When I was younger I eagerly awaited Christmas card season every year. It wasn't for those dreary religious scenes, nondenominational holly, fluffed-up family portraits or hokey animals in a snowy woodland. I wanted the soft chewy center: The Christmas Letter.
Every year my mother and I would remove the mimeographed (yes, I'm that old!) papers from inside the cards and set aside time to hoot over them. Over the years since then, Christmas letters have become fodder for many parodies, but, as Ashford & Simpson would tell you, ain't nothing like the real thing, baby.
There's a special joy in analyzing twisted truths and translating their hidden reality. For a real holiday treat, cook up some Swiss Miss and settle in while you develop the psychological profiles that explain the underlying insecurity, narcissism and lack of humility behind the blatant bragging and truth-stretching.
"Our beloved son is exploring his professional options, and lately has been considering the legal field." Translation: He's trying to get his felony conviction stricken from the public records so he doesn't have to keep putting it on his fast food job applications.
"Currently I'm involved in a new nonprofit organization to try and make meaningful changes in the status quo in my area. It's an uphill battle but as those who know me can attest, nothing can stop me in my quest for justice." Translation: As the lone voice of opposition to a project everyone around me favors, I've become a neighborhood pariah and have taken to sleeping with a gun under my pillow.
Also amusing is poking fun at the letters with gimmicks, such as those written by the family dog. ("The big one I call Master was congratulating the little one I call Tail Puller the other day. Something about 'good grades,' whatever that means. They walk on two legs, so their voices are somewhere up around the ceiling and I can't always tell exactly what's going on.") Parodies of Martha Stewart and Santa Claus making out his list never fail to fail to amuse.
Then there are the ones that are unintentionally hilarious by nature of their somber tone: "We've calculated that 67.4% of our extended family suffers from 'Morgenstern Toe,' a painful condition where the fourth toe bends over to scratch the third. We're voluntarily participating in DNA testing to identify the gene that causes this and are hoping our dedication can help others who have similar 'crosses to bear.' So we can't say 'at least we have our health,' but we can say 'we're working on it.' "
Travel, marriages/births and family achievements are popular Christmas letter topics, offset by the perennial death, divorce and public humiliation. Where did you go this year and how exotic can you make Cleveland sound? Who got married and had a kid, not necessarily in that order? Who was named a Rhodes scholar but never comes to visit any more? Who died and from what? Who was cheated on, abandoned, or otherwise left by the side of the marital road? Who was indicted, prosecuted, deposed, exposed, run out of town on a rail or picked up in a men's room in Minneapolis--and how can you make it sound like a good thing?
The letters I loved the most were from my mother's high school and college friends I had never met and she hadn't seen in decades. Their entire relationship had devolved into that of Christmas Correspondents, a special category of former friends about whom you know nothing current except what you can glean from their Christmas Letters. When I read about obscure Little League games in which some kid I would never meet hit the winning home run, or the cum laude graduation of a stranger I could despise sans guilt, I felt a special bond with my mother. There was a reason she wasn't in touch with these people the other 11 months of the year, and she enjoyed my company enough to share with me the reasons why.
Thanksgiving Letter
Some people like to get a jump on sending out Christmas letters by sending out Thanksgiving letters instead. Here's one passed along to us recently.
Dear All,
Chef Gordon Ramsay would be proud. Todd, Ted, Daniela and I managed to create a delicious Thanksgiving meal despite our horrifying lack of experience, equipment, and the confounding uber-organic Turkey, which we discovered upon unwrapping still had it's [sic] feathers on! A quick call to Jen and Judy reassured us that the feathers, while annoying, would not ruin the meal.
We ate 2 hours late because when they say 20 minutes per pound, they lie! But, it was scrumptious and we had a great time.
Annie has become a very smiley baby especially in the last week. She smiles after being fed, after producing a particularly stinky diaper (as if to say..."Ha! Now change THAT!") and Molly and Daddy are completely hilarious.
Annie also has the special talent of doing a great imitation of Grampa Walsh. We think of him often when she gets a little Irish twinkle in her eye or when she gives us that "You're a half-wit." look. We pulled out a special Thanksgiving newsletter/gaelic lesson he sent to the grandchildren in 2001 and thought it might be fun to share in the spirit of the holiday. The text is in the post script below.
Love,
Ashley, Teddy, Molly and Annie
P.S. From Grampa Walsh - Thanksgiving 2001
Ciotach no Deisealach
You may have noticed your grandmother's shoes scattered around the house, on the porch and in her car. She has numerous dozen pairs and usually goes barefoot in the house and around the yard but does put them on to go downtown, etc. The other day she came home in the evening and announced that she had worn two left shoes all day long *(same color) and they were very comfortable. It was then that I noticed, for the first time, that the big toe on her right foot was on the outside and the little toe inside. No wonder her feet felt better with two left shoes. Now I understand at least part of the reason she has been in such a mean, miserable mood for the last sixty-eight years. (SORRY GRAMMIE)
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, you may express your gratitude for this epiphany by sending a tax free contribution to:
GRANDMOTHERS LEFT SHOE FUND
(address deleted)
(below that he drew check boxes ranging in amount from $1,000 to Other $)
Another true story:
I saw a little girl in the office the other day and asked her how she was. She said, "I'm fine, thank you."
I said, "Why don't you ask me how I am?"
She said, "Because I don't care."
Seanathair, Altu (Thanksgiving) 2001.
Dear All,
Chef Gordon Ramsay would be proud. Todd, Ted, Daniela and I managed to create a delicious Thanksgiving meal despite our horrifying lack of experience, equipment, and the confounding uber-organic Turkey, which we discovered upon unwrapping still had it's [sic] feathers on! A quick call to Jen and Judy reassured us that the feathers, while annoying, would not ruin the meal.
We ate 2 hours late because when they say 20 minutes per pound, they lie! But, it was scrumptious and we had a great time.
Annie has become a very smiley baby especially in the last week. She smiles after being fed, after producing a particularly stinky diaper (as if to say..."Ha! Now change THAT!") and Molly and Daddy are completely hilarious.
Annie also has the special talent of doing a great imitation of Grampa Walsh. We think of him often when she gets a little Irish twinkle in her eye or when she gives us that "You're a half-wit." look. We pulled out a special Thanksgiving newsletter/gaelic lesson he sent to the grandchildren in 2001 and thought it might be fun to share in the spirit of the holiday. The text is in the post script below.
Love,
Ashley, Teddy, Molly and Annie
P.S. From Grampa Walsh - Thanksgiving 2001
Ciotach no Deisealach
You may have noticed your grandmother's shoes scattered around the house, on the porch and in her car. She has numerous dozen pairs and usually goes barefoot in the house and around the yard but does put them on to go downtown, etc. The other day she came home in the evening and announced that she had worn two left shoes all day long *(same color) and they were very comfortable. It was then that I noticed, for the first time, that the big toe on her right foot was on the outside and the little toe inside. No wonder her feet felt better with two left shoes. Now I understand at least part of the reason she has been in such a mean, miserable mood for the last sixty-eight years. (SORRY GRAMMIE)
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, you may express your gratitude for this epiphany by sending a tax free contribution to:
GRANDMOTHERS LEFT SHOE FUND
(address deleted)
(below that he drew check boxes ranging in amount from $1,000 to Other $)
Another true story:
I saw a little girl in the office the other day and asked her how she was. She said, "I'm fine, thank you."
