Two years ago at age three, Olivia declared herself allergic to fruits and vegetables. This has forced me to get very sneaky in the kitchen. I can usually trick her into eating all sorts of things as long as they’re hidden in a muffin. Grated yellow squash, zucchini, apples, carrots – you’d be amazed at what you can get away with. I’ve had loads of requests for the whole-wheat pumpkin bread I slipped past her last week. Both of the recipes below came from King Arthur Whole Grain Baking, a killer cookbook with easy recipes for everything from pizza dough to waffles. I usually tweak whatever recipe I’m working with, but I’ve copied these exactly as they appear in the book. Pumpkin Bread 2 cups (8 oz) whole-wheat flour or white whole-wheat flour 1 tsp baking soda ½ tsp baking powder ½ tsp salt ½ tsp ground cinnamon ½ tsp ground cloves ¼ tsp ground nutmeg ½ cup (1 stick, or 4 oz) unsalted butter 1 cup (7 1/2 oz) brown sugar ¼ cup (1 ¾ oz) granulated sugar 3 large eggs 1 tsp vanilla extract 1 cup (9 ½ oz) canned pumpkin ¾ cup (4 ½ oz) chopped nuts OR dried cranberries OR chocolate chips Preheat oven to 350. Grease 9x5 loaf pan. Whisk together flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, spices, in a medium bowl. Cream together the butter and sugars in a large mixing bowl until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs, one at a time, stopping to scrape the sides and bottom of bowl. Beat in the vanilla and pumpkin. Add the dry ingredients, mixing until evenly moistened. Stir in the nuts, berries, or chips. Pour the batter into a prepared pan. Bake until a cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean, 1 hour. Remove the bread from the oven and place it on the rack to cool for 15 minutes. After 15 minutes, run a table knife around the edges if the pan to make sure the bread isn’t sticking, turn out of the pan, and place it on the rack to finish cooling completely before slicing.
Golden Cinnamon-Pumpkin Bars These have a texture very similar to brownies... ¾ cup (1 ½ sticks, 6 oz) unsalted butter 1 1/3 cups (10 oz) packed light or dark brown sugar 1 tsp vanilla extract ¾ tsp baking powder ½ tsp salt 2 tsp ground cinnamon ¾ ground ginger ¼ ground cloves ¼ tsp ground allspice 1 large egg 1 cup (9 ½ oz) canned pumpkin 1 ½ cups (6oz) whole-wheat flour 1 cup (6oz) cinnamon chips 1 cup (5 ¼ oz) loosely packed golden raisins or dried cranberries Preheat oven to 350. Lightly grease a 9x13 pan. Melt the butter in a medium microwave-safe bowl or in a saucepan over low heat, then add the sugar and stir to combine. Return the mixture to the microwave (or heat) briefly, until it’s hot and starting to bubble. Transfer the mixture to a medium bowl and allow it to cool until you can comfortably test it with your finger. Beat in the vanilla, baking powder, salt, and spices. Add the egg, beating until smooth and scraping the sides and bottom of the bowl. Stir in the pumpkin, flour, chips and dried fruit, mixing thoroughly. Spoon the batter into the prepared pan.
Bake the bars until a sharp knife inserted in the center reveals moist crumbs, 40-45 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool on a rack.
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: A Party Manifesto DATE: 10/09/2006 01:35:00 PM ----- BODY:My daughters love parties. An invitation to a birthday party thrills them like you wouldn't believe. As it should -- the parties these kids get invited to would thrill you. They go to places like Pump It Up: a warehouse filled with giant inflatable slides, obstacle courses and the like. There they get to bounce and shriek for an hour or so before being herded into another room for pizza, cake, and goody bags. What's not to like, right? Or they find themselves whisked off to Club Libby Lu for a bit of pint-sized pampering and dress-up. There are pool parties, tea parties, gym parties, art parties, pottery-painting parties, princess parties, and probably about a dozen more themes that some mother, somewhere, is cooking up right now. All of these parties are a blast for the kids, no question about it. But can we put down our double iced skim lattes for just a minute and back slowly away from the balloons? Because I want to say something that is probably heresy and maybe even spells social suicide for my children. (If you are the parent of one of Olivia or Caramia's little friends, please don't hold this against them. It's not their fault that I'm their mother. They didn't ask to be born, remember?) Here goes: there are too many parties and way too many presents. This madness must be stopped. I've got nothing against parties -- what kind of person is anti-party? But wouldn't it be awesome if, while the kids are bouncing and screaming and getting their faces painted and making paper princess crowns, the non-hosting parents could sort of sneak off to the grocery store or someplace equally necessary and get on with the business of life? Weekends are no longer about tequila and tattoos for most of us. Weekends are about restocking the food supply and doing the laundry. And the yard work, and the cleaning, and all of that boring, tedious stuff that somebody's got to do. That somebody is you, remember? Two hours on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon doesn't sound like much, but for most of us, it really is. Parents are now required, by some unspoken rule, to hover on the sidelines at children's parties, as though Junior might not manage to get a fair swing at the piñata without our eagle-eyed hyper vigilance. Can we not all get together and agree that, by age six, kids ought to be dropped off at the party and picked up at its conclusion? Hanging out and watching could then be optional -- offer to help the hosts, maybe. I'll happily volunteer to be the first party host who lets the other parents off the hook. Drop your child off, and I swear I'll give him or her back to you, alive, two hours later. I won't serve peanuts or nut products of any kind. I'll pass out hand sanitizer, pour only 100% fruit juice beverages, and periodically yell, "Who needs to go to the bathroom?" You go have a life, or at least run to the drugstore and Wal-Mart. I promise I can handle it. I've got nothing against presents -- what kind of person is anti-present? It's just that no child needs to receive fifteen or twenty or twenty-five new toys for his or her birthday. Three, four, and five year-olds can't process a pile of loot that big. It's overwhelming. And what about you, the parent, having to open the front door to your probably already-bursting house, to cram in another fresh load of Mattel, Hasbro, and Fisher-Price? And may God help you if you have daughters who are in the cult of Polly Pocket. I can't tell you how many microscopic PP shoes our dog has ingested, passed, and probably ingested again. About once every two months, my husband, the poor, beaten man, crawls around the house on his hands and knees in a sad effort to reunite Polly with all of her pieces. Bet you'd do the same thing. Because you love your kids; you'd give them the whole world. But please be honest: do you really want them to have so much stuff? I know parents who, in a noble effort to not spoil their kids, promptly donate the bulk of the received presents to charity. That's a worthy, incredibly good idea. It feels right, but also a little wrong, too. Those gifts cost the giver money, money that might have stretched their family budget. Knowing that, you don't want to just give their present away, even for charity. Meanwhile, between birthdays and Christmas, our children are turning into a pack of jaded maxi-consumers. When we give them everything and then some, what's left to wish for? Griping just to gripe is pointless, so I've actually come up with a plan. What if parents could get together, figure out when all the birthdays are, and agree on a handful of dates. Maybe one date per month. Throw a giant party, complete with a special theme cake for each child whose birthday falls into that zone. Sing "Happy Birthday" to each of them. Kids love singing that song -- if once is good, wouldn't four or five times be fabulous? Some parties might feature three celebrants, some five. It wouldn't matter -- for young children, a party is a party is a party. As long as there is plenty of sugar and a few gifts, everyone goes away happy, right? Then maybe do a Pollyanna sort of gift exchange, with guests drawing names, so that every birthday star gets some gifts, but not the avalanche that comes when every child in a class of say, twenty, brings a package. Parents would then have fewer gifts to buy, thus saving cash for more important things, like electricity. Sample invitation: Madison, Preston, Bethany, Nicholas and Bailey are turning six! Come celebrate at Kooky Kenny's Klown Park! If you'd like, bring a present for __________________ The parent organizer(s) would then fill in a recipient's name, thus dividing the gift booty equally between all of the birthday kids. Okay, so you hate the idea. It sounds like Communism, right? Your little angel deserves to be the one shining star of the party and by golly, should get all the gifts he or she can carry. It's what's expected. You know what? You're right. It is what's expected. I just hope that one day soon, like about ten years from now when we're all being extorted by this rampaging herd of adolescent spendaholics, we don't look back and say, shame on us for creating that expectation. There you have it: time, money, and sanity saved. I know it's a pipe dream, but even all that fruitless searching for Polly's rubber hairpieces hasn't destroyed my spirit -- yet. I can still dare to hope for a world not choked with primary-colored plastic. I'd say more, but I've got to get Olivia dressed for a party -- our second this weekend. Since I haven't had a spare minute to shop for real food, it's a good thing they plan to let her eat cake.
