Only ONE Gift Guide

I only have one gift suggestion: give the gift of reading together (even if you’re apart).

Simply buy/find a book your loved one would enjoy.  Read it (or re-read it), and as you go, write little notes with your own thoughts in the margin.  Ta-da. You’ve just created a fabulous and thoughtful gift!

A few sample comments from margins of gifted books:

  • “Really, Sherlock?  You didn’t notice the thumbtack back in Chapter Two? Sheesh.”
  • “This restaurant sounds like that crazy dive-bar we went to in Saratoga.”
  •  “I’m bored, and skipping this page, but wait until you see page 45.”
  • “I find that this sololiquoy is more enjoyable with a margarita in hand.”
  • “Jack Black would be perfect to play ‘Henry’ in the movie version.”
  • “Call me when you read this part!”

Skip the Black Friday shopping, and settle in with a heavy quilt and a glass of Malbec. Then,  start scribbling all over All The Light We Cannot See.  Your sister is going to love it.



Saying Grace

Things for which I’m Thankful
Ice cubes
Children’s books
A heavy quilted blanket, and a dog and hubby with whom to share it
Stovetop popcorn
The lad I met in a Scotland cab who will soon be joining the British Armed Forces
The smell of a match lighting an unscented candle
Two persnickety nephews, and one sassy niece
Steady, healthy heartbeats
Good ol’ fashioned black and white print newspapers
The “Norwich Turkey Trot” 5k
Fleece lined clothing
Hometown Heroes
Nat King Cole’s voice
The evergreen tree which toppled away from the house
Hot tub soaks
Astronauts, Anesthesiologists, and Animal Shelter Attendants
The Splendid Table on NPR
Watermelon, with or without seeds
The Radio City Rockettes, in the Macy’s Parade, kicking ’em high
All those crazy friends and relatives with stuffing in their teeth and bad jokes and heavy pours and long-distance calls and cheating card-players and screaming kids.

And a holiday which truly requires no other gift than simply just being there.

Spot of Tea?

I’m not much of a warm-drink consumer. I prefer iced coffee to hot, cold apple cider to warm, and believe it or not, I love a glass of “cold cocoa.” (I make regular ol’ hot chocolate and then let it chill before adding ice cubes and whipped cream.) Yet, there’s something about a hot cup of tea which exudes comfort, especially during flu season.

But for me, I think part of the allure is simply getting to choose a “type” of tea.  And truth be told, I’m really only interested in the pretty colors of the teabags.  At a restaurant recently, after I had ordered iced tea, I was jealous that a friend, who had ordered hot tea, had the choice of all of the pretty little squares in a wooden box provided by the server. Would she choose the emerald-green square for jasmine tea, or the pink square for raspberry tea? Would she go with the bright red cinnamon tea square, or the bright, citrus yellow square for lemon tea? (You can imagine my disappointment when she chose the boring smoky Earl Grey square. It was like choosing vanilla ice cream at a Baskin-Robbins.)

When a British friend of mine recently visited, she was appalled at my selection of teas at home. Apparently, chamomile and orange spice tea weren’t going to work for her. In her prim British accent, she said, “Every proper home needs English Breakfast tea.”  I didn’t know the difference between English Breakfast tea and Sunny-Delight orange drink, but I certainly wanted to have proper home. (The truth is that my home is FAR from proper, considering I masquerade old ski posters  as “framed art.”) So, we went to the general store,  stocked up on English Breakfast tea, and drank up. The tea tasted fine, but the ugly packaging was a real disappointment.

The following Sunday, after my friend had left, I pondered the many types of tea at my grocery store. Perhaps it was time to care a little more about the taste of the tea leaves, and a little less about the marketing scheme of the tea company. But old habits die hard, especially when old taste buds don’t really care. (Triangular tea packets, oh my!) I eventually decided on a box of “exotic coconut” tea, complete with colorful swirl packaging. The box of tea bags looked like a Hawaiian souvenir, which of course, meant I had to have it.

I brought the tea home, and the following morning, I soaked a tea bag in boiling water in my favorite “Becky’s of Portland, Maine” mug.  I took a sip. The tea tasted like sunscreen.  But gosh darn it, that ripped tea bag was pretty in my trash.

What Your Holiday Card Says About You


“Perfect Family Portrait”- We’re pretending like the twins always wear matching cashmere sweaters and keep their fingers out of their nostrils.

“Fabulous Vacation Photo”Jack cashed in our retirement fund to go to Costa Rica, and gosh darn it, we want you to know.

Baby Announcement/Christmas Greeting–  Get ready for intimate sonogram pictures on facebook for the next six months.

Marriage Announcement/Christmas Greeting – It’s not too late to send a gift.

Cat/Dog Dressed Up Like Rudolph PhotoI’m single.

Seven Page, Glossy Shine, Family Album CardLOOK! AT! US! No really, LOOK AT US!

Unsigned, pre-printed foil-stamped cards- You didn’t really think I had time for writing cards, did you?

“Peace on Earth” Card- Our gingerbread cookies are vegan.

Cards Accompanied By A Family Letter Update- Aunt Gladys has the measles. Jim was laid off. Terry flunked out of State U. Joy to the World!

UNICEF Christmas CardsWe’re judging your Black Friday spending habits.

“Happy New Year”- We’re perpetually late to parties.

The E- Card- You’re not worth the stamp.

Better than a Birthday Mimosa


My 30th birthday carousel…which was (achoo) years ago.

Sunday is my birthday.  I’ll be turning (cough, cough) years old.  And I’ll be celebrating with brunch at a local favorite Inn, dipping my home fries in globs of ketchup and sipping on a mimosa (or four).

And after a good meal, I’ll retreat home to participate in my favorite birthday ritual: writing in my “birthday diary.”  Ever since I was fourteen years old, I have written a single journal entry on my birthday. This all started when I was young and dramatic, and I began a diary, mostly to write about boys.  But eventually, I realized that in order to meet boys I needed to spend less time with my diary and more time out of my room.  However, I kept up with the once-a-year-habit, and now, writing in my journal on November 8 is more of a tradition than blowing out candles.

And on that day, I write about my life in the past year. I consider my blessings and my goals. I write down accomplishments and let-downs. I write about celebrations and friendships and deaths and travels and family and even sometimes…the color of my hair.  And at the end of every entry, I conclude with a comment on my favorite song of the year.  It’s my own little Grammy award. (This year? Uptown Funk. Duh.)

Then, after I write my two pages of scribble, I read my entire birthday journal from 1992 to present.  I giggle at the same entries which make me laugh year after year. (Specifically, the year when I profess my love for an old ex, only to curse him out the following year.)  I mourn the entries about heartbreaking losses, yet I smile at the entries about new nephews.  It’s like watching my life in a movie, and it gives perspective as to what really matters in a lifetime.

So, on Sunday, I will be drinking champagne and eating carrot cake and treating myself to an entire day in old sweatpants.  But, I’ll also be recording my past year of life on this planet… Uptown Funk and all.  Bring on the bubbly!

Trick, Treat, and Carry On

Trick or treaters on the porch

Personally, I don’t like dressing up for Halloween. The stress of finding a costume to look like a California Raisin overwhelms me.  And I can’t stand all of those seasonal pop-up Halloween costume stores which infest our mini-malls. But there is one thing I love about Halloween: trick or treaters.

In a day when we barely let our kids go to school without being accompanied by a trio of nannies, peer mediators, and life coaches, I love that we still let our kids roam dark streets at night on Halloween. They knock on the doors at the homes of people whom we don’t even say hello to on the sidewalk. For one night a year, we let our kindergartners roam the neighborhood, dressed up like creatures of the night, just to demand candy from strangers.

It’s such a strange, strange custom for such a protective country. It seems like we have done our best to rid our kids of anything remotely fun, and yet, Halloween still rules. These days, we can’t even bring cupcakes to school unless they are gluten-free, nut-free, calorie-free, and vegan. Yet, we’ll let little Jack dress up like a zombie and eat that candy apple that weird Mr. Huston cooked. It’s bizarre, really. Yet, it is wonderful.

I fear the day that Halloween is considered too dangerous. I hope that all kids and neighborhoods take the appropriate steps to keep Halloween safe for all, so that this particular holiday never becomes a relic of the past.  (Put the glow sticks on, kiddos, and keep your parents at a safe distance!)

After all, it would be sad if my grandkids never knew the satisfaction of being just a little bit scared of the house with the howling gravestones in the front yard.  And, it would be tragic if my nephews didn’t know the joy of dressing up with friends to create the entire Gilligan’s Island crew. I hope that when I’m an 85 year old woman, I can still enjoy a parade of kiddos dressed up like ducks and ninjas and princesses, and scare the heck out of them with an eerie soundtrack of howling wolves coming from the inside of a goblin-carved pumpkin. Boo-yeah!

Long live trick or treating. And long live that one house which gives away WHOLE Snickers bars. Bless you, Thirteen Oak Street. I don’t care what anyone else thinks about your generosity with sugar. I still think you’re pretty darn howl-tastic!


Guilty Pennies

10 year old holding charity donations in a jar

I’m a terrible person. I keep the pennies I receive from those charity mailings which   are trying to save the world’s people/planet/penguins. I know that the pennies are supposed to guilt me into sending a big check to the Save the Spotted West Nebraskan Cougar fund, but I find the scheme so aggravating that I don’t respond.

I feel awful for a nanosecond until l remind myself that I’m a person who regularly gives to charity.  And those glued pennies which clink in my mailbox every day will all eventually go back to a good cause -albeit probably not the charity which gave them to me in the first place.  (By the way, how many of these mailed pennies do you think are tossed in the trash every year?)

I certainly sympathize with non-profits, trying to raise money for their cause.  And for a while, my ASPCA address labels were a welcome gift in my mailbox.  But these days, it seems that I get all sorts of “stuff” from these charities, from notepads to holiday cards to posters of chimpanzees.  (What, exactly, was I supposed to do with this poster?  I’m still not sure, but I turned into it wrapping paper for my nephew.)  I don’t want/need any of this stuff, but I understand that the Save the Spotted West Nebraskan Cougar charities are only trying to get my attention.

