000-04:00

"Don't you love...the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address."

~Nora Ephron (You've Got Mail)

For well over a month now I have been eyeing, yet resisting, the circulars from Staples, Office Max and Target in the Boston Sunday Globe. According to these advertisers, it's been "back to school time" since mid-July. I still don't want to admit that it's "back to school time" (even though tomorrow is the official first day of school), nor did I want to begin to glance at all the offerings in the circulars: Uni-ball pens, many-colored paper clips, Post-it notes in the shape of the letter S, note pads with groovy flowers, eco-friendly paper, wipe board/bulletin board combos, funky magnets, etc. As soon as I begin to look in these flyers, I am in School Supply Heaven and also in School Supply Hell.

As a educator, I have a love/hate relationship with school supplies. At many points during my career, it has been incumbent upon me to buy supplies for my office, and because I have my own sense of style, I sometimes prefer to purchase supplies and office items that suit my taste. On more occasions than I care to count, however, I have had to buy them simply because the school has run out of something. Five years and three high schools ago, I remember that there was not a staple remover to be had in the entire 2000-person building. So I went right out and purchased a pretty aqua staple remover - and matching stapler. In my current high school, the only liquid paper we've had for years simply does not "white out." Therefore, I generally treat myself to the white-out pens or strips, or my favorite, Bic White-Out with the foam brush. I confess that I'm often very happy to have these excuses to buy office supplies.

I was in Staples three weeks ago to buy a new cord for my digital camera. (In my zeal to clean out my condo, I inadvertently donated the cord for transferring photo data from camera to computer to the Salvation Army). I found a salesman who told me to skip the cord and buy a Memory Card Reader instead. Done. I should have been all set, right? Wrong. I spent the better part of the next hour wondering around Staples as if in a lovestruck fog.

How could I be expected to resist all the new items? It's like being a kid in a candy store. Or an addict in a crack store. How does one choose from among the pens? Should I buy a new 5-pack of the Pentel RSVP medium point in plum? I have three left from the last pack, but what if I lose those?!? Or worse, if someone steals one? I love the opaque blue Bic pens - the most streamlined design in a cheap pen since the white Papermate with the blue cap that I used to use all the time in college. Maybe I should buy some of those! It's all so irresistible!

And let's not forget the lowly pencil. An old-fashioned pencil with a really sharp point makes me very happy. In the past year, I have taken to writing notes at my desk in pencil. I don't know why I've begun doing that, but maybe because it's so basic, so organic. When you write with a pencil, you can hear yourself writing. That scratchy sound is evidence that your thoughts are one step closer to being shared. Interestingly, I still prefer to write with pencils I purchased at Crate and Barrel ten, I repeat ten, years ago. They are plain wood pencils each stained in a different color: sage, cranberry or brown, and they have black erasers. Very chic, very stylish pencils - without a trace of the obnoxious orange that is painted on the typical #2. The fact that I still have these pencils and still use them makes, pardon the pun, my next few points. 1) We really don't need as many office or school supplies as the advertising account managers for Staples would have us believe; 2) The amount of these small items for sale fuels conspicuous consumption and is environmentally irresponsible, and 3) owning too much stuff diminishes the value of all of it.

As I wandered around Staples in my silly delirium, I started to hear the voice of my frugal Italian grandmother inside my head. Each time I picked up a packet of pens, I could hear Nonna saying, "How many pens does a person need? One." She's right, of course. Each of us needs just ONE pen, the one with which we are writing at this very moment. (And I'm not even writing; I'm typing. Despite the fact that I write very little in longhand anymore, and in pencil to boot, I have 19 pens in my condo right now, and this does not include any that might be in my handbags or totes. Nor does it include pencils.) The Voice of Nonna also said, "Step away from the rainbow paper clips. You have enough paper clips to last you for the rest of your life." I repeat, for the rest of my life. (Because paper clips multiply. And don't say they don't. This is just a biological fact.) As I wandered around Staples and filled my basket, Nonna's voice got stronger and stronger. This in turn became overwhelming, and ultimately, I set down the basket and walked out of the store, having purchased nothing but the Memory Card Reader that I actually needed (and now highly recommend).

As a self-described eco-freak faced living in America and bombarded daily with tempting advertisements, I also have to continually remind myself of my values about consumption, reduction and recycling, and this is not always easy. The idea of all the "beautiful crap" floating around Staples sets up a horrible conflict between my senses and my rational mind. Let's face it, if a clutter-reducing-pro-recycler like me can be seduced by the gentle waft of an open Sharpie marker, then no one is safe.

