Annabel Monaghan's Blog, page 8

Cracking the Dress Code

Some of us need a little extra help getting dressed

A few weeks ago, before the thaw, I was invited to a dinner party and was told in plain English to wear a dress. Honestly, I was just as happy to have been told what to wear as I was to be going to a party. A dress! What could be easier? But when I arrived at the party, I found that I was in the wrong dress. It was too casual by several standard deviations, and I spent the evening with that middle school feeling that I didn’t quite fit in. The direction I needed was: cocktail dress, your best one.

I dream of a world where invitations come with visual aids, maybe a hologram or a little cartoon of exactly what the hostess is going to be wearing. Instead I find that we have a coded language of baffling phrases that is meant to guide us on the path to appropriateness. Navigating a party invitation can be like cracking The Di Vinci Code.

One phrase I don’t find helpful: Festive Casual Attire. What does that even mean? Like my black exercise pants and a sparkly top? My pajamas with a sombrero and some maracas? Same goes for City Chic. I rifle through my Suburban Frump closet for black things with grommets. I dab tobacco behind my ears and search the Internet to see what Nicole Ricci’s wearing. She too, apparently, is out of date.

(Dress to Impress is another puzzler that tells me nothing but the fact that I’m about to disappoint my hostess.)

Black Tie, I love. I have two things in two sizes. One bag goes with both, and I’m ready to go. Business Attire, on the other hand, bugs me on both a practical and philosophical level. There was a day when this was the easiest of all. I’d show up in whatever suit I’d been wearing all day and fit right in. Now it just makes me a little defensive about my “business.” What if you’re a welder or a stripper or a writer? I’m surprised there hasn’t been more outrage on this topic, like when the peach crayon used to be called “flesh.” Business Attire should really read: dress like a member of Congress. Though, to be honest, if I put on one of my old suits it would be more like: dress like a member of the cast of Dynasty.

Occasionally, the hostess won’t give you a dress code, but she will give you clues that will lead only the cleverest few of her guests to the right ensemble. Take Lawn Party, for example. I’ve learned this one the hard way. The first time I saw this cryptic phrase I took it to mean that I’d need a sweater. Incorrect! I can still recall the exact moment when my spiked heels started sinking into the grass, tilting me dangerously backward. Lawn Party, it turns out, means wear flat or wedged shoes. And bug spray. Would that have been so hard to say? The party was divided between the cryptologists and those whose heels were stuck in the lawn like golf tees.

These shoes are made for sitting

It’s all very subtle and probably a little bit graceful. Nobody wants to come across as bossing around her guests. But would it ruin the mystery to say: Come for summer cocktails! Everyone’s going to be in white pants and a colorful top? Or, better: Come for dinner. Wear your black dress. Not the one with the lace around the neck, that’s going to make you look like you’re trying too hard, but it’s okay to wear your new favorite super-high shoes because we’ll mostly be sitting. I’d be so grateful.

Cracking the Dress Code

As Published in The Rye Record on April 3, 2015
Some of us need a little extra help getting dressed

A few weeks ago, before the thaw, I was invited to a dinner party and was told in plain English to wear a dress. Honestly, I was just as happy to have been told what to wear as I was to be going to a party. A dress! What could be easier? But when I arrived at the party, I found that I was in the wrong dress. It was too casual by several standard deviations, and I spent the evening with that middle school feeling that I didn’t quite fit in. The direction I needed was: cocktail dress, your best one.

I dream of a world where invitations come with visual aids, maybe a hologram or a little cartoon of exactly what the hostess is going to be wearing. Instead I find that we have a coded language of baffling phrases that is meant to guide us on the path to appropriateness. Navigating a party invitation can be like cracking The Di Vinci Code.

One phrase I don’t find helpful: Festive Casual Attire. What does that even mean? Like my black exercise pants and a sparkly top? My pajamas with a sombrero and some maracas? Same goes for City Chic. I rifle through my Suburban Frump closet for black things with grommets. I dab tobacco behind my ears and search the Internet to see what Nicole Ricci’s wearing. She too, apparently, is out of date.

(Dress to Impress is another puzzler that tells me nothing but the fact that I’m about to disappoint my hostess.)

Black Tie, I love. I have two things in two sizes. One bag goes with both, and I’m ready to go. Business Attire, on the other hand, bugs me on both a practical and philosophical level. There was a day when this was the easiest of all. I’d show up in whatever suit I’d been wearing all day and fit right in. Now it just makes me a little defensive about my “business.” What if you’re a welder or a stripper or a writer? I’m surprised there hasn’t been more outrage on this topic, like when the peach crayon used to be called “flesh.” Business Attire should really read: dress like a member of Congress. Though, to be honest, if I put on one of my old suits it would be more like: dress like a member of the cast of Dynasty.