I said, "Why don't you ask me how I am?"
She said, "Because I don't care."
Seanathair, Altu (Thanksgiving) 2001.
Going Public with My Hellish Holidays
It feels strange going public with the truth about my formative years. The inconsistencies and idiosyncracies that made me who I am today were sometimes painful to live through. Why share them with anyone other than close friends - or maybe a therapist?
Enter YouTube and blogging and everyone's personal lives suddenly public. I jumped in, but mostly as a voyeur. My partner and I launched HellishHolidays last year, focusing on other people's TMI videos and only occasionally posting a blog of my own. I was grappling with emotions the site raised within my family about taking a negative attitude toward holidays and telling personal tales.
The bottom line is that not everyone signs on to the new tell-all mentality. When I sent my mother a link to Hellish Holidays, she wrote back to tell me that "for some reason” she was unable to access the site. “To tell you the truth,” she said, “and it'll be hard for you to believe, I'm not big on reliving bad memories, of holidays or anything else. Haven't found it to be very productive and certainly never amusing. Once I can get it to open I'll check it out and try and think of anyone I know who might be a good candidate for terrible memories of past holidays. Actually I don't know anybody I talk to about such things. What are you selling?"
Well, I for one can find that amusing! She finally got broadband last month at her casita in Puerto Rico, and has been practically bathing in multimedia ever since. Yet somehow she can’t get her daughter’s site to load. I’m not complaining, though: if there’s some Freudian reason she can’t see what I’m up to, that’s one less conversation I’ll need to have about my blog.
I do worry that my family will be offended by my sharing embarrassing tales. This must be a huge issue in today's YouTube era, where posted personal moments can provide international humiliation for friends and family, where millions of blogs snipe at celebrities as well as those near and supposedly dear.
Opening up about traumatic childhoods is not new, nor confined to the web. In an attempt to put my own past in perspective, I became addicted to memoirs featuring dysfunctional families. Among my favorites: The Liar's Club, The Tender Bar, Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress, Sweet and Low, This Boy's Life and the mother (and father) of them all, The Glass Castle and Angela's Ashes. It was hard to read these books and feel like I'd had it too rough. I was merely a lesser, unpublished member of the same club.
The authors of all these memoirs share a willingness to dig deep and get at the root of who they are today, and I respect that. What I am less able to understand is their willingness to alienate their parents, grandparents and/or siblings, even though those twisted family members had made their collective childhoods just the wrong side of crazy.
Dredging up and publicly presenting a hellish past is more than likely to offend the subjects of any interesting personal stories, who surely remember things differently. Even if they hurt you years ago, you may want to remain on good terms with them today, as shaky as the bonds may be. In my family, cutting off contact, whether between mother and child, siblings, or grandmother and grandchild, is just one well-timed comment away. So I figured as unique as my life had been, I wouldn't be able to write about it unless I outlived all my relatives. Last one standing gets to be the normal one!
Now, however, I've come around to the confessional life, at least within reason. I'd like to think I have a healthy attitude toward my peculiar background. My past informs my present but does not define it. Finally, like Nora Ephron, I have come to accept that "It's all copy."
Enter YouTube and blogging and everyone's personal lives suddenly public. I jumped in, but mostly as a voyeur. My partner and I launched HellishHolidays last year, focusing on other people's TMI videos and only occasionally posting a blog of my own. I was grappling with emotions the site raised within my family about taking a negative attitude toward holidays and telling personal tales.
The bottom line is that not everyone signs on to the new tell-all mentality. When I sent my mother a link to Hellish Holidays, she wrote back to tell me that "for some reason” she was unable to access the site. “To tell you the truth,” she said, “and it'll be hard for you to believe, I'm not big on reliving bad memories, of holidays or anything else. Haven't found it to be very productive and certainly never amusing. Once I can get it to open I'll check it out and try and think of anyone I know who might be a good candidate for terrible memories of past holidays. Actually I don't know anybody I talk to about such things. What are you selling?"
Well, I for one can find that amusing! She finally got broadband last month at her casita in Puerto Rico, and has been practically bathing in multimedia ever since. Yet somehow she can’t get her daughter’s site to load. I’m not complaining, though: if there’s some Freudian reason she can’t see what I’m up to, that’s one less conversation I’ll need to have about my blog.
I do worry that my family will be offended by my sharing embarrassing tales. This must be a huge issue in today's YouTube era, where posted personal moments can provide international humiliation for friends and family, where millions of blogs snipe at celebrities as well as those near and supposedly dear.
Opening up about traumatic childhoods is not new, nor confined to the web. In an attempt to put my own past in perspective, I became addicted to memoirs featuring dysfunctional families. Among my favorites: The Liar's Club, The Tender Bar, Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress, Sweet and Low, This Boy's Life and the mother (and father) of them all, The Glass Castle and Angela's Ashes. It was hard to read these books and feel like I'd had it too rough. I was merely a lesser, unpublished member of the same club.
The authors of all these memoirs share a willingness to dig deep and get at the root of who they are today, and I respect that. What I am less able to understand is their willingness to alienate their parents, grandparents and/or siblings, even though those twisted family members had made their collective childhoods just the wrong side of crazy.
Dredging up and publicly presenting a hellish past is more than likely to offend the subjects of any interesting personal stories, who surely remember things differently. Even if they hurt you years ago, you may want to remain on good terms with them today, as shaky as the bonds may be. In my family, cutting off contact, whether between mother and child, siblings, or grandmother and grandchild, is just one well-timed comment away. So I figured as unique as my life had been, I wouldn't be able to write about it unless I outlived all my relatives. Last one standing gets to be the normal one!
Now, however, I've come around to the confessional life, at least within reason. I'd like to think I have a healthy attitude toward my peculiar background. My past informs my present but does not define it. Finally, like Nora Ephron, I have come to accept that "It's all copy."
"The Fruitcake Story"
Every family has its personal fables, oft-repeated chronicles of big achievements and, more commonly, painful humiliations starring siblings and grandparents, cousins and children. Like madeleines to Proust, sensory reminders call them back: Richard still has tine-marks on the back of his hand from the time he tried to take food off his brother's plate. Sue, who spilled the chicken soup in the backseat of the car on the way to Grandma's, gets mentioned every time a family member smells rotten food or buys a new car (the stink never came out of the broth-soaked Volvo and it had to be sold).
By the way, names have been changed. You don't see me airing family laundry. Do you?
In my family, every holiday season brought out "The Fruitcake Story," in which I was the star. Year after year, the world "fruitcake" could not even be spoken around the holiday table without knowing glances escalating into howls of laughter. And then someone would, redundantly and unnecessarily, repeat the saga. I would try to deflect: "Oh, everyone's heard that one! Let's talk about the time Paul..." But then Paul would jump in and continue the tale.
In "The Fruitcake Story" I am perpetually a toddler, optimistic, easily bamboozled and highly motivated by food, three traits I still have. That's the defining mark of a family saga: the main characters invariably show early signs of the adults they come to be. The best stories become shorthand for their subjects' most dependable qualities.
