humor

I’ve Got BIG Plans for New Year’s Eve!

/ momshieb / 9 Comments

It’s almost here! Huzzah!!!

Woot!! Woot!! Woot!!!

It is almost time to mark ourselves “Safe from 2020”!!

Such a festive and exciting evening! I just love New Year, with all it’s hope and happiness and all that other upbeat crap.

Of course, this year we won’t be going out for the usual midnight revelry with friends and family. We won’t be crowding into the city streets to sing and clap and watch the fireworks.

Instead, we’ll have a Happy New Year’s Hunker.

I’m going to make egg rolls!

I’m also going to try out a few quainte olde traditions of the past to increase the fun. And to increase the chances that I’ll make it safely through 2021.

For example, I’ve been reading a lot about the fascinating ancient times when pagans across Europe celebrated the solstice to welcome in the new year with health and prosperity. I learned that they would bring evergreen boughs inside the house, light special candles and bang on drums at midnight to chase away the old luck and welcome in the new.

Fun!

Lot’s of cultures have special traditions about what to eat and drink on New Year’s Eve, what to wear, what to say, and even specifically how to act. All to insure good luck in the next twelve months. Really interesting stuff!

So, here is my plan for New Year’s Eve as we finally kick 2020 to the curb and welcome 2021 into our loving embrace. I share it with you because I love you.

Also because I hope if enough of us finally start cooperating on something, life will be way more fun next year.

I plan to get out of bed around 8 AM. I’ll take a shower, but this old body is literally that last thing I plan to clean that day. Did you know that some cultures believe that you shouldn’t wash or clean one single thing on New Year’s Eve? No cleaning allowed.

I just love this one.

In some other countries, including Italy, you’re supposed to organize everything ahead of time and throw out all of your old clutter. Been there, done that. Been organizing ever since the lockdown started last March. So I’ll jump right into the no cleaning part of the day.

First I’ll grab some onions from my kitchen and tie them together with red yarn. Next I will hang them on my front door. Because Greek tradition tells me that I should.

Next I will venture outside to the woods. There I will gather an armload of evergreen boughs. This will be easy. The winter of 2020 has already given us three wind storms, so all I have to do is pick up some of the branches lying around.

Back inside the house, I’ll ignore all the dropped pine needles (no cleaning, remember?!) and arrange everything in a basket. I’ll put out three white candles, but I won’t light them until the sun goes down.

When that is done, I’ll grab a bundle of sage, or sweetgrass (what the heck is that, anyway?), or pine needles. I’ll light them on fire, blow out the flame and let the whole thing smoke. This is so I can “smudge” the house and get rid of any bad luck.

(Um….maybe someone should have suggested this last May???)

At last, it will be time to think about food.

Yes, I know. Some of us are always thinking about food. Move on.

In addition to my eggrolls, Paul and I will be dining on lentils, because they are shaped like coins. Really, teeny weeny coins, but still. Prosperity. We will also eat black eyed peas and collard greens, because eating these traditional foods will also bring prosperity. I don’t actually see the connection between black eyes and prosperity, but I’m not taking any chances.

This is where things get really fun.

Did you know that in Italy it is customary to wear red underwear on New Year’s Eve? I have no idea how this brings good luck, but depending on the underwear and age of the wearer, I can see where it might lead.

At any rate, after enjoying our prosperity veggies, Paul and I will change into our red flannel long johns and settle down to enjoy some delicious herring while snuggling under a lovely fur. (Said fur is supposed to be a coat, but I don’t have a fur coat. I’m hoping that having our big dogs on our laps will count for this one.)

As midnight approaches, we will light the three white candles that are arranged around the basket of pine boughs. We will chant something along the lines of

“Begone olde year, you stinking crone! We’re sick of hunkering alone. Welcome, New Maid, to set us free of masks and shots! So mote it be.”

I took some liberties with the chant, but you get the general idea, right?

Next it will be time to open up the front door and all the windows to let out the bad luck and welcome in the new.

