If the Glove Fits, Buy It

I love those little knit “magic gloves” that you can buy two for $1.50 at the local CVS. They are warm enough when I am driving and walking the two blocks to my office in almost any temperature, and fit nicely into the pocket of any coat. The gloves fit on either hand. My purse is large enough that I have actually misplaced a pair in there. If you misplace one pair or it begins to unravel (which often happens – hey, for 75 cents, what do you expect?) you always have a spare.

Unfortunately we’re having a Bad Winter. On one bitterly cold day during the 10 consecutive days of snowfall we had last month my husband and I were trying to shovel snow off the front steps and sidewalk. It turns out that my seemingly ideal little gloves are completely insufficient when shoveling snow when it is 2 degrees and windy outside.

I grudgingly decided that I would break down and buy myself a new pair of heavy, water-proof gloves. I headed up to Macy’s on my lunch hour the next day to buy a pair of “real” gloves. That should have been simple enough, right?

The first obstacle I faced was the Hat Department, which was positioned directly between the entrance and the Glove Department. Wow, there were so many really dashing, fashionable, cute winter hats there, all on displays with huge SALE signs on them. I’m not really a hat person, and I wasn’t in the market for a hat, but I am a serious fan of SALE signs. Well, I thought, it might be fun to try a few on… and so like a moth to the flame I headed for the shiny, red SALE signs.

Without going into all the painful details, none of the hats I tried on fit me. It seems that hat manufacturers had suddenly decided that one size hat fits all heads, but those of us who have heads know this just isn’t true. And if the hat manufacturers used their heads, they’d know it, too. Well, don’t get me started. Admittedly, I have a freakishly large head. I didn’t want any of their damn hats anyway, and they probably wouldn’t even have kept my ears warm.

I finally reached the gloves, my actual destination. Did you know that they have now started making fitted gloves that are “one size fits all”, too? Come on, people! Get a grip! One size of non-knit fitted gloves does NOT and never will fit every hand. They are called “fitted” for a reason. Don’t they know that that is what makes the magic gloves magic? That they start out real small, but then stretch to fit most hands? Unlike REGULAR gloves! I do NOT have abnormally large hands, and yet I tried on dozens of fitted gloves without success. Rack after rack of gloves. Some I could barely fit on, some I couldn’t get on at all. In the gloves that came in sizes, the old fashioned way, they didn’t have the larger sizes in stock.

Finally, I found one single pair of “extra large” red micro-suede, water-resistant gloves that fit, that would not only be good for shoveling snow in single digit weather, but were presentable enough to wear in regular weather and which matched most of my other winter accessories. They were too expensive even with a 25% discount, but I grabbed them and bought them before they could get away. Of course, once I bought these gloves, the snow immediately stopped and it warmed up. I thought perhaps by purchasing these gloves I had single handedly guaranteed an end to the snow, and temperate weather for the rest of the winter. That really would have been worth the investment. No such luck. Although we did enjoy two weeks of snowless, comparatively warmer days, we are at the beginning of a "snow event" right now. Seems the power of these gloves to prevent snow and cold is limited, but they never claimed to be magic.

Mothers-in-Love

Mothers-in-law get a bad rap. Comedians make jokes about them. They are portrayed as meddlesome and interfering. I’ve never quite understood it. Why should the person who gave birth to and raised someone you love enough to marry automatically be a nemesis? Maybe it’s just that I have been twice blessed in that department.

Remember, I met my husband’s parents and family when I attended my very first Bar Mitzvah, but they went out of their way to make me feel welcome. And I did. They are family to me now, just as surely as the family into which I was born. My in-laws also “adopted” my son, and they treat him like another grandson. Each year, my mother-in-law and father-in-law host the entire extended family (sometimes as many as 23 people) for Thanksgiving. And every year I think of how appropriate it is, because I am so very thankful to be a part of their family.

My mother-in-law is a warm and caring woman who treats me like family – she is proud of my accomplishments and hurts when I hurt. She is honest and has a great sense of humor, traits she passed onto her son, who is the love of my life and best friend. Of course, we share one major interest – the happiness of her son- but it goes beyond that. I really like my mother-in-law. She is someone I would want as a friend, even if we were not tied by marriage.

