Category Archives: Life

Reflections of a Forced Family March

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When I was five or six years old, I set out to climb Mount Monadnock with my father. After about an hour or so, I began the chorus of, “I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I’m tired, I’m bored,” but my father implored me to march on like a good little soldier. And as a good little soldier, march on I did, but not without complaining. Finally, he told me that a wonderful surprise would be at the top and I just had to push through and it would be worth it. That wasn’t specific enough for my liking; I wanted details. Surprise? What surprise? I don’t know what possessed him to tell me there was a McDonald’s on top of Mount Monadnock, but I had no reason not to believe him, being five and unfamiliar with the construction costs and franchise rules associated with operating a McDonald’s. And even though I was hungry and thirsty and tired, in 1973, McDonald’s was the best motivation a person could offer me to keep on trucking.

When we got to the top, I was not pleased. The McDonald’s, shockingly, was nowhere to be seen. “Hmm,” my father said, “Maybe they closed it? But would you LOOK at this amazing view? And I bet you are the youngest girl ever to climb Mount Monadnock. Isn’t that great?” “You LIED to me? THIS IS NOT FRENCH FRIES! I waaaaannnntttt fr-fr-fr-ench fr-fr-fr-iesssssss!!!!!” Thus began my complex relationship with both my father and hiking.

Ed is a hiker and a camper, and I’m not. In the name of love, I always participate, and over the years I’ve moved from extreme dislike to mild annoyance to reluctant tolerance. When formulating our Memorial Day plans, Ed wanted to do “something fun.” Something fun to me means enjoying a vodka tonic at our swim and tennis club while reuniting with friends we haven’t seen since last August. Something fun to Ed means hiking. When you have a husband who works really hard and always tries to make sure his family is happy and well cared for and who always puts his personal needs behind the family’s wants and needs, it’s really hard not to say yes when he wants to have some fun, even if his definition of fun is not quite the same as yours. Even if his definition of fun is 180 degrees away from yours. That is love.

We decided to drive just over an hour and hike the Appalachian Trail to a spot called the Pinnacle. At first I was down with it, having enjoyed Bill Bryson’s hilarious book about the Appalachian Trail, A Walk in the Woods. The Appalachian Trail is kind of bad-ass, and lord knows I try to be bad-ass. Ed described it as about four miles up, not overly steep, and an amazing view on the top. He kind of implied it would be mildly challenging, but no big deal.

I love the idea of hiking much more than actually hiking. Families who hike seem wholesome, healthy and loving. They seem like they monitor tv and computer time vigilantly and support public radio. They seem like good people one should admire. I want to be those people, but we’re not.

Not surprisingly, our sixteen year old was not that into it. However, the two younger boys were into it, and our six year old rescue dog Teddy was, too, even though he looks too pretty to endure what turned out to be a nine mile hike in 70% humidity. And we’ve already established my feelings. But four out of six enthusiastic participants seem like they would stack the deck in favor of success. We are a hiking family, I whispered to myself. We are a hiking family.

Right off the bat, I wanted to quit. Did I mention the humidity? We had hiked all of 500 feet by this point. Had I known that three hours later, we would be just arriving at the top, I would have run back to the car. It was steep and rocky and buggy and HOT, but I shut down my quitter voices, and onward I marched. I tried to summon my inner Dalai Lama and Deepak Chopra and focus on enjoying the journey. I kept shutting up the child inside me whining she was tired and thirsty and hot and bored and WHEN CAN THIS BE OVER? Had anyone honestly answered, “In five and half more hours,” I probably would have rolled into a fetal ball and cried. Instead, Ed just kept saying, “Not much longer.” They say you marry your father.

Oh, look, Mountain Laurel, the Pennsylvania state flower!

Enjoy the journey, enjoy the journey, enjoy the journey, dammit. God, this was hard. The kids were starting to bicker, Teddy looked like he was having a doggie stroke, and Ed and I were dangerously close to turning on each other. Why do people do this, again? When we finally got to the top, which admittedly was spectacular, I’m not going to lie — I immediately started wondering when we could start heading down so.this.could.be.over.