(This is probably where the fur comes in handy.)

When all the luck has changed, and the house is down to about 4 degrees, we’ll eat the last bite of herring and move right onto dessert. It’s a good thing Paul doesn’t like lentils, collard greens or herring because he’ll have plenty of room to indulge in luck enhancing fried dough in various shapes and sizes and stuffed with various fillings. M’hm.

I suspect that the post holiday dieting tradition may have started here.

And…..as the moment finally arrives…..as the countdown at last counts down, we will ring bells, bang on pots and pans, kiss each other with love and joy and eat exactly twelve green grapes.

We will lean out the open windows, and yell into the cold night air.

“Good riddance, 2020!!! And don’t come back!!!”

We will close all the windows, turn up the heat, blow out the candles and have one last eggroll before bed.

And in the morning, as prescribed by Irish tradition, the first person to cross our threshold will be a tall, dark, handsome man. Good thing our daughter didn’t marry a redhead.

And it will be off to 2021, which we are absolutely sure will be a year of health, happiness, weddings, parties, hugs, kisses, singing, birthday parties and visible smiles.

Happy New Year, friends!

Merry Christmas!

/ momshieb / 8 Comments

Now take off those rose colored glasses.

After everything we’ve been through in the past year, it sure is tempting to feel sorry for ourselves. Christmas without family is just plain sad. No family parties. No traditional family foods. No swap gifts or big family photos. For the first time in 35 years, we don’t have even one of our children under our roof of Christmas morning.

Not one measly kid.

Boo-hoo, poor us!

In the face of our pitiful pandemic celebrations, it’s easy to look back at every Christmas of the past through the lens of perfection. Compared to this year, it seems like every single holiday of my life was filled with fresh snow, happy children, and perfectly cooked meals shared with smiling loved ones.

Oh, and tastefully decorated trees, too.

When I look back on all the years of Christmas, I’m sure that I looked exactly like this lovely blond woman wrapped in her white furs and yuletide evergreens. I can clearly remember the sweet ringing of silver bells as our horse carried us over the snow……..

But naturally, that’s all bull pucky.

So as I sit here listening the rain pouring down on my snowless roof, in my completely quiet house, I am thinking back on Christmases past.

And you know what I am remembering?

Some of them were pretty bad!

For example, I remember the year when we put up our very first full sized fresh tree. Our daughter was three years old, and this was the first time we were living in a house instead of a cramped apartment or my parents basement.

We spent more money than we had on a beautiful tree, took hours to decorate it perfectly, and stand it in our window. And two hours later our sweet little girl was covered in hives. Dear Lord, was she allergic to the tree??? We called the doctor, who said, “I don’t know.”

So out went the tree, and off to the store went my husband. He came back with one of the only fake trees left. It was a gorgeous pretend blue spruce and it cost three times what the overpriced real tree had cost.

But we set it up, and we went on to use if for about 20 years.

THAT was a tough Christmas.

Then there was the year when we took that same fake tree out of the basement closet and dragged it upstairs to the living room. As we unwrapped the tarp, we found the branches filled with bits of fiberglass insulation, pieces of cloth and dozens of bird seeds.

The mice, it seemed, had been nesting all year in our tree. When we opened the cardboard boxes containing all of our ornaments, we found that they were full of mouse poop and seed shells, too. As the Mother of three very young kids, I reacted with typical mother serenity.

I put EVERY washable ornament in the bathtub and filled it with hot water and bleach. I soaked the crap out of those things. I threw away a bunch of stuff, sprayed bleach water on a bunch of stuff and vacuumed that poor tree to within an inch of it’s life. The kids cried. I cried.

Eventually the tree went up and we lit multiple candles to cover the smell of bleach.

Good times, good times.

One Christmas we all had strep throat. Well, four out of five of us did, anyway. Dad had his tonsils out as a kid, so he was healthy. But I was as sick as a dog, and so were all three of the kids. We skipped the extended family Christmas Eve gathering at my parent’s house, because we were all feverish, sick and aching. As I recall, we were all asleep by 7pm. We got up to open Santa’s gifts, but everyone was wrapped in a blanket and shivering again by 9 am.

