Nancy Martin's Blog, page 3

The Gift of Stress

by Heather

Ho, ho, ho! Christmas is on the way. 

I was in a family therapy group where the discussion was on avoiding stress when the woman next to me noted that Christmas was two weeks away. 


I immediately felt tremendously stressed.


This was not because I don't love Christmastime or the holiday season. With the many different friends we have, we sometimes call get-togethers Christma-kuh or Hanuka-mas. It doesn't matter; most of us see a higher power or a God, and whether we're worshiping Christ or not, for those of us who are Christian it's a season where we remember his love for all men, and his message of peace. 


But, no way out of it, it's become a commercial holiday as well.


And I am not known for organization. 


I'm finishing up a book I promised for next week. I don't break my work promises. But, wait! Why aren't there more hours in the days leading up to Christmas? I also need to decorate! Whoops, wait, I need to clean before decorating. Kids are coming in from out of state and I can wait to see them, and I want the rooms and fresh and clean and the shopping done . . . . and darn if the dog doesn't want to go for a walk, too. 


Yes, Christmas can mean stress!


So, I heard a charming story that may or may not be entirely true. The basic facts are true, but how much is also romanticized, I don't really know. But I do love the concept that out of stress, we can get great things. So, here's the story . . . . 


Once upon a time in Oberndorf, Austria--December 24th, 1818, to be more specific--the holiday was about to be celebrated at the Church of St. Nicholas. Priest Father Joseph Mohr was distressed because music was such a part of the Christmas Eve service--beautiful music, in honor of God and Christ and all the angels--and he had a broken organ (some say it rusted; others say it was mice-chewed).  Now, they did have guitars. And two years earlier, he'd played around writing some lyrics.So Father Mohr went to headmaster and musician Franz Gruber who quickly composed music to go with Father Mohr's lyrics. The song was performed that Christmas Eve, and came down to us through history as one of most beloved Christmas carols--Silent Night.


Would the song have been created if it hadn't been for the stress cast upon Father Mohr by the fear that he wouldn't have the beautiful service he wanted to honor Christ? Maybe--perhaps even probably at some point he would have gotten around to finding a friend to put music to his words. But I like to think that stress--created by wanting all our loved one to be happy and joyous for the season could bring about really good things. Was the organ really broken? The first time that version of the story was told was in a book entitledThe Story of Silent Night published in 1965 in American and written by John Travers Moore. Or so it is believed.





I love the story, and I love the concept, and most of all, I love the song. And I love Christmas. If I really have one wish for this Christmas, it would be that we all remember the message of the season. Whether we believe in Christ as a savior or a prophet or an historical personage, one thing is irrefutable--he message was about love and peace. 


So, how do you feel about the season? Stressed out, joyous--or ready to smack the woman who stole your parking space while you were being kind and decent and [image error] waiting for the elderly man with a shopping cart to slowly move out of the way so that you could slide in? Will it mean family, a big dinner, Christmas Eve Mass, Christmas day mass . . . a movie! Christmas carols, time for all, and maybe a little Hanukah-mas or Christa-nukah? Lots of presents, homemade presents--baked goods? 


Whatever it may be, may it be stress-free or stressfully productive! As we come closer and closer, I'd like to wish Silent Night, Holy Night to one an all. Or, the happiest of the holidays, in whatever way you comprehend God, peace, and goodness.  


PS--Thanks to my dear friends Kathleen and Jimmy Pickering and Florida Romance Writers and Mystery Writers! My first impression of horrible stress was greatly relieved by the fantastic party at the Pickering house that fateful day I realized we had two weeks to go. A good lesson in just how wonderful it can be to share the season with friends and family! Things--even a clean and decorated house--can never compare to people, friends and family, and the one gift we can give and use and never have enough of--time.

~Heather

 

Household "miracles"

from Barbara O'Neal:

Hi, Tarts.  Please help me welcome our guest today. Megan Chance is the critically acclaimed, award-winning author of several novels of historical fiction. Her latest, City of Ash, (which garnered extraordinarily good reviews, including a starred review from PW)  is set during the Great Seattle fire of 1889, and features two very different women who must join together to change their fate–and neither one of them does housework. 

She's also one of my very favorite historical authors, with a unique and powerful voice. If you haven'tWelcome, Megan!  

 

by Megan Chance

I am a twenty-first century girl. Although I'm a historical novelist who loves the past, I do NOT
believe I've been born into the wrong century. I love technology. I love my Ipod, my Iphone, and my laptop. I love my desktop computer. I love food processors and KitchenAid mixers and convection ovens. There is, in fact, only one thing I hate about technology: 

How much "easier" it makes housework. 

Now, that's not to say I don't think washing machines and electric ovens and microwaves have in fact made housework easier. But I also study the 19th century, and so I see the extreme irony in the fact that some household "miracles" have actually made things harder.

Take the vacuum cleaner, for example. It used to be that rugs were taken up once (or perhaps twice) a year, beaten vigorously, then put down again. I realize that beating a rug seems a lot of work, but what I like most about this idea is that you only have to do it ONCE a year. And everyone's rugs looked the same, so it's not as if anyone actually noticed if your rugs were dirty, because they had dirty carpets too. Another plus: how can a task that requires a big stick and a lot of thrashing be bad? It might save us all money on therapy. And, though I haven't done the math, I'm pretty sure that beating rugs once a year takes less time and work than vacuuming once a day, or four times a week, or even once a week. So the vacuum has not actually saved any work, but created it, because those who vacuum once a day make those of us who don't feel guilty, which means I have to do it far more often than I'm naturally inclined. 

