Summer Cocktails for Moms

We moms have it hard in May and June.  The social calendar that we tend to throughout the year virtually explodes for the spring season, with graduation parties and birthday parties and class parties and final exams and proms and cookies to bake and brownies to bake and teachers to thank and yearbooks to distribute and camp trunks to pack and backpacks to unpack and trip forms to fill out and letters to send to camp and Father’s Day to plan and little league playoffs and final recitals and band concerts and about a million other obligations that keep our heads spinning.  Until now.  Because now, we have reached Nirvana.  We have reached the end of June.

         

Ah.  Say it with me.  The end of June.  Now exhale.

            

At the end of June, and well into July and August, Mommy needs – no, Mommy deserves - a cocktail.

            

Here are some of my personal summer faves.  Continue here.

My husband the...triathlete?

Artist, yes. Successful businessman, sure. Snarky comment maker, indeed. But here are words I'd never thought I'd utter: I'd like to introduce you to my husband, Brett, the triathlete. When Brett and I met in 1996, he was merely a summertime tennis player, and, when I was not chain-smoking, I occasionally attended a step-aerobics class. In Central Park, we went to Sheep Meadow to hang out instead of going for a run around the reservoir. I thought we were perfectly matched in every way.

When we moved in together in Brooklyn a few years later, we joined a gym and attended spin and yoga classes side by side. Skip ahead 12 years, and you will find that spin and yoga is where I still remain. Brett, however, has moved on. Way on.

My husband now goes to the gym. A lot. He has a trainer. He does something called box jumps. He wears something called a weight vest. When I said I'd marry him in sickness and in health, I didn't know quite how healthy he meant.

Continue reading here...

What We Want for Mother's Day (Hint, Hint)

My friend and I were walking around Pamela Robbins the other day after lunch, wandering aimlessly, touching pretty things, chatting with the sales help and the other customers.  Amy was interested in a ring from the jewelry case and I, not surprisingly, had found another scarf I liked in the window.

            

Amy tried on the ring.  “What do you think?” she asked, extending her arm to arm’s length and moving her head back and forth.  A group huddled around her hand and decided that the ring was fab.  We immediately agreed that she must have it.  Now. 

            

(“We” might be enablers of sorts, but that’s not for today’s article.)

           

“Do you think I can buy it and then have my husband give it to me for Mother’s Day?”  Amy asked.

            

Of course, we all agreed.  Doing that takes the pressure off him and it guarantees that you’ll get a nice little something that you’ll truly enjoy…since you picked it out yourself!

There are people who would disagree with me about this.  Continue reading here.

It's Our Party

I used to think jumping up and down on a trampoline with three year olds was fun.

But approaching the 50th time, I started getting a little tired of it.

Am I allowed to say this in print? I don’t need to spend any more Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons at Tumblekids or Wonderjumpers. And I’m just guessing here, but think I could live out the rest of my days very satisfactorily without attending – or hosting, for that matter – another Coach Terrific party. I love my children and I love celebrating their birthdays and milestones with them. I’m just not sure I have to keep inviting the world along to watch.

Now, just so everyone is clear about this: I am guilty of many celebratory offenses myself. I have been known to go ga-ga over personalized Internet invitations and to race to the best bakery for the Perfect Cake. I once hired a groovy guitarist for Zoe’s birthday and actually sang harmony with him at the party. (Who can resist a Crosby, Stills and Nash tune, I ask you?) In fact, in the context of the larger world, these are hardly “offenses” at all.

But also, just to be clear, sometimes I think we have gone a bit too far. Like, when you look at us collectively. All the parties, all the hoopla. Every year, for every kid in the village. Are we mad?

I really like throwing parties. I am outgoing and social, and so I kind of get a high from having entertained well. But I think there’s a danger in that, too. Andrew’s fourth birthday party was held at a local gym. 30 of his closest preschool friends were invited, along with all the grandparents and many friends of mine from high school and their kids and maybe a few strays I picked up on the over way to the place. For the invitation, I arranged a photo-shoot of Andrew in a green Power Ranger costume jumping up and down and posing mid-air on the gym equipment, looking fierce. It’s not like I hired a photographer or anything; I took the digital images myself and uploaded them into Shutterfly and made an invitation. It was fun for both me and Andrew, but let’s just call it what it was: a little bit nuts.

