The Lipstick Chronicles

by Nancy

"Don We Now Our Gay Apparel," is a line some merrymakers take very seriously once Thanksgiving is over. Yes, if you haven't done it already, it's definitely time to bring out the Tacky Christmas Sweater.

You know the ones I mean--those pullovers, cardigans and over-sized sweatshirts that are appliqued with darling snowmen, or maybe a chubby-cheeked Santa or how about a prancing reindeer or two? If you're a real advocate of the Christmas Sweater, you have one depicting Rudolph with a nose that actually lights up thanks to a mini battery pack you can tuck into your bra.

Not that I've personally ever put on such a thing, of course, before going a-wassailing.  (Does that mean what I think it means?)

Here at the TLC watercooler, we've thought that the Tacky Christmas Sweater is a wardrobe staple of school teachers, elderly matrons who wear their Easy Spirits to hike the mall every morning, or those of us who favor the ankle-length denim jumper. (Admit it.  Unless your zip code is Manhattan or you're the TLC office manager---yes, Margie, I will agree to an upgrade in your job title---haven't you owned at least one denim jumper in your lifetime? I pitched mine a few years ago when I decided I really didn't want to look like I was hosting Romper Room, but I definitely had one.)

Turns out, however, you are totally out of touch fashionwise if you reject the festive sweater as being too tacky to pull over your holiday 'do. Yes, I'm here to tell you that the sequined, rhinestoned, cartoon-y garments that you've seen hanging on all the Macy's endcaps for weeks are actually the hottest sartorial trend going this year. Here's why:

The Tacky Christmas Sweater Party is the hottest ticket in town. Some waggish hosts and hostesses just want you to show up wearing your thrift shop finery to see who's the gaudiest. But other, more philanthropic party givers are actually throwing such parties to benefit good charitable causes. You show up in your blinking elf shirt and everybody votes--with cash dontations, of course--for the most humiliating fashion statement of all.

The way I figure it, you add a Santa hat and some jingle bell earrings, and you're a surefire finalist. And you can return your sweater to the Goodwill store for a tax deduction when the holidays are over. Everybody wins!

So the Tacky Christmas Sweater is not just for tiny tots with their eyes all aglow. I keep telling my husband that. But he---who is very rarely known around here as Mr. Scrooge--refuses to wear one. So my poor children are deprived of the Christmas card photo in which all family members sport identical snowman shirts. And really, shouldn't every family have such an heirloom?

In his defense, Jeff will wear a Christmas tie--those with the microchip that plays Dashing Through the Snow. Yes, I'm here to tell you that a staid banker can get a gleam of glee in his eye when he presses the little button behind his tietack. He's not immune to the tacky expression of holiday cheer.

But . . . truth?  Me, I'm a woman of stature, so I have made it a personal rule not to wear any item of clothing picturing little animals. (Hey, everybody needs some rules to live by, and this one's mine.) So I must admit--with a touch of shame-- that the Tacky Christmas Sweater is not a staple of my wardrobe. I have none.  Zero. Nada. But in my own defense, I'm a big fan of Christmas jewelry, especially earrings. Many of my jingle bells seem to have come unglued over the years, so I'm down to just a few pairs.  Just enough to allow me to wear a different pair every day between now and Christmas.

Don't have your sweater yet? Well, it's not too late. Head to the mall right now, and you're bound to have a nearly unlimited selection at vastly reduced prices. But if you're housebound, you can always check out QVC for the best quality Christmas gear.  They're created by Jeanne Bice, co-founder of the Quacker Factory, which reportedly brought down $58 million in sales of such holiday garb last year. (Her website gives the QVC schedule for Quacker fashions, just so you know.)

I may even scout the shoe departments this weekend to see if there are any of those cute little Christmas ballet flats at half price. I mean, a girl needs to look good as she pulls the Christmas roast out of the oven, right? And if I'm not mistaken, I have a collection of reindeer antlers to share with my holiday guests.

I hope you are similarly well-stocked!

Enjoy the holidays!

Just like in the Bible

By Elaine Viets

It is almost Christmas in South Florida. December here is the closest you can get to paradise on earth. The weather is warm, the sky is china blue, the palm trees are strung with colored lights and the people are –

Well, let’s say they’re full of something, but it’s not the Christmas spirit.

One dark evening last week, downtown Lauderdale was clogged with rush-hour traffic. This part of town wasn’t recommended in the tourist guides. I had a fine view of the local jail, City Hall, a bus stop and a parking lot.

When the traffic light changed, I stepped on the gas. Nothing happened.

I checked the gauges. They were fine. The car wasn’t overheated or out of gas. The battery was charging and the engine was purring. I put the car into second gear, but it still wouldn’t budge.

