Sweethearts for Soldiers

I have an idea I would like to bounce off all of you. As my son lies here in the hospital, I can clearly see what a positive effect his girlfriend has on his progress. When she calls, writes letters or comes to visit, he looks better, feels better and has less icky feelings in general. I would bet the same goes for the soldiers in Iraq. The ones with a sweetheart at home, probably get a boost in moral when they receive a letter or package from their honey-pie. But what about the service men and women who don't have anyone? I was thinking of a program where non-soldiers here at home who are looking for someone start writing to the soldiers who want someone. Sort of flirting and getting to know each other by letter writing. Even if it doesn't become the love of their life, at least they would have made a friend and have some letters to look forward to.
What do you think about this idea?

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A Metro Card Could Be the Key to Your Finacial Success

I did not know until I moved back to New York, that one could actually get on a subway car, call for every one's attention and get your bills paid!  This is true.  I saw it myself while riding the F train one day.  A man got on my car, cleared his throat rather loudly, expectorated and once we all settled down in polite silence, proceeded to tell us that he could not pay for his electric bill and how he had an 18 month old baby and could we please help out. He seemed like such a nice guy,too. He had what looked like very sensible blue jeans and a faded red tee-shirt that said simply, "Jordash". He gave an emotional speech about how ConEd refused to take into consideration that he was out of work and he was out of work because his last job refused to take into consideration that he was not aware that the term "coffee break" really was meant for just coffee and sometimes tea, but never, ever beverages drunk out of brown paper bags. One just got the feeling as we were sitting there that the whole world was against this guy and if we, the passengers of the F train, were not part of the solution, we were, in reality, part of the problem. He then proceeded to come around to each person with a Styrofoam take out container asking us all to "do our best."  And most of us did.  I'm sure he had enough to pay that inconsiderate ConEd bill with enough left over to hit up Grey's Papaya on the way home.  Then he exited our car and went on to the next, presumably to fund his cell phone bill. I imagine he then went on to the next car for his rent, the next for grocery money and so on. I was so glad for him that it was such a very long train.

I am very tempted after witnessing this brilliant display of entrepreneurialism, to get on a subway car, clear my throat and announce to the passengers, "AHEM! Kind ladies and Gentleman, I have two strapping young boys enrolled in NYU! I am so proud of them, but it is so expensive..."

Fear and Panic Do Not Burn Calories

Hello anyone out there. I have been away for quite a while because my son is in the hospital. It's hard to write about, but he is undergoing a bone marrow transplant to hopefully put an end to his leukemia. It's horrible. So, as you can imagine it has been hard to find anything funny to write about, and one may say, well then don't write funny. But I think who in the world would want to read something that would make you feel worse than you did before? As soon as anything tickles my funny bone, like one of the nurses pants fall down, or food services sends me a Cesar salad instead of the ever popular tossed variety, I'll be sure to share it with the world.
Thanks
Chris

Condiments Can Enhance Your Marriage

A VIEW FROM THE KITCHEN WINDOW
By Chris Sherman
Condiments can enhance your marriage
Nothing says “I love you” like a pickle. A pickle on your spouse’s plate shows how much you care. It’s that little extra thought that keeps the romance in a marriage. Anyone is capable of making a sandwich for someone they care about, but choosing just the right pickle takes time and effort, therefore proclaiming your love in loud, vinegary tones.

The element of surprise sets the romantic heart aflutter. Year after year, your partner made sandwiches sitting there lonely on a plate. Now you come along and make him a sandwich and there is suddenly a pickle. Seeing a pickle where a person does not expect to see one starts a mild adrenaline rush. The receiver of the pickle may mistake this feeling for love. They would never dream it was the presence of the pickle weaving its magical spell. They will think it’s the wonder of you, and your thoughtfulness, and they will relish in their good fortune.