My father was usually the ringleader of "The Fruitcake Story," the one who brought it up and made sure the details were right. In fact, I sometimes suspected that my father only wanted to have more children after me so he could regale them with the story. Since he died 12 years ago, I'm not sure I've heard it brought up even once. I don't go back east for the holidays any more, so the word "fruitcake" generally doesn't come up. We're too busy talking about "The Amazon Wish List."
OK, by now you must be wondering: What's the story? Well, it really wasn't made to be told in the first person, since like most of these fables it's not something to brag about. However, in the interest of full blogging disclosure I will do my best.
I was probably two years old. It was December, and holiday preparations were in full swing. Fruitcake was already on display in the kitchen, and I was fascinated by it. Two of my favorite things, fruit and cake, in one package! What a brilliant concept! I could see cherries and raisins...I was enthralled.
My father decided to use the fruitcake as an incentive for me to make the final leap in my toilet-training. I had already achieved, shall we say, Goal #1, but was having some difficulty with Goal #2. My parents were looking for an answer, and since Everyone Poops had not yet been published, they had to come up with their own ideas. Fruitcake was held out as a reward. All I had to do was one little, well, poop in the toilet and fruitcake would be mine.
Who knows how long it took--the way the story dragged out it was days of disappointment and grunting as I kept my eye on the prize and my butt on the toilet. Finally, about 15 minutes into the storytelling, I made a raisin of my own and went running down the hall, training pants flapping, demanding my reward.
Of course the punchline was that I took one bite of that bourbon-soaked, nut-filled hockey puck, spit it right out and burst into tears. Whenever I wonder about any issues I have with food, I think of that story and it all makes perfect sense.
Every year at the holidays I miss my dad, but I don't miss "The Fruitcake Story."
By the way, names have been changed. You don't see me airing family laundry. Do you?
In my family, every holiday season brought out "The Fruitcake Story," in which I was the star. Year after year, the world "fruitcake" could not even be spoken around the holiday table without knowing glances escalating into howls of laughter. And then someone would, redundantly and unnecessarily, repeat the saga. I would try to deflect: "Oh, everyone's heard that one! Let's talk about the time Paul..." But then Paul would jump in and continue the tale.
In "The Fruitcake Story" I am perpetually a toddler, optimistic, easily bamboozled and highly motivated by food, three traits I still have. That's the defining mark of a family saga: the main characters invariably show early signs of the adults they come to be. The best stories become shorthand for their subjects' most dependable qualities.
My father was usually the ringleader of "The Fruitcake Story," the one who brought it up and made sure the details were right. In fact, I sometimes suspected that my father only wanted to have more children after me so he could regale them with the story. Since he died 12 years ago, I'm not sure I've heard it brought up even once. I don't go back east for the holidays any more, so the word "fruitcake" generally doesn't come up. We're too busy talking about "The Amazon Wish List."
OK, by now you must be wondering: What's the story? Well, it really wasn't made to be told in the first person, since like most of these fables it's not something to brag about. However, in the interest of full blogging disclosure I will do my best.
I was probably two years old. It was December, and holiday preparations were in full swing. Fruitcake was already on display in the kitchen, and I was fascinated by it. Two of my favorite things, fruit and cake, in one package! What a brilliant concept! I could see cherries and raisins...I was enthralled.
My father decided to use the fruitcake as an incentive for me to make the final leap in my toilet-training. I had already achieved, shall we say, Goal #1, but was having some difficulty with Goal #2. My parents were looking for an answer, and since Everyone Poops had not yet been published, they had to come up with their own ideas. Fruitcake was held out as a reward. All I had to do was one little, well, poop in the toilet and fruitcake would be mine.
Who knows how long it took--the way the story dragged out it was days of disappointment and grunting as I kept my eye on the prize and my butt on the toilet. Finally, about 15 minutes into the storytelling, I made a raisin of my own and went running down the hall, training pants flapping, demanding my reward.
Of course the punchline was that I took one bite of that bourbon-soaked, nut-filled hockey puck, spit it right out and burst into tears. Whenever I wonder about any issues I have with food, I think of that story and it all makes perfect sense.
Every year at the holidays I miss my dad, but I don't miss "The Fruitcake Story."
Together for the Holidays
This year, my family will be together for Thanksgiving. I don't mean my extended family, I mean my husband, son and I will eat together. That may not sound like a big deal, but considering that my husband and I separated recently, I think it is.
My parents divorced in the 1970s, the Dark Ages of splitting up. No one knew what the hell they were doing back then. Oh, there was some vague understanding that one parent shouldn't badmouth the other, but no collective wisdom beyond that. No Oprah. No Elizabeth Gilbert. We had Dr. Spock and Elizabeth Taylor and had to piece it together from there. If there was actually a divorcee in the neighborhood, which was unlikely, she was considered a dangerous hussy or a pathetic loser, possibly both.
Holidays were especially fraught, as embarrassed children had to explain to their friends about "Daddy's new apartment." Yes, at the time kids were ashamed when their parents got divorced. They didn't have the examples of scores of classmates, teachers, neighbors and celebrities to reassure them that they weren't "different."
For the first Thanksgiving after my parents divorced, my mother invited my dad to come for dinner. She felt intuitively that holidays should be spent as a family. Well-meaning, yes, but intuition-wise, not so impressive: dinner was a disaster. I've learned the hard way that holidays should be spent in a way that provides the least possible anxiety and the most possible calories and, if relevant, presents. But 30 years ago all we had to go on was our flawed gut, and that gut called for togetherness at all costs.
We all like to believe we're different from our parents, but I think we just make different mistakes. Certainly I know my divorce will be different from my parents'. My (still current) husband and I respect each other and our joint savings account too much to get into a long, drawn-out, bitter legal battle. We love our son too much to have a Thanksgiving dinner that is more about posturing than pumpkin pie.
So this year we will head over to the home of a close and understanding friend. I'm sure the day will be calmer than last year, when a blow-up in the car on the way to dinner almost killed Thanksgiving completely. Of course, my own intuition isn't always on target either. Let's just cross our fingers.
My parents divorced in the 1970s, the Dark Ages of splitting up. No one knew what the hell they were doing back then. Oh, there was some vague understanding that one parent shouldn't badmouth the other, but no collective wisdom beyond that. No Oprah. No Elizabeth Gilbert. We had Dr. Spock and Elizabeth Taylor and had to piece it together from there. If there was actually a divorcee in the neighborhood, which was unlikely, she was considered a dangerous hussy or a pathetic loser, possibly both.
Holidays were especially fraught, as embarrassed children had to explain to their friends about "Daddy's new apartment." Yes, at the time kids were ashamed when their parents got divorced. They didn't have the examples of scores of classmates, teachers, neighbors and celebrities to reassure them that they weren't "different."
For the first Thanksgiving after my parents divorced, my mother invited my dad to come for dinner. She felt intuitively that holidays should be spent as a family. Well-meaning, yes, but intuition-wise, not so impressive: dinner was a disaster. I've learned the hard way that holidays should be spent in a way that provides the least possible anxiety and the most possible calories and, if relevant, presents. But 30 years ago all we had to go on was our flawed gut, and that gut called for togetherness at all costs.