While I'm all for a washing machine–I'm pretty sure I would hate laundry more than I do now if I had to stand over a steaming kettle stirring clothes and breathing lye fumes–I can't help but notice that, because doing laundry is so much "easier," we have more clothes. More to wash, more to dry, more to fold–and that's not even including the bugaboo of my existence: Ironing. After twelve years of working for a commercial photographer, where one of my jobs was to iron the clothes the models would be wearing, I do not iron anything. Ever.

And don't even get me started on that Mr. Clean Magic Eraser–really? I really have to spend my time cleaning my walls now?

I hate housework. I persist in believing that the Powers that Be could not possibly have meant for me to clean bathrooms. Of course, the obvious solution to this is to turn my children into obedient little slaves. I've tried, believe me. They are curiously immune to this–which I originally thought must be a genetic predisposition to hating housework, but which I've since realized is only that  they're sixteen and fourteen, and young enough to still believe that their future includes marriage to Darren Criss or Ian Sommerhalder, and maids to do all their housework. Why learn to do it now?

Who am I to spoil such innocent, lovely dreams?

Sometimes I think: yeah, carry me back to that old prairie. Give me a sod house with newspaper-covered walls and a dirt floor and no one looking askance at my dirty carpets. But then ... well, as I said, I'm a twenty-first century girl. I suppose vacuuming is a small price to pay for the REAL miracle of technology: my computer.

So which side of the fence are you on? Are you in the "I find housework to be a sublime Zen experience?" or are you "I'm with you–where's my Rosie the Maid Robot, and how can I harness the energy of my children to perform odious tasks?" What's your favorite bit of new household technology, and what do you wish was never invented?

(One small side note: the only time I don't mind cleaning the house is so that I can over decorate it for Christmas. Even the dog does his part. Doesn't he look happy?) 

 

Scrooge Was Right

Elaine Viets

Poor Scrooge. For 168 years, he's been reviled. Why, his very name means "a miserly person" in the dictionary.

But times change, and so do attitudes. We need to take another look at old Ebenezer.

If you read Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" again, you can see Scrooge is a victim of press persecution.

Dickens was biased from the start, introducing Scrooge as a "squeezing, wrenching, grasping, clutching, covetous old sinner." After that, you're naturally going to think the worst.

But examine Scrooge's statements on their own, and you'll see the man was ahead of his time.

Look at the famous "Bah humbug" lines that get him in so much trouble.

Scrooge says, "What's Christmas-time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older and not an hour richer, a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em a round dozen of months presented dead against you."

Right on, Scrooge. You must have been checking my checking account. In the midst of the season's runaway consumerism, Scrooge is warning us against the dangers of overspending.

"If I had my will, every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."

A bit harsh there, Eb. But I know how you feel. I'm so sick of watching TV ads with crazed consumers waving shopping bags, I may stake them myself.

Scrooge needs understanding during this season of peace and love. You can guess what it's like at his office the whole month of December: It's impossible to get any work done. Everyone Scrooge calls is either on vacation or gone for the rest of the day – at one o'clock. The fake Christmas tree on the office file cabinet falls over every time he shuts a drawer.

Even worse, Scrooge's coworkers have been bringing in Christmas food. Like many successful executives, Scrooge is weight conscious. But to be polite, he's had "just a taste" of fruitcake, eggnog, gingerbread cookies, homemade wine, peppermint sticks and a punch made from lime sherbet, Jell-O and ginger ale. The guy must be living on antacids.

Dickens starts his story on Christmas Eve, and doesn't take any of this into account. Scrooge has to run a business, even if it is a holiday. He's trying to get some work done when his nephew Bob Cratchit barges into the office. He wants Scrooge to come to Christmas dinner. Scrooge refuses. Bob has six kids tearing around the place. A bachelor is not used to that kind of noise.

The nephew cannot take a hint. He keeps insisting. At last, Scrooge says flat out that he can't stand the nephew's wife, Mrs. Cratchit.

OK, that was a little abrupt. But it marks Scrooge as a man of rare courage. Many of us long to say how we really feel about our relatives: We can't stand them. If we do like them, we don't like their spouse. But do we say so? Heck no. We go to one dreary family dinner after another and keep our mouths shut.

Scrooge has also been criticized for refusing to subscribe to a charity. Let's look at that scene again. Two "portly gentlemen" show up at the office. From the heft of them, Scrooge probably figures this well-fed pair is from a charity that squanders donations on executive limos and staff parties.

"What shall I put you down for?" the one asks boldly.

"Nothing!" says Scrooge, just as bold. The charity looks like an operation that deducts your donation from your paycheck, and your promotion is based on how much you give.

Finally, poor Scrooge goes home and tries to get some rest. Instead, the spirits of Christmas drag him around all night, ordering him to shape up and enjoy himself.

Scrooge wakes up scared. He sends the usual turkey bonus to his employee, Cratchit, then goes to his nephew's place for dinner after he already told the family no. Naturally, they had to find him a place.

According to Dickens, Scrooge is a reformed man.

If you ask me, he sold out.

 

A Most Unrepentant Dog

by Barbara O'Neal

Funny what memories Christmas will bring....

Once upon a time, I had a dog named Sasha. She was a pirate, a mixed something terrier,  about knee high with a wiry coat that never looked groomed, and a rascally Fu Manchu mustache.   I found her baking in the white hot summer sun in front of Safeway, a puppy who sort of looked like the German shepherd her owner said she was. 

I had a dog.  Had no intention of getting another one, but when I picked her up, she dropped her had on my shoulder and sighed, and that was that. 

She wasn't a German shepherd, of course, and my ex-husband hated her on sight. She returned the favor, and they had a war that lasted nearly fifteen years.  She was a three ring circus of a dog from day one, accomplished at trash diving and Olympic counter surfing, and she roamed the perimeter of the house every hour on the hour, in case some stray crumb might have fallen to the floor.  She was an exuberant, unapologetic, unrepentant scavenger.  