My third and final revelation about office supplies came on a rainy day two weeks ago, when my family and I, unable to go to the beach and looking for something to do, went to visit Pilgrim Hall in Plymouth, Mass. It's one stop in the Plimoth Plantation package that locals rarely see after their mandated field trip there in the third grade. Within Pilgrim Hall are numerous artifacts that the Pilgrims carried with them on the Mayflower, and we were reminded that the Pilgrims couldn't take much, only a few items that had personal meaning to them. Among the mugs, Bibles, and samplers, there were also quill pens, ink wells and writing desks. I imagine that the Pilgrims cherished office supplies, too, not because they had groovy flowers on them, but because it's these small things that we, Colonial and present-day Americans alike, use which imbue our lives with a little bit of meaning and pleasure. It doesn't take much, maybe just a finely sharpened pencil or quill pen to make writing something to look forward to (even if you are writing out the Mayflower Compact in longhand). I very much understand why people are drawn to these small items; I just don't think that we need to have so many of them.

Like a harbinger of fall, school supplies mark the start of the new school year. We know we're back to work when the new Post-its and, yes, more pens, appear on our desks as if by magic or the press of an Easy Button. When I went into work last week, I popped into my boss's office. There, on the credenza, was a large box of white-out that had yet to be distributed. I did a double-take. It was the good stuff. It was Bic! I looked at him and said, "You guys sprung for the quality white-out?!?" "Yup," he said. "Oh my God!" I said, "Can I have some?!" "Of course," he said. I picked up a bottle and in that moment, I was very happy.