I had also been very close to my ex-husband’s family. It’s a funny thing when a marriage ends – in a way you are breaking up with your soon-to-be ex’s family as well. These are the people who you shared life’s milestones with, in my case for 20 years. No matter how right it was for my ex and me to part ways I didn’t really want to lose his family. As it turns out this would not be necessary.

My former mother-in-law also was caring and loving person. She was someone who routinely cared for others- her family, the members of her church’s congregation, her friends, and all the stray dogs in the area. So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when she essentially refused to give me up after the divorce. As she put it, she didn’t divorce me. She stayed in touch, and was genuinely happy for me when I found such happiness with my husband. Despite being a devout born-again Christian, she also loved my husband, who is Jewish. She always remembered our anniversary. When my former sister-in-law got married in an intimate ceremony with just the most immediate family present, we were invited and we attended. So, for the past six years, I have been fortunate enough to have two wonderful mothers-in-law in my life.

On Thursday, my ex-husband called me to tell me that his mother had passed away. It was not unexpected – she had been battling cancer for the past few months. She was able to come home and spend the last few months of her life in her home with her family around her. My husband and I were able to visit her about a week before her death, and although she was very weak, she recognized us and was so very happy that we came. We had the chance to hold her hand and embrace her one more time. She had such a strong faith that I know that she is resting peacefully with the Lord right now.

Her memory will certainly live on in all our hearts.

"Nine" Lives (The Critics Must Be Crazy)

I won’t go to see just any movie on Christmas Day. Essentially, it has to be what I refer to as a feel-good movie: something upbeat or positive or happy or maybe even inspirational. My ideal is a big, splashy musical (like Dreamgirls) which actually opens on Christmas Day. I do not want to see anything that is too dark or depressing or disturbing.

Last year, the musical opening on Christmas was Sweeney Todd, Tim Burton’s dark interpretation (as though the source material needed to be any darker) of the misadventures of the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Although this was the movie adaptation of one of my husband’s favorite stage musicals of all time, it was unfortunately not Christmas movie material even though it was a musical. Another movie of interest in the theaters at the time was Doubt, a psychological drama about a fierce, unyielding nun who accuses a priest of misconduct. I’ve known a few fierce, unyielding nuns in my day, and I wouldn’t have wanted to spend Christmas with any of them.

We ended up seeing Bedtime Stories with Adam Sandler, a fun, lightweight fantasy good for the whole family. Mr. Sandler was as charming as usual, and the movie included a little of everything- clever fantasy premise, romance, adventure, special effects, cute kids, and even a computer-generated hamster sidekick. Perfectly sweet movie for Christmas, and one that probably never would have made it into our Netflix queue (as Sweeney Todd and Doubt both did).

This time it was easier. Nine, Rob Marshall’s movie version of the stage musical based on Fellini’s 8 ½ , was opening on Christmas Day. We had seen the Conservatory Theater Company of Point Park University’s very good stage production a few years ago, and the promos for the movie proclaimed, “if you liked Chicago, you’ll like Nine!” As a matter of fact, we did like Chicago- we liked Chicago a lot.

Nine turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable, visually interesting, superbly acted musical which completely lived up to the promo. Daniel Day-Lewis is believable and charismatic as the conflicted director, Guido Contini, who is weathering a creative slump by examining his relationships with the women in his life.

Guido’s women are played by some of the most fabulous women to ever grace the screen. Marion Cotillard is absolutely luminous and breathtakingly beautiful as Guido’s long suffering wife, while Penelope Cruz oozes messy sexuality as his mistress. Judi Dench competently plays his costumer and confidant, and shows her song-and-dance chops in her own production number. Kate Hudson plays an American journalist and was made up to look exactly like her mother, Goldie Hawn, did in her “Laugh-In” days. Fergie, the lead singer of the Black Eyed Peas, is amazing as an Italian prostitute in “Be Italian,” arguably the show’s best musical number. Sophia Loren plays his mother and Nicole Kidman is his actress muse.