Eventually, she got old.  I thought she was done for one winter when she and my other dog Jack had a fight over cat food and she had a bloody gash that made me sure she'd lose an eye.  (Let it be said that she did emerge victorious—and the other dog got in trouble.)  The eye healed, but she looked even more the pirate with a patch.

But there was her ancientness, looming.

Just before Christmas that year, I was making cookies. I put a tray in the oven, then went around the corner, maybe 15 feet away, to hang a few more ornaments on the tree.  I heard a funny noise and ran back into the kitchen, and there was Sasha, sprawled flat on her belly, limbs splatted wide.  She was having a seizure, her whole body twitching and convulsing, and I thought….oh, this is it. Poor Sasha!

I fell on the floor next to her. Unsure of what I should do, I just put my hands on her, talking soothingly, telling her I loved her, and I put my hands on her sides to see if that would make her stop twitching, or at least make her feel less afraid. "I'm here, baby," I said, "I'm here."

When I lifted her slightly, it must have given her body a little help, because she suddenly heaved and coughed, and out of her mouth flew out a perfectly round ball of butter.  She'd stolen a whole stick off the counter and tried to get outside with it, but before she could make her getaway, the stick melted in her mouth, and settled in her throat, quite efficiently choking her.  When it landed on the floor, she scrambled as fast as she could to grab it again, but I was faster and nabbed it out of reach.  

She leapt up after it, and when she saw she had lost, her only expression was, "Curses! I almost made it."

Sasha's been gone awhile now, but every time I leave butter out on the counter to soften, I think of her and her unrepentant pirate spirit.  Maybe I'll leave some out for her ghost to steal.

Do you have a Christmas memory that comes up in a funny way?  Do you have a bad dog story?  

 

 

Kiss, Kiss, Yum, Yum

 By Nancy Pickard

You might not think it to look at me, and not to brag, well, yes, to brag, but I am a great kisser. 

Or at least I was in my making-out high school days. 

If you were lucky enough to get to make out with somebody in high school, was it not the greatest thing ever? Does using the term "making-out" date me?  I don't care.  The terms may go out of style, but I sure hope that making-out never does. I devoted the second chapter of my novel The Virgin of Small Plains to two teenagers making out, and I had more fun writing it than a grown woman should probably have when she's writing about teenagers having that kind of fun.  They're in a single bed in her home, with all their clothes on, and they're kissing and gigging, and snuggling, and having just the best and most innocent/exciting time.  I thought some readers might be offended by it, but if they are, nobody has yet shaken a finger or tsk-ed at me.  Instead, some readers have come up to me and said, kind of dreamily, "Oh, I love that scene so much."

Me, too! And I loved those scenes I co-starred in when I was a kid in the front seat of a boy's car. Or my car.  Or a parent's car.  Or the front stoop.  Or on a couch.  Or. . .

Kissing is one of the fine, but possibly under-rated arts, I'm sure you'll agree.  The best kissers have what great artists of any stripe have--your basic underlying "born" talent, driving ambition to be the best, a love of the craft, and passionate desire to perfect it with unrelenting practice.

Ummm, practice makes soooo perfect.  And it doesn't make babies! Yea! Win-win!

But what, specifically, makes a great kiss or a great kisser? 

If only we could ask my first boyfriend.  The one I was wrapped around in the front seat of those cars and on that front stoop.  He knew.  He had it.  Remind me again why I ever broke up with him?

He was sooo cute, and he had great lips for kissing.

That's part of the secret, I think: soft lips, which are all about "softening" and not about the actual thickness of them, although his, I have to say, were "generous." You know how a person can make his whole mouth go "soft," so he looks friendly and receptive, or she can make it go thin and tense so she looks impatient, pissed off, and hard? Same thing with kiss-lips. Soft is good, even when it's, er, urgent.  A "hard" kiss, a "bruising" kiss, is exciting, but not with lips like boards.  

Another part of the secret is attention.  Attention must be paid.  You gotta BE there, in the action, in the moment, in the NOW.  Not thinking ahead to the next move, or the ultimate action.  Just. . .kissing. . . as if there's all the time in the world and nothing else in the world to want or to do, just. . .kissing.  You gotta kiss as if the two lips under yours are the most fascinating creations of the universe, as if they deserve to be intimately explored, as if they are made of chocolate, of whipped cream, of brandy.

Yum. Yum. Yum.

My first boyfriend and I were determined virgins, which was actually a great thing for the promotion of kissing expertise.  He was, if anything, even more determined to remain virginal than I, and so we literally couldn't/wouldn't go any further than making out. That liberated us to take our time and take our pleasure with the limited option open to us. It was fabulous, in its frustrating way, you know?  I hope teenagers today aren't rushing so fast to get to the entree that they are skipping the delicious, nutritious appetizer of kissing.

Don't skip the kissing, kids!!

I'll tell you the story of the Best Kiss I ever got. 

Early in my college days, I dated a boy named Barry who was the sexiest boy on campus.  I'd daydreamed about him before ever meeting him.  But after only a few weeks of dating I broke up with him because he put so much pressure on me to go further, and I was, you will remember, practically a professional virgin. Barry was flabbergasted that a girl would leave him. Truly. Flabbergasted. All through the next semester, he'd approach girls I knew and ask, "Why did Nancy break up with me?"  It wasn't because he cared about me--he didn't--or because I was anywhere near as cute as he--believe me, I wasn't, and it's still a mystery to me today what he saw in me. God knows, it wasn't because I was known as an easy mark. Maybe he'd heard the opposite and saw me as a challenge. I actually think that could have been the case. Whatever, when I left him his ginormous ego was knocked for a loop. He was baffled. Flummoxed, even. The fact that any girl would break up with him was a mystery he needed to solve, or go crazy. 