Apparently, the transmission died. Ralph, my 1986 Jaguar, had turned into a paperweight.

Behind me, a matronly woman flipped me off and squealed her huge SUV around my car, gunning the engine. So did the suit in the gray Lexus.

Considering the location and the hour, the fancy cars around me were mostly filled with judges, lawyers, bail bondsmen, tax collectors and other city hall types.

The light changed. The mood worsened. Drivers yelled, flipped me the finger, and honked their horns.

I fiddled with the switches and the gear shift, hoping the car would miraculously cure itself. Ralph had always been a considerate car. He’d never left me stranded before.

It was time to let the other drivers know there was a problem. I turned on the hazard lights, and climbed out of the car using my cane. The cane should have been a clue I couldn’t push the car out of the way.

The screaming and cursing grew more frenzied. I hobbled to the front of the car and lifted the hood – the international symbol for car trouble.

Now more drivers were flipping me the bird, and I don’t mean mimus polyglottos, the mockingbird. This was digitas medias – the middle finger, the true state bird of Florida. We should petition the state legislature to make this change. Every citizen has one. There’s no chance that it will become an endangered species. Right now, Florida has to share its state bird with Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee and Texas, a five-way split for a ten-inch mockingbird.

No one has yet chosen the digitas medias. If any state deserves the bird, it’s Florida.

I was now the most hated woman in downtown Fort Lauderdale. Even the people in the bus stop were screaming and cursing at me, mainly because their bus couldn’t get through the traffic jam my car had created.

It was time to call AAA, but with all the yelling and honking, I couldn’t hear anything on my cell phone. I limped across the intersection to find a quiet spot to make my call.

That’s when a homeless man who’d been sitting on the sidewalk wandered over and said, "They’re getting pretty crazy. How about if I push your car out of the intersection?"

So I steered and the homeless man pushed my 5,200-pound car across the intersection.

It took a few minutes to call AAA. I wanted to thank the homeless man and give him a twenty for his kindness. I found him inside a store, arguing with an open wine bottle. He took a swing at the bottle – or at someone I couldn’t see. I backed away and went outside.

I deeply regret that I didn’t give the money to the man, but I didn’t want to get in the middle of a fight. Even an imaginary one.

I went back outside and waited by my car.

That homeless man was the modern equivalent of the despised Samaritan. He was also the sanest person on the street corner.

Please give a big lipstick smack welcome to guest blogger Gary Phillips.  Besides being one of the coolest people we know, Gary is a talented and prolific writer.  His hard-boiled crime series featuring L.A.-based private eye Ivan Monk was one of the first to showcase an African-American detective.  He's published novels, short fiction, articles and even comic books to great acclaim, and his latest venture is an on-line serial novel that you can read here.  Vist Gary at his very cool website.

                                                              

My El-D and Me

by Gary Phillips

This holiday season finds me driving this totally un-PC, bad-to-the-bone, V-8, gas hog, road-swallowing 1992 Cadillac Eldorado.  Until recently, I was behind the wheel of a jaunty 2002 Jeep Sport Liberty that ran like a champ.  It was one of the few cars I'd bought new thanks to a swell book advance back then.  But alas, it was totaled by one of the seemingly ubiquitous types of drivers who populate our Southern California thoroughfares: the unlicensed and no insurance carrying kind.  I could just as easily have been hit by someone with all the proper stuff you're supposed to have to drive, but this way it's more interesting. I do derive some satisfaction that the lad who plowed his heavy duty GMC Cheyenne pick-up into my baby subsequently had said vehicle impounded by the cops for lack of those items. 

Cars and car culture are big in SoCal and with my family.  You see, my dad was a mechanic.  His actual paying job was something called Lead Tire Man.  In those days, the Southern Pacific Railroad (at one point the largest train operation in the west) had a highway transport arm called Pacific Motor Trucking.  PMT was located in an old part of Los Angeles near what is known as General Hospital.  You've heard of GH, right?  It's where the long-running soap opera gets its name.  The show opens, or used to "back in the day" with a shot of those famous, massive steps leading to the Beaux Arts edifice.

Anyway, Pop's job was fixing those humongous tires on 18-wheelers and making road calls to get stalled trucks back to the yard.  He and his brothers grew up poor on a farm in a small Texas town called Seguin during the Depression.  The first car they had was a Model A.  Pop was out tooling around in it one day when he was twelve or so, and managed to wrap this bad boy around a telephone pole.  (Back then, in the country, if you could reach the pedal, you could drive.)  The Phillips boys being the curious sort took the wrecked car apart and put it back together and in that way learned a trade.

