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            In a restaurant, it’s hard for me to imagine focusing on anything but food. 

            I love restaurants, love having someone else do the cooking, bring me the food, clean up the mess.  When I’m fortunate enough to eat out, I am there, mind, body and soul—no distractions.

             So when my husband and I ate out last weekend at one of our favorite local restaurants, I was slightly miffed to find him focusing not on the moment (let’s be frank, he wasn’t paying enough attention to me), but on a table behind me.

             When I turned to check out what was so fascinating, I thought I had my answer when I saw a table of attractive young women sharing a meal.

             “What are you looking at?” I hissed.

             “I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” he said.

             “I can’t believe you’re staring,” I answered.

             “But do you see what they’re doing?”

             “They’re in a restaurant.  I’m going to go out on a limb and say they’re eating.”

             “Yeah, they’re eating.  In between checking their phones and texting.  They’re barely talking to one another and in between bites, they’re all looking at their phones and typing out messages,” Dave said.

             Sure enough, as I surreptitiously stole another glance, I saw the girls busily tapping away.

             “It’s like they’re here with their friends, but they’re all looking for a better offer,” Dave said.

             “Either that or they’re all government agents and something really big is about to go down,” I added.

              I turned back to the hot, cooked-by-someone-else meal before me and as I savored the next mouthful, I wondered, what could be better than food, drink and time out with friends?  If you’re looking for occasions which merit the consideration of escape, I can think of many other times I’d be jumping on the bandwagon, begging for a better option.

             My first text of the day would come at the sound of my morning alarm.   Tap, tap, tap.  “Looking for a few extra minutes.  Anyone willing to part with some?”

             Then, in line at the grocery store, in the express lane, standing behind someone with forty items, paying with a check.  Tap, tap, tap.  “I’m about to go ballistic.  Can someone step in here before I start shrieking and have to be sedated?”

             On the phone, trying to get a live person to figure out why my insurance company has once again denied a claim.  Tap, tap, tap.  “Interested in finding someone who speaks health insurance to take my place.  Must be willing to spend forty-five minutes on hold and negotiate with a robotic, disembodied voice.  Any takers?”

             Standing in a department store dressing room, staring at a three-way mirror under fluorescent lights, trying to squeeze into a pair of jeans.  Tap, tap, tap.  “I need some chocolate and a change of venue.  Macy’s, women’s department, third dressing room door on the left.  Oh, and you have to help me out of these jeans.  They’re too small.”

             Finally, in the doctor’s office, waiting for my annual ob-gyn check up.  (Fellas, insert your own humiliating experience here.)  Tap, tap, tap.  “FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!  WILL SOMEONE PLEASE GET ME OUT OF HERE?”

             Yes, if searching for a better offer is an option, I can think of hundreds of occasions when my fingers would be sore from tapping.  But as a woman who has had to cook zillions of meals for a not always appreciative cast of characters, dinner at a restaurant with my friends is most definitely not one of them.  So girls, here’s my advice:  Put down your phones, eat, drink and be merry.

             For tomorrow, you may be the cook.

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We all know it’s tough out there, but things are getting downright ugly.

            Last week in Madison, Wisconsin, a manager from Dean Health System called a nurse from an operating room where she was assisting in a surgical procedure—to tell her she was being laid off.

            I’m going to guess that the patient wasn’t the manager’s mother.

            I’m not sure if the nurse ever returned to the operating room, but then, would you want her to?  A nurse with an attitude and a score to settle is not who I’d want standing over me while I was knocked unconscious on an operating table, though I wouldn’t have blamed her for wanting to hand the doctor a hammer instead of sutures.

            And if she didn’t return to the procedure, can you imagine the operating room conversation?

            Doctor:  “All right, everyone, nice work.  Let’s close.  Nurse, sutures, please.”

            Anesthesiologist:  “Sorry, doc, she’s gone.”

            Doctor:  “Gone?  What do mean, gone?”

            Anesthesiologist:  “She was sacked.”

            Doctor:  “Oh great.  I’ve got three more surgeries after this one.  I’ve got to get this guy closed up.  Say, how’d you like to jump in here and help out?   And if you’re not busy for the next few hours, I could a hand on a few other procedures, if you’re game.”

            Anesthesiologist:  “Yeah, what the heck.  My insurance premiums for this anesthesiologist gig are killing me anyway.  Might as well try something new.”

            What if this becomes standard lay-off practice?  People getting dumped in the middle their workday, with no regard for the circumstances.  Can you imagine the fall-out?

            “Hello.  This is Susan Smith.  I dropped my car off four days ago to have new brakes put in.  Is it finished yet?”

            “Actually, it’s still up on the lift.  Joe was working on it, but he was laid off in the middle of the job.”

            “Excuse me?  What happens now?”

            “Not really sure.  The parts are all over the garage but we don’t have anyone to put them in.  Do you own a bike?”

            At your favorite restaurant—“Excuse me, we placed our orders over 40 minutes ago.  Could you please find our waitress and see what the holdup is?”

            “Oh, I know what the holdup is.  Your waitress put the order in and it’s ready, but she was just laid off.”

            “What?  What do we do now?”

            “I dunno.  I guess you’ll have to go into the kitchen and get your food yourself.”

            “But I have to do that at home.  That’s why we came to a restaurant.”

            In a plane, 30,000 feet in the air—“I don’t want to be an alarmist, but isn’t that the pilot up front crying on the flight attendant’s shoulder?”