Occasionally, the hostess won’t give you a dress code, but she will give you clues that will lead only the cleverest few of her guests to the right ensemble. Take Lawn Party, for example. I’ve learned this one the hard way. The first time I saw this cryptic phrase I took it to mean that I’d need a sweater. Incorrect! I can still recall the exact moment when my spiked heels started sinking into the grass, tilting me dangerously backward. Lawn Party, it turns out, means wear flat or wedged shoes. And bug spray. Would that have been so hard to say? The party was divided between the cryptologists and those whose heels were stuck in the lawn like golf tees.

These shoes are made for sitting

It’s all very subtle and probably a little bit graceful. Nobody wants to come across as bossing around her guests. But would it ruin the mystery to say: Come for summer cocktails! Everyone’s going to be in white pants and a colorful top? Or, better: Come for dinner. Wear your black dress. Not the one with the lace around the neck, that’s going to make you look like you’re trying too hard, but it’s okay to wear your new favorite super-high shoes because we’ll mostly be sitting. I’d be so grateful.

The post Cracking the Dress Code appeared first on Annabel Monaghan.

A Californian in Winter

Shoveling selfie.

No matter how long we’re away and how pale we become, there are subtle ways to spot a Californian. We say freeway instead of highway, we wait in line rather than on line. Pop quiz: do you happen to know the date of the Academy Awards this year? Yes? Then you’re a Californian. An even easier way to spot a Californian is to expose us to a little weather. We missed the childhood of snowmen and mittens. If we look a little baffled, it’s because we were not bred for these winters.

There is so much to know about snow. My Canadian husband throws around terms like “heavy snow” and “wet snow,” and my half-Canadian kids know which kind is good for snowmen. Apparently snow itself is not the enemy, unless it brings wind and becomes blizzard that will knock out your power lines. Then snow’s a big deal.

When the temperature warms a few degrees above freezing, I foolishly think things are getting better. But those in the know brace themselves for the mini-melt and subsequent re-freeze that will turn my driveway into an ice rink. My kids understand this process the way I grew up understanding why you turn your beach towel with the movement of the sun to avoid an imbalanced suntan. (This information has not proved to be valuable during the past few months.)

A Native New Yorker

I’ve learned that ice is worse than snow like the stomach flu is worse than a two hour massage. There’s something called ice rain, which can be explained to Californians in this way: it’s like if you opened your poolside ice maker and just started chucking the cubes around. But not as fun. It turns out ice can form in your pipes, freezing them until they burst. Oddly, the resulting flood comes out in liquid form rather than in cubes. Why isn’t it frozen? People from the northeast can explain this. They’re practically scientists.

Worse than regular ice is the sinister black ice, which is sneaky and invisible and so deadly that roads and schools shut down in fear. Black ice broke my babysitter’s wrist and she’s got 6 to 10 more weeks in a cast. I’ve recently learned the term “ice dam,” which is a catastrophe that elicits empathetic nods from people around here. It’s pretty much the worst thing that can happen to you, and there’s no cure for it. I think of an ice dam as the herpes of winter.

Explaining all of this to my friends and family in Los Angeles is a bit like explaining the plot of Star Wars to George Washington. It’s a different world with different rules and constraints, and, unless you’ve cruised in the Millennium Falcon, you can’t understand what it’s like. Why are your kids home from school again? What do you mean Tom’s car is “frozen-in”? It’s at times like this that I feel like California is light years away.

Hurricane Sandy, as seen from California

I’ve seen things from their side. Because I spent a past life rescuing kittens and caring for the elderly, I happened to be stranded in Los Angeles during Hurricane Sandy. And I hear it was a real whopper! I’d be sitting poolside, listening to my husband’s voice on the phone, “It’s 30 degrees in our house, a tree fell on our deck…” I’d think: That sounds terrible… wait, didn’t I ask for salt on this margarita? In defense of Californians, it’s incongruous to try to wrap your head around the freezing, wet horror when you smell like sunscreen. It almost sounded like they were making it up.

