Enemies, Frenemies and French Crullers

by Maria Schulz

I was talking to my girls the other day when my younger daughter asked me, “Who were your enemies in middle school?”

Honestly, I didn’t remember having any enemies. It’s not that I was the most popular kid at school, and I wasn’t the least popular, but I kind of blended into the woodwork. I had a few friends and the rest were people I considered friendly. No enemies in sight.

At first I replied, “I didn’t have any,” but that was before I remembered my tortured childhood and CYO bowling.

A fashion staple! NOT

Let me preface this by saying that I have never had any fashion sense whatsoever. My parents embraced the doctrine of benign neglect and there were many times that I believed I was being raised by wolves. Also, I relied on Catholic school uniforms as my major wardrobe staple, which is never something you see on the catwalk in Paris.

The fact that my brothers scoffed at anything too “girly” made me a prime target for girls who were blessed with a keen eye for beautiful clothes, accessories, and all things fashion related.

I never wanted to be a fashion designer, supermodel or glamorous actress. When I would play house, my future careers had me traveling all over the world, saving children who needed me. I usually wore my Ladybug  or Raggedy Anne & Andy tee shirts and no-name jeans. If it was summer, I wore shorts and walked around barefoot. Nothing stopped me from adopting doll “children” from many different continents.

My “adopted” kids included the African beauty my father got me from the United Nations. Her name was Malachi and she was decked out in traditional orange and yellow peasant garb with a jaunty matching hat. I learned a lot about her country because I wanted to understand her. She struggled to fit in but all of my other dolls embraced her and helped out.

Rosa, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl, came from Spain, was dressed in a sleeveless pink lace dress and could sing songs thanks to the mini record in her back. When I asked my mother to translate the songs, she said they were nonsense songs. One of the lines was “the cat runs over the horse shed and the cow eats grass with the moon.” I never held it against her that she made no sense. She sometimes struggled to speak English, but I always understood her.

Then there was Susie, a life-sized, second-hand, All-American who came to me with her black hair cut down to a nub, wearing a yarmulke, a red-and white-striped dress and black shoes. During Passover, I let Susie say the lines “what makes this night different from all other nights?” Sometimes, to make Susie feel better about herself, I would put a blonde wig on her and dress her in one of my old party dresses. She was always very grateful.

I was perfectly happy staying in my bedroom and playing with my dolls, but my parents were alarmed by my lack of desire for outside stimulation. I think they feared that I was going to be one of those reclusive hoarders who never move out or marry, live in a house so full of junk that they are in constant peril of dying in an avalanche, and gives out pennies on Halloween.

Hungry like the wolf

To save me from a life where the authorities would one day find my half-eaten corpse along with all 189 feral cats and dogs that I had “rescued,” my parents signed me up for CYO Bowling.

I wanted to try gymnastics but my Dad wanted me to bowl. “This way, I can help you,” he said. “This is something we can enjoy together.” So, since money was tight and I was amazed that my parents were signing me up for anything, I went along.

At 9 years old, I could barely lift the lightest ball, which infuriated my father. Normally, his avalanche of rage syndrome amused me since it was directed at my brothers. But now, I had him all to myself and there was no one to deflect the yelling.

“You’re not tiny! There’s no reason you can’t throw a 10-pound ball!” Dad said.

Well, of course there were lots of reasons I couldn’t. I was cursed with absolutely no upper body strength and even less hand-eye coordination. It was the perfect storm for a weekly lesson that included shouting, recriminations, and lots of tears—for both of us.

Of course, my father was NOT my enemy, which gives you an idea of how supportive my CYO team was going to be.

My team captain, Linda, was the big sister of one of my classmates. She was a pretty, tall 8^th-grader with short brown hair, a perfect face, and great clothes. I was sure we would get along because she was my older brother’s girlfriend. I was wrong.

From Day 1, whenever Linda saw me, her smile vanished. When I went up to bowl, she would cross her arms and scowl. “Throw the ball straight!” she would yell, just as I released it.

Miracle of miracles, it went straight—to the gutter. This would happen frame after frame, until I wished I could just disappear and she looked like she wanted to beat me to death with my 8-lb. ball.

My other teammates, Nadine and Maura, didn’t really care, but Linda was so into it that she would call me names, yell at me, and threaten me. It started as insults about my bowling and eventually devolved into comments about my hair, my clothes, and my weight. This resulted in scores of 19, 23, and my high game of 44.

I didn’t know what to do to make Linda stop hating me, short of raising my average to 300. Since that was as likely to happen as me twitching my nose and making all the pins fall (a la Bewitched), I had no choice but to sit there and suck it up.

Pins: FALL!

During my first stellar season, my bowling average hovered somewhere around a 19. Nadine had an average of about 75 so she was a star by my standards, and Maura, with her 110 average, found me mildly amusing. But Linda, who had a 130 average, was furious.

“We’re gonna end up in last place thanks to you,” she liked to say.

I asked my brother to intervene and he tried. Unfortunately, this put him in the situation of having to listen to her litany of my crimes against CYO bowling in general and her in particular.

“She says you’re not trying,” Louie remarked.

“I am trying,” I replied. “I’m just not succeeding.”

Luckily, my brother broke up with Linda and I didn’t have to be nice to her anymore. It was just as well, because I’m sure she never forgave me for the team landing in last place. We were the ones who got a trophy of a girl throwing a ball through her legs.

The next year was uneventful and even fun. I started to get really good at bowling and my teammates didn’t hate me as a result. Everything was great…until the sixth grade.  That’s when I discovered that Linda was Miss Congeniality compared with the newest mean girl in my life.

Lee Anne was a 7^th grader with beautiful long brown hair, big brown eyes and very cool clothes. She was sporting bell-bottoms and velour when I was rocking my 3^rd cousin’s too-small, hand-me-down overalls.

This of course was reason enough to make Lee Anne despise me.

As I’ve mentioned in blogs past, I also had a Jimmy “J.J.” Walker tee-shirt with his smiling face and the words DY-NO-MITE emblazoned across it. This was perhaps the most unfortunate Christmas gift I ever got from my Aunt Nellie.

100% Guaranteed Bully Magnet

But since it was new and clean, my mother insisted that I wear it. I combined that gem with a truly horrendous pair of orange and purple striped pants for a look that screamed GOLF COURSE. It was just a matter of time before I became Lee Anne’s number one target.

She had a gaggle of friends that I referred to as “The Moronettes.” They clung to Lee Anne like barnacles on a cruise ship, hoping some of her glamour would rub off on them. They were three marginally pretty girls who copied everything Lee Anne did, laughed at all of her jokes, and began teasing me with a vengeance because they believed it would please Lee Anne. Lucky for them, it did.

As a lowly 6^th grader, I realized that there was not much I could do to stop the escalating teasing. My parents weren’t going to let me stay home since they were paying for this, and I never told them about any of it. I had no choice but to sit there and smile, laughing when they scored a funny shot (hey, they were funny), and biding my time. I secretly wished I could be like Carrie at the Prom and make them all burst into flames.

So what do you think of my clothes now?

Of course, Sister Clara wasn’t about to let me borrow any books on telekinetics from the Catholic school library, so I was running out of options.

When Lee Anne started calling me “The Good Times Blimp,” I knew I was going to have to hit her to make it stop or they would destroy me. I had plenty of practice watching people tease one another, since my brother Joey was a master at it. If they gave out black belts for teasing, Joey would have been the equivalent of Bruce Lee.

I sat there and weighed my options. I was at least 30 lbs. heavier then Lee Anne and I knew how to throw a punch. My brothers had taught me well, and since I didn’t have to worry about scuffing my nail polish or tearing my clothes, I knew I could strike hard and fast. I was certain I could take her, and possibly snap her in two. The problem was, I was not sure how the larger, less girly Moronettes would respond.

And that’s when fate intervened and my Guardian Angel appeared.

Okay, so it wasn’t an angel. It was a tall, blonde beauty with big blue eyes and groovy clothes. She was a fellow 6^th grader, but her street cred was high because she was blessed with natural good looks, older sisters and a great wardrobe.

“Hey, why don’t you stop bothering her? She’s not doing anything to you,” the pretty girl said.

“Who do you think you’re talking to,” Lee Anne said, as she and the Moronettes stood up.

The pretty girl stood up too. “I’m talking to you. And you. And you. And you,” she said, as she poked her finger in their chests.

Lee Anne looked dazed. It was if the universe had suddenly been turned upside down.

“What do you care?” Lee Anne stammered. “We’re not bothering you.”

“You’re bothering her, and it’s bothering me. Leave her alone. Let her bowl. Go find someone else to haunt.”

Lee Anne tried to reason with her. “Look at her! She’s fat! She wears terrible clothes! Don’t you want to tease her?”

“She looks okay to me. But you’re rotten.” The girl replied. She walked over to me and stuck out her hand. “I’m Maureen. Let’s be friends.”

Lee Anne and the Moronettes gave up and walked away.

“Thanks,” I said. “That was nice of you.”

“It was no big deal,” Maureen replied.

“I was going to hit her,” I said.

“Oh too bad. I’m sorry I stopped you.”

Maureen, Maria & Chris at 30th Reunion

We laughed and bowled, and by the end of the 6^th grade, we were inseparable.

I guess I’m pretty lucky that my childhood “enemies” helped me find one of my dearest childhood friends. If my daughters are even half as lucky as I was, they will be truly blessed.

Recipe

One of my favorite things to do after bowling was to walk to the bakery a few doors away. Maureen and I would buy freshly baked French Crullers and then walk all over Bayside while we munched. She taught me about clothes and hair and I taught her about food and fun. It was a great collaboration.

So many crullers, so little time

French Crullers

http://allrecipes.com/recipe/french-crullers/

So, Hungry Lifers…do you have a story to share about your enemies? Frenemies? Why does that word crack me up? Please post a comment below. Thanks!

Remembering Dick Clark

By Maria Schulz

When I heard that Dick Clark passed away on April 18, I wasn’t that surprised. Yes, I knew it was coming, and I venture to guess everyone else did too (including him). But even so, it makes you stop and think about all the ways that a person who you never even knew has touched your life.

I liked Dick Clark. I first “met” him and knew him as the calm, reassuring presence on American Bandstand. I could understand why he was called “America’s oldest teenager” since he looked eternally youthful and always seemed pleased to introduce new acts like John Cougar and Madonna, even though people from my parents’ or grandparents’ generation might like to die first.

Saturday mornings watching American Bandstand was a ritual that began once my morning cartoons and H.R. Puf-n-stuff were over. Sometimes I would get very excited to see the new bands appear, or delighted when I recognized someone who was on.