Twenty-four Patels and Nine Murphys

2008-08-16T17:46:00.002-04:00

On Monday, my lazy summer vacation will again be interrupted due to work. As a guidance counselor, it's part of my gig that I work seven extra days in the summer. One thing I love about the cycles of education, besides having most of summers off, is that my caseload continually turns over. By the time I get sick of working on college applications with the seniors, it's time to start working with the juniors. Just when I think I can't stand the level of immaturity that 9th graders have, boom! They turn into sophomores who, somehow, have matured between June and September. It makes one appreciate Erik Erikson all the more.
One of the few small curiosities of the first day back in summer is checking out the names of the new freshmen, and so I look forward to this fresh, new list. Will I know any of these kids? Did I go to high school with any of their parents (a coincidence becoming more and more common with each passing year)? But more importantly, how am I going to be able to put their damn names with their precious, little, barely-adolescent faces?
I admit it. I have a learning disability. I can't for the life of me learn in pictures. I need to read everything I learn. I can memorize vital stats about students as soon as I read their files, but when it comes to memorizing a face, I fall flat on mine. And so each year, I go about the agonizing business of trying to memorize my students' names, faces and stories. I confess, I'm still working on the class of 2010, and 2011 will simply have to wait their turn. I think I have 2009 down, which will definitely help when I start writing letters of recommendation.
The worst part, however, is learning the first names of all the kids who share last names. In my caseload of about 210, I have twenty-four Patels and nine Murphys. And for the record, it's still no easier for me, a Caucasion, to distinguish among white Murphys than among East Asian Patels. To me, they all "all look alike" (except for one of my Murphys, who is, in fact, African-American). It's just as hard to learn who's a Michael or an Amanda or a Billy as it is to learn who's a Zill, a Mitul or a Hemali. (Oh, btw, I once had three Hemali Patels, each in a different grade, and two of the three were one half of a pair of fraternal, or as I like to say, sororital, twins. It was a small mercy that they weren't identical! Are you even following this? Me neither.) In addition, I have students from Uganda, Sri Lanka, Korea and Pakistan, as well as American-born students of Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, Greek, Brazilian, African and Italian descent.
For a Boston suburb, we are incredibly diverse. Usually this kind of diversity only exists in cities. I feel very lucky and blessed to get to know children and their parents from all different ethnic, religious and socio-economic backgrounds. In this respect, this is my dream job. In terms of name-memorization, ethnic diversity can actually be helpful, especially when some students are the only members of their ethnic group. For example, "Saikrishna Fifteenletterlastname" is my only student from Sri Lanka, and of course, he has the longest name of any student I've ever had, When I met him as a freshman, I instantly learned who he was and have never forgotten his name or face. (He's not the type to let you forget, either.) I have two girls who wear Muslim hijab; one boy wears a yarmulke. The complexions of the Ugandan kids are generally much darker than those of the African-American kids. The names of these and any kids with distinguishing characteristics, cultural or otherwise, are a piece of cake to memorize. But memorizing the names of the other 185 students is not as easy.
But before I get into my Tips on Pretending to Know Someone's Name, an aside about the Patels. When I first began this job, my then-boss mentioned that he was debating which section of the alphabet I would be assigned. He ultimately gave me the Ms through the Rs, because he wanted me to have all of the Patels. He figured that because I had more admissions experience, I potentially would be able to guide the more high-achieving Patels into competitive colleges. (That the Patels would be more high-achieving and "admissions-focused" than other students was more of a cultural assumption on my boss's part, not necessarily a stereotype. Trust me, I have plenty of Patels who get grades in the C-F range - much to the chagrin of their high-achieving, admissions-focused parents.) The following year, my boss again had to rearrange the counselor assignments, and I had the temerity to insist that I keep the Patels. Not only did I get my wish, but he gave me every new student named Patel, despite the fact that another counselor was to be assigned all new students in general. And so I have, had, and always will have all of the Patels at BHS. I hope to have every Patel to go through our school system for my entire career. After three years, I feel that I have mastered Patels 101 (basic names, faces and yes, genders - Zill is a girl, Mitul, a boy) and am now on to Advanced Patels, i.e. I am starting to learn which Patels are extended family and who is cousin or second-cousin to whom.
But let's get back to memorizing names, because this is something that all teachers have to deal with each year. Each September, our department conducts the very dully-named, Freshman Meetings. Each counselor sends for groups of 6-8 of her first-year students and meets with them informally to talk about study habits, to review to whom they can turn for help in different situations, and brainstorm ideas as to how they might become more engaged in the school community. Last year, I hit upon what I thought was a brilliant solution: I would make each freshman write out her or his name on a name tag and wear it during the meeting. This way, I could read the name as I looked at the face and thus clue myself into who might be who. It didn't really take. There were just too many Patels and Murphys.
Not only was it an unsuccessful experiment, I lived in constant fear that some poor, dumb kid would forget to take off his name tag, go back to class, get teased, then "illegally" call his mother from the restroom. She would in turn call me screaming that I had caused her son undue stress and trauma and how DARE I make students wear name tags and then not remind them to remove them upon leaving the room? Note: nothing like this has ever remotely happened to me but you hear stories. (Parents Who Drive Me Crazy is another topic for another blog.)
Regardless of my attempts to learn names, there are several methods from the educator's bag of tricks that one can employ to "c.y.a." when you're talking to a student whose name you should know but don't. The first is to ask the student to write out his or her own pass and you will sign it. Another is to sneak onto the computer and try to look up the student's picture or schedule based on key points he or she might let slip: the name of the teacher he's complaining about, a mention of a sibling, etc. Another is to tell him or her you have to excuse yourself to check to see if the printer's working/if someone is waiting/if a computer program is up... and then hurriedly ask another counselor or secretary to come in with a stupid excuse to ask the student his or her name. "Excuse, me, Ms. Diozzi, but a teacher just called looking for a student. Is this student him? Honey, what's your name?" I've only had to pull that one once in my career, thank God, with the help of our ace secretary, Carla. It was a successful ploy, but it involved way too much improvisation.
In the worst case scenario, I simply say to a student, "What's your last name again?" And if the student's a Patel, I just say, "I know you're a Patel, but what's your first name again?" Ultimately, the best piece of advice is to simply put your ego aside and remember the first rule of working with teenagers: just be honest with them. And try to make them laugh. It works with Murphys and Patels, and everyone in between.

Lemon and Thyme Roast Chicken (Julia Child)

God bless Julia Child; this recipe rocks! And it's so easy it's almost stupid. I chose it because a recipe for roast chicken honors Irish Murphys, and it's easy enough that even my late, culinarily-challenged, Irish grandmother could have made it. Unfortunately I do not yet possess any Indian food recipes with which to pay tribute to the Patels, but I'm working on it.