I am slowly learning my way around shoveling, de-icing and salting. I know the joy that comes from seeing the dry blacktop on my driveway. But here’s another phrase I never knew growing up: green shoots. The green shoots that poke out of the ground on the first warmish day of spring are the visual embodiment of hope. The exhilaration that they bring to our still-bundled selves is like a double paddle of the defibrillator, a small payback for winter. It’s a rhythm that mimics life, the dark days followed by the magnolia blossoms. And it’s almost worth it. Almost.

 

 

A Californian in Winter

As Published in The Rye Record on February 20, 2015

Shoveling selfie.

No matter how long we’re away and how pale we become, there are subtle ways to spot a Californian. We say freeway instead of highway, we wait in line rather than on line. Pop quiz: do you happen to know the date of the Academy Awards this year? Yes? Then you’re a Californian. An even easier way to spot a Californian is to expose us to a little weather. We missed the childhood of snowmen and mittens. If we look a little baffled, it’s because we were not bred for these winters.

There is so much to know about snow. My Canadian husband throws around terms like “heavy snow” and “wet snow,” and my half-Canadian kids know which kind is good for snowmen. Apparently snow itself is not the enemy, unless it brings wind and becomes blizzard that will knock out your power lines. Then snow’s a big deal.

When the temperature warms a few degrees above freezing, I foolishly think things are getting better. But those in the know brace themselves for the mini-melt and subsequent re-freeze that will turn my driveway into an ice rink. My kids understand this process the way I grew up understanding why you turn your beach towel with the movement of the sun to avoid an imbalanced suntan. (This information has not proved to be valuable during the past few months.)

A Native New Yorker

I’ve learned that ice is worse than snow like the stomach flu is worse than a two hour massage. There’s something called ice rain, which can be explained to Californians in this way: it’s like if you opened your poolside ice maker and just started chucking the cubes around. But not as fun. It turns out ice can form in your pipes, freezing them until they burst. Oddly, the resulting flood comes out in liquid form rather than in cubes. Why isn’t it frozen? People from the northeast can explain this. They’re practically scientists.

Worse than regular ice is the sinister black ice, which is sneaky and invisible and so deadly that roads and schools shut down in fear. Black ice broke my babysitter’s wrist and she’s got 6 to 10 more weeks in a cast. I’ve recently learned the term “ice dam,” which is a catastrophe that elicits empathetic nods from people around here. It’s pretty much the worst thing that can happen to you, and there’s no cure for it. I think of an ice dam as the herpes of winter.

Explaining all of this to my friends and family in Los Angeles is a bit like explaining the plot of Star Wars to George Washington. It’s a different world with different rules and constraints, and, unless you’ve cruised in the Millennium Falcon, you can’t understand what it’s like. Why are your kids home from school again? What do you mean Tom’s car is “frozen-in”? It’s at times like this that I feel like California is light years away.

Hurricane Sandy, as seen from California

I’ve seen things from their side. Because I spent a past life rescuing kittens and caring for the elderly, I happened to be stranded in Los Angeles during Hurricane Sandy. And I hear it was a real whopper! I’d be sitting poolside, listening to my husband’s voice on the phone, “It’s 30 degrees in our house, a tree fell on our deck…” I’d think: That sounds terrible… wait, didn’t I ask for salt on this margarita? In defense of Californians, it’s incongruous to try to wrap your head around the freezing, wet horror when you smell like sunscreen. It almost sounded like they were making it up.

I am slowly learning my way around shoveling, de-icing and salting. I know the joy that comes from seeing the dry blacktop on my driveway. But here’s another phrase I never knew growing up: green shoots. The green shoots that poke out of the ground on the first warmish day of spring are the visual embodiment of hope. The exhilaration that they bring to our still-bundled selves is like a double paddle of the defibrillator, a small payback for winter. It’s a rhythm that mimics life, the dark days followed by the magnolia blossoms. And it’s almost worth it. Almost.

 

 

The post A Californian in Winter appeared first on Annabel Monaghan.

Death, Taxes and Dinner

Much is made of death and taxes. Their unavoidability, the fact that they are always hanging, ominously, just over our shoulders. But death comes about only once in a lifetime, and tax season’s just once a year. Dinner, on the other hand, happens every day. Without fail. Every time I start chopping an onion I think, “Wait. Didn’t I just make dinner?” No, I’m afraid that was yesterday. And tomorrow.

The four o’clock panic starts with the slight grumbling of my stomach and ends like a game show. I suddenly remember about dinner – which makes me feel kind of dumb. This isn’t my mother-in-law’s birthday or Little League sign-up. It’s the main part of my job. When dinner catches me unprepared, I stand in front of my refrigerator and will it to yield a meal. Let’s see, I have half a head of broccoli, a handful of mushrooms, two chicken breasts and a hamburger patty. As a general rule, if I have an onion I can turn anything into dinner.