I got a big kick out of watching the teenagers dancing, and my brothers and I would imitate their dance moves (always good for a laugh). Sometimes we’d switch to Soul Train and really dance along. How sad that Don Cornelius is gone too. Maybe they can host a dance show together in the great beyond!

Besides American Bandstand, of course there was the $10,000 Pyramid. Dick Clark had a quick smile, an easy laugh and the perfect attitude for this show. I loved watching the celebrities and the contestants, and of course shouting out answers and playing along.

In the late ‘70s, my cousin Diane was a champion Pyramid player. She was so good that she even won a spot on the show (now called the $20,000 Pyramid) as a contestant in the summer of 1979. We were very excited for her, and even more excited by the fact that my mother decided to take Chris and me along to cheer on our cousin.

We stood outside the Elysee Theater on West 58^th street and tolerated the steamy weather, the blaring horns and the rank summer smells and dreamed of actually meeting Dick Clark.

“If I win, I want you all to come up!” Diane said.

So, Chris, Mom and I walked through the studio doors with some of Diane’s relatives from her mother’s side, and waited gamely for the show to begin. We clapped, cheered and laughed at the warm-up banter with the show’s producers and waved furiously when Dick Clark came out to say hello to the crowd. We sat through a couple of other episodes that were being taped before Diane finally came on.

When her episode started, we had no doubt that Diane would win. Then we would race up to the winner’s circle, be announced as relatives, and meet Dick Clark. Whooo-hooo!

Diane had several board game versions of Pyramid and played them constantly in preparation for her big moment. Since she is very smart and a teacher, we had no doubt that she was prepared. My introduction to Dick Clark seemed imminent.

Unfortunately, my cousin’s celebrity contestant, Elaine Joyce, and John Schuck, her adversary’s partner, did not get the memo.

Back in those days, Elaine Joyce made the rounds on The Love Boat, Fantasy Island and every game show on TV. She was a frequent flyer on such shows as Match Game, Password, Tattletales, and yes, Pyramid. She wasn’t great, but she wasn’t the worst celebrity either. Since Diane was such a strong partner, I figured she would win anyway.

Of course, this was another occasion when I discovered that you couldn’t always be right about these things.

From the get-go, Elaine and Diane were not clicking. It was like Elaine was speaking Cantonese and Diane was trying to communicate with her in French. Meanwhile, John Schuck (who was starring on Broadway at the time as Daddy Warbucks) seemed to have a telepathic connection with his partner. All his contestant had to do was look at him and John would say answers like “The Taj Mahal,” or “rosebud.”

In no time flat, John Schuck was uttering the winning answer with a look of smug, devilish glee, and Dick Clark was politely thanking Diane for playing.

As the theme song played and J.S. and his contestant were ushered over to the winner’s circle, Chris leaned over to me and said, “So…I guess we’re not going to meet Dick Clark?”

Um….no.

My cousin was sent packing with a lovely parting gift of something like a year’s supply of Tang and another $20,000 Pyramid board game. I wonder if she still has it?

I never blamed Dick Clark for the outcome. Elaine Joyce was another matter.

Ready? 10, 9, 8, 7...

I guess I wanted to be formally introduced to Dick Clark since I felt like he was always at our house on New Year’s Eve. I remember the very first year that Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve was on. It was 1972, and he was being put up against Guy Lombardo and his big band. My grandmother and Uncle Sal thought this was heresy. “He’ll never replace Guy,” they said.

Still, later that night, we put on Dick Clark and watched him talk excitedly about the crowds in Times Square, the anticipation of another year starting fresh, and the buzz and electricity of the acts that performed. This was a strange new world for me, and the first year I was allowed to stay up until midnight. I was so excited to say, “10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…HAPPY NEW YEAR!” with Dick Clark as my guide.

This ritual stayed in place for so many years that it became a part of me. It’s as much a part of the New Year’s celebration as kissing my Mom, Dad, brothers, grandmothers, uncles, aunts and cousins was, and now my husband, girls, father, brothers, sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews, and friends is today.

When Dick Clark had his stroke, I thought his countdown days were over. No one was more surprised than me when he came back just one year later. It was painful to see him struggling to speak at first, but then I thought: what an amazing person! He must have worked so hard to come back. My grandmother had a devastating stroke that affected her ability to speak, so I had an idea of what courage it must have taken to get up in front of millions of people and lead the countdown with his disability.

I never loved Dick Clark the way I loved James Garner. (Whew! I bet Jimbo just heaved a great big sigh of relief over that one). I didn’t have photos of Dick Clark hanging in my room (weirdo that I was) or get excited about seeing him the way you would if your old heartthrob came on the television.

Dick Clark was more like a pleasant, distant cousin who you see maybe twice a year. You always enjoy his company when you’re with him and wonder why you don’t see more of each other. And you are sad when you hear he’s died.

Thank you, Dick Clark, for making so many fond memories for me. From American Bandstand to Pyramid to New Year’s Eve, the party was always better and more exciting with you leading the way.

Recipes

I can’t think of New Year’s Eve without remembering how our dining room table was laden with goodies. So here are a couple of recipes that honor Dick Clark’s memory because they’re smooth, velvety, and fun to have around.

Cosmopolitans

Fun and smooth—just like Dick Clark.

http://www.recipe.com/cosmopolitan/

Philly Cheese Steak

A nod to where Dick Clark got his start!

http://www.food.com/recipe/philly-cheesesteak-sandwich-authentic-94031

Easy Red Velvet Cake

Simple to make, with a velvety texture—reminds me of Dick Clark’s style and just as enjoyable.

http://allrecipes.com/recipe/easy-red-velvet-cake/

So, Hungry Lifers…what’s your favorite Dick Clark memory? What do you remember most about him? Please leave a comment and let us all know. Thanks!

Let’s Eat, Part 3

by Maria Schulz

Two years ago, I started this blogging adventure. I didn’t know what to expect, and I hemmed and hawed before starting. What if nobody read it? What if no one cared?

I grew up in a home with six boys who were all so funny that every night was like a Night at the Improv. When you sat around the table with my brothers, you laughed so hard your sides ached.

My father, grandmother and uncles were also so outgoing that the idea of someone not being interested in what they were saying seemed absolutely alien to them. No matter what story they told, you were laughing by the time they were done.

My Uncle Sal was the first “star” of the family, with steady gigs in Vaudeville under the name of Bobby Dell. He had an album of his comedy routines called “If I Insulted You, It Was Intentional.” When I showed it to my older daughter, she said, “Yep, he’s related to you.” Uncle Sal, or “Bobby Dell” as he was known in the business, used to rub shoulders with the likes of Lana Turner, Phyllis Diller, Jackie Gleason and Jimmy Durante, and he held his own.

My grandmother, Lena, was the president of her Senior Citizen’s group and the first person to jump up on stage to do the chicken dance. In the early days of television, she went to every game show and sometimes got chosen to play. She never hit it big but would always say, “I’m a millionaire without a million.” That phrase used to annoy me, but I’d love to hear her say it now.

My Uncle Don used to get himself into the most ridiculous scrapes and the only thing funnier about his predicaments was the story he came away with. There was the day he went for a drive on the North Shore of Long Island and stopped to move some traffic cones…without putting the car in park. As the car came barreling towards him, he had to decide whether or not to save the large cup of coffee he was clutching or himself. He decided he couldn’t live without his coffee.

Uncle Don, laughing

The result was Uncle Don on my doorstep, covered in gravel, tire marks and coffee stains from head to toe. Yes, I know that sounds terrible, but the way my Uncle told it, it was a hilarious adventure not to be missed.

My father had a sense of humor that was only rivaled by his volcano-like temper. He could be laughing hysterically one minute and then so angry with my brothers or me that he could hardly see straight.

My father’s rages were usually brought on by Chris doing something like dropping his fork on the floor, Jude hiding another dog in the garage, Tony coming home five minutes past curfew, Louie putting his trumpet back in the case the wrong way, Joey playing with the matches, my inability to score a 300 on my first bowling game ever, or Paul screaming because he stepped on a thumb tack. I can still hear my father screaming: “why weren’t you wearing shoes?”

Then of course, there was my mother. My mother was able to glide through all of the pandemonium with a Zen-like calm. Of course, she also had extremely high blood pressure and sometimes blew her stack in epic proportions. I remember the time she got so angry with Jude that she channeled her inner Mighty Hulk and lifted her eldest teenager—who was already about 8 inches taller than her—over her head and threw him across the room.

Still, there was nothing better than seeing my entire family around the table on holidays. Everybody was talking, and laughing, and of course, eating. My mother cooked for days and my grandmother brought goodies like peanut butter cookies, ice cream sandwiches and Italian pastries. When I was very little, she would bake an incredible sponge cake with sliced peaches, or homemade apple and lemon meringue pies.

So good.

I am lucky to still have my father and brothers in my life. Unfortunately, my mother, grandparents and uncles have all gone on to that holiday Improv in the sky.

Whenever I would tell these stories to people, they would say, “you should write a book.” Of course, it’s hard to sell books when you only have 2 people interested in the stories. That’s when an editor friend of mine suggested that I start blogging. I didn’t know too much about blogging, but I knew that it frightened me. You mean other people would be reading what I wrote? WHAT?

My high school English teacher, Richard Brodsky, once told me “who do you think you are? Emily Dickinson? Just get your work out there!”

So with those words ringing in my ears, I jumped in. I was pretty sure that the only people who would read this blog and laugh were my father and me. But I did it anyway, and I haven’t regretted it.

Here’s what I’ve learned from blogging:

• 8 out of 10 people are kind and supportive and enjoy a good laugh. The scary English Teachers of Classrooms Past don’t seem to read my blog.
• The 9^th person doesn’t really care, they just want to spam me and get people to take their Swiffer coupons.
• The 10^th person really does hate my writing and everything about my blog. They sometimes leave a nasty comment and depart, never to return again.  So then we both win!
• Reliving the most amusing moments in my life is fun. The fact that I come out looking pretty ridiculous most of the time makes me laugh, so the good news is I don’t take myself as seriously as I once did.
• It’s actually a rush when people “like” my blog or leave a comment. I’m closing in on 20,000 views worldwide, which is huge for me. Maybe they stop by my blog by accident or just to poach an image, but 2 years ago, only about 5 people had ever read my writing, so that’s pretty cool.
• I have followers that I’m not even related to. I’m thrilled to have the support of my family and friends and I love that they actually read my stuff. But I’m really amazed when total strangers do it…and keep coming back.
• My mother, grandparents, and uncles are alive for me, at least for a little while, when I tell stories about them. I remember them the way I hope I’m remembered some day: as funny, vibrant, and full of life. Plus, I can hear their laughter every time they “star” in one of the old stories.