But then something happened. About halfway down, things started to change. Spending the ascent scattered and the descent jockeying for first position, the kids finally formed a group. Look, togetherness!

The boys stopped bickering and started laughing and joking. Ed talked to them about presidential history, basketball and baseball. I suggested that Andrew be a sportscaster, since he’s an excellent writer and a passionate sports fan, and he told me he would consider it once his professional sports career was over. Thunder rumbled in the distance and we descended in double time, all the while talking about what we would order for dinner. We were happy and tired. Is this what Outward Bound feels like?

44 Things I Have Learned

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  1. People can change, but you can never make them change.
  2. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck. — Dalai Lama
  3. Talk less, listen more.
  4. Luck favors the prepared, darling. –Edna Mode, The Incredibles
  5. Envy is a wasted emotion.
  6. Take time to write a Thank You note.
  7. No one will ever love you as much as your cat or dog.
  8. My friends are my estate. — Emily Dickinson
  9. You will never regret showing kindness to people.
  10. Honor your grandparents. Without them, there is no you.
  11. Volunteer at some point in your life.
  12. Share your favorite recipes.
  13. Establish routines and traditions within your own family, even if they’re silly and unconventional.
  14. Spend some time outside each day.
  15. Give people the benefit of the doubt, but when people show you who they are, believe them.
  16. Beware of shiny things with little substance.
  17. Beware of shiny people with little substance.
  18. Children need the most love when they’re the least lovable.
  19. Play the hand you’re dealt, and bloom where you’re planted.
  20. NPR makes you appear smarter than you actually are.
  21. Accept compliments graciously.
  22. Give compliments generously.
  23. Value your children beyond their God-given looks and smarts; focus on their character.
  24. It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. — J.K. Rowling
  25. If you’re having doubts about your engagement, it is neither normal, nor a promising sign.
  26. When you marry for money, you will work every day of your life.
  27. Tip generously, and never insult people who handle your food.
  28. Drink more water than you think you need.
  29. Don’t write any email while angry or intoxicated. Let it sit for a day.
  30. Bake cookies for your kids on the first day of school.
  31. Make the effort to stay in touch with old friends.
  32. Be patient with your parents.
  33. If you judge people, you have no time to love them. — Mother Teresa
  34. Sometimes it’s necessary to bite your tongue to keep the peace.
  35. Clean your house before going on vacation.
  36. Surround yourself with smart, positive, virtuous people, and you will grow.
  37. Never stop growing.
  38. True nobility isn’t about being better than someone else. It’s about being better than you used to be. — Wayne Dyer
  39. Try to step out of your comfort zone at least once a year.
  40. Avoid any diet plan which prohibits pizza.
  41. Good wine, good cheese, and fresh bread are the perfect ingredients for a Friday night.
  42. Take nothing and no one for granted.
  43. Everything changes. And that’s okay.
  44. A ship in port is safe, but that’s not what ships are built for. — Grace Murray Hopper

Well I know a woman with a collection of sticks
She could fight back the hundreds of voices she heard
And she could poke at the greed, she could fend off her need
And with anger she found she could pound every word.
But one voice got through, caught her up by surprise
It said, “Don’t hold us back, we’re the story you tell,”
And no sooner than spoken, a spell had been broken
And the voices before her were trumpets and tympani
Violins, basses and woodwinds and cellos, singing

“We’re so glad that you finally made it here
You thought nobody cared, but we did, we could tell
And now you’ll dance through the days while the orchestra plays
And oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh-oh, you’re aging well.”

— Dar Williams, You’re Aging Well

The Devolution of My Coffee Consumption

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When I was young and poor and beautiful, many moons ago, coffee played a major role in my daily life. I cared so much about it and elevated it to the highest status, right up there with shelter, good health, true love and a great handbag. Even though I was living with my mother, taking a bus and the Market-Frankford El into work, and earning less than $16,000 a year, I still wouldn’t dream of degrading myself by consuming the free coffee served in my office kitchen. I may have been poor, but I wasn’t a philistine.

Back in the day, we would all line up obediently like good little soldiers at Au Bon Pain every morning, ordering our caffe au laits and lattes. This was pre-Starbucks and Panera, of course. Au Bon Pain was the original aspirational coffee shop.

