Christmas Day: 1969 Vs. 2009

Christmas Presents
1969: A Talking Barbie and Ken! Clearly, I am now a very cool pre-teen who is way past baby dolls.
2009: An LP Conversion System, to digitally copy all my old record albums, along with a Beatles Trivial Pursuit game! Clearly, I am now a middle-aged woman who is totally living in the past.

Christmas Attire
1969: Red velvet dress, white tights with crotch hanging to my knees, and black patent leather shoes. My proud mother thinks she dressed me in style.
2009: Pajamas, ratty robe, socks with holes in the toes. My distressed mother thinks she somehow raised me wrong.

Christmas Outing
1969: Celebrating at Grandma's. Happy to see all my cousins, but wish I was old enough to be seated at the Adult Table. How old do they think I am?
2009: Celebrating at the Holiday Inn. Happy to not have to cook, but truly wish they hadn't given me the senior discount. (I am NOT joking.) How old do they think I am?

Christmas Menu
1969: Ham, All Rotten Potatoes and Suicide Salad. But! My own can of black olives! And pumpkin pie!
2009: Ham, Au Gratin potatoes and Jello Salad. But! Bloody Marys! And pumpkin pie!

Christmas Night
1969: Go to bed when I'm sternly ordered, exhausted but happy. Love my family. Thankful for Santa.
2009: Go to bed as soon as I can, exhausted but happy. Love my family. Thankful for credit cards.

Our holiday traditions may change through the years, but--whether we're young or old--Christmas is the merriest season of all.

And they won't dare give me the senior discount next year. Because you can bet I'll be sitting at the children's table.

Sherry's 2009 Holiday Letter

December 2009

Dear Friends and Family,

Oh, what a fabulous year in the lives of the Stanfa-Stanley family!

I know I always start my annual holiday letter with details of all my travels. But I’ve decided exotic islands and quaint European towns are so over-rated. Besides, who wants to hassle with airport security? (Not me, since that last unwarranted skirmish over my carry-on at Detroit Metro. Way overblown! Only two of the four handguns were even loaded!) So this year, I wondered, “Why not find true happiness in my own backyard?” I bought me one of those inflatable pools from Walmart, pumped it up (four unfiltered packs a day haven’t hurt these lungs a bit), slathered myself with baby oil (funny how great I still look in that bikini from 1983—only a bit snug), and cranked the Snoop Dogg! It was like my own private resort, especially when two weeks later—by some wonderful coincidence—all my neighbors installed tall privacy fences!

My two grown children continue to amaze me—far more charming and successful, I’m sure, than any of yours. They are both out on parole now, and I’m lucky to be seeing lots of them, what with their work-release programs and all. We will be taking it easier on the holiday libations this year, since they’re each in court-ordered rehab. (Fortunately, I don’t think spiked eggnog really counts. Doesn’t AA grant a dispensation for that?) And though I hesitate on sharing exciting news prematurely, suffice it to say that one of them may soon be blessing me with the pitter-patter of a grandchild’s feet! His girlfriend, a very successful dancer at a Windsor club, already has five children by five different fathers, so I’m hopeful it’s only a matter of time!

All our pets are perfect as ever, and so very worth the $850 we’re paying in monthly veterinary bills. (Thank God my boys enjoy eating generic kibble too!) We’re thinking of helping out the local pound, which I understand has had some bad press recently. With a dozen dogs roaming the yard, I figure no one will dare call me a crazy cat lady anymore! (“Crazy” is so inaccurate anyway, since the cocktail of meds I’m on has eliminated nearly all the voices in my head!)

Of course, this holiday letter wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t touch on how my career is flourishing! The offers never cease, and I’m sure I’ll have a publishing contract as soon as my last few threats, I mean queries, are received. (A special shout-out to all my fans in prison! My boys sure know how to make friends—and this caring mom figured she’d help by smuggling them a few prescription meds for big-house currency.)