From the time I was a kid on into my twenties, we always had several cars and lots of car parts around the house.  A la Sanford and Son, it was just me and my dad.  The woeful lack of female influence was evidence in our, uh, proletarian lifestyle.  We were the kind of neighbors you'd find embarrassing, what with a car up on blocks in the front yard and one partially disassembled in the back.  Certainly nowadays the reps from the neighborhood association would have something to say about such clutter.  But that was somewhat the norm in my old South Central neighborhood.

Having lots of car parts around did serve a useful purpose.  Say one of them was on the fritz, for example, this land boat, a 70s-era Pontiac Catalina we inherited from my grandfather.  (I used to drive him around in it when he got too old to handle a vehicle during the winters in Tulsa, Oklahoma.)  I'd go over to the Chevette and fetch the correct parts to get the Catalina running.  Ah, the Chevette -- you have to be a certain age to remember that wonder wagon. Mine was nicknamed the Deer Slayer because, yep, I'd once accidentally killed a deer in it when driving back from New Mexico.

All that car history brings me back to the present and the El-D I'm currently stylin' in.  I bought it -- from my buddy Millard Kaufman, a screenwriter and director (Bad Day at Black Rock, Convicts 4, etc.), co-creator of Mister Magoo and at 90, a first time novelist (Bowl of Cherries)-- knowing I wasn't going to keep it long.  The car has less than 23,000 miles on it, but gas-mileage and parking-wise, it isn't practical.  I've definitely been envisioning Priuses lately.  But I'll get the Xmas shopping done in this tank, maybe take the Caddy for a road trip early next year.  And whatever else, I'll take it over to Pop's grave.  He'd have dug the car for sure.

Christmas Best Intentions

By Sarah

It was the four sticks of butter lined up on the kitchen counter that made me remember. Uh oh, I thought, here we go again.

If I'm not careful, those sticks of butter will be there January 1 along with the two bags of cranberries currently crowding the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, the bottle of unpopped popcorn (I swear there's another in the back of the cabinet left over from last year), the empty cookie tins and obscure ingredients for rum balls: coconut, ground nuts and, well, rum.

These are my symbols of Christmas best intentions, otherwise known as delusions of holiday grandeur. A few weeks ago while I was finishing Sweet Love, the fantasy that kept me going at two a.m., that pushed me to finish chapter thirty before deadline, was the image of me gleefully stringing holly and hanging lights from every nook, of baking a dozen different types of cookies while Sleigh Ride blared from the speakers. Remember the recent snow storm? That was supposed to be the storm in which my children and I sat in front of the fire and threaded cranberries and popcorn while listening to A Christmas Carol.

Did we? Of course not. That's not to say the day wasn't productive. We dug snow tunnels and invited the neighborhood kids in to drink cocoa and work on our jigsaw puzzle - only to leave me so obsessed with  finishing it that I completely forgot about the cranberries, popcorn and cookies.  As for my decorating, we got the tree up but then lost steam. The box of wreath hangers, etc., is still unopened in the living room. We've been using it as a modified copy table. Blue plastic. Now that's Christmas class.

Instead of stringing holly and lights, I organized the dining room, did eight loads of laundry and cleaned out the basement lest a fire break out and kill my whole family. Then I went Christmas shopping with  such force that I am afraid to see what's left in my checking account and now I'm a teensy weensie depressed. Plus, there are presents to wrap and send out by TODAY! If I don't, I'm screwed as far as my nephews and nieces getting anything and, shoot, those Harry and David boxes. Totally slipped my mind. Now I'm not only teensy weensie depressed, I'm also panicked AND broke and afraid my relatives will hate me.

Also, I need snow tires. Where am I going to find the time for those?

See, this is how the best of Christmas intentions get swept away. Maybe that's why true Christmas fanatics start in August. Or why a store called The Christmas Shoppe is a nationwide four-season success. You need a year just to get it all hung and done. If there's any comfort, it's in knowing I'm not alone in my failure. There was not one bag of brown sugar available for sale Saturday night. Not one. Now don't tell me everyone baked cookies on Sunday. Puhleezeee.

Naturally, I blame my mother. She really did bake the dozen different cookies, along with the German almond twist and distribute them to neighbors. Speaking of which, when I was six, a neighbor threw an impromptu sledding party complete with candles in brown paper bags, homemade eggnog and hot chocolate one Christmas Eve. Now, that's a memory. Somehow, I don't think my clean basement's going to compare.

So starting today, I really am going to do it all. Mail off the presents, call Harry and David, get the snow tires, hang the holly and the wreaths and get cracking on those rum balls. (They need like a week.) Also, I will knit Charlie a hat (don't read that, Charlie) and build a slapdash gingerbread house. (Not Michele caliber, I'm afraid.) I will not stay up until four a.m. on Christmas day wrapping presents, I will be done by two! And if I die from exhaustion while roasting the beef and making the Yorkshire pudding, well, it'll be worth it. My children will have memories! Memories of their mother collapsed on the kitchen floor, perhaps, but memories nonetheless.

