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This appeared Sunday, Father’s Day, in the Poughkeepie NY Journal.
This is the day to honor fathers, and this year I salute Tom, Gerry and Luke – three dads from three different generations in our family.
The first is my dad, the second my husband, and the third is the father of my sunny and delightful granddaughters.
Tom was born right smack in the middle of the Greatest Generation. He grew up during the Depression and World War II and became a dad when the idea of a disposable diaper was science fiction.
His wife labored with their first child (that’s me) while he sweated down the hall in the waiting room. He was expected to be back at work ASAP, and by Child #5, he took to dropping his wife off and waiting for the call.
He did not know one end of a diaper from the other and nobody expected him to know such things. Yet, the responsibility of putting food on the table was his alone.
That’s just the way it was for the daddies of his day, in the place where we lived.
Gerry was born smack in the middle of the Baby Boomer Generation. He was among a new breed of papas called “birthing coaches.’’
He got to see the births of his three children, but was back at work within a day or two. The phrase “paternity leave’’ was being bantered about, but it was not yet in the dictionary.
Gerry probably had never seen a man change a diaper in his life yet there he stood at a changing table in the early 1980s, winging it and hoping for the best.
Many men of his generation have had partners when it came to bringing in the money, but in return they had to shoulder their share at home.
Some said it was grand and that it was about time that the “Mr. Mom’’ era had arrived. Others? Not so much. They thought it was the ruination of society.
Turns out, they were wrong.
Like millions of other Boomer dads, Gerry paved the way for the daddies of today.
Luke is a member of Generation Y – which came after Gen X, if you keep track of these things. When his youngest was born three months ago, he took off two weeks to welcome her into the family.
Now, he walks in the door from work and does whatever needs doing – which is a lot in a household of young children.
Laundry, cleaning, baths, story time. He does it all. Few men his age even know where the title “Mr. Mom’’ comes from, and even fewer question that they should be sharing the child care duties.
In the 50 years that span my dad’s days as a young father, and my son-in-law’s, the role of fathers has changed much.
But in the most important matter, these three are the same. No matter the generation, they have treated their wives and children with love and loyalty.
Those in their care have been lucky, and I wish a Happy Father’s Day to our family’s special dads, and to yours.
Best rest stops in America
When a couple’s marriage is as “mature’’ as the tie-dyed jeans in the back of their closet, the couple wonders: We’re OK so far, but can we go the distance?
And there is only one way to find out. They must get in a car and drive 1,000 miles together and when the trip is over, if one of them has not pushed the other out into the path of a tractor-trailer, they know everything will be OK.
I should know. I just took a road trip like this with my blushing groom of 30.5 years and I am happy to report that we survived all that time together under one sunroof.
Oh, all right. The truth is we barely survived. We hated the books on CD that we’d brought along. We left the best snacks back on the kitchen counter. And we were sick of our music choices before we got out of New York.
But the bottom line is, we did survive, and there is only one reason: The State of Ohio. Not the entire state, mind you, though I’m sure it is a very fine state in many ways.
Toledo, they say, is just lovely in springtime.
But Ohio, we discovered, has the best GD (gosh-darn in Ohio-speak) rest stops if you happen to be driving along Route 80, which New York Baby Boomers can take to get to Cleveland’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Every time one of us got a bit cranky and our minor bickering was about to ignite into something bigger, one of these little bits of highway heaven appeared.
We’d never seen anything like it. They were huge, spacious, sparkly clean, offered lots of food and were full of cheery non-New Yorkers who asked us where we were from and where we were going.
They saved the day. They probably saved our marriage. Mostly, they saved us from Pennsylvania, which, frankly, has no business being that wide.
Yes, Pennsylvania gave us the Declaration of Independence and inventions like bubble gum, the Big Mac, the Slinky and TV Guide, which if you put them altogether would be the ultimate American Survival Kit.
But take it from me, Pennsylvania is no fun when you are stuck in a car and your only reason for being in Pennsylvania is that you can’t avoid Pennsylvania if you want to get to Ohio.
I’ll admit that the signs we saw for a town called “Jersey Shore, Pa.,’’ did amuse me for a number of miles being that I am a Jersey girl.
“Copycats!’’ I chortled. “Maybe they thought that little pond over there was the Atlantic and they really were in New Jersey!’’
Oh, I was clever. At least that’s what I pronounced a great number of times. My husband, however, was staring straight ahead at the road and gripping the wheel.