He never solved it, I suspect, but he did get the last laugh on me.

The last day of school that year, I ran into him on campus and he walked me "home." It wasn't great; we never did have much to talk about; we'd only ever had flirting and kissing and heavy breathing. 

We reached my door and I turned around to say goodbye to him.

He bent down and planted a kiss on me that, literally, I'm not exaggerating, made my knees go out from under me. It took everything I had to keep standing. I could not speak, could barely breathe, when he stopped. It was my turn to be flabbergasted and flummoxed.

He straightened up to his full height, gave me a crooked, twinkly, screw-you smile, and said, "See what you missed?"

And then he turned on his heel and walked away.

Far from being offended, I was delighted by it. I thought it was hilarious. I thought it was the coolest thing any guy had ever done in the whole history of the world. I was too breathless to be able to laugh, so I stood grinning and speechless as he swaggered away from me.

Barry, wherever you are, you win at Revenge Kissing. I hope you won at life, too, even if your ego is still one of the wonders of the known world. He also gave me the best phone call I ever had, one that consisted of nothing but sitting on the floor in our separate college phone closets and listening to each other breathe until other students yelled at us to give up the phone. Oh, my. Now, of course, I wonder what else he was doing in there.

Do you think that teenage making out is a lost art? A lost cause? Or is it still alive and well in cars all across this great land of ours, even without bench seats. (Big cars! Bench seats! Teenagers today have no idea what they're missing without bench seats in big cars.) Do married people ever still make out? I hope so!

What's the best or worse kiss you ever had? 

What do YOU think is the secret of a great kiss?

 

 

 

Cheap Christmas

Cheap--But Meaningful--Christmas

by Nancy Martin            

As the Christmas season approached, it became clear that our garage was falling down. It's 90 years old, built of brick and had a slate roof. (I live in Pittsburgh. During the steel era, nobody built anything that might catch on fire. Consequently, buildings are astronomically expensive to repair unless you replace the good stuff with vinyl and duct tape.)  We invited a few contractors to give us bids, and despite the staggering estimates, we decided we didn't want several tons of brick and slate crashing down our cars on Christmas morn, so we settled on a very nice guy who said he'd tear off the whole roof (including trusses, which were the problem to begin with) and the back wall and start all over again, which was................a catastrophe in our bank account. But necessary. 

THE DAY HE FINISHED THE JOB, the roof of the house began to leak, and I'm not talking about a little drip either. Also, the mysterious water that sometimes oozes up along one wall in the basement suddenly turned into a tributary of the Ohio River. And remember, it's Christmas shopping season.   

Here's a great book (which you should be able to find at your local bookstore, so please forgive the Amazon link!) for us all to contemplate this Christmas: 

In his book SHINY OBJECTS, James Roberts feels consumerism drives America now, and we're all the worse for it. We don't just keep up with the Joneses anymore---we want to keep up with the Kardashians and anyone else we see on TV, since we're too busy to have neighborly/competitive conversations over the back fence with people of our own socio-economic groups anymore.

Good thing my extended family decided years ago that giving lavish Christmas gifts was not only crazy expensive, but also.......crazy.  So we stopped.  It's no fun getting together on the holiday, though, without a few presents to open, so we started exchanging names. And the rule is, we give one book.  Everybody gets a book! Beautifully wrapped, of course. (I like ribbons and bows, but also other little accessories on packages---tree ornaments or a clump of acorns glue-gunned together or a pretty pine cone. It makes a small gift look well-considered and festive.)  The book exchange has turned into a wonderful family tradition.  Everybody loves books, and who doesn't want a good one? (Really, if you don't have a Calvin and Hobbes, you'd have the best Christmas afternoon leafing through a new copy.) And we devote all our Christmas shopping hormones to finding that perfect book for the person whose name you have.

In case anybody needs an idea for me:

             

Mind you, we still give presents to anyone under 21, so I get to do the grandmother thing, although we've kinda figured out that nobody needs more toys if you already have one entire room devoted to plaything storage, so giving the registration fee for a class (arts and crafts, kiddie yoga, swimming lessons) or an activity (child choir) is just the ticket. Finding the perfect grandchild activity is a fun thing, too. Tickets to events, trips to the zoo--definitely worth the price.

So we're not Scrooge-y. Not totally adverse to spending a little cash on the holiday, but we're leaning toward thoughtful instead of Kardashian quantity.

At Christmas dinner with my family, everybody also gets what we call a "table gift."  It's a small package that serves as your placecard, and the gift inside is always something a.) under $10 and b.) thoughtful and c.) hilarious.   Last year, my mother was in charge, and she gave everyone pepper spray. Really, who wouldn't want a little cannister of pepper spray for Christmas?  In the home of a crime writer (where the dinner took place) this was above and beyond in the hilarious department.

Sometimes it's gadgets. (Another hit was the flashlight that requires no battery, you just crank it for a minute or two and it stays illuminated for a while. Good for emergencies. Or keep it in your glove box.) Table gifts require creativity, ingenuity, a sense of humor, and a sense of the absurb doesn't hurt. Nothing crude, though. Lottery tickets will do in a pinch, but unless somebody scratches off a winner, they can dampen the mood.

Needless to say, if you feel like springing for the bargain hi def televisions or the latest e-reader, go for it!  And if you're a gift card giver?  Sure, why not.  But how about sharing some good, thoughtful, unique--but not wildly expensive--gift ideas today?

 

I gave these to several friends.    They're cute, right? And who doesn't need a meat thermometer?  In barbecue season, having a set is fabulous.