            “Yep.  I just heard him say the airline laid him off.”

            “LAID HIM OFF?  NOW?  WHO’S FLYING THE PLANE?”

            I suppose in the operating room fiasco, the patient couldn’t really complain, given that he was unconscious, which is probably what the manager was counting on.  But complain we should, loud and long.

            It’s one thing to be laid off, to lose your livelihood in the midst of this crushing economic downturn.  But does anyone have the right to annihilate a person’s last shred of dignity by pulling them off the job and sacking them right in the middle of a day’s work?  “I’m sorry, but not only do we not need you, we don’t need you starting right this second!  You can leave; we’ll get the night watchman to finish up for you.”  And should customers (or patients) be subjected to the shoddy service that will inevitably result?

           A little sensitivity, people.  Because tough doesn't have to be ugly.

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They’re up early every morning, some as early as 5 A.M., on their computers, sending and answering email, surfing the internet for ideas, encouragement and inspiration.

             My husband’s own little group consists of about ten friends, give or take, on any given morning.  It’s not that they don’t want to sleep.  They would all much prefer to be snuggled in their beds, lost to pleasant dreams.  But these men aren’t sleeping.  They wake like clockwork, around the same time every day, eyes unhappily popping open to stare at the ceiling until they give in once again, knowing that sleep won’t come for them again on this morning.

             So they wearily rise, careful not to wake sleeping spouses, and trudge downstairs to their computers, finding strange comfort and camaraderie in their network of similarly afflicted friends.

             These men, many of them in the middle of their lives, are warriors, fighting to keep themselves and their families afloat in the economic tsunami threatening to drown everyone in its path.  Many of them own businesses, businesses that they are struggling mightily to keep open.  Because they employ others, they frequently face not only their own pain, but pain they must inflict, unwillingly, on other men and women when they have to cut their workforces.  Again.

             They worry for their own, still upstairs asleep.   They worry for their employees, and they worry for each other.  I worry for them, too.  For my husband first, of course, but for all of these men, these good men, who did everything right, worked hard, took care of their families, took care of others along the way.  Now they wake and wonder what happened?  When you’ve followed all the rules, when you’ve fought the good fight, is this where you’re supposed to end up?  Staring sleepless at a computer at 5 A.M. wasn’t part of the plan.

             It’s enough to make a man say, “Why bother?”  “Why bother playing by the rules?  Why bother being a good guy?  Why not take the easy way out, look out only for yourself and the heck with everybody else?”

             But not these guys.  They don’t think like that.  They couldn’t think like that.  That’s not what they’re saying to each other in those early morning hours.

             And that’s what I find particularly amazing.

             Holding each other up, providing encouragement, a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on, that’s what these fellas are doing at 5 A.M.  To tell the truth, they’re almost like girlfriends—and while they’d probably bristle at the comparison, that’s not a bad thing in this case.

             We women have long known the blessings of sharing.  It’s what gets us through some of the toughest times we face as women, wives and mothers.  We girls share it all, for better or worse; often, the sharing is exactly what helps us through the worse. 

              In addition to their problems, the men are sharing their faith.  Down to the last man, they all believe things will get better, that their steps are being guided by a higher power, that they are being carried through these difficult times by their faith.  They say their faith has never been stronger; they know they will come out the other side of this stronger, better men.

             It's Spring.  A time when the world comes alive again.  It’s a rebirth of sorts, a renewal of spirit.  The resurgence of hope, which frankly, couldn’t come at a better time for so many. 

             This Spring, I’ll pray for the personal renewal of my husband and all good men, hoping that just maybe, on a morning soon to come, 5 A.M. will find them all peacefully asleep. 

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             Privacy.  A highly valued personal right in the United States.  And I’m a fan, particularly when it applies to a closed bathroom door, me on the inside of the bathroom and everyone else in my house, including the dog, on the outside of the door.

             But it’s a rather odd value as well, given the apparent need for the general public to inform the world of every hiccup, giggle (LOL) or other inane activity via the likes of internet social sites like Facebook, MySpace and Twitter.  For some reason, folks want everyone to know what they’re up to.  Everything.  All of the time.

             So in some ways, the privacy issue seems moot.  We don’t live in a country where Big Brother scrutinizes our every move, but then we don’t have to, since we tell everyone our lives’ most intimate details with no prompting at all.

             Yet privacy is a really big deal to some of the powers that be.  Take the good folks at the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (http://www.hhs.gov).  They would be the ones who established the HIPAA Privacy Rule back in 1996, to govern the legal disbursement of health related information.  HIPAA stands for Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act and the intention was to make sure that entities with access to an individual’s health information kept it private unless given permission to release it.  So your health information remained your business and unavailable to prying eyes.

             The policy applies to every adult over the age of 18.  Can any of you parents out there guess where I’m going with this?

             No 18 year old in the world wants to be responsible for her own health information.  For that matter, neither does any 22 year old or any 23 year old—male or female.  I can personally attest to it.  My guess is that no “adult” under the age of 28 wants that responsibility, and I’m only picking that number because my kids haven’t gotten there yet.  When they do, look for a revision.

             The basic problem begins with the assumption that an eighteen year old is an adult, a concept every mother on the planet knows is downright laughable.  How can a person who thinks that a bag of Goldfish crackers, nine Bagel Bites and a liter of soda constitute a balanced meal, be an adult?     

             But back to the brains behind HIPAA.  Because they have decided that my kids are adults, I cannot invade their privacy and have access to their health information.