Pickles aren’t the only thing in your refrigerator that can enhance your marriage. After all, you can’t have pickles with everything. Ketchup, for instance, has inadvertently been responsible for many a good marriage. Ketchup is red, the color of love. Red ketchup sends a subliminal message to your partner like no other condiment. He knows it reminds him of something, but he doesn’t realize that it is the memory of his lost romantic love for you. He just knows that when he sees the smooth red condiment he wants to just lean over and kiss you square on the mouth right in the middle of his hamburger.

Should you and your partner have a quarrel, the best recipe for making up should include mayonnaise. Mayonnaise is smooth and creamy and can be soothing to the temper. Let me suggest a turkey sandwich with plenty of mayonnaise. The creamy subtle taste of the turkey, combined with the smooth, slightly tangy taste of the mayo, will calm the roaring beast in his soul. How can anyone harbor hostile feelings toward someone who liberally uses mayonnaise as a salve for a sore and aching heart? If the situation is an argument in the extreme, usually concerning mothers-in-law or money, making the effort to add the romantic properties of the afore mentioned pickle to this sandwich of love, will show that you are willing to make the first move in the healing process. This will only enhance the effect, resulting, no doubt, in lots of syrupy words of apology and hugging, accompanied by a side order of kissing.

Are the two of you getting board with each other? You know each other too well and you are finishing each other’s sentences? Honey mustard will correct this common marriage dilemma in no time. When your partner is expecting just plain old yellow mustard and you surprise her with honey mustard, she may see you in a different light. Honey mustard is all at once sweet and then spicy, just like you are. The sweetness washes over the tongue, soon to be chased away and overwhelmed by a fiery tang. Wow! How many ham sandwiches have hit the floor in a frantic attempt to reach across the table to rediscover one another? Soon you’ll be hand in hand, giggling and cooing like newlyweds. If you were planning an expensive vacation to jump-start your tired marriage, save your money. Honey mustard is where it’s at.

Romance, left unattended, can die like yesterday’s meatloaf. Mundane, everyday life has a way of taking over the best of marriages, leaving them tasteless and bland. In order for romance to stay alive, there needs to be a bit of extra effort on both your parts. Condiments are the perfect place to start. Fire your therapist, throw away all your self-help books and get down to the grocery store. Load up on all things pickley; dill pickles, pickled peppers and sweet pickled watermelon rinds. Get the BIG bottle of ketchup and a vat of honey mustard. The way to the heart belongs on the refrigerator door. Take my advise, and you’ll be happily celebrating your 75th wedding anniversary deli style!
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My mother has a boyfriend

Mom’s in Love

My sixty-five year old mother has a boyfriend. And just when I thought it was safe to go back into the world and live my life. Now that I’ve gotten the children to feed and dress themselves and my husband to choose his own ties with confidence, I find myself playing senior psychologist for my new man-minded mother and her new-found romance. Our phone calls feel more like psychologist’s sessions than our usual mother/daughter chats. She is no longer the calm and in-control mom I used to know. She’s become an insecure neurotic wreck.
All of a sudden she is now extremely body conscience. In a heroic attempt to lose her non-dating weight, Mom is existing merely on broccoli on Branola sandwiches. There’s no more picking between meals, no more of her old rationalizations like, “carrot cake is a vegetable.” No more chocolate bars with her L. A. Law. She now “works out” at a gym called Sinewy Seniors. Every morning she goes to “feel the burn”. This from a woman who used to consider getting out of bed a sit-up.
She’s obsessed with her wardrobe. Her new clothing expenditures exceed that of the gross national debt. He must never see her in the same thing twice. She must really have high hopes for this relationship, because she has already stockpiled a wardrobe that will take them well into their nineties and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already secured an outfit for his funeral.
She is constantly reading into everything the poor guy says and does. Even their hand-holding has not escaped her scrutiny. In one of our “sessions”, she confides, “Last week he held my hand during the whole movie. This week he only held it through the previews. I purposely didn’t get popcorn so our hands would be free. Then, right after the previews, he gets up and gets this huge vat of popcorn and a large drink. I definitely think he’s avoiding intimacy.”
I try to reassure her. “Maybe he just needs more fiber in his diet.”
In our next “session”, she wants to know why he only takes her out for lunch.
I say, in my cool, detached psychologist’s voice, “What’s wrong with lunch?”
She says, “Lunch is good...if you’re in third grade with a baloney sandwich and a juice box.” Her voice raises several octaves. (Reminiscent of the days when my room was a mess.) “Don’t I deserve dinner? Do you know how hard it is to look good in broad daylight? Besides, when am I going to wear all my new evening clothes?” I hear tissues fluffing out.
I try, “Why don’t you tell him how you feel?”
She whines, “If I complain, he may stop seeing me. He hasn’t even seen the green skirt with the pink sweater yet! No, I’m not saying a word until I’ve worn all my good outfits.”
I say, “But mom, he’s 72, how many more outfits do you think he has left? I would give it just two more pant suits and a dress and then I think you should speak your mind.”
I now find myself worrying constantly about my mother’s happiness with this man. Am I advising her correctly? What if this guy doesn’t like her hand bag one day and he breaks off their relationship? What if there’s another woman he takes to dinner, after taking Mom to lunch? And who’s he seeing for breakfast? Furthermore, what if this popcorn-munching-no-hand-holding maneuver is an indication that he’s really a cold fish? And more importantly,, what if Mom gets thinner than me?
This is all too much. I think I’m the one who’ll need counseling soon. I, too, am becoming an insecure neurotic wreck. Oh, well. My mother, myself.