Here are my favorite blog posts from my 2^nd year in blogging:

The 25 Things I Wish I Knew Back in Catholic School

No wonder Jeannie loved him

Sister Margaret, candy bar fund drives, Speech class, Dallas and ‘I Shot JR’ tee shirts. Here were all the things that delighted and tortured me when I was a kid. I wish I’d known then what I know now, but then I would’ve missed out on some pretty great material.

The Best “Worst” Movies

Beware of false walls

My best worst movies included Bad Ronald, Trilogy of Terror, Polyester, and Carrie. All of these movies shaped my twisted worldview in ways I can’t even begin to describe. It wasn’t until I watched Bad Ronald as an adult (with my pal Lisa right by my side) that I realized how completely inappropriate this movie was for 8-year-old me. The fact that my brother Tony was laughing hysterically through most of it is probably one of the reasons I can see humor in the worst situations even today.

Easter Treats

Any story that features shopping with my mom and grandmother down Main Street is going to bring on a bigger adrenaline rush

My mother's pride and joy

than a gallon of Coke could. Giving up cake for Lent and fearing for my life on the other end of Sister Anne Kathleen’s yardstick also makes me feel something, but I’ve managed to forgive her even though I wanted to ram that yardstick through her skull. Talking about my Mom’s 8^th and favorite child, her bunny cake, also made me laugh. I can’t find any photos of me between the ages of 7 and 10, but I have a framed copy of my Bunny Bro.

Summer Games

Is it me, or is it hot in here?

Running bases. Kickball. Bike riding. Roller-skating. Overcrowded refrigerator boxes. The hot, sticky summer days of my childhood were a full contact sport. Whether I was bike riding straight into a lamppost or running for my life during Ghosts in the Graveyard, I was very lucky to have brothers and friends who were always up for some fun. What was even more surprising is that I actually survived.

School Days

My older daughter’s entry into high school helped me relive all the terrors and thrills of my own freshman year. From the pervy art teacher to the soul-crushing photographer on Career Day, to the Lord of the Flies-like atmosphere in the girls’ locker room, high school was terrifying. In some ways, it was like learning a new language while in a foreign country. But it was still pretty wonderful, and some of those classmates and teachers are lifelong friends who even read my blog today. Eventually I became a native, but I still don’t know why they put me in that mechanical drawing class.

Halloween Candy and a Movie

The Exorcist and The Omen still terrify the little Catholic schoolgirl in me. The good news is, I don’t subject myself to horror/slasher movies anymore. I married a man who saw me pass out at Dancing with Wolves (Kevin Costner got shot in the foot and it made a sickening blood soaked noise when he tried to slip his boot on in the beginning of the movie, and I passed right out…).

Oh sorry for the pause, I think I passed out there. Anyway, what I was going to say was that my husband and I decided to avoid all scary movies (and Westerns too).

Not nearly as scary as my Dad

I still get mad when I think of my stomped-on white Reeboks and that terrible movie, Vamp. But nothing makes me laugh more than the vision of my father standing in my doorway, screaming at me: “If you wake me up again, you can forget about Freddie Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street killing you, because I will!” Good times!

Christmas Wrapping

Did you know that there are 22 ways to get around Wrapping-Induced Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome (WIPTSS)? This post was the result of looking at a room full of unwrapped gifts and having a minor nervous breakdown. After some soul searching, some self-imposed psychoanalysis that involved remembering my childhood, my mother, and the annual dining room table filled with unwrapped gifts, I had a breakthrough. I would use gift bags! I wouldn’t care if the seams didn’t match! I would write a blog post to help others like me!!! P.S. I still can’t find those scissors.

Indoor Sports

My younger daughter provided the inspiration for this one when she had to write her paper titled, “Why Dodge Ball is a

My classmate, "Two"

Worthwhile Sport.” I immediately flashed back to Catholic school gym class and my ability to “disappear” into any nearby closet with a block of cheese. I was like an oversized mouse with a fear of being decapitated by George, my classmate with a deadly aim and a fondness for hitting me during Dodge Ball. Next, I flashed back to high school, where my old classmate, Two, almost kicked my toe off while we did soccer drills. I have often wondered what I was going to do with all of these tortured adolescent memories, and now I know. Blog posts!!!

Valentines & Vampires

The allure of The Twilight series on hopeless romantics everywhere makes me chuckle. I don’t find vampires or werewolves terribly romantic, but maybe that’s because I don’t want a man who one day might view me as a midnight snack.

The Volturi family council in Rome sure was scary and intimidating, but try coming home past curfew in my family and getting past the Lagalante council. It consisted of my father, standing next to the front door in a fit of rage, in his patented “pounce and strangle” pose.

What a sense of humor!

My advice for Bella (and all those Twi-teens, Twi-tweens and Twi-Moms out there) still sounds solid to me. Why not fall for someone full of comic potential, like the Invisible Man? Or, if you’re interested in meeting someone who might confuse and challenge you, try dating a real human. They are also full of surprises. Sure, they don’t glitter and they can’t make you immortal. But on the up side, they actually exist.

Thank You, Davy Jones

Oh, Davy. Leap year was supposed to give me an extra day to have fun and laugh, sort of like a freebie, filled with happy memories. Instead, it was the day that I learned that Davy Jones died suddenly of a heart attack at the way-too-young-age of 66.

Davy Jones and The Monkees are inextricably entwined with my childhood. My brothers and I watched the TV show together, sang along to the songs and laughed at the crazy plots. Just last year, my brothers Jude, Joey, and Chris, my nephew Tom and friend Steve went to see Davy, Mickey and Peter in concert. We laughed all night and sang along to the songs.

I’m glad I got to see Davy Jones one last time. Whenever I hear Daydream Believer, I’ll think of him and smile.

So, these are the blog posts that I enjoyed writing this year, and I hope you enjoyed reading them. Please let me know if you’d like to nominate your own “favorite” from the posts I wrote this year. You can nominate this one if you like, but I have a feeling you’ll be in the minority. And if I agree with your nomination, I will give you an amazing prize.

Amazing prizes!

Last year’s gift was a Jimmy “JJ” Walker button that said “Dyn-o-MITE!” This year’s prize is a tee-shirt suggested by my cousin Tommy after reading my “Thank You, Davy Jones” blog post. It says “Marcia over Maria…NEVER!” Just think of all the head scratching and comments you’ll get.

To celebrate the one-year anniversary of my blog last year, I tried to “cast” the characters from my family in the future movie. I think the comments were almost as funny as the blog post itself. I called for suggestions on who would play my brother Tony, and in the comments section, I suggested Matthew Broderick or Danny Masterson from That 70s Show.

My sister-in-law Kathie suggested character actor George Wyner to play my brother Tony, while my daughter suggested Leonardo DiCaprio. Tony suggested Tom Selleck. You have got to love people’s unique points of view!

One old friend went so far as to suggest Alex Meneses (Robbie’s old girl friend on Everybody Loves Raymond) to play me. All I can say is, it has been a really long time.

No one suggested who could play my grandmother, so I’m going to go with Olympia Dukakis. I liked her in Moonstruck a lot. The jury is still out on who gets to play my Uncle Sal or my Uncle Don. Anybody have a suggestion?

Anyway, while I get Hollywood all excited about buying the rights to my blockbuster movie, I was thinking we could jump start it with a Broadway show. It will be called: “Lagalante: THE MUSICAL!”

The first act will open with my mother, played by Patti Lupone, standing in a kitchen that resembles a large closet and surrounded by simmering pots and pans, singing a song with lyrics that go something like this: “I have to cook for 30 people/No one ever helps/Jude/Stop teasing my beloved Tony/or I will have to throw you across the room.”

Sing it, Mom!

Eventually, my father will come traipsing in, wearing nothing but a wife beater’s tee-shirt, blue jeans and black socks. My father will not play himself on the stage if Brian Dennehey or Phillip Bosco are available. He will start singing: “Who drank all the milk/why don’t I have any clean socks/who dropped the forks on the floor/why is there another dog in the garage/why do children make so much noise?”

Nanny, played by Olympia Dukakis (who is also wonderful on stage) will come in, singing: “This house looks so clean/what a lovely surprise/I was just wondering/ how did you get the doggie smell out?/kids, stop asking for food/The kitchen is closed.”

Rosie O’Donnell, playing Sister Clara, will come into the kitchen singing, “Can you send your 7 kids over/to clean the convent and mow the church lawn/I promise not to tell them they’re going to hell/but I may have to box their ears.”

Making his Broadway debut

When Chris, played by John Cusak (also in the movie version) comes onstage, he will exclaim, “Nanny, look how the dogs stay on the landing/right where you told them and not a step further/Dad, I swear, it wasn’t me who dropped the forks/Who the heck let Sister Clara in here?”

All of this will happen while the orchestra plays the score that features the theme to Barney Miller, followed by Purple Haze, School’s Out for Summer, and the New York’s Unemployed original song, Abusement Park.

Okay, so maybe I have some work to do on the lyrics, but other than that, I think the musical idea has legs!

Speaking of legs, my book is almost complete and should be ready in the coming months. Don’t worry, I will make sure you all know about it when it’s finally published!

Recipe:

Peaches and Cream Cake

It's magic!

Ingredients:

1 yellow cake, boxed or from scratch

Whipped cream (from scratch or use cool whip)

2 cans sliced peaches

Vanilla icing

I remember seeing my grandmother and cousins Mary and Eleanor assembling this cake back in Nanny’s big pink kitchen in Port Washington. I thought they had magic hands when it came to baking.

Luckily, this cake is easy to make, so you can create your own magic with minimal fuss. Just use your favorite cake recipe (either from scratch or from a box, I’m not choosy). You can do this as a sheet cake or in two round 8” pans. When the cake is cooled, put a layer of whipped cream and peaches in the middle. Do this for each layer. Then ice the cake with your vanilla frosting. Yum!

So Hungry Lifers…let me know what you think. Leave a comment about your favorite blog post, best memory evoked, favorite recipe or cast member suggestion. I love hearing from you! Thanks for reading!

Open Wide

by Maria Schulz

It takes very little to get me into flashback mode. Just the other day, I had a routine appointment with the dentist. I am very lucky to have a gentle dentist who loves life, insists on hiring gracious, lovely people to be dental hygienists, and has the kindest, most helpful support staff in the world. Of course, this got me to thinking about a time when a kind dentist wasn’t exactly in the cards for me. .

When I was a child, my parents took us all to the same dentist they had been visiting since the 1950s. Let’s call him Dr. Break-a-You-Face, or Dr. Break for short. Dr. B was the type of man who always greeted my mother with a gigantic, bright smile and an overly loud “HELLO!” He made Uncle Leo from the TV show Seinfeld seem like a retiring wallflower.