Just as we were about to pull off to the side of the road so we could safely continue our “discussion’’ of my cleverness, we crossed into Ohio and pulled up to one of those glorious rest stops.
They saved us from ourselves more than once on the way out.
On the way back, I practically cried when we crossed back into Pennsylvania again and faced nothing but ordinary rest stops for the remainder of the trip.
Luckily, we had been bolstered up enough by those Buckeye road palaces to make it all the way back home.
So thanks, Ohio. I don’t care if most Americans can’t find you on a map.
These two travelers could not have made it without you.
Bye, Bye Erica Kane
Posted on: May 4, 2011
Say it isn't so!
This is warning for the mucky-mucks at the soap opera “All My Children.’’
You are in a heap of trouble if you think you can cancel that show and leave its loyal fans (read: “rabid soap addicts”) high and dry.
What will we do? Where will we go? Are you going to support us during withdrawal?
Oh, I know. Some of you out there are saying: “Kathleen! We are shocked! We suspected you might be prone to ‘Laverne and Shirley’ reruns. But soaps? Soaps??’’
Sorry, my peeps. This is how I roll. And excuse me, but I haven’t watched just any soap.
We’re talking about THE Soap. (Take that all you pathetic Luke-and-Laura-General-Hospital people.)
Sure. I may have gone weeks, months and even a year without checking on my fave fantasy town. But saying goodbye forever?
Ouch. Major ouch.
It all started back in the day. Nixon (Dick, not Cynthia) was president and “All My Children” was a ticket outside my tiny Catholic schoolgirl Universe.
It’s not like I had no clue what soap operas were.
My mother locked us out of the house every summer afternoon so she could “iron,’’ which was Mom Code for: “Scram! My soap’s on!’’
Later on, I got my own soap education. If I hadn’t visited Pine Valley with my pal Mary Lynn when we were supposed to be babysitting her brother in the summer of 1972, how would we know about evil twin sisters?
About people really coming back from the dead? About disturbed brothers living inside secret tunnels of family mansions? About looking Erica Kane-a-licious while repeatedly on trial for murder?
AMC’s been with me through thick and thin. I scheduled college classes around Pine Valley, and it helped me through childbirth, when after a gazillion hours of pain, I abandoned Lamaze, took the meds and focused on that week’s AMC plot.
“If I can get this baby out before lunch, I can find out if Erica goes to jail or goes free,’’ I huffed and puffed.
My husband, an excellent labor coach, kept one eye on the TV in our room and fed me updates.
The teamwork continued when he worked nights and I worked days. This was pre-VCR and soap opera digest. At home during the afternoons, he was expected to do two things: Nurture the kids and watch AMC when they napped.
“The baby’s sniffling and we need milk,’’ he would say as we passed in the driveway, him going to work and me coming home. “Oh, and Erica’s fifth marriage is kaput but Jenny may be back from the dead.’’
Eventually, our teenage daughter gasped through AMC while at my side. This was much better than the alternative for us at that stage – not talking to each other at all.
These days, I seem to be at the gym weekdays at 1 p.m. to catch AMC while I work off a mid-life crisis on the treadmill.
See, AMC bigwigs? Going cold turkey is unthinkable.
As you get ready to yank that soap, I pray you’re breaking ground for the Pine Valley Rehab Clinic. And there had better be a bed with my name on it.
(How about it folks? Is AMC the best soap ever? Is there one better? Add your two cents and your favorite soap memories).
“Shock and awe” on a hanger
Posted on: April 25, 2011
- In: aging | baby boomers | beauty | Humor | Husbands | Uncategorized | women
- 4 Comments
Shock and awe
Our wool hats and scarves are barely tucked away and KAPOW!
Every clothing store on earth has put out racks of little, bitty, colorful bathing suits that assault us when we walk in the door.
It’s the fashion version of “shock and awe’’ and I ask:
Must they remind us that soon, all women no matter how tall, short, narrow or wide begin a period of ritual self-loathing also known as Swimsuit Season?
If a woman’s hefty, she thinks every suit makes her look heftier. If she’s scrawny, she thinks they make her look scrawnier.
And men do not get it why bathing suits make us suffer so. They just don’t.
Oh sure, they complain about a little flab here and there. They may look in the mirror when they are 62 and come to this startling realization: OMG! I am not a young man anymore!
But for the most part, they float along, not caring how they look in a bathing suit except for when at 20-year-old chick walks by at the beach.
This concern passes quickly and soon they are back to bathing suit la-la land, which explains why you see guys in little Speedos when their little Speedo days are obviously over.