But perhaps a better way to get someone’s attention is to air a sad commercial, complete with Sarah McLachlan’s “Arms of an Angel” ballad.  Oh wait…

Let’s just all agree to keep the pennies in the charity cycle…and wherever they land, they land.  Guilt dissolved, as long as the pennies don’t end up in your ice cream fund.

Photocredit: Peter Dazeley

Being There

It’s rare that I insist that you read something.  (I hate being bossed around unless someone is FORCING me to have another piece of Key Lime Pie!)

However, this column from Elizabeth Gilbert (of Eat, Pray, Love fame) has influenced my thinking every day this month.

You can’t win the contest without entering, and entering again, and entering again…


Win an Inn

I love entering contests, specifically short-answer, creative writing contests. Give me a 250 word essay contest answering the question“What you would you do with a lifetime supply of meatballs?” and I’m a happy camper.

Yet, it’s hard to find old-fashioned writing contests these days. With Facebook and Instagram, contests are much more public, and the judging is often crowd-sourced.  (Do you really want your exes and colleagues to know what you’d do with those meatballs?) In the good old days,  I’d scour magazines and newspapers for contests, and then fill out paper forms with a good old pencil. I’d win the prize without having to share the answer.

Yet, today, you need to post your best selfie in your gold-extension eyelashes and then ask your eight-hundred besties to vote for you on  Facebook.  Then, if you are one of the top three finalists, strangers from across the continent will re-post your picture on Twitter and the person with the most Twitter shares wins.  I’m tired and embarrassed just thinking about it.

Yep, I prefer simple writing contests with fabulous prizes.  And one of the most simple writing contests I’ve seen recently involved giving away an inn.  An actual INN!  (I didn’t enter since I’m not sure what I would do with an Inn. Meatballs, yes!  An inn?  Probably not.)

I’ve seen another “Win the Inn” contest earlier this year. People had to submit essays on why they wanted to win the inn, and the innkeeper chose the winner.  These innkeepers get gold stars from me.  I can’t imagine a better way to pass on a beloved business.  There was are no facebook likes involved, no re-tweets, and no posts to  social media accounts.  They are good ol’ fashioned writing contests.

And a contest involving nothing more than words on a page is a contest I’d like to keep around.  I’m all for creativity when using adjectives.  But creative uses for eyelash extensions are simply not my forte.

GOOD PEOPLE (and not those unmentionable jerks)

There’s a lady out there who didn’t play nice with me today. And, it could have ruined my day. I could have let her get the best of me.

But I’m not going to let her. Want to know why? Because she’s a jerk.  And we can’t let jerks rule the world.

There are too many good folks who are willing to hold the door open, willing to give you the extra penny you’re missing, willing to write a complimentary note to your boss, willing to let you take the last seat on the bus, willing to make a difference… to let the jerks get all of the limelight.

So, instead of complaining about that not-so-lovely lady, I’m going to turn it around and talk about the good people.

Here is a list of good people:

Kid’s Baseball Catch Saves Toddler
Math Teachers Matter
Boy helps blind deer find food every morning.
University President takes pay cut to pay others
Run, Run, Runner
The Unstoppable Book Author
And my recent favorite… a train conductor worth noting.

An Apple A Day

I’ve never been a big fan of apples. For me, they’re a five on a scale of one to ten in the fruit department.  (Not as fabulous as watermelon- nine,  but not as horrible as kiwi-two.)

But this time of year, I can’t help but eat apples.  They’re everywhere.  I can’t brush my teeth without stumbling over a MacIntosh.

They’re on the ground outside. They’re in barrels at the grocery store.  They’re in buckets at my neighbor’s house. They’re perfectly piled in a Simon Pearce glass bowl for decoration at my girlfriend’s perfect Pottery Barn home.

So, I give in to the apples.  I can’t turn away a juicy Empire that my nephew hands me after his apple-picking school trip.  I’d be rude not to accept the apple my colleague hands me during our lunch break. And it feels wasteful not to pick the gorgeous red apple hanging in front of me during my walk with my dog.  And I drink the cider, and eat the pie, and taste the crumble, and throw my hands up into the air and, gosh darn it, just EAT EVERY SINGLE APPLE PRODUCT IN THE WHOLE WIDE CRAZY WORLD.

And to be honest, they don’t taste bad. And as long as a lost worm doesn’t find his way into my mouth, I won’t mind eating the millions of apple products.  I actually might even have a second slice of your homemade apple pie.

But,  when I get the chance… I’ll wash it down with orange juice :)



Go West, Little Rippers

I can’t help but share my new book!  Go West, Little Rippers was released today!

I finished writing the book in April. Then, the illustrator went to work. Finally, the editing…and the editing… and more editing…and some more editing.

But now, it’s here, and it’s fabulous (if I do say so myself!)  :)

Click here to check out the book on Amazon!


Animal Crossing

Last week, I was driving on a fairly busy New Jersey road when the traffic slowed to a halt.  However, as we started slowly moving, the reason for the hold-up brought a smile to my face. A flock of geese (complete with a line of goslings) were making their way across the street. The Police K-9 unit stopped both sides of oncoming traffic while they waited for the geese to cross the road safely to a nearby pond.

I’m happy to be held up in traffic for the safety of webbed ones. In fact, I’m happy to be held up in traffic for the sake of any animal. (On rainy nights, I slow to 5 mph in my driveway just to avoid the bullfrogs from my frontyard marsh.) Yet, we all know that roadkill happens. And when it does, it breaks my heart. (This comes from someone who sheds a tear when I step on a slug during an early morning run.)

But, recently, a family member shared some brilliant advice about roadkill (if there is such a thing). He told me that people should pay a fee to an animal shelter when they accidentally take an animal’s life. When someone hits a mouse with his Chevy Equinox, he needs to pay up.  When someone can’t swerve to miss a frog, she needs to open her wallet to the ASPCA. Whether it is death by car, lawn mower, bicycle, or foot, it all adds up to a donation.

Roadkill will always break my heart.  But giving a donation in lieu of an accident is  certainly a silver lining.




Electric Youth

I’m a fan of Tay Sway. She seems like a talented enough young woman with a decent head on her shoulders. Yet, in my eyes, she’ll never be Debbie Gibson.

To this day, I know every Debbie Gibson lyric by heart. Even the last word to the last song on the B-side of her first album.  (Between the Lines was actually one of her better songs, in my opinion.) To say that I was a fan was an understatement.  I wanted to be Debbie. I wore black felt hats to look like Debbie. I even bought her “Electric Youth” perfume, which resembled a battery-powered deodorant stick.

The first (and only) time I saw Debbie in concert at Madison Square Garden, I was speechless.  From the nose-bleed section, Debbie was as itty-bitty as a crumb.  But it was her. And her voice was echoing directly from her lips to my ears.  Somehow, she knew how I felt about boys and life and youth and love. And to this day, it was still the most memorable concert of my life.  (With John Mayer as a close second, and Color Me Badd in dead last.)

It’s easy to make light of today’s tween pop music or simply shake it off.  (See what I did there?)  But the truth is that each of these young performers is shaping lives (for better or worse) for only a few short critical years. I stopped listening to Debbie as soon as I became old enough to hang out with boys who listened to Dave Matthews. I replaced my Debbie tapes with Dave CDs. I threw away my felt hats. And our relationship came to an end.

But deep down, her songs still fill my heart in ways that sometimes surprise me. I’d be lying to say that “Out of the Blue” isn’t the most played song on my Ipod. And when I’m in the shower, I’ve been known to belt out a few of her lyrics I can’t believe I still remember. Yep, Debbie Gibson’s music is tattooed on my soul forever. While most folks today are shaking it off, I’m still shaking your love.



This film has been rated Animal Friendly. Viewer discretion unnecessary.

Tom Hardy and the dog Rocco from the film pose for photos at "The Drop" premiere on Monday, Sept. 8, 2014 in New York. (Photo by Charles Sykes/Invision/AP)

Last year, my husband and I went to the movies to see an action/thriller flick starring the late James Gandolfini entitled The Drop. I knew it was going to be violent. And I knew that there were going to be moments when I had to close my eyes.

However, before buying a ticket and committing to the movie, I asked the ticket salesman the question I always ask before seeing a movie. “Is there any violence against animals in the film?”

He looked at me with a smug smile. “It’s a violent movie, ma’am.”

First of all, he called me ma’am, which annoyed me since I was wearing my Forever 21 wrap sweater which should have made me look fifteen years younger than I am. (And certainly not old enough to be a ma’am.)

Second, he didn’t understand the question. I took a deep breath. “Yes, I know it is a violent movie, but I would like to know if there is violence against animals.”

“There’s an abused dog who has a happy ending.”

“Do you actually witness the abuse?”

“I don’t really remember, ma’am,” he said, both disinterested and impatient.

At this point, I could sense the folks behind me getting perturbed. My husband stepped up to the counter to appease the situation. He leaned into the ticket salesman. “Listen, I really want to see this movie tonight, but my wife’s not going to be able to handle dog violence. So, if you could just try to remember the scene, you can whisper it to me, and I’ll make sure she takes a bathroom break during that part of the movie.”

The ticket salesman rolled his eyes and spoke in a quick, monotone voice. “You don’t see any on-screen abuse, okay?”

I smiled happily. “Thank you. Two tickets, please.”

I think Television Parental Guidelines should include “F” to stand for “Fido Abuse.” Although there is a rating for violence (V), it doesn’t tell you specifically what type of violence that you might have to endure. While I’m already numb to human-on-human contact on the big screen (which is a WHOLE other sad column in itself), I can’t handle animal cruelty in the movies or television. Even cartoon movies with tragic animal mother deaths (i.e. Bambi and ALL Disney movies) make me weep.

Heck, I don’t even like to see animals die in movies, even when it is a pleasant, end-of life, storyline. (Forget, Marley and Me.) Basically, I can’t handle a movie unless the pet pooch lives a long happy life… full of treats and L.L. Bean flannel, monogrammed, dogbeds.

Come to think if it, there are other ratings I would also like to see in the Television Parental Guidelines.