As I clawed my way up the corporate ladder (hear that, kids? graduating college in 1990 wasn’t a picnic in the job market either; I started at the bottom-of-the-bottom), both my coffee taste and consumption level seemed to grow proportionately. From Au Bon Pain, I moved to independent coffee shops, then to Dean and Deluca, then to this hot new company from Seattle called Starbucks, and finally to coffee purchased directly from Hawaii and shipped to me for $35 a pound. Yes, I was that person.

At the height of my addiction, I was probably drinking half a pot a day. It didn’t sound like that much back then, because like any proper addict, I comforted myself by knowing people who were worse off. I had plenty of friends who were just getting warmed up at half a pot.

I am not sure when things started to change. It was gradual, that much I know. Once I stopped working professionally, I still drank coffee, but as a nursing mother, not very much of it. Certainly not half a pot! We would buy bags of Starbucks, whatever variety struck our fancy on any given week (but never flavored), and I’m pretty sure one week I found a good sale on a different brand. That was the beginning of the end. I started to question the wisdom of spending so much money on coffee when, let’s face it, I really only wanted the caffeine.

My descent probably went something like this: Hawaiian Kona, Local Roaster, Starbucks, Green Mountain, Dunkin’ Donuts, Eight O’Clock, Wegmans Store Brand, Folgers and/or Maxwell House. But wait, it gets even worse! Last month I stumbled upon a small jar of Maxwell House instant coffee in my pantry, probably left over from some fancy-pants recipe of mine. Does anyone under the age of 70 admit to drinking instant coffee? But I decided to give it a try, and guess what? It was perfectly fine, as caffeine delivery systems go.

Just when I thought I couldn’t fall any lower, yesterday I was in the coffee aisle and right next to the Maxwell House instant, I saw the store brand instant for sixty whole cents less a jar and thought, “Sure, why not? Maxwell House, ha! Who do I think I am, Oprah?” I’m pretty sure the only place left to go at this point is a caffeine pill. Generic, of course.

Diet: Week 2, or Stone Cold Sober Book Club

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I survived week one of my competitive diet, although I have the sad distinction of earning the lowest number of points on my team, and my team has the sad distinction of being in last place — probably entirely due to me. Sorry, Team 3! Not sure if I mentioned this before or not, but I HATE LOSING. The really sad part is I was quite pleased with my performance until I saw the scores. I didn’t realize I’d be competing with perfect people who earned perfect scores. The poor sport in me wants to call them all liars with dicey accounting practices, but the lady in me just says, “Nice work!”

In any event, I need to up my game. As we’ve established, alcohol is only permitted one day a week, and this week, I’ve decided to choose alcohol on Saturday for a variety of reasons not just because my mother is visiting for a few days. That meant that last night I got to experience book club in a new and exciting way for the first time ever. I believe the word I’m looking for is “sobriety.” It was so weird, like I was in another country and couldn’t quite grasp the nuances of the foreign language they were speaking. I could understand everyone, but I couldn’t really understand everyone, if you know what I’m saying. But fortunately for me, my book club is comprised of smart, funny, interesting women who don’t require the consumption of alcohol in order to be appreciated…although I won’t lie — everything is more fun after a few glasses of wine.

I did, however, use my weekly allotted “meal off” so I could enjoy all the fabulous food. And enjoy it I did! My friend Amy always goes above and beyond in providing book club goodies, and there was NO WAY I was going to miss out on that. I was so excited that she made our friend Lauren’s famous spinach and artichoke dip. I secretly suspect that Lauren is a Helllmann’s mayonnaise heiress, because whenever you ask her about her recipes, she insists that you only make it with real Hellmann’s mayonnaise. The only change I made was using fresh baby spinach instead of frozen spinach (too mushy and too hard to fully drain, in my opinion) because I think that works out better. Yes, I realize artichoke dips are a dime a dozen, especially at book clubs, but this the best one I ever had.

