Family Traditions

This week my little family – husband, three-year-old son, and self – flew three thousand miles, from Southern California to Northern Kentucky, to spend a little quality time with the in-laws.   It’s been a couple years since we’ve visited, due, in part, to the aforementioned three-year-old and our concern that the average Delta flight couldn’t stock enough liquor and earplugs to make the journey bearable for the rest of the passengers.   But we mustered up our nerve, and our mood-stabilizers, and made the trip. 
I’m incredibly glad we did, not so much because the flight was a breeze – it most definitely was not – but because setting foot inside my in-laws’ house is an adventure, in the best possible way.  They’ve got family traditions I just can’t replicate in my own home.   And I don’t mean Bourbon and Euchre.  I could replicate those, though I flat-out suck at Euchre.  Given enough Bourbon, I don’t notice my epically tragic skills as much, but the traditions I speak of are slightly harder to emulate.

Tradition number one:  Home with a capital “H.”  My in-laws live in the same circa 1970’s rancher in which they raised my husband and all five of his siblings.  They bought the three bedrooms, one-and-a-half bath slice of the American dream new when it was part of a small, affordable suburb reasonably close to work, school, etc., and they eventually built-out the basement to accommodate their expanding family.  Over the years they’ve re-painted, re-carpeted, modernized the kitchen and bathrooms, but the fundamental character of the place remains unchanged.  It’s a home … comfortable, functional, and welcoming.   Nowadays Grandma and Grandpa have six adult children, a handful of sons and daughter-in-laws, and seventeen grandchildren ranging in age from twelve weeks to college freshman.  All of them, except us, live in the general vicinity.  There’s a relative or two, or twenty, running through the house at any given moment, which yields a kind of cozy chaos we don’t see in our three-person household.

This brings us to tradition number two:  Food.  If you’re going to have upwards of thirty people passing through, you’ve got to have plenty of food, and it’s got to be handy.  Because of this, my mother-in-law’s kitchen table serves as a shrine to the snack aisle at Kroger’s.  The opulence of colors, textures and shapes covering the surface are enough to make a Dutch painter weep – shiny Mylar chip bags, transparent-topped pastry boxes … an indescribable piece of decadence called a “chocolate ho-ho.” 

For the past few days our son has happily stuffed his little face with every crunchy, salty, sugary treat within reach.  Don’t get me wrong, he consumes plenty of junk at home.  But we can’t compete with the sheer variety offered on the all-you-can-eat buffet of crap he’s discovered here. 

After chomping into his very first Frito, he turned to me, face full of awe, and asked, “Mommy, what is this?” 

“It’s a corn chip.”

“How do you make it?”

“Um … you buy them at the store.” 

His eyes went wide.  The look he shot me said clearer than any words he could possibly string together:  Are you freaking kidding me?  This culinary excellence has been within reach my entire life?  Our trust is dead, lady.

How could I respond?  I shoved another handful of Fritos in my mouth and looked away.

The little guy also now knows the day doesn’t actually end at seven thirty p.m. -- and I have learned there is absolutely no point in trying to put your kid to bed at his normal bedtime when there are seven hundred other kids under the age of fifteen running around downstairs having the time of their lives.   Trust me on this.  Do not bother.

Yesterday introduced yet another tradition – the monthly birthday celebration.  In a family this size, celebrating each birthday as a stand-alone occasion becomes a logistical nightmare.  Instead they gather at the grandparents’ house on the designated Sunday, play in the backyard, talk, laugh, eat, sing “Happy Birthday,” and take a bunch of pictures.  No bouncy houses, no hired entertainers, and (gasp), no gift bags for the attendees.  The birthday folks leave with their presents and the rest of us walk away with the joy of the shared celebration.

And you know what?  I love it.  The whole thing is wonderful to the point I almost cry.  Many of the siblings own beautiful houses, just as centrally located, but, to me, at least, changing the venue would mess with the magic.  I think part of wonderfulness the lies in the perfect simplicity of gathering at a place full of memories and meaning for all of them … of coming home.

Have your own home-spun traditions?  I’m sitting here, munching on Fritos, waiting to hear all about them. 