“W” – excessive Will Ferrell nudity

“C” –  Cliffhanger endings beyond frustration

“H” –  Health-related outbreaks which will give you hypochondria

“B” – Brooklyn Decker swimsuit cameos which cause guilt about eating Peanut M&Ms with your buttered popcorn.

I’m all for surprises in movies as long as they don’t include animal cruelty, Inception-esque frustration, or excessive supermodels in swimsuits. As far as I’m concerned, warnings about the aforementioned events would help me keep my sanity in the movie theater.

Put as many karate chops as you want on screen. Just keep them away from that Shitzu.

photocredit: (Photo by Charles Sykes/Invision/AP)

The Love We Live

Love is cooking each half of the flank steak to a different tenderness.
Love is having a side of the bed.
Love is deciding who deals with the garter snake, and who deals with bathroom spiders.
Love is compromising with 2% milk.
Love is shower-less road trips and toothpaste-free nights.
Love is choosing seats 42A and B next to the airplane bathroom, just to sit together.
Love is sharing the big popcorn.
Love is clearing the hair out of the shower drain without being asked.
Love is sleeping with cold feet because someone is hogging the comforter.
Love is agreeing to never shop at that store again.
Love is screaming until you make up.
Love is sitting through “Casino Royale” over and over and over again because it’s the only movie you agree upon.
Love is picking up the phone to say you’re running late.
Love is agreeing to like Jon Oliver a little more than Conan O’Brien but not as much as Aziz Ansari.
Love is having a system for the dishes.
Love is knowing when to just let it go.
Love is recognizing the one look which means: “I can’t believe what she just said but I’m going to pretend everything is normal until you and I can gossip on our way home.”
Love is really not noticing the few extra pounds.
Love is not having to worry about flirty waitresses or hunky pool boys.
Love is having a library of kisses with special meanings.
Love is allowing the other to take the ice cream bite with the most chocolate chip cookie dough chunks.
Love is finding silver linings in laughable hospital food.
Love is holding hands when nobody is looking.
Love is what we live… sun-up, sun-down, Sundays to Saturdays, around and upside down and back around again.
Love was, love is, and love will be.

P.S.  Love is leaving your name off this post, because you wouldn’t want it here. xoxo

photocredit: Little Shop of Elle See

Unexpected Item in Bagging Area!

Last night, after eating Triscuits for dinner for the second night in a row, I decided to go on a grocery run. I closed the fridge, put on my “fancy” sweatpants, and left the house. After an hour of perusing the various types of shredded wheat cereals, I had a sufficient cart of edibles for the week.

As I pushed my cart towards the exit of the store, I was faced with the soccer mom’s conundrum. Do I take my fifteen items (give or take an item or two) to the Ten Items or Less checkout, or do I wait on the massive line for the regular check out?  As a seemingly law-abiding citizen (I won’t admit otherwise), I decided to not violate the Ten Items or Less code. Instead, I decided to attempt the greatest game in the history of the 21st century:  Check! Your! Self! Out!

For those of you new to this particular game show, the object is simple. Scan your items and place them in a shopping bag  without needing the assistance of a grocery clerk.  Sounds easy, right?  Wrong!  Check! Your! Self! Out! is a sly combination of Jeopardy and Press Your Luck. 

The contestant must first successfully locate and scan the UPC code on a particular item. Then, the item must be placed in a plastic grocery bag on a scale which is programmed to predetermine the weight of that project.  Once a bag is full, the contestant must remove the bag from the scale without aggravating the system.

I’ve been a contestant on this show for about five years now. But, I’ve yet to win. Yesterday, I once again gave it my best shot.

First, I picked items which were easy to scan.The box of cereal with the clear UPC code on the bottom. The bar of soap. The instant rice box. So far, so good. The items matched their predetermined weight on the scale. Once they were safely bagged, I used a careful maneuver to remove the first full bag from the scale and back into my shopping cart.  I had survived the first round of competition. Moving on!

The second round was a bit trickier. I successfully navigated the scanning of a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream pint. (I had previously made a rookie mistake in another game when I forgot to swipe the ice crystals from the UPC code.)  I also performed scanner gymnastics to correctly align the UPC code on corner of a carton of seltzer. (Who says sweatpants at the grocery store aren’t appropriate?)  And lastly, I was able to squash a tube of moisturizer just enough as to flatten the code for the scanner without popping open the cap.  With the finesse of a pickpocket, I swiped the second bag from the scale and to my cart. Success! It was a close call, but I had made it on to the final round.

The final round of Check! Your! Self! Out! is notoriously impossible. It is the dreaded produce checkout. To win the game, I needed to successfully weigh, identify, and bag my tomatoes. I started by placing the tomatoes on the scanner for the weigh-in. The machine informed me that I was purchasing 1.23 pounds of misunderstood fruits. (You, too, thought they were a vegetables, right?) Then, I was required to identify the variety of tomatoes. My options were bountiful. There were beefsteak tomatoes.Tomatoes from the vine. Roma tomatoes. I looked at my purchased tomatoes. They were red and round and generic. In fact, they resembled all of the tomatoes on the screen.

Other customers were now lined up behind me. The ticking of my Swatch watch added to the drama of not knowing the correct answer to the tomato question. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.   I considered using a lifeline and phoning a friend.  I considered asking the audience on line.  I even considered running back to the tomato display (à la the old 90’s game show Supermarket Sweep) to identify where I first picked up these buggers.  But as my Swatch tick-tocked, I knew I needed  be a big girl and make my best guess. I closed my eyes and chose beefsteak. To my delight, the scanner accepted my answer. I was home free.

But as we all know, no good game is over until it’s over. (Vanna doesn’t change out of her ballgown until the final puzzle is solved.)  As I leaned over to place the “beefsteak” tomatoes in their appropriate grocery bag, my wallet accidentally fell out of my pocket.  It landed with a thump in the plastic bag, and the weight of the wallet jammed the machine.

Unexpected item in bagging area!!!

The lights above the checkout flashed and the customers in line sighed with disappointment. They knew I would have to wait for a supermarket clerk to come reset the machine.

I looked down at the ground with disgust. I had lost yet another round of Check! Your! Self! Out!  There would be no prize but to get out of the supermarket alive.


Photocredit: Andy Ward, O’Mara books .



What was your first job, and what did you learn? My first job was a regional radio commercial for Coke and I learned how gratifying it was to get paid to do something you love.

Where is your favorite vacation spot? Any beach house in Hilton Head, South Carolina! There’s nothing more relaxing than a southern beach town.

What’s a necessary indulgence? I could never say “no” to anything wrapped in (or that incorporates) bacon, or a great sale!

If you’re in a department store, which section/thing do you gravitate towards?  The fragrance section. I have a very strong sense of smell that is directly connected to many fond memories.

What’s the best meal you’ve ever had? “The Southern Benedict” (fried chicken on a biscuit, covered in a black-peppered, sausage hollandaise gravy) at Folk Art in Atlanta.

Something most people don’t know about you? I’ve seen every episode of Battlestar Gallactica.

Do you sing in the shower?  What’s your go-to tune? I do a full broadway show in my shower every single day! This morning I was singing a playlist that included Beyonce, Britney Spears, and Robyn.

What’s one thing on your Bucket List you’d like to see/do/experience? I want to live in Ireland for at least a year.

What would people be surprised to find out about your daily routine?  People are usually surprised when they find out I don’t iron my clothes. I don’t even own an iron!

How do you order your eggs? Always over-medium with salt and pepper.

What was the first concert your saw live?  *NSYNC No Strings Attached. It was life changing. They came down from the top of the stage suspended by strings like puppets.

Finish this sentence: I’m likeable because… my glass is always half full.

Slim Phil and other strangers in my phone


On average, three people call me each week.

Sure, I get texts from girlfriends to go on lunch walks and messages from Comcast reminding me that my bill is ready for payment.  But, as far as good ol’ fashioned phone calls are concerned, my phone typically only rings if my husband, my sister, or my mother is on the line.

That’s why I’m amused to have so many phone numbers in my phone. Considering that it takes effort to enter ten digits into my flip phone, I must have cared about every one of my contacts long enough to devote time to their information.  Yet, I have many people in my phone whom I don’t even know. For example, Slim Phil?  Who the heck is Slim Phil?  (I have a feeling I didn’t meet him at a work conference.) John at Chappy’s?  Chappy’s is a bar, but God only knows if John was a bartender or a barfly.  Gumbo?  Sounds like a character in an upcoming True Detective episode. And my favorite… Bottom Feeders. Bottom Feeders?

Then, there are the numbers that make me smile. Dave’s Island Taxi was clearly entered on a night I was planning on having a lot of fun. Frank’s Pizza is my emergency contact for Italian subs when I’m hungry in New Jersey.  And Matt Damon is a fake contact which only exists to make people wonder…

Yep, I don’t bother to clean out these numbers, since they provide entertainment and whimsy. Sure, I don’t remember who “Cricket” is, but it’s fun to wonder who I would have met with a 641 area code (Iowa, apparently.) And, what if someday a guy named Bottom Feeders becomes the next American Idol?  I’d have direct access to backstage tickets from his ol’ pal Becky.

Yet, out of all of the names and numbers in my phone, my favorite contact is “Nobody Relevant.” I don’t recognize the phone number for Nobody Relevant, but apparently it was someone I wanted to forget.  He/She probably had a real name many moons ago, but for whatever reason, I assume I decided to rename the contact.  Why I wouldn’t just delete Nobody Relevant, I’ll never know.  But for now, Nobody Relevant is in my phone, just waiting for the phone to ring.


Musical Zucchini

There are zucchini all over my kitchen. They sit in glass bowls, in wooden bowls, in cupboards, and in the refrigerator. August 8 was National Sneak Some Zucchini On Your Neighbor’s Porch Day (and yes, that’s a real thing) and apparently my neighbors got the best of me.

I can’t go anywhere without someone trying to give me a zucchini. I get them at work. I get them from friends. I’ve even seen folks handing them out in the gym locker room. (Luckily, they haven’t snuck any into my gym bag yet.) There’s a saying around my neck of the woods that the only reason to lock your car is to keep people from leaving zucchini.