In fact, whenever my Mom was with me, Dr. B was the nicest man on earth, next to Santa Claus.

The fun and wonderful toy

“After you get your teeth cleaned, you can pick a toy from the closet!” He would say.

Chris, Paul, Joey and I were always delighted by these overtures. Toys! He was going to give us toys! Of course, we were also the type of kids who would have gone with any demented stranger who told us “My puppy is lost! Can you help me find him?” so we weren’t really the most discerning customers around.

I couldn’t quite figure out why my older brothers, Jude, Tony and Louie wanted nothing whatsoever to do with Dr. Break. This is where having an older sister would have probably come in handy. My brothers didn’t warn me about the other side of Dr. Break, and so when he filled our little heads with dreams of silly putty and slinkys, I didn’t see through any of it.

Things changed, however, once I turned 6. That’s when Dr. Break decided it was time for me to man up, or at least for him to get me in a room alone and torture me.

“Oh Mrs. L,” Dr. B. said. “You don’t need to come in with Maria! She’s a big girl now. Why don’t you stay in the waiting room?”

My mother was probably overjoyed by the prospect of a ½ an hour of quiet time reading a magazine, so she abandoned me like I was the Titanic and the waiting room was a rowboat.

Going down

Once she was gone, Dr. B’s smile vanished. “Listen up,” he said, as he settled me in the big dentist’s chair and pointed his finger in my face. “I’m going to put you in this chair and you’re going to sit there and not make a sound. Understand?”

The sudden shift in our previously friendly relationship worried me. “But what if it hurts?”

“Just raise your hand if I hurt you. Then I’ll stop.”

I tried to sit there quietly while Dr. B. began rooting around in my mouth like he was excavating for gold. When he caught one of my teeth with what felt like a pick axe, I raised my hand and waved.

“You’re fine. Put your hand down,” he said, as he began to drill my tooth.

I started waving both of my arms in a windmill fashion, just in case he missed it the first time.

“Knock it off,” Dr. Break said.

I started waving my arms so furiously that I thought I could just fly away if he’d only get his knee off of my chest.

“Put your arms down,” he hissed.

That’s when 6-year-old me snapped. What happened to the kind, smiling, funny man my mother always got to see? The one who promised silly putty and slinkys and a closet full of delights? Years later, I would understand that he had vanished and left Dr. Joseph Mengele, Nazi war criminal and dentist extraordinaire, in his place.

Stop waving your arms!

I slapped his hand out of my mouth and screamed so loud, I’m sure they’re still talking about me today. “You get your hands out of my mouth. GET MY MOTHER IN HERE RIGHT NOW!”

“Stop being a baby,” he roared back, until my mother burst through the door.

“Is there a problem, doctor?” she said.

“Oh no,” he smiled sweetly. “Maria’s just a little scared.”

“I wasn’t scared until you started being mean,” I screamed. “You keep your hands out of my mouth!”

Dr. B and my Mom decided that getting me out of there was probably best for everyone involved, including the waiting room that was now full of crying children. When I got there, my brother Paul was waiting for us. He looked thoroughly embarrassed.

“Stop screaming,” he said.

“No! That’s guy is mean! I will not stop screaming.”

Mrs. B, Dr. B’s wife, was the receptionist and she sat there frowning at me. “You’ve been a very bad girl today, Maria, so there will be no silly putty for you.”

I can lift comics with this

Did she think anything in that closet could make up for what I had just been through? “Keep it,” I replied. “I don’t want anything from you people.”

As we walked back to the car, Paul punched me in the arm. “Because of you, I didn’t get a prize either.”

We drove home and I told my mother the whole sorry story. She was shocked. “But he’s always so nice to me,” she said.

“He’s rotten and mean, and only nice to the grown ups. Ask all the guys. That man is awful.”

After we got home, my mother conducted an informal survey and concluded that I may have been right. Dr. B probably did do his dental training in a Nazi prisoner of war camp after all.

I would like to think that it was my strong persuasive skills that helped my mom see the light, but it was probably my behavior coupled with the fact that Dr. B just gave her an estimate for Jude’s dental work that made the NASA space program look like a bargain. It was time to end that relationship.

My mother hated confrontation and since her parents still wanted to go there, she called the doctor’s office and asked for all of our records. “We’re moving to California,” she said. “So we won’t be coming back.”

California, here we come! Or not.

A year or two later, Mom came into my room with what she thought was great news. “I found us a new dentist! He’s sweet and gentle and my friend Rita says he’s wonderful.”

To my Mom’s credit, Dr. Pain Management is Not An Option For You (let’s call him Dr. Pain) was a genuinely nice man. He was an older Italian gentleman with a big smile on his face, a shock of thinning white hair, and a twinkle in his eye. He enjoyed talking to Chris and me whenever we came for a visit and he always laughed when we told him our stories.

Our relationship was off to a good start, even though he said something that worried me early on. “I don’t believe in pain medication whatsoever for children under the age of 12,” he told my mom on our first visit.

Since I am ever the optimist, I disregarded this glaring red flag and continued to see Dr. Pain. I unfortunately didn’t piece this bit of information together with the impending doom that my steady diet of jumbo pixie sticks, almond joys, Sugar Babies, tootsie rolls and Reese’s Pieces would have on me until it was too late.

When Dr. Pain told my mother that I had 9 cavities and that he would fill in 3 at a time for 3 straight weeks, no amount of begging, crying, or pleading could make him change his policy on the “no pain meds for kids” mantra.

“But you said it was kids under 12!” I said. “I’m 13!”

“Sorry, I won’t make an exception.”

The Little Shop of Horrors dentist and my dentist had a lot in common

I can still hear the buzzzzzz of the drill as it bit into my skull, taste the metal and bone particles as they flew everywhere, and smell the smoke billowing off his drill while I lay there. Luckily, Dr. Pain had straps on his chair and some beefy arm rests, which I could swear held scratch marks and indentations from former child clients.

While he bored away into my aching mouth, I began to wish that I had telekinetic powers like poor, tortured Carrie. If I did, my drilling sessions would have been over as soon as I made him burst into flames.

Me escaping from my dentist's office

My sensitive brother Chris followed me around the house after every horrible visit, buzzing like Dr. Pain’s drill of doom, while I ran from room to room trying to escape him.

Thankfully, Dr. Pain either retired or died (I was happy either way) and we were forced to cast our net out there again to find a new dentist.

This time around, my mother chose a dentist on her plan that was young, didn’t enjoy inflicting physical pain on you, and seemed normal enough. He liked kids and even had a name for his water-sucking machine: Mr. Thirsty.

Let’s call him Dr. Death. We called him this long before Dr. Kevorkian burst on the scene with his suicide machine. Dr. Death would open every conversation with this tidbit: “Did you know that dentists are the doctors most likely to kill themselves?”

Every time I saw him (for almost 15 years), I would say, “Why no! How do they do it? Tell me more.”

Apparently, 4 out of 5 dentists preferred hanging as their suicide method, followed by sticking their heads in the oven, swallowing poison and jumping off the roof. “I realize that shooting yourself is the fastest,” Dr. D said as he gently cleaned my teeth. “But then you run the risk of ruining all of your dental work.”

“Hmmmm., “ I replied, as I pulled “Mr. Thirsty” out of my mouth so I could speak. “So I guess any kind of burning is also out of the question?” “Oh no,” he replied. “That’s where dentists like me get to be the heroes! The first thing they ask for is your dental records.”

It was a never-ending information gathering mission on all things related to death when you went to see Dr. D. For instance, he would point out his lovely window, where lilies, daffodils, and tulips were in full bloom, and say, “did you know that most deaths occur when you jump out of a second story window? Most people think it’s not high enough to kill you, but they’re wrong.”

I nodded my head. “I guess that’s why the second floor is the right choice for you.”

Dr. Death was fascinated by the many ways you could do yourself in, and honestly, who could blame him? If I had to spend my days staring out that second story window in between sticking my fingers in other people’s mouths, I would’ve wanted to jump too.

Believe it or not, I liked Dr. Death. He was more interested in telling me the most popular methods of self-annihilation then finding cavities. Even when he cleaned my teeth, he gave me novocaine. Apart from his obvious death wish (and again, who could blame him?), he was my favorite childhood dentist.

The last dentist I had before my current dentist either hated all women, or just me. Let’s call him Dr. Misogynist. One time, as he cleaned my teeth, he said:

“You know what the problem is with you women?”

I love when questions start like that. “No, why don’t you tell me?” I said. He was making me really miss Dr. Death.

“You spend more time worrying about your makeup than your teeth.”

Now, I was a young, sleep-deprived mother who looked more like a bag lady than a runway model. “Since I don’t have on any makeup, I’m not sure how to take that.”

“You need to spend more time on your teeth! Luckily, I can do a whitening process on you that will make your smile Red Carpet ready.”

“Look,” I said, as I shifted in my seat. “Just clean my teeth and tell me if I have any cavities. I’m not going onto any red carpets any time soon, unless my dog cuts herself again and I can’t get the stains out.”

He kept trying to find things he could charge me for. “Your gums could use a scaling. If you don’t do it, you will be toothless by 40.”

What is it about the magical age of 40? My old college professor tried to frighten me out of eating Funyuns by saying I would weigh 400 pounds by 40, and now this guy was saying I was going to be toothless. It’s a good thing I grew up with boys, or some of these comments would bother me.

“That all sounds very interesting,” I said. “Did you know that dentists are the doctors most likely to kill themselves?”

“WHAT?” Dr. Misogynist said.

As of today, I still have all my teeth and while I may not be Red Carpet ready, I can’t really blame that one on my teeth. And Dr. M? He’s got one less client.

Recipes

So good!

The one beautiful thing about getting your teeth cleaned and cared for is that afterwards, it hurts so much that you aren’t likely to run out and eat a 7-course meal. But once the pain passes, here are some treats that I think would make anyone forget any dentist-related troubles.

Homemade Peanut Butter Cups

http://allrecipes.com/recipe/homemade-peanut-butter-cups/

Chocolate Mousse with Grande Marnier

http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/chocolate-mousse-au-grand-marnier-10000000346580/

Pixie Stix Martinis

http://www.tablespoon.com/recipes/pixie-stix-martini-cocktail-recipe/1/

The only person I ever met who loved her childhood dentist was my friend Lisa…and that’s because her father was her dentist! So…what are your funniest dentist stories? Please leave a comment and let us all know. Thanks!

Thank You, Davy Jones

By Maria Schulz

One of my very earliest memories of childhood revolved around watching shows on our tiny television set. There was I Dream of Jeannie, The Partridge Family, The Brady Bunch, The Munsters, The Addams Family, The Little Rascals and Creature Feature on Chiller Theater after Saturday night mass.