I distinctly remember that Christmas dinner that year was Cream of Wheat cereal.

And I will never forget the year that we finally retired the old fake spruce. That extravagant expenditure ended up being the bargain of the century, because it lasted for so many years. But when it’s plastic needles started to fall off and it’s branches were mostly bent out of shape, we decided it was time to go for a real tree.

That was the year I convinced my now college aged sons to help me cut down a local pine. See, we basically live in a freakin’ pine forest. It seemed silly to pay for a tree. It was also the middle of the big recession, around 2009, and most of the homes in our neighborhood were empty. The pines were beginning to crowd onto lawns.

So, environmentally conscious woman that I am, I grabbed a hand saw and headed out with my strong young sons. And off we went. We found a nice healthy white pine growing along the road, and down it came.

It was only after we tried to hang ornaments on it that we realized white pines are WAY to weak and floppy to be Christmas trees.

That year was our “Charlie Brown’s Tree” year. We had to tie the damn thing to a hook we stuck in the wall.

  • Buon Natale!

So you can see that not every Christmas in my life was perfect. I’m going to guess that a lot of yours weren’t so perfect either.

But you know what?

These are some of our favorite stories now. These are the stories that make us laugh and appreciate each other and share a common warm memory.

So I’m thinking that one day, in the not so distant future, we’ll be laughing at our Zoom dinners, our distanced visits and our Christmas texts.

It’s time to take off those rose colored glasses and start appreciating what we still have right now.

Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. Festive Solstice to you all.

I Refuse to Cancel Christmas!

/ momshieb / 17 Comments

One tiny microscopic virus is not going to rob me of the joy of Christmas. No how, no way. I know my rights as an American.

I refuse to skip my Christmas festivities.

But you know what?

I am going to postpone them.

My husband and I aren’t putting up a tree this year. Without any family or friends around to see them, why drag the boxes of ornaments out of the attic? Why move the furniture and untangle the lights? Everything can just stay all snug in the attic for now.

Instead of hanging lights and baking cookies, this year I’m spending my time planning. I’m making lists of names, designing decorations, planning a menu.

Because next summer, I am going to throw the biggest freakin’ party in the history of parties. Not since Bilbo Baggins threw his big eleventy-first birthday party has there been such an outrageously festive event.

I plan to have this event somewhere outdoors, just so everyone can fit. But there will be an indoor venue there, too, because it’s been way too long since we’ve been able to gather indoors and be all squashed together.

My giant celebration will include the introduction of my newest grandchild, little Max, because so many of our family and friends have yet to meet him. It will also be a birthday party, because he’ll have turned one year old in April. And while we’re giving gifts and eating cake, we’ll also celebrate the birthdays of Max’s older siblings, his parents, his grandfathers and grandmothers and all of his aunts and uncles.

The day will include a fabulous wedding, too, since my son and his partner had to postpone their plans for last August. We’ll have tons of champagne, piles of appetizers and live music by every band we haven’t been able to see in the past year. There’ll be toasts, and dancing and reunions of old friends along with the exchanging of vows.

The main food of the day will be turkey with all the trimmings. I mean the whole shebang; stuffing, dressing, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green beans and squash and fifteen kinds of pie. I can hardly wait to start cooking!

To set the mood for the day, there will be lots of sparkling decorations all over the venue. We’ll choose a place with some nice big pine trees, and we’ll wrap some of them in colored lights and hang red, green and gold balls on them. Maybe everyone will bring a gift to swap!!!

Every fifteen minutes, a bell will ring, and everyone will hug the person next to them. The hugs will be long and fervent and filled with affection and joy. People will kiss each other on the cheeks, or even on the lips, if you can imagine such a thing. There will be a lot of shouting and laughing while large groups of guests stand less than two feet from each other.