One whole chicken (5-7 lb. Perdue Oven Stuffer Roaster w/built-in timer for beginners)
2 lemons
2 yellow onions
Butter
1-2 T Thyme (dried is fine)
Something to truss the chicken (either twine or skewers)

Preheat the oven to approx. 400 (check package cooking instructions).
Rinse chicken and remove plastic pack from inside. Do not remove the skin.
Place the chicken in a shallow roasting pan. Cut the lemons into halves or thirds and squeeze a little juice onto the chicken. Cut the onions into halves or thirds and, alternating lemon with onion, stick as many pieces as will fit into the chicken. Place remaining pieces in the pan.
Tie the legs together with twine to keep lemon and onions from falling out. You can also pull the legs toward each other and use dampened wood or metal kebab skewers to keep the legs shut. (I came up with this idea one time when the chicken was all stuffed and I realized I had no twine!)
Rub butter all over chicken, including under skin. Sprinkle generously with the dried thyme and evenly distribute it over the chicken, including under legs and wings. (This is a messy process but worth it!)
Cook chicken according to instructions on package, approx. 1.5 hours at 350-400 degrees.

Tips: covering the chicken with tin foil will make it cook faster, but make sure toward the end that it's uncovered so it will brown and crisp. Periodically baste the chicken (a large spoon will work if you don't have a baster) if cooking it uncovered.

About the Recipes

2008-08-05T22:04:00.001-04:00

As you've probably noticed, editing is not my strong suit. I'm working on it, but damn it, I just have too much to say!

So to counter-balance the looooong posts, I've deliberately kept the recipes short and sweet. And when I say sweet, I mean it. These recipes are really good. A couple are mine; the majority are not. But in any case, I've made and tasted every one of them more than once. They are simple enough for the beginning cook, yet tasty enough for foodies. I want the recipes to remain easy because it's absolutely possible, and sometimes preferable, to have a delicious dish or drink that's wholly uncomplicated.

The blogs may go on forever, but the recipes are meant to be brief little pieces of perfection. Perhaps by winter, both when people start spending more time indoors and my editing skills have been honed (and maybe your cooking skills have improved?), I'll add recipes that are more detailed. Until then, enjoy any and all of what you see on the page.

Miss Pronunciation

2008-07-22T12:25:00.002-04:00

Part I - My Own Damn Name

Since I first learned how to speak, I have spent close to four decades correcting the pronunciation of my last name, Diozzi. For the record, it's pronounced dee-OH-zee, not dee-OZ-zee, not DIE-oh-zee, not DIE-oz-zee or my personal favorite, Dizzio. I am not related to the football player, Steve DeOssie.

It is, I grant you, a fairly annoying task to have to clarify the pronunciation of your surname for the length of your natural life, but in honor of my father and great-grandparents and Italian American heritage I do it. With a last name like mine, it's hard not to be sensitive to mispronunciations, of my name specifically and of regular ol' mispronunciations of other words in general. It's a constant battle, but my siblings and some of our extended family think it's worth it, despite the occasional awkward moment.

Sadly, three out of four of my first cousins on my father's side all choose to allow others to pronounce our name dee-OZ-ie, a habit they fell into in high school. I know this because I once met a group of teachers from their high school who could not for the life of them figure out who my cousins were until I deliberately starting mispronouncing their last name. When my cousin Joe (who, btw, butchers our last name but who no longer appreciates being called Joey) got married last year and he and his bride were introduced as the DiOZZies, my sister and I turned to each other and said "Who the hell are the DiOZZies??" It was quite jarring, to say the least, to hear our name mispronounced throughout the toasts and introductions.

This is all pretty much due to my cousins' complacency about correcting people; perhaps they don't want to make others uncomfortable by correcting them or perhaps they just couldn't be bothered. I, on the other hand, have spent much of my professional life, especially working in schools (and changing schools) making sure my co-workers and students all know how to say my name correctly.

Aside: Last year, I was proctoring the SATs at the high school at which I work, and I noticed a girl assigned to my room was wearing a Belmont High jacket. Now despite the fact that my Irish great-grandfather used to own huge parcels of Belmont land in the 19th century, the big name in that town in recent years has been Diozzi. According to my sources (The Boston Globe and Google), my second cousins, Andrew? Matt? Christopher? were popular, hockey-and-football-playing big-men-on-campus at Belmont High. So I asked this young lady if she knew any of them. She, a friend of Andrew, said, "Yes. When I saw your name on the board, I figured you were related." "Just out of curiosity," I said at the end of our chat, "How do they pronounce their last name?" "Dee-OH zee," she said, "and they will totally correct you if you say it wrong." Oh, how I LOVE these boys!

My transition into the school system in which I've been working for the last few years was made easier by another BMOC on our campus. When I began working at my BHS, I learned that I had a student in my caseload who was both president of his class and an academic standout whose last name was Magliozzi. He, too, pronounced it with a long "o," and for two years, I hitched my pronunciation wagon to his star and told people my last name "rhymes with Magliozzi." Problem solved.

