Rotation of Thanksgiving guest list brings joy

NOVEMBER 23, 2017 (previously printed in The Kansas City Star)

Tom Turkey defrosting with Buds

Happy belated Thanksgiving. Are you still wearing your favorite elastic waist-banded garment? It’s amazing I used to only own one stretchy pair of poultry pants, saved for the last two months of every year, because now the majority of my closet is filled with various shades and fabrics of turkey trousers.

Normal Thanksgiving dinners growing up consisted of thawing the biggest turkey in the shop for days, waking up at an ungodly hour to turn on the oven and ensure the stuffing hadn’t fallen out of the bird overnight.

For years, it was an intimate affair with our immediate family and one set of grandparents. Never were my parents plucky enough to have the in-laws breaking bread on the same day and at the same location.

Everyone brought a side dish or five, praying that hers would be a success. However, you wouldn’t know if your dish received the four-star rating until the next year, when, and if, you were invited for Thanksgiving and asked to bring it again.

Back then, many of the same family members would join my small family of four, but all it took was one slight change of the guest list to start our annual Thanksgiving “guest swap” rolling. That’s when the holiday became a competitive sport with no holds barred.

The Thanksgiving that changed our polite formal dinner was when I was 9 or 10 years old. The past dining room table had always been covered with a table cloth, our family’s best china, the real silver, and the crystal glasses that only my mother could transport in and out of the kitchen and hand wash.

We didn’t mind, though, because no one wanted to see her break down and cry; plus, our normal chore of drying the dishes was held off that one day of the year.

As a fourth-grader, I remember when my mother, who is the queen of thinking outside the box, was trying to place enough chairs around our table. Her brother’s wife, her large family, and a priest were to caravan from Nebraska.

None of us were Catholic, but we knew deep down we should step up our formal dinner. I mean, how often do you get to have your first supper with clergy?

If we were entertaining a priest just once, my mother was classy enough to know cramped seating would be a sin. It was time to remove the net and cover the ping-pong table with butcher paper. Fancy living was about to commence.

Everyone had a fabulous time at that Thanksgiving, leaving a big impression on us all. Why should such a creative and giving family be thankful for our typical small family guest list? Since our population wasn’t increasing anytime soon, my parents pulled out the old address book and searched for friends who were alone on that holiday.

If they had impressive culinary skills, they were a shoo-in. “Let’s invite people we work with! I know short Margy makes a mean Jell-O mold.”

One year while I was in college, my parents wanted to shake up the list even more. They invited my brother and me into a room nonchalantly to mention they were crossing themselves off the list. We thumped both sides of our heads to dislodge the object, which had blocked our hearing.

Why on earth would our parents, who treasured family Thanksgivings, say they were deserting us? … The Maui Classic.

Yes, college basketball finally destroyed our family. OK, it could have happened, but instead my brother and I pretended we weren’t devastated by the news.

Over a few hoppy beverages on the back porch, we engineered a solid plan that would make the parents jealous. It’s funny thinking back that they would have wanted to choose our silly dinner over Hawaii, but we were young and pretty full of ourselves.

That Thanksgiving, we woke up to a quiet house, and before the crack of dawn I prepped a smallish bird with all the fixings for two. This was the beginning of our family-themed holidays. My brother and I enjoyed a fine dinner complete with crazy costumes, props, and framed photos of our parents placed in front of their empty seats.

If only we had thought to open the old address book, we could have thrown quite a bash while the folks were gone.

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Secret Santas are bringing me down this holiday season

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(previously printed in The Kansas City Star)

Thanksgiving to New Year’s has been getting more stressful as the years pass — the massive amount of preparation, the extended-family issues, kids in and out of school, the dreaded Christmas-card debacle, and the hours of shopping. Oh, the shopping!

Now, I consider myself a somewhat giving person. I prefer to give gifts more than receive. I love watching my children’s faces light up when I’ve picked out the perfect gift for them.

But it seems every year I have to turn over another page on my to-do list because the number of “mandatory” gifts have increased from the previous year. I realize that babies need to be born, new friends and spouses must join the list, and neighbors come and go — but does every Midwestern social group have to do Secret Santa gifts?

Until now, I’ve managed to keep my distaste for unnecessary gifting under wraps. I dodged the title of Scrooge or the Grinch Who Ruined Christmas for years, but a prophet (Cyndi Lauper) once said, “Don’t be afraid to let them show, your true colors. True colors are beautiful like a rainbow.”

(Dramatically pushing a soapbox to center stage, behind the microphone)

“Ladies and gentlemen, I simply loathe Secret Santa gifting! That is all.”

(End Scene)

There are enough fabulous gift-giving opportunities in our lives without adding on the umpteen-million bogus gifts. However, that doesn’t derail the happy gift-forcer.

First, you have the book club then your Bible study. Next, you have your husband’s office then your office. And don’t get me started on all the kids’ athletics team secret buddies.

Here’s your secret gift … surprise, you’re not getting one!

Bah, humbug.

Plus, who was the annoying, overachieving person to come up with this obligatory event? It wouldn’t be the CEO of a company, because they’re too busy for that nonsense. Perhaps a single, 20-something, who’s full of spirit, spunk and initiative? Not going to get my stamp of approval.