A man would wear the same swimsuit from age 20 to 70 if his wife did not stop him.
“You’re not getting on that ship for our anniversary cruise in the bathing suit you wore on our honeymoon!’’ the woman says.
“But those trunks are only 35 years old!’’ he replies.
“I have crow’s feet older than that. Get a new one,’’ she orders and he goes to the store and buys the first one he sees.
For the woman, it’s not the same.
She would not be caught dead in an old suit because she thinks that like every other one she’s owned, it looks bad on her.
So the woman goes to the store for a new one and tries on 483 swimsuits.
She repeats this ritual in 13 other stores, which if you are keeping track, is 6,279 swimsuits taken on and off.
Then she orders 146 more online and has to pay to send all of them back because none are right.
Now she has tried on 6,425 suits, spent $1,460 on return shipping, and adds “buy wig’’ to the To-Do List because she’s pulled out her hair in frustration.
After a good cry and a vow to undo damage from a late-winter delivery of Girl Scout cookies, she starts again.
Eventually, she finds a suit she likes. Loosely translated in women-speak this means she hates it less than the others.
On the cruise, he thinks he looks great – guy gut and all. She hardly dares to breath and let out her stomach.
Turns out the “tummy control’’ tag that came with her suit, and every suit these days, is propaganda worthy of the old Communist Party.
Which takes us back to those racks of bathing suits in all the stores.
Ladies, we could let them get the best of us again this year. Or, we could buy them up and have a spectacular polyester bonfire.
Matches, anyone?
NOT!
It could be a perfectly lovely day when you read this, but as I write it on the official First Day of Spring, all I know is that I am looking outside my window and it is snowing.
Flakes are piling up on the porch planter where the yellow and purple pansies are supposed to go, my mood is awful and I am reminded why I hate March so very much.
The garden store lady tried to warn me. “A little early for those,’’ she said yesterday as I lugged the flat of flowers onto the checkout counter.
“Oh, they will be fine! Look! The sun is out!’’ I said in my desperate last-days-of-winter giddiness.
But they are not fine. The pansies are draining in the kitchen sink and it will be days before they can be planted outside.
Is this a joke? I don’t know about you, but I am sick of my heavy boots, sick of my scratchy heels, sick of making stuff in the crock pot, sick of all of it.
I want flip-flops, lemonade, sunburn, and evenings when it is too hot and humid to eat anything but ice cream.
And I want them now. Yes, this is selfish. All you have to do is turn on the news to find out how selfish it is to complain about the weather.
Still.
I think that if you live in a place where it is not only normal but also fairly predictable that Spring could burst on the scene with snow that you earn a small amount of grousing time.
This is mine.
March is the worst month of the year. I will make an exception for one single day – the 7th – my new granddaughter’s birthday. But that is as far as I budge. Otherwise, it stinks.
It is like the class clown of calendar. It’s fun to be around, but has trouble written all over it.
Why can’t March be more like December? It is the multi-tasking, teacher’s pet of all the months. December has a lot on its plate. Think of how much goes on in December year after year after year, and without a fuss.
All we ask of March is to bring us Spring but here I am looking out at the frozen landscape. This month is like that friend you had in college – always there for a party, but never around when you need a ride and people make excuses for it when it messes up.
My friend Carol is one of those people. I can hear what she used to say to me every spring when she lived up north and I began complaining about this month.
“Quit whining! Spring is just around the corner!’’ she’d say. Now she lives down south so I avoid contacting her in March because she might mention that the azaleas are already in bud there.
This while my poor sprouting daffodils just got dumped on with a snowstorm and there’s a sea of mud where my lawn should be.
No, better not to contact Carol for a few weeks.
Better to just sit here and let my hatred of March wash over me like the melting snow I can hear dripping down the gutter outside my window.
Introducing: Mrs. Magoo
Posted on: March 14, 2011
- In: aging | baby boomers | Families | grandparents | Humor | Mid-Life Crisis | Middle Age | Uncategorized | women
- 4 Comments
If only they worked like they used to.
Before last Friday, I’d only ever searched one parking lot on my hands and knees.
It was way back in college when I’d lost the most important thing in my life at that time – my ticket for Ladies’ Night at the campus pub.
But that seek-and-find mission was a cinch compared to last week. Plus, it ended with a free beer.
The only thing I had to show for my recent efforts were gravel tattoos on my knees and a giant headache because I never found the thing that got lost.
And it was the one thing I cannot live without these days.