Mother Confesses to Food Fraud

A VIEW FROM THE KITCHEN WINDOW
By Chris Sherman
Mother confesses to food fraud
They say confession is good for the soul, so I'm coming clean: I've been lying to my kids about the foods they eat. That's right ladies and gentleman, for 15 years my culinary fare has been nothing but a sham.
It all started with ground turkey. I was hearing so many bad reports about beef, so I said to myself, "Good mother, why must you serve ground beef to your family? Ground turkey would work just as well." So listening to myself, I gave it a try with tacos. I bought a ballet pink pound of ground turkey, and quickly cooked it up in the frying pan before the kids came home from school. After it was cooked through, I couldn't help but stare at it. It was white. A grayish white. I knew if it did not look very appealing to me, it would look even worse to the kids. They like food to be bright colors like the red of maraschino cherries, or blue like Fruit by the Foot, not granite gray and definitely not poultry smelling. Then I remembered the handy packet of taco mix I had in the cupboard. Saved the day completely! I sprinkled on the taco mix powder, added water and there it was, beef colored turkey meat! I then proceeded to wrap the turkey meat packaging in a small, opaque bag and brought it right out to the garage trash bin and buried it under a bigger bag of garbage, well out of the way of child sight. (Imagine warning labels on tofu, KEEP OUT OF VIEW OF CHILDREN.)
The end justified the means. They ate the fowl faux tacos and were none the wiser. There were a few questions at first, like, “Why does this meat look different?” And “Why isn’t this meat more juicy?” Well, one lie leads to another and I found myself telling them it was 100 percent fat free beef, raised in Hollywood, California. That was good enough for them, and they munched happily on what must surely be a Mexican Thanksgiving specialty.
If the kids ever get wind that something is good for you, they won't go near it. I sneak home from the supermarket with bags of healthy nutritious food, and then proceed to spend the rest of the afternoon disguising it. I buy low-fat crackers and cookies and store them in handsome Lucite containers, eliminating their garish boxes with the dreaded words LOW-FAT printed a mile high on the front. I pour decaf powdered iced tea mix in the container reading REGULAR iced tea, I put 100 percent Juicy Juice in the Hi-C jug, and the skim milk goes in the gallon labeled 2 percent. It's no wonder the kids think that food tastes better at everyone else's house. Everyone else is serving the real thing.
I've also picked up from my mother, that mistress of deceit, a talent for giving foods super-nutritional powers. She used to say things like, “Drink up all your milk and you will grow six feet six inches tall like your uncle Lenny. Your grandmother had to take a second job, just to keep him in milk.” (It never occured to me that I might not want to grow six feet six inches tall. It just sounded like something really cool to shoot for.) So I tell my kids, “Eat lots of carrots and you’ll have X-ray vision when you grow up.” Spinach gives you muscles. Milk makes your teeth white.
I have also been known to scare them into not eating certain foods. "One French fry, and your arteries will clog up and blood won't be able to get through and you'll be dead inside of a week." "One bowl of that sweetsy cereal and you will be in the dentist chair for an hour with all your lips pinned back, drooling like a St. Bernard." "Lunchables have so much sodium in just one little package, I read somewhere that a 10 year old girl in Minnesota went blind.
I only tell these tales to get my kids to eat better. (And Hubby, too. If he ever knew cookies had eggs in them, oh boy!) Like the tooth fairy and Santa Claus, the truth will eventually come out, but hopefully by then, they will all be six feet, six inches tall, with rippling muscles. I know I've compromised morality for nutrition, but every good mother worth her sodium free salt does the same.
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Confessions of a Company Cleaner