There. Take that, Martha Stewart! Onward...

Sarah

 

Holiday Music 2007 Report

by Rebecca the Bookseller

I think even the Scroogiest of you will have to admit that the holiday music nuts among us have shown great restraint this year - I mean, Thanksgiving was a month ago!

There is some wonderful new holiday music out there - you can check out snippets on iTunes, or, thanks to Elaine, you can listen to some entire CDs at this very cool link: Holiday Music on AOL

And here is a very nifty site from Ramona that will create a radio station tailored to your taste: Pandora Check it out!

So, here we go with the Class of 2007. Next Sunday, look for the Best of 2006. I didn't want to overload you all in one day.

Josh Groban's "Noel" is simply magnificent. If you are one of the few who have not had the pleasure of hearing this voice, you need to catch up. The entire CD is wonderful - a warning to SusanCo and all of our other military families - "I'll Be Home for Christmas" contains some holiday greetings from far from home.

If you prefer a female voice, here are two to consider: Carnie Wilson's "Christmas with Carnie" and Yolanda Adams' "What a Wonderful Time". Yolanda Adams is a new voice to me and she is wonderful. Carnie Wilson (formerly of Heart) has a sweet voice that reminds me of Karen Carpenter, with bigger pipes, bless her.

Here's a blast from the past - remember Christopher Cross? He's not only still around, but he has a Christmas album called "A Christopher Cross Christmas" - say that five times fast. If you are a big fan, you know who you are. This is definitely one that will have you sailing into the holidays. heh. If you're interested in another flash from the past, Rick Springfield has a CD too.

And guess who is back? Not that she ever left, but Ms. Patti LaBelle has got a Christmas CD. You'd know that voice any where - check out "Miss Patti's Christmas" - and stay tuned starting tomorrow when yours truly will watch her first reality TV series ever. Who doesn't love a choir? Okay, lots of people, but I do. So don't call me when I'm watching the DVR'd episodes of "Clash of the Choirs".

For more Christ in the Christmas music, pick up David Phelps - his new one is called "One Wintry Night" and his previous Christmas release is "Joy, Joy" - both are terrific, and I actually combined them onto a CD for the car for whenever I forget to grab my iPod on the way out the door. And another new group to me is Ernie Haase & Signature Sound - they sing in that close-knit harmony that can give you chills. Their CD is called "Christmas With (you guessed it) Ernie Haase and Signature Sound". Other CCR Christmas music includes Jars of Clay's "Christmas Songs", Bebo Norman's "Christmas" and "WOW Gospel Christmas".Perhaps the most crowd pleasing one (meaning my kids will listen to it without groaning) is from Relient K - both secular and non-secular tunes, all of which are terrific - it's called "Let it Snow, Baby...Let it Reindeer". Get it? I love that.

Jim Brickman, a pianist and songwriter (from near here in Cleveland) has a lovely new album called "Homecoming" with some vocals and some instrumentals. Look for at least one of his on the Best of 2007 Collection.

It's a banner year for country music fans, starting with a two-CD set from the Big Dog himself, Toby Keith. Plus Diamond Rio, Tracy Lawrence (check out "Cold Beer" for a decidedly non-religious chuckle) Martina McBride, and Randy Travis.

New to me this year are two male voices that I'll be watching for during the rest of the year: Raul Malo ("Marshmallow World & Other Holiday Favorites"); and John Pizzarelli ("Let's Share Christmas").

And last, but never least, this year's Hallmark CD is Fanilow Fave Barry Manilow's "In the Swing of Christmas". Always a crowd pleaser among those with discriminating tastes.

Whew! That's a lot of new music this year! See you next week with the Best of 2006 final choices.

Clea Simon is the author of the Theda Krakow mysteries, most recently CRIES AND WHISKERS. She cohabits with a former shelter kitty, named Musetta, who has become quite accustomed to the good life, thank you very much.

Well, here it is, nearly 2008 and look how far we've come.  Cell phones saturations has reached the point where the only growing market is Fiji. The gas in my car is worth more than my mortgage. And we no longer "put the cat out" at night.

Put the cat out? Was the cat on fire? Well, no, but those of you old enough to be reading this, might remember that there was a time when we treated out pets--excuse me, our animal companions--differently that we do today.