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Why We're No Longer On Your Station DATE: 9/27/2006 01:34:00 PM ----- BODY: It's never a good day around here when Tony has to break the news that we've lost an affiliate. Bob & Sheri is a small operation. The core group consists of us, Max and Todd, Tony, who sells and runs our network, Angela, who handles some or all of pretty much everything, and Jonathan, our webmaster/internet/podcasting/all-things-technical guy. And while we have great co-workers without whom we couldn't turn on the mics, the immediate dysfunctional family is the seven named above. We even share an office. Good news makes all of us happy, and bad news brings all of us down. Losing an affiliate is the worst news of all. Why does it happen? Why aren't we on the air in your town anymore? There are lots of reasons, actually. Some make sense, and some are completely, bewilderingly insane. For example, we've lost stations when they've been sold or brought under new management. You know how that goes. New bosses have a way of wanting to bring in their own people. And, to be candid, some of these guys have just really disliked our show. We've had situations where the first thing the new management did was fire us -- regardless of ratings. We just got bounced from a station in Pennsylvania where we were number one. New guy hates our show, so out we go. Other than bang your head repeatedly against the wall, what can you do? Formats change. We lost a station in Salt Lake when it went religious. No hard feelings there. We've lost stations to big band music, to country, to alt rock, to just about every imaginable format out there except for maybe techno-polka. These are tough and scary times for radio, and there's a lot of floundering around going on out there as broadcasters try to find the magic solution to the problem of dwindling audience. There's a cool little gadget called the I-Pod that people seem to like a lot, and if you're plugged into your I-pod, chances are, you're not listening to the radio. And now you don't even have to buy an I-pod, because you can get all the music you want pumped straight into your head via your mobile phone. I just saw data from Edison Media Research demonstrating that radio listening has declined radically among 12-24 year-olds, and is continuing to decline. This is bad news for our business. Unless we plan to start shipping people in from another planet, radio is going to have to find a way to attract listeners here on earth. In the meantime, let's dump Bob & Sheri and try the _____ format. To be fair, sometimes that works -- and sometimes it doesn't. Then there's the problem of our show itself. It's just a couple of people sitting around and talking, right? Any idiot can do that. We've been fired and replaced by Any Idiot at least half a dozen times. The only consolation we have is watching from afar as Any Idiot discovers that by golly, there's all sorts of work involved in putting on a four-hour daily show. In time, Any Idiot goes down in flames and winds up doing the all-night shift in Possum Whiskers, Arkansas. But we're still fired, so there's no point in celebrating. I still get e-mail from listeners in Cincinnati asking, when are you guys coming back? It's been eight years since we lost that station. Eight years. What can I say, other than thank you? Thank you for listening while you could, and thank you for caring enough to ask when, where, or if we're ever coming back. Bob and I have been very lucky -- no, very blessed -- to have this job. We really love what we do. Because we talk to so many of our listeners every day, we feel bonded to you. Losing a station feels like losing a part of our little family. I can't see Martinsburg, WVA out my studio window, but that doesn't mean I don't feel your absence now. Same goes for State College, PA, and Williamsport, PA, and Myrtle Beach. I miss you, Greensboro, and Salt Lake, and Long Island, and Bloomington, and Des Moines, and Durango, CO. We miss every station we've ever lost -- and we value every one we've kept. We're not the biggest show out there, nor the most successful. Every win is huge for us, and every loss is, too. It comes down, as it always has for us, to you. Thank you for listening. We've never taken that for granted. Oh, and by the way, I'm not supposed to actually say any of this. I'm supposed to play nice and say nothing. Maybe Any Idiot can pull that off. Turns out, I'm not so good at it. -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Remember What You Saw Here DATE: 9/18/2006 01:33:00 PM ----- BODY: When Grandma Jacque comes to town, there’s only one rule: Mark and I have to make ourselves scarce. Our daughters and their grandma belong to a very special club, one that doesn’t admit parents. Anyone who knows me knows that I revere grandmothers. I’m the last person who’d try to argue with one. So Mark and I obliged, heading off for our annual trip alone. Or, as Olivia put it, “A weekend away without the annoyment of us.” Bright kid – understands that mommies and daddies need a break sometimes and makes up her own words. We took an E-Saver flight to Washington, D.C., found a really cheap hotel, and settled in for three and a half days of museums, galleries, weird meals, and miles of city walking. Activities unacceptable to toddlers, in other words. If you’ve never been, D.C. is a special place. Regardless of your politics, when you stand in front of the White House, or the Capitol; when you stroll through the halls of the Supreme Court; or climb the marble steps at the Lincoln Memorial, you feel such a rush of emotion. It goes beyond simple patriotism. It’s almost like pride of ownership. Yeah, this is my country. My tax dollars pay for this. And this country may be flawed and imperfect and even infuriating, but it’s ours. Nothing makes me happier than to see protesters marching, or handing out leaflets, or simply standing mute in front of hand-painted banners on the nation’s front lawn. Because there are places in this world where such things are crimes. But not here. Not even on the very steps of our government. I love that. We spent almost an entire day the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. It’s a remarkable, life-affirming place. I know that must sound odd or impossible, but it’s true. The museum fills three floors, and the visitor begins at the top, which covers the rise to power of the Nazi party, in the years 1933 to 1939. The middle floor, years 1940 through 1945, represents Hitler’s “Final Solution”, and the final level is called, “The Last Chapter”. Upon entering the museum, each visitor takes an identity card, telling the story of an actual Holocaust victim. The card I chose told of a 50 year-old woman named Anna. She was a non-practicing Jew, the mother of grown children, and the wife of a merchant. She succeeded in fleeing Germany for Holland. But her freedom was short-lived. She was ultimately arrested in Amsterdam, sent to Theresiendstadt, and ultimately to Auschwitz, where she was gassed. There are artifacts and images in the museum that are difficult to take in. As numb to violence as most of us are, thanks to Hollywood, this is a kind of violence unlike anything at the movies. Some photographs and newsreel clips are so graphic, and horrifying that they are concealed behind barriers, allowing visitors to choose for themselves whether or not to look. It’s not the blood or the guns or even the bodies in piles that shock – though they do, and you’ll be haunted by what you’ve seen long after you leave. Maybe what makes these historical images so devastating is the tidy, efficient, business-like manner in which the killing was carried out. It’s how mundane, and rote, and everyday it all became. Like garbage pick-up or city sanitation. This wasn’t a crime of passion. This was institutionalized, factory-choreographed human slaughter. Committed not by some alien other, but by human beings. And the Nazis, pleased with their progress, rolled cameras and documented it. The shamelessness of the whole enterprise – can you imagine it? Look at the faces of some of the perpetrators. They don’t look disgusted or remorseful. They look grimly satisfied, the way anyone might after finishing up a particularly disagreeable chore. Their faces alone are terrifying. One of the last exhibits includes a film, shown in a theater built of stones carried over from Israel. In the film, a lovely older woman with dark hair describes the moment an American soldier liberated the factory where she and many other young Jewish women were being used as slave labor. The soldier himself, now much older, joins in with his version of events. The film cuts back and forth between them. He tells of walking into the factory, and seeing death on the faces of the starving women inside. She talks of how he opened the door for her and called her “Miss”, and how it seemed at that moment that humanity had returned. He tells of a dark-haired young girl who, improbably, quoted a line from Goethe to describe the hell all around him. She calls him an American, with the kind of wonder kids use to describe a superhero. And at the end she says, “And of course, now he is my husband.” I don’t know why exactly, but that moment is the one that has stayed with me. I can’t say that I left the Holocaust Museum feeling happy, but I did leave feeling hopeful. And that is the true wonder of the place. Admission is free – www.ushmm.org. I hope you’ll visit the next time you’re in D.C. -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Bugs Freak Me Out DATE: 8/29/2006 01:30:00 PM ----- BODY: The other morning when I opened the back door to let the dog out, a huge, fat cicada fluttered in and crashed to the floor. It skittered there, making noises, flapping its wings. I swallowed a scream because really, unless the Loch Ness Monster comes in, the last thing any sane person wants is to wake up a pair of sleeping toddlers. But I do not like bugs. Especially big, juicy sorts of bugs that look as if they'd really enjoy getting tangled in your hair. And how do you kill something that size? Knowing that it'll both crunch and squish beneath your shoe? I debated trying to catch it in a cup and take it back outside, but the very thought of it crawling on my arm with it's dry, pointy little feet nearly made me gag. Then it hit me: Champ! Champ could come to my rescue. "Champ!" I whispered. "Champ! Get the bug!" Champ (almost completely deaf from old age) continued to stare fixedly off into space. Only a foot or so away, the giant bug had yet to register on his doggy radar. Nudging him with my foot, I tried again. "Champ! Get it! Get the bug!" Champ cocked his head, gave Cicadazilla a disinterested glance, and walked away. The same dog that once would gladly have walked through fire to eat goose poop, who used to go ballistic at the sight of his own reflection, who'd chase a Frisbee until he collapsed, had no enthusiasm left for the hunt. "Get your own bug." He seemed to be saying. "And when you finish, grab me one of those damn organic treats that taste like old carrots. What's a dog gotta do to get a piece of ham around here, huh? Would it kill you to throw me a Snausage every once in a while?" It was a standoff. I could do the cowardly thing and just leave for work, risking the possibility that Olivia would wake up first, spot the bug, and turn it into a pet. Or worse, that Caramia would wake up first, spot the bug, stomp on it, and smear it all over the rug. That's their pattern, by the way. While the elder chatters, the younger swiftly and efficiently destroys everything in her path. It's a diabolical combination. In the time it takes Olivia to explain exactly why her Barbie is covered in half a box worth of Band-Aids -- and she will explain and you will listen because she won't stop talking until you do and if you think otherwise, then ha ha you're really kidding yourself my friend, because this child will be heard, period -- Caramia can squirt the entire contents of a Juicy Juice box into your shoe. That makes your shoe a boat, and the second you take the "boat" away, Caramia will scream like a bobcat hitting an electric fence. Nothing will console her, except maybe a lollipop. And what are the odds you've got one of those handy when you need it? So what to do about the bug? In the end, I turned off the light