Lauren’s Famous Artichoke Dip

1 tsp garlic salt
2 tsp Tabasco
2 cups grated parmesan cheese
2 cups Hellmann’s mayo
1/2 bag of baby spinach, chopped
1 can artichoke drained and “mushed”

Mix. Bake at 350 for 45 min

Resentment Smoothie

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I have a confession to make. Last week, I joined a competitive dieting team. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I am wondering what possessed me. Of course, all it takes is me walking into my closet to recall the answer. One good thing I will say about myself, however, is that when I make a commitment to other people, I always follow through, come hell or high water. It is only a four week program and week one ends tomorrow.

This is not a Biggest Loser style free for all. There are rules here — many, many, many rules, and lots of points to add and subtract. And spreadsheets. I would explain it, but if you’re truly interested, it’s probably easier to read the book: The Game On Diet by Krista Vernoff and Az Ferguson. At its heart, it’s a very sensible eating program. Very balanced, very reasonable, but a lot of thinking about food and careful planning of FIVE perfectly balanced meals a day is involved. Oh, and 3 liters of water a day. And alcohol only one day a week. Aren’t you all dying to try it now?

Not thinking about food is what got me here in the first place, so I am hoping four weeks of hyper vigilance helps me adopt some good lifelong habits. I definitely feel better, even if the scale isn’t exactly moving as enthusiastically as I’d have hoped. But I do have that virtuous self righteousness that comes from eating enough vegetables, and that has to count for something. I also have one full day off a week and one full meal off a week, so no worries, I will still be cooking and sharing some old and new favorites. Having a food blog and dieting are somewhat incompatible, so I apologize in advance if the next few weeks here are boring/grumpy/uninspired.

My loyal readers will know that I had high hopes for my Vita-Mix blender. Sadly, it has been in hibernation for quite a while, but this game has given me a new appreciation for my Rolls Royce of blenders. I have yet to get to a point where smoothies taste like anything other than slightly pleasant flavored medicine to me, but I am all for the efficiency of cramming all of my dietary requirements into one puke green colored concoction and drinking it down like a good little soldier.

If any of you have any favorite smoothie recipes which are low in fat, low in sugar, high in fiber, high in protein, and contain at least one serving of vegetables (preferably leafy greens), I hope you will share them with me. I’ve never come across one that I can declare anything other than “healthy” or “edible,” but I am ever the optimist.

Review: Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James

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Hello, I am the only 40-something woman in America who doesn’t think this book is impossible to put down. In fact, I’ve had it on my Kindle for a month and stopped reading at about 80%. “What is Fifty Shades of Grey?” you ask. Mom porn. It hurts me to type those words, as they are two words which really should never be used together, ever. Seriously, sorry.

I realize that people aren’t reading this book for its fine literary merit. And while it’s true I am an avid reader, I am also a regular gal, so I won’t pretend I haven’t read my share of smut over the years. What surprises me is why this particular series of smut has taken off to the degree which it has, and I can only conclude that there are a vast amount of women out there who either never knew such naughtiness existed or never picked up a book past high school. And for some reason, this upsets me. It upsets me that women I like and respect are calling this drivel “good” and turning this ding dong author into a millionaire with movie deal. It’s kind of like witnessing people who’ve never eaten ice cream in their life suddenly discover McDonald’s soft serve and they think it’s the best ice cream in the world and all they keep talking about is, “OMG, have you TRIED this amazing ‘ice cream’ from McDonald’s? It is SO GOOD! I can’t believe how amazing this ice cream tastes!” Painful, right? What can you even say to that?

His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel… or something. — Fifty Shades of Grey

When it comes to saucy books, I lean more towards the classics: Sidney Sheldon, Judith Krantz and Jackie Collins being the unholy trinity. Or, if you prefer, check out some of the more respected romance writers. Anne Rice writes under the pen name A.N. Roquelaure for her Beauty trilogy, which I haven’t read myself but hear is quite good. At least you get a legitimately interesting story woven in with your sex. Heck, even picking up a Harlequin Romance at an airport newsstand has to be better than this. So, you see, I am trying to establish some street cred here, homies. I sometimes read trash, too. I don’t think I’m better than you are for reading trash. But let’s be clear: my trash is higher brow than Fifty Shades of Grey, which is so trite, one dimensional, sloppy and cliche-ridden it makes the plot of any Lifetime movie seem like Anna Karenina.