It was probably a bored or burned out administrative assistant.

Hmm … what would be a fun idea for Mr. Winter’s holiday party? I know! We should draw names, buy them a $5 piece of junk, and wrap it up like it’s worth something.

Furthermore, have you ever received a Secret Santa gift you can’t live without? Everyone knows junky gifts either go straight to the trash, into the dark abyss of a junk drawer, or it takes residence in the re-gifting hidey spot that no one ever admits they have.

You know you have one.

Actually, it might not be too bad to change Secret Santa rules a bit. How about bringing a $5 or less gift, but using only re-gifted items? This way you won’t be responsible for adding more junk to our houses, but just shifting the address of the gift for a year. It could work.

Until then, I’m off to “shop” for a few dozen Secret Santa gifts from my hall closet. Happy holidays to you and your loved ones! 

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Super Bowl Hangover Week

– photo provided by Anthony Behar, TNS

So have you recovered from last Sunday’s football? What a game and what a party!

I’m sure many of you are still wearing your elastic band pants. That mammoth-sized ingestion of sodium gets the best of us. Once the swelling goes down and folks don’t have hobbit feet, the silent focus is on getting your proper digestion back in check.

How will all of that cheese dip pass without killing me?

Did you know the average Super Bowl viewer consumes 4,000 to 6,000 calories during one game? I believe that’s cutting it close to the caloric requirement of a Killer Whale. Thanksgiving is a only 3,000 calories, and we all get prepared for that day by kicking up the cardio a few weeks prior. OK, maybe not everyone does that, but they sure think about it… real hard.

The caloric gluttony, while enjoying a game with large men jumping in a pile of flailing limbs, is disgraceful and I cannot condone that behavior. Unless there’s 7-layer or spinach artichoke dip, then, “People, slowly back away from the table or someone might lose a finger!”

Why is it a prerequisite to gorge on carbs and sit on the couch watching others exercise? Not even marathon runners prepare before the big race with that much starch. Now I could see the football players pigging out after the big game; especially, if they covered some major yardage. They’d deserve it — Bucky, Jr. and your other brother Darrell, probably not so much.

So how about those Cowboys!?

I’ve never been a football fan or spectator. Any sport that takes four hours is not within my attention span range. I do love catching the commercials and basing my stock options on who can afford a 30-second spot.

Pistachios? You really make that much money?

But my true reason for this season is… you guessed it, the H-A-L-F-T-I-M-E Show!!!

Remember the days when amazing bands would show off their new dance moves? Before social media saturated the web, taking the fun out of seeing performers live? Then later when performers cursing had to be bleeped out and certain “swimming suit” areas became exposed, the quality went downhill. That is until The Lady Gaga.

She refers to herself as a performing artist, which gives her a fish-netted leg up on the creativity of her show. No performer in the 50 years of Super Bowling had requested the closed roof of the stadium be opened for her and her drone backup dancers of the sky.

She was like David Bowie except with no pants, singing and shaking her moneymaker for the world to see. She came down from the roof like a sparkling frog with un-brushed hair; and using a Hollywood sleight of hand, she air-swam to the stage with patriotic grace. I haven’t checked the facts, but I’m 100 percent certain she is the first musical act to incorporate the game of football with the performance. You’d think that would be an obvious theme for a half-time show, but what do I know?

The close of Ms. Gaga’s genius show came to an end, with her catching a bedazzled football, executing an epic mic drop, and jumping off a 12-foot platform into thin air, confusing the cameraman and spectators at home. Brilliant!

Who knows maybe performing artists will make a comeback and move out of coffee shops and libraries? This was a show, which left us craving more and she didn’t even need to wear her meat dress. A seven-layer dip costume would have done me in.

So I had an idea, back to the starch and fat fest…

What if you had your guests dance to the half-time show? The beer is cut off unless they get up and move it. Think of how many calories your friends could burn before round two.

Next year, I’m going to throw a Cardio Super Bowl party. Get out your yoga pants, Ladies because we’re gonna sweat.

Plus, yoga pants have elastic waistbands. Bonus.

(previously published in The Kansas City Star on February 10, 2017)

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Gift of Time Makes the Perfect Present

“I’d like ‘Time for 400,’ Alec,” you say, leaning into your microphone and gripping the podium before you. In his low, broad tone, he asks, “What is time?” (long pause and no buzz) “Oh…I’m sorry, but you’ve run out of it!”

The concept of time is an age-old question that countless artists, songwriters, poets and game show hosts have tried to capture for centuries. If I could have time in a bottle, I’d have time on my side, yes I would.

The problem is that it’s impossible to stop and catch time. No net or laser can slow down time’s predictable pace. I guess you could catch a moment with a selfie, but that isn’t the point.

Throughout the human life cycles, time takes on various vantage points. After a spank on the tush, and outside air is first gulped into the lungs, your first reference is when the birthing staff yells out the time you entered the world. Some newborns next hear their mother mutter, “It’s about time you got out of my belly!”