At least ten times during the party, everyone will throw an arm around someone’s shoulder while we all sing loudly. This will happen mostly in the indoor part of the event space, of course, so that we can achieve maximum mingling of breath.

And just to make the party a truly exciting and unique event, I’m going to ask everyone who attends to wear a costume and carry around a plastic pumpkin! Oooh, I have a great idea…..I’ll give out little candy bars as wedding favors!

At midnight, fireworks will be sent into the night sky and everyone will clap, cheer, wave various and sundry flags and shout “Happy New World!”

Naturally, before the party winds down near dawn, everyone will go out into the grassy field next to the giant dance floor/stage. As the sun rises, all of the kids will hunt for colored eggs and hidden candy. Then we’ll all have a big brunch on the lawn.

I can’t wait.

I’m thinking of calling it “Postpone-a-palooza.”

You want to come?

Athletic Injuries Explained

/ momshieb / 13 Comments

The world is full of people who love to get out there and embrace life. They are hearty, healthy souls who aren’t afraid to take risks. They thrive when they can breathe in the fresh cold air of a challenging ski slope. They are happiest facing whitewater rapids, hiking the steep and rocky slopes of giant mountains or surfing the steepest of waves.

I am not one of those people.

Nuh, uh. Not me.

Nevertheless, I am constantly injured and in pain.

I once broke a bone in my foot by falling off a flip-flop in the wet grass. Not only did I break a metatarsal, I was too faked out to see a doctor. So I walked on it and broke it over and over for six long weeks.

Then there was the time I had to go for an emergency endoscopy after getting a bite of KFC lodged in my throat.

One time a few years ago I was persuaded to go snow tubing by a group of my closest and most beloved friends. Predictably, while they were flying down the hill head first on their bellies, I carefully sat on my big old butt and went down the safest slope. In spite of my best efforts, I managed to break a rib by smacking into a five year old and then ricocheting off the teenaged boy who was there to stop people from flying into little kids.

I am a walking, talking injury report, even though my most athletic undertaking is baking bread.

I mean, I like my life. I want to hold onto it for a while. I like this old body. I try hard not to hurt it.

Even so, here I am, on this bright sunny winter morning, with an ice pack on my face, a hot pack on my back, and cannabis/menthol rub on my elbow.

What happened, you ask? Was I wrestling alligators for fun? Did I participate in a bronco busting event or play tag football with local teens?

Nope, nope and nopie.

The back hurts from holding my eight month old grandson, and lifting him in and out of his crib.

The elbow hurts from…..well….from playing the violin. I played for an hour yesterday. AN HOUR!!!!

And the jaw?

It appears that I dislocated the left side of my jaw while eating eggplant.

No, I am not kidding.

I should explain that I’ve had problems with my jaw for about 50 years. I have “TMJD” or “Temporo-mandibular-joint Dysfunction.” This means that pretty much every time I open and close my mouth the joints in my jaw make an audible “pop” as they slide partly in and out of their sockets. They ache a lot, and once in a while one side locks, meaning that I have to use heat and ice to gradually release it.

Last night I was enjoying a lovely dinner and chatting with my husband when I suddenly felt a sharp pain in the left socket. When I say “sharp pain”, I mean that for a minute there I was pretty sure someone was sticking a red-hot pair of scissors into my face. The pain radiated into my chin, my cheekbone, my left ear and my eyeball.

I dropped my fork and clutched my face.

I thought that it was just one of my usual lockjaw moments. I thought I could just massage it away.

Three hours later, my mouth was still stuck. It was open about a half-inch, but nothing I did would get it any further. I went to bed with a hot pack on my face and a couple of ibuprofen in my belly. Somewhere in the middle of the night I realized that I couldn’t actually close my mouth, either. I could get my front teeth together, but my molars felt like they were on different tracks, with the top set heading east and the bottom heading west.

There will be no steak in my immediate future.

I’m not writing all this to make you feel sorry for me (although if you’d like to send a donation to my ice-cream fund, I won’t turn you down). No, I am writing this because I want you all to understand that there is a very good reason why some of us are not the most athletic people on earth.