I am not talking about my eternally patient husband. I am not talking about the secret stash of hormone survival chocolate in the back of the kitchen cabinet (which had better be there when I get home).
I am talking here about something far more critical to my survival at age 53.
I am talking about my reading glasses.
If you’re old enough to remember when thongs were footwear, you are gasping as you read this and saying: “OMG! She lost her reading glasses! What will she do?’’
If you are 40 or younger, you’ll have no clue why I might have been so desperate to find them.
You won’t understand why I ran into the restaurant I’d just left, grabbed the 20-year-old hostess by the collar and begged for help.
You’ll be aghast to know that I made my daughter, who was about six minutes from giving birth, help me search, and that we had her 2-year-old join in.
“Let’s dance with Elmo!’’ she squealed and ran in a circle.
“Get back to work, kiddo!’’ I replied, figuring that since she is the shortest among us she had the best chance of finding anything down on the ground.
What can I say? I was desperate.
Over the age of 50, you can lose just about any other possession and not go into a complete panic. But lose those reading glasses and your world turns upside down. Instantly, you are Mr. (or Mrs.) Magoo.
You can’t read the stockpile of anti-aging vitamin bottles on the kitchen counter (including the ones that were supposed to improve give you better vision) and you can’t figure out if you’re cooking a roast at 350 degrees for 35 minutes or at 35 degrees for 350 minutes.
Without those glasses, I couldn’t read the text messages and I couldn’t see the little tiny pictures and videos that being sent to my phone.
I got a text about somebody’s else’s new grandbaby, though I have no clue whose it was.
There was also a picture of a beautiful river somewhere, unless it was a picture of a flooded basement.
I think I got a video of my 2-year-old granddaughter driving a toy car. Either that, or it was my friend, who is also short and brunette, in a new sports coupe.
I won’t know until the new glasses come in. Bribing the eye doctor people might have sped up this process.
But it turns out that they are very moral people.
Darn them.
So for the near future, it’s back to tweezing gravel off my leg, remembering a time when a lost pub pass was my biggest problem and seeing the world through a fuzzy and frustrating lens.
The way we were (and still are!)
Posted on: March 3, 2011
- In: baby boomers | Boomers | Humor | Mid-Life Crisis | Uncategorized | women
- 12 Comments
As beefcake photos go, it was not the most revealing.
The subject was covered from the neck down in pants, a winter coat and a scarf.
He also sported minor jowls, a head of hair that is surely dyed and lines around his eyes that crinkled like tissue paper.
Still.
He looked so good that I did not mind if my neighbors saw me standing at the mailbox gawking at Robert Redford, an AARP Magazine cover boy.
Normally, I would stuff the magazine under my jacket, run into the house and say loudly, “Look! They put this stupid thing in our box again by accident!’’
Then my husband would say, “Guess that AARP card in your wallet is there by accident, too.’’
But not this time. There was no discussion at all. Not with those blue eyes staring back at me from the front page.
Who cared if anybody saw me at the box as the music swelled inside my head and Barbra Streisand began the lyrics to “The Way We Were.’’
Me and Bob were in a time warp, and there was no escape.
It was the 1970s and I was one of three teenage girls huddled in a tiny bedroom, plotting a huge undertaking:
Convincing our mothers that we were old enough to see the new Redford-Streisand movie.
That was Plan A.
Our Plan B was the usual – fib to our mothers, sneak in and see the movie anyway.
It was rated “M’’ for mature audiences, which meant you didn’t have to show any proof of age but you had to be ‘’mature,’’ which was up to your parents.
Up to then, we were seeing movies that featured cartoon characters, talking or flying cars and singing nuns.
Now we were asking to see a movie that might have a scene where a man and woman were in a room with a bed.
Our mothers surely did not think we were “mature’’ enough to handle that and they were already mad about one thing or another.
So they did the worst thing that mothers can do. They conferred with each other.
There’s only one thing worse than a suspicious mother: A suspicious mother who calls in reinforcements.
We don’t know what they said to each other, but our imaginations ran wild.
One mother might say she’d heard there were love scenes involving Robert Redford. The second mother would confirm this. The third mother could suggest that the girls were forbidden but the three of them should go and not tell.
We were in a panic. What if that really happened? Now we were afraid of Plan B (fibbing and sneaking) because we may run into our mothers.
Talk about a pickle.
As expected, we were told we could not go. We enacted Plan B anyway. We figured Redford was worth the risk. And he was. That smile practically melted the theater screen.
Whether our mothers snuck around on us, too, we never found out. But I sure hope so now that I know what it’s like to raise teenagers.