Part II - Beyond My Own Damn Name

The mispronunciation of my name is hardly unique. Part and parcel of my Italian grandparents' quest for assimilation into American life has been the general erosion over time of the Italian language as translated into English. When I was growing up, we said 'minestron-e' and 'calzon-e.' Not so anymore. One all too common mispronunciation, which drives most Italo-philes absolutely crazy is to say 'brushetta' instead of 'brusketta.' This one is worth correcting. Once when I ordered it with the correct pronunciation, a waitress "corrected me back." I took it out of her tip.

In everyday life, I have a co-worker who says 'cuppachino,' and another one who says 'supposably.' While we're on the subject of work, which for me includes college counseling, the little college near Dartmouth is called St. Anselm, not St. Ansellems. Quinnipiac: accent is on the first syllable, not on the Pee. Notre Dame is pronounced as it's spelled. It's not Nota Dame. (Just say ND; it's much hipper). There is no Z in Syracuse. And the WORST: John_ Hopkins. Yes, Johns Hopkins was founded by one guy, but his name was Johns, not John. (His first name was actually a family name.) The second time one of my former senior applicants referred to it as John_Hopkins, I simply looked him in the eye and said very firmly, "You go into your interview and say 'John,' you're not gettin' in." (He got in.) Finally, the FAFSA (Free Application for Federal Student Aid) is not pronounced FASFA. If your child's college counselor gets this wrong, chances are he or she might not be big into details. You've been warned.

And there are more:

My personal everyday favorite mispronunciation is "play it by air." Yes, I have a good friend who both says and writes this phrase. No matter how much we tease or make fun of her, she just can't self-correct.

Often - Google and Wikipedia say it's OK to pronounce the T, which I hate. I will not win the fight on this one, but it grates on my ears to hear the 't.' When people pronounce the T, it just makes me think that they're trying to remind us that they know how to spell "often." Wow. I'm impressed.

Di-rector - This is a big Massachusetts colloquialism. There is a tendency here to day Die-rect (or worse, die-ozzie).

Places in and around Boston - tourists take note:

Tremont St. - New Yorkers usually screw this one up. It's Treh-mont, not Tree-mont.

Public Garden, Boston Common - NO esses!!!

Oak Bluffs - town in Martha's Vineyard. It's NOT Oaks Bluff_.

Louisburg Square - OK, this one is tough. It's Lewis-burg Square. Don't get all pretentious and say, "Looie" like Louis IV. You'd be wrong. Oh, and while we're talking about Louis, it's Julia "Looie"-Dreyfus, not Julia LOUISE Dreyfus. (More on actors follows.)

Gloucester, Leicester and Worcester - It's Gloster, Lester and Wooster (like wuss). Pretend you're a Brit while you're here.

Now that Nordstrom has opened at a local mall, I've made it my mission in life to correct people when they say Nordstrom's. Not to be confused with Filene's, it's just Nordstrom. You wouldn't say The Gap's, would you??

Massachusetts - there is no Z here. I have friend who says Massachoozetts. If you ever see Donny Osmond in an interview and he talks about having been in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, he will say Jozeph. Makes me insane. Note to Donny: Stop talking, take your shirt off, and sing!

And while we're on the subject of Donny Osmond, I also get peeved when I hear people mispronounce actors' and other celebrities' names. I don't really understand how this happens. For some reason we're a nation that can pronounce Mariska Hargitay (probably because we have no choice but too learn that one) but we cannot for the life of us get it right when it comes to Mr. Big Chris Noth (rhymes with BOTH). This man corrects his name every single time he's on a talk show and yet people still get it wrong. (Nice to see that this happens to WASPs, too.) Catherine Zeta Jones is on the record as saying Zeeta. So it's Zeeta. J. K. Rowling is "rolling." Ralph Fiennes is "Rafe Fines." (I once really embarrassed myself within the world of showbiz by getting that one wrong, but in my defense it was literally the day after the NY premiere of Schindler's List and he was not yet famous.) Ralph Lauren is Lauren like the girl's name; Donna Karan, Karen like the girl's name. Christian Louboutin, OK, well that one's hard. But I can't tell you how to pronounce everything, so go ask a salesman at Nordstrom_.

Roasted Cherry Tomatoes (for bruschetta) - from The Boston Globe Magazine

(OK, this recipe technically is not for bruschetta, but you could potentially put these tomatoes on bread and there you have it, bruschetta.)

Put 10-15 cherry tomatoes in a non-stick baking or loaf pan.