It was then that I realized the ugly truth. The preschool birthday party is the gateway drug to the bar mitzvah.

Each year from that point on, the need to succeed would get greater and greater, until I couldn’t outdo myself anymore. Nothing would get me high enough. No overnight sleepover in the Museum of Natural History, no all-access passes to the tween concert of the year. I imagined myself, several years in the future, line dancing upside down in a zero-gravity simulator transformed to look like Mos Eisley’s Canteena, dressed as Princess Leia. Welcome to Andrew’s Intergalactic Coming of Age Party: The Bar Mitzvah That’s Out Of This World!!!! What a bad trip that would be.

The truth is, until fairly recently, I felt a lot of pressure about throwing these somewhat elaborate, although now typical, parties for my young children. I’m not proud of it, but I’ll admit it. I started worrying in January about Andrew’s April birthday because venues book months ahead, especially if you want to get “the best” time of day at “the best” party place, whatever that may be.

“There is always a theme on top of a theme on top of a theme at these things,” Brett added when I told him the topic of this week’s article. “I’m at this party last weekend and I’m like, with the bowling alley, weird science, and a hired Sponge Bob character, did ya really need the piñata, too?”

“Plus, this party circuit is an endless cycle,” Brett continued. “We’re either going to parties or planning our own or attending our own. We’re purchasing gifts, opening gifts, returning gifts, re-gifting gifts or donating gifts to the school fair where we win them back in the raffle. At these parties, everyone arrives with toys wrapped in the same paper from the same toy store. We eat the same tiny slices of pizza and huddle in the corner by the veggie plate, waiting to get our goody bags and go. It’s Groundhog Day!”

So I guess I’m not the only one frustrated by this.

“The thing is,” Brett elaborated, “everyone feels the same way about these events, and yet it’s an accepted and routine part of our culture. People talk about breaking the cycle but no one ever does.”

Until now, that is. Enter the Seasonal Birthday Party, or SBP.

I’m going to give credit to my friend Lila for this one, and then I’m going to snatch that credit away from her and say I came up with it first. Why? Because it’s a brilliant idea and who wouldn’t want to be aligned with that?

The SBP is really great for those of you with 3 and 4 year olds with a large network of preschool friends. When Andrew was in preschool, he attended at least 25 birthday parties between the months of November and June. It was then that Brett and I first discussed the idea of the Seasonal Birthday Party. What if the parents got together to plan four parties a year, grouping the children together by birthday season? The fall party could be a Coach Terrific party, the winter one could be at a gym, the spring one could have a children’s entertainer and the summer one could be at the town pool. Everyone would be celebrated, and everyone would be included. How awesome! How revolutionary!

And then, like most great ideas on the verge of implementation, it fell by the wayside and we stepped back into the familiar pattern of individual (but pretty much all the same) parties.

Truth be told, I worried a little bit about the group party thing. I worried that my own child wouldn’t feel special. That maybe, in this world of personal parties, he would feel gypped. (And then he would grow up to always feel slighted by the world and it would somehow all be my fault. If only I had let my child have his own 4th birthday party!)

But now that I’m on to child number two, I know that things in general need not be taken so seriously. So when my friend Lila approached me a few weeks ago, suggesting a group party for the five children in our preschool class with summer birthdays – including Zoe’s – I jumped at the idea. She and another friend had already thought it out, deciding to have the event at an ice cream parlor where the kids could make their own sundaes.

“What fun!” I enthused.

“It will just run an hour, I figure,” Lila added.

“Only an hour! Genius!”

“And no gifts – just the hosts will exchange with each other.”

“Amazing!”

And so, given the job of creating an evite for the event– an evite! So simple, so green! – I got to work and sent it out. The next day, I received a phone call from the mom of another of Zoe’s classmates. She hoped she wasn’t imposing, but her son Peter’s birthday was in June, and, well, this was like the best idea she had ever heard of in her life, and, so, could Peter join the summer celebration as a host, too?
Absolutely! The more the merrier!

It’s not just my party anymore. And that’s really something to celebrate.