Today, everyone in this story is on the AARP mailing list – mothers and daughters alike – and history is repeating itself.
We’re all in a trance, this time at our mailboxes, thanks to Robert Redford.
- In: Boomers | exercise | Families | grandparents | Humor | Kids | Middle Age | Uncategorized | women
- 7 Comments
They all look so innocent
Let me apologize ahead of time.
This column could end quite suddenly because complete and total exhaustion is taking over my body.
Running a marathon or climbing a mountain did not cause this. Those things are a snap compared to the real cause of my fatigue: A visit with a human phenomenon that packs more energy into her body than a nuclear reactor.
In others words, a toddler.
They are deceivingly adorable little people who babble excitedly and blow kisses even from far away thanks to the wonders of Skype.
But “Skyping’’ does not hurt your lower back. Reality does. And we have a heating pad on its last legs to prove it.
Our path to pain began with good intentions.
“Hi Grandma!’’ and “Hi Papa!’’ our 2-year-old granddaughter exclaimed to us not long ago from the computer screen.
Her cuteness factor was off the charts and before we knew it, the car was packed and we were off to collect some real kisses instead of settling for virtual ones.
Me: “I can’t wait to hug her!”
Him: “Me first!”
Me: “She loves me best!”
Him: “We’ll see about that!”
With all our gushing, we forgot the most important thing – a stint at Grandparent Boot Camp where the motto is, “The Few. The Proud. The Upright.”
At Grandparent Boot Camp, you do squat thrusts from dawn until dusk.
“You wimps think THIS is hard! Wait ‘til you’re squished in some kiddy chair for a tea party!’’ a drill sergeant screams.
At Grandparent Boot Camp, you are familiarized with the operation of a car seat fit for an astronaut.
“Wrong, you idiot!’’ the drill sergeant screams as you fumble with buckles. “Fifty more squats for you!’’
At Grandparent Boot Camp, you take a crash course in complex toys like Potty Time Elmo, whose miniature potty makes realistic sound effects.
At Grandparent Boot Camp, you are immersed in rescue and retrieval so you are ready when a toddler sprints away from you at the mall and does a long jump over another stroller.
“Run you wimps! Run!’’ the drill sergeant screams as you stumble and fall.
Unfortunately, we experienced this very mall escape scenario and it goes without saying that we were not prepared.
“Get her!’’ I yelled at my husband.
“I can’t keep up!’’ he huffed. “Besides, she loves you best, remember?’’
We caught her in the Disney store and then we had to load a cranky, nap-free toddler into a car seat and fill the trunk with a stroller, diaper bag, giant Dora doll, crates of snacks, the stuffed animals of the week, a Minnie Mouse purchased at the mall, plus everything else needed for a 30-minute outing with a 2-year-old.
All without benefit of Grandparent Boot Camp.
Our conversation on the way home was quite different than on the way there.
Him: We’re too tired to drive.
Me: I’ll press the pedal. You steer.
Him: How did we survive our own kids?
Me: We were 25.
Him: Ahh, 25. I miss 25.
Me: This is crazy but when can we go back?
Him: After traction.
Me: And Grandparent Boot Camp?
Him: Definitely Grandparent Boot Camp.
A man, a chair, a legend
Posted on: February 8, 2011
- In: Boomers | exercise | Uncategorized | women
- 1 Comment
LaLanne success story
His only props were tight pants, great abs, a German shepherd named “Happy” and a chair.
Always a chair.
Combined with his personality, they gave him the staying power to be the star of the longest running fitness show in TV history.
Boomers, you know who I mean. He was a fixture on the black and white TVs of our childhoods.
Sometimes our mothers did squat thrusts and push-ups along with him. Sometimes they contorted their mouths as part of his anti-aging face workout.
Sometimes, they just stared.
Cigarettes and coffee cups in hand, they put down the laundry basket or the mop and the vacuum and sat on the couch, watching him bend and stretch.
Their staring seemed odd to us kids.
Why did our mothers stop everything? Why did they pause in their rants about the Idiot Box? Why did the act like zombies at a certain time of day?
It made no sense.
Later, we understood. Jack LaLanne was that kind of guy.
Wavy-haired, muscular and clean cut, he did jumping jacks to corny music and urged America’s housewives to cure themselves of “pooped-out-itis.’’
He was the boy-next-door and a fantasy gym teacher all rolled into one.
“You can do it!’’ he’d cheer. “Get up on your feet!’’
And if you were watching, you thought that you could.