We all like to believe we're different from our parents, but I think we just make different mistakes. Certainly I know my divorce will be different from my parents'. My (still current) husband and I respect each other and our joint savings account too much to get into a long, drawn-out, bitter legal battle. We love our son too much to have a Thanksgiving dinner that is more about posturing than pumpkin pie.
So this year we will head over to the home of a close and understanding friend. I'm sure the day will be calmer than last year, when a blow-up in the car on the way to dinner almost killed Thanksgiving completely. Of course, my own intuition isn't always on target either. Let's just cross our fingers.
Hellish Holidays A to Z
Added Pressure
Blown Budgets
Custody Negotiations
Denial Meets Reality
Exactly What You Didn't Need
Family Drama
Great Expectations
Harping and Carping
Inevitable Letdowns
Jealous Posturing
Kodak Moments? Ha!
Longstanding Rivalries
Misguided Gifts
No Politics Please!
Oh, Don't Come Then!
Pine Needles Everywhere
Quirkiness Wears Thin
Regifting
Suicide Spikes
Turkey Again?!
Ugly Christmas Sweaters
Vicious Circles, Around and Around
Why? Because We Have To.
XO But Not Feeling It
Yet Another Long Drive Home
Zero Energy After It's Over
Blown Budgets
Custody Negotiations
Denial Meets Reality
Exactly What You Didn't Need
Family Drama
Great Expectations
Harping and Carping
Inevitable Letdowns
Jealous Posturing
Kodak Moments? Ha!
Longstanding Rivalries
Misguided Gifts
No Politics Please!
Oh, Don't Come Then!
Pine Needles Everywhere
Quirkiness Wears Thin
Regifting
Suicide Spikes
Turkey Again?!
Ugly Christmas Sweaters
Vicious Circles, Around and Around
Why? Because We Have To.
XO But Not Feeling It
Yet Another Long Drive Home
Zero Energy After It's Over
New Year's Resolutions
I've never been big on New Year's resolutions. I mean, why make promises I won't keep? How will I learn to trust others in this heartless world if I can't even trust myself? And I can't trust anyone who can't keep a New Year's resolution for even one stinking week. Which is a milestone I was never able to achieve.
It's like Lent. Back in the days when I tracked these things, I knew when Lent was coming and planned accordingly: no dessert for 40 days. Because I always look for the silver lining, I'd like to believe that my failure at Lent helped hone the skills of bending rules and lying to myself at which I'm so successful today. Hey, I finished dinner an hour ago, so this is a snack, not dessert.
Nora Ephron, my guiding light since her Esquire days in the '70s, has a much more practical approach to resolutions: she sets the bar really, really low. She resolves to eat more waffles, not read Proust and dump AOL once and for all. Wait, that last one has been proven to be virtually impossible. Well, the others seem attainable at least.
In her blog on huffingtonpost.com Ephron says: "I resolve to be a better human being this year, and that includes trying to remember the names of people I have just been introduced to." I'll try this one too! (I mean remembering names, not being a better human being.) I won't officially "resolve" it, because it's probably too hard for me to pull off. I'm famous for gazing cluelessly at people I've known for decades when expected to make introductions. But I'll try to implement one of those memory tricks you always hear about, like visualizing something that the name reminds you of. If only I met people named "Cindy Schnozz" or "Handsome McEyelashes" the name game would be a lot easier.
Anyway, in perusing videos about New Year's resolutions this past week, I've been alternately impressed and horrified at the things people resolve to do or not do, just because the annual calendar is adjusting by a digit. If you want to look better, find a mate, get organized, improve your vocabulary or make more money, why wait? Or, to argue the other side, if you didn't care enough to do it the other 364 days of the year, what makes now so different?
I guess my fatalistic attitude is that we are who we are, so let's not kid ourselves. If we do decide that a new year is cause for a new body/relationship/job, that doesn't mean we have to get all official about it, posting videos and telling the world about our current failings and longed-for future improvements. A few well-placed Post-Its on the fridge or bathroom mirror can help keep motivation up any time of year. And it's a lot less embarrassing if you haven't gone public with a resolution when December rolls around and nothing's changed.
It's like Lent. Back in the days when I tracked these things, I knew when Lent was coming and planned accordingly: no dessert for 40 days. Because I always look for the silver lining, I'd like to believe that my failure at Lent helped hone the skills of bending rules and lying to myself at which I'm so successful today. Hey, I finished dinner an hour ago, so this is a snack, not dessert.
Nora Ephron, my guiding light since her Esquire days in the '70s, has a much more practical approach to resolutions: she sets the bar really, really low. She resolves to eat more waffles, not read Proust and dump AOL once and for all. Wait, that last one has been proven to be virtually impossible. Well, the others seem attainable at least.
In her blog on huffingtonpost.com Ephron says: "I resolve to be a better human being this year, and that includes trying to remember the names of people I have just been introduced to." I'll try this one too! (I mean remembering names, not being a better human being.) I won't officially "resolve" it, because it's probably too hard for me to pull off. I'm famous for gazing cluelessly at people I've known for decades when expected to make introductions. But I'll try to implement one of those memory tricks you always hear about, like visualizing something that the name reminds you of. If only I met people named "Cindy Schnozz" or "Handsome McEyelashes" the name game would be a lot easier.
Anyway, in perusing videos about New Year's resolutions this past week, I've been alternately impressed and horrified at the things people resolve to do or not do, just because the annual calendar is adjusting by a digit. If you want to look better, find a mate, get organized, improve your vocabulary or make more money, why wait? Or, to argue the other side, if you didn't care enough to do it the other 364 days of the year, what makes now so different?
I guess my fatalistic attitude is that we are who we are, so let's not kid ourselves. If we do decide that a new year is cause for a new body/relationship/job, that doesn't mean we have to get all official about it, posting videos and telling the world about our current failings and longed-for future improvements. A few well-placed Post-Its on the fridge or bathroom mirror can help keep motivation up any time of year. And it's a lot less embarrassing if you haven't gone public with a resolution when December rolls around and nothing's changed.
Hellish New Year's Eve Contest Entries
Here are the entries in our Hellish New Year's Eve contest. The contest is over now, and the winning entry was submitted by Dawn Bennett. Dawn won a Pure Digital point-and-shoot video camcorder for her story about unrealized expectations and a hellish nighttime trek through mud.
Dawn's entry:
My most hellish New Year's Eve took place a few years ago with a (now) ex boyfriend who had an obsession with fox hunting. We didn't have any big plans, which I was already disappointed about. At around 8p.m. he asks if I want to go fox hunting. I seriously convinced myself that this must be some attempt on his part to cover up a big romantic gesture for New Years!! He was going to surprise me! Maybe with a moonlight proposal!!
Now fox hunting can only be done at night and best in a field at the edge of woods. Well, it had rained all day, so the field was quite muddy. I was a good sport and trudged through the mud for hours just waiting patiently for my romantic midnight surprise. Needless to say, it never came. Fox hunting really was all he had in mind for New Year's Eve! And as for my surprise, well...I was a little surprised when he actually had the nerve to yell at me for tracking mud in his truck!! What an idiot. He didn't get a fox. I didn't get a ring. And we broke up a couple days later. Happy New Year!!!