Finally, I’m pleased to report that my own personal life has been greatly blessed this year! I’ve found true love at last (and wouldn’t be surprised if next year’s letter brings you news of wedding bells)! We just need to figure out a few details first, like his telling that dreadful wife of his (she just doesn’t understand him, really), their likely messy divorce (fingers crossed that he gets to keep the double-wide), and those far-fetched mass murder charges he faces. But I’m certain love will eventually conquer all!

In closing, I want to thank you for your treasured friendship and love. Sadly, we don’t keep in touch as often as we should. But I’m hopeful that will change this year, once all your restraining orders against me expire!

Until then, with much love,
Sherry and the Boys

Keeping the Faith

A peace-keeper most of my life, I tend to shy away from controversial subjects in this blog. Unless you’ve caught me in a highly impulsive or passionate moment, you won’t see me expounding here on my religious, moral or political views. I have plenty of each, but I’m here to make friends, not to alienate them.

I will, however, admit to being not a highly religious person, at least not in the organized religion sense. I am, for those who care to know, a somewhat lapsed Catholic, who attends church primarily at Christmas and Easter. I don’t begrudge anyone their own religious beliefs or practices, but at the same time, I don’t want them on my doorstep carrying a briefcase filled with religious paraphernalia.

Whether or not we are believers in Christ or Buddha or Allah isn’t my point. So at the risk of writing something controversial, I will say what I am is a believer in the power of faith.

Faith is not for everyone; I believe that should be one’s own choice. Some people find comfort in the belief that they, and only they, control the circumstances in their lives. Others find equal comfort in their belief that someone else is looking out for them. That someone else has a master plan.

Faith, to the 17-year-old paralyzed in an accident, means he may someday walk again.

Faith, to the middle-aged meth addict, means she may find the strength to fight and regain her life.

Faith, to the young man whose mother has died, means he’ll see her again one day, in some glorious afterlife.

For them, faith may be hopeful. Faith may be healing. For those who choose to embrace it, I believe some sense of faith probably serves a purpose much like science and medicine and therapy.

I admire these people, the ones who possess a strong, silent faith. One that doesn’t impose itself upon others, but simply brings them personal hope and comfort and strength. And though they may sometimes question it—which is inevitable for even the most devout—maybe it’s faith that helps get them through the most troubling times in their lives.

It makes me wonder, sometimes, if perhaps blind faith is better than no faith at all.

Healthy Reform

All this arguing about healthcare reform is raising my blood pressure. (And who's going to pay for that?)

Not that I don't believe our healthcare system needs some reforming, but I think the wrong people are making the decision. Sure, government officials make some fabulous decisions. (Watergate and chummy relationships with White House and Congressional interns, to name just a couple.) But the fact is, no one's asked me--or you--for our ideas about healthcare.

First off, I think we need to banish those paper gowns. I would gladly take a tax increase in order to choose my exam room attire from a closet full of silk robes in multiple colors and sizes. Perhaps we wouldn't feel like floral paper-wrapped pieces of beef sitting on the exam table. And we'd be certain which way the damn thing is supposed to open. (From the front, right? No, the back! Well, hell, neither way is likely to lead to anything good.)

Next, we need to abolish the freaking doctor's office scale. Why bother, when it's always five pounds too heavy anyway? And if the office nurse must have some way to embarrass us, just let her read aloud the reason for our visit when she calls our name in the waiting room. I would rather choose hearing her announce my name and then adding, "who is here today because she is coughing up gobs of green phlegm" over stepping on the office scale. In fact, I would rather cough up gobs of green phlegm--for weeks--than step on that scale.

I'm thinking for every 15-minute interval we have to wait for our medical appointment, we should be able to bill the office back for our lost work time--at our own salary rate. That, right there, might take care of that pesky copay.

And certainly we'd save the healthcare industry loads of time and money, too, if we did away with all the paperwork and personal questions. I'm guessing the doctor can just safely assume most of us enjoy a daily diet of Big Macs and Twinkies, use our home treadmills to hang laundry, and only floss the morning of our dental appointments.

Let's also forget, shall we, anesthesia and all its related risks and monumental costs. Before any surgical procedures, just ply us with pitchers of margaritas.