As recently as ten years ago, we probably weren't spending the holiday season getting monogrammed sweaters for our pet pooches. Nor were those of us who are urban dwellers giving up the dream of a dining room table to make room for carpeted "cat trees," designed to stimulate Fuzzy's inner tiger as well as take over our apartments. No, as a nation we found other uses for the more than $40 billion that we spent this year on our 88.3 million cats, 74.8 millions dogs, 13.4 million reptiles, or that odd 24.3 million category simply called "other small animals."  (And, hey, 15 years ago, there wasn't even an American Pet Product Manufacturing Association around to provide such wonderful statistics.) As 2007 rolls to a close, we now live in a world where hotels now advertise their "pet friendliness." Where grooming products from shampoos to toothbrushes make even the funkiest feline ready for their closeups.

Have we gone overboard? When I see the holiday season ads for glittery collars with real gemstones and doggie coats make with real, non-doggie fur, I've got to wonder. Our love of our pets seems to have become the tail that wags the adorable, overbred, pocket-sized pup.

But there's another side as well, one that is good to remember. After all, along with all the perhaps unnecessary luxuries that we now indulge our pets in (as opposed to the necessary luxuries we purchase for ourselves) we're also taking better care of our domestic animals--all our domestic animals. Back in the dark ages (i.e. the 1970s and before), most cats didn't get regular vet care. Cats were considered barely pets at all. More like purring transients who came in on occasion and then were shooed outdoors when the social hour was done. And though we fed them and enjoyed their velvety caresses, the only time any of them saw a vet was when someone came home from a fight with a really nasty bite mark--or someone else was sick of placing yet another litter of kittens.

And before you anti-felinists speak up here (and watch it, I've got claws), let me point out that it wasn't just cats. As recently as 20 years before that, dogs were generally treated much the same way. They slept outside, in all weather, and were subjected to everything from fleas and heartworm to attacks from bigger predators, including nasty people.

Now some of that has changed because the world has gotten meaner. I'm sitting her in the WiFi world of ultra-modern Cambridge, Massachusetts, knowing that within 10 miles of my snug sanctuary lurk coyotes. Not to mention that fishers--nasty weaselly things with jaw that could take out Tom Brady--have been seen the next town over. (I've seen them!  Well, one. It was roadkill, but my friend's girlfriend's neighbor showed it to me on his cellphone.) Plus, don't get me started on how weird people have gotten today. I don't know if I'd plant a tree out there and trust that it would survive. And a pet? Fuggetaboutit.

But some of it has just come about because we've come to terms with the fact that we do love these little creatures. We've admitted that as we brought them into our homes, we've also welcomed them into our hearts. (By the way, this isn't just the case among those of us with a bit too much money. Last  year I read a story about a displaced Afghan family who had virtually nothing, but they shared what they had with their beloved cat.) We want them to have as long and as a healthy life as possible, and we're finally fessing up to that fact--and trying to make it happen. Which is why housecats are now living into their 20s and even the larger dogs are now enjoying longer play-filled lives.

Whether or not you feel that Fido or Fluffy has the consciousness to be grateful for this newfound care, you've got to admit, it's nicer for us. I mean, with all the uncertainties in life, especially in these days of holiday stress and sleeting rain (raining sleet?) isn't it wonderful to come home to that one sweet face, with its purrs or wagging tail? Cause no matter how much we spend on luxuries for our pets, we're really taking care of ourselves. And no amount of spa facial iPhone video 3D magic will ever quite replace the warm, soft bulk of our best animal friend, curled up beside us on a long winter night.

Merry solstice holiday, friends! May all your tails keep wagging!

CRIES AND WHISKERS, features Boston-based freelance music journalist Theda Krakow, and follows CATTERY ROW--now available in trade paperback.

Santa's Workshop

By Rebecca the Bookseller and Elf

Everyone has their own traditions. One of my favorites is the way I start the holiday season: Santa's Workshop. I'll bet that even if you don't know what I'm talking about first hand, you may have been the recipient of a classic Santa's Workshop gift.

Do you, for example, own a tape measure or tire pressure gage that has the word "Best" (as in Dad/Mom/Aunt/Uncle/Grandparent) on it? Have you ever received a set of matching earrings and necklace adorned with your 'real birthstone' or an angel? Do you have a tiny set of screwdrivers or make up brushes that came in a lovely plastic carrying case? Then you, my friend, may have already participated in Santa's Workshop.

Parochial schools are famous for these - although I know of some small public elementary schools that are still doing them, despite the War on Christmas (man, I miss Stephen Colbert, don't you?) - and don't start with me, I'm kidding about the WoC. So Santa's Workshop involves a bunch of parents setting up displays of inexpensive gifts, then helping the kids pick out their presents and finally wrapping them. It's a riot.