It is the justice-seeking part of my brain which is the most offended. I am not a real writer and don’t pretend to be, but I am a real reader. And I know there are some truly talented authors in this genre who have been toiling away for years, and those people deserve your dollars and appreciation. So to see such sloppy, overwrought Twilight fan fiction making my otherwise smart and sensible friends go gaga? Fifty shades of grey matter from my head exploding.

Time It Was, and What a Time It Was, It Was…

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Forgive me for getting overly sappy and nostalgic, as I’m wont to do around here. We’ve recently converted some old camcorder tapes to DVDs, and yesterday I watched one for the first time in years. We just chose one at random, cleverly entitled Logan VI, from 1999, when my sixteen year old son was only three and my other two children were not yet born.

It is a funny sensation, going back in time and spying on yourself for a day. The things you notice on the recording are probably not the things you think will have any impact while you’re recording the event: the clothes, the hairstyles, your weight, the cars, the decor, any (now deceased) pets lingering in the background, the size of the trees…all of those little markers of time are key supporting actors in the film. I guess that’s why there are Oscars for set design and costumes — they add significant value to the feeling of the piece. And they are all whispering the same thing in my ear, “Everything changes.”

I am not a big fan of change. Eventually, I always make my peace with it, but I tend to fight it hard along the way, kicking and screaming. It is not one of my more charming qualities. Seeing this video yesterday was helpful therapy, though. As much as I longed to climb back into that day with my cuddly, precocious, super cute three year old who loved his mommy more than anyone, I realized that there were still two very important people missing: Nate and Andrew. Change isn’t always bad. It is always hard for me, but I am usually better off for it.

I can’t imagine a better time than right now. I find myself holding on tight to these days, as change is on the horizon. Logan will be driving soon. Nate will be starting middle school. Andrew is getting more and more involved with sports. The peaceful rhythm of our current life will soon be very, very different — not necessarily worse, but definitely different, and I DON’T WANT IT TO BE DIFFERENT. It’s perfect just the way it is right now. See my dilemma?

Another thing the DVD from yesterday showed me is that I’ve forgotten a lot of things. So many crucial details of those early days as a family have been erased from the front of my mind: the way Logan talked, his special blanket and bunny he dragged around everywhere a la Linus, how sweetly gentle and obedient our Golden Retriever was, how our cat Lulu weaseled her way into almost every frame…I had forgotten all of it until I was reminded yesterday, and then it seemed so normal and familiar again. It almost made me want to record every day of my life right now, so I can spend my days in the nursing home watching random Tuesdays from 2012. Pathetic or genius?

There is one picture of the three on them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4, and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in a hurry to get on to the next things: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less. — Anna Quindlen

 

Life is a Baseball Season

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I was inspired to share my family sports story when I learned about the “Family Fanatics” challenge, asking bloggers to share their experiences with sports and how it has impacted their family. Fanatics is a leading retailer of sports memorabilia and apparel, with one of the largest selections of baseball hats and jerseys you can find on the web. And if you, like me, prefer one-stop online shopping, this is the spot to fulfill the wishes of every sports fan in your family. I was truly impressed with the range of teams and products offered, and I hope you’ll check them out.

Initially, my cynical thought was that sports impact my family by requiring me to often be two or more places at once. How’s that for an answer? But then I remembered the good part of sports, for all the grumbling that I do, and I’m glad I recorded the story below. When I look back on my life, I know I will wish we made the time for more baseball games.

Last night we took the family to a Phillies game, the first one ever for Nate and Andrew. At age eight, Andrew is the only legitimate sports fan in this family. The rest of us are just social sports fans who really don’t care all that much. Andrew cares. He cares so much. In a family of, “Eh, good enough,” I find it both admirable and beguiling.

Yesterday was also the first day our lawn service came, and despite my constant nagging of, “Pick up your toys! The mowers are coming!” Andrew’s beloved baseball glove somehow got left outside and shredded beyond repair. For a baseball player, losing your only glove before the first game of the season is kind of a big deal. And for Andrew, it was a very big deal. My friends, as usual, came to my rescue, and we were able to embark on our Phillies adventure knowing that Andrew had some viable spare glove options for today’s game.