And all the money we've saved with these cost-cutting steps? Let's plug it into research for less humiliatingly invasive ways to test for "women's" cancer and bad prostates. I'll bet the doctors would appreciate that as much as the patients. At least the non-sadistic ones.

It's not likely, however, that my suggestions or yours, will be heard. We're merely the healthcare system consumers, not the deciders. What do we know, really, about healthcare reform? Just leave the trivial day-to-day decisions of our lives up to us.

And so tonight, while I'm sitting here in a silk robe, I'm thinking Nutty Bars over Twinkies. And I'm not going anywhere near a doctor's scale.

How about you?

Be a Man

If I could teach a boy to be a man, I'd tell him to play football. Or to take up theater instead, if he preferred (just not simultaneously in the end-zone, unless he's looking for a 15-yard penalty).

I'd tell him flowers are always, always good. Sending them for no reason at all? Even better. And when he's calling the florist, to be sure to remember his mother, too.

I would advise him that a being a father means he should discipline. And he should also hug. That real men know the right moment for each, and that the two actions are not always mutually exclusive.

I'd acknowledge that his mother might have read his mind when he was eight, but that it was probably a fair guess when he wanted an ice cream sundae or was sad about losing his soccer game. Mature men must communicate their feelings and needs--with mature words.

I'd warn him that being career-focused will be an asset, but being career-obsessed to the detriment of the rest of his life will just make him an ass.

I'd tell him to admit when he's wrong; compromise when he should; but not to defer to her for every decision. Being a man does not mean being controlling. It doesn't mean being PW'd either.

I would tell him, when he's grown, to call his father, not just his mother, more often. Mothers often learn to convey their needs by goading and guilting, but fathers miss their children too.

I'd suggest that it's all hunky-dory if she wants to cook and he prefers to mow the lawn, but that stereotypes only work if both partners are stereotypical. And I'd say that raising children is a tag-team sport, even if she happens to be a stay-at-home mom. I'd want him to understand that being tired at 8:30 p.m. is no excuse for skipping his child's bedtime story.

I would want him to know that if his favorite pet dies, tears won't make him less manly--only more human.

I'd tell him that he could ignore all the advice I've offered. But that if he was a man, a real man, he'd at least truly listen and nod his head that he's heard me, before he might disagree.

And then I'd listen to his argument, because I'd like to think I'm both man and woman enough to consider that I might be wrong.

Please Be Seated

When I was growing up, before the creation of diaper division soccer and 12-hour workdays, families had this strange tradition: We sat down and ate dinner together. At home. At the same table. With home-cooked food. Nearly every single night of the week.

At our house, dinner wasn't just an occasion for shoveling in spaghetti (sauce not made by Chef Boyardee but by BoyarDenny or Gloria). It was also a time for each of us to share the highs and lows of our day. In addition, it was our daily opportunity to try to one-up each other in witty repartee. (In the Stanfa household, we usually referred to the dinner hour as Sarcasm Hour. My dad ruled. Still does, I'm sure, at those heavenly feasts he now enjoys.)

When my kids were younger, however, a typical weekday schedule went something more like this:

8 a.m. to 4 p.m.:
Kids off to school; Mom off to work.

4 p.m. to 8 p.m.:
Left work early, using skipped lunch hour to pick up kids from school for appointment with pediatrician/dentist/orthodontist/optometrist/voodoo doctor (these were often desperate times). Waited an hour for ten-minute appointment with doctor. Dropped off one kid at baseball/basketball/sporting practice du jour. Dropped off other kid at guitar/piano/maraca lessons. Picked up both kids from their individual timesucking--make that enriching--activities. Dashed into carryout for several convenience sized boxes of Chewy Chips Ahoy, to arrange nicely on a paper plate for the next day's school bake sale. Assisted kids, as needed, with homework, except for post-sixth grade math which left me clueless. Packed lunches, rewashed mildewing clothes in the washer, failed to locate iron so stapled on merit badges for the next day's Boy Scout ceremony.