and left it for Mark to handle. There are times when it's so good to be a working mother and wife, times when you can't help but be thrilled to leave the house. When I got home later that day, I asked Mark about Cicadazilla. "You mean you let that in?" he asked. Then he rolled his eyes. It's hard to have a bug phobia. You get no respect. -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Breathing Easy DATE: 8/09/2006 01:29:00 PM ----- BODY: Caramia is finally potty-trained! Hooray! I know, I know: she's three for crying out loud and we're terrible parents for not getting this job done a year and a half ago. But I swear: she wasn't ready till now. No, really. Stop rolling your eyes. She wasn't waking up dry, or showing an interest in it, or any of those other signs that you read about in the parenting books. We even have an excuse for our slipshod ways, and it's a good one. Ready? She was so fatigued and crazy as a result of her sleep apnea that she couldn't even begin to worry about making tinkle like a big girl. Now, post-surgery, she's like a different kid. I dreaded that operation. It was a tonsil/adenoid-ectomy. Routine enough, I guess, but when it's your baby, there's nothing routine about any surgery. The thought of my youngest being put under general anesthesia made me so anxious that I couldn't sleep either. Having gone through it once before with her older sister didn't help. In fact, it made it worse. The anesthesia made Olivia terribly sick, and she had a tough time waking up. And Caramia is little, just thirty pounds. How would her tiny body handle it? Turns out, she handled it like a champ. No problems with the anesthesia, no bleeding, no pain that Tylenol couldn't handle. No more Darth Vader breathing, no more jerking awake, over and over again, panicky and gasping. Now she purrs like a kitten and sleeps peacefully through the night. That last is really something -- until this week, we could probably count on one hand the number of times Caramia had slept through the night in three years. Three years! Three years of night waking and night wandering and night crying. We'd hear other parents mention that their infants were now sleeping through the night at eight or ten weeks and it was all we could do not to stick out a foot and trip them. We were beyond envious. We were becoming unstable. Thankfully, that's all behind us -- I hope. I'm thrilled that Caramia is feeling better, and I know that getting the sleep she needs is going to make a huge difference for her. She's already made huge progress. Being potty- trained meant she could join her sister at Camp Tutu this week. It's a half-day ballet program at the YMCA, and a total scream. Yesterday, Caramia burst out of the bathroom hollering to her counselor, "I pooped! I pooped! Now I get a treat!" Okay, so we resorted to bribing her with marshmallows. More bad parenting, I know, I know. I'm sorry! -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Stop That! DATE: 7/20/2006 01:28:00 PM ----- BODY: I hate yelling at my kids. I really, really want to be one of those parents who manages a crisis situation by very sweetly and calming saying something along the lines of, "Oh my goodness, Precious. That's not a very good choice you're making! Can you make a better choice, hmm? Let's make a better choice!" I see these people; I know these people. But I'm not one of them. My girls are rough and tumble little maniacs, a pair of thugs with cherubic faces who Do Not Listen. Believe me, they don't need me to point out that shoving a crayon into the dog's ear is a bad choice. They know it's a bad choice -- that's why they chose it. Olivia has no problem understanding that pushing her sister's face into the side of the couch is a bad idea. As a bonus, Caramia's muffled screams and flailing arms are helpful indicators of her discomfort. Yet that doesn't stop Olivia. Nor does my saying -- in a reasonable tone -- "Olivia, stop that at once." I've tried. Mark has tried. They tune us out completely until we are reduced to bellowing like fiends. Then they listen, sort of. I haven't had to yell at them in public yet. I've got another trick for public misbehavior. After much practice, I think I've finally mastered my all-time favorite parenting trick: the quiet psycho. I clench my jaws, bug my eyes, put my face a mere inch from theirs and hiss whatever the correction is through locked teeth. When it comes to keeping Caramia from swishing her toys in a public toilet, to pick just one example, nothing works better. It's funny how naughtiness at home translates mostly into tormenting each other while naughtiness in public mostly takes the form of finding the filthiest available surface and then licking it. Oh my God, the things they put their mouths on! You know those grocery carts shaped like race cars? The girls were parked in one in front of the dairy case just long enough for me to grab a gallon of milk. When I turned back around, Olivia was leaning forward and chewing on the steering wheel. The filthy, nasty, germy steering wheel. I'd rather she licked the street, no lie. I think it probably has fewer things crawling on it. My cousin Renee was so bad about this sort of thing as a kid that she actually got trench mouth. I know you think that no one ever actually gets that. It's like a parenting urban legend, right? Wrong. I couldn't have been more than seven at the time, but seeing Renee held down while the adults painted her lips and gums with blue stuff (could it have been iodine?) is seared into my memory. She screamed and kicked and cried like a creature possessed. Olivia does that now over a spoonful of peas -- how would we ever survive a bout of trench mouth? Someone I won't identify recently asked me, "Well, what if you just let them do whatever they're doing? Don't interfere and they'll figure it out on their own." Uh, hello? Are you nuts? How about if they pop by your place and "figure out on their own" all about markers, scissors, liquids, gravity, momentum, force, and bodily harm, etc? Yeah, I didn't think so. -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: The ring! The hoodia! DATE: 6/26/2006 01:27:00 PM ----- BODY: Time for an update on some FAQ's... If you were listening during the Christmas holidays, you might have heard the story of the guy with the diamond ring. I bumped into him in the lobby as he was dropping off a wrapped gift. "That's her right there," the security guard said. The gift guy turned around with a panicked look on his face. I shook the guy's hand as he practically bolted out the door. Weird, I thought. Usually they don't run away like that unless we used to date or something. Inside the gift bag was an envelope and a small package. Inside the package was a gorgeous diamond and platinum ring. Inside the envelope was a letter, describing how the only woman he'd ever loved had refused his marriage proposal. Would we take the ring and give it to charity? I admit: the first charity that came to mind was myself. The ring was so beautiful -- it was something I would definitely have chosen. The temptation to keep it lasted maybe ten seconds -- ten long, tantalizing seconds of pure moral jeopardy. I tried it on, admired it, and then gave it to our general manager to lock up in his safe. We waited over six months for the ring's owner to change his mind and return to claim it. He never did. So, last week, we donated the ring to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. If you know the man who brought the ring to us -- or if you are that man, thank you. Your generosity will help grant the wish of a seriously, maybe even terminally, ill child. That's an awful lot of good to come from one broken heart. Onto a much less emotional subject - hoodia. Hoodia is derived from a cactus plant eaten by the Kalahari Bushmen for stamina. It allegedly also suppresses the appetite, enabling the Bushmen to spend long periods of time hunting without eating. Lesley Stahl did a piece on it for "60 Minutes". In a weak moment, I ordered a bottle from an ad I saw in USA Today. That was nearly two months ago, I think. I've had lots of e-mail asking whether or not it works. The stamina part is hard to measure. I'm so sleep deprived that I'm not sure if anything other than straight caffeine could give me a boost. I do feel a little less weepy by the end of the day, which has to count for something. Probably not enough to earn me a spot on the Kalahari hunting team, but as far as losing my appetite goes, I'm right up there with the Bushmen. There are days when I have to force myself to eat something for dinner -- I have zero interest. This is radically atypical for me -- I have to be sick to skip a meal. But even after a run, I just really don't feel like eating. Since I don't weigh myself, I can't tell you whether or not I've lost any weight with hoodia. (I don't know why anyone steps on a scale -- isn't there enough bad news in the world to cope with?) My clothes fit differently, so I've probably at least moved some flesh around. So who knows? It seems like it works. I'll tell you one thing that kind of ticks me off. Here I am, running, eating right, not snacking, and now swallowing some freaky powdered cactus extract and I still don't look like a lanky gazelle. Genetics! Damn my meatball-making ancestors and their sturdy peasant physiques! -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Summer Reading List DATE: 6/12/2006 01:26:00 PM ----- BODY: I've read three great novels in the past month or s The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier; Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood; and Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. The first two books could definitely be described as apocalyptic fiction. I've always been drawn to stories about the end of the world, or if not the world, of civilization. I was all of nine when I picked up On the Beach by Nevil Shute. The story goes like this: a cataclysmic nuclear war has wiped out virtually the entire planet. In Australia, which was spared the bombing, a handful of survivors await the arrival of the deadly radioactive fallout being carried by wind around the globe. Not exactly the super fun read of, say, The Babysitter's Club, or even, Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret. See what happens when you lock a bookish kid in a snowbound, television-less house in the middle of nowhere? After I finish a book like Oryx and Crake or The Brief History of the Dead, I want to share it. But I don't happen to know anyone else who wants to sit by the pool and read about deadly hemorrhagic viruses. You'd think that the very same people who line up to see a movie like Saw would clamor to borrow my books, but no. I guess scary movies are escapist entertainment in a way that these stories aren't. These stories feel all too possible. Even the setting for both books, the not-distant future, offers no relief. Instead of feeling grateful to have been born too soon, I wind up feeling sick about how placidly I grazed my days away, not doing more to prevent the coming horror. And I think about my kids, and their kids, and the environment, and the climate, and soulless multinational corporate empires, and before you know it, I've given myself the shakes. I call it Fiction Enabled Anxiety Disorder. You can't get a prescription for it -- trust me, I've tried. Instead, I was told to lighten up and try reading something a little happier. Which brings me to Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. It tells the story of Jacob, a Depression era veterinary student at Cornell, who suddenly finds himself orphaned, penniless, and a runaway with a train circus called The Great Benzini Brothers. It's a terrific story, full of adventure, romance, and intrigue. I don't want to spoil a single detail, but I can reveal that world doesn't end. Not even for Jacob. Water for Elephants does what great stories should: it lifts you into a place you'd never imagined being, and then stays with you, long after the book is closed. You'll like it -- you might even love it. And unlike most of my summer reading list, it won't give you nightmares. -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Lana's Sports Tirade! DATE: 5/09/2006 01:00:00 PM ----- BODY: I've had so many requests for the funny e-mail from the listener who is fed up with driving her kids to