Making Friends with the Past, Part II

In case you didn’t read it or don’t remember, Part I of this series took a hard look at the somewhat misguided preparations I made for my 20th Edgemont High School reunion. When last you saw me, I had secured the perfect outfit for the event but had an ill-timed encounter with a dermatologist and her v-beam laser.

“So, what else is there to say?” my friend Jessica asked. “How can you even have a Part II? Everyone knows that the biggest piece of the reunion experience is the getting ready component. Did you lose the ten pounds? Get a boob job, tummy tuck, or Botox? How’s your hair? How’s your husband’s hair?”

Like me, Jessica had graduated from high school in 1988. She had recently attended had her own 20th reunion on Long Island. She talked like such an expert that she may also have crashed some others, just for fun. I hung on to her every word.

She explained that the event is really just about the women. “They all look great, better than they did in high school. But the guys get old and bald. The captain of the football team is now fat, and the brainy nerdy guys are the best husbands of the bunch.” She shrugged like this was common knowledge.

I pondered it for a minute. “Your husband is bald.”

“Like a baby.” She added.

“And mine was a brainy nerd.”

“Doesn’t Brett still brag about winning the perfect attendance award in high school?” Jessica asked.

“And he’s a good husband.”

We nodded in unison. “Amen to that.”

Case closed? I wasn’t so sure. My friend Steve, with whom I was planning the reunion, was the captain of the football team in high school, and he still looked great. I decided to put Jessica’s logic on my brain’s back burner.

And before I could say Karma Chameleon, the months of anticipation were past. On a crisp evening last October, Brett and I headed into the city for the reunion.

Had anyone changed dramatically, I wondered? It was time to find out.

Now, there’s two ways I can go with this story, from this point on. I could either tell witty anecdotes filled with quippy dialogue, filling you in on all the details as Brett and I chatted it up with my ex-boyfriend and some old frenemies. I could mention that everyone looked great, not just the women. I could tell you that, at two in the morning, the last of the group made its way down to the street from the roof-top bar where we had spent the evening. My prom date, a mild-mannered pediatrician, patted Brett on the shoulder and smiled, declaring that he was now one of The Guys. I could tell you that, as Brett and I debriefed on the ride home, he decided that my ex-boyfriend, Joe, a graduate of my class who I dated after college, was his favorite person at the event.

“Really!? That’s so bizarre!” I declared, shaking my head.

“What? Joe’s a cool guy. He’s smart and funny and interesting, and…”

“And he broke my heart, remember!”

Brett was quiet. “Good thing he did, too.”

“Huh. Hadn’t thought of it that way. Remind me to send him a thank you note.”

So, that’s one way to re-tell this story. This is the other.

In a lot of ways, this reunion was surreal. Two decades have passed, and yet, as soon as I think of high school, I can go right back there. If I watch an 80’s movie like Valley Girl or hear a certain long-forgotten song, my reaction is actually visceral. It’s as if there is a souped-up DeLorean with a flux capacitor waiting outside my house to zoom me back to 1987.

This ability of mine to go back to the future proved to be both good and bad. In response to the reunion, I immediately acted like a teenager again, focusing on all the outward appearance stuff and feeling irrationally insecure. The main difference this time was that my 38-year old brain could talk the inner teen down from the ledge. Yes, I could obsess about what to wear and how I looked, but concurrent with those actions, I understood just how silly my behavior was. I also knew that none of it really mattered, having the benefit of 20/20 hindsight.

Also, as much as I remember about those good old days, I also seemed to have forgotten quite a lot of it as well. Here’s an awkward moment: when an old friend tells you a story about you and you don’t remember it at all.

“How could you forget that?” Paul asked. “It’s like the best memory I have of you,” he said.

“Well, then I’m so glad you have it!” was all I could come up with in response.

I didn’t know what to say. Is the appropriate retort something like, “Please don’t take it personally! If I knew how to not forget I would have definitely remembered!”

Perhaps more than the wrinkles, that made me feel old.

Although my forgetfulness was not a hit with that particular friend, senility worked really well with the female frenemies. I was able to go up to them and be like, What did I hate you for? Oh, who the heck remembers? Come here and give me a hug! Call it time and distance; call it mellowing out and maturing. Call it early onset dementia, if you must. There was something really beautifully “kum-ba-yah” in all that collective memory loss.