My favorites are the little ones who come in with $20 (you can buy a lot at Santa's Workshop for that) and a list of family members to buy for. The first thing they do is head straight for the pet toys. After they spend at least $10 on their dog or cat, they move on to the rest of the family. I am not kidding here. We consistently have to restock the pet gifts before anything else, including this year's very popular deer coasters with realistic antler holder.

As the kids get older, their priorities change. The 8th graders do very little real shopping. Instead, they play with the "Greatest Grandpa Ever" tape measures, or open the little velvet jewelry boxes and exclaim: "He went to Jared!" then laugh hysterically. They do buy the small footballs, which are nearly always confiscated when they start throwing them around the cafeteria. Thats' s a no-no. Last year, we had to put away these long pencils with gelatinous bugs attached to the end because the kids figured out how to stick them on themselves in various places, then when they tried to get them off, there was some skin loss. Kind of like the tongue on the flagpole trick, except without the extreme temperatures. Good, good times.

But it's the 2nd- 4th graders who are the absolute best. They are so careful and ernest about their shopping. They have their lists, and their gift tags, and they compare gift choices as if they are the most important things in the world. Which, they are. Which is why it's so great. Sure, you'll have a kid here or there who picks out the biggest thing for himself first ("Mom said if I have money left over, I can get something, so I'm just saving time.") That's the exception, though. When a kid picks out a ring that says "Mom" on a heart and it has a diamond accent, it's like helping them pick out a tiara at Cartier. The thing is absolutely beautiful.

And we all wear our fine jewelry proudly. In fact, some Moms will wear it the next day. I saw little Enrico's parents in the parking lot the morning after his class did their shopping and assured them that they were getting some wonderful gifts. They both grinned and said "We know. He couldn't wait and we had to open them last night." Then Dad showed me his "World's Greatest Dad" keychain and Mom showed off her new angel necklace - "It even has my birthstone!", and Enrico was beaming like he was the luckiest kid in the world.

So when the commercial side of the holidays gets to me, and I'm totally stressed out because there are a zillion things to do, and I think if I hear one more version of the dogs singing Jingle Bells, I may take the bridge, I think of my little shoppers and their fabulous presents. It always makes me smile.

Either that, or I get out some aggression throwing snowballs at other elves: Elf Snowball Fight

If you'd like to make somebody smile, you can send a card to a recovering soldier. I've gotten several e-mails telling people to send cards to "Any Recovering Soldier" at Walter Reed hospital. But I've also gotten e-mails saying that due to security concerns, anything not specifically addressed won't be delivered. Unfortunately, the latter is true. This was so troubling to so many people that last week, the Red Cross came up with a solution. If you mail your cards and greetings here:

We Support You During Your Recovery!
c/o American Red Cross
P.O. Box 149
Savage, MD 20763-0419

Then volunteers at the Red Cross will sort them for shipping to various military hospitals. You need to mail everything so it arrives by December 27th. For more information, check out this link: Walter Reed Information on Sending Cards

We all support our troops - regardless of how we feel about the War or the people who got us there, or keep us there. These men and women are doing their jobs, just like the rest of us, except they are getting shot at. Which means thousands of them come home wounded, many times permanently. As anyone who has been in the hospital knows, it's a bad enough place to be on a good day, but to be there over the holidays is even worse. Taking a minute to send a card is easy, and it can really make a difference.

If you have another way of sharing a smile - or something bigger - during this season of giving, please share it with us. We all have our own charities and causes to support, but are always open to new suggestions.

And here is something to make you smile while you're reading the comments: Santa's Singing Reindeer

Bloom Where You are Planted

by Nancy

Here's what I learned on our cruise:   

1.  The primary natural resources in Croatia are rocks and fresh water. That may not sound like much in these days of crude oil going for $100 a barrel, but in the times of the Romans and the Greeks and various other seafaring conquerers, fresh water was the hottest commodity going.  When those guys found a good port for refueling, they spent a lot of time building viaducts and fortifications (hence the use for all those rocks) to protect their fresh water supply. Which is why we have towns like Dubrovnik and Split today, because if your relatives were kicked off the boat and left behind to guard the water in that rocky wasteland, you might as well learn how to become a stone mason and build yourself a house to survive.

Bloom where you are planted. That's a philosophy my father embraced in his life.  Okay, he had more than stones and water to work with, but he stuck around in the neighborhood where he was born despite offers to go off and become a corporate fat cat in more urban and/or glamorous settings. He became a lawyer and then a can-do kinda guy for a smallish international company that allowed him to travel (alas, never to Croatia, but certainly Japan and elsewhere) but still permitted him to stay at home and contribute to his community.

It's a choice he made, and I respect that. 