I want to share the pain and embarrassment that comes with being a fragile flower. There is a reasonable medical explanation for why people like me spend our days on the couch instead of the ski-slopes.

If I can be injured while walking, can you imagine me trying to skydive? I’m in serious pain and possibly headed to the ER in the middle of a pandemic, all because I was injured while EATING EGGPLANT.

No, thank you. I’d rather pass on riding my bike through the Himalayas.

Be careful out there.

An Ode to 2020

/ momshieb / 6 Comments

In the first month of Covid
2020 gave to me
A shortage of P.P.E.

In the second month of Covid
2020 gave to me
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the third month of Covid
2020 gave to me
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the fourth month of Covid
2020 gave to me
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the fifth month of Covid
2020 gave to me
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.



In the sixth month of Covid
2020 gave to me
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the seventh month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.


In the eighth month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Eight masks a-slipping
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the ninth month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Nine glasses fogging
Eight masks a-slipping
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the tenth month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Ten families Zooming
Nine glasses fogging
Eight masks a-slipping
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the eleventh month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Eleven schools in lockdown
Ten families Zooming
Nine glasses fogging
Eight masks a-slipping
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the twelfth month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Twelve vaccine trials
Eleven schools in lockdown
Ten families Zooming
Nine glasses fogging
Eight masks a-slipping
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

Wait, Who Am I Taking for Granted?

/ momshieb / 6 Comments

So you guys sort of know me by now. I’m a nice lady. I love babies and little kids and puppies. I watch shows about unicorns and neighborhood helpers and Scottish Vikings with talking dragons.

I try wicked hard to be appreciative of all the people in my life who are helpful and kind. Thanks, nice grocery store produce guy who always smiles and says hello! So grateful to you, kind stranger who holds the door to the library open for me!

You get the idea.

I work hard to be the kind of person who will have acquaintances come to my funeral just because “She was just such a nice lady!”

But the pandemic has made my efforts to be nice and grateful ever more challenging.

In the first place, I’ve hardly ventured out of this house since March. Sure, I go to the local grocery store, the pharmacy and the (cough, cough) liquor store. But I haven’t been in a position to tip a waitress for months. I haven’t been mingling with strangers or chatting with people I meet around town.

It’s hard to stay tuned in to everyone around me as my circle continues to shrink.

Today I realized that there are people who appear in my life every day, but whom I hardly ever acknowledge.

I’m talking about you, dear beloved local small town mail carrier!!!! In our case, the mail carrier is a woman who leaves doggie treats in the mailbox. She knows the names of all of the dogs and all of the kids on our entire side of town. She is so warm and friendly that my grandkids sometimes use old boxes to play “Laura Brings a Package”!

I used to think I was appropriately thankful for Laura. But now?

Oh, my dears. We are in pandemic mode. We are staying home. We are staying safe.

We are happily embracing the perfect excuse to sit on the couch and order stuff online. I mean, sure, I used to sit on the couch and order online before this whole pandemic thing, but I used to pay at least a little attention to the weight of what I ordered. And to the frequency. And the cost.

Way back in the BC era (before Covid, obvs) I used to feel slightly guilty as I’d click “place order”. I thought that I was a bit too lazy, a bit too entitled, a bit too privileged, if you know what I mean. I’d feel mildly embarrassed as Laura unloaded my small-to-medium-sized packages. And I’d thank her, wave to her, talk to her face-to-face.. Those were the days.

Now things are different.

In the first place, I have shed every semblance of guilt associated with online ordering. Back then I was a lazy old wench. Now? I’m a forward thinking, neighbor protecting, smart woman.

And I have embraced the “no touch” delivery, too. So when my dear friend the mail carrier comes by, I usually let her drop the goodies on our porch. I don’t go out to greet her even though I enjoy chatting with her about music and life and politics and pets. I stay safe in my house. On my couch. With a cup of tea in my hand. Because….Covid.