As a baby, there’s no need to understand time. In fact, you have too much time on your hands as an infant; so much you spend most of your time napping. What a life to live where you don’t have to worry about having a tight schedule, can run around in your jammies all day, and can take a nap any time you feel like it. Sounds luxurious…or like retirement.

The next shift in time is in adolescence. Time is perceived as something always getting in the way. Alarm clocks rock the room, to say to the teen, “You better get a move on, or you won’t get to school on time.” Teens also morph into major forward, or future thinkers.

“I can’t wait until I get my first cellphone.”

“ I can’t wait until I can drive.”

“I can’t wait until I’m old enough to move out of my parents house!”

This age group tends to focus on what’s going to happen, instead of what is happening at that moment. They live in the “now move over so I can get what I want” phase.

The way people consider time changes again, when the person has achieved what they feel is enough. This is the I-want-this-moment-in-time-to-never-end stage.

It often occurs on your wedding day, when you get to hold your child for the first time, and when it’s nearing midnight on April 15th and you haven’t started your taxes. If only time could stand still, so you could absorb those dear memories. You definitely need a video camera to catch the precious moments.

Finally, time comes to an end. Why do people say slowly comes to an end? Doesn’t it seem as if the time has flown by for everyone over a certain age?

“Where did the time go?”

“If I just had more time…”

In order to make sure I’m not disappointed at the end of my time, I’m preparing for how I want my story to end. Will it have enough magical moments to be worth repeating or documenting? Or will it just be a rush to the finish? It’s like my grandmother said at the end of her life, “The only thing that matters before you die is the ones you love.”

So recently when I couldn’t think of what to get my father for his birthday, I knew the perfect gift would be spending one-on-one time over lunch. No kids to interrupt us. Not having to stop our conversation to listen to others talking. Quality time involving lots of laughter, discussing the things in common we enjoy, and learning more about each other.

We decided after our time together we were going to do lunch every year, in place of giving gifts to each other. After all, it was his mother who said being with your family is the only thing that matters at the end of your life. Not that you are nearing the end of your life, Dad.

Now I need to call a few other family members to set up lunch dates. (Mom, you’re up next) After all, you never know how much time you’ll get with the ones you love.

(previously published in The Kansas City Star on January 14, 2017)

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My First Children’s Musical Done!

Written, directed, and performed, so…night-night zzzzz

Camel created by Stacey Hatton and Pamela McGuire (photo provided by Dawn Beck)

It usually doesn’t take long for me to pick up things, like how to crochet or put a clean filter in the furnace, but if it’s my family’s laundry on the floor or life lessons…forget about it!

You would think instructions are innate, or come naturally. However, in my case I need to be hit over the head with it. I must have dozed off during those prime learning years.

Last weekend, I experienced a big one, maybe one of the hardest things I’ve had to grasp. On Saturday night, I became a grownup. I thought when I got married that would be an indicator of my reaching adulthood. Nope. Then when I had children, immediate feelings of being the adult really never hit me. I was 35.

It wasn’t until I was seated in the front row of an audience at my wonderful, little Overland Park church that it hit me…I am no longer the child. There in front of me were 40 bright-eyed actors and singers, waiting to perform the first musical I had written.

“How did I get here?” was the first thing I thought. Then, “Oh, my goodness! I’m prepared just like my first church choir conductor.”

As I pushed back my reading glasses, I leaned into the script with my flickering tea light, to barely see the words my cast might forget during the performance. I was just short of yelling out, “A one-ie, and a two-ie and a thre-ee, four…” when it hit me. I was no longer the grasshopper, but the Sensei. Only took me half a century to figure it out. That’s not bad, right?

After the children did an amazing job; I finally came up for air. It was over.

People asked me if I was exhausted, especially those who knew I started researching for the play last May. I gave a nonchalant reply with a smile, “No, I’m fine!” After all, the show isn’t over until the set and lights are down and the costumes are cleaned and packed. Then you relax.

Then it happened.

The show was packed away. My life was no longer crazy and amped up, and the only things left were memories by photos, hopefully a clear video and hundreds of odd scraps of paper with my scribble on it. Directing is a 24/7 job.

So was I really acting like that quirky woman who first taught me the very same songs, which were in my musical? “Away in the Manger” and “Silent Night” took on a new feel as a grownup, perhaps because I didn’t have them sing it in that horrible screechy key she did! I knew I was coming full circle, but passing on the spotlight to the next star.

The new adult feeling was that I wasn’t sad or felt like I had that wonderful part of my life stripped away. It was finally time to pass the torch, even though I haven’t been on the stage in over 10 years. Until that moment, when I was counting off the beats of the songs, and mouthing the words forcefully looking like a dog eating peanut butter, I had been one of those kids on the stage, smiling and anxiously awaiting my cue from the lady with the big glasses and a white stick.

I’m not going to get a white stick or slam my music stand with sheets flying, while screaming, “Cheese and crackers!” But I might hear her count off in my head. It was funny though, when my choir of angels sang, I surprisingly put my finger to each side of my mouth to draw a happy face. And guess what?

It worked. They sang beautifully and were radiant.

I’m going to keep that one!

(previously published in The Kansas City Star on December 24, 2016) Continue reading

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