The morning after the reunion, there was more socializing to do. It was like an after-prom party only instead of going to the beach we held a bagel brunch in the EHS cafeteria. This was a family-friendly event, with a magician entertaining our children in the senior lounge. Several teachers and administrators from the district came by to say hello.

At one point, I was standing next to my former 6th grade teacher, a man who I have known since I was 10, pointing out to him my kids and husband, and discussing my own career as a 6th grade teacher. I was simultaneously wishing away a little bit of a hangover, cursing at myself for having that extra margarita and for staying out so late. I was actually on the verge of asking him for the keys to the nurse’s office so I could grab some Tylenol.

Now that was an exceptionally surreal moment.

The principal of EHS then took us on a tour of the campus, pointing out the changes made in the decades since we’d been students there. We kind of marched in a line behind him, which made me feel a little bit like I had for 7th grade orientation, only I wasn’t wearing my rainbow-banded blue tracksuit this time. But as I turned to my right, I realized that I had gone on that very tour with Lindsay, who stood beside me now. Granted, her two-year-old son was having an absolute meltdown, and his screaming was preventing me from hearing anything the principal was saying, but other than that, it was just the same as it was in 1983.

On the walk, I got to take a moment to visit a memorial set up for Lois Van Epps, one of the most wonderful teachers that I have ever known. Although I had said goodbye to her in my mind years ago and had tried to honor her in my own teaching, I had never been to the spot on campus dedicated to her memory. There was something very moving about that for me, but I figured that if I burst into tears, my former classmates might think I was crazy in addition to senile. I pretended instead to have hay fever as I dabbed at my eyes and said another silent farewell to Ms. Van Epps.

My memory may not be what it used to be, but as I strolled the campus, a mantra of recollections filled my mind.

Here’s where we took our senior class picture.
Here’s where that backpack flew out the second floor window.
Here’s where I stood at graduation.
Here’s where a junior made fun of me when I was a freshman.
Here’s where Mr. Mallia blew things up in the name of science.
Here’s where I hit a car in the parking lot.
Here’s where I hit another.
Here’s my picture from the musical Grease.
Here’s where I hung out with friends on warm days.
Here’s where I hung out when I cut gym class.
Here’s where I hung out.
Here is where.

The reunion weekend was fun. And it flew by. Just like high school.

Making Friends with the Past, Part I

It was around this time last year that I had to face a harsh reality: my 20th high school reunion was quickly approaching. I don’t know why this news sent me into a panic, but it did. I suddenly felt really old. Overnight, my laugh lines turned into wrinkles, and purple bags formed under my eyes. This rapid deterioration couldn’t be all in my mind, could it? Was it the fear that I would soon have to face the clique of girls that always reminded me of that classic movie, Heathers? And what about those friends that I had lost touch with, whether amicably or not-quite-so? Did I really want to deal with all the feelings the past might stir up? In short, was I ready for this reunion?

While I was mulling this over, a website had been set up, and people from the Edgemont High School class of 1988 were now chatting online.This is what I heard through the grapevine, at any rate. I couldn’t actually verify the fact that my former classmates were reconnecting via this new-fangled, post-80’s technology because I had decided not to follow the link sent to me by Sarah, one of my best friends from high school.And that’s because I had decided that I wasn’t going to go to the reunion.


“I think that’s a wise decision,” my husband, Brett, concurred. He and I were waiting for a table at the diner with our children one Saturday morning last March. In the 10 minutes that we were standing there, I had run into about 5 people I knew from high school.“Every day in Scarsdale is like a reunion for you. I say, save the 85 bucks per person and take a walk around the village, waving at all the people you’ve known since the mid 70’s. Call it a reunion.”


He had a point.And he was on a roll.“Clearly, you should not go to the reunion. You loved high school. We go out with all these ‘Edgemont couples’ – people who actually married their friends from high school, and it’s like some sort of convention where I don’t know the language. You guys are like Trekkies. I don’t think I could take a whole room of you people, gushing about the good old days when you went to Madonna concerts and wore finger-less lace gloves, or smoked cigarettes while eating fries dipped in gravy at The Mont.”