             Newsflash, folks: They don’t want privacy.  What they do want is for me to handle any and all of their health related issues, from now until forever. 

             Believe me, it’s not that I haven’t tried to pass the reins to my kids.  I’ve accompanied them to appointments and handed them the twelve page forms they need to fill out to get past the gatekeepers and see the Great and Powerful Oz (or any doctor of the day), only to be met with confused and slightly terrified stares along with the plaintive plea, “Can’t you do this?” 

             I’ve sat silent in rooms as doctors asked questions and the kids immediately looked at me for answers.  I’ve heard my son, 23, on the phone with a nurse, say “Hold on.  I have to ask my mom.”  I’ve watched the three of them panic over insurance forms.  (Insurance that we pay for—we just can’t ask questions about it.)

             So if some government agency wants to insure privacy, give me a sign to put on my bathroom door.  As far as my kids go, they’re only too happy to share.  

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I need to find a new way to spend a Sunday.

           This past Sunday found me, along with my mother, in various home center stores, on a mission to purchase a new dishwasher.

            For some reason, I am always enlisted to help mom buy appliances, a task of which I am none too fond.  My mother, on the other hand, loves appliances, and can debate for hours the superiority of a porcelain interior as opposed to a stainless steel one in a dishwasher.  She’s an expert on the agitation cycle of a washing machine as well.  My mother could do a doctoral dissertation on appliances.  They are her version of a shiny, new sports car.

            By contrast, I replace major household devices only during catastrophes such as the great interior flood of 1993, the Christmas morning house heater crash of 1999 or the legendary water heater debacle of 2005.  Thankfully, I’ve been flying under the appliance radar for a while, though now that I said something, I imagine the oven will explode at any time.

            On Sunday, when the phone rang, I thought I’d be only too glad for any diversion, as I was scrubbing the toilet at the time. 

            “Hi, it’s Mom,” (as if I didn’t recognize the voice) “what are you doing?”

            With my mother, it’s a coin toss as to how I should answer.  Occasionally, the outing is pure fun, as in “Let’s take a cooking class.”  More often that not, though, it’s a task which will leave me exhaling and rolling my eyes.  The upside is that she usually feeds me, which tends to outweigh all of the negatives.

             I sighed as I looked at the toilet brush.  “Just cleaning.  Why, what’s up?”

             “I need a new dishwasher and I wondered if you’d come with me.”

            “Sure,” I answered, as I reluctantly put down the brush.  “Give me a half hour.”

             Half an hour later, we were on our way, stopping at the first of three “big box” stores that housed the sought-after prize.  As we marched down the mile-long aisle (we brought snacks and water for the journey), she spied the dishwashers.  “Oh great,” she muttered.

             “What’s wrong?” I asked.

             “That man in this department is going to try and tell me about a dishwasher.  Men don’t know about dishwashers.  I don’t know why they have men trying to sell women appliances,” she said.

             My mother is a firm believer in the separation of the sexes, at least in terms of the male knowledge base regarding all things in a homemaker’s domain.  In other words, she thinks men are dopes. 

             Sure enough, a lovely older gentleman tried to school my mother on dishwashers, which I’m certain he regretted immediately.

             “This one is the new tall interior version, with a computerized program console and six cleaning levels,” he said.

             “Why is the bottom rack down so low?” she said.  “Don’t they make anything with a dial anymore?  As far as the levels go, all I want is ‘normal.’  Do they just have ‘normal’ nowadays?”

             We didn’t buy anything there.

             A similar scenario took place at two other stores, until I put my foot down and asked “Ryan” to help us.  Ryan had two strikes against him: he was a man and he was young, and therefore doubly dopey.  But to his credit, he prevailed, politely answering my mother’s questions and ultimately selling her a dishwasher.  (Plastic interior—they don’t make porcelain anymore.)

             She did take me to lunch, more mother-daughter bonding and food, which salvaged the afternoon, but next Sunday I need a different plan.

             Anyone out there need a bathroom cleaned?

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I’m on my cell.  I’m texting.  I’m Skyping.  I’m IMing.  I’m Facebooking; I’m Tweeting and I’m emailing—but only when I’m in dinosaur mode as that’s the most inefficient method of communicating, if you listen to my kids.

            “Email?  Mom, why did you email me?  I only check my email like, once a week!  You should have texted me.”

            Sorry.  Once again, I’m at the bottom of the learning curve.  In my defense, however, this is one curve whose top is almost impossible to reach, given the speed at which technology changes.

            But back to all of the “communicating.”  Of my three children, the two girls live away at college, neither more than 90 minutes away, and my son works full time and lives at home. 

            I “talk” to them more now than I did when they were all toddlers, peppering me with the “Why?” question every 30 seconds.

             Don’t get me wrong; I love my kids, and I know I am luckier than some parents who hear from their children only when they are in need of cash or a credit card.  That happens, too, but my three have made it their personal mission to indoctrinate me to every form of electronic communication at least four times a day.  Each.

             The problem?  I don’t have anything left to say.

             For me, this admission is huge.  Among my mother, siblings and extended family, I have a slight reputation as a talker.  All right, according to them, I never shut up and have something to say about everything and every one.  Not too flattering, but unfortunately, more true than not.

             But after four to twelve “conversations” per kid, per day with my own brood, I’m spent. 