And I’m not complaining. I like free food. And to be honest, I still haven’t been able to grow my own zucchini in my backyard garden. (Darn you, little critters!) Yet, there’s only so much grilled zucchini I can handle in a week.  So, I’ve found a creative use for the extra zucchini: giving it away.

Paying the zucchini forward might be my favorite late summer hobby. It’s like  a game of musical chairs: the last person holding the zucchini has to saute it. When a friend gives me a zucchini, I give it to a relative. When a relative gives me a zucchini, I give it to a friend.  And the bigger and more awkward the zucchini, the more fun it is to pass it along. I’m officially involved in this big ol’ zucchini brigade. And it’s a lot more fun than paying forward the oysters.

So, if you see me this summer, lock your car door. And if you decide to keep your zucchini, here’s a great recipe for crispy zucchini chips.

Ina, Ina, You’re Divine-Ya!

ina gartenThere are few people on this planet I could watch grill anchovies. Ina (pronounced Ein-ya to rhyme with divine-ya) Garten is one of them. If she’s cooking, I’m infatuated with whatever is in her hands. I once watched her puree peaches for nearly an hour, even though I have little personal interest in stone fruit.

As the Barefoot Contessa, I think Ina is one of the most beautiful people on the planet. Yet, Ina isn’t exactly runway model material. She’s overweight. She’s freckled.  And her 67 year old face is far from ageless.

But, I still find her to be incredibly attractive. (My husband agrees, and he’s usually more the Kate Middleton type.) Ina is a real woman with sparkly eyes, perfectly pink cheeks and a clean, wide smile. She’s well manicured, well preserved, and well dressed.

In a day and age when women are botoxing and blinging, Ina is rarely seen in much more than a button down shirt and lip gloss. Her hair is simple and shoulder-length.  And her jewelry is minimal. When she cooks, she doesn’t even wear her wedding ring.   (Excuse me, Trisha Yearwood… is that an boiling onion stuck to your ring finger? Oh wait, that’s just your engagement diamond. Don’t drop it in the beef stew.)

Yes, Ina Garten is fabulous. She’s the opposite of a Real Housewife, and yet, she’s the ultimate “real” housewife. She loves her husband. (Oh, Jeffrey, we love you too!) She loves grating cheese. And she seems to really, really love her job.

There are other women whom I think are beautiful, even though they never grace the cover of Vogue: Daphne Oz, Tamron Hall, and Damaris Phillips.  All three of these women seem approachable, realistic, and a bit softer than some of the other overprocessed celebrities. While Daphne is the daughter of Dr. Oz (who I find irritating), she is a Princeton graduate and a blushing new-mom  on The Chew.  Tamron is a pixie-haired beauty whose giggle is contagious, even when I’m on the other side of the The Today Show television screen. And Damaris is the Food Network queen who seems like she’d be game for a few Budweisers at a dive bar.

Yet, Ina is still my #1 girl crush. She makes me want to drink lemonade at her kitchen counter while we gossip about her day over potato croquettes. She makes me want to wear less makeup and more bangs.  And she makes me want to learn how to properly prepare anchovies.  Anchovies!  Clearly, the woman is nothing less than divine.





Kate and her husband Nikolai.

What’s one thing you know for sure?
I try not to wear cheap shoes, buy cheap tires, or eat junk food.

Where is your favorite vacation spot?
The Hilton in Barbados has a great beach with waves and lovely rum punch drinks served beachside.

Cocktail of choice?
A dark-n-stormy with block ice and lots of lemon.

If you’re in a department store, which section/thing do you gravitate towards?
Shoes, kitchens stuff and jeans. Very expensive jeans.

What was your first job, and what did you learn?
My first job was working at a tennis club on Nantucket as court maintenance crew. I had to get up at 5:45am and be at work at 6:30am. I was the only girl on a four person crew.  I learned that I was not a morning person.

What’s your favorite song?
You’re My First, My Last, My Everything by Barry White. It’s our wedding song.

Something most people don’t know about you?
I got married in a drive-through chapel in Las Vegas. It’s not as easy as they make it out in the movies. I wrote my vows in the bathroom of the private airport terminal, we hopped on a plane to Vegas, and when we got there- my bags didn’t show up. I was dressed in clogs, jeans and a cashmere sweater. Forty dollars and fifteen minutes later, we got married in a Kia Rio orange rental car at a chapel drive-in.

What’s your strangest pet peeve?
It gets me when people call my cell trying to sell me something and call me “sir” cause I have a deep voice.

How do you order your eggs?
Poached medium over crispy bacon on crispy toast with a ton of salt and pepper.

What would people be surprised to find out about your daily routine?
I spend countless hours perfecting my green smoothie recipe. My sons love them.

What’s the one song which will get you out on the dance floor?
Any song with a fun beat gets me dancing but my son is currently obsessed with Queen. “We Are The Champions” is demanded multiple times a day.

Finish this sentence: I’m likeable because…
I’m so not perfect and I really like that about myself. I think more people can relate to the funny, quirky, unique, do-what-works-for-you, kind of person.

Giving Credit

I rarely wear makeup, but when I do, I put eyeliner on BEFORE taking a shower. It’s a make-up trick which makes my eyes look a little more smoky, but a bit less skanky. It’s more Audrey Hepburn than Avril Lavigne, as only a faint trace of eyeliner remains after a steamy washing.

I claim to have learned this trick from an old college friend. But the truth is, I didn’t learn this trick from anyone. I made it up by myself.

I don’t know why I never own up to my own makeup tip. I have a habit of claiming “old college friends” have taught me many other things as well. But most things I credit to them are false  I invented turbinado popcorn, and the couch flip, and “rum-pum-pum-punch.” But I’ll tell you that they did.

I also have a habit of citing people who never spoke the quotes. “Like my dad always said, if they’re not worth a nickel, don’t give them a quarter.” But my father has never uttered these words. I came up with that saying.

“My mom always says that a bottle of wine makes friends, two bottles makes enemies.”  Nope, she didn’t. I did.

“My husband always says to start with a smile and the rest with follow.” Never happened. This is my motto.

It’s funny that most people steal quotes from other people. But I give them away.  Yet, I imagine I’m not alone in wrongly crediting friends. Sometimes, you just want a partner in crime for support, and when an idea is your own, it can be scary to admit it.

So, when I tell you that an old friend from college taught me this ah-mazing tip for making cocktails, just be kind.  And if you ever meet that old friend, you can give her credit.


Photocredit: Chocolate Covered Katie

Blood, Sweat, and Tears


The Big Red Blood Drop stood on the corner of Main and Wheelock street, waving his short arms at passing cars. It was a jillion degrees, and the poor sap in that costume must have been close to needing his own healthcare from heatstroke. As I crossed the street, the Drop waved at me.  As someone who has donated blood many times before, I figured that it was once again time to roll back my sleeves. I waved back at the Drop, and entered the blood drive.

When I entered the all purpose room-turned-makeshift hospital, I was greeted by two women who were too young to donate blood themselves. They gave me a “Kiss Me, I Gave Blood” sticker and a questionnaire to complete before going under the needle. The questionnaire was ridiculous, as always. I felt like the most boring person on Earth for not having any “Yes” answers.

No, I haven’t vacationed on “Beach #3” in Danger City, west of Reflux Island.
No, I haven’t had intimate relations with monkeys in Botswana.

No, I haven’t injected myself with cocaine or Diet Coke.
No, I haven’t traveled underseas for longer than three years.

After handing the questionnaire back, I waited. And I waited. And I waited. Then a man in need of a nose hair clipping asked me to join him for my personal history check-up. He asked me to confirm my questionnaire answers. He noted down a laundry list of countries I have traveled to in the past five years. Then finally, he took my vitals, and pricked my finger with a needle to test my iron count.

My drop of blood never dropped. I was iron-deficient. I was a blood drive failure.

I collected my belongings and plotted my escape. I quietly walked towards the exit, while an audience of do-gooders watched me from the wait room. They looked at me with knowing smiles. They probably assumed that I had spent a little too much time in Danger City.

I turned redder than my own failed blood.  As I passed the Drop on my way out, I put my head down and vowed to take iron supplements until the next drive.  I’ll make Iron Man look anemic next time around… ;)


Customer Service

I rarely ever get manicures. (I have a hard time sitting still, nevermind sitting still while someone pampers me.)

But last Friday, I treated myself to a “Dutch Tulips” color on my short, garden-blistered nails. I went to a fairly non-descript nail salon, and expected a fairly straightforward mani.

My manicurist was pretty silent throughout the treatment. I could tell that her English was limited, and she seems more interested in her Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee than chatting with me. (This was A-OKAY with me since I actually enjoy a little quiet time during any sort of massage, pedicures, or manicures.) However, as she finished polishing my final pinkie, she looked up and smiled. “Have you been here before?”

“Twice last year,” I responded.

“Well, we appreciate your business.” Her comment was genuine, accompanied with a smile. “Thank you very much.”

Appreciation is appreciated. And lately, I’ve been paying a little more attention to businesses who pay attention to the customer. I don’t need a handwritten thank you, simply for buying a book. However, it’s nice to be recognized for where you spend your money.





The book I hope to read soon is David McCullough’s “The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris.”

My most memorable English teacher was Abby Brown in 7th grade.  Mr. Brown was young and passionate. He once yelled at me for throwing a book to a friend because it disrespected the book. That, I must say, was a little over the top.

The most common grammar/spelling mistake I still make is putting the period or the comma outside that damned closed quotation. Still looks better to me on the outside, but what do I know?

If I could read an autobiography about anyone, it would be Jesus. We’ve heard everyone else’s version of the story. He definitely would debut high on the New York Times bestseller list — just after Bill O’Reilly.

The most beautiful word in the English language is “Chateaubriand.” Wait, that’s French. How about “effervescent”?

The ugliest word in the English language is “Buttafuoco.”

The most romantic love scene in the word would have to take place in Provence, maybe during a walk up Mont St. Victoire as it looked to Cezanne.