Confessions of a Company Cleaner
By Chris Sherman

My single, care-free brother calls.
“Hey. What are you doing tonight?”
“When tonight? Dinner time or bedtime?”
“Before dinner.”
“Before dinner I’m making dinner.”
“Oh. Sounds like fun.”
“This is the real world David. I don’t have a five-star chef on retainer.”
“Right. Well, here’s the thing. I’ve met this really fabulous girl and I’d like to bring her over before we go to dinner so you can meet her.”
Now I’ve met more of his “fabulous” girls over the years than I care to remember and I must say I usually like two out of three of them more than I like him. This inevitably forces me to pull the woman into the kitchen, thrust cab fare into her hand and push her out the door, the way one would push a person out of the way of an oncoming truck. Another innocent life saved.
“And I really do like her, so no taking her into the kitchen. See you at six.”
I look around at my messy house and I have a quick, mini-fantasy. I wiggle my nose sending brooms, buckets, mops and sundry cleaning supplies flying out of cupboards and closets. I am fantastically “Bewitched.” The three children, for they are the only ones who can undo the spell, the only ones who can unclean something immediately after it has been cleaned, are mercifully duck taped to the kitchen chairs, where they remain writhing and whimpering until the door bell rings.
You see, (and here’s my confession,) I only clean for company. This leads me to the logical conclusion that if it weren’t for the occasional guest, the board of health would shut me down. My children would come home from school to find crime scene tape over the door and we would be forced to live on the streets until I could prove to the authorities that I can, in fact, keep the card board box allotted to me under the bridge clean and tidy. We’d all be scarred for life, especially the children, as we return to our home, vowing to try harder, do better and to put cleanliness right up there with Godliness. So, to avoid all this, as one would avoid cheating on one’s spouse or smoking crack, given the ramifications, I clean.
But only when company is imminent.
Well, come on. I mean, if I happen to see more than a fair amount of dust balls rolling by the television set, or wafting up from under the fridge, I do have the presence of mind to pick up the phone and invite someone over, thus giving me the impetus to clean. I try to maintain a certain level of cleanliness for health reasons, but what would be the purpose of cleaning if there’s no one around to admire my handiwork? It’s like, if you dust under the dining room server, and there’s no one coming over for dinner, is it still considered clean?
In Victorian times, and there is actual documentation of this by people who have a bit too much time on their hands, women would clean obsessively to ward of big, scary diseases like the bubonic plague or tuberculosis. And they had it much worse than modern women with our Swiffers and sprays. Soot covered everything due to coal burning stoves, gas lamps and fireplaces. They must have had guests for tea and crumpets three, four times a week, just to keep up. (I generalize women as cleaners because even the most politically correct would have to admit men don’t actually clean, they tidy up, which is definitely NOT the same thing. You TIDY UP for yourself, for your own peace of mind. You CLEAN for company.)
But, alas, not everyone feels this way about cleaning. In her book, Sacred Space, (Ballantine, 1996) Denise Linn states that cleaning the house should be a “spiritual” experience. (Very few people get spiritual just for company, unless you’re having the local pastor over.) She suggests that when you clean you should imagine you are ridding your home of negative energy. She proposes cleaning re-establishes harmony in the home. I think it’s a crock, like maybe she’s working for Johnson Wax, but it’s five o’clock, so I try a few suggestions given in her book.
After giving the corner under the air conditioner a good cleaning, and assuring myself no one is around to hear, I clap loudly to break up any “stagnation” that may be lurking. After vacuuming, I throw salt around the room and put little piles of it in the corners (which seems to me to be a cross purposes with the vacuuming) in order to purify and bring grounding elements into my home. I “bless” a bowl of spring water, (which I think is way out of my realm of my power, but I do it anyway) and sprinkle it around the room. Finally, I open the window and with the most awkward of hand gestures, I “invite” the air in. I “ask” the air, (and I’m feeling a bit weird about this) to circulate through my home to cleanse it and bring new energies.
It’s five to six and the house is clean, blessed and free of any demonic dust. I am now ready to clean a loony bin near you.
Actually, I’m grateful to by brother for inviting himself over, for now the house looks and smells wonderful. I open a bottle of wine, put out a few peanuts and tuck a twenty in my back pocket for the poor girl’s cab fare.
Oh! There’s the door bell. Gotta untie the kids.