sports that I'm going to reprint it here. I've taken out her address, but otherwise left is just as she sent it: Sheri, as the parent of 3 kids ages 19, 14, and one I can tell you from vast experience do not buy into the crap that kids need sports! The last 16 years of my life have been on the road to some event. My son the 19 year old played every sport every freakin season until high school and did I mention that in middle school he also took up the drums. He was not like most kids he did not want to play in the school band he took private lessons and also played in a drum ensemble that meant more driving. I will have to admit this was probably the only thing that we did that was worth the time and money. Now, my 14 year-old daughter the "cheerleader" has been cheering since she was 5. It was cute at first her in her little uniform. But now it's 10 years later and God only knows how many thousands of dollars. She not only cheers for a year round competition squad but also starting in the fall the high school JV squad. Tonight I drove her to competition practice, got out of the car to go in and again write yet another check when I was informed about the latest fundraiser, working at the semi-pro baseball games in the concession stand where I will make a percentage of the profits for the nights I work to go directly into my daughters account. My response, sign me up for every damn night what the bleep else do I have to do with my time. The one thing I can tell you is this you can make memories at home, camping, taking a picnic to the mountains or what every you like to do and not be a bad parent. That is exactly what I intend on doing with the one year old I really do not give a big rats ass what anybody else has to say I'm old and I'm tired and I just want to enjoy her. I want sit down with her at supper and ask her about her day I don't want to eat one more flipping big mac in the car so we can be at some practice or game on time. I want to spend my money on trips to the beach or Disney World not Super 8 motels and gate admissions, nachos, and cold pizza. Be the bad parent Sheri, love your children the way you see fit and what every your do don't buy into the crap. Yowza! The margaritas are on me, sista! What do YOU think? -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Family? Then no job for you! DATE: 4/12/2006 12:58:00 PM ----- BODY:The other day on the show, we were talking about how so many of us feel overbooked and overcommitted. I know I feel that way sometimes. Who doesn't? I happen to think it's okay -- no, necessary -- to learn to say "no". Saying "no" doesn't mean you're selfish, uncaring, or evil. Or does it? Check out the email below. I've removed the sender's name and address. And to be fair, I've included my response to that sender. This ticked me off to no end. But maybe I'm nuts, deluded, and completely wrong. It wouldn't be the first time, that's for sure. I'm looking for a reality check here. What do you think? Sent: Tuesday, April 11, 2006 8:59 AM To: Sheri Lynch Subject: If you want a family life.... then get out of the business. I was on my way to work this morning, listening to you as I do each morning while stuck in Charlotte traffic. I usually enjoy what I am listening to. However, this morning I became terribly disappointed in what I was hearing. You and Bob were complaining of not having enough "me" time, that you need to learn to say no to the many offers you get the make appearances here and there, that you want your weekends to be free for your family. Well sister, let me say this. Get a 9-5er then. You are a celebrity. that is what celebrities do, they make appearances. You brag and brag about how you used to be a cheerleader so some young ladies thought it would be kinda cool to have you show up at their cheer competition. That is what celebreties do, make appearences. Youc an't have your cake of the lime light and have the family life you are wanting. I say, either play the role or step aside and let someone else who is waiting in the wings have the lime light for a while. Please note, I enjoy listening to you and Bob each and every morning. That is why this morning was so dissapointing. There are others who can do the same, if you are not wanting your piece of the pie while being a mom.
---------------------------------------------------------------- Hi ------, First, thank you very much for listening to our show. ALL of us here appreciate that, more than you realize. I have to object to your stance on this one. "If you want a family life, then get out of the business." If I were a nun, sworn to celibacy, then fine. Marriage and family are out. But I'm not a nun; I'm a broadcaster. And while I thank God every day for the blessings of this good career, this fine means of providing for my family, at the end of the day this is my job, not my life. My children will always come first. There's no scenario in this world or any other in which I can even imagine apologizing for, or feeling ashamed of, my priorities. I'd never trade my kids for this job or any job - and when it comes to my kids, I don't give a hoot about the "limelight" or being a "celebrity". I love what I do, absolutely love it. But I love my family more. And I wonder, how low have we sunk in our fame-obsessed culture if putting your family above "celebrity" is a negative? I'm sorry to have offended you, but to be totally candid, you've offended me. So I guess that makes us even, right? Thanks for taking the time to write. Sheri
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: A Dream Come True! DATE: 4/06/2006 12:56:00 PM ----- BODY: There were seven things in life that my Grandma Blackhair loved passionately: Jesus; the Blessed Mother; family; chocolate; cigarettes; the daytime soap lineup on NBC; and The National Enquirer. I'd come home from school and find her perched on the edge of the couch, cigarette in one hand, and Hershey bar in the other. On the table in front of her would be a pack of cigarettes, her worn Novena book, stuffed with prayer cards and held together with a rubber band, and the latest copy of the Enquirer. When I got my first job, I bought her a subscription to it so that she'd never have to miss a week. Months after she died, the annual renewal notice appeared in my mailbox. As anyone who has ever grieved knows, the smallest thing sometimes has the power to bring back the sorrow full force. Canceling her subscription broke my heart all over again. It was yet another reminder that she was really and truly gone. Although I don't share her passion for smoking, chocolate, and Days of Our Lives, I do love The National Enquirer. I'd call it a guilty pleasure -- if I felt any guilt about it, that is. I love it without shame. Which is why, last week, I almost broke a leg jumping out of my chair when I opened an e-mail from a writer at the Enquirer asking if I'd be interested in talking with her about my first book, Hello, My Name is Mommy. Interested? Are you kidding? I've waited my whole life to be in The National Enquirer! And here was a chance that my dream might finally come true -- without having to commit a crime or be caught at the beach in a too-small thong? You bet I was interested. I called the reporter, Daniella Caplan, immediately. We had a lovely chat -- which had the quality of an out-of-body experience for me, I must admit. When the issue I'm in hits the stands in the next week or two, I'll probably faint. People will be stepping over my body in the checkout line to pay for their groceries. Even my husband Mark understands the magnitude of this event. So great is my love for The National Enquirer that he likes to buy it for me as a treat, the way other men bring their women flowers or candy. "Here you go," he'll beam, handing it over. "It's ‘Stars With Cellulite!' this week. Who loves you? Who's the best husband ever?" No argument about that. It takes a special man to understand the sheer delight that comes from scrutinizing the dimpled withers of some otherwise perfectly gorgeous, insanely overpaid starlet. It's better than Xanax, I swear. The Enquirer has 15 million weekly readers. And one more, one they don't count. She's up in Heaven. And when she sees my name in The National Enquirer, she's going to take a deep drag on her Marlboro Light, elbow St. Peter in the ribs and announce, "You see that? That's my Sher." -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: From way up high... DATE: 3/28/2006 11:55:00 AM ----- BODY: How amazing is the sky? You don't think about it much, down here on the ground all caught up in your daily drama. Sure, you glance up often enough, checking for rain or maybe to notice how a certain cluster of clouds looks exactly like a sheepdog leaping a fence. A beautiful sunset might get your attention, assuming you're standing outside looking at it, instead of standing inside your kitchen trying to figure out something to cook for dinner that doesn't involve yet another boring boneless chicken breast. The sky -- can you even fathom it? We took off last Friday morning in a cold, drizzling rain. The clouds were the sodden, thick sort -- the kind that you know aren't going to suddenly break for a little sunlight. There was a gusty wind jostling the plane as we bumped our way to cruising altitude. Nothing but gray could be seen through the windows and then, in an instant, we punched through that soupy mess into clear blue sky. You forget, when the weather is nasty, that above the storm there is always a serenely indifferent blue sky. That sounds like something you'd find printed on a tea towel at The Cracker Barrel gift shop, doesn't it? -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Contagious! DATE: 3/09/2006 10:07:00 AM ----- BODY: Sorry to be blog AWOL. Both of our girls have double pinkeye. Slight fevers, lethargy, oozing eyeballs. It's been delightful at our place. No one wants to come near us. I've been rushing home every day, neglecting all but the most critical stuff here at work. On the plus side, they've both been so very snuggly. On the down side, we've about scrubbed our skin off trying to avoid catching it ourselves. What's nastier than pinkeye? Lice, I guess. Or maybe ringworm. Yuck. Welcome to the glamour life... -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Can pandas swim? DATE: 2/22/2006 10:07:00 AM ----- BODY: "Because pandas can't swim in the ocean." That's the reason Olivia gives Caramia for refusing to allow her family of tiny toy pandas to visit Barbie's Mermaidtopia. The pandas in question - the biggest maybe two inches tall, tops -- come fully equipped with backpacks, cameras, and binoculars. They want to visit Mermaidtopia, by God, and swimming skills or no, Caramia is determined to wedge them into Barbie's clamshell-shaped bed. I try not to intervene. They need to work out their own problems, right? But then Olivia bursts into tears. "Mommy! Tiny is making her pandas go underwater!" "It's okay, honey." I say, reasonably enough, I think. "I'm sure that Barbie would love to meet the pandas. Don't you think that Barbie would like that?" Olivia is now totally ramped up. Tears squirt out of her eyes. Sobbing, she wails, "Noooo! The pandas can't visit Barbie because they will drown! They will drown under the water!" She lunges toward Caramia. Caramia responds by throwing the baby panda, hitting Olivia on the head. Olivia goes berserk. Caramia laughs. I look at the clock. Bedtime won't arrive for another five hours and fifteen minutes. Mark and I are slowly going insane... -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Gum Gobber Fatwa DATE: 2/20/2006 10:05:00 AM ----- BODY:Okay, answer this: is there anything more revolting than pulling a big wad of spent chewing gum out of your germy mouth and sticking it to the underside of a restaurant table? Last night, while having our annual Japanese steakhouse dinner to celebrate Eric's birthday, Caramia reached under the table and came up with a gob of calcified Wrigley's Spearmint. It made my skin crawl. Thank God for baby wipes -- I nearly scoured the poor child's fingerprints clean off. It reminded me of the time when Olivia was two and did the same thing -- only she managed to get the gum into her mouth before we stopped her. Honest to God, I'd rather my kids ate stale bird poop than some stranger's ABC gum. Think about it -- I bet you'll agree.