But one of my favorite shows was about four young men who would walk stacked up against each other, moving their legs together in tandem. My brothers and I goofed around just like them and sang along to their theme song:

“Here we come,

Walking down the street.

We get the funniest looks from

Everyone we meet.

[Drumroll please]

Hey, hey we’re The Monkees

And people say we monkey around

But we’re too busy singing

To put anybody down.

We’re just trying to be friendly,

So come along and see us play.

‘Cause we’re the young generation,

And we’ve got something to say.”

I watched every single episode of The Monkees in syndication, especially in the summers when they were on in the early afternoon.

My brothers and I worried every time one of the boys got in trouble. Was Davey in love with the wrong girl…again? Would Peter really have to sell his soul to the devil? Would Mike ever take that hat off? Would Mickey ever stop laughing?

My brothers and I, with occasional backup help from Mom and Dad, would belt out every tune like we were Ethel Merman on the Broadway stage.  We had all of the albums and enjoyed Pleasant Valley Sunday, Last Train to Clarkesville, Day Dream Believer, You Just May be the One, I’m a Believer and I’m Gonna Buy Me a Dog, which always delighted me because it captured the goofy, joyful side of Mickey’s and Davy’s relationship.

Are you free in 1984?

When Davy showed up in the nick of time and agreed to be Marcia Brady’s date to the Prom, I got my first taste of what “Must See TV” really was all about.  I could’ve really used his number in 1984 when I had my own Prom, but then I would’ve had to ditch the best Prom date ever. I think my cousin Tommy would’ve understood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hm39e0w8fzw

One time, I remember laying across the back seat of my Uncle Don’s car as we drove Uncle Sal home to Manhattan. As we came

out of the Midtown Tunnel, I looked up and saw all the lights in each skyscraper twinkling up into the night-time sky.

New York at night

On the radio, they were playing The Monkees, and I sang along to Day Dream Believer as Manhattan stretched out before us. It was a beautiful, clear night and I loved driving with my uncles like this, listening to The Monkees and Davy Jones croon away. How could you ever feel unhappy when The Monkees were on the radio?

Last June, my brother Jude took my brothers Joe and Chris, my nephew Tom, Joe’s friend Steve, and me to see The Monkees live at the Westbury Music Fair. Yes, I know it has a new name, but it will always be The Westbury Music Fair to me.

Davy Jones, Peter Tork and Mickey Dolenz came running out on stage. For three hours they told stories, sang songs, brought the house to its’ feet, and danced. They showed photos of their heyday on jumbo-trons around the theater, and told us hilarious anecdotes about meeting The Beatles and even the Queen of England.  Mike Nesbit didn’t tour with them, but it seemed like he was there anyway.

My brothers and I sang along to the songs and laughed at the stories. I couldn’t believe how great Davy Jones looked. I had heard Peter Tork was sick, so I wondered if this would be the last of their tours. For someone who wasn’t supposed to be feeling well, he played and laughed and ran around that stage the whole night. Mickey Dolenz still had that funny banter and goofy good-natured persona that made me love him all those years ago.

The Monkees ran off stage three times, and ran back up again for curtain calls. I started to wonder if they would ever get off. When I first got to the theater, I was tired after a long day of work and briefly considered not going. But in the end, I was so glad I went.

I left that theater with a big smile on my face and enjoyed talking with my nephew, Tom, about his favorite songs and how he enjoyed the concert. The next day, I hung up the ticket stub in my office cubicle. It makes me smile every time I see it.

So last week, when my friend Joe came back from lunch and said, “Did you hear?” I wondered what was up.

“Who died?” I said. “You look like it’s someone I love.”

“It is,” he replied. “Remember The Monkees?”

“Oh no,” I said. “Who?”

Joe replied. “Davy Jones.”

Wow! Not Davy! He looked so great last year, so full of life and so happy to be out on that stage. I was shocked. I immediately called my brother Chris. He picked up on the first ring.

“I know,” he said.

“About Davy?”

“What else? It’s like a piece of our childhood just died.”

At first I didn’t want to agree with him, but now that I’ve had a few days to think about it, I know what he meant.

From the music to the TV show to the wacky clothes and haircuts, The Monkees were all about being young, having fun, and looking at life as a joyful road, filled with endless possibilities. Here were 4 young guys plucked from relative obscurity to form a band that we loved like our own “Fab 4.” While we understood that The Monkees were not The Beatles in any way, it never mattered to me.

I think I had that poncho

The Monkees weren’t about serious things. They were all about having a good time, and I’m so glad they let us come along. I’ll never forget Davy Jones playing the maracas last June, dancing his happy dance and smiling up a storm while fans like me smiled along with him.

Loved that smile

I hope he’s in heaven right now, putting on a show…and I hope my family members who are already there get to see it!

Recipe

I considered NOT including a recipe here because I felt really sad when I heard that Davy Jones passed away. But then I thought: why not celebrate life and joy instead of focusing on sadness and death? Besides, life’s too short. Let’s eat.

Here’s a fun recipe for Monkey Cupcakes for Kids (yes, I still consider myself a kid). They’re perky, fun, and will make you smile. Sound familiar?

http://www.celebration-birthday-cakes.com/monkey-cupcakes.html

So Hungry Lifers…do you have any thoughts about Davy Jones and The Monkees? Share your favorite memories, songs, or anything else. Thanks!

Cravings

by Maria Schulz

I’ve been exercising a lot more lately, and I keep trying to convince myself that’s a good thing. I know it’s great for you, but my body seems to shun actual exercise the way a priest shuns possession.

I started doing Zumba with my friend Joanie, and I have now gone twice. This is something of a herculean accomplishment for me. You can get me to try anything once, but twice? I felt like I should get a medal, preferably the Bronze Star.

It’s not that I don’t like Zumba—I do. It’s just that I’ve simply confirmed to myself that my mother’s donation of Puerto Rican genes did not include those that would help me with coordination, grace or the ability to dance.  Instead, I’m pretty sure that she just gave me a love of chicken and rice, fried cod cakes, and flan.

I can do the steps slowly, but when the instructor starts to ramp up the speed and intensity, I look like an 80 year-old who just got off the short bus.

I also tried a class called Cardio Dance Blast. It was challenging in a different way than Zumba, and I did have fun. The thing about it was that it was not so much dancing as it was trying to follow the clubbing steps of a deranged bar fly who just had some speed slipped into her drink.

Let's dance!

At one point, the teacher turned off the lights and put on strobe lights to simulate a rollicking club atmosphere. Then, she free danced and told us all to follow along. I did, but imagined that I looked less like her and more like a dancing monkey.

 

Exercising makes me crave the craziest things. All that movement makes me dream of Jack in the Box Taco Grandes, which I haven’t had in 25 years. I also start fantasizing about jumping in the car and finding the nearest Jack in the Box. Never mind that the closest one is 3 states away—the more I inflict exercise on myself, the more it seems like a good idea.

 

Luckily, I am usually so exhausted by the time I get home that I am in no shape to begin my three state odyssey. Instead, I take a shower, mumble something incoherent to my family, and stumble into bed.

 

If my old gym teachers could see me now, I’m sure they would laugh and laugh. There’s Mrs. Berger, who enjoyed using me to demonstrate how not to do any given exercise; Ms. Dilello, who seemed to enjoy watching me inch my way around the track in pursuit of the 20-minute mile; and Mr. Collumb, who wrote in my high school yearbook, “Dance, dance, dance! Keep moving,” after a tortured semester of Aerobics class.

One college professor of mine had us do food and exercise journals as a class project. When the 30 days were up, we handed in our diaries, which had to list everything we ate and everything we did. It was not the first time I saw that look of disgust on someone’s face, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“You eat too much Jack in the Box and White Castle! At this rate, you’ll weigh 400 pounds by the time you’re 40!”

Crunchy goodness

All I heard though was “crunch crunch crunch crunch” because I was eating a bag of Funyuns. “What did you say?” I said, between crunches.

 

He shook his head and handed me the paper. “Read my comments,” he said. Luckily, there was a catalog of comments about what he seemed to perceive as my crimes against humanity in every Jack in the Box in New York.

 

I managed to piece together what he said thanks to his summary on the last page. In bold red pen, he wrote, “Your diet is terrible! You eat too much Jack in the Box and White Castle! You’ll weigh 400 pounds by the time you’re 40!”

 

He was definitely someone I could only take in small doses and it was best to drown out his voice with Funyuns. I’m not sure if he would be disappointed if he saw me today, because I do NOT weigh 400 pounds and I don’t even eat Jack in the Box or Funyuns anymore.

Mr. College Professor tried to get us to run around the track. I wished I had Ms. Dilello’s phone number, because it would have been helpful to have her tell him that this was a very bad idea.

“I hate jogging,” I told him.

“You will love it!” he screamed.

I’m not sure if it was the adrenaline rush from all the exercise he seemed to do, or the 50 gallons of coffee he drank per day to keep his weight down, but he couldn’t make any sense of me and the result was a lot of screaming.

 

All right! I'll jog.

I considered jogging something you should only do at gunpoint, and only then because you have an angry chimp pointing a gun at you or you’re in a Prisoner of War Camp. Exercise junkies say, “jogging” and all I hear is “Death March.”

I attempted to run around the track at what I thought was a reasonable rate, trying to break the 20 minute mile mark that I had set for myself in high school. Mr. College Professor was screaming and jumping on the side of the track while the other kids whizzed by me. I kept getting a stitch in my side and slowing down, which appeared to aggravate my professor. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, and I wasn’t even eating Funyuns.

The only time I ever felt the urge or desire to jog was after being subjected to a 14-hour day of travelling to Key West, Florida. We left on the morning of a snowstorm and we were panicked that we would miss our connecting flight.

We ran through the Miami airport towards our terminal (which, of course, was number 99 and we disembarked at terminal 12) like our lives depended on it. Our fellow passengers from New York ran all the way with us. We actually got there 25 minutes before the flight was scheduled to leave.

“Oh,” the flight attendant said as we showed up with a group of 10 fellow New Yorkers with tickets to this flight. “We sent the flight off without you because we thought there was no way you’d ever make it.”

Apparently, these people have never seen a crowd of New Yorkers making their way through Penn Station at rush hour. Of course we would get there on time! What airline sends off flights early? How could they sell our tickets?

After hours of complaining, screaming and crying, the airline finally put us all on a mini-bus that would drive us from Miami to Key West. Now that would’ve been okay if this was the afternoon, because I hear it’s a beautiful drive at sunset. But of course, the airport jerked us around until about 8 pm and then sent us on our way in the pitch black of night.

