Holidoze

Hanukkah came “early” this year. Too early for us to prepare.  Late nights and early mornings. Swim practice and meets. Sports conditioning. Academic finals for students and teachers. Coughs and colds and trips to the doctor to avoid the truancy fine. Make up homework. Long commutes in short daylight hours. No time means no latkes, no matzo ball soup, no geldt.

The Menorah, relegated to decorative status, held up two Christmas stockings. Accusing.

Chastened, we offered our oldest to the Holy Land and tracked her progress via social media. She sent the occasional text to stem the tide of maternal worry. I was a stone’s throw from Gaza and survived. I was not amused by the stone’s throw comment.

I developed an affinity for Grumpy Cat thanks to my bossfriend.

In the middle of the holiday ramp up, perfectly centered in the parties and decorating, the world went red and thus began the rage at the machine gun. We’ve become  a horrible caricature of ourselves. Social media has enabled us to put a megaphone to the microphone. Deafening.

I retreated a little, seeking refuge in inappropriate, but mostly private humor.

Short of gift ideas for the children, I made tasteless jokes about purchasing guns, ammo and whiskey to protect them from lurking danger. If adding more danger to dangerous situations is the answer, then I’m all for providing them with the means to protect themselves. Give them STDs or give them death! Don’t tread on their need to text and drive! Bike helmets are a slippery slope, I tell you what.

Or to misquote one of my favorite movies Brighton Beach Memoirs “If Wayne LaPierre taught logic in school, this would be one fucked up and heavily-armed world.”

Not that it isn’t already.

Christmas was a simple affair. Small, practical gifts for Nathan and Sophie. Chloe’s absence felt a foregone conclusion. One day our family would likely scatter, too. We ate. Fudge, chocolate kisses and stars, clementines, cinnamon rolls, Chinese takeout.

Turns out the best gift of all really can’t be purchased at a Walmart, ordered on Amazon, wrapped in a big red ribbon in the driveway or exchanged for store credit. It can’t be loaded with ammo, requires no batteries,  isn’t made by slave labor in Asia and doesn’t take up space in the basement when the novelty wears off.

Time.

A long break from the routine. Several days off from work. Days to spend doing whatever I want, some of what needs to be done. Scads of uninterrupted time with the family, enough to understand the true meaning of the holidays phrase “Proximity breeds hostility.”

Enough to realize that each comes by their quirks and diagnoses honestly. Have I ever mentioned how my husband eats his meals in sequence, finishing one item on his plate before moving on to the next? All the broccoli must be eaten before he takes a bite of chicken.

I’ve made my contribution, as well. Too bad none of the children inherited my need for order, instead opting for anger management issues and anxiety.

Thankfully, we have something that brings us together. Something upon which we can agree. Dr. Who. A Christmas Story. Harmony, a sweet interlude between revoking driving privileges and explaining again why dishes must be unearthed from bedrooms and delivered to the kitchen.

And the only thing I required besides my reading glasses, a burrowing deep into the covers. Read, sleep, consider writing, consider cocktails. Reject both. Netflix, Acorn TV. Eat more chocolate. Promises to myself that after this long winter’s nap, I’ll take this store of energy and do something with it.

Holidoze

Hanukkah came “early” this year. Too early for us to prepare.  Late nights and early mornings. Swim practice and meets. Sports conditioning. Academic finals for students and teachers. Coughs and colds and trips to the doctor to avoid the truancy fine. Make up homework. Long commutes in short daylight hours. No time means no latkes, no matzo ball soup, no geldt.

The Menorah, relegated to decorative status, held up two Christmas stockings. Accusing.

Chastened, we offered our oldest to the Holy Land and tracked her progress via social media. She sent the occasional text to stem the tide of maternal worry. I was a stone’s throw from Gaza and survived. I was not amused by the stone’s throw comment.

I developed an affinity for Grumpy Cat thanks to my bossfriend.

In the middle of the holiday ramp up, perfectly centered in the parties and decorating, the world went red and thus began the rage at the machine gun. We’ve become  a horrible caricature of ourselves. Social media has enabled us to put a megaphone to the microphone. Deafening.

I retreated a little, seeking refuge in inappropriate, but mostly private humor.

Short of gift ideas for the children, I made tasteless jokes about purchasing guns, ammo and whiskey to protect them from lurking danger. If adding more danger to dangerous situations is the answer, then I’m all for providing them with the means to protect themselves. Give them STDs or give them death! Don’t tread on their need to text and drive! Bike helmets are a slippery slope, I tell you what.