We thank our other entrants for their hellish memories:
From Rosanne
I was having a small get together one New Year's eve and my girlfriend's husband's band was playing that night at a local club. My girlfriend said that she would stop by on her way to the club. Well she did stop by at around 8 o'clock (before the invite) but she also brought her children (2 and 4) with her. She said that she had to run to get some equipment to bring to her husband and would I watch the kids for about an hour. Needless to say she showed up at 4am. So I had to throw this party with 2 whiny kids who would not go to sleep and everyone left early and I had to stay up and wait for her. Bad start to the New Year.
From Linda
In 1978 I had orders to report to Washington state. Had to drive from Colorado and was a bit nervous. Contacted an old flame and he offered to help me drive out. He flew in and we set off. Though I was to go to Washington, I hadn't been to San Fransico so we decided to try and make it there for New Year's Eve even though we could only stay a few hours.
We did arrive in SF on the night of New Year's Eve, and decided to drive over the Golden Gate Bridge. It was so foggy that I couldn't even see the guide rails of the bridge, let alone any scenic view. We decided to try and find a place to eat, but everything was packed. We located one establishment that seemed empty and we felt lucky. We sat down and settled in for a nice dinner. The waiter arrived and stated "unfortunately, the kitchen was closed." No meal for us. We went to the wharf area and the fog prevented me from seeing anything at all. We found a lounge with live entertainment that managed to seat us. After approx. 15 minutes, the comedian stood up, told a quick joke, turned around, bent down as though he were picking up his banjo, then dropped his pants, mooning the audience. Embarrassing!
So, we drove 500 miles out of our way. Didn't get to see any of the sights in SF, couldn't get anything to eat and was MOONED!! To this day, I wonder what San Fransisco looks like!
From Jean
Back when I was in high school, there was a creepy guy who was interested in me. I did nothing to encourage his interest. Surprisingly, he hung out with a pretty cool crowd. Maybe the fact that his family had money helped him make friends with these guys, because it didn't make sense otherwise.
So when he invited me to a New Year's Eve party at his house, I accepted, thinking I would have a chance to get to know one of his more appealing friends. I should have been suspicious when he said he'd pick me up, but since I didn't have a car, I did need a ride.
When we got to his house, I was horrified to discover his parents were out and there were no other guests! No, they weren't late, he simply had not invited anyone else. As soon as I figured out he was using the supposed "party" as an opportunity to get me alone, I told him I was feeling ill (and believe me, I was) and insisted he take me home immediately. He may have told his friends something happened between us, but he knew better than to speak to me again.
From Kim:
My worst New Year's Eve was when I was 21. I was finally legal to go out and party. Woohoo! I had been dating a guy for two weeks. We had gone out twice. He invited me to go out on New Year's Eve. I bought a new dress and shoes. I looked very nice. The lodge we went to was very crowded and I didn't know anyone there, so I was a little shy. We danced and had fun until about 10:00. Then he got down on one knee....
You see where this is going? I started shaking my head no, asking him "Don't do this." He proposed to me in front of dozens of his friends! I had to tell him no. I barely knew him. Needless to say we didn't last until midnight and he never asked me out again.
From Karen:
I dearly loved my friend, Carol, and we had gone out partying on New Years, 1972. We were having lots of fun and meeting new people when Carol said she was leaving. She said she'd meet me back at my house (She had the key). When I returned I found Carol had slit her wrists in my bathroom. Luckily, she was still alive but I just couldn't believe it was my friend's blood all over the bathroom. After the paramedics took her to the hospital and I was sure she was going to be find I had to face telling her parents. What a hellish evening. She got the help she needed after that.
From Jessica:
My most Hellish New Year occurred the year after I turned 21. We got directions to a much hyped house party and were excited to get there. We needed to make a beer run, so the rest of the group went ahead and we were to meet them later at the party. The directions were bad and we got lost.
We pulled over to look at a map and as we did fire trucks raced past us.
We couldn't find the party so we followed the fire trucks to the scene of the fire. We watched as some strangers holiday loot went up in smoke.
Luckily we had a cooler and each other, but it still really sucked.
From Sandy:
My worst New Year's Eve ever was back in the 60's (yes, I'm that old). It started off just fine, lots of friends, great music (love those Doobie Brothers and CCR), and, of course, smoke & booze. Well, guess I over-did it, cuz don't remember most of the night, have no idea how I got home (my roomates couldn't remember either) but hope we didn't drive - but probably did. But I guess I just hope we ALL had a good time, just can't remember!
Dawn's entry:
My most hellish New Year's Eve took place a few years ago with a (now) ex boyfriend who had an obsession with fox hunting. We didn't have any big plans, which I was already disappointed about. At around 8p.m. he asks if I want to go fox hunting. I seriously convinced myself that this must be some attempt on his part to cover up a big romantic gesture for New Years!! He was going to surprise me! Maybe with a moonlight proposal!!
Now fox hunting can only be done at night and best in a field at the edge of woods. Well, it had rained all day, so the field was quite muddy. I was a good sport and trudged through the mud for hours just waiting patiently for my romantic midnight surprise. Needless to say, it never came. Fox hunting really was all he had in mind for New Year's Eve! And as for my surprise, well...I was a little surprised when he actually had the nerve to yell at me for tracking mud in his truck!! What an idiot. He didn't get a fox. I didn't get a ring. And we broke up a couple days later. Happy New Year!!!
We thank our other entrants for their hellish memories:
From Rosanne
I was having a small get together one New Year's eve and my girlfriend's husband's band was playing that night at a local club. My girlfriend said that she would stop by on her way to the club. Well she did stop by at around 8 o'clock (before the invite) but she also brought her children (2 and 4) with her. She said that she had to run to get some equipment to bring to her husband and would I watch the kids for about an hour. Needless to say she showed up at 4am. So I had to throw this party with 2 whiny kids who would not go to sleep and everyone left early and I had to stay up and wait for her. Bad start to the New Year.
From Linda
In 1978 I had orders to report to Washington state. Had to drive from Colorado and was a bit nervous. Contacted an old flame and he offered to help me drive out. He flew in and we set off. Though I was to go to Washington, I hadn't been to San Fransico so we decided to try and make it there for New Year's Eve even though we could only stay a few hours.
We did arrive in SF on the night of New Year's Eve, and decided to drive over the Golden Gate Bridge. It was so foggy that I couldn't even see the guide rails of the bridge, let alone any scenic view. We decided to try and find a place to eat, but everything was packed. We located one establishment that seemed empty and we felt lucky. We sat down and settled in for a nice dinner. The waiter arrived and stated "unfortunately, the kitchen was closed." No meal for us. We went to the wharf area and the fog prevented me from seeing anything at all. We found a lounge with live entertainment that managed to seat us. After approx. 15 minutes, the comedian stood up, told a quick joke, turned around, bent down as though he were picking up his banjo, then dropped his pants, mooning the audience. Embarrassing!