But yesterday I realized that things have changed. I became aware of the fact that I have officially become an ignorant, selfish old bat who totally takes other people for granted.

I learned this ten minutes after Laura dropped off our “mail” on the doorstep. As she drove up, I relaxed, ignored the delivery, finished what I was doing. Then I casually strolled down the steps and opened the door.

And HOLY FREAKIN’ HEAVY. There was a box the size of a Volkswagon on my porch. And three more packages on top of it.

I was able to bring the top box inside the door, but I had to use both arms to lift the second box and then, after a minute, the one under it. By the time I had brought all three boxes upstairs into my living room, my arms, neck and shoulders were aching. I looked at the giant box outside my door. I tapped it. I pushed it. I tried to rock it back and forth.

I gave up.

It weighed roughly 698,350,287,650,001,293 pounds.

And I’m not exaggerating.

When my young, strong, healthy daughter arrived at my house, the two of us managed to wrestle the giant box into the front door. It only took us about an hour.

We used scissors to get the box open.

Oh, my goodness, hahahahaha! Look at that, I said out loud. Two 25 pound bags of birdseed!

Hahahahahaha.

Yeah.

Awesome for the birds. More awesome for me.

NOT so awesome for Laura, the wonderful, kind, hard working mail carrier who I now take totally for granted.

So.

Here I am. Looking for some advice.

What’s a really good Christmas gift for the person who has delivered ten badillion pounds of boxes to Nonni’s house, just so that Nonni won’t have to step out the door?

Anyone?

Make It All Go Away

/ momshieb / 3 Comments

Every four years I am reminded that election periods are magical chunks of time that stretch on for trillions of interminable seconds. During election periods, I remember that although my soak in the hottub with a dirty martini is a bit of time that lasts about one nanosecond, the same number of minutes on the clock can take four centuries if it shows a politician answering a question.

The current election period (also known as the “2020 black hole of universal suffering) is drawing to a close. For approximately 675 months, the country has been riveted by the sight of two grown man calling each other poopy face and engaging in a rousing game of “I know you are but what am I?”

We are tired. We want it all to just go away. We all made up our minds about which poopy head is the poopiest and which we will nauseously support. We’re ready to move on to more pleasant topics, like how to orchestrate a Zoom Thanksgiving.

For me, there are certain phrases and comments that I desperately want to disappear from the airwaves. I love the English language. I abhor the way it is tortured by every person who runs for public office.

Here is my list of key phrases that REALLLLLLLLLY need to stop.

  1. “Let me be clear…” Oh, sweetie. We want you to be clear, m’kay? We always want you to be clear, concise and honest. You don’t need to tell us that this time you are truly going to try to make sense. Just be clear.
  2. “The American people…….” Dear God, if I hear one more candidate trying to claim that they understand exactly what the mythical American people want/need/like/believe/deserve. There are hundreds of millions of us. We don’t agree on anything. Nothing. Ever. So stop with the bullshit of trying to convince us that you speak for the whole messy bunch of us.
  3. “On day one…..” Jeez. If it’s your freakin’ first day at work in your brand-spankin-new job, this is not the day to jump in and blow everything up. Particularly if you’re running for President; day one is going to consist of you trying to recover from all those inaugural balls, learning how to find the White House bathrooms, and being introduced to the nine hundred bureaucrats who now work for you. You will not be saving the Constitution on day one. So just stawp.
  4. “I will not rest!” Please. Nobody said we want to be out their running our lives while you’re obsessed and exhausted. We’re not looking for you to be a martyr. We’re just looking for you to do your best to accomplish the things we think are important.

As the slowly ticking time-bomb of the 2020 election crawls to a close, I am begging all future candidates to be mindful of the sounds that dribble out of your mouths. If you want to get our attention, try to say something original.

Something like, “I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to accomplish everything that most of you tell me you want. But I’ll do my best. I won’t try to speak for you. I won’t promise you that I’ll die trying to get that stop light removed from your street corner. I’ll just work with the people around me, learn from the ones who know more than I do, and listen to what you all have to say.”