How lazy are you that the best way you can think of to get rid of your unwanted gum is to stick it on a piece of furniture? Like the rest of us want to see -- much less touch -- your fossilized Bubblicious? I'm declaring a fatwa on gum gobbers. Death to you and your nasty vulgarian ways! Like the world isn't crawling with trash receptacles, you shiftless slobs? Aaaarrrrgggghh!
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Barbi plays Cupid, God bless her! DATE: 2/14/2006 10:05:00 AM ----- BODY:This won't be a long entry -- I just learned that my friend Barbi has inexplicably volunteered to have our girls over this afternoon for a play date. Has she lost her mind? I've made a mental note to investigate that further...starting tomorrow. Today, I've got to rush home for a little spontaneous romance. Knowing our luck, something's bound to come between us. Will the dog seize this opportunity to need immediate emergency veterinary attention? Will the water heater explode? Will I trip over something in the hallway and end up needing stitches in my head? And most importantly, will Mark die of shock when he realizes that we've got a shot at some uninterrupted play time of our own?
Happy Valentine's Day!
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: V-Day & Mr. Bossy Pants DATE: 2/10/2006 10:04:00 AM ----- BODY:I'm pulling my hair out, trying to come up with a killer, unique gift idea to surprise my husband with for Valentine's Day. Mark, or as I like to call him, "Mr. Bossy Pants", is very tricky to shop for. It's not that he doesn't have hobbies; it's that his hobbies are so highly specialized that you just about need a secret handshake to get past the door. He loves to ride his bike. Not like normal people, mind you, who go out for a leisurely spin and maybe even swing by Ben & Jerry's on the way home. No, Mr. Bossy Pants suits up in this skin-tight body armor stuff and takes off on muddy, boulder-strewn trails that even animals have sense enough to avoid. He actually took out an entire tree not too long ago, cracking a couple of ribs in the process. Fun! And he races on these trails too, with other like-minded lunatics, all of them dressed like Aquaman's hyperactive goth cousins. The girls and I went out to cheer him on a couple of weeks ago. It was raining, of course, and all of the riders were wet and spattered with thick, gooey mud. I'm not a priss or a couch potato, and I don't let bad weather keep me from running, but seeing the increasingly desperate faces of the riders as the race went on had me wondering, hmm -- exactly which circle of hell is this? (Side note: my bonus son, Eric, also raced that day and came in fourth. It was his first race! I was very impressed and proud.)
So anyway, back to Valentine's Day. I don't dare buy him a bicycle-related present because I can't even identify the function of most of the products sold at his favorite bike shop. The standard gifts -- cologne, jewelry, cheetah-print mesh underpants -- are out. He just doesn't like that kind of stuff. And even if he did, I can never pull off a surprise. He has some weird sixth sense that sets off an alarm any time I step foot into a retail establishment. All I have to do is cross the threshold of a Gap store and bam! My mobile phone starts ringing.
Mark: What are you doing? Me: Um, answering the phone? Mark: You're at the Gap, aren't you? Don't even try to deny it.
I'm beginning to suspect that he's put one of those GPS tracer-type devices on my car.
I've tried asking him what he wants for Valentine's Day and he always says, a Porsche, or a motorcycle, or some bizarre after-market car part to make his engine louder or faster or whatever. He carries on about how high-maintenance I am, but hello? You can't even buy the man a cd. He already has everything and besides, what he wants is generally some random EP by a band of socially maladjusted Swedes whose one hit single got a little airplay on the Fuel Channel. It's hopeless. Any ideas?
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Book Release - Maybe? DATE: 2/07/2006 10:03:00 AM ----- BODY:The only thing more confusing to me than the world of publishing is algebra. I think that my second book is being released today? Be Happy or I'll Scream! is the title. It follows a yearlong experiment that I launched on my husband and children. (Well, mostly on my husband. The kids would follow me anywhere for a bag of M&M's.)
The bottom line: I just woke up one day and thought, isn't there more to life than work, laundry, grocery shopping, and putting away toys? What happened to the romance? The thrills? The fun? Time was racing by so fast and it felt like all we had to show for it was piles of unfolded clothes and a garage full of junk. So after much thought and analysis, I decided that we needed to transform our lives and become more like a happy, adventurous, wacky sitcom family. The experiment itself lasted just over a year, and the book took about nine months to write. And here it is -- maybe. Or maybe not till next week. Or, possibly it came out three days ago. Only the publisher knows.
Writing is the most pleasant form of torture that I can imagine. I've been taking a long break since finishing Be Happy or I'll Scream!. While it's nice not to have a deadline hanging over me, I miss writing. I think that once Caramia starts school, I'll be able to start another project.
I've had a lot of e-mail asking, how do you write a book? How do you get it published? I wish I knew the answer to either of those questions. If I did, I could write about that and be all but guaranteed a bestseller. Here's what I do know -- or at least, here's what works for me: don't write a book; write a sentence. Then another one, and another, and so on. And make an outline first, so that you don't wander off and get lost in the fog. As for publishing your finished work, should you really trust the advice of someone who can't even figure out her own release date? You're probably better off asking the Magic 8 Ball...
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Martha's Orange-Soy Porkchops DATE: 2/02/2006 10:01:00 AM ----- BODY:After interviewing Robert Slater, who's written a book about Martha Stewart's trial and imprisonment, I mentioned that I'd recently made pork chops using one of Martha Stewart's recipes. Can't remember which cookbook it was in, but it was so simple that I think I can give it to you from memory.
3/4 cup fresh-squeezed orange juice (who's kidding who, Martha? I used Minute Maid and the world didn't come to an end.) 2 tablespoons soy sauce (or roughly six of those packets left over from the last time you had Chinese take-out) 1 clove minced garlic 1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper 2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme (yeah, right. I used 1 tablespoon of some dried thyme that's been in my cabinet since the Clinton administration. Again, world still spinning.) 2 tablespoons butter 2 tablespoons safflower oil (I used canola oil. Don't tell Martha, but it worked just fine.) 4 thick-cut pork chops. (Martha stipulates boneless, but since when is she the boss of you?)
Mix first five ingredients together. With a sharp knife, cut a shallow X on each side of each pork chop. Put them in a glass dish, pour marinade over them, set aside for thirty minutes.
Melt butter and oil in large skillet over high heat. Remove pork chops from marinade; pat dry, sear on both sides to caramelize meat -- about three minutes per side. Pour marinade into pan, and simmer on low heat for 8-10 minutes. Remove chops to a heated platter. Crank up the heat and reduce the sauce by a quarter. (For novice cooks, that just means boil off a quarter of the liquid, causing the sauce to thicken and intensify.)
Pour sauce over chops, serve. (We had some cheese tortellini on the side, and a drizzle of this sauce was killer on that, too.)
