Happy Valentines Day!

For as long as I can recall, I have hated Valentines day.

I hate the pink. I hate the hearts. I hate the obscene feeling of obligation, the stench of rotten Valentines past lingering in the air, the sound of broken hearts crunching beneath my tepid sensitivities. I hate watching the cash register continue to tally the cost of $7.50 cards that will arrive late, be opened in haste and passed over in anticipation of the one from ‘him’. Since I was twelve years old comparing the number of M'n'M's that Lucy glued on Bethy's card versus mine, I have been shaking my box of valentines, unappreciative of what I've received and mourning what I’m missing.

I've ended 80% of my relationships before the impending doom of Valentines Day as a pre-emptive strike against inevitable disappointment. And the other 20% were miserable. My first love took me to the Keg restaurant for bottomless cokes and all-you-can-eat Caesar salads. My last love gave me a card. You see, Valentines Day celebrates all the things I hate about relationships. He reads a magazine that tells him he should take me to dinner, pick out a card, and buy chocolates. But I hate chocolate, the card isn’t his words, and this isn't his idea of a fun night. The truth is that if he had it his way, we would be watching football at home in front of the TV eating pizza from the box. I hate Valentines day.

Out of a relationship, the pressure is removed but Valentines still sucks. It’s a reminder to singles everywhere that, according to society, we have failed. I have failed. I, who have always striven for perfection..., I, who have always pushed for the A+... I, who will only play if I can win... I, have failed at love.

But something is different this year.

This year, I have a Valentine.

Suddenly I want to read poetry and listen to R & B. He is thoughtful and kind, makes dramatic gestures, likes art, writes poetry, plans dates, always walks between me and traffic, is humble and sincere, pays for my meals, instead of meeting me at restaurants he picks me up for dinner, notices little things and makes me feel like there is no need to race because he isn't going anywhere, anytime soon. Yes, something is really different about this one.

Now, I'm a realist and who knows how long this infatuation will last or how much longer my Valentine and I will hold one another’s attention. By this time next week I may be hating John Mayer tunes and cursing at happy couples on the street. But for today, on Valentines Day, I have a Valentine. And just maybe, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day so much this year.

Resolutions

The year I write my novel.
The year I run a mini-marathon.
The year I pay off my AMEX.
The year I spend less, and save more.
The year I fall in love.
The year I finish all my steps.
The year I find a job where all my talents are appreciated.
The year I listen more, speak less.
The year I go to Cuba.
The year I celebrate my birthday by throwing a party for myself.
The year I keep the same core group of friends.
The year I give more than I take.
The year I learn to accept my path.
The year I let go of the dream
that things would be better,
if only I were a little different.

Christmas Reflections

With each passing year, the memory of those magical Christmas morning of my childhood, dims like the slowly flickering flame of a once magnificent fire. What burned hot, has slowly burned down to mere glowing embers of sensory recall.

It has become increasingly more difficult to paste together the memories of sleepless Christmas Eves anticipating the arrival of Santa Clause, eyes full of wonder when a friend opens the gift I bought at the 99 cent imports store, and the pure joy on Christmas day of playing with my newest Strawberry Shortcake doll.

Bittersweet is the realization that on Christmas morning, I am no longer a little girl.

Instead, Christmas has evolved into something entirely foreign to the eyes of a seven-year old child. Christmas has faded from a burst of color, to take on the blend of a new pastel thread in an already rich tapestry.

Wrapping paper and crumbs from a batch of Christmas cookies still litter my floor, but now the smell of pine evokes an image of last minute Christmas shopping down 5th Avenue, girlfriends in short dresses navigating the bite of a New York winter, clutching scarves and skipping through ice puddles on their way to a cocktail and gift exchange at Pastis.

This year, Christmas Eve’s was my mother reading a book by the light of the Christmas tree, my father preparing Honeybaked ham on the good plates, and my brother whistling Christmas carols in the shower.