We moved at a rate that made watching icebergs melt seem like fast-paced fun. When the driver finally hit the gas and exceeded the 40-mile an hour mark, it wasn’t long before we saw the flash of red lights and heard the wail of a siren behind us. The cops were about to pull us over.

I sat there, exhausted beyond hope and craving nothing more than the fried conch and cheeseburgers in paradise that I had been promised. I saw the white lines on the ground in front of us, and immediately began to think of Dustin Hoffman running down the road in the movie, Marathon Man.

I turned to my husband and said, “If this bus doesn’t start moving soon, I’m going to run like that dentist played by Sir Lawrence Olivier is about to do a root canal on me.”

 

I would have too, if it weren’t for the fact that I hate running. Instead, I sat there and wept/giggled like the lunatic I am while my husband and girls patted my back consolingly.

 

My exercise goals for the months ahead are to:

 

Can you really bend like that?

• Keep trying Zumba. I may not be the most talented dancer in the class, but at least it leaves me too exhausted to buy fast food
• Try yoga to reestablish my balance. When I was a kid, I could stand on one leg and hop. Now if I did that, I would probably break one or both of my legs. I know this is a lofty goal but I’m willing to try it
• Sign up for TRX classes. These are basically isometrics classes that utilize a giant bungee cord and your own weight to help you build muscle mass. I just hope I don’t strangle myself
• Return to the Spinning classes that I loved a while back, except when one of the coaches stood next to me and screamed that I could “DO MORE.” I showed her my heart rate monitor, which would have been out of range even for a giant like Shaquille O’Neil, and she quietly said, “maybe you should stop and catch your breath.” You think? I had to go home and lay down for a while. Funny, but I never went back.
  

  SPIN!

• Get into kick boxing. I used to do those Denise Austin videos all the time. I have fond memories of doing it after my kids were born. My parents would come over every Wednesday and watch me do my videos. They would laugh and laugh. I want to share that kind of joy with the rest of the world.
• Hope that the nice men with the butterfly nets don’t come and take me away once they’ve seen me dance, kick box, spin or try TRX.

 

Recipes

We finally made it to Key West last year, and despite the horrible traveling conditions on Day 1, we had a great time. The food is amazing and fresh and no, I did not long for Jack in the Box while I was there. We went on a snorkeling trip around Key West and even “free danced” to Bob Marley on a sunset cruise. It’s true—the sunsets there are spectacular!

Worth the trip.

Here are some recipes I found that are inspired by Key West.  We loved the Jamaican Jerk marinade on beef and you can’t go there without trying the Key Lime Pie.

http://www.keywestliving.com/recipes.htm

So, Hungry Lifers…what foods do you crave? Does exercise make you as hungry and crazy as it makes me? Please post your comments and let us all know. Thanks!

Valentine’s & Vampires

by Maria Schulz

Valentine’s Day is here, and suddenly you can’t turn the TV on without finding a timeless, romantic movie playing. The Last of the Mohicans has been on a few times, along with The Ghost & Mrs. Muir, You’ve Got Mail, Pride & Prejudice, Jerry McGuire, Sleepless in Seattle, and even Wall-E, which is really a sweet, adorable love story when you get right down to it.

You had me at "Wall-E."

But one of the movies heralded as wildly romantic has heroes that I find disturbing and a heroine who I find annoying. Of course I’m talking about The Twilight Saga. Now since I’m the mother of two young girls who are the right age (even if they are not Twilight fans), I possess a lot more knowledge about this series than I ever wished for in the first place.

The world of Twilight revolves around a moody teenage girl named Bella who has just willingly left her home in sunny Florida to live with her father in the always rainy, miserable small-town of Forks. She is afraid she will never fit in when she notices a very handsome young man who comes to school in an expensive car, surrounded by his equally handsome siblings.

Bella gets to meet “Mr. Wonderful” in her biology class, where he is going to be her lab partner. His name is Edward Cullen, and he will barely look at her at first. Why? Well because, as he tells her, he can’t tolerate her smell. Now if that’s not romantic, I don’t know what is.

What Bella doesn’t know is that her scent drives him batty (sorry) and he is drawn to her. For her own sake, he is trying to stay away from her. But does Bella take the hint? Nah. Instead, she insists on getting to know him.

The dialogue here is riveting. She says such things as “are you a vampire?” and “you sparkle and shimmer. You’re beautiful!” Edward eventually responds by saying things like “I want you to have dinner with my family!”

Oh, by the way, Edward’s vampire coven family may just want to eat her, but never mind these pesky details. It’s a date!

Meet the (Vampire) Family

Once the family manages not to kill her, they invite her to their softball game (?) and ask her to be their umpire. Of course it’s all good clean fun, until a gang of savage, marauding vampires try to crash the game and realize that Bella is NOT A VAMPIRE when she stands downwind. Never mind that she’s the only one without weird gold eyes and sparkly, shimmery skin, boy does she smell yummy!

See, this group of vampires is evil because they EAT HUMANS. Unlike the Cullen clan, who considers themselves do-gooder vegetarians because they only eat animals like deer (ask the deer what they think of that one). See, the other vampires have blood red eyes and the Cullens have gold eyes, which nobody seems to notice except for moody, sullen Bella.

By this time, Bella is TOTALLY in love with Edward. She wants to DIE to be with him! Which is great, because she might just get her chance before too long. Edward may be a vegetarian, animal-blood-drinking, deer-slaying vampire, but he has the brain power of a slug and keeps putting Bella in danger.

I am not sure what it is that draws Bella to Edward. Is it the angry way he tells her to love someone else? The shimmery skin? The glowing eyes? The nice car? I can’t really say, but I would bet that my parents said the same thing about lots of my old boyfriends.

By the way, can’t Bella date any NORMAL boys? How come her best choices are a moody vampire with a death wish or a muscle-bound werewolf with anger-management issues? Team Edward vs. Team Jacob. Wow, I don’t envy her father.

Team Edward or Team Jacob?

And what the hell is wrong with her father? How does one get to be Chief of Police and not realize that violent creeps have overrun your town? And here’s another thing: if I dashed off to Rome to save my idiot, glowing vampire boyfriend from exposing himself to the tourist masses, I had better be home by 12 a.m., or my Dad would kill me! Forget about the Volturi, if you want to see something really scary, try walking through the door past curfew in the Lagalante household.

What I really want to know is, how come Edward, Jacob, the Cullens and the other werewolves don’t just “off” Bella? She’s a big pain in the neck and constantly causes trouble. Perhaps I’m being “anti-Monster” here, but I don’t think evil supernatural beings have a lot of patience with whiny humans.

I wonder what they will do when their daughter, Renessmee (really? Renessmee???) enters her vampire “teen” years. Will she rebel by wearing bright, festive colors, singing Kumbaya in the local church choir, and dating traditional (gasp!) boys? Will Bella say things to her like “Oh sure, just go ahead and get great grades and date the star quarterback. But that church choir singing has got to stop!!!”

Renessmee and Friends, Singing Kumbaya

Most normal marriages hit the skids after 30 or 50 years of constant togetherness, but Edward and Bella will be together FOREVER. What will they do to spice things up? Will they cause another vampire civil war? Join a snowflake softball league? Invite Mr. and Mrs. Creature from the Black Lagoon over for cocktails and a little swinging?

Let's swing!

If I could just chat with Bella, here’s what I would tell her:

• Vampires are not really your best dating option. There’s all that blood, and the possibility that his being hungry could lead to you being dead. Sure, he’s glittery, but is that really enough?

• I know this, because I did date a vampire once. Okay so I have no scientific proof of this, but he was very tall and thin, didn’t like venturing out in the daytime, and had skin so white that it kind of glittered. Plus he was moody and angry. Too bad we broke up before I could have the “are you a vampire?” talk with him.

• Supernatural beings in general are not really the kind of guys you can count on. Of course it’s nice to date someone who can read your mind, fly, bend steel with his bare hands and protect you from angry Vampire councils. But then again, if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t need help with any of that.

• Vampires don’t actually eat, so you can’t go to all the best restaurants with them. Sure, you can jet off to Rome where your life will be endangered countless times, and you can even get married on a Caribbean island owned by your vampire boyfriend’s family, but they will never eat a single thing with you. They like to watch you eat, of course, which puts the “C” in CREEPY. I could deal with the blood, I could deal with the vampire angst, but what do you mean you don’t want to share my flan? I’m outta here.

And he's the happy-go-lucky one

• Werewolves may seem like a good option, but that’s only when you’re dating a vampire. See #3, above.

• When you have the “are you a vampire” talk, and he responds, “why yes, I am a vampire,” there is really no need for the conversation to go any further. Just say something like, “oh I just needed to know because I’m allergic to peanuts and vampires,” and run away. If you are worried about him being insulted, ask him to hold a bag of peanuts before you start talking.

What a sense of humor!

• If you absolutely must date a Supernatural creature, choose the Invisible Man. There are bound to be surprises a-plenty with him by your side. Just think of all the ways you can prank people! The laughs would not stop coming.

• Try dating real humans. If you think vampires are moody and unpredictable, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Want to see someone show supernatural strength and bend steel with his bare hands? Turn off the football game he’s been watching for the past 3 hours when it’s 3^rd and goal and there are just 03 seconds left on the clock in the fourth quarter. I guarantee you his reaction will be a lot more frightening than anything your vampire boyfriend has ever conjured up.

As for me, I will spend tonight with my husband and girls, and we will definitely not be watching the latest installment of The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn. Instead, we’ll try not to get our hearts broken by the Knicks. Go Jeremy Lin!

It's "Linsanity!"

Recipe:

What Valentine’s and Vampire’s blog post would be complete without a Bloody Mary recipe?

http://www.food.com/recipe/bloody-mary-6449

And as long as I mentioned Flan, here’s a recipe for all of you adventurous types:

http://allrecipes.com/recipe/spanish-flan/

So, Hungry Lifers…what “romantic” movies do you love? Which ones do you hate? What do you think about Twilight? Have you ever dated a vampire/werewolf/supernatural creature? Please leave a comment and let us all in on the fun.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Indoor Sports

By Maria Schulz

Even though this winter hasn’t been nearly as bad as last year’s, it has forced us indoors for things we would normally do outdoors. Take, for instance, my daughter’s recreation and gym classes at school.

When it’s just too cold, the kids have to do all of their playing in the gym. This is okay by them, but leads to homework assignments titled “Should Dodge Ball be Banned?” or “Why We Should Never Hit our Friends with a Handball.”

These kids look way too happy

When asked if dodge ball should be banned, the athletic, strong kids usually say things like “No! Dodge ball is a great way to get exercise and have fun with your classmates. It teaches you how to make decisions and prioritize. It shows you that sometimes you win and sometimes you lose.”