Was it perfect? Not exactly, but then what is? In the stage version, the story took place entirely in Guido’s head, and I wished it would have stayed there in the movie. Instead, they decided to open it up, it took place in real time, and they introduced men into the story. Guido’s producer, the Judi Dench character on stage, was now a man, and there was one scene where Guido has a meaningful meeting with a Cardinal. Neither of these characters was necessary nor did they add anything to the story. But then I would rewrite or edit the books of many musicals that I basically enjoy. Nine’s fabulous musical numbers could carry the movie all by themselves without any pesky story at all, if need be.

Shockingly, many critics loathed Nine. In fact, only 28% of the critics listed on RottenTomatoes.com recommended it. To give it a qualified thumbs up, or to take issue with some parts of it I could understand, but to completely trash it? I was, simply, baffled.

The most puzzling critique I came across in my cursory review of the representative comments provided by Rotten Tomatoes came from Sean O’Connell of the South Charlotte Weekly, who wrote that Marshall “hires eye candy over proven entertainers” in the movie. Really? Well, I’m sure that Judi Dench is used to that criticism- she probably hears it all the time. Let’s see, Day-Lewis, Dench, Loren, Cruz, Cotillard, and Kidman are all Oscar winners in acting categories, and Hudson has been nominated for her work in the past. What do they have to do, exactly, to prove themselves as entertainers to Mr. O’Connell?

It’s not just the critics who get it wrong, though. Sometimes I stand by, incredulous, as “America” chooses the wrong Idol, or helplessly watch two favorite new TV shows, Pushing Daisies and Eli Stone, perish because they didn’t find an audience despite being a favorite of the critics.

Sometimes I just want my voice to be heard. I want to talk some sense into the critics or “America.” So let me shout it from the blogosphere! Nine was fine and dandy, just like a hard candy Christmas. Don’t listen to the crazy critics, people. Listen to me. If you like Daniel Day-Lewis or the type of big, beautiful musical production numbers that Rob Marshall does so well, you should like Nine. Actually, the promos were accurate in this case. If you liked Chicago, you most probably will like Nine.

Oh Snow She Didn't!

So if we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
-Sammy Cahn

I have nothing against snow really, as long as I don’t have to actually leave the house when it happens. A snowy day, when I have nowhere to go and food in the house, is delightful. Add a cup of hot cocoa and a nice warm afghan to the scenario, and I couldn’t be happier with a wintry day.

Unfortunately, it has almost never worked out this way for me. When I have had to venture out in it, the sad fact is that snow has not been my friend. My misadventures in the snow have been so numerous and spectacular that I am not sure that they will all fit into one blog, but I’ll give you the short versions of a few of the stories.

There was my first trip to New York City, which was also my first plane trip. I was out of college a few years, and I decided to visit one of my college roommates who was living in Brooklyn and working in Manhattan for a long weekend. We were walking the 16 city blocks from the Empire State Building (our first sightseeing stop) to the United Nations when the blizzard hit. Undaunted, we continued to the U.N. which was closed because of weather when we got there.

At that point, Midge and I gave up and spent the rest of the weekend having a very nice visit in Brooklyn. In the end there were 26 inches of show, a blizzard the likes of which the city hadn’t seen since 1946. Snow drifts completely buried some cars. The regular cabs weren’t running to Newark Airport – I ended up getting lost by myself in the New York Subway system and being delayed a day. Hey, at least I wasn’t driving.

I was driving one snowy day when I was about 9 months pregnant and my water broke at work. The people at the hospital seemed to think that it was important that I get there just as soon as possible. There were no cell phones then, and I was unable to contact my then-husband who was out making deliveries for his company. I drove myself the 30 miles to the hospital in the snow to have the baby.