I swear to you, this was a great meal and took no time at all. Say what you want about Martha, but the woman knows how to respect a pork chop. Now, we were only kidding about her next book being called, Martha Stewart: That Bitch Can Cook. Although, it really is a catchy title -- maybe she should consider it.
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: When to play? DATE: 1/31/2006 10:00:00 AM ----- BODY:Yesterday afternoon, Olivia and Caramia were playing in the backyard with a few friends. Tiny was wearing one of her usual sparkly pink costumes, this time with a giant floppy hat. Olivia was wearing Hello Kitty pajamas and knee-high rubber rain boots. The kids were all laughing, taking turns on the swings, and pushing each other down the sliding board. Watching them from the window, I suddenly thought, "Oops! Bad mother! Standing here staring when you should be out there paying attention to your kids, playing with them, and having quality time." I was halfway through the back door before I came to my senses and realized that it's okay to let my children play without me. I sometimes feel this weird guilt -- am I ignoring them? And what's the difference between ignoring them and expecting them to amuse themselves? Allowing them to amuse themselves?
My mother had no problem at all when it came to pushing my brothers and me out the door to play. I don't think she ever felt a moment's guilt about it. Not that she should have. We became independent little kids who grew up to be independent adults. If the three of us have one thing in common now, it's this: we don't expect to be entertained. We figured out early that when it comes to fun, it's best to make your own.
I'm working on finding the playmate/parent balance. It's tricky, because I really like drawing on our driveway with chalk, and playing with clay, and coloring. Which means that every day now brings a fresh dilemma. For example, my friend Barbi just brought Caramia a Dora coloring book. That thing is calling my name. Should I unload the dishwasher or should I use our cool new markers to color in the fiesta trio? Check my voicemail, or draw a moustache on Swiper?
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: A Million Little Pieces DATE: 1/27/2006 09:59:00 AM ----- BODY:Opinions are running pretty strong on the subject of James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. My take on it is simple: the guy lied. As a reader, I feel completely betrayed. Had he published it as a novel -- his original intention -- I would have read it, been moved by it, and walked away from it thinking, that was a good read. But because he sent it out as a memoir, as non-fiction, as a true story, I read it with different expectations. I thought it was true. All of it.
Many who've read the book say it doesn't matter whether or not he made parts of it up. They say that the book changed their lives, gave them hope, propelled them toward sobriety. I've even had people e-mail me saying that they're glad that he lied and called it a memoir because they don't have time to waste on fiction. That one hits me like a punch in the gut. I've wasted a whole lot of time in my life -- standing in lines, watching reruns of Full House, shopping for the perfect bathing suit -- but I've never wasted a minute on the pages of a book.
As a young woman, Alice Sebold was raped. She wrote a harrowing memoir about the experience. It's called Lucky. Later, she wrote another book about a girl who was brutally raped, and this time, murdered. That book, The Lovely Bones, was a novel. The memoir was a journey through brutal personal experience. The novel elevated that experience to art, and showed the reader the beauty and possibility of redemption. Both are heartbreaking, exquisite pieces of writing. One is true, the other fiction. That difference matters. It mattered to the writer, and it should matter to us, the readers.
James Frey cheated. In calling his story true, he signaled to us that what we were reading wasn't merely a diversion. It was a story with real stakes, real lives, and consequences that could neither be manufactured nor erased with a few keystrokes. We cared more about the character "James Frey" than we would have about a made-up creation. We invested more in his story than we might have in a novel. His deception stings all the more because, having taken that journey with him, we believed in his redemption. We believed that he'd left the addict's life of self-serving lies behind. It's a pity that he didn't. This time, it's his readers who got scammed.
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Spooky and Strange DATE: 1/25/2006 09:57:00 AM ----- BODY:LOST tonight...I'm totally addicted. I have such a thing for aliens, the supernatural, weird conspiracy theories. You'd think I was the love child of Art Bell and Morticia Adams. Don't know why that stuff appeals to me so much. When I was nine or ten years old, living in rural Wyoming, my older brother had me convinced that alien ships were landing at NORAD sites high in the mountains. I believed him. I'd even sneak out of the house at night to check the skies for UFO's. Many years later, I saw Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Those aliens just happened to be visiting Devils Tower...in Wyoming. Coincidence? I didn't think so either.
Spooky and strange as I am, other spooky and strange people make me nervous. Example: I'm on a date with a nice, friendly, really cute guy. I asked him one of those standard getting-to-know-you questions: "Have you ever read a book that left you feeling utterly changed?" He lit up. The book? Chariots of the Gods. He went on for like, an hour, about aliens, the ancient Egyptians, human/space creature hybrids. The works. I must not have seemed enthusiastic enough, because he became a little testy about the whole thing and ended up shouting at me. (My God, was I ever bad at dating. Don't get me started. I've got a nutcase tractor beam that makes the one on the Death Star look like a kiddy toy.) That relationship didn't go anywhere. At least, not that I can remember. For all I know, he drugged me, beamed me up to the mother ship, and had me implanted with a probe. That would go a long way in explaining why every computer I touch goes haywire.
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Singing, eating, running DATE: 1/24/2006 09:53:00 AM ----- BODY:Sunday night, I dreamed I could sing. I've had this dream before, and it's almost always the same. In it, I can hear my own voice and for the first time, every note is on key and in tune. Realizing that I'm actually singing, I become more and more confident, absolutely belting it out. And being able to sing feels just like falling in love: that incredible, dizzying sensation of the universe suddenly expanding, and you with it. Then I wake up. It's always a cruel blow to be jolted back into my tone-deaf waking self. I asked Max, who has a beautiful voice, if singing -- whether it's in the car or the shower or in front of an audience -- is something that makes you happy, all by itself. He said that yes, it is. I've always suspected as much. People even look happier while they're singing. The ability to sing is one of the gifts of the angels. I must have been standing in a different line when they handed that one out. Here's what I got instead: you know how some people can't tell the difference between dark blue and black? And they'll stand in front of the sock drawer, squinting and holding their socks up to the light? Not me. There isn't a navy blue sock on this earth that can trick me into mistaking it for black. How's that for a spectacularly useless skill? I'd much rather be able to sing. On another note, I was flamed for recently saying on-air that I don't believe in diets, that I won't diet, and that I'd much rather just go for a run than count calories. The woman who wrote accused me of being a "naturally skinny" person with no sensitivity for those who struggle with weight. Okay, I've been called a lot of things, but "naturally skinny"? Never. I'm not. I'm your standard size medium - rock-solid, baby, nothing wispy or delicate about me. I would have made one hell of a lacrosse or hockey player. And from a genetic standpoint, I'm wired to someday morph into a hairnet-wearing, meatball-making, support-hose-around-the-ankles, white-haired Italian nana. In the meantime, while I await my destiny, I eat good food; drink wine, and run three or four times a week.
"You make running sound easy and it's not" my flamer responds. She's got the second part right. Running sure isn't easy for me. I'm not a natural runner. It took me a long time to work up to a mile. Believe me, the training wasn't pretty. My first time out, a scorching, muggy day six and a half years ago, I did a quarter mile, stopped, and threw up in the street. (Here's a tip for first time runners: let your sushi digest a bit before hitting the road. You're welcome.) I stopped running through both pregnancies (total weight gain: 100 pounds), and starting up again was harder than anything physical I'd ever tried. Including childbirth. It was agony. But I like food, and I like feeling strong, and I really like knowing that, unless my attacker is much more fit than the guys I see on COPS, I've got a good shot at outrunning him. So I kept at it, lost the baby weight, sprained an ankle, ran with a brace for six weeks, and ten days ago, actually did an eight minute mile. I won't ever run that fast again, because it damn near killed me, but just knowing that I can makes me feel like the Bionic Woman. Losing weight is hard. Running is hard. But for me, dieting is harder, and weirder, and feels like a punishment for a crime I didn't commit. And now that I have daughters, I want them to have a healthy relationship with food. I want them to love their bodies. Not for the number they see on a scale, but for the strength and grace and amazing things those bodies are capable of doing. Their mommy may not be a size two, but she's a strong, healthy, size eight who can munch down a bacon cheeseburger without being tied up in knots of guilt and self-hatred. Eating + running works for me. You need to figure out what works for you. Maybe that's Weight Watchers, or Orlistat, or surgery. Maybe it means giving up soft drinks, or taking a daily walk after dinner. We're all grown-ups here. We know that apples are better for us than Cocoa Puffs, right? We know that our bodies need more movement than we can get from clicking a mouse or changing a channel, right? But hey -- thanks for the "naturally skinny" line. That was a novelty. Now, if only someone would yell at me for being extra good at math...
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Welcome to my new blog! DATE: 1/18/2006 09:44:00 AM ----- BODY: To kick off my new blog, I thought I might answer some of the FAQ's that I see in our daily e-mail...That's it for now. Let me know if I missed one. Thanks for reading - see you tomorrow!