There are ways around making dinner, including ordering in or buying frozen entrees, things I sometimes do but have been brainwashed to think are worse than tax evasion. Blame my mother. She saw dinner as something more than a plate full of soon-they-won’t-be hungry. It was a ritual of sorts, the preparation of the food being an offering to the time that we would all sit together in festive communion. She would return from a full day of work, somehow with groceries in hand, and happily start cooking. She found it meditative and often said that the most relaxing part of her day was the chopping and sautéing. I guess it takes all kinds.

Sadly, I don’t see making dinner as the creative, magical experience that my mom did. This is partially because she was a joy-is-in-the-journey sort and I am more of a let’s-get-stuff-done person. It is also because I am raising kids in an era where they are allowed to have preferences. (I’m not sure whom to blame here, but I’d like to blame somebody). When I was a kid, there was dinner. And there were kids starving in Africa. Period.


4 out of 5 Monaghans will eat green beans

My approach to making dinner is more like a decision science exercise, where you are trying to get two-dozen shipments of coal to several locations at the highest speed with the lowest cost. The meal itself is a formula: a protein, a starch and a vegetable. And I seek to fill each category and minimize complaints by reviewing the gourmet idiosyncrasies of my picky audience. I stroll through the supermarket aisles sorting through which kid eats green beans, but not carrots. Which one won’t eat cheese but likes fish. Which one likes turkey meatballs but not turkey burgers (FYI: the ingredients are identical). In the end, we just eat a lot of chicken.

For two magical weeks last winter, I discovered the crockpot, a shortcut that I think my mom would have approved of. It involved the same nurturing chopping and sautéing but just at a time of day when I still had a little life in me. I loved that crock pot, the feeling of being done with dinner at 9a.m. It was as if I’d beat the system by paying my whole day forward. But then the inevitable happened – one child rejected the crock pot. All of its meals were too saucy. Too saucy? I had a million comebacks, but this is the one kid who never gives me a hard time about brussels sprouts, so I retired that blessed appliance to a high shelf.

Many families have mealtime rules. No phones at the table. No discussing politics, religion or bathroom mishaps. My kids are allowed to talk about anything they want as long as it’s not food. If they can’t talk about food it’s impossible for them to comment on which food groups are touching. Or lumpy. Or burnt. It’s been a small victory to listen to any number of dirty jokes in lieu of “is this a different kind of potato? I liked the other kind of potato…”

Even though I am not the passionate cook that my mom was, I do still love the communion of dinner. The sitting down, the pause. Sometimes dinner is the first time I’ve sat down all day without a laptop or a steering wheel in front of me. “What happened today?” can be hard to answer because so much happened, so fast. The bad things can be funny in the retelling, which makes the dinner table a place to re-frame your experience. “You got knocked down on the play ground? A lady yelled at me in the CVS parking lot!” We all laugh. We all learn a few dirty jokes.
On the days when we can all sit down like this, I feel as if have been involved in something sacred. It’s probably for that best that there’s no way around dinner.

Death, Taxes and Dinner

problem solver

Much is made of death and taxes. Their unavoidability, the fact that they are always hanging, ominously, just over our shoulders. But death comes about only once in a lifetime, and tax season’s just once a year. Dinner, on the other hand, happens every day. Without fail. Every time I start chopping an onion I think, “Wait. Didn’t I just make dinner?” No, I’m afraid that was yesterday. And tomorrow.

The four o’clock panic starts with the slight grumbling of my stomach and ends like a game show. I suddenly remember about dinner – which makes me feel kind of dumb. This isn’t my mother-in-law’s birthday or Little League sign-up. It’s the main part of my job. When dinner catches me unprepared, I stand in front of my refrigerator and will it to yield a meal. Let’s see, I have half a head of broccoli, a handful of mushrooms, two chicken breasts and a hamburger patty. As a general rule, if I have an onion I can turn anything into dinner.

There are ways around making dinner, including ordering in or buying frozen entrees, things I sometimes do but have been brainwashed to think are worse than tax evasion. Blame my mother. She saw dinner as something more than a plate full of soon-they-won’t-be hungry. It was a ritual of sorts, the preparation of the food being an offering to the time that we would all sit together in festive communion. She would return from a full day of work, somehow with groceries in hand, and happily start cooking. She found it meditative and often said that the most relaxing part of her day was the chopping and sautéing. I guess it takes all kinds.