There was the time that a co-worker and I drove to Erie on March 21st one year for a day trip to tour a state-of-the-art facility there. At lunch, it began to snow. Our hosts assured us that it was just a “little lake effect snow"- nothing to worry about. After seeing 12 cars off the side of the road in a 12-mile stretch on our way home on 79, we stopped at a little motel in Sandy Lake, PA. There were no phones in the rooms, and we only had the clothes on our backs, but there was a restaurant across the road serving all the homemade ham-and-cabbage you could eat for $3.50 and for that one low price they threw in dessert and a beverage. That made up for a lot of the inconvenience.

But the worst snow event for me, hands down, was when I was working for a quasi-military centuries-old religious organization with a social service mission, in a position that involved driving sometimes fours day a week throughout the western part of the state. I started the job at the onset of one of the worst winters in that decade, and I had already spent countless hours driving the company car over some absolutely miserable roads. I thought perhaps God was testing me, and when I survived that first winter, I had finally proved myself to be worthy of doing His work.

However, they weren’t done with me yet. The next winter they sent me and most of my co-workers in the Development Department to a regional conference at a center they owned and operated in New Jersey. It started to precipitate just as two co-workers and I headed out for NJ, where we should have arrived by about 11 p.m. I say “precipitate” because it wasn’t just snow. Actually, the snow was alternating with sleet, hail, and ice storms. It was not fun, but I went slowly and by 11 p.m. we had reached Carlisle, PA, about halfway to our destination. We spent the night there.

When we set out the next morning the weather had not improved at all. Several hours later we reached the town where the conference was being held. We were pretty excited and then we blew a tire, just a mile or two from our destination.

When we left for home a day or two later, the weather was even worse than it had been coming out. This time, though, the sleet and ice were coming down so quickly that the car’s defrosting system couldn’t keep up. For much of the trip, we had to pull over every few miles and chip away the ice from the windshield. It was fifteen hours later when we finally arrived in Pittsburgh, and I had driven the entire way.

I could go on but you get the idea. So, trust me when I tell you that it is not that I can’t drive in the snow. Oh, yes, I can, and I have. I just don’t want to – ever again, if I can help it. Can you blame me? When I hear a forecast for snow, I experience something akin to Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I’ve stopped planning trips between November and March. I’ve accepted jobs specifically because they allowed me to minimize my commute.

And I keep the house stocked with hot cocoa and food in the winter.

Carol of the Smelts

It’s Christmas Eve, and today my family will gather together for our very own Feast of the Three Fishes. Yes, yes, I know that it is supposed to be Seven Fishes, and while we celebrate many other fish in our hearts, on Christmas Eve we only eat three-anchovies, smelts and shrimp.

You don’t have to be Italian to love anchovies, but it helps. My mouth is watering just thinking about the anchovies that will be prepared with oil in angel hair pasta, a long time traditional family dish that my husband has been refining and fine-tuning each year. I have never met anyone who is neutral about anchovies – you either love ‘em or hate ‘em. Despite the controversy, the anchovy has found its way into the menus of fine gourmet restaurants – it is an ingredient in the most traditional Caesar salads.

Not so the lowly smelt. It is often referred to as a salmon-like or “salmonoid” fish, but I don’t see the similarity. It doesn’t look or taste like salmon, and in fact the only relationship I can see is the fact that smelts are food to the salmon. Salmon is a favorite menu item in restaurants, but you will very rarely find a smelt dish on that same menu. I only enjoy smelts on Christmas Eve, but I look forward to having them all year. Despite all this, at our Christmas Eve celebration the smelts have been the subject of more thought, care and planning than any other item.

My husband, who nows whips up the best fried smelts in the world for my family each Christmas Eve, inherently understood and embraced the significance of the smelt in our family tradition. To celebrate that tradition, he penned “Carol of the Smelts,” sung to the tune of “Carol of the Bells.” He and I sing this for the family every year before we eat our Christmas Eve meal, whether they like it or not.

I give you "Carol of the Smelts":

Let's get the smelts
Let's buy the smelts
Gotta find smelts
Who sells the smelts?

We got the smelts
Let's clean the smelts
Season the smelts
Fry up the smelts

We cannot stand the
Smelts; they're too bland. The
Oil isn't hot, the
Hell! Why the bother?