On Christmas day, Mom put on all her diamonds and pulled a velvet coat over her satin nightie, sat down at the dining room table, drank a bottle of wine, and assembled a puzzle. Dad buzzed around her with a rag in one hand, clutching a can of Endust in the other. As he worked his way through all the various rooms in the house, I heard him rouse Georg from a deep sleep in front of the television. Low muffles gave away to exchanged laughter. I just hovered in the moment, capturing the sounds, sights and nasal singe of lemon Endust in my memory. I wanted to preserve it for a day I hoped was long off. A day when I wouldn't have them anymore.

Christmas to this maturing woman has become girlfriends calling when I have the time to listen, heavy wool sweaters pulled over rounding belly’s, pajamas at 2:00 in the afternoon on a weekday, dusty board games seeing the light of day, reasons for old friends to see one another, and an abundance of activities to bring you closer to one another.

No longer blazing. No longer magical. But still warm. And still cozy.

The Annual Christmas Card

"Merry Christmas from Sober In the City!"

The past year has gone by in a blur. I started the year with a boyfriend, basking in the sun in the Dominican Republic, sipping Diet Cokes with Robert DeNiro and Angelina Jolie. I'm ending it alone in my apartment, writing blogs, addressing Christmas cards, dreading the opening of the Good Shepherd and hoarding Diet Root Beers. But it's been a good year for personal discovery!

In the last twelve months I have worked in Washington DC and Philadelphia. I've finally broken down and obtained a temporary flat in Philly to make the work week comfortable. Frequent trips to NYC allow me to stay current with my sis and my New York girlfriends like Carpe, Lexicon, Mex-goes-NY and Little Lion.

Notable events include: my DC exploits, Z's birthday, a Hampton's Memorial Day, Vegas adventures, weekend at the shore with my two bald parents, weekend at the shore with my wild and crazy girlies, my Seattle BFF's wedding, me and Gloria, two billion dollar babes sales, A Philly Halloween, a new sister-in-law, a new nephew, San Fran with half the fam, quitting smoking, the girl's Fall Hampton's retreat, the AA prom, Belle in the backyard and a day as a tourist in NYC with my sis.

No Mom, no boys. No mom, no girls either. Just me, my relationships, my writing, a promising career and wide-eyed optimism about the possibilities of the future. I've grown up a bit in the past year. This last year I wore more dresses. I saved money. I showed my friends how much they are loved. I said I was sorry when I made mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. But I also did a few things right. And at the end of 2006, I can say that I'm comfortable in my own skin. I only can hope that 2007 will bring the same.

A warm embrace from my writers desk on this unseasonably warm New York morning. May this time of year fill my friends, my family and my loyal readers with the love and affection given me throughout the year. I'm truly grateful for those of you who have blessed and challenged my last year. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Congratulations on making it through another year!

Happy Father's Day!

Rainbow Pop

I am seven and have just endured a day of yard work under the tortuous leadership of my sadistic older brother Jeb. He hit Francine with the rake and she sulked in tears under the tree refusing to continue. Kay tried to smooth it over, but Jeb threw her in the pile of leaves. Miraculously, we somehow made enough progress for Dad to pile us into the back of the suburban and drive us down the street to the gas station where we each get to pick out our favorite flavor of rainbow pop. It is a sunny spring day and Jeb, Kay, Francine and I are all allies while we sip our pop out of old fashioned glass bottles leaning against the car in the gravel driveway. Dad buys a case and we all drive home. I get to sit in the front seat. Next to Dad.


Snot

The winter means ski trips and stolen moments with Dad on the chairlift between runs down Crystal mountain. Dad has me giving him a book report on Ramon Quimby, Age 8, which is one of my favorite books, because I am also eight. It's so cold that my nose is running and I can't feel it. He looks at me, removes a leather glove, pulls a Kleenex from a pack of tissues in his pocket and puts it over my face.

"You got a runny nose kid."

When he pulls it away, I feel as if half my face has been removed.

"Well you have snot icicles hanging from your moustache."