So, we drove 500 miles out of our way. Didn't get to see any of the sights in SF, couldn't get anything to eat and was MOONED!! To this day, I wonder what San Fransisco looks like!
From Jean
Back when I was in high school, there was a creepy guy who was interested in me. I did nothing to encourage his interest. Surprisingly, he hung out with a pretty cool crowd. Maybe the fact that his family had money helped him make friends with these guys, because it didn't make sense otherwise.
So when he invited me to a New Year's Eve party at his house, I accepted, thinking I would have a chance to get to know one of his more appealing friends. I should have been suspicious when he said he'd pick me up, but since I didn't have a car, I did need a ride.
When we got to his house, I was horrified to discover his parents were out and there were no other guests! No, they weren't late, he simply had not invited anyone else. As soon as I figured out he was using the supposed "party" as an opportunity to get me alone, I told him I was feeling ill (and believe me, I was) and insisted he take me home immediately. He may have told his friends something happened between us, but he knew better than to speak to me again.
From Kim:
My worst New Year's Eve was when I was 21. I was finally legal to go out and party. Woohoo! I had been dating a guy for two weeks. We had gone out twice. He invited me to go out on New Year's Eve. I bought a new dress and shoes. I looked very nice. The lodge we went to was very crowded and I didn't know anyone there, so I was a little shy. We danced and had fun until about 10:00. Then he got down on one knee....
You see where this is going? I started shaking my head no, asking him "Don't do this." He proposed to me in front of dozens of his friends! I had to tell him no. I barely knew him. Needless to say we didn't last until midnight and he never asked me out again.
From Karen:
I dearly loved my friend, Carol, and we had gone out partying on New Years, 1972. We were having lots of fun and meeting new people when Carol said she was leaving. She said she'd meet me back at my house (She had the key). When I returned I found Carol had slit her wrists in my bathroom. Luckily, she was still alive but I just couldn't believe it was my friend's blood all over the bathroom. After the paramedics took her to the hospital and I was sure she was going to be find I had to face telling her parents. What a hellish evening. She got the help she needed after that.
From Jessica:
My most Hellish New Year occurred the year after I turned 21. We got directions to a much hyped house party and were excited to get there. We needed to make a beer run, so the rest of the group went ahead and we were to meet them later at the party. The directions were bad and we got lost.
We pulled over to look at a map and as we did fire trucks raced past us.
We couldn't find the party so we followed the fire trucks to the scene of the fire. We watched as some strangers holiday loot went up in smoke.
Luckily we had a cooler and each other, but it still really sucked.
From Sandy:
My worst New Year's Eve ever was back in the 60's (yes, I'm that old). It started off just fine, lots of friends, great music (love those Doobie Brothers and CCR), and, of course, smoke & booze. Well, guess I over-did it, cuz don't remember most of the night, have no idea how I got home (my roomates couldn't remember either) but hope we didn't drive - but probably did. But I guess I just hope we ALL had a good time, just can't remember!
New York at the Holidays
OK, maybe I'm not a New Yorker any more. Just a few blogs ago I was kvelling (that means gushing to you non-New Yorkers) about how great the city is and how I couldn't wait to get there for the holidays. Well, once I got there, I couldn't wait to get out.
I went to New York this past weekend. It's a week before Christmas, so I figured, Prime Time. And apparently a lot of other people figured the same thing. The place was claustrophobia-inducing.
I know, I know--it's always crowded and noisy. This was different. This was a trampling waiting to happen. There were lines around the block for those trendy cupcake places. Lines to get into Marc Jacobs on Bleecker. Lines for mediocre brunch spots. Lines to go past the department store Christmas windows. Lines to cross the street--and four policeman at each midtown intersection to make sure no one cheats. Lines for ice skating at Rockefeller Center. Lines to take pictures of ice skating at Rockefeller Center. (And by the way, a very unimpressive tree this year. Make a little effort!)
Thousands upon thousands of tourists. And the worst part? I was one of them, with my camera and my naive dreams, like one of those Today Show nuts (at least I didn't have a homemade sign saying hi to Mom!). I asked my native friends to come with me and got shut down. They know what I used to: stay away from midtown in December. (They can't stay away from the Village because they live there, but they can certainly stay away from the cupcakes and Marc Jacobs.)
I never got close to any department store windows. I couldn't even bring myself to try. I headed north, toward Central Park, before I came to my senses and remembered I had to go to the Nintendo store for a new Wii remote. Of course, that's a block south of the tree and the crush that goes with it. And even more of course, they were sold out.
The weather was unseasonably warm, which probably increased crowd size. It was in the 50s all weekend, just like in Los Angeles (the difference is that in Los Angeles everyone was complaining about how cold it was). One more reason to dream of a White Christmas: maybe a cold snap will get all those OTHER people off the streets.
I went to New York this past weekend. It's a week before Christmas, so I figured, Prime Time. And apparently a lot of other people figured the same thing. The place was claustrophobia-inducing.
I know, I know--it's always crowded and noisy. This was different. This was a trampling waiting to happen. There were lines around the block for those trendy cupcake places. Lines to get into Marc Jacobs on Bleecker. Lines for mediocre brunch spots. Lines to go past the department store Christmas windows. Lines to cross the street--and four policeman at each midtown intersection to make sure no one cheats. Lines for ice skating at Rockefeller Center. Lines to take pictures of ice skating at Rockefeller Center. (And by the way, a very unimpressive tree this year. Make a little effort!)
Thousands upon thousands of tourists. And the worst part? I was one of them, with my camera and my naive dreams, like one of those Today Show nuts (at least I didn't have a homemade sign saying hi to Mom!). I asked my native friends to come with me and got shut down. They know what I used to: stay away from midtown in December. (They can't stay away from the Village because they live there, but they can certainly stay away from the cupcakes and Marc Jacobs.)
I never got close to any department store windows. I couldn't even bring myself to try. I headed north, toward Central Park, before I came to my senses and remembered I had to go to the Nintendo store for a new Wii remote. Of course, that's a block south of the tree and the crush that goes with it. And even more of course, they were sold out.
The weather was unseasonably warm, which probably increased crowd size. It was in the 50s all weekend, just like in Los Angeles (the difference is that in Los Angeles everyone was complaining about how cold it was). One more reason to dream of a White Christmas: maybe a cold snap will get all those OTHER people off the streets.
Party Planning
I love giving Christmas parties--to be specific, tree-trimming parties. I started having them right after college, when I was living in Manhattan and buying a Christmas tree for the first time on my own. And every year when we decorate the tree, I remember who gave me each ornament, the apartment I lived in, the person I was at the time. (I also remember the after-Christmas sales where I bought plenty of ornaments at half off.)
I love being with a group I have personally curated: people who mean a lot to me, with a few I want to know better mixed in for freshness. I love the aha moments when friends of mine who haven't met each other discover something they have in common. I love the way a party flows, from welcoming the first arrivals and assuring them they're not too early, to the crunch time in the middle, to the quality time spent with the last to leave.
For the most part, I also love the planning: invitations, menu, baking plan, shopping. It's the last few days before the event when everything takes an inevitably hellish turn. It doesn't matter how far in advance I've started or how airtight my plan. Party panic comes over me like a fever and I'm convinced it will all come crashing down.