             First, there’s the morning phone call.  “Hey, Mom.  What’s up?”  Even my son, who lives with me, phones each morning.  After the requisite “Not much.  What’s up with you, hon?” response, we exchange pleasantries and they promise to touch base later.  Which they do, usually via a text message announcing their activity of the moment, ranging anywhere from being in class, to eating lunch, to going to the gym.  Again, my response is similar, with a few details changing daily.

             Later, when I’m on my computer, a familiar bling along with a pop-up window signals an instant message from one of the kids and the conversation, if it can accurately be called that, continues.  We “Facebook” each other, writing notes on our “walls,” and recently, we added Skyping, which allows us to talk to and see each other with the aid of a camera hooked up to our computers. 

             I want to talk to my children.  Really I do.  But more important, I want to have something interesting to say.  And I don’t.  I spend so much time communicating that I’m spending next to no time living my life.  The result?  I don’t have anything to talk about, at least nothing other than banal nonsense.  (Of course, the kids’ lives are far more interesting than mine, but that’s another column.)

             Unfortunately, banal nonsense seems to be the order of the day, especially if you are a Twitter follower.  The site allows members to post a 140 character message detailing their activity of the moment for readers.  Posts like, “In my car, waiting for Susie,” constitute the norm.  Really, who cares?  It’s the ultimate in self-indulgent drivel. 

             For all of our advanced communication technology, we seem to have precious little to say.  Maybe if we put down the cell phones and turned off the computers, we’d have the time to actually do something.

             Now that would be worth talking about.

     

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          I have nineteen cleaning products under my kitchen sink.

             Cleanser, glass cleaner, all purpose cleaner, cleaners with bleach, environmentally “green” cleaners (Yes, they’re there, but I hardly use them.  The smell of bleach has to all but make me pass out when I’m cleaning or things aren’t adequately sanitized.), furniture spray polish, dish detergent, wood cleaner, floor cleaner, counter top cleaner, silver polish, metal cleaner and on and on and on.

            And I needed every one of them, plus reinforcements, when I helped my daughter move into her latest “college house.”

            Ordinarily, a college student moves into her residence at the beginning of the school year, August around here.  Once there, the student remains until May, or longer if she’s signed a year-long lease.

            We Bontempos are many things.  Ordinary isn’t one of them.  My daughter (I won’t name her, but she knows who she is), moved into her first college house back in August.  Prior to that, she called dorm rooms “home,” but as any good college student knows, the dorms are for freshmen, the occasional sophomore, and other “uncool” residents.  No self-respecting upper classman would be caught dead living in a dorm.

            So, with the approach of her senior year, the “Next year, I want to get a house,” saga began.  She asked around, and after not nearly enough looking (a fact which would come back to haunt her later on), she joined three friends to rent an old twin home across from campus. 

            “Mom, wait ‘til you see my house.  It’s so cool.  We each have a bedroom, there are two bathrooms—well, the tubs don’t work in either one, but there is a shower—plus a kitchen, family room and dining room.  All of the chairs in the dining room are broken, so you can’t really eat in there, I guess you can’t really sit in there either, but the seat cushions have this zebra striped fabric on them and they look awesome.  I’ll need an air conditioner because my room is on the third floor and my roommates told me it gets crazy hot up there.  They also said I’d probably need a space heater for the winter, too.”

            Sigh.

            My daughter moved into the house in August, and moved out of the house in December, after battling squirrels, bats (Yes, rabies carrying bats.  I know this because one of the roommates contracted rabies after being bitten by a bat.), an infestation of horse flies and finally, maggots in the rug.  She lived on the couch of very kind friends for two months until last week, when I helped her move into her second house of the school year.

            “Mom, this house is really cute.  It needs a little work.  There’s only one bathroom, but it’s right outside my bedroom.  The old roommate had a dog that chewed up two of the couches but she’s gone, so it’s okay.  The owner says he’s going to get the rugs cleaned and if we clean it and paint it, it should be really nice.”

            So we cleaned.  I didn’t scrub too hard; I was afraid the dirt was holding the house together.  Too much elbow grease and the walls would simply cave in.  I spray shampooed the rugs—pointless—vacuumed the sofas, scoured the kitchen and threw away bags of trash.  By the time I left, the place was merely dirty, having graduated from filthy and my daughter was smiling as she wrote out her rent check.

            I left my cleaning supplies.  Next time, I’m just bringing a bleach scented air freshener and keeping my eyes closed.  It’s easier that way.

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      I don’t know how I’ve managed this long without it. 

            “Quick answers you can count on, smart ideas you can trust…Success you can feel and share.”  I want all of that.  Quick answers, smart ideas and success—in oh, so many areas of my life.  And don’t forget the “essential home wisdom no home should be without.”

             Essential home wisdom?  I don’t know what it is, but I’m pretty sure I need it.  After all, it’s “essential,” right?  So where do I sign?  And who is the purveyor of this essential wisdom, the answer to my prayers?

             It’s Martha Stewart, of course.  As if you had to ask.

             Martha wants me to subscribe to her magazine, Martha Stewart Living, and she’s turning up the heat to be certain that I know she is the only one with the answers to my questions about everything.

             Martha’s answers are smart and easy.  “Smart and easy cooking.  Smart and easy decorating.  Smart and easy gardens.  Smart and easy homes.”  (I’m not sure how a home or garden can be “smart,” but as long as Martha knows, I suppose that’s all that matters.)