He had another point.High school really was fun, come to think of it.“You had friends you loved, and teachers that you loved so much that you decided to become a teacher yourself. You moved back to your hometown! You were even a cheerleader! Yeah, you totally shouldn’t go to that reunion.”


I was detecting some sarcasm from my normally sarcastic husband.“Okay, I hear you. I’m like the poster child for it,” I admitted. “I’ll probably end up going. And you’ll probably have to come along. But please, let’s get one thing straight: I was not just a cheerleader. I was a cheerleader who made fun of cheerleaders. It’s the essence of who I am. You know, insider/outsider.”


“Whatever. Did you wear the little skirt? Did you jump up and down and shout rhymes at athletic boys?” 


I nodded. “Then you were a cheerleader. You did not take a political stance.”


“I’m not sure about that. Senior year, we put together a very impassioned petition stating that cheerleading was indeed a sport and therefore worthy of exemption from gym class. It was highly politicized.”


“And how’s that turn out for you?”


“Some of the squad had to make up gym credits over the summer in order to graduate.” 


The memory of it made me wistful.By the end of that breakfast, I had decided to go to the reunion.That night, I went online and updated everyone with my 20-year story in about a paragraph of text. I also casually mentioned in that note that I would be glad to help Steve, now living in New York City (and married to another EHSer, of course), who had come forward to organize the reunion.


The next day, my phone was ringing.“Hey, Julie! How’d you like to plan this thing with me?” Steve asked. By the end of the week, I had gone from not attending the reunion to actually co-chairing it.


“Now, that’s my cheerleader!” Brett winked.I dug through the attic to find my pom-poms. Goooooo Re-union!!!


******


Spring turned into summer and summer into fall. Before I knew it, the scent of football season was in the air. The reunion was now a mere 4 weeks away. RSVPs had been pouring in from across the country and around the world. I had been connecting with people via email that I hadn’t seen since graduation. The experience was strange and exciting at the same time. I was starting to really look forward to this event.Dana was coming from Bulgaria. Sarah from New York City. With them by my side, I could walk into that reunion and feel confident.As long as I had the right outfit.It was time to get my game on.


Several trips to the city later, I had fourteen options and nothing to wear. Was the black cocktail dress very Jackie O. or very Nancy Reagan? Were wrap dresses so 2005? And should I wear fierce boots or stiletto heels?I was having trouble focusing on anything other than the big R.


My book group had witnessed enough, and was on the verge of kicking me out. On a Tuesday in early September, they cornered me in a corner of Lila’s living room. Lila spoke.“We need to stage an intervention. We’ll be over Friday night at 7:00. You’ll try it all on for us and we’ll decide.”


“But…” I began.They held their paperbacks up to me, as if to strike. 


“No buts! We’re coming. End of story.”


To take my mind off the costuming issues, I decided it was high time to see my dermatologist. There were capillaries on my face that needed zapping.“Now, this might sting a little bit,” the doctor with milky-white, perfectly unwrinkled, rosacea-and-mole-free-skin warned. “Like rubber bands being snapped against your cheeks.”I looked at her and thought, I’ll endure almost anything to have skin as blemish-free as yours. Bring on the rubber bands!


“Also, you will have some bruising. It might take a few weeks for your skin to heal fully.”Bring on the bruising! I have 15 days! 


Now here’s a little lesson for you folks who, like me, might not see the danger in those words. If a doctor ever says to you that “there might be bruising,” you should stop right there and ask some questions. Like, how bad will that bruising be? And, for how long will that bruising last? And then you should up and run, even if only wearing a backless paper gown. Because, otherwise, you will end up like me.I left that office $400 poorer and in a deep state of psychic disarray.


In the first hour post-procedure, my face looked so bad that I thought, surely there has been some mistake. The v-Beam is lauded by movie stars precisely because it doesn’t cause any bruising. There is not supposed to be downtime between the procedure and the perfection.For me, the not-Angelina girl, this harmless laser caused 12 days worth of brownish blackish, bloody-looking pustules that threatened to take over the entirety of my face.“Remember that guy who got shot in the face by Dick Cheney?” Brett asked me as I sat to write this article. “I didn’t want to tell you at the time, but you looked just like him.”


Thanks, honey.