Smelts are very, very, very yummy
They're a special present for the tummy!

Oh, let's just eat,
Smelts are a treat.
It's Christmas time.
These smelts are fine.

Dine, dine, dine - gone!

Our Miraculous Season - Eight Nights and Seven Fishes

The first time I observed Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights, was the year I started dating my husband. My husband explained that we would be exchanging eight small gifts, one to be opened each evening of the festival. Like stocking stuffers, I thought, only they didn’t have to be physically small enough to fit into the stocking.

On the eighth night my husband opened his last present from me. It was a day-to-day calendar on a topic I thought he might like. Then it was my turn. In the gift bag he handed to me was a book on planning an interfaith wedding ceremony, and a typewritten note. The note explained that the eighth day of Hanukkah, which celebrates the miracle of oil that burned for eight days when it should have lasted for one, coincided with the eighth month anniversary of the miracle of our love, and asked me if I would consent to be his wife. He then presented me with the engagement ring. For this Italian Catholic Gentile, the “miracle of Hanukkah” now had a very personal meaning.

Each year, my husband, son and I celebrate Hanukkah (or Chanukah if you prefer). Each evening, my husband and I light the candles of the hanukkiah, which is a special menorah used for Hanukkah, and my husband says a prayer in Hebrew blessing the lights and the occasion. We each open a present. My son comes over one day during the eight-day festival week to celebrate, and brings a small present for each of us. He is happy to accept eight small presents from us.

A few years ago, my son arrived for our Hanukkah celebration carrying a beautiful poinsettia as a gift for me. When my mother was still alive, I would bring her a poinsettia every year at Christmas. My son remembered that and felt that it was time for that tradition to continue. Now each year I receive a Christmas poinsettia from my son as a Hanukkah present. We also decorate the Christmas tree that day, after enjoying a traditional Hanukkah meal of homemade latkes (potato pancakes) with apple sauce and sour cream.

My family has always celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve, which is the Feast of the Seven Fishes, a tradition among the people of Southern Italy and Sicily, where my grandparents were born. These traditions probably have their origins in the observance of the Cena della Vigilia, the wait for the miraculous birth of Christ in which early Catholics fasted on Christmas Eve until after receiving communion at Midnight Mass. According to my family, Christmas Eve had at one time been a Fast Day, when Catholics had to abstain specifically from eating meat. So, we celebrated Christmas by eating all kinds of fish, and exchanging presents. Midnight Mass was also part of the tradition, one we chose not to follow. No one really knows why there are seven fishes, and different families choose different fish.

When I was growing up, we celebrated the holiday at my Aunt Connie’s house, with the entire extended family. There were actually seven fishes, including squid, eel, shrimp, baccala (i.e. dried salted cod), clams, anchovies in angel hair pasta, and most importantly, smelts.

Over the years, as the family grew, and the kids grew up, my immediate family started celebrating the holiday on its own. We trimmed the menu to the three fishes we actually liked, which were the anchovies (in pasta and on homemade pizza), shrimp and smelts. Eventually, lasagna replaced the pizza, which was later replaced by my sister’s much-loved and anticipated stuffed shells. Meat is now a part of the meal, along with the fish.

The first year my husband spent Christmas with my family was also the first Christmas after my mother passed away. My mother had always made the fried smelts for Christmas Eve, which to me, anyway, was the most important part of the meal. I agreed to take responsibility for the smelts, but the person who really stepped in to save the smelts was my husband. My husband is a trained chef with a degree from the Culinary Institute of America. He produced fried smelts the likes of which the family had never experienced. He cemented his place not just in the hearts of my family but in our Christmas celebration as well. He also participates in the annual Family Grab Bag- exchanging presents seems to be the great constant in all our traditions.

Since we celebrate Christmas Eve with my family, we do very little on Christmas Day. We just relax, try to recover from all the fish consumption, and enjoy our newly acquired presents. One year, “Dreamgirls” was opening at a local cineplex on Christmas Day, and we decided that it was the perfect time to see it. We decided that we might like to get a little dinner on the way home, and found that a gourmet Chinese restaurant that we liked in Squirrel Hill was open. And so another tradition was born – we now celebrate what my husband always jokingly told me was a Jewish Christmas- Chinese food and a movie. The merging of the traditions was complete!