If someone wrote a book about my life, they would be surprised to learn that for the better part of the early 1990′s,  I tried to dress like a rapper. It didn’t work.

The book which I continue to re-read is “City Slickers” by William E. Geist. It’s a collection of my dad’s best columns during his time at The New York Times. Man, they’re good.

The book I tend to gift to loved ones is “What To Expect When You’re Expecting.” It gets very awkward when it turns out the loved one is not pregnant — they’ve just put on a few pounds. Always ask a third party before giving that book. Lesson learned.

My favorite children’s book is “Don’t Let The Pigeon Drive The Bus.” We’re big on the Mo Willems collection in our house.

My favorite library/bookstore in the whole world is Bookends in Ridgewood, New Jersey. It was my hometown store growing up, and a small bookseller that is thriving.

When I read, I love to snack on Twizzlers. Industrial-sized bags of them.


Red Velvet Cake

Quick!  What does Red Velvet Cake actually taste like?

I don’t know either. It’s not exactly chocolatey, but It’s not vanilla-esque either.

Yet, red velvet cake has a following. Brides and fancy Southern folk go bananas for the stuff. I’ve mostly had red velvet cake at events where the hostesses want to fancy up the shindig. And it tastes fine. I don’t think it’s as good as a regular old chocolate cake, nor as savory as carrot.

My guess is that people only like red velvet cake just because cream cheese frosting tastes so darn good. The light layer of sweet, but tart, frosting on the cake is what makes it addictive. (Side note: frosting is like cleavage. A little is necessary. But a lot just ruins the taste in your mouth.) I think nine out of ten guests would eat garbage cake if it was covered in cream cheese frosting. And yet, the red velvet gets all the credit.

There are other trendy foods which people go nuts for:

1. Cucumber sandwiches: Tastes like water, expensive as gold.

2. Crab cakes: Fried mayonnaise with a dot of imitation crabmeat.

3. Mini Quesadillas: Grilled cheese’s fancier, yet less substantive stepdaughter.

4. Prosciutto-Wrapped Breadsticks: Pork products with a crunch.

I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy all of the foods above. I just think it’s funny that sometimes a plain ol’ grilled cheese sandwich and a slice of chocolate cake can taste better than foods we *think* we should love. But bring on the Red Velvet Cake. It’s flavoring is so…red velvety. ;)



Don’t Jersey Vermont

There are people in my town who proudly display bumper stickers reading “Don’t Jersey Vermont.”  While I could be offended because I, as a native New Jersey person, am technically “Jerseying Vermont,” I refuse to get angry. Here’s why:

1.  I’m honored that “Jersey” is a verb! I believe that Jersey is the only state-verb of the 50 states. Jealous, Texas? Peeved, Nebraska? Thought so! Sigh, New Jersey has always been a trendsetter.

2. The “Don’t Jersey Vermont” facebook group has fewer likes (388) than my Novel Nibble page (491). And both of us have fewer followers than the New Hampshire Telephone Museum (a whopping 659!)  Clearly, we’ve all got a long way to go before any of us can influence like the Biebs or Kar-cash-ians.

3. I’m going to create bumper stickers which read “Don’t Vermont Jersey.” Yep, I don’t want you bringing your organic farms and maple syrup and spotted cows and Cabot cheese to the Garden State. Keep ’em out. Jersey’s got their own tomatoes. #theBossdon’teatvermontcheddar

Yep, those “Don’t Jersey Vermont” bumper stickers don’t bother me at all.  As a Jersey-girl-turned-Vermont-resident, I know the value of both the Green Mountain and the Garden states. They have both been home to Phish’s Trey Anastasio.  They both grow darn good corn. And they are both filled with the occasional jerk who gives the state a bad rap.

Now, I just need one of those “Co-Exist” stickers with different state shapes for each letter. :)





The cold side of the pillow

Who doesn’t stuff their face in their warm laundry when it comes out of the dryer?  I drape pants around my neck and wrap t-shirts around my head to feel the warmth during the cold months of winter. I think there is no better joy than being able to put your underwear on your head to keep warm during January freezes.

The only thing I love more than warm laundry is the cold side of a pillow. It’s bizarre that while I crave blankets in bed, all I really want is that chilly fabric against my skin.  I think we all would admit to loving a flip to the cold side.  Even on the coldest night of the coldest month in the coldest state, a cold pillow can’t be beat.

My ideal night of sleep would be on a cold pillow with a warm blanket, with the sound of peepers quietly echoing throughout my tiny little corner bedroom. My bladder would be empty, my wedding rings safely in my bureau, and my pajama pants perfectly aligned with my ankles (and not awkwardly wrapped sideways somewhere around my mid-calve.)

But in the real world, I lie in a bed with a chunky dog kicking me, my husband elbowing me, and my pajama bottoms hiked up around my knees in a way that makes me feel like I’m stuck in a spider web.  The comforter is cold and the pillow is warm.  My bladder is typically full around three am, and my dog’s internal clock wakes me before my alarm.

But in the middle of the night, when I wake to the howl of some sort of owl outside my window, I flip my pillow to the cold side, and all is well with the world.


My pillow.

Flawed, and sorry

  • I’m sorry that I placed your dollar store present in a designer box to make it look more expensive.
  • I’m sorry that I wore bikini bottoms to work as underwear instead of doing my laundry.
  • I’m sorry that I displayed that picture in my bathroom where I personally look good, while everyone else looks awful.
  • I’m sorry that I took an extra free donut sample when the clerk turned his back.
  • I’m sorry that I actually don’t know what the heck you’re talking about, but I’m pretending like I do.
  • I’m sorry that I brought my own Swedish Fish to the movie theater.
  • I’m sorry that I left the package of marshmallows I no longer wanted in the milk/cheese aisle.
  • I’m sorry that I stopped at the drugstore to “sample” lipstick before my reunion, instead of just buying a tube.
  • I’m sorry for taking a few too many bites of the kids’ mac and cheese instead of eating the grown-up food.
  • I’m sorry for taking a dip in your town lake, even though I don’t have the correct club sticker.
  • I’m sorry that I have never contributed to a NPR pledge drive, but I listen to it religiously.
  • I’m sorry that I hide the fancy wine before you spend the night at my house.
  • I’m sorry that I was late to your party because I wanted to be.
  • I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

I’ll try harder.




Let Freedom (NOT) Ring!

My house has no cell phone service.*  I say that statement without pity. I say it with pride.

My house has no cell phone service, baby!

People love my house, just for this reason. Sure, I have internet in my home, so if people really need to check their facebook status, they can. But without cell service, they have an excuse for peace and quiet.

Guests have told me that my little Vermont home feels like a retreat. At first, it might feel like rehab as they deal with cell detox. But after a day, they love it. They realize all of the other things that happen in the world, and not just on Instagram.

Also, not having cell phone service at one’s home is also an argument for keeping a simple phone. Below, is a picture of my actual phone. I have no internet service on my cell. No special emoticons. Not even a decent camera. But, I believe that if an alien landed on this planet, it would believe that my simple phone would be the more advanced technology. It’s little. It’s less complicated. And the screen is nearly unbreakable. (Trust me on this one.)


Tonight, I’m having a fourth of July weekend kick-off celebratory BBQ. There will be music. There will be the hiss of sparklers.  There will be the pop of champagne bottles.

But our phones will be silent as we take the time to celebrate family and this great country.  Our forefathers would be darn proud.

*Technically, if you stand on your right foot while balancing on the end table in my upstairs guest room, you might be able to get a bar’s worth of service. But never two bars. Just enough to possibly receive or send a text message. (Basically, enough to send a late night textaroo to a significant other.)

Jennifer Garner’s Ears

I was sad to hear the news of Jennifer Garner and Ben Affleck’s divorce. I don’t know either of them. And, like millions of other Americans,  I could say that they “seem” like good people.  I bet those millions of people are right.

I don’t keep up on celebrity news often but I admit to pausing for a moment for this particular break-up.  Ben will survive. So will Jen. But frankly, she’s the one I’m more interested in.

There aren’t a lot of celebrities whom I would be comfortable babysitting my nephews. But Jennifer Garner strikes me as someone who is competent and interesting.  She’s certainly a beautiful woman, but gorgeous women in Hollywood are a nickel a dozen. Yet, Jennifer actually seems like someone I could spend more than five minutes with at a bookstore.  And she named her daughter Seraphina, which of course, ups her cool factor.

Other reasons to like her?  Her beauty is imperfectly perfect. She has a funny toe-issue. Her ears protrude. She’s not stick skinny.   Her teeth aren’t as white as her husband’s fakes. Frankly, she looks like someone that we all went to high school with.

And speaking of high school, she’s educated. She graduated from Denison, and then went to The National Theater Institute in Connecticut. It seems like she gained her fame the old fashioned way, through hard work and talent.

I’m sure she’s got quirks and interests and funny little sounds she makes when she sneezes. But the bottom line is that in terms of “media relate-ability,” she’s a star.

Yep, Jen will survive this divorce like thousands of other people. Yet, I wish her well.  She seems like someone who has got more going on than just her autograph.

THE TONIGHT SHOW STARRING JIMMY FALLON -- Episode 0136 -- Pictured: Actress Jennifer Garner on October 1, 2014 -- (Photo by: Douglas Gorenstein/NBC/NBCU Photo Bank via Getty Images)

 Photocredit: Douglas Gorenstein/NBC

One man’s junk…


I found this pig platter at the Norwich Dump, ahem, transfer station. (The term transfer station makes uppity Vermonters sound more proper.)

It was an interesting find, to say the least. (The “free to a good home” pile is typically chock full of glass vases and kiddie toys. I typically don’t even bother to look at that particular section of the dump because I’m usually focused on getting rid of my own junk.) I wasn’t sure why it had two rings near the snout and tail. It technically looked like a platter, but it also looked like something you could hang at the entrance of a farm. I wasn’t sure I would ever use it to serve cheese and crackers, and certainly not any pork products. Regardless, I needed to have it.