In order to take my mind off the bruises that I was sure would keep me disfigured for life, I decided to go back to obsessing over what to wear. I headed into Scarsdale village for one last look around before the book group intervention that evening. And at one store, I found something that could be perfect. It was a shimmery dark blue dress with a deep v-neck and some stretch to it. Accessorized with a thick black belt and a little cardigan, it felt very me.But since the return policy would leave me with a store credit if I changed my mind, I had to be certain before purchasing it.I looked at my watch. 12:00. Which of my friends might be on-call at this hour? I dialed Janie, my friend from high school who now lives in Edgemont with her EHS husband. I explained my precarious situation to her voicemail. It went a little something like this: “I’m-in-the-village-and-I-need-help-deciding-what-to-wear-to-the-
reunion-because-as-you-know-I-am-a-crazy-person-help-me-
my-face-is-all-messed-up!!!!”

Next person on the list: Lila from book group. She already knew how insane I was, having planned the intervention. She answered the phone and I explained.“Oh, I’d love to come see, but I’m getting a pedicure. Can’t leave the chair.”


“Are you getting a pedicure in the village?” I asked, an idea forming in my mind.


“Yes….”


“Then I’m coming to you.”Don’t you just love shopping in a small town? The saleswoman in the store shooed me out, seemingly not too worried about the fate of the dress and whether or not I would ever return with it. I marched over to the nail salon, price tags flapping all over me.A few people stared and I smiled back. Then I remembered what my face looked like. People weren’t gawking because of my outfit.


Lila loved the dress. So did the woman in the pedicure chair next to her, as did all the ladies who worked there. My second bit of advice to you is this: if you ever need an opinion about something, just walk into a nail salon. Doesn’t matter if you know anyone there. You will have a captive audience, a committee of commentators!“Honey, turn around. Let me get a good look.” An elderly woman called from the front of the salon, where her fingernails were drying by the windows. I obliged.“Very pretty. But what happened to your –?”


Want to know how it turned out?Seeing the clique of girls? Former boyfriend? Prom date?Tune in next week.

A Llama for Hanukah

A catalogue recently arrived in my mail. This is no great news, since I get about two or three a day, more when companies up the ante and start getting ready for the holiday season. In one week alone in November I received glossy magazines selling goods for Pottery Barn Pre Holiday, Pottery Barn Early Holiday, Pottery Barn Pre-Teen Post- Football Season, Pottery Barn Erev Hanukah, Pottery Barn Hates Your Crazy Family Too, and Pottery Barn Babies Turn 40.

So unnecessary. We all know that once you get past the first four pages the whole thing is the same as the Pottery Barn Secretary’s Day catalogue anyway.

But this catalogue was different: it wasn’t from Pottery Barn, and it wasn’t selling stuff.

No turkey platters. Just turkeys.

No pashmina throws. Just Llamas.

No egg nog. Just some drunk chickens.

Well, actually, that’s not fair. From the pictures, it was hard to tell whether or not the chickens were drunk. I’d hate to write slander, so let’s just say they were acting really “festive.”

Point is, this catalogue, called the World Vision Gift Catalogue: Meaningful Gifts that Change the World, is all about providing people across the globe with the means to feed, clothe, educate, and generally provide for themselves, their families and their communities (hence the animals mentioned above). In addition to livestock, this catalogue contains pages of “inexpensive gifts that bring joy to children” including healthcare, housing, and access to clean water.

I can gift people their basic human rights. And do it in my grandmother’s honor!

In terms of a catalogue with holiday spirit, I think it’s fair to say it beats the pants off PB, stocking-and-garland-trimmed cover and all. I pushed all the other catalogues off the counter. I couldn’t wait to dig in to this one.

Within minutes, I was scribbling individual’s names on post-its and slapping them onto different pages. What to get for a teacher your child loves? How about item #0253 for $30, which will fill an American child’s backpack all year long with needed school supplies? For that post-feminist, Birkenstock wearing sister-in-law of yours? I’d go with the small business loan for one woman at a cost of $100. And the brother whose claim to fame in high school was that he kicked butt as his team’s goalie? Soccer balls for schools throughout Latin America.