Or to misquote one of my favorite movies Brighton Beach Memoirs “If Wayne LaPierre taught logic in school, this would be one fucked up and heavily-armed world.”

Not that it isn’t already.

Christmas was a simple affair. Small, practical gifts for Nathan and Sophie. Chloe’s absence felt a foregone conclusion. One day our family would likely scatter, too. We ate. Fudge, chocolate kisses and stars, clementines, cinnamon rolls, Chinese takeout.

Turns out the best gift of all really can’t be purchased at a Walmart, ordered on Amazon, wrapped in a big red ribbon in the driveway or exchanged for store credit. It can’t be loaded with ammo, requires no batteries,  isn’t made by slave labor in Asia and doesn’t take up space in the basement when the novelty wears off.

Time.

A long break from the routine. Several days off from work. Days to spend doing whatever I want, some of what needs to be done. Scads of uninterrupted time with the family, enough to understand the true meaning of the holidays phrase “Proximity breeds hostility.”

Enough to realize that each comes by their quirks and diagnoses honestly. Have I ever mentioned how my husband eats his meals in sequence, finishing one item on his plate before moving on to the next? All the broccoli must be eaten before he takes a bite of chicken.

I’ve made my contribution, as well. Too bad none of the children inherited my need for order, instead opting for anger management issues and anxiety.

Thankfully, we have something that brings us together. Something upon which we can agree. Dr. Who. A Christmas Story. Harmony, a sweet interlude between revoking driving privileges and explaining again why dishes must be unearthed from bedrooms and delivered to the kitchen.

And the only thing I required besides my reading glasses, a burrowing deep into the covers. Read, sleep, consider writing, consider cocktails. Reject both. Netflix, Acorn TV. Eat more chocolate. Promises to myself that after this long winter’s nap, I’ll take this store of energy and do something with it.

Adventures in Real Parenting: I feel stupid and contagious

“This is a rotting cesspool of social anxieties with an overwhelming smell of adolescence.”

This comes from a text I recently received from my precious 13 year old. I’m applying the adjective precious loosely.

She’s in the throes of adolescence so I’m surprised, quite frankly, that she can detect the smell of it. Some days it’s easier to like her than other days. She’s smart and stubborn. A loner who doesn’t want to be alone. Unconventional, but sensitive to the reaction of others. A Jew without any religious training frustrated that her school holds its Meet Me at the Pole religious service every year on Yom Kippur, but refuses to speak to her class about Hanukkah when given the opportunity.

My hugs could easily metamorphose into throttles for the ways this child stretches my patience well beyond where it’s been pulled before.

I remember telling my mother that I hated her, but loved my boyfriend. Testing my limits with alcohol and cigarettes and hungering to be recognized as the grown up I thought I was.

And yet, there I was, lip-syncing I Will Survive into a hairbrush alone in my bedroom while Andy Gibb peered down, shirtless and tan from my wall when I was home alone.

Oh yes. That.

Suddenly, a little teen angst doesn’t seem so annoying. She’s on the swim team not choosing between menthol or regular Virginia Slims. She’s learning how to make a rag rug out of old t-shirts, not acquiring a taste for beer. She’s not hating me with the fury of a thousand Justin Beiber fans.

It could be so much worse.

Overdoing it is part of the job

I lay in bed and listen to that gurgle in my stomach. Was that the curried chicken? The $4 margaritas? Or the build your own nachos bar in the Hospitality Suite? The stress of being “on” all day as the meeting attendees needed me to be at the ready to deliver whatever they needed?

The gurgles grew into something not of this earth and I felt relieved at least that the hotel bathroom was located away from the room next door. On the other side of the wall was the room containing the ice machine. Oh wait. Was that sound the ice machine?

No. That was definitely my stomach. And those noises made the whirring – CaLUNK of the ice machine sound downright ladylike.

I crawled back into bed and looked at the illuminated clock. 2:36 a.m. In five short hours I would be sitting in a meeting, next to my boss, as I took minutes for a very long meeting.

Neither a gurgling stomach nor, dare I think it, gas would make for the optimum situation.

Ah, the joys of business travel.

Entire days entombed in latex to keep my curves in check. Sitting at attention for long stretches of time. Early mornings. Late nights. Full breakfasts of eggs, bacon, fruit and coffee. Fast food lunches eaten on the fly. Afternoon cookie breaks and soda pick-me-ups. Spicy dinners because I work with people who love Mexican and Asian food more than life itself. And the piece de resistance — the open bar in the nightly Hospitality Suite.