-------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Pockets DATE: 10/03/2005 05:19:00 PM ----- BODY: I'm forever trying -- and failing -- to streamline the contents of my handbag. I start off with keys, a wallet, some lip gloss and pack of gum, and in no time at all, wind up with all of the above plus six or seven business cards, tissues, hair barrettes, Matchbox cars, half-eaten granola bars, rubber bouncy balls, receipts, Post-It notes, grocery coupons, recipes torn from magazines, and pretty much any and everything that no other member of my family wants to part with or be stuck carrying. Scrabbling around in my bag o' wonders at a checkout line one afternoon, I was horrified to pull out a gnawed bagel half, hard as cement. Where had that come from -- and how long had it been hiding in there? And why was there a red plastic spoon keeping it company? I wasn't confused in the slightest by the handful of gravel rattling around at the bottom of the bag. My daughters collect rocks that look like dinosaur eggs. Well, four year-old Olivia collects rocks that look like dinosaur eggs. Caramia, age two, just hollers, "Me too!" and copies whatever her sister is doing. Then both girls dump their rocks into my lap or handbag saying, "Here is a present for you, Mommy!" I always accept my stones graciously, fully intending to dump them out once we get home. But then we get home, and I forget, and find myself literally dragging around a bag full of rocks for days and days afterward. This same forgetfulness is why I've taken to writing myself little notes and stuffing them into the back pocket of my jeans. Sometimes I even find those notes later, and obey their often cryptic instructions. "M. dvr Inv. ABC" means "remind Mark to record ‘Invasion' tonight so that we don't miss a potentially good TV show about aliens." Most of the time, though, I forget all about the notes until after they've gone through the washing machine, leaving tiny bits of white lint all over our wet clothing. Or worse, I'll pull the note out, read it, and have no idea what at all I meant by "ck 8804 pp Eliz. tmrw." In an effort to be more organized and business-like, I attempted to use the calendar feature on my mobile phone instead of the back pocket note system. That wasn't a good solution. The last time I tried it, my phone sat in my handbag and beeped and beeped and beeped to remind me of whatever it was I'd already forgotten. Even though I registered the noise, I didn't think it had anything whatsoever to do with me. My producer, Todd, eventually strolled into my office asking, "Do you hear that?" "Yeah," I replied. "And it's driving me crazy. Where do you think it's coming from?" He stared at me. "Uh, how about your purse?" Oh. So much for the electronic approach. I was back to the note-in-pocket method which, if nothing else, was at least quiet. Cramming your pockets and purses full of your daily litter isn't the worst habit you can have. It's always a kick to reach into the pocket of a long-unused coat and find a bit of money, or a tube of Chapstick, or in my case once, the set of car keys I'd sworn were missing forever. Pockets and purses can contain miniature time capsules just waiting to be stumbled upon: a sliver of last winter preserved in a parka pocket, the sandy remains of a beach vacation nestled in the side pouch of a tote bag. Just last night, when it was finally chilly enough to warrant a jacket, I pulled one out of the closet and headed outside with our dog for a little stroll. As we meandered up the street, I slid my hands into my pockets and my fingers closed around a familiar shape. I pulled it out. It was a pink and purple pacifier, Caramia's binky. I hadn't worn that jacket in over a year, and in that span of time, my youngest had left pacifiers far behind. She was a walking, talking, singing, dancing, climbing, swimming, running, big girl now. Holding it, I suddenly remembered the morning that we brought her home from the hospital. I carefully dressed her in a soft white cotton smock with matching pantaloons, both embroidered with blue forget-me-nots. I held her ankles, so small and delicate, between my thumb and forefinger and gently eased a pair of doll-like white satin slippers onto her tiny feet. She seemed more fragile than Olivia had at that age, more helpless somehow. Or was that just wishful thinking on my part - an impossible hope that her magical newborn days could last just a bit longer? Now, as I stood there in the dark, holding her discarded pacifier, I realized -- probably for the first time -- that she truly wasn't a baby anymore. Walking back into the house, I debated what should be done with this last surviving binky. We certainly didn't need it anymore, and it wasn't the sort of thing you'd pass on to another child. As I reached for the lid of the trash can, I paused. And then, unable to part with the pacifier, I slipped it back into my pocket and put the jacket away. On the morning that we buried my grandmother, those of us who had loved her best gathered at her casket to say a final goodbye. We stood silently in the closed viewing room of the mortuary, my aunt Rosemary, my cousin Renee, my two brothers, my sisters-in-law, their young children, and me, hollowed by grief and dreading the funeral ceremony still to come. We bent down and stroked her worn, knotty hands, and kissed her strangely unyielding cool, powdery cheeks. My older brother's wife, Nancy, was clutching Grandma's favorite huge beige purse. She carefully tucked it at the foot of the casket. Though we hadn't planned it, each of us, like the ancient Egyptians, had brought something along we thought she might need on her journey to the next world. Into the bag went photographs of her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren. We made sure that she had her old wallet, battered and held together by a thick rubber band, and a picture of her late husband, young and brash in his first Navy uniform. We added Kleenex, her bronze Revlon lipstick, a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, her rosary and novena, the many Blessed Mother prayer cards that were always at her bedside, and for good measure, two of her favorite earthly pleasures: a one-pound Hershey chocolate bar and a copy of the National Enquirer. By the time the last treasure had been stashed in the purse, we were giggling through our tears. Even my aunt Rosemary, nearly immobilized by sorrow, managed a smile saying, "Mom, you never did go anywhere without your handbag." To the kindly, solicitous funeral director, we probably seemed like a pack of superstitious lunatics. But even now, more than ten years later, it's comforting to know that my beloved grandmother rests in peace with her favorite things. In that purse is a letter that I wrote her when I was eight years old, a letter that she'd tucked into a plastic sandwich baggie and saved for over two decades. In the letter, I told her that even though we were so far away from each other, me in Wyoming and her in New Jersey, I still loved her just the same as when she was near. Reading it as an adult made me laugh, as I know she must have laughed. I can close my eyes and see her worn fingers smoothing the paper and tracing the awkward lines of my first attempt at cursive writing. On the back of the envelope was a smeary kiss, proof that I'd sneaked into my mother's lipstick. I ‘m sure that my grandmother pressed that envelope to her face and kissed it right back. I was tempted to keep the letter, a small souvenir of the child I was. But I didn't. It was hers. And some things are meant to be saved. -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Clutter DATE: 4/13/2005 05:18:00 PM ----- BODY: We are in the process of trying to de-clutter our house. This is an experience comparable to throwing your guts up. It's so miserable while it's happening that the relief that follows almost passes for joy. So far, we've tackled eight closets, five rooms, two chests of drawers, a bookcase, a toy box, and a spot in the kitchen that could best be described as the Bermuda Triangle. That last was so treacherous that we've only just recently abandoned the search for January's mortgage bill. The volume of paper that comes into our house every single day is staggering. There's the mail, including catalogs, magazines, and so many coupons for Pizza Hut that we're beginning to suspect them of running a mind control experiment on us. Add to that the pile of drawings and paintings that Olivia and Caramia churn out daily, along with the load of paperwork and sex/diet/get rich quick books that I bring home every afternoon from the radio station. We try so hard to control the load, but before you can recycle last week's TIME magazine, you might want to actually read it, right? And how on earth can I just callously chuck into the garbage bin Olivia's mixed-media collage, Mommy As A Mad Robot? Are we really expected to discard her washable marker portrait, Daddy Eats Yellow Eggs Next To The Happy Sun? You'd have to be completely heartless to part with such treasures. The problem was, our house was exploding at the seams. Heartless or not, something had to be done. It didn't help matters any that I have a compulsion for hoarding. Toilet paper, soap, paper towels, peanut butter, toothbrushes, instant lemonade -- we had enough of each to equip a platoon. Worse, I couldn't stop myself from buying more. I'd have a killer coupon, or there'd be an unbelievable sale on Charmin or Crystal Light, a sale so good that it'd be crazy not to stock up. I admit it: I'm addicted to bargains. When I walk into a Costco or a B.J.'s, my adrenaline soars like a gambler's in Las Vegas. That little plastic membership card burns in my hand, and what I feel is an intoxicating mix of power and good fortune. I wheel my cart from aisle to aisle in a blissful trance. And then, in triumph, I haul my score home. Mix an impoverished childhood, a tendency toward anxiety, and free access to a warehouse store, and you'll get our bathroom closet. Thirty bars of soap, an entire pallet of toilet paper, bucket-sized bottles of Tylenol, an acre of shampoo, and a case of Mentadent are all proof of at least one nut in this house who plans to never run out of anything again. Comforting as it was to know that we had enough crunchy Jif, Glad Kitchen Liners, and Puffs with Lotion to last us through most any natural or man-made disaster, there was no denying that we were rapidly running out of space to store all of the things we were busily collecting. You couldn't open a door without something falling out and bonking your head; you couldn't take a step without tripping over a child's book, a stuffed animal, or a pair of shoes. It was time for serious, dramatic action. Our first step was to shuffle all of the kid's bedrooms. We moved Eric into Caramia's room, giving him his own bathroom and thus sparing him five or six years of showering with My Pretty Pony. Olivia took over Eric's old room, and Caramia moved into Olivia's. A move this extreme forced us to unearth every stray Lego piece, every marble, every last Matchbox car, hair barrette, and