             Not only does Martha want me to know that she has the answers I want, she wants to make sure I know the competition most certainly doesn’t.  In fact, Martha warns me that what I’ll get “elsewhere,” should I choose that route, will be “Projects that may not succeed” and will be “Often tricky, sometimes tacky.”  (Ouch.)  Not to mention that “Their decorating…gardens…recipes are not as appealing.  And you’ve ‘seen it all before.’”  Can’t you just hear Martha sniffing through that last scathing indictment, perfect diction pouncing on every insult slung at, say, Better Homes and Gardens?

             But really, she’s just looking out for my best interests.  Martha doesn’t want me to be “Satisfied with second best.”  I have to admit, Martha makes a pretty good case for herself, especially when she clarifies that whole “essential home wisdom” concept.

             Misguided as I am, I thought “essential home wisdom,” especially the kind that gets “passed down through generations,” might have something to do with how to make ends meet in an economy that’s sucking for air.  Or maybe it would be the secret to raising happy, healthy children, who magically escape the temptations of adolescence and sail through high school and college unmarred—literally or metaphorically, I’ll take either, as I could gladly skip tattoos and piercings as well as deeper, hidden wounds.  Perhaps she would tell me how to work a job, take care of the kids, keep the house from falling down (let alone clean) and find time for myself and my husband, all while maintaining that perfect, serene Martha smile.

             But I was wrong.  Apparently, “essential home wisdom” concerns “How to grow hydrangeas.  How to glaze ham.  How to stock broom closets.”  (Now that’s something I’ve neglected for far too long.)  Don’t forget “How to keep critters away from your bulbs.  How to keep tarnish away from your copper.”  And the ever important “How to freshen the air in your home with lemon slices and cloves.”

             Martha, I don’t know how to thank you.  It’s so uplifting to finally have someone enlighten me as to just where my priorities should lie.  Here I’ve been worrying about silly things like my country at war, a failing economy, my kids, my family and friends, when all along I should have been boning up on “How to smooth a tablecloth with a spritz of water.”

             The check’s in the mail, Martha.  And thank you for the smack upside my head.  Believe me, if I could, I’d return the favor.

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So…the New Year’s Resolutions column.

            I do one every year.  Sometimes it’s somber, sometimes funny.  Given the state of the world, this one should probably be somber.  But there’s plenty of that to go around without me adding to the muck.  Still, it’s hard to be funny in this climate, so I figured I’d ask my daughters, home on college break, what they thought my New Year’s Resolutions should be.  Sure to be a laugh there.

            “Girls, I’m writing my New Year’s Resolutions column.  What do you think I should put on my resolutions list?”

            “Geez, Mom, are they giving you a lot more space this week, or what?” from the older girl.

            “Yeah, this might have to be a pretty long column,” from the youngest.

            “That’s really funny.  Now give me some ideas,” I said.

            “Well, for starters, you can stop peeking in my room to check and see if I’m still breathing every morning.  It drives me crazy and it’s a little creepy,” said number one.

            Guilty.  I do check to see if they’re breathing.  But in my defense, when they come home from school, they sleep eighteen out of twenty-four hours.  They get up after 11 in the morning, eat breakfast, watch TV for an hour and then take a nap.  The scenario repeats in the afternoon and sometimes even after dinner.  How can anyone be that tired without having mono or narcolepsy or something? 

            “Sorry.  I’ve been watching you breathe since you were born and I can’t stop now.  Next.”

           “How about this?” (Again from number one.)  “How about you stop rolling your eyes every time I have an idea and I tell you about it?”

            Again, guilty.  Also again, in my defense, most of their ideas are goofy.  For example, my oldest daughter, due to graduate from college in May, has run the potential career gamut from teacher to bartender to nutritionist to sign language interpreter to playing Tinkerbell in Disneyworld and flying on a zip line from Cinderella’s castle to Tomorrowland during the nightly fireworks show.  Really, I thought rolling my eyes was a mild reaction.

           “Well, I’ll try, but lots of your ideas are goofy, so I’m not offering any guarantees.”

            “Okay, maybe you can stop moving stuff around in our rooms and cleaning up our things when we come home,” the youngest offered.

            Picture this:  Two girls, nine bags, bins and boxes each, not counting the shoes, extra food, books, papers, laptops…you get the idea.  Now picture all of it strewn throughout the entire house, garage, cars, etc. for a month.  Trust me, I’m not in their rooms to clean or touch their stuff.  I’m just trying to toss all of their junk in one main location so the rest of us can find a chair to sit on while they’re home.

            “As far as that goes, girls, are you planning on putting your ‘stuff’ away any time soon?”

            They looked at one another.  “Probably not,” they answered.

            “Then don’t hold your breath on that one,” I countered.

            “So let me get this straight, Mom,” my older girl said.  “You ask us for resolutions, but no matter what we say, you basically tell us you won’t do it because you’re always right.”

            “Hmmm…maybe this was a bad idea.  Maybe my column should be about resolutions for you kids,” I said.

            “Mom, come to think of it, you don’t need resolutions.  You’re just right the way you are,” said my baby.

            “I just had the same thought, honey.  Glad you agree,” I said.

            I’m not sure, but I think they both rolled their eyes.  Happy New Year, everyone!

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             I don’t want a donkey for Christmas.

             Nor do I want twenty chickens, a goat or the three little pigs wandering around my living room under my tree on Christmas morning.  I don’t want a fruit tree, a hundred pounds of rice and beans or a water pump wrapped up in fancy paper and bows.

             But I don’t need that stuff either.