Wouldn’t that be refreshing?

A New Idea

/ momshieb / 29 Comments

If you’ve been following this blog for a while, you know that it has been a reflection of my emotional life for the past dozen or so years. I started it on the advice of a very good therapist who I was seeing to help me process the depression that I felt when my three children grew up and moved out.

Over the years, this blog has helped me to express my feelings about moving into the “Empty Nest” years and learning to accept myself as something other than Momma.

If you’ve been reading my words for a while, you’ll know that I’m now a very happy grandmother, and that my grandchildren have more than filled the hole that was created by the absence of my kids.

I’ve written about politics (grrrrr), teaching, aging, friendships and life in general.

But now we’re caught in the horrors of 2020. No more visiting, no more vacations or travel or dinners out. Now my world has closed in around me.

It can be more than a little difficult to cope.

But luckily for me, there is always food to keep me sane! I love to eat. Therefore, I love to cook.

So I had an idea.

I am thinking that I’d like to start a new blog. A cooking blog. But not one of those pretentious, sous vide, balsamic reduction, adorable presentation blogs.

Instead, I want to write a blog for people who think that they ‘can’t cook’. You know, people who are intimidated by roasting a chicken. Or making a salad.

I know those people are out there, because some of them are my friends and relations! I want to convince them that anyone…..anyone…..can cook well enough to eat happily at home.

If I do that….will you follow me? Will you come along on my new journey to bring sanity, humor and fun into the average American kitchen?

I hope so. I am excited to try this out.

I do need a catchy name for this new site, so please weigh in if you have an idea. Maybe something along the lines of “Oh yes you CAN make dinner.” Or “Demystifying Dinner”. I don’t know. I trust you guys to be more creative.

Anyone?

 

Oh, Poor, Poor Me

/ momshieb / Leave a comment

Well, jeez.

I am so tired.

I haven’t been this tired since I was 17 years old and had to endure the horror of working for SEVEN HOURS on a Saturday. I did that every week for months on end. And at the end of every single “all day” shift, I dragged my exhausted butt home where I collapsed in a heap until Mom served dinner and I could replenish my health before heading out for a night of fun with my friends.

Yeah, the COVID lockdown has reminded me of one fascinating fact of life:

No matter how much work you do in a day, it will always feel like it’s too much.

Consider this: when I was a high school student, I went to school for six hours a day. I did a little bit of homework every night. (cough, cough…well, it felt like more at the time).

Because I came from a hard working family, my parents had “encouraged me” to get an after school job. I was forced to spend a full TWELVE HOURS a week slaving at the local grocery store.

I didn’t hate the job (#cuteboys) but I did feel unbelievably tired every Sunday. Phew, poor me. School, plus friends, plus job….I was just wiped out.

Then I went to college. Hahahahah. I still didn’t study very much ( I majored in Russian studies, so I happily avoided any classes that would have taxed either my interest or my brain.) I had a couple of part time jobs to help me pay tuition, but none were particularly difficult. Still, I was so often just plain TIRED. Wow. College classes, a commute, a job? I was sure that I would expire at any moment.

Then I graduated, attended grad school and got my MS degree. Now I had a REAL job. An actual professional, bring-the-paperwork-home job. Wow. So much stress! So much work!

This went on for a couple of years before I had my first child. And then I had a couple more.

By the time I was in my mid-thirties, I had a full time job, a long commute, three kids, a house to manage and seven dinners a week to produce on command.

THAT was tired. THAT was a hard row to hoe. At that point in my life, you could have shaken me awake at 3 Am and asked me about the contents of our cabinets. I’d have been able to tell you exactly which foods, meds, clothes and supplies were there and which were on the “list”.

Those were the years when I’d dream of cooking a pot of pasta sauce. In my dream, I would look over my shoulder and see that in addition to my three kids and a couple of their friends, two of my students had appeared. In the dream, I’d open another can of tomatoes and add some spices, and just keep stirring. Then I’d look back and see four more students and a couple of their parents at my table. I’d add more to the pot, and keep on stirring.