I am always happy to get the kids out of their sanitized Chester County bubble. Just the very act of driving to the city is almost entertainment enough. Unfortunately, the notorious Philadelphia traffic was extra challenging, and after a stressful work week and more traffic heading home only to turn around again, Ed was not his usual chipper self. Between the shredded glove and the stressed husband, I was ready to call the whole thing off before we even started. However, we are not quitters. Okay, maybe I’m kind of a quitter, but I was significantly outnumbered, so on we pressed. As we approached the park and heard a street performer play, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” I knew we made the right decision.

Back when I worked during the glory days of the financial services industry, I viewed every Philadelphia sports team from the finest seats available. Let’s just say our cheap seats last night were a far cry from my seats with the premium view and the lovely man who kept bringing me shrimp and vodka tonics while I returned from my own private bathroom. But I am a woman of the people now.

Even with the cheapest seats, the game still cost a bundle. For dinner, we got five cheese steaks, five drinks, and a couple pretzels for $72. That’s like taking your family to McDonald’s for $72 and not even getting french fries for everyone. Water was $4.25 a bottle. Parking was $20. And the obnoxious Mets fans throwing their half-opened mustard packages on the ground dangerously close to my purse were a free bonus.

I will admit, baseball used to be my least favorite sport to watch before my child started playing it. I grew up listening to Harry Kalas’s melodic voice calling the game, and more often than not, I fell asleep listening to that voice. The Phillies are a part of me, undeniably so, but I really didn’t fall in love with the sport of baseball until much later in life. It just seemed so long, so slow. (I believe “watching paint dry” was the phrase I often used.) Ironically, it is precisely that long, slow pace which I now find so appealing. I still don’t know enough about baseball to comment on it intelligently, but at least now I like it.

The Phillies did not win, much to Andrew’s dismay. He held on to hope the entire game, reciting every prior come-from-behind Phillies win in his young memory. His enthusiasm and hopefulness warm my jaded little heart. Despite the numerous obstacles and hefty price tag, I am so glad we went. It was the perfect way to kick off the beginning of Andrew’s baseball season today.

Life is not a spelling bee, where no matter how many words you have gotten right, if you make one mistake you are disqualified. Life is more like a baseball season, where even the best team loses one-third of its games and even the worst team has its days of brilliance. Our goal is not to go all year without ever losing a game. Our goal is to win more than we lose, and if we can do that consistently enough, then when the end comes, we will have won it all. — Harold Kushner

Play ball!

Photograph by the very talented Kerry McShane-Kay.

Of White Tulips and Trader Joe’s

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Ed has been traveling this week and therefore my “cooking” has been limited to heating up Purdue chicken tenders for the kids and Lean Cuisine spring rolls for myself (thank you, Sue, these have changed my life). I hate to kill the illusion that we always eat wholesome, healthy, gourmet food around here, but it’s time to come clean: We eat our fair share of trash, too. I’d like to think it’s slightly better than the average American’s trash, but who am I kidding?

I had a lovely, totally impromptu, midweek trip to Trader Joe’s with my super fun friend. Trader Joe’s is just far enough away and located in a congested enough parking lot for it to feel like a little bit of a trip, a little bit of a chore. I go infrequently enough for it to always feel like a fun treat. As soon as I walked in the door, I was drawn to the flowers. My friend and I agreed tulips are our favorite, and they were hard to resist, so I picked up a bunch of white tulips.

As much as I love color, lots and lots of rainbowy color, I always wind up choosing the beautiful simplicity of white flowers. People who like white flowers (and, I would imagine, vanilla ice cream) always have to defend their choice. The world can’t accept that you would willingly choose something so plain when so much razzle dazzle surrounds you.

I tend to be attracted to the weirder side of Trader Joe’s. Things like dark chocolate covered edamame appeal to me and my strange children. I primarily hit Trader Joe’s for healthy(ish) snacks and the occasional bunch of white tulips, not for regular grocery shopping. I know lots of people who just shop there solely for their healthy(ish) snacks, so I assumed it was normal. Not so.