             My Christmas shopping has involved brand name clothing and accessories, high-end colognes, fancy candles and home décor items and electronics.  Lots and lots of electronics.  None of which, come to think of it, I need either.  Nor does anyone on my shopping list, for that matter.

             But shop I have, doing my part to stimulate our languishing economy by racing through malls, scouring the internet and perusing mountains of catalogues.  And frankly, I’m getting a little sick of it.

            So when I returned from the mailbox the other day with more catalogues, the equivalent of 100 trees, by my estimation, I thought about dumping the entire pile into the trash before I even hit the front door.  Then I saw that face.

            While most of the catalogues clotting up my kitchen counters boasted the latest, greatest whatchamacallit on their covers, this one was different.  From the cover of this catalogue beamed the dark-complexioned, dark-eyed face of a child, probably no more than six years old.

            I sat down and opened the book.  What I saw left me humbled, and not a little ashamed.  For the producers of this catalogue did indeed want me to spend my money, but they wanted it for necessities, not luxuries.

            According to the Chronicle of Philanthropy, Food for the Poor, Inc. is “the largest international relief organization in the United States, having provided over $4 billion dollars in aid to over 16 countries throughout the Caribbean and Latin America since its inception in 1982.”  In 2007, more than 96% of all donations went directly to programs benefiting the poor, with administrative costs comprising only 3.22% of the charity’s total budget.

            But back to the catalogue.  Food for the Poor—and really, can the name say any more?—provides opportunities to feed a child for a month, a family for a year, or give a tractor trailer full of food for a village.  You can give a water pump or build a well.  Those chickens will furnish a family with eggs and sustainable food.  The donkey?  A way for a family to bring goods to market to sell.  You can give a pond stocked with fish or a sewing machine and thread to help someone start a business.  And if you’re really feeling generous, you can build a family a home.  Present any of these items in honor of those on your holiday list and a gift card alerts your loved one to your donation in their name.

            The cost of such life-changing generosity?  That’s up to you.  Gifts range in price from $10 for a fruit tree to $8400 for that fish-stocked pond.   What I do know is that any one of those items will last far longer than a bottle of cologne and will leave in its wake something much sweeter—the knowledge that, in the immortal words of the Grinch, “Maybe Christmas…doesn’t come from a store.  Maybe Christmas…perhaps…means a little bit more!”

            So, I may be adding donkeys and chickens to my shopping list.  But don’t worry, they’ll be going to folks who have use for such things.  As for the other catalogues?  Well, I did just run out of wrapping paper…

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             It’s really not all about winning soccer games.

             Ask any athlete, ask any coach, and although they may pay lip service to the concept that the true spirit of any game is about more than simply winning, the truth is, most of the time, it’s pretty much about winning.  No athlete or coach steps onto a field thinking, “What the heck.  So what if we lose today.  It’s no big deal.”  Coaches and players like to win.  That’s why they play the game.  But sometimes, the real wins aren’t recorded on any scoreboard. 

             Luke Ronco collects PEZ.  As of last Wednesday morning, Luke had a collection totaling a little over 500 of the funny little candy dispensers that offer bricks of sweet treats when the heads of the toys are bent back.  As of last Wednesday evening, with the slam dunking of a basketball in the gymnasium at Gwynedd Mercy College, in Gwynedd Valley, PA, Luke’s collection doubled to over 1000 PEZ.

             So what’s the connection?

             Back in August, head Gwynedd Mercy College Men’s Soccer Coach, Dave Bontempo (Yes, he’s my husband, but trust me, it’s irrelevant.), contacted an organization called Friends of Jaclyn, a non-profit charity that brings happiness to the lives of children affected with pediatric brain tumors by uniting them with college sports teams who “adopt” these young warriors.  The kids attend practices, games, wear team uniforms and generally get to join in the fun of being part of a college sports program.

             The foundation matched the Gwynedd Mercy Men’s team with Luke Ronco, diagnosed with a hypothalamic optic chiasmic pilocytic astrocytoma on May 15, 2002.  In plain speak, Luke’s been battling a brain tumor for six years. 

             Although the family lives almost an hour away from the college, Luke’s mother, Nicole, brushed off the travel, assuring the coach that with Luke’s treatments, she was frequently on the road and passing nearby.  So late in August, Luke and his family (Mom Nicole, Dad John, Luke and younger sisters Alexis, Isabella and Italia) joined the soccer team, the Gwynedd Mercy Griffins, with Luke fully invested as a team member, uniform jersey and all.   During many practices and games this past season, the Ronco family children romped on the sidelines as Luke’s team took to the field.

             Few things touch the heart more than watching young men interact with children.  Maybe it’s because they’re not so far from childhood themselves that the soccer players blossomed around those kids.  Luke tussling and kicking the ball around with his teammates and little sisters squealing and giggling as the big, tough soccer players (many alumni of Northeast Philadelphia high schools) grinned from ear to ear.

             In late November, Luke got some lousy news.  His tumor is growing again.  Needless to say, the coach and the team were devastated, but determined to find a way to cheer their teammate.  Then, the plan. 

             With Luke’s 10^th birthday coming up on December 10^th, the coach, team and the extended Gwynedd Mercy family leaped into action.  The goal?  Make this the best birthday Luke had ever had.  Utilizing the internet, the news about Luke and his PEZ collection spread through multiple states, resulting in boxes and boxes of PEZ being donated for a major birthday surprise.