What about a new handbag.....made out of . . . a book?

Feeling really cheap?  Go for magnetic picture frames, the kind you stick on your refrigerator.  Put a nice photo in it. I fond these at my local drug store for $2.

Fingerless gloves. For those of us who are texting in cold weather, what could be better? Also for plugging parking meters in cold climates. Target carries them, but Kohl's had some nice knitted ones ($18, but maybe they're on sale now?)

Have a cook in the family?  I swear by these mixing bowls that are lined with some magic material that makes them super easy to clean. Honestly, these will change your life in the kitchen, and they're under $20 lots of places.  Different colors, too. Add a muffin mix, and you're good to go.

Do you use a laptop?  I gotta say, a lap desk makes things much easier, cooler, more balanced.  Check out the cute colored lapdesks at Office Depot for under $13.

I have one of these jewelry trees, and I love it.  But I bought it cheap at TJ Maxx, not for $70 from Red Envelope. I really like it and sometimes buy it for friends.

Now, if you usually receive a Christmas gift from my daughter Cassie (you know who you are) skip this paragraph, because this is the gizmo she's giving everybody on her list: A butter mill.  She loves this thing. LOVES IT.  She's giving it with a corn bread mix and a spatula.  Cute, right? Also, I must admit, I used it when I visited her, and it's really slick.  (That's a butter joke.)

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If you must give a gift card, I'm partial to specific gifts, not the basic Mastercard for $25.  Spa gift certificates show you care a little more. Or movie ticket coupons.  (My husband gives these to his office assistants. Except the one who doesn't like movies, and he gets a case of beer!)

For the mystery writer on your gift list, Dead Fred:

Here's his cousin, Splat Stan.

Can I also say that one of my favorite gifts of all time was the small, elegant but not astronomically expensive evening bag my sister gave to me---I dunno--twenty years ago?  It's still my fave. Thoughtfully chosen, much appreciated.

A trip to the hardware store is always worthwhile at Christmas.  Bird feeders, bird baths, garden gloves, handy flashlights, little toolkits.  (Or why not a sewing kit?)  Or a rain gauge.  Maybe I'm weird, but I love having a rain gauge.  And those little thermometers that you hang outside, but the digital read-out is a little gizmo you keep inside on the windowsill? Useful. Seed packets. A bag of tulip bulbs. A nice trowel.  (Every gardener needs a spare trowel.  Don't buy a cheap one, though.)

My husband loves little tools and gadgets.  The stud finder was a big hit with him.  (And a delightful source of old jokes when we have to hang a picture together.) Electric screwdrivers--the perfect gift for just about anyone. (Yes, I hear you laughing, Margie!) If I'm desperate for a gift for him, I got to Home Depot, fill a bucket with gadgets and duct tape and little stuff that you always need when you need it, but don't have it on hand. Put a bow on it---done!

Also? Let's face it: Wine is a almost always a good gift. But do you have one of these handy bottle openers? They come in all price ranges, and the cork doesn't break off at the wrong moment.

Those of us who are writers usually send gifts to our agents and editors--sometimes enough to share with the rest of the office.  I used to send quirky, memorable and lavish dessert baskets, but people seem to resent the sugar now, so maybe the box of fruit isn't a bad idea. (I just resent Harry & David, though, because I feel as if I'm paying a fortune for the boxes and packaging.)  I'd like to find a company that does nuts, though. Don't you think nuts would be a nice holiday gift? I don't want to have to make them myself, though. Gifts should not come with food poisoning.

Of course, a great gift is a donation to a charity.  Delightful. After 9/11 my agent's agency began donating to the nearest NYC firehouse, and when I opened that card, I burst into grateful tears.  Who needs another gift basket, really, when you can be giving money to a worthy cause? I like literacy groups.  My husband likes giving to charities that provide loans to women in other countries.

If you're looking for a great--er--stocking stuffer, here's my new favorite product:   It's a roll-on for your feet that blocks blisters!  Ideal for summer sandals or holiday heel-wearing.  Okay, not exactly festive, but I guarantee this stuff is faboo and will be appreciated. But then, Santa always brings socks and toothbrushes in stockings at my house, so I--er--we---I mean, Santa has a practical side.

Office supplies! Really, who doesn't love office supplies? Post-It notes in fun shapes--Yay! Over the weekend, I found some great pink-for-breast-cancer-awareness pens at Target for $2. Or these screw pushpins for $4?

Okay, your turn.  Please send your best gift ideas! I need a few more suggestions before Santa starts hitching up the reindeer.

 

Obsessions

By Sarah

Okay, I have a problem. Yesterday, I received two gorgeous skeins of this, Rowan Kid Silk Haze Creation, each of which will make a scarf in an hour, and I still hit the Knitting Studio to pick up some Rowan Lima to make a slouchy hipster beanie for one of Sam's skiing friends. 

Hey,it's not like I don't have projects going. For starters, there's this NoroStriped Scarf (my mindless project) here:

Also, this. A far more complicated set of stranded mittens. (For when I can concentrate.)

Oh, I'm sorry. Did I forget to mention the book due in May and another proposal I'm working on for a complicated adult novel? 

What's wrong with me? Wait, you don't have to answer. I'm obsessed.

Obsessed sounds fun. One of the selling points of Angry Birds is, "You'll be obsessed! Addictive fun!" In reality, however, obsessions are love/hate monsters (monkeys?) who barge into our lives and start running the show. Honestly, I LOVE writing. It, too, is an obssession. But I also LOVE knitting and reading this Bitch Who Will Not Be Named:

Ooops! She writes for TLC, doesn't she? Sorry, Joshilyn. I totally take it back about the Will Not Be Named part.

