Why Ya Gotta Be So Mean?

I used to live in England, a country known for its dreary weather, love of cricket, and questionable cuisine. While I never came to appreciate those things, I did develop a fondness for the English sense of propriety, unfailing politeness and overall civility. While I only shared the island for a couple of years, I found my hosts to be level-headed citizens who would have rather eaten glass than offend anyone with a harsh word and had the decency to pronounce everything "lovely" even when it was far from it.

Not exactly the way we do things around here, is it?

Last week, my sister and I (in two separate incidents) were treated to verbal (and, in my sister's case, written) abuse by someone who escalated a situation WAY beyond where it had any right to go. My sister, having accidentally bumped some Neanderthal's truck door with her car door after it had been grabbed by the wind, was treated to a nasty tirade AND a note on her windshield that invoked the dreaded C-word. My encounter was at work and involved a clearly bi-polar, off-her-meds customer who bit my head off when I inquired if she needed my help.

I don't get it. I know people can have a bad day. I know people can be burdened with stress and anxiety. I know there are underlying causes that provoke someone to lose their temper. But why is it happening so frequently these days? Why is everyone on such a short fuse; blowing everything out of proportion? Why can't we all calm down a little and be a whole lot kinder to one another?

If something doesn't change, I may just have to pack up my family and head back across the pond. I could use a little "That would be lovely" right now.

Six (and a Baby), Please

Sometimes, especially when I'm pouring over boxes of old photos, I ache for the days when my children were toddlers; when they would look at me as if I had invented ice-cream or hugged me with the ferocity of a soldier returning from the front lines. Those days are long gone but whenever that melancholy strikes I know that all I have to do is plug in one of our old family videos to be reminded of how cute they were; how sweet they were; how much fun they were. But once I have a sniffle or two tripping down memory lane, I inevitably start to think about how equally great it is that these adorable creatures are now adults.

Saturday night was one of those times I was grateful those toddler days are over. My daughter, knowing that I had to work from 12-5, suggested that we meet for dinner afterward at one of our favorite neighborhood spots, a place we used to frequent quite a bit when she was younger but hadn't visited for awhile. As someone who used to love to cook but now looks for any opportunity not to have to prep/cook/clean up, I jumped at the chance. By the time we were through talking, our night out was expanded to include our two hubbies, my parents, and Boo Bear (aka my adorable grandson).

We got there early (which was the only sensible way to hit a popular spot on a Saturday night with a baby). Before the Chianti was opened, we were already digging into a platter of bruschetta, fried ravioli and calamari. Soups and salads were next, accompanied by offers of "taste this" and a game of pass the baby. By the time our oversized bowls of pasta arrived, we were ready to ask for doggie bags (although my son-in-law didn't seem to have much trouble with that huge order of Chicken Parm). As I sat there, appreciating the wonderful couple who had given me life, the amazing woman I had brought into this world, and the sweet baby she had given birth to, all was right with the world.

And that ravioli with pesto cream sauce didn't hurt either.

Snow Daze

Something happens to me whenever we get a heavy snowfall like the one we got on Super Bowl Sunday - I turn into a pajama-wearing, donut-eating, binge-watching slug. My husband, on the other hand, is none of those things. He's unfailingly up at the crack of dawn, tackling the driveway with his trusty shovel. (I have given up trying to entice him to bring our snowblower up from its cobweb-encrusted corner of the basement). While I'm ready for a nap under the nearest down comforter, he's jumping around like a little kid, invigorated by the single digit temperatures, challenged by the blustery winds that blow his carefully mounded snow piles back in his face, and grateful for the chance to get another frosty workout.

This particular storm, the fifth biggest snowfall in Chicago history, was no different. By the end of the afternoon, I was still parked on the couch appreciating yet another episode of Parenthood while he was putting the finishing touches on another massive snow fort (please keep in mind that our youngest child is twenty-six and our grandson is several months away from crawling before applauding his creative efforts). Every so often he attempted to pry me off the sofa with "enticing" offers of a trudge around the block or a snowball fight but I (and my rapidly expanding ass) remained steadfast. Look, I appreciate the frosty beauty of being dumped on by Mother Nature as much as the next guy but six decades of dealing with snowdrifts over my head and winds that whip through the heartiest long-underwear have tempered my enthusiasm. I will admit to a few pangs of guilt about not picking up a shovel and giving the poor guy a hand but after reminding myself of all the times I had to deal with that driveway on my own when he was off in sunny Singapore on business, I took another sip of hot chocolate and the feeling passed.

In the end, everybody got what they wanted. I ate an entire (small) can of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls while I watched Novak Djokovic dispatch Andy Murray for the Australian Open title and my hubby ended up with the cleanest driveway on the cul-de-sac and a snow fort that resembled Windsor Castle.

Once again, proof that marriage is a beautiful thing.