The weak, crying kids usually say things like, “OMG, NOT DODGE BALL! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE ANYTHING BUT DODGE BALL!”

It brought back lots of memories of my own gym classes in Catholic grammar school and public high school. Sometimes they were fun, and sometimes I got hit in the head with a handball.

I spent many, many periods in gym class running for my life because the boys saw me as an easy target. It seemed obvious to me that their greatest goal was to throw the ball hard enough to decapitate me.

I can still see the deranged look in my classmate George’s eyes as he lined me up in his sights and threw that ball at me like it was shot out of a cannon. I saw my short life flash before my eyes so often that it started to feel like the 4:30 Movie.

Of course, it didn’t help that my gym teachers had never read any books with titles like “How to be Fair” and “The Way to Make Gym Fun.” Instead, I’m pretty sure that their books had titles like “Never Interfere Until the Hemorrhaging Won’t Stop” and “When In Doubt, Look Away.”

Someone had the bright idea of creating boys vs. girls competitions. Hey, what a fun idea! It was particularly clever since some of the boys were already over 6 feet tall and even the ones who were small had a rocket thrower for an arm. Although some of the girls were also tall, they ran with spaghetti arms and wouldn’t throw the ball.

“Why aren’t you throwing the ball?” I would scream from the ground where I crouched behind the rolled up volleyball net, like a soldier engaged in trench warfare.

“Oh I can’t throw the ball at John,” Sandy would answer. “I like him.”

Having grown up with six boys, I couldn’t understand that logic. I liked all of my brothers, but if they were throwing balls at me with the intent to kill, I threw back. Ironically, none of the boys let this worrisome “like” concept bother them. If they liked you, they threw the balls harder.

Later, in the locker room, the girls would say things like:

“Johnny smashed me in the head TWICE! I think he likes me.”

“So why don’t you throw it back and show him that you like him?”  I would say.

Great outrage would fill the room. “She can’t do that! Then he’ll never ask her out!”

As far as I was concerned, any boy who wanted to leave giant bruises all over me was not marriage material. All I wanted to do was get out of that class in one piece, not find a life partner.

Dodge Ball helped me learn a lot of important life skills. For instance:

What I learned from Dodge Ball

• Never let an opportunity pass you by. When the game begins, many gym teachers take the opportunity to slip off to the side of the gym and have a conversation with any other adult they can find. I would seize the moment and slip into any nearby closets until a few minutes had passed, and then join the other girls who were bruised and “out” on the sidelines.
• Stick close to people who are bigger than you. This works in all walks of life, but especially in dodge ball. The best targets are the big ones. Besides, I could run the whole time behind those kids and still manage not to get hit. The only time this strategy was a problem was in the 7^th grade, when I was the biggest girl in the class.
• Throw yourself on the mercy of the court. Actually finding your gym teacher and telling her that you were sick, had a headache, or were sleepy because you’d been up all night taking care of your sick [grandma, puppy, orphaned friend] could often get you out of anything
• Bring a snack. These were helpful when you were hiding in the closet and waiting for the first round of victims to sit on the sidelines so you could make believe you were one of them. Pretzels, a block of cheese, or an apple are portable and take long enough to eat so that you are busy for a while.
• Revenge is sweet, but payback is just worse next time. I would get a big kick out of getting the ball and throwing it at George and all of the other boys who so enjoyed hitting me when it was their turn. But the thing was, the next time, they would be sure to get me before I could run and hide in the closet.

The only time I ever saw the boys in my class squirm was when our gym teacher decided to teach us The Hustle. The girls all lined up with broad smiles on their faces. We seemed to understand the natural laws of rhythm and musicality. The boys, on the other hand, looked like they were about to have their tonsils ripped out without anesthesia.

If this were a culling exercise in the wild, you would have definitely been able to tell whose feathers were the best and who got to pass on their genes to the next generation. From the looks of things, it wouldn’t have been most of my classmates.

Eventually, our gym teachers would get tired of holding the dance class and they would say: “Who wants to play dodge ball?”

“We do!” the boys yelled as they dashed towards the balls, and I tried to find a new place to hide.

Now, you may think after reading this post that I am not a fan of dodge ball. On the contrary, I think it holds a valuable place in the evolutionary scheme of things. I absolutely learned that not everyone liked me, or was going to treat me like I was the greatest thing to ever happen to Western Civilization. Not that anyone ever had before or since, but just in case I was feeling overly confident, there was nothing like dodge ball to give me a great big reality check.

Secondly, I doubt if “coddled” or “poor decision-maker” are terms that would ever be applied to me, since I sharpened my survival skills throughout childhood. I had no choice but to hone my gift for making snap decisions, like: can I slip into that closet over there without being noticed? And “Is Lillian slower than me? Can I hide behind her?”

Finally, I believe that all kids should experience what I did, because hey, I had to. Why should they get off easy?

High school gym classes were a bit more complicated. I suddenly was in a school with a population that was ten times that of my elementary school, and finally, they separated the boys and girls. I thought that this would solve my problems, but suddenly I discovered how relentlessly violent girls could be. Hell hath no fury like a competitive girl who gets stuck with you on her team—especially if you stink at whatever she’s playing.

There was one girl who was incensed by my inability to take Aerobics dance class seriously. She became outraged when we were put into a group together and had to come up with an Aerobics dance routine set to a popular song.

I wanted to exercise to “Tainted Love” and she wanted to exercise to “Beat It.” The other girls in our group were willing to go along with her, because she was very large and muscular and threatening. I eventually gave in, but enraged her since she felt my lack of commitment to learning how to moonwalk to “Beat It” was a good reason to beat me up.

Too many steps

She came up to me in the locker room and said, “You’re going to moonwalk, or I’m going to hit you.”

I learned another great life skill at this time: when someone is crazy and wants to hurt you, try to make them laugh and buy enough time to get away from them.

“Go ahead and hit me,” I said. “Maybe that will help me moonwalk.”

“Haaaahaaaahaaa,” she said, as she slapped me on the back a little too enthusiastically. “You’re funny.”

Lucky for me, she stopped coming to Aerobics class. I like to think she went on to devote her life to following Michael Jackson, and is now busy perfecting the art of moon-walking.

My time of trials did not end there. There was the day in Mrs. Berger’s class when she gave pairs of girls the same number. When she called your number, you were supposed to run out to meet the other person and try to kick the soccer ball away from her.

So, Mrs. Berger called out “Two!” and I ran out. The girl who was also “Two” ran out to meet me. She was about two feet taller than me and possibly two hundred pounds heavier. I decided she could kick the ball wherever she wanted.

My classmate, "Two"

Mrs. Berger blew the whistle and I watched the girl prance away with the soccer ball. The teacher blew the whistle again. “I don’t want you to just stand there. At least try to get it!”

She blew the whistle, and I made a half-hearted attempt to get the ball. Before my adversary could run away, Mrs. Berger blew the whistle again.

“Listen,” she screamed. “I will keep calling ‘two’ for the rest of this period if you don’t start hustling. When I blow this whistle, you had better get that ball!”

Kick the Ball!

“All right,” I said, as Sasquatch and I went back to square up to the ball.

“Go!” Mrs. Berger said, as she made that whistle shriek.

I lurched forward and tried to get the ball, but my adversary swung her leg backward and tried to kick the ball hard enough to launch it to the moon. Unfortunately, she missed the ball and hit my foot instead.

Is it possible to kick someone's toe off?

I thought my big toe exploded.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA,” I screamed, as I fell to the ground. I was afraid to take my sneaker off, because I was sure my toe would roll out.

“Get up,” Mrs. Berger said. “Stop being a baby.”

“My toe! I think she kicked off my toe,” I shrieked.

“Get up and get back into the game,” Mrs. Berger said, “or I’ll fail you.”

I managed to get up right in time for the bell to ring, and I hobbled around for the rest of the day. I kept calling my mother for a ride, but when I couldn’t reach her, I had to walk home.

When I finally got to the house, I crawled up the front steps and collapsed in the living room. My mother found me alternately sobbing and laughing on the living room floor.

“What happened to you?” my mother said.

In between bouts of hysteria, I blurted out the whole sorry story.

“I’ll get the scissors,” my mother said. She was always prepared and stoic in a crisis situation. She cut my shoe off to find that my foot now resembled an elephant’s hoof.

My foot following soccer drills

My toe did not roll out.

After I returned to school a couple of days later, I gave Mrs. Berger the doctor’s note that excused me from gym. She shrugged.

“Why didn’t you say something?” she said.

“I thought the screaming said it all,” I replied.

As I sat on the sidelines that day, eating a block of cheese I’d brought from home for just this occasion, I smiled. A broken big toe was a small price to pay for getting to sit out of dodge ball that day.

Recipe

Say “cheese!” A cheese plate is always a hit at parties. It’s a shame I wasn’t allowed to bring wine to gym class, but there’s nothing like making up for lost time.

The Wine & Cheese Plate

http://allrecipes.com/HowTo/Cheese-and-Wine-Pairing/Detail.aspx

Here’s another recipe that looks delicious—I love goat cheese! It reminds me of one of my favorite books from childhood: Heidi.

http://www.foodchannel.com/recipes/recipe/cherry-tomatoes-filled-goat-cheese/

So, Hungry Lifers: do you have any stories about your favorite indoor sports? What was your worst gym class moment? Keep it funny, keep it clean, and please leave a comment below. Thanks!

2011 in the Rearview Mirror

by Maria Lagalante Schulz

Last year at this time, I tried to think about what I wanted to accomplish in 2011. I make resolutions every year, and I usually break them by the second week of January. To avoid this, I set up a list of resolutions that I was pretty sure even I would be able to keep. Let’s see how I did.

1) I will not lose weight.

The good news is I did lose a couple of pounds. The better news is I didn’t gain any. Win/Win. I’ve been eating more fruits and vegetables, when all I really want is a Snickers bar. I’d say that’s progress.

2) I will not climb Mount Everest. I did keep this one. I don’t like heights or the cold. I tried climbing the stairs at work a few times, but that got old fast. The best was when I had to climb those 5 flights in the pitch-black darkness following Hurricane Irene. I realized that deadly conditions and heights were not a good combination for me.

3) I will not buy the world a Coke and keep it company. Yes, I was able to give up Coke for a few months. Then I went back to it. I’ve cut way back on my Coca-Cola habit, but as far as addictions go, this one is hard for me. I’m drinking a lot more water and iced tea these days, but it’s just not the same.

4) I will find a fitness program that I like and stick with it. I rode my bike, swam all summer, walked farther and faster with my dog, and did kettle bells and exercise videos. I even joined a bowling league. There is nothing quite like bowling against senior citizens to make you feel young and healthy. Now if only I could bowl better than them.