And when I'm not reading or knitting or writing, I'm taking care of HIM. Oh, sure, he LOOKS calm now, snoozing away. But you've never been in my house around three p.m. when he starts stretching and whining and talking about how he needs to go for a walk - NOW! You've never tried to work in a kitchen with Fred at your feet eyeing your every move, just hoping you'll mess up and drop a piece of chicken, a steak bone, a whole hog.

Which is why I drink this when I cook: 

Yes, I love wine. There, I said it! Vodka, scotch, beer, whatever do nothing for me. I could care less. But a glass of wine while cooking dinner is one of life's pure joys though I know I'd be a lot thinner without it. Then again, I'd be a lot thinner without the dinner, too.

And when dinner's done, nothing's better than relaxing in a deep leather chair that - you're gonna laugh - reclines. I LOVE RECLINERS! There, I said THAT, too! I love the satisfaction of leaning back and putting your feet out. I love curling up in them and reading. If I ruled the world, there'd be recliners everywhere.

Finally, my last obsession - this bed, a king size with some memory foam top. We've had it for two years and I swear it is almost impossible to leave on a cold winter's morning.

So, these are my obssessions. They're not illegal. Not dangerous. (Except maybe the wine...and the yarn which are killing my savings.) But without them I'm pretty sure I'd have a lot more time for the one obsession that really matters....writing.

Sarah....

Just on the Tip of my Tongue

by Hank Phillippi Ryan 

So a pleasant looking young woman pokes her head in the door of my office, obviously just passing by on her way somewhere else.

 "Hi, Hank," she says. Very sprightly.

 I look up from my computer. NO IDEA. "Hi," I say, equally enthusiastic.

 She leaves, thank goodness, because my next gambit, sadly, was going to be the oh-so-lame and incredibly transparent: "what's new?"  A clear indication, in my estimation at least, that I had no idea who she was, or what she was doing there.

 Now nice it would have been, I thought after she left  if I had looked up and been able to say. Oh, hi, Emma-- or whatever her name is, I still have no idea. That's what people do, right? They know each other's names.

 Not me, sister.

 
I can be introduced to someone at a party, and two seconds later have no idea. None. Now I know there are tricks, don't think I haven't tried them, after all these years of name struggling. I know that if you want to remember a name, you have to care. And say the name, even a couple of times.

 Hi, Emma, so nice to meet you Emma. 

(I love it when someone actually does that with me. I think-- oh, you read the books and now you're gonna remember my name well, good for you, because i have no idea about yours.)

And the really high level rememberers have figured out how to add another trick. They make a word association.

Like--"Her name is Betty. Like Betty Crocker, and I bet she likes to cook." Somehow, that is supposed to help you. And in fact, I know it does. There's used to be a restaurant in Newton where we live, and the maitre d' there was named Fred.

His name, I remember. Because when I met him, I thought-- I' m going to DO this. So i said to myself:  Fred, you're fed. (See, because it's a restaurant.)

Problem is, that restaurant is long gone, and Fred along with it, but I still remember his darn name. And what good is that, I ask you? And it, no doubt, is taking up the room in my brain for remembering someone else's name.

 Plus, I always get distracted, trying to think of the clever mnemonic device that'll burn the vict-- I mean, person's name into my weary brain. Will I actually remember Betty by Betty Crocker?

 Why would I remember that? What if she doesn't like to cook? Then the whole thing doesn't work. And by that time she's gone and it probably won't matter until I see her in the drug store or someplace and it's so out of context I'll call her Julia--because Julia Child likes to cook, right?

Having a husband or partner in crime is helpful, or at least, can be helpful if your partner knows the game. Do you do this?  I say to Jonathan---in preparation for am evening's name-test: Okay, sweetheart. If I introduce you and don't say the person's name, that means—YOU say something to elicit it.

I mean, you do that, right? And you know to say your name when the introducer doesn't say it? I say my one name ALL the time, I always re-introduce myself. Just in case someone is equally name-challeneged.

Although that can sometimes backfire, too. "I just met you two minutes ago, Hank," people say. "Don't you remember?"

 Sigh. No. And sometimes I worry I'm being rude or hurting people's feelings. (Adding to the confusion, as a reporter, people feel as if they know me. So they come up to me and say--Hank! And I think--oh, no. Do I know this person? And race through my mental Rolodex. The kind ones are already saying: you don't know me , but...   For which I am grateful.)

(And a special no-no message to those who say "Do you remember me?" Like, it's a test? I fail. What can I say. Please don't say that to someone.) 

Once I introduced Jonathan as "Andrew."  I still shake my head when think of it. It's because I was thinking about someone across the room, trying to think of his name, which I did, and remembered it was Andrew. So of course I said that: "This is my husband, Andrew." Jonathan still talks about it.

Experts will tell you it's about fear, or holding the attitude that we can;t remeber so we don't, or overwhelmedness at too many names at once, or becuase we don't actually HEAR the name, or because we dont think we'll be called on to remember.  And remebmer, when the person says their name, you always say--oh, right. It's not like it's gone forever. It's about retrieval.

Thing is, once I recover the name, I can tell you everything about the person--long histories, previous encounters with elaborate detail, where their kids are in college, their dogs names, all kinds of stuff. I remember everything about them.  Problem is it's all stored under their name, and that part, I do not know. Well, I know it, I just can't retrieve it. And you can't go through the alphabet while you're standing there.

I'm all about privacy, but what do you think about universal name tags? Just a modest proposal. We slap on a sticky tag on before we leave each morning. If you want to be cool or innovative about it, you could embroider your name on a tote bag or something.