Sadly, I don’t see making dinner as the creative, magical experience that my mom did. This is partially because she was a joy-is-in-the-journey sort and I am more of a let’s-get-stuff-done person. It is also because I am raising kids in an era where they are allowed to have preferences. (I’m not sure whom to blame here, but I’d like to blame somebody). When I was a kid, there was dinner. And there were kids starving in Africa. Period.

4 out of 5 Monaghans will eat green beans

My approach to making dinner is more like a decision science exercise, where you are trying to get two-dozen shipments of coal to several locations at the highest speed with the lowest cost. The meal itself is a formula: a protein, a starch and a vegetable. And I seek to fill each category and minimize complaints by reviewing the gourmet idiosyncrasies of my picky audience. I stroll through the supermarket aisles sorting through which kid eats green beans, but not carrots. Which one won’t eat cheese but likes fish. Which one likes turkey meatballs but not turkey burgers (FYI: the ingredients are identical). In the end, we just eat a lot of chicken.

For two magical weeks last winter, I discovered the crockpot, a shortcut that I think my mom would have approved of. It involved the same nurturing chopping and sautéing but just at a time of day when I still had a little life in me. I loved that crock pot, the feeling of being done with dinner at 9a.m. It was as if I’d beat the system by paying my whole day forward. But then the inevitable happened – one child rejected the crock pot. All of its meals were too saucy. Too saucy? I had a million comebacks, but this is the one kid who never gives me a hard time about brussels sprouts, so I retired that blessed appliance to a high shelf.

Many families have mealtime rules. No phones at the table. No discussing politics, religion or bathroom mishaps. My kids are allowed to talk about anything they want as long as it’s not food. If they can’t talk about food it’s impossible for them to comment on which food groups are touching. Or lumpy. Or burnt. It’s been a small victory to listen to any number of dirty jokes in lieu of “is this a different kind of potato? I liked the other kind of potato…”

Even though I am not the passionate cook that my mom was, I do still love the communion of dinner. The sitting down, the pause. Sometimes dinner is the first time I’ve sat down all day without a laptop or a steering wheel in front of me. “What happened today?” can be hard to answer because so much happened, so fast. The bad things can be funny in the retelling, which makes the dinner table a place to re-frame your experience. “You got knocked down on the play ground? A lady yelled at me in the CVS parking lot!” We all laugh. We all learn a few dirty jokes.

On the days when we can all sit down like this, I feel as if have been involved in something sacred. It’s probably for that best that there’s no way around dinner.

Me, founder of the clean plate club

 

Death, Taxes and Dinner

As Published in The Rye Record on February 6, 2015
problem solver

Much is made of death and taxes. Their unavoidability, the fact that they are always hanging, ominously, just over our shoulders. But death comes about only once in a lifetime, and tax season’s just once a year. Dinner, on the other hand, happens every day. Without fail. Every time I start chopping an onion I think, “Wait. Didn’t I just make dinner?” No, I’m afraid that was yesterday. And tomorrow.

The four o’clock panic starts with the slight grumbling of my stomach and ends like a game show. I suddenly remember about dinner – which makes me feel kind of dumb. This isn’t my mother-in-law’s birthday or Little League sign-up. It’s the main part of my job. When dinner catches me unprepared, I stand in front of my refrigerator and will it to yield a meal. Let’s see, I have half a head of broccoli, a handful of mushrooms, two chicken breasts and a hamburger patty. As a general rule, if I have an onion I can turn anything into dinner.

There are ways around making dinner, including ordering in or buying frozen entrees, things I sometimes do but have been brainwashed to think are worse than tax evasion. Blame my mother. She saw dinner as something more than a plate full of soon-they-won’t-be hungry. It was a ritual of sorts, the preparation of the food being an offering to the time that we would all sit together in festive communion. She would return from a full day of work, somehow with groceries in hand, and happily start cooking. She found it meditative and often said that the most relaxing part of her day was the chopping and sautéing. I guess it takes all kinds.

Sadly, I don’t see making dinner as the creative, magical experience that my mom did. This is partially because she was a joy-is-in-the-journey sort and I am more of a let’s-get-stuff-done person. It is also because I am raising kids in an era where they are allowed to have preferences. (I’m not sure whom to blame here, but I’d like to blame somebody). When I was a kid, there was dinner. And there were kids starving in Africa. Period.