Devo Dad

The Schmo residence is the first on the block to get MTV and my father has seen a video of a song he wants to find. Arriving at the door to Tower Records, he disperses his seven children with the mission to locate a cassette tape by a group of five or so men with slicked back hair, one wearing an oversized white suit jacket. We scour the store before I find a record cover with five men wearing funny red hats. He takes a look at it and declares the search over. He buys all of Devo's cassettes and once in the car, we play thirty seconds of every song, fast forwarding to the next to try and find the right tune. Dad doesn't have to try very hard to make the experience fun for everyone. By the time we arrive home, we have discovered that Devo is not the right band. Dad hands all the cassettes to me and Devo becomes my favorite eighties band of all time.

It is the following week when we are watching MTV and the video reappears. Dad jumps off the couch. We kids sit with our jaws dropped, staring as our dignified and serious Neurosurgeon father uses his right hand to karate chop across his left forearm singing along with The Talking Heads, "...this aint my beautiful wife, these aren't my beautiful kids...".


Thanksgiving

It is the awkward years. Dad and I had not spent much time together since I had turned 16. I came home, he left the room. I phoned, he handed the receiver to my mother. We just didn't have much to talk about. But I insist on staying connected to the family and at least trying, no matter how disastrously I fail. This year, I have decided to make Thanksgiving dinner and include everyone in the event. The idea of his children in his kitchen messing up the order of his spice rack is enough for Dad to offer to take us all out to the Yacht Club for turkey and gravy. But I am determined. I've planned out the menu, assigned each sibling a dish, timed out the items and began chopping and prepping at nine AM that morning. Dad has been up since 5 am and coming in and out of the kitchen to periodically throw a discerning glance over my shoulder. As the afternoon wears on, each one of my siblings reluctantly begins their contributory dish. But then they get bored and leave the kitchen. So five various projects have begun in different corners of the kitchen. Dad enters, he sees me, I haven't left the kitchen since I arrived. I'm smiling. This is me happy.

He puts on an apron. We don't speak, at first. But he begins looking over my shoulder at the recipes and next I know he is beside me. Chopping. The other siblings wander into the room, Mom begins a puzzle on the kitchen table. Dad and I are rolling dough, talking about apple consistency. Tigersmiles is popping green beans over the sink. Joe begins peeling potatoes for his contribution of mashed potatoes. Georg is reading through his recipe, one step at a time. He thought he was making stuffing, but in the end it turns out to be a frisee salad.

Dad and I are working in tandem to have everything perfectly timed. I line the wok with oil, a few red pepper flakes, some garlic and a pinch of salt. He is over my shoulder with the beans ready to drop them on my cue.

"Not yet Dad. I'm letting the oil absorb the seasoning."

"Where did you learn that?"

"In culinary school."

"Hm."

Dad cuts the onion up for Georg's stuffing/salad. He dices into identical thin slivers, his hand working the knife with expert precision.

"Where did you learn that?"

"Practicing on peoples brains."

"Nice."

Grandpa's Fritters

I am home for Christmas and there is a strange older version of my father living in my parents house. Dad moved Grandpa home a few weeks after his 100th birthday. I've met Grandpa three times in my life, and now he is shuffling about in a wing of my parents house, designed for his comfort and ease. Dad gutted two rooms, lay wood floors, and installed bars to make the bathroom handicap accessible.

Christmas morning finds my father up at 3 am to start making my Grandfather fritters the way my Grandmother used to make them. When Grandpa joins Dad in the kitchen, I can hear them talking as Dad buzzes about with the dough, the oil and the powdered sugar.

They talk for a few hours. No one talks to Dad for a few hours. You are lucky if you get a few minutes. I peek my head around the corner to stare. Yes, it's true, my father is someone elses son. A son who just wants to make his father happy. And I get that.

Half a Euro

I've just returned from a walk across Bryant Park to grab my lunch and head back to eat at my temporary desk located in the Board Room of the New York office of my firm. I'm sharing the room with four colleagues when my cell phone rings.