Here are my main areas of pre-party anguish:
Number to plan for. How many to expect? It's always a moving target:
Those who don't RSVP. Do I call them and ask if they're coming, or just try to figure out who'll show and who won't?
Cancellations. Some percentage of those who said they were coming call to cancel (a better offer?).
Extras. The flip side: Guests ask if they can bring extra people (usually visiting relatives or houseguests). I used to worry that these extras, who always seem to be women, would throw off the male-female ratio. Now I just worry about having enough chairs.
The Great Unknown. They say "maybe" and never follow up. Will they or won't they?
No Shows. Anywhere from 10 to 25 percent of expected guests--people who actually took the trouble to RSVP--don't show up. Maybe half of these will call and explain themselves. The others, who knows?
The final crowd at any party always contains some surprises, whether the person I couldn't wait to see who mysteriously never made it, or the friend of a friend who pitches in and helps when things get busiest. Besides, in Los Angeles, or maybe just in the times in which we live, you can't expect even a simple commitment without second-guessing. This is the area I worry about the least because I usually have too much food anyway.
Food. I like to do everything myself (except the Honeybaked ham), so I start early and cook all week. Since I don't bake too often during the other 11 months of the year, I have to adjust to the issues that arise anew:
Over- and Under-Cooking. Recipe-given baking times with no basis in reality ("It's still not done?" or "How can it be burned?").
Tedium. How long it really takes to roll out dough and cut out shapes and then roll out more dough and cut out more shapes and then decorate the shapes...I usually end up with at least one or two Ziplock bags of dough in the refrigerator at the end of the week because I just couldn't face the rolling pin again.
The Time Suck. Discovering part of a recipe I hadn't noticed before that keeps me up past midnight. For Christmas, I mostly make old familiar things, but even those are not without pitfalls. It's amazing how I can block out the time-consuming parts.
Running out of Ingredients. Shocking how this happens despite the best planning efforts. Can I substitute yogurt for sour cream? What if I only have vanilla yogurt?
Dishwashing. There's something about washing the same things over and over again that gets to me after a while.
Injuries. It happens to me all the time: I cut open a finger. The most recent time, I was slicing bread right before a party and cut right into my thumb. It wouldn't stop bleeding, and bled right through the band-aid to put a drop of blood on a dress that had only had the tags cut off minutes earlier.
Cleaning. Here we have the crux of my party-planning problem. I know many people who say they like to give parties because it gives them an excuse to clean up the house. Well, my situation is to that as full-blown pneumonia is to the common cold. I live in a house where the word "clutter" is not just an understatement but a distant memory. What we have are teetering piles, the kind of excess that makes news when it buries the packrat who wasn't able to let go of anything and was crushed by his own newspapers. As much as I'd love to pull a dumpster up to the driveway, I have to be satisfied with hiding stuff in closets. Sometimes I hide things so well that they disappear for years.
I love the post-party honeymoon period when the clutter is still hidden away and the dishes are all clean. Just don't get me started on the next phase: back to normal.
I love being with a group I have personally curated: people who mean a lot to me, with a few I want to know better mixed in for freshness. I love the aha moments when friends of mine who haven't met each other discover something they have in common. I love the way a party flows, from welcoming the first arrivals and assuring them they're not too early, to the crunch time in the middle, to the quality time spent with the last to leave.
For the most part, I also love the planning: invitations, menu, baking plan, shopping. It's the last few days before the event when everything takes an inevitably hellish turn. It doesn't matter how far in advance I've started or how airtight my plan. Party panic comes over me like a fever and I'm convinced it will all come crashing down.
Here are my main areas of pre-party anguish:
Number to plan for. How many to expect? It's always a moving target:
Those who don't RSVP. Do I call them and ask if they're coming, or just try to figure out who'll show and who won't?
Cancellations. Some percentage of those who said they were coming call to cancel (a better offer?).
Extras. The flip side: Guests ask if they can bring extra people (usually visiting relatives or houseguests). I used to worry that these extras, who always seem to be women, would throw off the male-female ratio. Now I just worry about having enough chairs.
The Great Unknown. They say "maybe" and never follow up. Will they or won't they?
No Shows. Anywhere from 10 to 25 percent of expected guests--people who actually took the trouble to RSVP--don't show up. Maybe half of these will call and explain themselves. The others, who knows?
The final crowd at any party always contains some surprises, whether the person I couldn't wait to see who mysteriously never made it, or the friend of a friend who pitches in and helps when things get busiest. Besides, in Los Angeles, or maybe just in the times in which we live, you can't expect even a simple commitment without second-guessing. This is the area I worry about the least because I usually have too much food anyway.
Food. I like to do everything myself (except the Honeybaked ham), so I start early and cook all week. Since I don't bake too often during the other 11 months of the year, I have to adjust to the issues that arise anew:
Over- and Under-Cooking. Recipe-given baking times with no basis in reality ("It's still not done?" or "How can it be burned?").
Tedium. How long it really takes to roll out dough and cut out shapes and then roll out more dough and cut out more shapes and then decorate the shapes...I usually end up with at least one or two Ziplock bags of dough in the refrigerator at the end of the week because I just couldn't face the rolling pin again.
The Time Suck. Discovering part of a recipe I hadn't noticed before that keeps me up past midnight. For Christmas, I mostly make old familiar things, but even those are not without pitfalls. It's amazing how I can block out the time-consuming parts.
Running out of Ingredients. Shocking how this happens despite the best planning efforts. Can I substitute yogurt for sour cream? What if I only have vanilla yogurt?
Dishwashing. There's something about washing the same things over and over again that gets to me after a while.
Injuries. It happens to me all the time: I cut open a finger. The most recent time, I was slicing bread right before a party and cut right into my thumb. It wouldn't stop bleeding, and bled right through the band-aid to put a drop of blood on a dress that had only had the tags cut off minutes earlier.
Cleaning. Here we have the crux of my party-planning problem. I know many people who say they like to give parties because it gives them an excuse to clean up the house. Well, my situation is to that as full-blown pneumonia is to the common cold. I live in a house where the word "clutter" is not just an understatement but a distant memory. What we have are teetering piles, the kind of excess that makes news when it buries the packrat who wasn't able to let go of anything and was crushed by his own newspapers. As much as I'd love to pull a dumpster up to the driveway, I have to be satisfied with hiding stuff in closets. Sometimes I hide things so well that they disappear for years.
I love the post-party honeymoon period when the clutter is still hidden away and the dishes are all clean. Just don't get me started on the next phase: back to normal.
Christmas - and Chanukkah - in New York
I'm a New Yorker. Sure, I live in Los Angeles; in February it will be 20 years since I made the move. But while I may be in LA, I'm not of LA. I yearn for New York and have a physical need to check in regularly.
And I've kept up. I read the New York Times, New Yorker and New York Magazine every single week. I resent that NY1 isn't available on DirecTV. I met with someone in the development office of NYU, my alma mater, just two weeks ago.
My New York friends are the ones I came of age with, and they know me in ways my LA friends don't (and that's a good thing--not everyone should remember the way you looked in braces or the way you smelled first time you got drunk). Perhaps most importantly, my brother and sister and their families are both there. (My mom now lives in Puerto Rico, but that's a topic for another blogging day. Caution: hellish Thanksgiving story ahead.)