The other thing I learned on a cruise ship is that if you only have five shirts, two pairs of pants and one dress hanging in the tiny closet---well, maybe you're sartorially limited, but it's actually very freeing. You don't need to spend so  much time fussing about what to wear, because you only have five things to choose from.  (And on the last couple of days of your trip, you're really screwed in the fashion department because there are only two clean outfits left.)  It was surprisingly nice to have life be so simplified. 

Easy is good.

Mind you, I'm aware of the irony.  It took a trip on a luxury cruise ship to remind me of this lesson. I grew up in the aforementioned rural area, and we bought our clothes from the 5&10 like everybody else in town because it was the only store. My siblings and I had enough clothes that we didn't have to repeat an outfit during a school week, which is more than some people.

So when my husband and I came home from the cruise ship, I decided to get rid of all the extra clothes (and shoes and bags and so much other stuff I am ashamed to reveal it here) in my closet.

This is really hard to do if--like me--you tend to wear three different sizes in the course of a single year.  (YoYo Ma isn't the only YoYo, if you get my drift.) But I'm determined to live more simply.

Living simply is a little easier for me these days since my kitchen rehab IS STILL NOT FINISHED and looks as if it's going to drag on well past the holidays. So I hope my holiday house guests will also embrace the simpler lifestyle this year. No Christmas cookies, for example.  (Well, I may make a quick trip to my favorite patisserie at the last minute, but I have no oven, so I won't be baking.) My dad loved Christmas cookies when he was alive, but we can celebrate his memory in other ways.

No decorations for us either this year. The usual abundance of Christmas lights and other flotsam are still packed in the storage room because there's no space to put my collection of snowmen and the sparkly reindeer and so many crystal candlesticks that I really should be ashamed. Every square foot of spare space in the house seems to be jammed with construction supplies and equipment. And, anyway, the decorations would be coated with plaster dust within five minutes of putting them on display. Who wants to look at dusty reindeer? So I'm not decorating.  I bought one large poinsetta for the fireplace, and that might be the extent of festive decor this year. We should be grateful that we can afford to renovate the kitchen for future holidays.

So . . . in the spirit of people who survived on little more than rocks and water, I'm thinking that instead of whining about the mess in my house, we ought to spend this Christmas lending a hand at any number of charitable projects. There are plenty of places we could spend a festive day helping others who aren't fortunate enough to be getting a new kitchen.  If you have a story about donating your time to a good cause, fill us in.  Think of TLC as an internet version of a Christmas Movie of the Week during the writer's strike.

And . . . if you have any suggestions on how to decorate the dumpster that's sitting in the street outside my doorstep, please advise. Because the rest of the neighborhood is looking very jolly, we really ought to do something about the dumpster.  My first thought was to use chalk to print, "Scrooge and Marley" on its side, but maybe that's less amusing than I think it is.  Any thoughts?

Something simple, of course.

I’m Not a Mother

By Elaine Viets

So there I was in the condo elevator with a pet caddy. Inside it, my cat howled like he was being skinned alive. Harry, my striped writing partner with the big ears, did not want to see the doctor.

The elevator stopped at another floor and a man got on somewhat warily.

"Unhappy cat?" he guessed correctly.

"I’m taking Harry to the vet," I said.

"You’re a good mom," he said.

"I am NOT the mother of an alley cat," I growled.

I’m sure the guy decided I was a different species altogether – definitely a bitch.

The hair goes up on the back of my neck when people call pet owners "Mom" and "Dad." To me, that title goes to a person who changes diapers, tucks the child into bed, sits up with a little one who has an earache, and bakes twenty-six cupcakes for a class party.

As the owner (or human companion) of a cat, all I do is put a dish of dry food on the floor and fill a water bowl. Occasionally, I take the cat to the vet. But I don’t deserve the title of Mom.

There’s something sad about humans co-opting "Mom" and "Dad" because they have pets. I used to feel sorry for the rich women in the posh Boca mall who wore designer suits and wheeled healthy little dogs in expensive strollers. Those dogs needed to run and play. The women needed someone to love.

I get queasy when I hear otherwise sane humans buying sixty dollar sweaters for their dogs. One man told me he couldn’t decide if his Boston terrier should have a winter coat with pink rosebuds on it or a more conventional red wool. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the ugly little animal would look ridiculous in pink roses.

Sadly, there are children shivering in the cold who need warm clothes more than that dog.

As for the friend who said his kid ran out the front door and hid under the car, I was ready to call a shrink, until I figured out Bob was talking about his cat.

Yes, I get the joke when friends talk about their "grand cats." I know that a photo of a tabby over the fireplace is a way to keep overanxious moms from pressuring their married daughters into having children before they are ready for them.