 

5) I will read more books and watch less TV. Since there is never anything on television, this wasn’t too hard. My last blog post was about my favorite books from the year, and I mentioned that I joined a book club. That keeps me honest and makes me read something I wouldn’t necessarily choose myself.

6) I will write every day, or maybe every three days.  Although I feel like I never write enough, I did write more posts this year than last year. Plus, I actually made a lot of progress on my book. I wanted to get it published by the end of the year, but it didn’t happen. But to quote Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind, “as God is my witness, I will never go hungry again…or unpublished.” Okay, so I made that last part up, but you get the idea. Look for my book in the Spring of 2012.

7) I will not start smoking. This one was easy. I am blessed (or cursed, depends on how you look at it) with a borderline bionic sense of smell. Cigarettes are one of those things that make me gag. I’m like Tony Randall (Felix Unger in The Odd Couple) in that way.

8) I will take a class and learn something new. This was the year I tried a lot of new things. I took my soup class and blogged about it in “Soup’s On.” I also took an introductory Spanish class. The teacher liked me at first because I have a fantastic accent (my Mom and Grandmother would be proud). Unfortunately, it became apparent pretty quickly that an accent was all that I had. I liked going to the class every week but it wasn’t the same as when I was in high school. It’s just not as much fun without my mother around to do all of my homework.

9) I will enjoy more time with friends.  Being an adult and having to take care of my family, house and work really puts a crimp on my ability to see friends all the time. This was the year that my old friend Lisa and I made time to see one another. We saw Billy Elliot on Broadway, and then had dinner at Carmine’s. It was wonderful! I also got to see more movies with my husband this year, including True Grit and My Week with Marilyn. Good times!

10) I will write more blog posts about my sister-in-law, Kathie. I promised to write about my sister-in-law, Kathie, but I never devoted an entire blog post to her. However, she did make it into the book, so at least I know one person will be buying it.

11) I will not bring a chimpanzee into my home as my surrogate son/pet.

While I would certainly love a son, I always figured he would be human. Besides, it has taken me five years to figure out how to get my dog off the couch. She’s a happy go lucky lab, and even she grumbles a little. I hear a chimpanzee can get crazy and rip your face off when provoked, especially when he’s been trolling on the Internet all day and drinking red wine. So this one was easy to keep!

This is why you should not get a pet with opposable thumbs

12) I will eat more chocolate. I have found many new ways to work chocolate into my day. One piece of dark chocolate goes a long way, and I hear it’s good for me. Plus chocolate milk in the morning and hot chocolate at night makes any day better!

I’ve heard a lot of people say that 2011 was not a very good year. I don’t agree; it wasn’t the greatest year of my life, but it was still happy. My family and friends are well and life is good.

I spent most of today whistling “That Old Black Magic” because New Year’s Eve was the time that my mother and father would throw a big party and then get up and sing that song together. All of my relatives were around us: my brothers, grandmother, uncles, aunts, cousins and friends. Everybody was there and they were all laughing.

Tonight, while my little family and I celebrate a low-key New Year’s Eve, I will think of my mother and father…and I’ll be smiling.

Mom and Dad performing That Old Black Magic

Happy New Year! See you all next year.

Recipe

Make any day better with this Hot Chocolate to recipe:

http://allrecipes.com/recipe/creamy-hot-cocoa/detail.aspx

So, how did your New Year’s resolutions go this year? Do you have a funny story to share about resolutions gone wrong? Share your thoughts and let us all in on the fun.

11 Best Books of 2011

by Maria Lagalante Schulz

One of the things I love doing more than anything is reading, but it wasn’t always that way. For me, it started in the 3^rd grade when my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Grille, noticed that I was struggling and she decided to do something about it.

Every afternoon for months, Mrs. Grille worked with me. She  started with picture books, then magazine articles, followed by biographies about John F. Kennedy and Harriet Tubman, and finally novels like Little Women. By the end of the 3^rd grade, I was one of the best readers in my class.

This year, that old love for reading was reignited when some friends invited me to join their book club. Being in a room with people who have very definite opinions, don’t mind sharing them, and help me see things in a new way is truly a gift.

Since I love talking about books I’ve read, here (in no particular order) are my top 11 books from ’11:

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua

This book fascinated me. Chua writes about the great lengths she was willing to go to in order to ensure that her daughters succeeded.

I can’t imagine being this iron willed over every little aspect of my children’s lives. I didn’t understand why her husband didn’t intervene early on, since he didn’t agree with her methods.

I found her lack of self-knowledge incredible. Amy Chua talks about what it was like to have parents who belittled her and demanded that she follow their rules, but she conveniently forgets that her parents also let her make some pretty huge decisions without forcing their own will upon her.

This book made me really grateful for my own mother, whose major form of interference was saying things like “do you really think that’s wise?” and letting you come up with the answer.

Moloka’i by Alan Brennert

When the ladies in book club chose this book, I thought “Oh no! I don’t want to read this!” It’s about a leper colony in Hawaii during the early part of the 20^th century.

Now since I faint while reading about people with severed limbs, uncontrolled bleeding, or suffering of any kind, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get through it. But this book is so much more than that. It’s an absolutely stunning look at people who are forced into unthinkable conditions, and who somehow rise above it all. They form communities and have hopes and dreams, just like anyone else.

You root for the characters and you feel for them when they get sick or hurt, or lose someone they love. It was really one of the most moving, beautiful books I’ve ever read.

Lie by Caroline Bock

I was a little bit afraid to read and comment on this book because it was actually written by one of the members of the book club. What if I didn’t like it? What would I say? But once I started reading, I knew I had nothing to worry about.

Lie is a gripping story about a group of teenagers from Long Island who take part in the brutal beating of an illegal immigrant. Peer pressure, young love, and disorienting grief all play a part in the decisions made by each character as they decide whether or not to maintain the lie.

Each chapter offers another point of view, so you get many different perspectives about the event and its impact on everyone involved. I read the entire book in a day. It’s a riveting look at the lies we tell to ourselves and to others. Read it!

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

The Bell Jar is Sylvia Plath’s semi-autobiographical novel about a young woman who has a bright future ahead as a writer. She’s gone to New York to work in publishing and she is heady with success. And that’s when it hits: her first encounter with a disabling depression that descends on her like a bell jar.

What struck me most was Plath’s amazing sense of humor. She could write about something as devastating as a crippling depression and still make you laugh. Her ability to describe what it was like to plunge into the world of mental illness is something I won’t soon forget.

What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty

Imagine what it would be like to forget that you have three children, you and your sister aren’t close anymore, and you’re embroiled in a nasty divorce. This is the premise of What Alice Forgot.

I thought it was going to be a downer, but it’s not. It’s a poignant, funny story about a woman who is trying to get back in touch with the person she was before marriage, children, and life crowded out her earlier self. The characters were endearing and I couldn’t wait to turn the page to read what would happen next.

Unfinished Desires by Gail Godwin

A Catholic school setting, nuns with regrets, teenage girls, and the hint of scandal: how could I not read this book?

Mother Ravenel leads her school by the sheer force of her will. Mother Malloy is the new teacher brought to Mount St. Gabriel’s from Boston to teach the 9^th grade girls. This group of girls drove another long time teacher to quit her job and vow never to come back.

Godwin goes back and forth between the early years of the school up to 2001, when 85 year old Mother Ravenel is writing her memoir. There is a lot of talk about the “toxic year” of 1951-52, and the girls from that 9^th grade class.

The book took a long time to get to the climax, which wasn’t what I was expecting, and then it meandered along to the end. I think the writer liked her characters so much that she couldn’t let them go. That was all right though; I liked them too.

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen

I had this book on my shelf for a few years before I finally picked it up. When I did, I wondered why I waited so long.

It’s a beautiful story of love, loss and longing. It’s set in a traveling circus and the details of that kind of life are rich and intriguing. The story opens with the hero, who is now about 90 and living in a nursing home.

I loved how it showed us that the elderly are not just fixtures without a past or a future. They are real people, with hopes, dreams, stories and opinions.

The love story at the center of it all was captivating too.

The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein

For all of you non-dog-lovers out there who say, “I can’t read a book told from a dog’s perspective,” please: stop. Suspend your disbelief and you won’t be sorry.

The narrator is Enzo, a lab-terrier mix who has been a faithful companion to Denny, a race-car driver with dreams of making it big. Enzo is beside Denny from bachelorhood through marriage and into parenthood. He takes it all in and helps Denny face disappointment, heartbreak and despair with hope and courage.

I didn’t want this book to end. It was funny, sweet, sad and ultimately uplifting.

A Dog’s Purpose by Bruce Cameron

Okay, this time I will say it: non-dog lovers, don’t read this book. However, if you do love dogs, cats, or any animal at all, don’t miss it.

This book was surprisingly spiritual, funny, and hard to put down. You follow one dog over the course of several lives as he searches for his true purpose. He is alternately treated well and abused by many different humans, and he has a lot of useful things to say about life, compassion, and how love never dies.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett

Miss Skeeter, a young white woman living in Mississippi during the Civil Rights era, wants to write something groundbreaking. With the help of Aibileen and Minny, two black maids, she is able to start collecting the stories of the black nannies, housekeepers and cooks who work in the homes of the white townspeople.

You quickly get caught up in the maids’ stories and you grow to care about every one of them. It’s touching to see how much love is shared between these women and the families they care for. You also realize how rotten people can be to one another.

I couldn’t stop reading this book, and I imagine it will probably end up on reading lists in high schools eventually (if it isn’t there already).

Sheila Levine is Dead and Living in New York by Gail Parent

Meet Sheila Levine. She’s a Long Island girl who has been trained since the day she was born that she isn’t anybody until she’s married. So, off she goes to New York City to find a glamorous job, the swinging singles scene, and her future husband.

But 25 pounds and scores of bad dates later, Sheila Levine realizes that she’s still nobody. She’s got a job she hates, a boyfriend that she despises and a sister who beats her to the altar. Worst of all, she’s about to turn 30! It’s then that she decides to kill herself, and she goes about her plans with hilarious results.

Even though this book was written in 1972, it’s the mother of all chick lit and is still funny today. The author was also a screenwriter on The Carol Burnett Show, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Rhoda, and The Golden Girls—so no wonder I loved it!

Recipe:

You know what I really love about my book club? Everybody brings something to eat! I enjoy sharing Italian pastries because it’s the only time I allow myself to have them these days.

Here’s an Italian tiramisu recipe that looks easy and delicious:

http://allrecipes.com/recipe/tiramisu-layer-cake/detail.aspx

So…what books were your favorites in 2011? What would you recommend? Please leave a comment and let us all know.

Here’s the book I’m looking forward to reading (Chris and Anne, thanks for the great Christmas gifts!)