In short, if I could have figured out a way to have a dog, a car, a tree and a second bedroom in NYC, I might still be there. But I couldn't so I'm not. Instead, I head east on a seasonal basis: spring and fall because they're so perfect there, summer because there's no school schedule to work around. And in December, I need my Christmas-in-New York fix.
I haven't had that fix in a while and it's time. I want to shop. More specifically, I want to window shop at the big department stores like Lord & Taylor and Bergdorf Goodman. OK, I admit I'll go inside, too. I want to see friends and family. I want to deliver Christmas cookies and gifts personally.
So I booked a trip the only days I could get away this month. And I blew it. The first night I'm gone is the first night of Chanukkah.
Yes, despite my Christmas planning, I'm also a Cohen, and we celebrate both holidays around our house. My favorite part of gift-buying is crafting the eight nights of gifts for my son. I start strong on Night One, then psych him out with a book or socks on Night Two. I drop hints about one thing then give another on Night Three. And so on. I like the lighting of the candles and the (for me, phonetic) recitation of the prayer. But this year I'll be away from my family for the first two nights. Oy, the guillt.
I'm off right now to buy something really exceptional for Night One. I might even have to pick up something better than usual for my husband. He doesn't track the holidays and hasn't yet figured out that my trip coincides with Chanukkah, so I still have time to figure out how to make up for my absence.
Over-spending: the next best thing to being there.
And I've kept up. I read the New York Times, New Yorker and New York Magazine every single week. I resent that NY1 isn't available on DirecTV. I met with someone in the development office of NYU, my alma mater, just two weeks ago.
My New York friends are the ones I came of age with, and they know me in ways my LA friends don't (and that's a good thing--not everyone should remember the way you looked in braces or the way you smelled first time you got drunk). Perhaps most importantly, my brother and sister and their families are both there. (My mom now lives in Puerto Rico, but that's a topic for another blogging day. Caution: hellish Thanksgiving story ahead.)
In short, if I could have figured out a way to have a dog, a car, a tree and a second bedroom in NYC, I might still be there. But I couldn't so I'm not. Instead, I head east on a seasonal basis: spring and fall because they're so perfect there, summer because there's no school schedule to work around. And in December, I need my Christmas-in-New York fix.
I haven't had that fix in a while and it's time. I want to shop. More specifically, I want to window shop at the big department stores like Lord & Taylor and Bergdorf Goodman. OK, I admit I'll go inside, too. I want to see friends and family. I want to deliver Christmas cookies and gifts personally.
So I booked a trip the only days I could get away this month. And I blew it. The first night I'm gone is the first night of Chanukkah.
Yes, despite my Christmas planning, I'm also a Cohen, and we celebrate both holidays around our house. My favorite part of gift-buying is crafting the eight nights of gifts for my son. I start strong on Night One, then psych him out with a book or socks on Night Two. I drop hints about one thing then give another on Night Three. And so on. I like the lighting of the candles and the (for me, phonetic) recitation of the prayer. But this year I'll be away from my family for the first two nights. Oy, the guillt.
I'm off right now to buy something really exceptional for Night One. I might even have to pick up something better than usual for my husband. He doesn't track the holidays and hasn't yet figured out that my trip coincides with Chanukkah, so I still have time to figure out how to make up for my absence.
Over-spending: the next best thing to being there.
The First (Hellish) Thanksgiving
I've lived through another Thanksgiving. This one was good, or at least relatively calm, although I must admit I drank a lot of wine so I've almost blocked out the slight disagreement on etiquette we had on the way to dinner.
Thanksgiving is my least favorite holiday. The pressure to enjoy being with a dysfunctional family, the nightmare of travel, the overeating—there’s so much that sets up the inevitable disappointment. Other holidays can be nightmares in their own ways, but Thanksgiving will always be number one in my hardened heart.
I wised up years ago: we now check into a hotel or go to a friend’s Thanksgiving dinner (her own crazy family is amusing in a way mine can’t be). I refuse to travel by plane or drive more than 100 miles, which precludes seeing immediate family. Overeating remains an issue, but I can’t completely blame the holiday for that.
Despite the coping mechanisms, years of hellish Thanksgivings continue to haunt me, and I know I’m not alone. We all have our history of high-anxiety gatherings with battered, battling or blended families. We all have the dread of seeing those people, and the guilt over the dread.
My first hellish Thanksgiving was when I was 15, the year my parents got divorced. My mother had the misguided idea to invite Dad to dinner. “He probably doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” “Yeah, you’ve seen to that, Mom.” Let the festivities begin!
My friends’ parents fought all the time but stayed married. My parents never fought in front of us—until that Thanksgiving. Maybe it was the knowledge that they didn’t have to be together any more that made them so open in their hatred of each other. Maybe they wanted to stave off those “will you two get back together?” questions from the younger ones. Maybe it really was about the money. All I know is the experience was so traumatic for me and my siblings that all six of us didn’t share a meal again until my wedding 15 years later. And even then, we sat at different tables.
The difference today: these bitter family gatherings are being captured on video and shared with the world. Not everyone is willing to expose the craziness of their own flesh and blood, but luckily for the voyeurs among us, there are plenty who are. Personally, I get a warm fuzzy feeling about my own family when I see how bad some other people have it. Sure, we’re nuts, I know that. But it could always be worse.
Thanksgiving is my least favorite holiday. The pressure to enjoy being with a dysfunctional family, the nightmare of travel, the overeating—there’s so much that sets up the inevitable disappointment. Other holidays can be nightmares in their own ways, but Thanksgiving will always be number one in my hardened heart.
I wised up years ago: we now check into a hotel or go to a friend’s Thanksgiving dinner (her own crazy family is amusing in a way mine can’t be). I refuse to travel by plane or drive more than 100 miles, which precludes seeing immediate family. Overeating remains an issue, but I can’t completely blame the holiday for that.
Despite the coping mechanisms, years of hellish Thanksgivings continue to haunt me, and I know I’m not alone. We all have our history of high-anxiety gatherings with battered, battling or blended families. We all have the dread of seeing those people, and the guilt over the dread.
My first hellish Thanksgiving was when I was 15, the year my parents got divorced. My mother had the misguided idea to invite Dad to dinner. “He probably doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” “Yeah, you’ve seen to that, Mom.” Let the festivities begin!
My friends’ parents fought all the time but stayed married. My parents never fought in front of us—until that Thanksgiving. Maybe it was the knowledge that they didn’t have to be together any more that made them so open in their hatred of each other. Maybe they wanted to stave off those “will you two get back together?” questions from the younger ones. Maybe it really was about the money. All I know is the experience was so traumatic for me and my siblings that all six of us didn’t share a meal again until my wedding 15 years later. And even then, we sat at different tables.
The difference today: these bitter family gatherings are being captured on video and shared with the world. Not everyone is willing to expose the craziness of their own flesh and blood, but luckily for the voyeurs among us, there are plenty who are. Personally, I get a warm fuzzy feeling about my own family when I see how bad some other people have it. Sure, we’re nuts, I know that. But it could always be worse.
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