A deep and barely audible voice. "Hello from Italy."

"Who is this?"

"It's your father."

And I'm sure it is some imposter, because in thirty one years of life I have never once received a phone call from my father. And now, hundreds of miles away on a Rick Steves tour of Italy, my father has decided to place an expensive long distance call to me on his cell phone. To say hello. He must have gotten the number from my mother.

"Uh, hello."

"Jane, your mother and I are having a wonderful time in your country. And I wanted to let you know that you can call the search party off. Stop looking. I have found your future husband."

Now I am sure that our planet had been invaded by aliens that have taken my fathers human form and this man speaking to me is but a pod from some other world. My father doesn't call me on the phone, he doesn't address me by name, he doesn't think of me when on vacation in Italy, and he certainly doesn't care about the state of my love life. Unless it means he has to pay for a wedding. Which he had already told me he had no intention of financing after I turned 30. No, this man was definitely not my father.

"That's great. I'm so relieved. Is the food good?

"Better than when you make it."

Maybe it was my father. And in the background I hear my mother saying, "Oh stop it Joseph. Be nice."

"So you are enjoying Italy?"

"Immensely. We have met the greatest group of people. But it's the tour director that I've picked out for you. He's seven feet tall. Right?"

And I hear a group of about twelve or so people chiming in behind him.

"And I know you like 'em tall. He's right here. I'll put him on."

"Dad. Dad. I'm at work. It's not really a good time." I look anxiously at the faces of my co-workers who pretend to be lost in their e-mail but are sucking up every word that I am saying.

I get up and start to head for an empty room in the office. But before I can find one, my Dad has put someone else on the phone.

"Buongiorno. I am Alfio. Your parents are delightful."

After a short chat, my father gets back on the phone.

"Dad. What is going on?"

"Don't worry honey, If you don't like him I've got a few more that I met in Germany. I gave them your e-mail so you could follow up with them at another time. But I took their photos so I could show you what they look like when I get home. So take care, we will likely call you again from France. Especially if we meet some men on the train."

There are howls of laughter in the background and I swear I hear the clinking of glasses, wine being poured and my father smiling.

"Okay then. Bye."

"Yes. Ciao. And Alfio says he will call you later."

Happy Father's Day Pops!!

Look how much you have changed over the years...

I'm grateful for your presence in my life. Hope your day leaves you feeling appreciated.

Love, --- Your Favorite Child

Happy Valentines Day!

Jane,

Hope you are doing well. I am fine, I am out here in Dutch Harbor about to leave again to go out for another 2 weeks or so. I hope you have a wonderful Valentines day.

I just wanted to check in and remind you that I love you dearly and I hope life is going well for you, also... I am alive, well and apparently a perfect match for your perfect guy blog... except for the extra stuff. You are high rolling with that home in Rome angle.

To my Valentine of many years, my beautiful, wonderful, loving sister. God bless and where are my Diesel Pants?

Love you.

Your brother,

Georg

I hate Valentines Day Party

TO: Dark Hearts and Valentine Haters... tonight is your night!

Love is dead. Please join me at my apartment for a wake.

Take-out menus from all over the city will be provided, as will board games and raucous girly activities...

Remember that I only invited special friends that don't have boyfriends. So if you have since acquired one-you are no longer invited!!

If you think you might want to come for a little bit before you have to run off for a date... DON'T BOTHER!! WE DON'T NEED YOU!! WE HATE VALENTINES DAY!!!!!!!

Please exercise discretion when telling your friends that you are joining a party of exquisite and fashionable New York women to order take-out and play board games. Others will be jealous. Perhaps you should say you are going home to your empty apartment, three cats and almost burned down Christmas candles.

RULES: No hearts... No love... No Boyfriends... No pink (except Janice P.)... No red... No chocolate (except Kelli)... No kissing (unless it's me and you are really hot) ... no mention of the V word...

DRESS CODE: Black

ATTITUDE: Bad....