Pour 3-4 T olive oil over tomatoes to coat, shaking pan to coat further.

Sprinkle dried basil, chopped fresh or dried rosemary and dried oregano on top of tomatoes until they are well-covered.

Bake, uncovered at 400 degrees for about a half hour or until the tomatoes begin to collapse or brown.

Best served on wild rice.

** I once accidentally made this with rosemary, basil and thyme and it was just as good.

Buying Stuff from TV

2008-07-16T12:04:00.000-04:00

During the summer, I'm a stay-at-home-educator, and despite having as Frank McCourt calls it, ATTO (all that time off), my schedule pretty much mirrors the one I keep during the school year. I'm up around 7ish, even on weekends, and because I am a channel surfer supreme, I openly admit that I watch infomercials, QVC and sometimes HSN. I freely admit that I've purchased (and returned) merchandise from TV, too. So here's my take on stuff you can buy on TV.

Proactiv. Probably the best product you can buy on television or for your skin, period. I've been using this stuff since before their spokesperson, Jessica Simpson, was born. OK, maybe not. In 1995, I developed a mild case of rosacea, and in every picture taken of me at the time, my cheeks are really flushed. I gave off a perpetual look of just having had sex or worked out. While I won't comment on the sex part, it was for sure that I hadn't worked out. When I learned that working out could exacerbate rosacea, I stopped doing impact aerobics, and gained ten pounds that I've never lost. I am in fact, much more vain about my face than I am about my thighs. Hey, a girl has to set priorities.

In addition to trying not to flush my face, I cooled it on alcohol (bummer) and tried a couple of medications. One, mitronidozole (?), or something like that, literally flaked my face like a bad sunburn. At one point, desperate for a cure, I bought these $75 salt stones from the internet. They worked better than the medications, but I still was "flaky." Then one day, as they say on the infomercial, I was watching a Proactiv commercial for the millionth time and finally decided to buy it. I called a customer service rep., and asked if it would help acne rosacea. She said they had no evidence of that, but with their money-back guarantee, I had nothing to lose. So I bought it and tried it, and just like those sob stories on the commercial, my skin improved within 24 hours.

Over ten years later, I'm now reduced to using it only occasionally, but I'm happy to report the rosacea is gone. I still work out and drink. And for a healthy glow, even have sex sometimes. NICE. P.S. I've told the Proactiv people how much this product helped my rosacea, but they still don't market it that way. If you know someone with rosacea, they should give it a try.

The Firm - Ah, my love-hate relationship with The Firm. In 1990, I went to see my friend Kevin's friend Jimmy's girlfriend play Louise in Gypsy. In the musical, she had to strip (tastefully), and she looked great. I asked her how she got in shape for the role, and she said that she did an exercise video called The Firm. $50 later, I had the same video - the first Firm video, starring Susan Harris, one of many thin, pretty, cut Master Instructors with a Southern accent. The video is outdated: they use wooden blocks for squats and the instructor wears jazz shoes, but man, oh, man, that is a good workout.

Today, you can buy The Firm on TV. They stay in business by creating a new exercise product (also known as a gimmick) for each new video series. Whether it's a 10" step up box, a 14" fanny firming system, adjustable weights (which they originally criticize in the first video), or a cumbersome sculpting stick, they always come up with something new to keep you interested. What keeps me interested, though, is the original choreography, by a woman named Anna Benson. I still do "Firm I," "Firm IV," and Complete Aerobics and Weight Training with Emily. My favorite instructors are Susan Harris, Kai Soremekun, Emily Welsh and Allie del Rio. I think Jen Carmen is full of herself and the Janet Jones Gretsky tape is laughable. (She can't cue in time and throughout the video refers to the back-of-your-arm muscles as "tricepts.")

I admit (and you can see) that I haven't been 100% faithful to The Firm over the years, and whenever I gain weight, it's because I've stopped doing The Firm. The thing that sucks/is great about The Firm is that it's HARD. And if you stop doing it, it can be a real challenge to get back up to speed with it. Let's face it, if you were doing lunges with no weights and then you gain ten pounds, now you have to do the same damn lunges with ten pounds - yours! Despite a recent knee injury, I'm doing the tapes again. Underneath my top layer of fat, I have significant muscles and am very toned. In fact, I am a strong, fast kayaker, an activity I do only sporadically, due to the fact that I've been doing "lat rows" with The Firm for 18 years. Same for my delts. If you can fall in love with lifting weights, you will feel like you can kick ass. If you want to try The Firm, you can buy it on TV or at Target. Or you can buy the videos used on ebay or Amazon.