When I got home, I hung it proudly in my kitchen above the sink. I nailed it up, and then took a few steps backward, admiring my piggy as if it were the leglamp in a Christmas Story. It looked terrific, and it really added to the casual shabby chic decor (aka, random assortment of accessories, dish towels, planters, and Simon Pearce vases) in my kitchen.

Now, all of my houseguests ask me where I got the porker. I just muster a smile and casually say, “oh, around town somewhere.”  I’m fretful of the day when someone will enter my home and realize that it’s his/her old trash. But I’m hopeful the donor might get a kick out of his/her trash as the focal point of my home. (A few years ago, a friend wore another friend’s old prom dress to a spring party after finding it at a local hand-me-down charity.  Let’s just say that there were a lot of shared giggles.)

After all, one man’s swine… is another girl’s treasure.  And this little piggy finally came home.

Sequined tops and dipping sauces

I have a closet full of sequined tops. I have sequined tank tops, and three-quarter length sequined crewnecks, and full-length sequined dresses. And many of them have never been worn. They hang like shiny treasures in my closet, tags and all.

I know I shouldn’t buy more sequined clothing, yet I am still drawn to the shimmer. While I should be shopping for black work pants (to replace the horribly unflattering ones I wear every day), I skip the trouser section and head straight for the party dresses. Twenty minutes later, I’m convincing myself that I really need the black sleeveless sequined dress, just in case I’m invited to a New Year’s Eve wedding in the tropics. Thirty minutes later, I’m walking out of the store with a dress I don’t need while wearing pants which are hemmed with masking tape.

I should return the sequined dress but I don’t. Just owning it makes me feel like it is a possibility that I could be invited to a New Year’s Eve wedding in the tropics. So, I hang it in my closet to make me believe that my life is as fabulous as the dress. (Let’s be honest, the dress is only $39.99 worth of fabulous since I’m shopping at bargain stores in the first place, and my scale of fabulous can’t rival Savile Row.)

Sequined dresses are just one of my obsessions. The other is a bit more embarrassing: dipping sauces.  I buy Duck Sauce. I buy Balsamic Dipping Oil. I buy Sweet Chili Sauce. I buy General Tso’s sauce, even though I have bottles of it in the cupboard at home.  (A few years ago, I went through a General Tso’s phase where I hoarded frozen vegetables and chicken breasts and ate homemade Chinese food six nights a week. My husband had to force an intervention. Now, I still buy the sauce but I don’t bother to buy the vegetables.)

It would be fine to buy these sauces if I actually used them. But they are a bit less glamorous out of the bottle. (Balsamic dipping oil is only as good as the bread you dip it in. And lately my kitchen is only stocked with Wonder Bread.) Yet, a few days later, I’m back at the dipping oils section of the grocery store debating between the pomegranate oil infusions of rosemary or lemon.

Lately, I’ve been trying to cut back on spending. But I still find myself gravitating towards the sequins and the sauces.  Deep down, I’ll always imagine myself as someone who lounges around in party dresses while dipping shrimp in pineapple-mango sauce.  But in reality, I’m just a girl in sweats who eats cereal in mugs.  But it’s hard to quit the dream.


Inside Pat Sajak’s Mind

A “J”?  Do you know that a “J” is the fourth least common letter in the English language?  Probably not since you picked a “X” in the last puzzle.

I can’t believe you can’t figure this out by now. Green Eggs and Ham? You’ve already got the Green and the Eggs? Have you ever read a Dr. Seuss book?  It seems appropriate for your reading level.

You’re going to let that smug little teacher lady win this whole darn thing because you picked a “J” for a puzzle which should have been solved three spins ago. She’ll use the prize money for a down payment on a condo somewhere near Laguna and she’ll fill the place with hundreds of little lighthouses decorations from Home Goods. Her poor sap of a husband, with his mustache and oversized slacks, will have to look at those darn lighthouses for the rest of his life, just because you picked the “J.”

And you?  You’ll be the laughing stock of your fire department back home since you don’t know Green Eggs and Ham. They won’t tell that to your face, of course, but you’ll be eating a whole lot of green eggs for the rest of your life.  You nincompoop.

“I’m sorry, Carl. No ‘J.’ Martha, it’s your spin.”



The Real Housewives of Vermont

The Real Housewives of Vermont*

Episode One: Poppy, the flower-child housewife from Bennington, flips out at Samantha, the Connecticut import, when Samantha hints that the GMO-free labeled tofu on Poppy’s kitchen table might actually be a big box store imposter with (sigh) GMOs.

Episode Two: Fern, a fourth generation cheese maker, is insulted when Violet, the witchy snob of Lake Champlain, calls Fern’s homemade Vermont cheddar a little less sharp than other varieties. How rude!

Episode Three: Violet flips a table in anger when her husband accuses her of cheating with the plow boy. Later that episode, we learn that Violet’s husband is actually the one cheating. With whom? The plow boy!

Episode Four: Cinnamon, the playgirl of Rutland (who actually wears lipstick, which infuriates and amazes the other Vermonters), gets a little too close to Poppy’s husband at the Tunbridge Fair. Poppy storms off in her Carhartts, while the other women give Cinnamon a piece of their mind.

Episode Five: The REUNION! Cinnamon pleads that she’s just misunderstood because she wears make-up. Poppy and Samantha agree to disagree about GMOs, childhood vaccines, and the origin of the word “pumpernickel.” Violet announces a separation from her husband and a new house with a heated (not plowed) driveway. Fern celebrates the end of the season with the announcement of a brand new cheese variety: Green Mountain Gouda. Andy Cohen toasts all the women with raw Vermont cow’s milk.

*If only this show existed. Andy Cohen, call me maybe.

carhartt women 2photocredit: Carhartt advertisement

You think you know your friends…then you address them.

You think you know your friends. And then you try to address them.

Last summer, I addressed 100 wedding invitations to my family and friends. Making the list was difficult. It was hard to whittle down family and friends to a group which would fit under a tent. But it was even more difficult addressing the envelopes. Believe it or not, I had no idea what my friends’ actual names were.

I have some friends I have known since elementary school. And as far as I am concerned, I’ll always refer to them by their childhood names. But childhood friends sometimes get married, move away, and reinvent themselves.

When it was time to address wedding invitations, I started writing their names as I remembered. I began with Ms. Heather Jones. Yet, as soon as the ink dried, I remembered that Heather has a husband, David Smith and probably went by Mrs. Heather Smith. Yet, she was still using Heather Jones Smith on facebook. Was Jones Smith her full last name? Or just Smith? It was all so confusing. I ripped up the two-dollar envelope and wrote “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” I wasn’t sure if it was correct, but I hoped that Heather would be forgiving.

It got worse. Did my bridesmaid prefer to be a Dr. after receiving her PHD in biochemistry? What about the friend who may or may not have hyphenated her maiden name with her new surname? What about the gay couple who might have taken one of their surnames, but not the other? What do I do with the recently divorced woman who just changed back to her maiden name on twitter, but not at the office?  What about the couple who created a hybrid of both of their names? I didn’t even know the correct name of the clergyman marrying us. (Father or Reverend?)

As I toiled with hyphens or no hyphens, Ms. or Mrs., Fr. or Rev., I realized that the only thing to do was to make my best guess. If Mrs. Jolie Pitt was offended because I called her Ms., I still hoped that she would still stick around for a piece of wedding cake. (I felt like it would be more offensive to call her and admit I had no idea what her name was.)

And as I pondered MY new married name, I thought about all of my options. I could be Mrs. Sabky. Or I could be Ms. Munsterer. I could combine surnames with my husband to be Sabsterer, or I could hyphenate to take up as much space as possible Munsterer-Sabky. Or I could be a Madonna-esque diva (like Adele and Twiggy), and simply use my first name, Rebecca.

I realized that people can call me anything they like, as long as they call me. After the exercise in addressing wedding envelopes, I was more sympathetic to all of our changing names. Call me a friend, and I’ll still come to eat your wedding cake.



Honest Advice for the Class of 2015

Touch your toes everyday, just because you can.
When it comes to cars or medicine, always get a second opinion.
Make your boss look good if you want that promotion.
Don’t cry over a break-up with a girlfriend/boyfriend who ever made you cry.
Read the newspaper, if only on Sundays.
Drink more water than anything else.
Chew with your mouth closed. Dine with your lap napkin open.
Give in to indulgences, but not enough to allow them to become routine.
Drop your spare change in charity cans near supermarket check-outs.
Handshake with a purpose. Hug with your heart.
When it’s important, pick up the phone. (Skip the text.)
Take care of your skin. Take care of your grandfather. Take care of your dog.
Politely merge in single file.
Be like a Norwegian and embrace friluftsliv.
Spend more money on dental care than make-up. (Lipstick can’t help a rotten smile.)
R.S.V.P. whether it’s YES or NO.
Own ONE major credit card. Pay it off on time.
Don’t let your second language be swear words.
Celebrate Mother’s Day and Father’s Day with more than a facebook post.
Take that diploma and run before they find out what really happened for the past four years.

P.S. Congrats to the Class of 2015! Run the world, kiddos!

Prison Break

I, like my fellow Americans, have been fascinated and terrified with the recent Shawshank-style prison break from Dannemora. (I barely slept a wink last night after Governor Shumlin announced that they *might* have fled to Vermont campsites.)  I have many opinions and reactions to the actual prison break, which I will tell you in person someday over a drink, but clearly, we are all thinking one thing:

Where are they?

There is speculation that the prisoners have interest in seasonal cottages in upstate New York. And I can’t help thinking that they are somewhere in Iowa by now, wearing wigs, and calling each other Marge and Eleanor. Yet, I also have visions of the conclusion of Shawshank when Morgan Freeman and Tim Robbins live their days on a (gorgeous) deserted island somewhere. I’m hoping that these prisoners do not get their deserted island (unlike the deserving Shawshank characters) but rather they are put back behind bars swiftly and justly.

But the whole scenario makes me wonder. Where I would go if I needed to reinvent myself?

The idea of reinventing oneself is always glorified in movies and television dramas. And yet, I can’t help but wonder what I would do if I were forced into witness protection for a non-criminal reason? Would I be able to move to that deserted island, never to be seen by family and friends again if that were my only option for peace? Could Rebecca Munsterer become Lillian Kruger and never speak a word of her past for the rest of her life?