9 p.m.:
Tried to concentrate on work project I promised to finish that evening. Argued with kids about getting ready for bed.

10 p.m.:
Gave up on work project. Argued with kids about going to bed.

10:30 p.m.:
Went to bed. Told the kids to lock up.

Anything I've forgotten? Oh, dinner. Yes, not to worry, no children went to bed on empty stomachs in this household. Somewhere between the school parking lot and the I-475 exit ramp, we managed to fit in a delightful dinner. Courtesy of whichever squawking box had the shortest drive-through line.

One the rare Sunday afternoon when we had nothing preempting the 4-7 timeslot, I would try to fit in a Family Dinner. Contrary to my kids' beliefs, I still had the ability, if not the opportunity, to cook. Getting everyone to sit down at the dining room table was a bigger feat though. "Nobody sits together at the table to eat dinner," Son #1 once complained, rolling his eyes. (And when I mentioned this to a group of friends later that week, everyone fell silent before one of them finally nodded and said, "We haven't all sat down to eat together in weeks.")

Now, with neither son at home, one at college six hours away, family dinners have become even more infrequent.

As we sit down for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners this year, I will give thanks that we made it through those chaotic years unscathed and unscurvied. And thankful that now, even if only a few times a year, we can sit together and enjoy the kind of family dinners I once knew. We'll share a bounty of home-cooked food and, I'm certain, share some heartfelt words and some witty banter besides.

And we don't want any fries with that, thank you.

Top Ten Things Squanto Would Have Told the Pilgrims If He'd Known Better

10) These corn mazes are a blast! And we promise to come find you if you get lost.
9) Trust me, turkey is best cooked really rare.
8) Sure you all get along great here now, but just wait until someone mentions healthcare reform.
7) Oh, a little peace pipe won't hurt you. Here, smoke some more.
6) Freedom of religion? You should really check out Northern Ireland or the Middle East. Boy howdy, is that big over in those places!
5) But the growing season's year-round here! No need to stockpile all that squash and shit.
4) If I were you, I'd write that king of yours and tell him exactly what I think of him.
3) If you think this part of the New World is beautiful, you should go see Canada, eh?
2) Who's up for a game of lawn darts?
1) The tribe has spoken.

From Hopelessness to Helplessness

Some of them enjoyed the evening by watching college football. Some hung out with friends at a party or at the movies. Some stayed back in their dorm rooms, working feverishly to write the two papers due Monday morning.

None of them anticipated how their seemingly typical Saturday night at the close-knit college, a midwestern Jesuit university, might end.

Because a college freshman isn't supposed to end his own life.

In the midnight moments in which the sirens neared and feet pounded down the dorm's hallways, the unusually warm and beautiful fall night turned to a stark and cold Sunday morning. As the sheet-wrapped body that was their friend was carried from the room, boys who were almost men watched silently. In the wee hours of the morning, almost-men who were yet still boys called home to their mothers.

And mixed in with the continuing deluge of disbelief and grief and horror will be the guilt.

One of the young men will wonder if there wasn't, perhaps, a clue he might have missed in his classmate's words that day. Another will regret not stopping on his way out that night to invite his friend along. A former girlfriend will struggle with the possibility that their recent breakup was ultimately devastating.

What truly drives an 18-year-old, or anyone for that matter, to suicide? Surely it's seldom one incident, or singular discussion, or specific experience. It's likely a culmination that leads to such a vast and overwhelming sense of hopelessness.

But it is that person's momentary and final decision to end their hopelessness which leaves others--many for a lifetime--with a sense of helplessness. It will continue to gnaw at the R.A. who discovered the body of a young man whom he didn't find in time. It will overcome the two people who, in the middle of the night, received the call every parent fears most.

If we can maintain anything in life, it should be hope. No matter the inner-turmoil we might feel, or the anguish we might be experiencing, the reality is that life, eventually, will get better. We will always rebound and we will always recover. If we only give it time.

Hopelessness is only temporary. Always.

Helplessness, sadly, lingers much longer, for those who are left behind.