Murad - I tried Murad once for a moisturizer, and went right back to Proactiv.

HSN Technibond - This is great fake gold jewelry, ladies. If you want to buy yourself a little "bauble" but can't afford gold (and I am a gold girl), the HSN costume jewelry rocks. (Note: I wrote that this is great fake jewelry for women to buy for themselves. No self-respecting man should ever buy his S.O. jewelry from television and no self-respecting woman should ever accept it.) I have a fake sapphire, which is very dramatic at fancy events, and a new citrine ring. I had a stunning right-hand ring that absolutely looked real, but it was stolen out of my car. (I had taken it off to go to the gym. See, if I'd been doing The Firm at home, I'd still have my ring.)

Wen Hair Care - run, don't walk, to your remote and turn off this ridiculous informercial. I should have known that anything starring Melissa Gilbert was a crock. I'm sorry, but putting more and more goop in your hair every day can NOT make it cleaner. This stuff is gross. Oh, and if you don't listen to me and buy it, make sure you get a tracking # when you return it. You may have to follow up to make them credit you.

Principal Secret - I've never tried it, but my friend Christine, who had some skin issues, LOVES it.

QVC - Some of their stuff is great. I have a large, wooden jewelry armoire (to hold all my HSN technibond rings), and a really cool faux toille makeup organizer that I bought from QVC and LOVE. They are both an organizer's dream and are of good quality. As much as I love Joan Rivers, her jewelry is just too old and conservative for me. I admit I've bought some and then returned it right away. I've also fallen in love with Maxx NY handbags on QVC. They're gorgeous and of course, cheaper than at Nordstrom. QVC also sells Birkenstock sandals. Please don't ever buy these. From anybody. You will just look like an unattractive hippie.

Bare Minerals - great product; it hides a multitude of skin sins and I believe, as they claim, that it does really improve my skin's tone. You can buy it for less at Sephora or Ulta than on TV. My friend Steve Sollitto, who is a hair and makeup stylist in LA, recommended it to me a few years ago. Love it. I don't like the eye shadow, though, and I don't believe that all colors of eye shadow work for any shade of eyes, as they claim. The Almay "play it up" series is much better for making your eyes "pop."

Sheer Cover - Oh, Leeza, SHUT UP. She is really annoying. I don't know how someone can be so cheerful all the time, and so thoroughly grateful to have been voted off Dancing with the Stars. I bought Sheer Cover because I got bored with Bare Minerals (same reason why I tried Murad). Sheer Cover is, in a word, ICKY. It's like pancake makeup and I returned it. However, their mascara and lip glosses are lovely. They go on smoothly and look beautiful. You have to be a Sheer Cover "member" though, in order to get products; BUT being a member means that unless you're up their ass all the time, they'll keep sending you the Sheer Cover base makeup even after you've told them you only want a damn lip gloss. Buy their stuff - on ebay.

And finally we have Jeanne Bice's Quacker Factory. This is the saddest segment on QVC and perhaps on television. This ridiculous, fat, head-band-wearing woman sells these equally hideous "theme" sweaters and T shirts on QVC. Coming soon: "Jesus on the Cross embroidered Easter cardigans!" If Stacy and Clinton were dead, they'd be rolling in their graves. This segment is now a frequent target of Joel McHale on E!'s The Soup. Thank God. If anyone in my family ever bought something from Quacker Factory, I'd disown them.

Lo-cal Fruity Vodka Martini for Summer

Mix 1/3 Absolut Mandrin vodka with 2/3 Ocean Spray Light Cran-Raspberry. Garnish with a lemon or lime.

Don't drink too many or you'll buy stupid things from TV and/or get rosacea.

Independence Day

2008-07-05T17:45:00.000-04:00

It's one o'clock in the morning on July 5th, and I can't sleep due to the hideous, random sounds of firecrackers going off in my neighborhood and its environs. These are not fireworks, mind you, although I have heard the occasional hiss and swoosh periodically. These are firecrackers, which I admit, the purpose of which I just don't get.

There are many ways to celebrate Independence Day (and btw, the name of the holiday is Independence Day. It's no more "the 4th of July" any more than Christmas is "the 25th of December."). Some people celebrate with fireworks, which I have no objection to, because they're beautiful, tricky and mesmerizing. There's a rhyme and reason to fireworks. Other ways to celebrate include playing music, having patriotic sing-a-longs, painting one's nails red, white and blue, or, more impressively, some people celebrate by reading the Declaration of Independence out loud on Salem Common, as my mother did yesterday morning. (Go Hannah!)