I’m not sure. But as with life, sometimes we don’t know until we’re put up to the challenge.

Let’s pray that in the case of the Dannemora escape, the challenge is simply too difficult for these criminals.  I’m hoping that the authorities catch them VERY soon.

After all, Bruce Springsteen is the only person who was truly born to run.


Bread Pudding

I have this thing about bread pudding. Whenever it is on the menu, I have to treat myself. It doesn’t matter if I’m trying to cut back on desserts. It doesn’t matter if I’m trying to save a few pennies.  It doesn’t matter if I’m already stuffed from a pesto pasta dinner.

If bread pudding presents itself to me, I must accept.

Yet, I will not teach myself how to make bread pudding.  If bread pudding was available to me with just the stir of a spoon, it would lose its specialness. It’s important to leave the possibility of bread pudding to the powers that be, rather than making it accessible.

I love that my friends know that they can order me bread pudding if it appears on a dessert menu while I’m in the restroom. I love that my husband decided to have bread pudding instead of cake at our wedding.  I love that I have a habit of peeking in cafe windows, just in case I spy those magical two words on the “specials” chalkboard.

My friends have their own little things they can’t pass up.  Playing public pianos.  Putting dollars in “Zoltar” fortune teller machines.  Buying astronaut ice cream at museums.  It’s a comical (and telling) list of little personal quirks.  But it goes to show that we all have something we just can’t pass up.

What’s yours?







True Colors

Apparently, coloring books are a new trend in Saturday afternoon entertainment for adults.

And I say, sign me up. Some might think coloring for adults is a bit too new-age. Yet, I’m up for anything I can do while drinking a gin and tonic. Coloring is mindless, calming, and can be done while carrying on conversation at the same time. Pass the crayons.

When I was a teenager, I loved coloring with the kids whom I babysat. In fact, I bought a coloring book for myself, and would spend summer nights coloring on vacation while chatting with my friends on the phone. Coloring was simply something to pass the time when there was time to pass. And when you were a high schooler who wore jeans to the beach, collected faucet heads for fun,  and the only boy who called you was your cousin, you had time to pass.

Now, time is a little more precious with a million things to do, and another million which should have been done yesterday. Yet, there’s always time to unplug and debate whether the hummingbird should be periwinkle-blue or emerald-green. Big professional decisions melt away when you’re busy making little creative decisions.  And there’s something wonderful about a new box of crayons which will never lose it’s excitement.

So, if anyone wants a coloring date, let me know.  The only color I’ll make you choose in advance is if I should bring the red or the white.


photocredit to Johanna Basford

Skullduggery Island

When you were young, there was probably a place that scared the bejeezus out of you. Of course, that would be the same place that your parents would use to threaten good behavior. For many of you, it was probably the dentist, or your sister’s dancing school, or horror of horrors: summer school.

In my case, the place of pure fear was Skullduggery Island.


Not Skullduggery, but might as well be.

Skullduggery Island was a mini-golf course somewhere between Jacksonville, Florida and Miami Beach. We uncovered the monstrosity when my parents stopped at a gas station somewhere on the Florida Turnpike during a family vacation. I couldn’t tell you where it was, but I can tell you that I lived in fear of the entire Sunshine State. Forget the colorful golf balls and the water-features on the turf, Skullduggery was the stuff of nightmares.

The entrance to Skullduggery was a cave, covered in skulls and skeletons. It retrospect, I think it had a bit of a pirate theme, but as a tyke, I was so distracted by the plastic dead bodies, I didn’t notice any swashbuckling references. It looked like a CSI crime scene, covered with torsos with missing limbs and skanky looking corpses. As a six year old, I couldn’t unsee it. And my parents knew it.

They played right into my fear. “Want to play a round of golf?” my dad would ask jokingly every time we drove by the exit.

I would act like a typical, even-keeled kid. I quietly locked the door with my elbow,  stuck my nose back into the safety of my Archie comic book, and tried not to pee my pants with fear. “Not really,” I would mutter, trying to conceal my complete horror.

“Well, then, you should probably behave for the rest of the drive,” Dad would smirk at my mother. It was one of those disgusting moments that parents relish. (Like preschool graduations and first school dances.)

This went on for more years than I’ll admit publicly. Skullduggery Island closed long before I ever conquered my fear. I don’t think it attracted many mini-golfers, perhaps because, well, I don’t know… maybe it was too frightening for poor little scaredy cat children, and too cheesy for anybody with half-a-brain. (Not that I’m still bitter about the place thirty years later.)

But I behaved in that car for years because of my fear of psycho pirate skeletons who might kidnap me between putt-putts on green turf. And to this day, I still lock my door on the Florida Turnpike. Not because I’m still scared of psycho pirates. But rather, because there’s something scarier living in the Florida Everglades these days, and they also start with a “P.”

They call them pythons. Lock your car doors, kiddos. And hold in the pee until you reach Georgia.


The Tick Life

In coastal communities, they live The Salt Life. Pick-up trucks drive around with bumper stickers proclaiming their allegiance to the ocean.

Me? I live The Tick Life. But It’s not one I’ve chosen. It’s a life which has chosen me. My dog is covered in ticks. My lawn is covered in ticks. My friends are covered in ticks. My rocky-road ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles is covered in one black “sprinkle” which actually moves. (BLECH.) Sometimes I think there are more ticks in the woods than there are grains of sand.

And I have no compassion. As far as I’m concerned ticks are the most no-good, terrible, horrible, worst creatures on earth. (They even make mosquitos look like good company in comparison.) I use organic oils to kill them. I use non-organic chemicals. I use lavender and white socks and long leggings and snake oil and anything else that promises to keep these pests away. But no matter what, they creep in. (My poor Labrador had fifteen ticks in her armpits last week.)

Luckily, I haven’t had a bite yet, but perhaps it’s because I’m obsessed with checking myself. And I’m also obsessed with checking others. Brad Paisley might think “I Want To Check You For Ticks” is a romantic ballad, but if I’m looking at that dark mole on your neck for a second too long, it’s only because I’m making sure it doesn’t have legs. We compulsively shower and check each other’s scalps. We wear light colored clothing on hikes, and cover our long hair with baseball caps and scarfs. We flick dirt off each others’ ankles just to quadruple check that freckles are just freckles.

Who would have guessed that the scariest thing in the woods of New England is 1/10,000 the size of a black bear? Well, friends, it is. And it keeps me up at night. In future I hope the ticks will be gone, and we New Englanders can proudly say that we live the Maple Life or the Morel Life or the Mountain Life.

But for now, I think we’re all stuck with a life that consumes us. Especially when I feel something crawling on my leg under the sheets…


SURPRISE! It’s… something from The Something Store?

Sometimes you just need a bit of a surprise. At least, I know I do.

So, when my brother-in-law told me about The Something Store, I knew it was right up my alley. (Yes, I know this sounds like a paid endorsement, but trust me kiddos, I ain’t making a dime for my time.)

The Something Store is so simple that it makes me mad that I didn’t think up the idea. You send the company $10 through their website, and they send you something. Anything. But you don’t know what it is until it arrives.

My brother-in-law had received a bright orange plastic belt. It looked like something you would either wear on spring break in Daytona or a hunting trip to Montana. But it was pretty fabulous. And it was certainly nothing that he ever would have purchased himself. His belt made for an interesting story, and I was intrigued.

So, I went online to see samples of other “somethings” they send. The send wine openers and masquerade masks, resistance bands and tea infusers, cheese knives and harmonicas, and even cameras and Kindles. (Clearly, you had to be a lucky duck to get the big-ticket items.) There was nothing I necessarily needed on their list of examples, however, there was nothing that I wouldn’t be pleased to receive. So, I signed up and sent my ten bucks. (I was psyched that shipping was included in the price.) I had a tinge of guilt for sending money just for something random, but at the same time, I knew that I could always donate whatever I received to charity.

Every time I checked my mailbox, there was anticipation for my surprise. Then, yesterday, my long-awaited package arrived.  I inspected it carefully. It was too small to be a Kindle. Yet, too large to be jewelry. I waited until I got home, and then opened it with the excitement of a five year old on Christmas morning.

Finally, it was time for the big reveal. It was a salt and pepper shaker set designed to look like spray paint cans.  I stood there for a moment, staring at the shakers. I wasn’t sure if I was excited or disappointed but I certainly was amused. I would never buy myself this gift, but the universe had sent it to me, and I would kindly accept. (Click here for a picture of the shakers.)

I’m not sure if I’ll order from The Something Store again this summer. I might wait until the quiet of winter when a surprise package might be a welcome addition to my snow-covered mailbox. But I’m certainly am an amused customer. This summer, if you come to my house, you can season your corn on the cob with my spray paint can salt and pepper shakers. And when you ask where I got them, I’ll have a story to tell.



The Trendiness of Backyard Chickens

This morning, I ate an egg laid by Mrs. Darth Vader. It was a beautiful pastel green egg with a healthy orange yolk which rose as the egg crackled in my frying pan. The egg certainly didn’t look like it would be associated with a nefarious Star Wars character. And yet, there was comfort in knowing that my breakfast came from a hen so well treated that she even had a name, albeit a silly one.

I usually don’t know the name of the chicken who lays my eggs. Even though I typically buy cage-free eggs, the carton never shows pictures and names of the happy producers. And although it seems trendy to raise free-range chickens in Upper Valley yards these days, I don’t plan on raising hens anytime soon. When I was growing up, my parents kept a rooster and two hens in our backyard after rescuing them from a nearby abandoned property. We built a hen house and a fence, and properly researched raising poultry. Yet, the rooster nipped at my little sister’s heels and my mother couldn’t cook enough omelets to keep up with the eggs. One short year later, we handed the chickens over to a nearby farmer with more patience and thicker skin on his feet.