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Last night, (or early this morning, if you want to get technical), I finished reading Cari Quinn’s “No Flowers Required,” the August Brazen release from Entangled Publishing.  I devoured the story with the same sort of gusto and intensity I usually reserve for the five-nut brownie at Houston’s. 

Appropriate, as it turns out, ‘cause just like the brownie, “No Flowers Required” was hot, sweet and oh-so-satisfying.  Judging by its rank on USA Today’s bestseller list, I’m not the only reader to think so.  But setting aside the sexy hero, the clever dialogue, and the super-steamy love scenes, it was the dedication page that caught my eye.  The opening line read, “To my biggest fan, my mom, even though I don’t let her read my books.” 

I am so, pathetically, on board with that rule when it comes to my writing.  Not as applied to Cari Quinn’s mom – she can read my books if she wants – but to my own mom.  Just like CQ, my mom is, hands down, my biggest fan.  Considering I’m not published yet, Mom is pretty much my only fan.  And she’s insanely supportive of my writing career.  She bragged to her bridge buddies whenever I finished a manuscript.  She showered me with encouragement every time a rejection letter darkened my mailbox.  When Entangled Publishing requested a full manuscript in response to an open submissions call I’d responded to, she babysat my little guy for hours on end so I could submit something, (this century), that actually matched the synopsis I’d pitched.  She’s proofed blurbs, corrected query letters and edited opening chapters.  But despite several requests, I’ve yet to let her read an entire manuscript.

Why?  Umm … because of the sex.   I write what I like to read, which means I try to imbue my intimate scenes with the same fun, action-packed … ah … inventiveness I strive for in the work as a whole.  Whether I fall short or far exceed that goal, I really don’t want my mom reading it.  Mom scoffs at my prudishness, and insists she’s not only read plenty of racy stuff, she’s even had sex a time or two.  At this juncture in the discussion, I usually shove my fingers in my ears and chant, “La, la, la, la, la,” at the top of my lungs.     

Perhaps not the most mature reaction but, quite honestly, it’s not about maturity, or what my mom has already read or done.  It’s about  what I know, or, more specifically, what she might realize I know after reading one of my stories, which is stupid, because I’m not writing an autobiography, for God’s sake, and, even if I was, I’m a grown-ass woman.     Sadly, I can hit this hang-up with all the logic I want, but it won’t go away.  There’s only one thing more painful than imagining my mom reading my stories, and that’s envisioning my father reading them.  Thank God he’s dead.  Wait … that came out wrong.  What I mean is … well … you know what I mean.

A day of reckoning looms on the horizon.  If the contract I signed with Entangled unfolds as planned, their Brazen line will release my debut novel in digital format later this year, and then the whole thing spirals out of my control.  Mom’s got a Kindle and she knows how to use it.  At that point, I’m going to introduce a new rule.  I call it, “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”  Admittedly, this policy sucked for Uncle Sam, but I think it might work perfectly for Mom and me.

Got a better policy?  Enlighten me!

My Evenings with Double-O-Seven

I live by the beach in Malibu.  I love it, but I’m telling you right now our place looks nothing like what you’re envisioning.  Same as most in our neighborhood, our house is very humble.  I often refer to it as a cottage, but the technically correct architectural term is “tear-down” (tair-doun).   A little ways up the street, however, sits a whole ‘nother world -- a world where all the original cottages have been lovingly restored … into 20,000 square foot beachside getaways.    Many represent picture-perfect examples of the architectural style known as “holy crap, that place is huge!”

Most evenings I pour myself a glass of wine, slip a plastic bag in my pocket, and head out to let Bebe, our trash talkin’ Chihuahua, do her duty.  My husband once suggested the neighbors probably didn’t appreciate my whole drinking in public ritual, but I told him having a toot while walking the dog seemed like a cool-chick, Chelsea Handler-type thing to do.  Hubs said it seemed like a Mrs. Roper-type thing to do.  So be it.  Three’s Company – me, Bebe and Robert Mondavi.  Anyhoo… as soon as we walk out the door, Bebe makes a beeline toward the fancy houses, as if she honestly believes she belongs to one of those families instead of with us.     