             When all was said and done, over 500 PEZ collectibles were assembled in baskets and display cases.  Coach Bontempo called the Ronco family and invited them all to Gwynedd Mercy College for the school’s first Mercy Madness Rally—a celebration of basketball and fall sports, including soccer.  Luke would be introduced at the rally, and share dinner and some cake with his teammates.  At least that was what Coach told the Roncos.  But oh, it was so much more than that.

             On Wednesday evening, December 5^th, I had the privilege of sharing dinner with my husband, Coach Bontempo, his men’s soccer team, and the amazing Roncos.  After dinner in the cafeteria, we headed to the lounge for some air hockey, and then to the gym for the rally.  The Roncos enjoyed the team intros, cheerleading and dance exhibitions, and then the introduction of the soccer team.

             Once the players were called onto the basketball court, Coach Bontempo introduced Luke Ronco, the newest Griffin, to the crowded gym.  Students, faculty and members of all the teams present cheered while Luke answered questions posed to him by the coach about his PEZ obsession while his soccer teammates looked on. 

             Meanwhile, behind the human screen of the very tall basketball team, the women’s soccer team helped assemble a mountain of baskets and gifts loaded down with PEZ candies, a cake in the center of the display.

             Finally, Coach Bontempo informed Luke that somehow, the team had gotten hold of 500 PEZ dispensers and had no idea of what to do with them.  “What about me?” Luke asked.  “Well, I understand you’ve never dunked a basketball, have you?” coach asked.  “No, I haven’t,” Luke said, unsure of what was coming next.  “I’ll tell you what.  If you can dunk a shot, maybe you can have those PEZ,” coach said. 

             Luke, well shy of dunking height, looked nervous.  “We’ll give you a little help,” coach said, pointing down the court to the two basketball players who had stepped up under the basket.  Luke, all smiles, ran through the gauntlet of his soccer team, high fiving into the waiting arms of two basketball players who hoisted him high.  He dunked that ball.

             As the two young men lowered Luke to the ground, the remaining teams parted and Luke’s jaw dropped as his eyes came to rest on his enormous birthday pile of PEZ.  The entire gym erupted into applause and a spontaneous singing of happy birthday to one deliriously happy little boy surrounded by a deliriously happy soccer team.  Then, a victory lap around the gym, again to thunderous cheers and applause.  Finally when the gym festivities were concluded, we all, the entire Gwynedd Mercy family, had cake. 

             Winning is a big deal, but that night, no scoreboard told the story.  The Gwynedd Mercy Men’s Soccer Team had a tough season on the field, and teammate Luke Ronco has some big challenges ahead.  But for one amazing night, Luke and his team were all champions.   

             Please check out the links below for Luke’s personal site and local news broadcast coverage of Luke’s Gwynedd birthday party.  Feel free to add a birthday greeting for Luke!

http://www.caringbridge.org/pa/lukeronco/index.htm
 

hhtp://abclocal.go.com/wpvi/story?section=news/local&id=6537660 

Luke Ronco and members of the Gwynedd Mercy Men's Soccer Team

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            Last week we experienced Black Friday.  I always thought it was called Black Friday because the streets and stores were overrun with people.  Turns out it’s called Black Friday because it’s the time of year when retailers finally see their profit column turn from red to black.  Apparently, it’s not until the holiday season at the tail end of the year that the stores and their owners finally start making money.

             Except for this year.

             This year, the only ones making money are the companies the government is bailing out.  And the money they’re making is ours, although it’s not in our pockets.  Those would be empty.

             I usually enjoy all things Christmas—the sights, the sounds, the presents.  Actually, I’m not crazy about the shopping, but I like having money to do the shopping.  However, this year, with a wallet smaller by several inches at least, I’m having trouble drumming up much enthusiasm for the process. 

             Figuring that I’m by no means alone, I’ve come up with an updated version of the classic Christmas carol “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” that reflects my mood, and I’ll bet yours, too.  Feel free to sing along.

 

“Wondering How to Pay For Christmas Time”

As banks fail, are you seeing,

All your cash disappearing?

A frightening sight,

We’re shaking tonight,

Wondering how to pay for Christmas time.

Gone away are your savings

Here to stay, worried ravings,

How can we afford

To buy—help us, Lord,

We’re wondering how to pay for Christmas time.

 

We could borrow if we had some credit,

But it seems they won’t lend us a dime.

They say, “Use your savings,”

We say, “No man,

They’re long gone.  We might just resort to crime.”

 

Later on, we’ll conspire,

As we dream by the fire

Of how to get out

Of this cash-poor drought

Wondering how to pay for Christmas time.

 

Christmas lists are going to be cut short now,

No Ipods, TVs, or a new laptop.

Maybe socks, some undies or a neck scarf

And hopefully the kids’ crying will stop.

 

Christmas time should be thrilling,

But this year, it’s just chilling.

With few gifts to share and no change to spare

We’re wondering how to pay for Christmas time.

 

This Christmas will stink

Unless we can think

Of how we’re going to pay for Christmas time.

 

            Of course, I’m not going to let the lean economic climate ruin my Christmas completely.  Last time I checked, peace on earth and goodwill towards men were still free.  Maybe I’ll just stick with that.  

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             This is going to be one lean Thanksgiving.

             Oh, there will still be plenty of food.  I spent enough at my grocery store to earn a free turkey, and despite the fact that my extended family always brings enough in the way of side dishes to feed the entire Eagles’ roster, I also cook copious amounts of stuffing, potatoes, veggies, salad and desserts on my own.  I think it’s some kind of inborn Italian thing.  If you don’t have enough leftovers to provide every guest with three plastic containers of extras, you didn’t make enough.   