I cannot remember when shopping felt so good. And luckily, shipping costs seem not to be an issue, so feel free to go hog wild. Get your boss two oxen and a plow. Like to buy in bulk? You can purchase an entire menagerie -- 28 farm animals in one order -- saving ten families from hunger this year, and even more in the years to come. (It’s a gift that truly keeps on giving. Think reproduction.)

My friends Jodi and Evan are going through a rough patch, with the double-whammy of a bad market for Evan’s business and a house that flooded while they were at Disneyworld over Thanksgiving. “We’re being kicked in the assets!” Jodi declared via cell phone, holed up indefinitely at a local hotel. “You cannot imagine our room service bill. Jason, stop jumping on the bed!”
I’m so sending them a llama for Hanukah.

And a case of scotch.

At my book group meeting the other night, this topic of holiday giving came up. Well, first we talked about the book (22 minutes – a record). Then we moved on to a discussion about gifting service people and babysitters, which turned into a series of other unrelated topics, which finally circled back to the realization that we had not selected a book for next month (1 hour and 37 minutes).

The tipping and gifting conversation was interesting. First, because I found out just how cheap I am. And secondly, because we questioned whether anyone would be reducing the number of and/or dollar amount of gifts this year, in light of the world’s recent financial crumbling.

One woman said that she would not be giving her babysitter a raise, so instead she cut back the woman’s hours slightly, giving her the gift of more time off. Another person mentioned that she traditionally participates not only in the class gift for a teacher, but also goes out of her way to give a little something extra, like a Starbucks gift card or a mug. (We quickly talked her out of that habit and into a Scarsdale High School PTA Scholarship Fund donation made in the teacher’s name.) Someone else mentioned that she always generously tips her top-secret eyebrow groomer, financial crisis or no.

In terms of donations to charity, many companies usually participate in holiday giving. But, this year, those same companies have spend the last few months laying people off, cutting salaries and/or withholding bonuses, hoping to stay alive. It made me wonder what happens to charitable contributions during a recession.

Last year, 1 in 8 Americans went hungry. Imagine what the figures are now. I guess my real question is this: do we give less this year because we have less this year? Or do we give more because the need is greater? Is the amount of giving in direct proportion to how much you have or in relation to how much others require?

Some give a fixed amount yearly, such as 5% of one’s household or corporate earnings. Others give when the mood strikes them throughout the year, choosing to support their child’s preschool or an organization that holds special meaning. For others, it’s less about proportionality and more about finding ways to show you care.

>I don’t have all (or even some) of the answers, but I know someone who has at least one good one.

My friend Kate was fed up. She had purchased from Pottery Barn a beautiful Advent calendar for her daughters, to help count down the days until Christmas. Kate then went out and bought a bunch of little goodies to put inside each window.

“And you know what happened?” Kate asked me over lunch. “The girls would run downstairs each morning, pushing each other out of the way to get to the stuff first. Then, once they saw their present, they would promptly complain about it! Mom, I want what Sydney has! And, Hello Kitty? I don’t even like Hello Kitty anymore!”

She pointed her fork at me, stabbing the air with flying lettuce. “Dave and I were just done with the whole thing. I told him we had to put the Advent calendar away.”

“But I like it.” Dave began, trying to come up with a solution. “Where’d you get it, anyway?”

They were on the verge of taking the new PB purchase to the attic when they realized that they could keep both their calendar and their daughters with some creative thinking. “The idea was, let’s just have them give something every day instead of get something.”

And so, the girls began sending holiday cards to American soldiers, delivering poinsettias to a nursing home, and throwing pennies into the fountains at the Simon mall (which are donated to the Simon Youth fund). They selected gifts for other children taken from their own collection of stuffed animals, “which didn’t go all that smoothly at first,” Kate admitted, rolling her eyes. “But eventually Syd came around. ‘Giving’ is a tough concept when you’re four.”

For the record, I believe she selected for donation a turkey, a llama, and a chicken. Plus a couple of one-legged Barbies.
Isn’t that a nice story?

So, from Pottery Barn to me to you, have a Merry and a Happy.

By the way, did you know that Pottery Barn is a proud supporter of the St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital?

You can read all about it in today’s catalogue.

(It’s right there, in the pile with this very newspaper. See it? By the toaster. There you go.)