Urp.

Thankfully, It’s not just our bar that’s well-stocked. We’ve learned to be prepared. Our meeting go-box is full of over the counter goodies.

Among those goodies are pain relievers, bottles of drinkable energy, gauze, adhesive bandages, alcohol wipes, intestinal globstoppers and, thank goodness, antacid and anti-gas products.

Apparently, I am not the only person who falls victim to overindulgence.

Early the next morning, I pawed through the box and came across the bottle of di·gel; an all-in-one antacid and anti-gas solution. It was brand new, unopened. I read the label:
Our specially formulated products handle everything from heartburn and acid indigestion, to upset stomach, bloating and even gas. di•gel is your all-in-one solution for digestive relief.
Score! I could kill two offensive birds with one freshmint tablet. Or two.

I popped a couple of chewables and got on with my day. Not once did I feel the need to excuse myself from the room in a big hurry or consider upon whom I could blame that smell. I created no foul smells or strange noises at all.

It was good thing, too, because that night was our last. Which meant that I’d hear on more than one occasion, “What are you drinking?” and vodka tonics would appear before me.

And the next morning was another early one.

I’m glad I learned about the different di·gel products that come in liquid, tablet, and convenient ‘On the Go products for your pocket or purse, especially because of the upcoming holidays. That means plenty of overdoing it in my future. Anything resembling self-control will have to wait until January 1. di·gel is available as:

• Regular Strength Liquid (Freshmint) – Anti-gas/antacid
• Maximum Strength Liquid (Cherry) – Anti-gas/antacid
• Multi-Symptom Chewable Tablets (Freshmint) –Anti-gas/antacid
• Extra Strength Antacid Chewable Tablets (Mixed Berry) – Antacid
• Extra Strength “On-the-go” Antacid Chewable Tablets (Mixed Berry) –Antacid

Join me at www.godigel.com to learn more about how you can undo the overdoing and while you’re at it, let’s spread the word. Let’s take the gas and gurgles head on. Tag your tweets and instagrams #undowithdigel to let your friends know that they don’t have to live with the discomfort and gas and sour stomachs.

Unless, of course, your friends like that kind of thing. In which case, there’s no helping them.

A Squatch by Any Other Name

Early in our life together, MathMan wasn’t so comfortable saying the word vagina. True, it wasn’t something I dropped into casual conversation either. Thinking back, vagina didn’t come up that much. What was there to say really? Besides, we’re creatures of our time and culture. Those days were different.

Back in the modest 1990s, the media, when met with the need to report on sexual matters, took the careful route. Anchors referred delicately to Monica Lewinsky’s stained dress and made oblique references to cigars.

Oh and remember when the nation got all oogey about references to Clarence Thomas’s artistic placement of a pubic hair on a Coke can?

Different times.

It’s quite easy to see why MathMan felt compelled to invent his own word.

What’s questionable perhaps is the word he invented.

The word, the origins of which remain a mystery to all but the most distinguished etymologists, is squatch. It’s a weird word that has caused me to wonder on more than one occasion what in the hell must be wrong with my vagina to have inspired it.

Stop being such a narcissist, I tell myself. MathMan has seen more than one vagina. Maybe this word – squatch – is an homage to some other vagina.

Lord I hope so. I mean squatch? Is that an onomatopoeia? Or commentary on one’s need to deforest?

Having daughters increased, if only slightly, the need to use the V word. I distinctly remember one such occasion when one daughter, at the age of three, lay on the floor after a bath. Her hands wandered and she proclaimed “Hey, there’s a hole in me!”

My first opportunity to teach her the proper word and what did I do? I told her that was her squatch. I may have also mumbled vagina, but it got lost as she tried the word on for size. Squatch? My squatch? My squatch!

The word stuck. Became a part of our family’s lexicon forever and ever.

Today American society appears less twitchy about certain words. Now it’s all vaginal probe this and erectile dysfunction that. Ashley Madison, a website used by people seeking to have “discreet affairs,” advertises on the radio and has its own jingle about sleeping around to “save one’s sanity.”

Different times.

Now even The Goldens have become more comfortable discussing vaginas and penises and the like. Put a little vodka in me and you’re likely to hear me imitate my high school sex ed teacher with the lateral lisp saying vas deferens.

And yet we revert back to that word. Cling to it. Yes, we’re all growing up, but we still say squatch.

Which explains why this show strikes us as so damn funny.