Don’t get me wrong. I like my cats. They are endlessly entertaining. Harry sleeps by my computer when I write. When I get up in the morning, Harry tries to steer me to my office to go to work, which is how he earned the title of writing partner.

But I would never confuse my cat with a real child. I don’t have the patience for long-term parenting. Or the guts. Child rearing is a permanent job. Taking care of a cat is not. I know in my heart of hearts that I could take that cat to the Humane Society if things went wrong. I wouldn’t. But I feel better knowing the option is available. Children are forever.

If you feel the pressing need to give a three-hundred-dollar birthday party for your Yorkie (it happens here in Florida) do yourself and your dog a favor. Buy the pooch a sirloin and send the rest of the money to a children’s home. I’d like to suggest St. Vincent Home for Children, 7401 Florissant Road, St. Louis, Missouri, 63121. They do good work.

And one more thing. Don’t call me Mom because I have a cat. Or maybe you can. After all, a female cat is a queen.

That makes me the queen mother. Excuse me while I practice my wave.

By Sarah

A couple of weeks ago while I was in the thick of getting this manuscript done, one of my kids on the way to piano practice declared he had a sore throat and didn't feel so well. Isn't that just the way? Usually, the sore throat thing isn't enough of a pass to get out of school - especially when I'm on deadline. It's a red flag, sure, but junior's got to bring more to the table if he wants to lie in my bed and watch TV. A fever at the very least - though vomiting is always a deal closer.

This time, however, what little maternal instinct I possess tapped me on the shoulder and said take this kid to the doctor. And so I did. We sat around in the waiting room reading pamphlets about how to stop smoking and the value of getting your teenager vaccinated against meningitis, especially if your teenager a) goes to school b) opens his or her mouth. Drug companies, I thought, they pander to our worst fears. Turns out, our son had strep. Two days of penicillin, the entire boxed set of Planet Earth and one Mad magazine later he was back in school.

And then, on Sunday, our teenage daughter came down the stairs holding her laptop and looking distraught. She'd been on Facebook when a link popped up concerning a delightful acquaintance of hers from the UK - Hannah King. Hannah's brother, Ben, had visited for a week a few years ago with friends of ours who live outside London. He repeatedly called our Anna, "Hannah," because they were so alike in interests, age and demeanor. Later, when we visited them in London, Anna and Hannah hit it off. Anna slept over at Hannah's and Hannah promised to visit us. She was adorable - smiley, fun, warm and given to talking in pirate with her friends. She was also smart and devoted to her goal of becoming a doctor.

What you're about to read next is every parent's nightmare.

Last Thursday, sixteen-year-old Hannah came home from school to say that she had a sore throat. The next morning she woke up feeling worse. Aside from vomiting, she had a small rash and her parents, erring on the side of caution, called the hospital which sent an ambulance right away. Hannah walked to the ambulance. In the ten minute drive to the hospital, however, her body shut down. She died that night - of bacterial meningitis. (The photo to the right, by the way, is a meningitis rash. FYI.)

Twenty four hours after that first sore throat and she was dead. As for the telltale stiff neck - the symptom we parents look out for first - nope. Nada. Just aches.

As in most tragedies like this, our instincts are to protect our own. Hadn't I been in the doctor's office just the other day scoffing at the idea of meningitis vaccines for children as young as eleven? Hadn't Sam suffered the exact symptoms Hannah had in the beginning, and I was more worried about my manuscript? How easily could I be in the Kings' place now, grieving the loss of my beloved child.

This is why I'm writing about Hannah. When a child dies we all want to add meaning to her life. In this case, Hannah really was one of those people who touched you instantly. Some people live until ninety and leave no impression while others spread their gifts and go too young. Our daughter has chosen to emulate Hannah's upbeat attitude and loving nature in honor of her. But I'm much more practical.

If you know of a teenager, please tell his or her parents about Hannah. There is an effective vaccine many colleges now require for entering freshman that the CDC recommends for all children age eleven to eighteen. Though meningitis affects only about 3,000 people a year in the US, most of those are between the ages of 15 and 24. Moreover, it is often quickly fatal and the number of cases is rising, causing a speedy death of ten percent.

I would never presume to tell anyone to get a vaccine. But it is worth talking to your doctor immediately if you have a child in that age group. Here is a CDC site about it. Though the vaccine doesn't cover all forms of meningitis, it covers two out of the big three killers in this country which is why we - or our teenagers off at college doing God knows what - still need to pay attention when a sore throat hits along with general achiness and a fever. Message here? Act fast.

At the very least, please don't follow my old model. I will never discount a sore throat again. I can only hope my children won't take advantage of that because otherwise it's gonna by TV/Spongebob and ginger ale 24/7.

Sarah