4 out of 5 Monaghans will eat green beans

My approach to making dinner is more like a decision science exercise, where you are trying to get two-dozen shipments of coal to several locations at the highest speed with the lowest cost. The meal itself is a formula: a protein, a starch and a vegetable. And I seek to fill each category and minimize complaints by reviewing the gourmet idiosyncrasies of my picky audience. I stroll through the supermarket aisles sorting through which kid eats green beans, but not carrots. Which one won’t eat cheese but likes fish. Which one likes turkey meatballs but not turkey burgers (FYI: the ingredients are identical). In the end, we just eat a lot of chicken.

For two magical weeks last winter, I discovered the crockpot, a shortcut that I think my mom would have approved of. It involved the same nurturing chopping and sautéing but just at a time of day when I still had a little life in me. I loved that crock pot, the feeling of being done with dinner at 9a.m. It was as if I’d beat the system by paying my whole day forward. But then the inevitable happened – one child rejected the crock pot. All of its meals were too saucy. Too saucy? I had a million comebacks, but this is the one kid who never gives me a hard time about brussels sprouts, so I retired that blessed appliance to a high shelf.

Many families have mealtime rules. No phones at the table. No discussing politics, religion or bathroom mishaps. My kids are allowed to talk about anything they want as long as it’s not food. If they can’t talk about food it’s impossible for them to comment on which food groups are touching. Or lumpy. Or burnt. It’s been a small victory to listen to any number of dirty jokes in lieu of “is this a different kind of potato? I liked the other kind of potato…”

Even though I am not the passionate cook that my mom was, I do still love the communion of dinner. The sitting down, the pause. Sometimes dinner is the first time I’ve sat down all day without a laptop or a steering wheel in front of me. “What happened today?” can be hard to answer because so much happened, so fast. The bad things can be funny in the retelling, which makes the dinner table a place to re-frame your experience. “You got knocked down on the play ground? A lady yelled at me in the CVS parking lot!” We all laugh. We all learn a few dirty jokes.

On the days when we can all sit down like this, I feel as if have been involved in something sacred. It’s probably for that best that there’s no way around dinner.

Me, founder of the clean plate club

 

The post Death, Taxes and Dinner appeared first on Annabel Monaghan.

Warning: It’s Christmas, Mom Might Snap

As published in The Huffington Post on December 18, 2014

One of my favorite holiday traditions is watching stuff I’ve seen a hundred times and sobbing in front of my television. By the time Harry Bailey says, “To my big brother George, the richest man in town,” I’m pretty much a mess. Among these odes to the season, my very favorite happens to be an episode of The Family Guy. It’s sacrilege to even mention it in the same paragraph as It’s a Wonderful Life, but it leaves me crying with laughter, which I tend to prefer.

The beauty of this episode is that it reveals one of the purest truths of the Christmas season, that every mom you see is filled with both the warm spirit of the holiday and the potential to snap at any moment.

To summarize: The episode begins with Lois, loving mother, admiring the star atop the tree in the town square. She comments on the miracle of the season, the importance of family, and love for all mankind. Her children are greedy and ungrateful, and her bumbling husband accidentally gives all of her family’s Christmas gifts to the needy. Later her tree catches fire, as does the living room and the turkey. No problem. At least they all have each other and the promise of the joy of the season.

Then Lois runs out of paper towels. It’s just paper towels, not a big thing when you consider what’s already happened. But she snaps in a manner completely out of proportion to the situation, jumps through the kitchen window and runs down the street screaming.

It’s a lot of pressure to be the mom at Christmas. It’s like being the director, producer, set designer and playwright for a month-long show. It’s more than just the gifts and decorations. It’s the mom’s job to create the magic. We strive to create an atmosphere of warmth and excitement that will stay with our kids forever, as if the quality of their Christmas memories is going on our Permanent Record. It’s a 25-day photo op, and the stakes are high.

As the first window of the Advent calendar opens, the memory making begins. Christmas looks like twinkly lights, sounds like Bing Crosby and smells like butter and sugar cooking at 375 degrees. We resurrect old family recipes that were penned, presumably, back when there were 58 hours in a day. We agree to attend a cookie party without reading the fine print – please bring seven dozen cookies. What?! That’s usually the first snap of the season.

But we regroup and strive to look chipper. We wear too-bright red sweaters and dress our already-frumpy cars in antlers. The car antlers, to me, are the definitive sign that the driver is just two dozen cookies away from a straight jacket. Look, they scream, I’ve run out of things to decorate!

In a sense, December is the Super Bowl of being a mom. We do all of the above things, plus we still have to do our regular jobs. Life doesn’t stop for the production of Christmas. Stuff still breaks during the holidays, socks still need to be matched, kids still need stitches. In short, just because I’m making a special roast on the 25th doesn’t mean my family isn’t hungry on every one of the 24 days before that.