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Not Wanting Call Waiting

A VIEW FROM THE KITCHEN WINDOW
By Chris Sherman
Not Wanting Call Waiting

People actually come up to me on the street and ask me to complain in writing about call-waiting, and so, due to popular demand, call-waiting is going to have to bend over for a well-deserved spanking. If you have call-waiting, you may be offended, but I think it’s only fair to know what people are saying about you behind your back.
People who don’t have call-waiting, and even some who do, hate to be engaged in a call-waiting conversation. You’re on the phone with a dear friend, pouring out your heart and soul, laying bare your innermost thoughts and feelings, when suddenly you get a sense that your voice is being muted. Your friend is getting “beeped”. He apologizes with all the gusto of a prisoner facing fifty years to life for “accidentally” bludgeoning his wife to death with a barbecue utensil. You are asked with false annoyance if you wouldn’t mind “holding on”. You are immediately taken aback. You feel cut off and frustrated. Conversation-interuptus. “No... sure, go ahead,” you say, trying to sound like a team player.
Now all your insecurities come into play. Who will your friend choose to talk with? Will he stick with you or dump you for the more charming and charismatic second caller? Has he been bored with your conversation all along, and relieved at the interruption? It’s like he’s saying, “Hold on, this call might be better than your call.”
All this goes through your mind in the five seconds it takes for him to get back to you, and aren’t you secretly relieved when he does?
“Not important. It was just Buster. I can call him later .” Now your wondering if he says the same thing when you are the one interrupting a call.
It would be like you’re sitting on the sofa having a very heated conversation with your soon-to-be-ex-wife about how you are going to divide your mutual assets when in charges your soon-to-be-ex- mother-in-law, whom you have affectionately named “The Battleship Interference”. She sits right down between the two of you and refuses to budge until she is acknowledged. Your spouse, favoring her mother over a “dirty rotten scoundrel” like you, (her words, not mine), asks that you stop talking and leave the room, so that she can give all her attention to her mother. You’d feel mighty frustrated and angry wouldn’t you?
I can already hear multitudes of parents screaming out there, “But what if my child needs to reach me in an emergency and I am on the phone with my long-winded Aunt Sadie?” To them I scream right back, “Call waiting should only be permitted with caller-ID!” If you are on the phone counseling a grieving friend and you get a “beep”, you can check your handy little caller ID screen. Is it daughter Jenny calling from the side of the road in a hurricane with a flat tire, or is it that darn Aunt Sadie again? Oh, it’s Aunt Sadie. You’ll call her later, after your friend has had a good cry.
I think call-waiting is rude. It gives one a false sense of importance. Let’s face it, if you were so important, you’d have your own secretary to be rude to people for you. (My dear friend, a long-time subscriber to call-waiting, always reminds me that although I don’t have call waiting, I must ask her a million times to “hold on” while I yell at the kids. Point well taken.)
Are pro-call-waiters so afraid they are going to miss something, like Rich Aunt Sadie is making out the will and the line is busy? Are they in such demand that everyone must have access to them at every moment? And why would anyone want to be so available?
So, there it is. A public complaint voiced against call-waiting. If I have offended anyone, I’m sorry. At the sound of the beep, feel free to switch to a different column.