Or, you know everyone has a baseball cap with a logo right? Those are so twenty minutes ago. How about we each get a hat with our name on it?   (Kids would be exempt, I understand the problem.) But over, say, thirty years old? Name hat.

Okay, you're not gonna do that. And I guess it's not that workable. Although, Lance Armstrong (was that his name?) got everyone to wear those yellow bracelets. And my system could already work if your name is Gucci or Burberry.  Or--Coach!

 

But here's my plea. Can't it just be socially acceptable to say-- oh, yikes, tell me your name again? We all do it. We all have name problems. Ah--don't we? Tell me we do. I mean--I do want to remember.

So are some of you tlc'ers (and you know who you are) really good at this? If so-- how do you do it?

Real Christmas Weather

By Elaine Viets

Christmas lights reflected in the pool. Twinkle lights on the palm trees. Shoppers in T-shirts battling for bargains at the mall.

It's Christmas in Florida.

Do I miss the cold weather Christmas in my hometown in St. Louis?

Heck, no. Snow is pretty in photographs, not in my boots. I don't celebrate the season of freezing and shivering. Electric blankets and cozy stoves don't keep me warm. I like the sun.

Anyway, warm weather Christmases are more authentic.

The first Christmas took place in Bethlehem – the one in Israel, not Pennsylvania. In December, Israel is only slightly cooler than Florida. The temperatures are about 40 to 65 degrees. Jesus would need swaddling clothes. Santa Claus would be sweating in his fur-trimmed getup.

Besides, there were palm trees at that first Christmas, just like in Florida. Fir trees were a much later addition, imported from Germany.

You can still celebrate your old-fashioned American Christmas. Just remember many early Americans disapproved of the celebration. Bostonians outlawed it for more than two decades starting in 1659. And it isn't that old a tradition, either.

What we think of as Christmas is a fairly recent American invention. The move toward a family-oriented Christmas started around 1828, when unemployed New Yorkers held a good old-fashioned Christmas riot. Think Occupy Wall Street without the videos. The city government reacted the same way it did now. They brought in crowd busters with badges and created the New York police force.

Meanwhile, bestselling authors were molding public opinion about Christmas. Washington Irving wrote "The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent." – sentimental stories where a rich titled dude invited the peasants into his home for the holidays. Irving's peasants were cute, well-scrubbed types, sort of like walking Hummel figurines. They did not pick their teeth or put their muddy feet on the coffee table. They got along just fine with the rich squire. In short, Irving created an amazing piece of fiction. Such was the power of the season – and Irving's writing – that Americans felt his stories illustrated the true spirit of Christmas.

On the other side of the pond, international bestseller Charles Dickens wrote "A Christmas Carol," a truly barf-worthy tale. Oops. I mean, a classic which has endured for nearly 180 years, provoking guilt-ridden parents to overspend on their offspring and overeat with relatives they'd rather avoid.

After that, the traditions started piling up. German-Americans made Christmas trees popular and by 1853, Franklin Pierce had one at the White House.

But before you get all misty-eye about ritual fir killing, Sears Roebuck sold the first artificial Christmas tree in 1883. The deluxe version had 55 limbs for a buck. So that artificial tree isn't a new invention. It goes back 123 years.

In fact a Florida Christmas is probably more traditional than a "deck the halls with holly" celebration with snow and ice.

Besides, we have ice in Florida. Lots of it.                        

In the drinks at the outdoor Christmas parties.

 

 

 

 

 

Things I Want to Do in New York...

By Cornelia Read

So, I'm totally broke. And as usual when I'm totally broke, I daydream about things I want to do the next time I have money.

Okay, not exactly like go buy myself an emerald Hindou necklace at Van Cleef & Arpels... or buy myself a Welsh pony and take up riding again, for the first time in 31 years...

Although, you know, hey... if you've got piles of cash lying around and you feel like making an absolute stranger really, really happy for Christmas, feel free.

No, I'm talking about cool kind of cheap stuff. Like I want to go visit Orchard Corset down on the Lower East Side and get fitted for really awesome bras by the Hasidic Goddess of Boobulage, whom people on Yelp have refered to as pretty much the platonic ideal of the lingerie fitting ladies of the universe. Here is one exchange:

My friend and I walk in and are greeted by a Large Hasidic Man (henceforth known as LHM) who looks at us and says, "Yes?"

Me: Umm, we're here for bra fittings?
LHM: "Elllllllllsiiiiiiieeeeee!" (I could be getting the name wrong)

We wait a few minutes and admire the Olivander-esque shelves full of small flat boxes until a Tiny Hasidic Woman (THW) emerges from behind a curtain. She points at me and says, "You, come."

Me: Hi! How are you today?
THW: What are you looking for?
Me: Just an everyday type bra.
THW: Take off.

I strip off my top-things. She checks out my goods for a half a second then pokes either side of my back with two fingers. Within 30 seconds she has me strapped into The Perfect Bra.

THW: Your left is bigger. Everyone has a big one.
Me: That's coo....
THW: The good surgeons make one bigger to look more natural.
Me: That's smart...
THW: They grow like tomatoes on the same vine, independently. You want two of these?
Me: Umm sure, one beige one black?

I mean, does that sound awesome or what? Also, they have corsets and waistcinchers thingies and apparently the lady will lace you up and make you look amazing. Which I kind of need because I just got this dress, which I have to wear to a fancy thing in a couple of weeks (this would NOT be the size in which I purchased it, just saying):

It came in the mail today, and looks a lot better than I thought it would, but it would look totes better if I actually had a waist. Ahem.

Also, the pin is horrible. But luckily it comes off.