Those were my really hard working days.

And they are far behind me now. Now I’m retired. My kids are grown and gone. Most days find me without enough to fill the hours.

So here’s my question:
Why do I still feel like some days are just such hard work?

For example, today I woke up at 8, showered and dressed, had my breakfast and read the news. Then I wrote a short article for Medium. At 10 I had a half hour Zoom violin lesson with my lovely and supportive teacher. I practiced for another half hour.

Then I paid the bills (on line. Both bills). I did a load of laundry. My Instacart order of groceries was delivered, and I put all four bags of food away.

At 2, I went to the bank, and then to our local farmer’s market where I bought a few things. I came home, planted my new thyme, and did a little weeding.

So.

By 4, I hadn’t actually done any real work. Why did my day feel so…..full? Why did I feel as if I’d done a bunch of hard work?

I don’t know.

All I can tell you is that I suddenly understand my 17 year old self, and I recognize the feeling of having done SO. MUCH. WORK.

It’s kind of funny.

Anyway, it’s almost 8 PM. Time for me to head in for a good night’s sleep.

My Name is Karen. I’m Sorry.

/ momshieb / 19 Comments

I always used to describe myself as a warm, friendly teacher lady. I always thought I was “nice”. My students used to tell me that all the time! “You’re a nice teacher,” they’d say.

I believed them.

For years, my favorite things in life have involved cooking, sharing and eating good food and growing pretty flowers. I don’t like to make a fuss, or complain. If something is amiss with a restaurant order, I don’t send it back; I eat it and pretend it was fine.

I swear, I’ve always thought of myself as pretty likeable.

Welp, I’ve finally been set straight about my many character flaws, thanks to the miracle of social media.

In the past couple of months, Facebook has informed me that I, and all who share my unfortunate first name, are a bunch of nasty bitches. There’s even a Facebook Group dedicated to dissing us!

We are just AWFUL.

According to multiple posts, I’ve learned that Karens drive SUVs all over town. They are overly critical of their kids’ teachers, coaches and therapists. They believe they are entitled to all the good things in the world just because they are universally white, upper middle class, educated and suburban.

Karen’s complain. A lot. They complain on Snapchat and Instagram, which they apparently love. They post pictures of their expensive breeder-raised dogs when the groomer fails to get the face fluff just right. They post outraged images of their left pinky nail when the salon leaves a tiny ding.

They seem to enjoy being outraged.

Twitter has a hashtag called #KarenStrikesAgain. Holy horrifying!!

Twitter told me that, as a Karen, I’m a racist! I had no idea….I can’t think of a time when I did anything racist, but what do I know? I’m only a Karen. I don’t have any ability for self reflection.

Or so I’m told.

Look:

Yeesh. I cried for days after Tamir Rice was murdered. He was just about the age of my students. I wrote letters, I wrote blog posts, I was horrified.

I’m so sorry!

I didn’t know that as a Karen, I’m partially responsible for all of this racist violence.

I don’t want to waste my time trying to defend myself. I mean, I think we’ve all had enough of the hyper defensive reactions of the snowflake in the White House.

So I’ll just say this.

I apologize from the bottom of my heart for my self-centered privileged self. Even I don’t like Karens now that I know about us.

But look at this picture. Does this woman look like a person who would complain about a salon? Or a dog groomer? Does this look like the face of someone who thinks she’s better than you?

I think not!

She looks, if you ask me, a little ridiculous. (Although I did always like that sweater.) She looks like a person who would eat the cupcake after her grandson licked off the frosting. She looks like the owner of two mixed -breed mutts who she tosses in the bathtub when they get too grimy.

She looks, to me, like a nice lady who laughs at herself a lot.

So. I am herby announcing that I am changing my name. I think I look a lot like an Annie. I’ve always loved that name. No more Karen for me. I reject the entire persona!

Annie.

Annie Shiebler.

Nonni Annie.

It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?