             Yes, there will be ample food, capable of adding the requisite five pounds over a single weekend; of that I’m confident.  Since Thanksgiving is all about food, no problem, right?

             Well, not exactly.  Because Thanksgiving, despite the food angle—my favorite, as if you couldn’t tell—is really about being thankful.  And from what I’ve seen lately, that’s where the “lean” part comes in.  Whereas excess usually typifies American holidays (We like stuff big, really big.), this year it’s all about cutting back, not only during this most festive time of year, but all day, every day.

            No more mocha choka latte yaya’s, as Starbucks’ plundering profits attest.  Meals out?  More like a glorified dinner from the grocery freezer if you want a treat you don’t have to cook entirely yourself.  Nuke and go!  Now there’s a gourmet dinner on the cheap.   Did you have your sights set on a new, or even used, car?  So did we.  But we’re holding off, and I’ll bet you are, too.

            We’re also turning down the thermostat, buying generic whenever possible and probably skipping the annual trip to see The Nutcracker with dinner out this year.  We’ll be gathered around the television watching reruns of The Grinch on TBS followed by dinner in the kitchen.  And gifts?  Let’s just say it’s gonna be a K Mart Christmas.

            We’re still at war, Detroit is going belly up, and our president elect will have to be the Messiah if he’s going to manage to turn things around.  Sounds like a blast, huh?

            So what exactly is there to be thankful for?

            Well, for starters, let’s go back to the food.  I am always hungry, but I never really go “hungry,” if you know what I mean.  My internal stomach rumblings have more to do with the fact that I want a piece of chocolate NOW, as opposed to a missed meal or meals.  I might have to forage in my own fridge and pantry and rustle up a meal, but I’ve got a fridge and a pantry.  And they’re full.

            No I’m not getting a new car any time soon.  But we’ve got cars, and so far, when I put the key in the ignition and turn, the thing starts up and takes me where I need to go.  Gas prices have dropped as well.  Yippee!

            I can stave off the chill from a lowered thermostat by snuggling with my kids under blankets and warming things up through togetherness, something we miss now that the girls live at college.  I’ll brew my own coffee, scan the Kmart circulars for Black Friday deals and frankly be a bit relieved that Christmas shopping will be scaled way back this year. 

            Perhaps most important, I’ll thankfully pray, a lot, for our new president and our country and I’ll remember that I still live in the USA.  Despite the mess we’re in, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

            In a world of less, it seems like there’s a whole lot more to be thankful for.

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             “I wish we were in Disneyworld,” I muttered as I stood scowling at the early darkening sky through my kitchen window.

             My husband snickered.

             “What’s so funny?” I asked.

             “I’ve never heard anyone like you,” he said.

             “What do you mean,” I asked.

             “You never want to be where you are,” he said, shaking his head.

             With a start, I realized he was right.  At any given moment, on any day, I’m thinking about where I’d rather be, as opposed to where I am.

             Of course, sometimes it’s fairly obvious as to why I’d rather materialize in another location.  Take now, as I write this, for example.  I’m sitting in my doctor’s office, in the waiting room, watching as patient after patient goes in ahead of me while the minutes tick away.  My appointment was thirty-five minutes ago, but I haven’t even made it into the small waiting room; I’m still marooned in the outer office.  Even the parking lot looks pretty good right now.

             Other moments and daily experiences cause my mind to spool out mini-travelogues as well.  Standing in a dressing room in front of a three-way mirror under fluorescent lights while trying on bathing suits mentally shoots me to Alaska, where I can cover myself in twelve layers of clothing and no one’s the wiser.  Staring into the recesses of the open freezer for the third time in a week, wondering what on earth to make for dinner that night beams me to a restaurant—a pizza parlor or Le Bec Fin, it makes no difference, as long as someone else is cooking. 

             And I’m willing to bet that given the current harsh economic realities, most people would be more than happy to morph themselves to another place and time, say, one where they had some money.

             But sometimes, my other time traveling jaunts aren’t so easy to explain or justify.  What’s so bad about being in my nice, warm kitchen when it’s cold and dark outside?  Why whine about Disneyworld?  Come to think of it, that’s not a good example.  Why not Disneyworld?  I really think I could live in the park—anywhere but in the “It’s a Small World” ride.  But you get my point.  I’m in my house, my rather lovely house.  I’m not trying to sleep on a street vent or languishing in some third-world country eating grass.

             I suppose it has something to do with a fear of missing something, something that’s better than what I have in any given moment.  There will always be something better, but the truth is, even though what many of us currently have may be a lot less than what we used to have, it’s still a whole lot more than most of the world is left with.  (Follow that?)

             At times like this, I remind myself to take cues from my dog, who is a master at being okay with where she is.  Kitchen floor, family room rug, beneath the bed, she’s good with any of it.  As long as there’s an uncluttered place to flop, a water bowl and careless munchers around to drop crumbs, she’ll pretty much settle anywhere.  Should a bit of wanderlust invade her psyche, an amble to a new spot ten feet away fits the bill, no air travel required.

             I don’t expect to stop my imaginary travels all together, but from now on, when I start feeling deprived by my surroundings, I think I’ll stretch out on the floor next to the dog and just appreciate a warm spot on the rug.  Who knows, maybe someone will even happen by and drop me a few crumbs.

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