The years that I’ve snapped, it’s been about something as trivial as paper towels. I’m prepared for the tree to burn down. And, sure, I’ll get the flu. 99% guaranteed. But it’s the tiny unexpected things that bring me to a running-out-of-paper-towels moment. Once (okay, yesterday) it was when I realized that the holiday cards I’d ordered came with envelope liners that needed to be individually inserted into the envelopes by me. Seems like no big deal, right? It nearly took me down.

I’ve worried about Santa. Would he ever snap? All that hot cocoa and jolly laughter. Something’s bound to give. Will there ever come a time when one too many requests for a Princess Anna sleeping bag sends him over the edge? See, I think not. Santa’s advantage is that he only has to do the one thing. I’ve watched a lot of Christmas movies, and I’ve never seen him throw in a load of laundry or file an amendment to his tax return. In fact he’s pretty well staffed, and it seems like kind of a seamless operation. Our kids tell him exactly what they want, and the elves make all the stuff. Santa seems to be the front man, primarily in charge of P.R. and delivery. From what I can tell, the guy only works like two days a year.

If you look closely at Mrs. Claus, you will see she’s not quite so rosy. You know she’s had it with remembering the Elf on the Shelf and looking for the scotch tape. I’m sure she’d agree that in the end it’s all worth it, that there’s not one aspect of Christmas we’d agree to give up. It really is a magic time. But I’m definitely stocking up on paper towels this year.

Warning: It’s Christmas, Mom Might Snap

As published in The Huffington Post on December 18, 2014

One of my favorite holiday traditions is watching stuff I’ve seen a hundred times and sobbing in front of my television. By the time Harry Bailey says, “To my big brother George, the richest man in town,” I’m pretty much a mess. Among these odes to the season, my very favorite happens to be an episode of The Family Guy. It’s sacrilege to even mention it in the same paragraph as It’s a Wonderful Life, but it leaves me crying with laughter, which I tend to prefer.

The beauty of this episode is that it reveals one of the purest truths of the Christmas season, that every mom you see is filled with both the warm spirit of the holiday and the potential to snap at any moment.

To summarize: The episode begins with Lois, loving mother, admiring the star atop the tree in the town square. She comments on the miracle of the season, the importance of family, and love for all mankind. Her children are greedy and ungrateful, and her bumbling husband accidentally gives all of her family’s Christmas gifts to the needy. Later her tree catches fire, as does the living room and the turkey. No problem. At least they all have each other and the promise of the joy of the season.

Then Lois runs out of paper towels. It’s just paper towels, not a big thing when you consider what’s already happened. But she snaps in a manner completely out of proportion to the situation, jumps through the kitchen window and runs down the street screaming.

It’s a lot of pressure to be the mom at Christmas. It’s like being the director, producer, set designer and playwright for a month-long show. It’s more than just the gifts and decorations. It’s the mom’s job to create the magic. We strive to create an atmosphere of warmth and excitement that will stay with our kids forever, as if the quality of their Christmas memories is going on our Permanent Record. It’s a 25-day photo op, and the stakes are high.

As the first window of the Advent calendar opens, the memory making begins. Christmas looks like twinkly lights, sounds like Bing Crosby and smells like butter and sugar cooking at 375 degrees. We resurrect old family recipes that were penned, presumably, back when there were 58 hours in a day. We agree to attend a cookie party without reading the fine print – please bring seven dozen cookies. What?! That’s usually the first snap of the season.

But we regroup and strive to look chipper. We wear too-bright red sweaters and dress our already-frumpy cars in antlers. The car antlers, to me, are the definitive sign that the driver is just two dozen cookies away from a straight jacket. Look, they scream, I’ve run out of things to decorate!

In a sense, December is the Super Bowl of being a mom. We do all of the above things, plus we still have to do our regular jobs. Life doesn’t stop for the production of Christmas. Stuff still breaks during the holidays, socks still need to be matched, kids still need stitches. In short, just because I’m making a special roast on the 25th doesn’t mean my family isn’t hungry on every one of the 24 days before that.

The years that I’ve snapped, it’s been about something as trivial as paper towels. I’m prepared for the tree to burn down. And, sure, I’ll get the flu. 99% guaranteed. But it’s the tiny unexpected things that bring me to a running-out-of-paper-towels moment. Once (okay, yesterday) it was when I realized that the holiday cards I’d ordered came with envelope liners that needed to be individually inserted into the envelopes by me. Seems like no big deal, right? It nearly took me down.