It’s all about miracles, really- this season in which we celebrate our various religious and ethnic holidays. Whether it’s the miracle of one days’ worth of oil that lasted for eight when the Maccabees reclaimed their temple, or the miracle of the birth of Jesus Christ who was born to save humankind, it’s about God giving people what they need to make it through. For our family, blending our traditions and eventually creating some of our own has evolved naturally, with love and respect for each other and our cultures. And that is our miracle.

May you and yours experience your own miracles this season.

Christmas Tree, O (Artificial) Christmas Tree

My parents were never exactly cutting edge when it came to keeping up with the latest crazes on the market, but they were practically the first in line to buy an artificial Christmas tree.

I was seven the year my parents bought the tree that would adorn our living room every year thereafter. This tree was truly spectacular in its tackiness. It was pure white, it rotated, and had a built in music box that would play your choice of “Jingle Bells” or “Silent Night.” It came with its own rotating color wheel and all-red bulbs and a red art deco star. They couldn’t have been happier with this tree- no fuss, no muss, and no yearly expense!

In a year or two, I decided that this tree was an embarrassment to all that was good and pure and Christmas. I begged my parents to buy a real Christmas tree again. Never ones to indulge an overly emotional child, they wouldn’t hear of it. Real Christmas trees are messy and expensive, they explained. They shed their pine needles all over the place, and then you just had to figure out how to get rid of the darn thing. But real trees are also green, I protested, and this tree was white. The artificial trees only came in white or silver, my parents said. Snow was white, my mother pointed out helpfully. She advised me to just pretend the tree was covered in snow.

The first time I had a real Christmas tree again was when I was a freshman in college. One day my friend Andy walked into my dorm room with a perfect and very real little Christmas tree, about 2 ft. high, in his hand. He went out and cut it down for me just because he knew how much it would mean to me to have a real tree. I was thrilled with the tree and grateful to have a friend like Andy. I lovingly decorated the tree with homemade paper chains and snowflakes, and even took it home with me for Christmas break, where it shared a space in the living room with my parent’s beloved white tree.

As an adult, I finally had that real Christmas tree I always wanted. Decorating the tree was an important part of our holiday celebration. These trees were everything that my childhood tree was not. They were as big as the room would allow, chosen carefully, and very, very real. I made all kinds of ornaments for the tree – stuffed, painted, needlepoint- and bought unique single ornaments. I called it my hodgepodge tree. Nothing matched, but it was beautiful.

There was only one problem with these trees. They were real. They were messy. The pine needles shed everywhere. We pricked our fingers as we hung ornaments, and the branches couldn't always hold the heavier ornaments. You had to water the thing and the water would drip and sometimes leave a mark on the carpet. It was a significant expense added to all the other additional expenses of the season. Getting rid of it was always a hassle. In turns out that my parents were, as so often was the case, right after all.

So it seems that I had wanted an artificial tree all along- just a green one that looked like a real tree, and with all my wonderful mix of ornaments. But my family was as attached to their real, green trees as my parents had been to their white artificial one. So I was stuck with a real tree each year.

After my divorce, all of my holiday traditions were up in the air, ready to be redefined. When I remarried, it became even more complicated. My Jewish husband obviously doesn’t celebrate Christmas, but I still very much wanted a Christmas tree in my house. After the shock of the idea wore off, my husband agreed to let me have a tree. However, he had absolutely no-preconceived notion about what a tree should be or how it should be decorated. It was entirely up to me.

I can’t even convey my excitement the day that we went to Pool City to choose our tree. Now I have the perfect, beautiful green artificial tree of my dreams. My son still prefers a real tree but comes over ever year to help decorate, and we use the same ornaments that once adorned the real tree of his childhood. And my husband still can’t believe that he has a Christmas tree in the house.