A couple years ago, we were driving home from Vermont with a car full of four hungry boys. We stopped at a Trader Joe’s somewhere near Milford, Connecticut, and we bought a ton of snacks for the ride home and to stock up for the coming week. The snotty cashier, I’ll call her Judy McJudgerson, scanned each item with disdain while declaring, “Sugar, sugar, sugar, salt, salt, salt, sugar, salt, sugar, salt…” and Ed (mistake number one) tried to explain that we were on a long road trip with four boys and stocking up on snacks for the car and at home. Oh, sweetie. Never explain yourself to the snotty cashier. Have I taught you nothing?

Do you think she said, “Oh, NOW I understand! You are weary travelers with hungry boys taking a break and buying a few goodies for the road.” No, of course not. She said, “When I go on a long road trip, I like to slice up orange wedges and bring along little bags of nuts. So much healthier.” Oh, really? Thank you for that lesson in nutrition, Miss Lady Whose Salary I Am Paying With My Junk Purchases.

I was so mad and determined to complain to the corporate office of Trader Joe’s, but instead I decided to wait two years, start a blog and tell my story here. No, I’m not that crazy, really. Like every other angry letter to corporate offices and restaurant owners which I cleverly draft in my head, I stewed about it for a few days and then just let it go. But I can’t help myself, it’s impossible for me to go to Trader Joe’s and not remember this story, and maybe wonder what the checkout clerk is thinking of my chocolate covered edamame and falafel chip purchase. With a side of white tulips.

Scrabble for the W-I-N

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I grew up playing Scrabble with my mother and grandmother, both highly competitive people who believed you didn’t serve a child well by cutting her any breaks in a strategic board game even if she is in fourth grade and has a vocabulary no more advanced than a Judy Blume novel. I spent most of my early years losing Scrabble games; I knew no other life.

I was probably in college when I won my first Scrabble game, and I wrote it off to flukey good luck. I didn’t realize my years of losing to Jedi Masters would ever pay off until I won about twenty games, and then I realized I had been in training my whole life. Unfortunately, my Scrabble prowess is limited to beating people off the street who maybe played a few times before and got lucky, plus they’re smart and have a good vocabulary and naively believe that’s enough. Come into my lair, my pretty. Can I offer you some tea?

I still don’t stand a chance against the real pros. Fortunately for me, that still leaves a lot of the population to play. I just adore my regular Scrabble opponents. There is something very satisfying about finding perfectly matched players who offer enough of a challenge for it to feel like a real victory when you beat them, and you win as much as you lose. As much as I hate losing — and, oh, do I ever hate losing — it is simply not satisfying to beat a mismatched opponent who doesn’t even know xu and xi are words and that there are no two letter words which start with V or C. Come on, that’s just not sporting. I used to have a lot of games going, but I found that stresses me out a bit to have so many turns hanging over my head. I limit my games now to only three players: two friends and my Mom. Since I no longer work in an office (or, okay, anywhere) I sometimes pretend Scrabble is my job. And just like my job, some days I take it very seriously.

Not to sound like a snob, but I draw the line at Words With Friends. It just feels like the People Magazine crossword puzzle to me. Even though I know it looks quite similar to the uninitiated, it’s just not as good as original Scrabble. But I know I have no room to talk: We will occasionally dust off the old Scrabble board when Mom comes over, but more often, we play Scrabble on Facebook. And by more often, I mean every single day. I have no idea what the Scrabble purists think of this, but I love it. Crazy as it sounds, it has helped me feel more connected to my Mom as an adult. We are now communicating every single day through our Scrabble tiles. Plus, of course, I beat her much more than in my younger days when I kept score with a Holly Hobbie pencil.

Scrabble is a great metaphor for life. You have to play the hand you’re dealt, and sometimes that hand is total crap, as in I-I-I-I-O-A. Good luck working with that. However, even then, there are still opportunities hiding somewhere, and you just need to search harder for them. Sometimes the best offense is a good defense, and in mounting that good defense, you wind up screwing yourself. Sometimes you have a fabulous seven letter word (a bingo in Scrabble lingo) but you have no place to put it, kind of like having tons of money but no time to spend it. And sometimes all the stars align and you plunk down the word QUIXOTIC, as in, “She had quixotic dreams about beating me in Scrabble today.”