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Travel Blog: Jive Turkey

Travel Blog: Jive Turkey

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Cell Phone Justice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 red and white striped clothesline made from bakery string which hung from the top to the bottom of the bannister and 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 on or about 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, conveniently forgetting that Jesus was born in the desert.

The glitzy Christmas mobile below probably was not made by Nonna. She could cook, but with the exception of crocheting, 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 margarine (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

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, um, go without saying.

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

Words I love to say:

• luscious 
• blow 
• misogynist
• lulu 
• quesadilla 
• bouquet garni 
• bastard 
• half-assed 
• putz 
• 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 
• gorgeous 
• crikey (with Australian accent) 
• snarky

Words I hate to say:

• repo 
• lovey (n. as in a cuddly toy for a child) 
• pus 
• vino 
• slacks 
• queer 
• yum-o 
• yumy
• 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 
• boo-boo 
• Yule

Oversinging

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)

"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.