plastic teacup that had cunningly concealed itself under the beds, dressers, and chairs in the hopes of driving us out of our minds. We even managed to reunite all twenty-six pieces of the baby's alphabet puzzle, a major vindication for the dog who'd long been accused of having scarfed up the letter "o". Next we tackled closets. Everything outgrown, both clothes and toys, went to Goodwill. I designated certain shelves for board games, others for puzzles, dolls, and tea sets. We were ruthless with our own things. "That shirt makes you look like a tomato," I told Mark. "You need to get rid of it." He responded by pointing to my towering stack of freebie radio t-shirts, saying, "Not until you toss at least half of those." Bit by bit, we weeded through the piles. By the time we were finished, our closet actually looked like a closet, and not the bulging hideout of a crazed shut-in. We ran the same blitzkrieg on the other bedroom closets, and then on the hall closet. It was both scary and sobering to realize just how much stuff we had, and how little of it we actually used or even genuinely needed. Then there were the things we did need, but hadn't been able to find, like snow mittens small enough for Caramia, and the plastic cap for our patio umbrella. Sorting through drawers and boxes, I couldn't even remember why we'd squirreled some of these things away in the first place. For what rainy day was I saving a bright yellow plastic cowboy hat with the word "Beefy" emblazoned across it? The only answer that makes any sense at all is temporary insanity. That, or maybe I should have taken a few less Vicodin after my last c-section. We still have a long, long way to go in the war against clutter. But now we're committed to keeping only the essentials, only those very few things that we absolutely can't live without. Like the disposable hospital scrubs that Mark wore in the delivery room back in May 2001. And a box full of old car magazines, some coins Mark collected as a kid, and his first cycling jersey. Then there are the baby sweaters that his late grandmother knitted, needlework pieces made by his mom, a US Navy coffee cup that belonged to my Pop-Pop, and, carefully folded in a box upstairs, a cheerleading uniform that I wore back in tenth grade. There is a huge box full of artwork, soccer certificates, and camp and school citations all bearing Eric's name. We've got an identical box for each of the girls, along with their baby books and photo albums. Oh, and a few of their favorite baby toys. And all of their Halloween costumes. And some seashells they've collected on trips to the beach. Our house is never going to look like one of those perfect, fantasy homes from a shelter magazine. We're never going to be that smooth, airbrushed couple sipping cocktails while gazing at a breathtaking view of Manhattan, the ocean, or our own vineyard. Our usual view is of a great, big pile of unfolded laundry -- and breathtaking as it is, you'll never see that in Architectural Digest. But we do have plenty of toilet paper, loads of crayons, and Mommy As A Mad Robot hanging on the kitchen wall. That's not clutter - that's the good life. -------- AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Crown and Glory! DATE: 1/17/2005 04:17:00 PM ----- BODY: I was born with a head full of dark, thick, unruly hair. My earliest memory is of sitting at our kitchen table and crying as my mother struggled to brush it. No matter how she tried to keep it smooth, it couldn't wait to return to its natural state of tangled knots and snarls. It would not be tamed. She tried everything: ponytails yanked so tight they gave me headaches, pigtails pulled high enough to pass for donkey ears, barrettes pinned to my scalp like thumbtacks. One day, sick to death of my sobs and screams at the sight of the hairbrush, she marched me off to the beauty parlor and told the hairdresser to cut it all off. I came home sporting a pixie that day, which changed my appearance so dramatically that it prompted my grandmother to openly mourn my lost splendor and my father to blow a gasket. For me, it was blissful freedom. No more tangles, no more brushing, no more awful, excruciating ponytails. I could play all day and even go swimming without ever having to worry about the brushing to come. It didn't take me long to understand at some basic level though, that the price of this amazing new freedom was beauty. Everyone who saw me -- except for my mother -- gasped in horror and exclaimed at my sudden ugliness. They were all furious with her over my new ‘do. "What have you done to her hair?" they'd roar, as though she were guilty of some unspeakable crime. No one wanted to hear about my tangles or tears. It was as if my hair, which truly had been a glorious mass of shining waves, belonged to everyone but me. I was simply its resting place -- and its slave. Growing up in an extended family of petite, ultra-feminine women who genuinely enjoy makeup, jewelry, and heels presents a real challenge for any tomboy. I not only didn't want to be dainty and careful -- I was incapable of being dainty and careful. I wasn't happy wearing fancy dresses. They itched. I hated dress-up shoes. Tights made me frantic. I couldn't bear to feel my clothing biting into my waist or binding my arms. I tugged waistbands down below my hips, and pulled at sleeves and necklines to stretch them out. Tucking a blouse in was out of the question; the short-lived fad for bodysuits that snapped at the crotch nearly drove me out of my young mind. Even my socks had to be loose or I'd banish them to a hiding spot at the bottom of the closet. By age six, I consented to wear the jumper dresses my mom sewed for me in a rare fit of domesticity only because they hung like cheerful plaid sacks and left me free to move. This mania for comfort didn't always sit well, especially with my beloved Aunt Rosemary who liked nothing better than purchasing adorable, precious, darling little outfits for me to wear. Once encased in the tight, scratchy, or fussy ensemble, I'd fidget miserably, which only led to creases and wrinkles. And inevitably, I'd get into something dirty and ruin the whole effect. I was in my twenties before I gave in and became a girly girl. It was rough going at first. Years of school uniforms had spared me the daily agonies over what to wear, but hadn't really prepared me to dress myself in something completely different every single day. I approached clothing as though it were a costume. There was the thrift store period, during which I mixed vintage 1950's cocktail dresses with combat boots and denim jackets. That was followed by a brief love affair with my grandfather's old Navy uniforms -- the work chinos, not the dress blues. I combined these with men's boxers, concert t-shirts, and high-top sneakers. I then entered my Black Phase, an era marked by gloomy shrouds and no lip gloss. My hair wasn't spared any of this experimentation. I grew it out, chopped it off, grew it out again, soaked fistfuls of it in Clorox, dyed it black, red, and every shade of brown on the shelves at the drugstore. In all of this, I wasn't really searching for anything in particular. Mostly, I just wanted to avoid pantyhose, ruffles, pastels, and anything that suggested sugar and spice. I ran screaming from the cutesy, fled in horror from the delicate, and shunned anything beribboned or bowed. These days, compared to the tomboy I was, I'm practically a Barbie doll. I wear heels, and the color pink, and cute little jackets, and jewelry and lip gloss and perfume. But I won't tuck in, and I won't wear pantyhose. Ruffles are forbidden, even on curtains. And please don't threaten me with hair bows -- it's like waving garlic at a vampire. I can't endure it. The irony is, my husband, who has always been attracted to tomboys and has never dated a true Fembot, thinks he's married to a prissy cupcake. Little does he know that there's a whole world of women out there who won't be seen without makeup, who match their bags to their shoes, and who would never, ever be caught dead at the grocery store wearing pajama bottoms and a tank top. I try to tell him that compared to an authentic girly girl, I'm a drag queen. But he just points to my shelf full of handbags, my rows and rows of shoes, and the bin full of hair styling goop under the sink and shakes his head in reproachful silence. It just proves that no matter who you are, you can always find someone who thinks you're a princess. Here's the best part: with no coaching or prompting from me, my daughter Olivia is following right in my footsteps. She yanks at her waistbands. She pulls on her sleeves. She tugs at her collars. Sweaters are a lost cause unless they're as soft and light as a feather. She has gone so far as to throw herself, sobbing, facedown on the floor in protest of being made to wear her jacket zipped up. Her hair, so thick and shiny and streaked with gold that I stare at it and think: surely, my work here on earth is complete, is something that Olivia is particularly adamant about. She will not, under any circumstances, permit a ponytail or a set of pigtails to adorn her head. A barrette or two might be allowed, providing that we don't try anything too fancy. As a result, her hair at the end of each day has been like an archaeological site. Whatever activities she's been involved in, whatever she's eaten, can easily be gleaned from a quick brushing. Paint, sand, Play-Doh, pizza sauce, maple syrup, peanut butter -- you name it, and we're sure to find it stuck in her hair. It happened in the middle of a bad brushing, Olivia wailing, me wrestling with a vicious, tangled knot. Suddenly it hit me: my baby was crying over her hair. And I knew what I had to do. I made an appointment, and three days later, Olivia climbed into the salon chair for her first real haircut. Not a pixie, because times have changed, and I like to at least hope that I've learned a little something from my mother's mistakes. Picking up her scissors, Le bent down and looked Olivia in the eye. "Ready?" she asked. Olivia nodded. I switched on the video camera. Fifteen minutes later, my little girl stood up and turned to admire her very first beveled blunt cut. She looked so pretty, and so grown up that I couldn't speak for a moment. For her part, she stared in the mirror with obvious amazement and delight. In the days that have followed, she's been tangle-free and thoroughly pleased at having successfully vanquished her archenemy, the hairbrush. It's been a victory for both of us. Olivia will have to figure out what sort of a girl she is, and that's a journey that can take a lifetime. I'm still plodding along. There will always be things I don't understand, like how certain women can maintain a manicure without forever chipping the polish or breaking their nails. And then there are the deeper mysteries of femininity, the questions about identity and the soul, and finding your place in the world. I wish I had those answers for my daughters. I wish I had them for myself. But I do know this: it's a whole lot easier to find the way once that hair is out of your eyes. --------