I’ve worried about Santa. Would he ever snap? All that hot cocoa and jolly laughter. Something’s bound to give. Will there ever come a time when one too many requests for a Princess Anna sleeping bag sends him over the edge? See, I think not. Santa’s advantage is that he only has to do the one thing. I’ve watched a lot of Christmas movies, and I’ve never seen him throw in a load of laundry or file an amendment to his tax return. In fact he’s pretty well staffed, and it seems like kind of a seamless operation. Our kids tell him exactly what they want, and the elves make all the stuff. Santa seems to be the front man, primarily in charge of P.R. and delivery. From what I can tell, the guy only works like two days a year.

If you look closely at Mrs. Claus, you will see she’s not quite so rosy. You know she’s had it with remembering the Elf on the Shelf and looking for the scotch tape. I’m sure she’d agree that in the end it’s all worth it, that there’s not one aspect of Christmas we’d agree to give up. It really is a magic time. But I’m definitely stocking up on paper towels this year.

The post Warning: It’s Christmas, Mom Might Snap appeared first on Annabel Monaghan.

Motion to Limit the Use of the Word “Amazing”

Adorable, but not amazing.

Being a contestant on a reality TV show is an amazing journey. I know this because, when interviewed, each and every one of those contestants (win or lose) says what an amazing journey it’s been. I’ve never been on one of those shows, so I’m going to take their collective word for it.

When I was watching the election returns last week, I was shocked to find that the conceding candidates had also, in fact, just completed an amazing journey. They said it again and again, like they were standing next to Ryan Seacrest. The journey was their decision to run for office, the development of a platform and a constituency, ending in a loss. Interesting? Sure. Amazing? No. There were only two ways the election could have gone. But again, I’ve never run for office.

Here’s what I have done: I’ve been married with kids. So when I see my Facebook friends wishing their amazing husbands a happy anniversary, I take pause. When I see “Happy Birthday to the most amazing 9 year old in the world”, I think what gives? Is everybody’s family amazing but mine? What, I wonder, is so amazing about these people?

Just to be clear: Amazing (adj.) Causing great surprise and wonder. Astonishing.

I picture these husbands swooshing into the bedroom in tights and capes. Maybe they clean the gutters dressed like Liberace and spinning plates in one hand. Amazing connotes a bit of flash. It suggests that an unforeseen “ta-da!” is just around the corner at all times. This kind of thing almost never happens in my house. My husband and children are good, even excellent, but I just can’t remember the last time any of them pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

My husband is not a “ta-da!” kind of guy. His superpower is his ability to make the perfect joke in the most tense possible situation, thereby returning all participants to equilibrium. The value of this power cannot be overstated, and the first few times I experienced it, I have to admit that I was amazed. But now it happens so regularly that there’s probably another word for how I feel about it. After the 8th or 9th time Superman stops a train from running over your girlfriend, you are no longer amazed. Maybe it’s “grateful” we’re looking for?

Mighty, yes.

Actually my favorite thing about my family is its un-amazingness. They are consistent. The kid who says he’ll be home at midnight, walks through the door at midnight. I know what to expect. They wake up, get dressed, eat bacon, and leave their stuff out in the rain in such a consistent matter that I’d be astonished if they didn’t do these things.

After 18 years, if my husband was constantly amazing me, I think it would kind of get on my nerves. “Look honey, I painted a reproduction of the Mona Lisa on our front door! Check me out, I’m entering the house through the chimney today!” That’s amazing, honey. Now stop it!

Same goes for that amazing children’s movie you just saw. I understand that it was good, and that you liked the music and whatever little talking animal they threw in. But were you really amazed that it all worked out in a happily ever after fashion? Were you amazed the princess didn’t end up living alone, hoarding mayonnaise jars and caring for cats? Really?

It’s clear why I don’t wish my husband happy anniversary on Facebook, apart from the fact that he’d never see it. We’ve gotten to a place where it’s hard to talk without hyperbole, because the truth seems a little dull. Happy anniversary to my consistently good husband! That would be the truth. Thanks for entering the house through the front door like you’re supposed to. What would people think?

I’ll tell you who’s amazing: The Amazing Spiderman. It’s in his name. He can shoot webs out of his wrists and use them to get around. He can be glum and sort of untalkative, but still keep Mary Jane’s interest. I’ve seen him kiss upside down! That guy, and only that guy, is amazing.