During one such sojourn, while I was distracted trying not to dribble my wine as I cleaned up after the dog, a smooth baritone laced with touches of Ireland wished me a lovely evening.  I looked up in time to see a ridiculously gorgeous, instantly recognizable actor stride by on his way up his driveway.  To respect the man’s privacy, I will refer to him here as Bierce Prosnan, but, trust me, you know him. (If you can’t crack my code, there’s a mega-hint in the title of this blog).      

Now let’s take a slightly deeper dive into exactly how this first, fateful meeting between me and People Magazine’s 2001 “Sexiest Man Alive” went down.   I’m wearing a t-shirt covered in dog hair, a hole-in-the-seat pair of cargo shorts my husband didn’t want anymore, and that most seductive of footwear, Uggs.  I’m bent over like an arthritic old man, picking up dog poop.   Lovely evening?  Probably not from any onlooker’s perspective, but Remington Steele was far too suave to mention it.  He, on the other hand, looked smashing.   If memory serves, I turned red, croaked hello and spilled my Mondavi all over the dog.  Boy was she pissed.

After that, Thomas Crown and I had several encounters.  Almost all of them involved me picking up dog crap, but each time I sensed a certain thrill -- on my part.   And each time, Mr. Fifty Most Beautiful People in The World offered me a heart-stopping smile and debonair greeting.  If anyone else stood in the vicinity, he offered them the same, so as never to hint at our special … ah … bond.   

Alas, earlier this year he and his clan moved to a snazzier stretch of the ‘Bu … way too far for Bebe to walk.  My evenings with James Bond have come to an end.  I’m kind of relieved.  I can stop brushing my hair before I walk the dog.   I did spot Danny DeVito once recently, but it wasn’t the same.

True confessions time.   Ever meet someone famously yowza up-close-and personal?   Did you stutter and blush or smile winningly, toss your hair, and say, “Hey, how’s it going?”  Post a comment.  Inquiring minds want to know.  

No Fear

Welcome to my blog.  For my inaugural post, I'm covering a topic I'm something of an expert on.  Fear.  I can't claim any expertise coping with, or overcoming fear, just ... you know ... feeling a whole lot of it all the time.

I know what you're thinking.  Sam, this is nothing .5 mg of Xanax three times a day can't cure.  But here's the thing ... I'm a big fan of high anxiety.  As a defense mechanism, fear can't be beat.  An immediate, internal danger warning system?  Sign me up.

Still, I can't ignore how something so freaking genius from a survival of the species standpoint plays out in strange ways on a day-to-day basis.   My son, who is 3, is terrified of automatic flush toilets, because they will "suck him down."  Like any good mom, I've demonstrated repeatedly -- to the point I have a permanent toilet seat imprint around my butt -- that this can not happen.  Doesn't matter.  The kid will hold it from It's A Small World all the way to Downtown Disney to get to a self-flusher.  This very same child wants nothing more than to open the car door while the car is in motion.  So, yes, I'm eternally grateful for the invention of the central lock feature, but where the hell is a little fear when I need it?

On the other hand, some fears are so instinctive, no amount of logic or education alleviates them.  Years ago, my husband and I took a vacation to an island on the Great Barrier Reef.  This was our first experience with an all inclusive resort, so we drank insane amounts of "free" booze and told our tired, wimpy livers to man up.  During rare windows of semi-sobriety, we snorkeled.  One such occasion, we blundered right into a school of sharks.  Despite many assurances from the dive staff that the only sharks around were harmless reef-sharks, despite these creatures looking exactly like the pictures of reef sharks we'd seen during our "safe snorkeling" class, we hit the shore with the urgency of troops storming the beach at Normandy.  I still have the bruise on my ass from where hubby shoved me out of the water, (or out of his way -- the secret to a 16 year marriage probably hinges on not seeking too fine a clarification on certain points).

I think the foregoing demonstrates fear's power.  When we feel it, we don't calmly sit back and question the legitimacy of the emotion.  But even a big fan of fear ought to do so every once in awhile, because sometimes the fear is just plain stupid.  Fear of technology.  Fear of looking like a dork. Fear of commitment ... to something as simple and pain-free as a weekly blog.

I may always have issues with automatic flush toilets and reef sharks, but here's my blog.  Enjoy. 

See you next week.