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Ladie's Room or Bust

A VIEW FROM THE KITCHEN WINDOW
By Chris Sherman
Ladie’s Room or Bust

True story. Hubby and I took a ride to visit friends way out in Western Mass. Before I left the house, I ate a quarter of a whole seedless watermelon, drank a cup of tea, and on the way out of town we drove through for an iced coffee. (Yes, I’m dieting again.)
We were cruising along on 495, chatting and solving all our parental problems, when it hits me. I need a ladies room and I need one now!
Hubby was on a roll, reciting a monologue about how the kids need to do more for themselves and how I’m handicapping them for life. He was about to expound upon the twelfth reason why they should be able to cook their own nutritional meals, when I let out a deep, Lamaze like breath.
“Is something the matter?” he asks, coming in for a verbal landing.
“I need to find a restroom. Fast.”
“Why do you always wait until the last minute to tell me?”
“It just snuck up on me,” I lied.
“But where can I get off? There are no rest stops.”
“Get off anywhere. That group of prickly bushes look inviting.”
“No. I will not sit on the side of the road while you pee in the bushes.”
“No kidding. Your gonna be right beside me handing me the Kleenex.”
“I’ll get off at the next exit. There’s bound to be a store or gas station.”
By now I’m squirming and panting and writhing and whimpering.
Finally the blessed green of an exit sign. Some town we never heard of. He veers off and comes to a “T” intersection.
“Which way?”
“I don’t care. Just go!”
He chooses “right”.
Well, “right” was wrong. We are now headed down the bumpiest road never paved. Every jolt is a stab to the bladder. I’m starting to question whether we are going to remain married after I pee my pants and ruin his leather seat. I envision him chasing me with a sharp object when he realizes we have to buy a new car. I picture him in jail.
Mercifully, we hit pavement again and lo and behold, there was a convenience store. He starts, “They don’t look like they have a bathroom.”
“Of course they have a bathroom. The employees have to “go” don’t they?”
“Yeah. But they won’t let you use it.”
“Nobody is that cruel. Pull over.”
I fly out of the car only to realize that I can’t walk. One false move and the dam would give-way. I limp painfully into the store, trying to breath normally. There had to be a thousand people in there, all at the cash register. The cashier was too busy to notice me limp in. I hated her. I frantically gave a visual scan of the place to see if another employee might be lurking about and where a bathroom might be.
There! Land-ho! A woman sitting on the floor pricing cans of baked beans. Keeping my legs glued together, I sidle over, Quasi Motto style. “Please!” I cry, “can I use your bathroom?”
Now, I know she sees me all doubled over, and I know she sees the pained look on my face and the sweat on my forehead, yet she turns to me and says as if she doesn’t know that I know that she knows, “Sorry. No public restrooms.”
By now I’m desperate. I fling my arms out in front of me. “Please! I can’t hold it! I won’t look around. I won’t touch anything. I won’t tell a soul what I see in there. Please!” She looked skeptical, so I threw in, “I’ll buy something!”
“Well, OK. Follow me.”
I limped and followed. I told her how she was going to go to heaven for this. I told her I would never forget her for this. I think I told her I loved her.
And I did. I loved everyone by the time I got out of that store. I was in a complete state of euphoria. Oh, and I kept my promise. I bought something. A 32 oz. bottle of water.
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