Truth be told, I've always found the Declaration of Independence, despite its significance, to be a bit of a dull read. I was actually surprised when my mother told me that it's only nine minutes long when read aloud. If I had to read great papers of our nation, I'd prefer to read The Gettysburg Address, the Bill of Rights or the "I Have a Dream" speech. The Declaration just seems kind of, well, whiney. And all those s's that look like f's! Oh my God, it makef me infane! And as a woman of action, I'm more about dumping crates of tea off the enemy's ships than writing home about it.

But why celebrate with firecrackers, people? Are you trying to make us all be grateful for living in a free country by making the city sound like downtown Baghdad? By scaring dogs and children? Is this how you pretend to be a well-armed militia, by making noises that just sound like gunshots?

Of course it's guys setting these things off, too, and probably pretty unsophisticated guys with Napoleon complexes at that. Let's face it, fellas, Independence Day ended an hour and a half ago. Time for everyone to go to sleep and dream the American dream. Though I am grateful that I don't live in Baghdad and that the shots and crackles outside my window are fake, the way for me to be the best darn American I can be is to get some sleep. Maybe if I read something, I'll be able to nod off. Too bad I don't have a copy of the Declaration of Independence in my nightstand.

Welcome

2008-07-02T13:57:00.000-04:00

I should be doing ANYTHING other than writing this blog, let me tell you. For instance, right now I could be going to the grocery store, working out or writing a paper for a graduate class I’m taking. But no, I’ve decided to indulge myself by finally, finally, finally starting a blog.

I’ve wanted to blog for years now but have had serious concerns about sparing the time to do it. If I were to allow myself the opportunity, I could write and edit for hours, and in fact, have. I have fond memories of writing letters to friends, an activity that I let lapse when I first got "the conformists' internet provider," America Online version, um, 4.0 (?), eleven years ago.

Back in the early 90’s, in the pre-AOL days, when I was employed as a casting associate in New York City, I spent many a happy, indulgent hour writing long, funny (so I was told) letters to my actor friends who were on the road. One of them, Kevin, often told me how much he looked forward to getting my letters and that he would share the funnier parts with his cast mates. Sometimes he would make special requests that I write to him, even though he rarely wrote to me. Another friend, Debbie, would tell me that when one of my letters arrived in the mail, she wait to read it, preferring to snuggle up with it at bedtime. She didn't write to me either, but this collective stroking of my ego served to inspire me to write my best in these three-to-four page, single-spaced letters, so my friends would have something to look forward to reading on their various buses and/or trucks. Don't be fooled, though; I was writing for myself as much as I was writing to them.

I wrote these long letters also because I was lonely and I missed my friends. Unlike them, I was not surrounded by a touring company of crazy actors. The title of "Casting Associate" is not as prestigious as it sounds. Often if means, "second in command of a two person office." On days without interns or during weeks when the folks from the Williamstown Theater Festival office down the hall were actually at the Williamstown Theater Festival, or when my boss was out, which was often, I was the one casting associate in town who welcomed actor "pop-ins." This is how I became friends with Joanne Lessner, but I digress. I simply wanted to engage in conversations with people, and thus, my missing friends appeared to me when I wrote to them. I passed many a long hour writing and editing my letters, so that they would be as entertaining as possible. I couldn't have put more effort into them if I were Martha Stewart making and shipping each of my friends a box of homemade cupcakes. My letters served as little paper care packages - three-to-four pages, single spaced.

I've come to realize that I miss writing for fun. And so here we are.

Just for the record, you have no idea how many hours of thought and pre-writing, re-writing and ultimately deletion have already gone into this blog. It’s my intention to use this blog vent, persuade, be funny, create, commiserate, disagree and share. Recipes included.

At first I thought I’d use a letter-writing format for the blog, but I just couldn’t get that off the ground. Then I found the Yogi Berra quote online and the rest is history. It’s about smiling and salt, with the use of salt being my metaphor for not being sweet all the time. Plus Yogi Berra is a funny philosopher, which I, too, aspire to be.

So that’s my introduction, and here’s Summertime Recipe #1:

Tom Colicchio’s Avocado Toast for Breakfast

Take an avocado and mash it up with a generous amount of extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper. Spread it on toast. Serve it at brunch and people will be impressed with you, which is actually kind of sad when you think about it.