And, really, I didn't even have a waist when I was a freshman in college (or an iron or a hairbrush... apologies to those who've already seen this on Facebook, my college pal Diana emailed it to me yesterday, and I keep looking at it, wanting to brush my eighteen-year-old self's hair and tell her to cheer the hell up, because she is eighteen and still has cheekbones, for God's sake):

Now I'm looking for earrings and shoes.

I'm kind of digging these:

Except they have Minnie-Mouse toes, which I totally hate. And also they're probably just too busy considering the dress needing a pin and everything.

But I figure really tall is good, since I don't have a waist. And then platforms so my feet don't implode before the cocktail portion of the evening is over.

I could also wear my gold cowboy boots and save some money, I guess. But this is all in my imagination so I am going all out.

Also, I would like to buy this apartment:

Which is actually kind of a bargain, considering that it's a three-bedroom two-bath duplex penthouse with a large terrace and a view of the water, in Manhattan, for $599,000. And it's about four blocks north of me. And it has an elevator, which would be a nice change from the fifth floor walkup, even though all those stairs are doing my ass a world of good.

Here's the floorplan:

I do not actually need three bedrooms, but in my dream life I would like a dining room, so there.

I suppose I should have picked something a little more remunerative than novel-writing, considering.

Here is what I'm going to do after I wear that dress, though, which is much more in my price range:

Go order a "full patacon" from the Patacon Pisao food truck that operates from 7 p.m. to 6 a.m. every night, about six blocks away.

A patacon is a Venezuelan sandwich which is served up not on bread, but on two mashed-flat-and-fried wads of green plantain. Here is what the New York Times has to say about this sandwich:

When the truck window opens for the evening around 7 (it closes around 6 a.m.), a small crowd is often on the sidewalk, maneuvering forward to place orders with the manager. One of the most popular requests is the "full" patacón ($5), a combo of chopped griddled beef, pork and chicken, typically dressed with lettuce, tomato and a piquant pink sauce. Preparing the sandwich might take 15 minutes; many folks tide themselves over with a tequeño ($1), white cheese deep fried in pastry dough.

When the patacón is finally handed down, it's wrapped in foil, which serves more than one purpose: fried plantain is not very absorbent, and every bite threatens to send sauce squirting out. Peeling back the foil little by little helps keep the patacón hot (and those dancing shoes unsullied). The starchy plantain and savory meats are an especially satisfying pair on a cool evening.

Here is what it looks like:

Also, I would very much like to sample the offerings of a local woman who has come to be known as "Elsa, La Reina del Chicharron." Chicharron is chunks of deep-fried pork. Elsa is apparently the queen of them. Unfortunately for my waist, she is but three blocks from me. Here is a sample:

Also, there is Albert, the king of Mofongo. Well, okay, he runs Albert's Mofongo House, but it sounds like he reigns supreme.

If you have never heard of mofongo, here is an explanation from Joe DiStefano on Serious Eats:

Soon after a friend moved to Inwood in upper Manhattan he told me of a 24-hour restaurant near his place that specializes in the Puerto Rican dish known as mofongo. Not to be confused with the beef tripe soup known as mondongo,mofongo is a hearty ribsticking dish made from mashed plantains. Within a week of his move I found myself taking possibly the longest train ride I've ever taken for food, DiFara's running a close second. As soon I exited the A train at Dyckman Street I spotted the temple of all things mofongo: Albert's Mofongo House.

The place is literally a shrine to mofongo. A painting of a grandfatherly old man mashing plantains along with garlic and onion adorns one wall. Next to my table sat a huge pilón, or mortar, big enough for Paul Bunyan to mash mofongo. A page on the menu labeled Mofongo Mania lists more than a dozen varieties. Rather than go for chicken, goat, oxtail, or for that matter lobster, I chose the most traditional variety,chiccharon. After all, if I'm going to eat close to pound of mashed starch, I want as much pork as possible to accompany it.

Hint: the mofongo is the stuff up on top of the wooden thing. Yes. I would try eating that. But not until after the party thing.

Can you tell I'm on a salad regimen? Yes. I am not exactly cranky, but fried pork is sounding totes awesome right now.

And since I live in the middle of Planet Fried Dominican Pork now, it seems like a good idea to join the New York Rowing Club, come spring. Which built a really cool boathouse about eight blocks from me in 2004:

Because even with all these stairs, I will need more of a workout come spring if I go in for the local chow.

Or, I could join the Inwood Canoe and Kayak Club, which is at the other end of Dyckman Street.

I totally love it up here. Especially because I'm about six blocks from The Cloisters, a medieval museum that's part of the Met, built by the Rockefellers.

Medieval art is pretty religious and static, but it's still a very cool place to hang out in. I went there last weekend and walked around. It was gorgeous inside:

And they had all these beautiful Books of Hours:

And reliquaries (this one was designed to hold the skull of a female saint):

But the outside was even better:

You get an amazing view of the Hudson from the gardens, and the sunset was pretty damn spectacular:

Not least with a view of the George Washington Bridge through the trees.

So, yeah, I'd like to go back to The Cloisters, when I can afford the entry fee again. Even though the gardens are free.

Also, they have these amazing bushes outside with bright purple berries on them:

Amazing. There wasn't any sign saying what they were, so I Googled them when I got home. Aptly named: Purple Beautyberry. I could put some on my terrace, if I win the Powerball and buy that duplex.

In the meantime, I am going to hang the curtain rods I bought at the Dollar Tower last week, when I still had a little money. I can now do this because my awesome friend Laura Corvinelli Bishop gave me a stepladder from her parents' house in Yonkers, in addition to two air mattresses which look terrific. Because she is awesome.

And maybe, in the end, I will end up wearing something like these to the party, because there are an AWFUL LOT of shoes like this for sale in my new neighb:

Okay, mes chicas, what do you want the next time you have spare cash?