So, having a colleague gift me a dozen beautiful green eggs — yes, they come naturally, not just in the imagination of Dr. Seuss — from her backyard was a real treat. She gave me the carton as a token of appreciation for helping her transition to her new job. She could have brought me flowers or taken me to lunch, but the eggs were the far more exciting treat. As I marveled at the oval beauties, she explained that her family collects eggs daily from Mrs. Darth Vader as well as her other four cluckers: Caramel, Butterscotch, Owl Face and Ghirardelli. On the top of a carton was packaging which explained that the chickens are well guarded by Penny Lane, the family’s Labrador retriever. It felt completely typical for the Upper Valley.

After all, the Upper Valley is filled with hobby farmers whose backyards are utopias of purpose and playfulness. I have friends who are beekeepers, milkmen and maple syrup boilers. I have neighbors who raise piglets and others who forage for morel mushrooms. Sure, it’s great to meet a farmer at a local farmers market who will sell you milk from his local dairy cows. But it’s even better when your best friend milks her family cow (named Holy, as in holy cow) to provide you with fresh cream with your coffee.

I look forward to the summer months when my fridge is filled not only with vegetables, but also filled with love. Pete gives me sungold tomatoes. Wynne picks me homemade grapes. Bernard gives me leafy greens. And Ben gives me berries. None of them are farmers by trade, but they all enjoy sharing the bounty of the backyard.

Me? I’m not a huge contributor to the trade. But, in the late summer, I do have stamina for picking more black raspberries than I need. I boil and sugar them down to preserves, and hand out jars to anyone within arm’s reach. It gives me great joy to have a friend coo with excitement over homemade jam from my Upper Valley backyard. And as soon as berry season arrives, I plan on giving my colleague a jar of sweetness in exchange for more green eggs.

Yes, life is good when you know where your breakfast comes from. And it’s even better when you know the name of the chicken producing your egg. And when her name is Mrs. Darth Vader? Well, that’s something to cluck about.



(As posted in the Valley News on May 31, 2015)

Shrooms, Ramps, and Snakes… Oh My!

There’s something about foraging that I love. After being inspired by this VPR segment on discovering backyard edibles, I decided to go on a hunt for my own morels and garlicky ramps. So, yesterday I put on sweatpants, a baseball cap, and my husband’s mud boots and headed into the woods. (I was looking like a fashionista, as always.) I carried a hand shovel (just to make me look more like a woodsman) and covered myself in bug spray (just to make me smell more like a Boy Scout.) I was ready to gather anything remotely digestible.

When a friend called moments before I left the house, I told her that I could only talk for a moment because I was mushrooming. She was horrified. “You are OFFICIALLY a Vermonter,” she said with a sigh. “Call me when you get sick of the woods and want to go to TJMaxx.” I hung up the phone and trampled on to the Great Outdoors.

I didn’t tell my friend that this wasn’t my first mushrooming expedition. Two years prior, another friend pointed out a morel under a blossoming ash tree in my backyard. He taught me the art of poking around the ground of the “Big-Ash” trees in mid May. That spring, I had found three morels on my own, nestled under a cluster of ash trees near my backyard brook. It was beginner’s luck, and it was great fun.

Yet, it took days to work up the nerve to actually eat those morels.  (I compared my finds to internet morels for a full twenty-four hours before bringing them to a local forester for confirmation.) Finally, I threw them in a pan with butter, and sautéed the heck out of them. It was lot of work for three mouthfuls of fungi. But, they were delicious. (Then again, cardboard is delicious when it is soaked in golden-brown butter.)

So, I had visions of saute pans when I headed towards the same cluster of backyard ash trees yesterday. No luck.  So I went to another “Big-Ash” tree. Nothing. One hour and twenty minutes later, I had  thoroughly checked at least a dozen or more trees. There were no mushrooms in sight. And to add insult to injury, I couldn’t even find one lousy little ramp in the surrounding areas.

I did, however, find one plastic trash bag and a small garter snake which scared the heck out of me. (And I hate snakes more than I hate the Connecticut Turnpike… which is a lot.) It was my worst forage bounty ever. I returned home smelling like DEET and worried about ticks. I showered the hunt away… trying to forget my losing battle.

Next year, I’ll go ‘shrooming again. But it’s not fun foraging in the woods when your odds of finding a snake are better than finding an actual edible. Perhaps I should cover a larger territory, and bring a friend or two for fresh eyes on a camouflaged landscape.

Or perhaps, I should just stick to the farmer’s market.



Puppy Love

I didn’t mean to fall in love with another man. But he entered my home, and took me (and my dog) by surprise. Since then, it’s been love.

Dr. Chris Pet Vet is a family-friendly Saturday morning television program on CBS. It follows the adventure of a veterinarian as he helps furry and fur-less friends recover from injuries and disease.  It’s a feel-good show, where all pets survive and thrive to the delight of their friendly owners.

But that’s not why I watch it.

I watch Dr. Chris Pet Vet because a better looking person has never walked the earth. Not only is Dr. Chris tall, blonde, tanned, and handsome, but he also has a jawline structured by the gods. His wavy hair accentuates his blue eyes. And, he’s Australian. AUSTRALIAN! “The cocker spaniel is healthy, mate!” There is not a person who is more dreamy. Did I mention that he saves puppies for a living?

My husband completely understands why both Mabel and I drool at the television. He can’t deny the perfection of an successful, young veterinarian who looks like a model and talks like Crocodile Dundee. Mabel, my black lab, wags her tail as Dr. Chris saves the dogs who bark through the television screen. (We both dream of bringing her to his office for a check-up, just so we both could see his megawatt smile in person.)

Dr. Chris, if you’re out there reading this… I have a lovely six year old Labrador Retriever who needs her annual Lyme vaccine. We’re ready when you are.



Vermont Ain’t For Mild-Mannered People

Oh, Vermont ain’t for mild-mannered people.
We grow ’em tough and real wild.
While others grow strip malls and turnpikes,
Vermonters grow hippie flower childs.

Oh, Vermont ain’t for mild-mannered people.
Got it all from the snow to the rain,
Superb is our fall, but that’s just the start of it all.
Our Mud Season will make yours look lame.

Oh, Vermont ain’t for mild-mannered people.
There ain’t any sissies or wimps.
We syrup, we plow, we tip over our cows,
And we’ll shovel until we go limp.

So, don’t mess with Vermonter people.
We’ll stick you to a maple tree.
You may think we’re cute ’cause we live in the woods,
But there’s no place that we’d rather be.



Like a Little Prayer…

Prayer is not necessarily something I talk about over wine and lasagna dinners with friends. It’s not the sexiest topic of conversation. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.

Perhaps this all started with my increased awareness of current events. Sometimes, the busyness of my own life keeps me from reading the newspaper. But lately, I’ve been back on a news binge. I watch morning news television while I pound out steps on a treadmill, and I giggle with John Oliver on Sunday nights. And the news is, as you know, depressing. Last week, while watching the coverage of missing people during the Houston floods, I literally was brought to tears in public at the gym. And tears bring hope. And for me, hope brings prayer.

I don’t care to whom/what you pray. I don’t care if you pray in church or a synagogue or a mosque or in the drive-thru of Popeye’s Chicken. I don’t even care if you don’t want to use the “p” word, but instead just want to call it an inward reflection of gratitude. I actually don’t even care if you pray at all.

But I do care about my own teeny prayers. I don’t talk of them often, but they are there when I need them.

My mother is a woman who talks about prayer. I think the lady prays all day long. She tells us that she says prayers for us regularly. And she regularly uses the phrase, “Say A Prayer.” Say a prayer that your pet has a healthy annual exam. Say a prayer that your father doesn’t choke on a Triscuit. Say a prayer that the rat snake in the front yard moves to Mississippi. Say a prayer for our veterans, children, zookeepers, cheese makers, nurses, pilots, farmers, machinists, and gin-makers. My mother prays as often as she breathes.

I, on the other hand, probably pray as often as I sneeze. (Not often, but when I do…they come in spurts.) They pop up in sad moments when I step over a turtle who has fallen victim to a Honda Accord. Or happy moments when I step off King Da Ka roller coaster in one piece. They happen in quiet moments when I’m in awe of the little Lady’s Slipper orchid growing in my backyard. Or in loud moments when lightning is crashing around my house and I’m grasping to a pillow in fear.

My prayers aren’t much to speak of. Just little admissions of joy and hope. Nothing biblical. Nothing with hands folded towards the sky. Just little somethings for the sake of a bigger something.

But they do make the day a little more meaningful. And they give me something to focus on when I step on a roller coaster or into a hospital. Prayer may not be the most exciting topic to discuss, but during the most exciting times of my life, it’s what I rely on.


photo credit:

Tapas Schmapas


To be shared with your party of five.

Tapas is the Spanish word for sucker. Or at least, that’s how tapas make me feel.

At first, I jumped on the tapas bandwagon. It was a novelty to think of communal dining in a day and age when everything is “gorge on the run.” I loved the idea of Spanish-influenced food courses over long periods of time with close friends. I appreciated the portion-control of smaller-sized items.

So, I went to dimly lit restaurants with yellow tablecloths and ordered large glasses of wine and small plates of food. Crostini with goat cheese and marinated red peppers. Chorizo-stuffed mushrooms. Ham and cheese croquettes.

However, there would be two small croquettes on the plate, and one and a half would go to the other three people at my table. I’d get a half-croquette, and I would leave the restaurant hungry.

My friends and I quickly learned to order more plates. Shrimp scampi, baked mussels, chicken skewers. By the time we had satiated our appetites, we would find the bill outrageously expensive and ourselves outlandishly “well-wined.” (Ordering extra glasses of wine was the only way to pass the time while waiting for other plates.) Eating enough to satisfy hunger seemed to cost a pretty penny with all of these tiny dishes.

If an alien landed on earth, he would wonder why tapas restaurants could charge more money for littler plates. It is a win-win for the restaurant industry: let people spend more money by ordering more expensive plates of smaller-portioned food. In any regular fine-dining restaurant, I can order a bowl of mussels for $10.99. At a tapas restaurant, I can order three mussels for $7.99. And I allow this to happen…because I’ve had four glasses of sangria.

I want to love tapas restaurants. I really do. And if you want me to meet you at your favorite tapas restaurant, I will be there with bells on.

Just know that I will have already eaten dinner. :)