Even if you were watching with a ring of smoke around your head and a cup of caffeine on your lap while your kids ate heaping bowl of Frosted Flakes with Ring Ding chasers.
For decades, Jack was called the “godfather’’ of fitness though by the time he died last month at age 96 you’d have to say he was more like the great-great grandfather of the fitness movement because of how many followed his TV footsteps.
Do you think Leotard Queen Jane Fonda’s or Gush Master Richard Simmons would have made it without Jack? Bob Greene? Denise Austin? Chuck Norris? Dr. Oz?
They owe him big time. And don’t think for a second that the “The Biggest Loser’’ doesn’t owe Jack for planting the TV seed for all the shows to come about fitness and second chances.
Jack did it without gimmicks or any shtick.
He had no sexy dancers mimicking his moves, no movie star status to cash in, no tropical beach as his backdrop and no machines doing the work.
He had only an anatomy chart he’d point to on TV, a common sense workout and an amazing personal childhood story.
Did you know that our energetic, smiling Jack once tried to attack his brother with a knife and set his house on fire?
That after he’d been thrown out of school his desperate mother took him to a lecture on the benefits of healthy eating?
That lecture changed everything. He went from sugarcoated teen to exercise impresario, advising vigorous workouts and body building regimens.
Some called him a crackpot but Jack had the last laugh on national television. Maybe he’s the reason so many Boomers have an age-defying attitude? We had a good teacher.
So rest in peace, Jack LaLanne. We’ll remember your style. We’ll remember your advice. We’ll remember your pants.
And we’ll remember your chair, too.
For the love of leftovers
Posted on: January 21, 2011
- In: Boomers | Families | Humor | Husbands | Uncategorized | women
- 3 Comments
This 'vintage' roast is delicious!
Marriage vows are heavy on the “L’’ word, which is all fine and dandy.
“I love you. You love me. ‘Til death do us part. Yada, yada, yada.”
But does anyone mention the other “L’’ word? The one that has been known to wreak havoc on marriages since the beginning of time?
I refer to “leftovers’’ – last night’s meatloaf, Monday’s pot roast, Saturday’s spaghetti.
Toss or save? Reheat or chuck?
How a bride and grooms works out those dilemmas tells more about their compatibility and odds of surviving marriage than any Love Quiz that Cosmo Magazine can invent.
Yet, nobody warns them that the honeymoon period for every couple ends the night they find themselves going head to head in front of the fridge over 9-day-old lasagna.
One thinks that lasagna is ”vintage.” The other thinks it is fungus.
One argues: ‘“We’ve got to stretch the food budget.’’ The other replies: “Yes, but food is not Spandex.’’
It is a story as old as time.
It’s well documented that a cave woman invented fire solely so she could warm up last night’s din-din.
But her caveman had other ideas.
“Old meat bad!’ he roared when the remains of a wooly mammoth roast became a minced mammoth casserole.
“Old meat good!’’ she roared back. “And if you don’t like it, invent a PBJ. Knock yourself out!’’
Sadly, things have not changed much and “tossers” always seem to end up marrying “savers.”
Leftovers are always a sore subject in our house, and I wish pre-marital counseling had broached this touchy topic.
We could have done “rock-paper-scissors’’ on other things – like whether we wanted to bring other humans into the world or who would control the checkbook.
In those areas, things have turned out fine.
But we’ve never been able to find a middle ground on the nights when I wanted to toss every leftover in the fridge into one big bowl, add grated cheese and dig in.
I will admit that early in our marriage, I gave my leftover creation an unfortunate name.
“It’s ‘Garbage Salad,’ ‘’ I chirped, thinking I was so clever. “Yum!’’
“I cannot eat anything with the word ‘garbage’ in it,’’ he pronounced and knew he had married a woman who enjoyed the very thing that made him gag: Unidentifiable aging food in little plastic containers.
You should see us on “Clean Out The Fridge Day.’’
“Save,’’ I say to everything. “Toss,’’ he says at the same time.
It’s a real hoot.
We’ve tried to adjust. I’ve gotten better at hiding leftovers in creative dishes, casseroles and soups. And he’s gotten better at throwing leftovers away when I am out of the house.
So let this be a warning to all the young couples out there.
Go on and talk about future kids. Talk about money.
Talk where you’ll go on Thanksgiving and whether her mother can clean the bathroom every time she visits.
But for the sake of your love, don’t forget to work this out, too:
Just how many encores are acceptable for the Sunday chicken dinner.
Kathleen Norton 