Merry Christmas! Happy belated Hanukkah! My daughter has asked me to make latkes for Christmas eve. Glad to see my little seven year old black girl is in touch with cultural roots. Someone else's cultural roots, but that's okay for now, too. The more culture the better. So I'm going to make sweet potato latkes on Christmas Eve as a new family tradition. Happy New Year. No resolutions really, more shifts and adjustments.
Have a wonderful holiday! Track Santa's sleigh ride tonight on www.noradsanta.org
Friday, December 24, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
No Naughty Children Here
Santa has a list. He checks it twice to see who has been naughty and who has been nice. I’ve always hated that depiction of Santa, yet have been guilty myself of warning my children that they better be good or they’ll end up on the dreaded naughty list. A punitive Santa – a guy who will retaliate against a kid for their bad behavior by denying them toys on the one day of the year when everyone should get a present. Not a nice concept when you really sit down and think about it. We want our children to behave nicely regardless of the threat of the naughty list. But anyone who has children knows that just doesn’t happen and we need everything (from bribes to threats) to keep them in line.
But really, when you think about it, for the most part, there are no naughty children. There are children who are scared, misunderstood, frustrated, tired and hungry. There are children whose parents are impatient or distracted or frustrated in their own right and taking it out on their kids. Under those circumstances, those kids are going to act out, they are going to misbehave and they will end up with the naughty label and their name on the dreaded list.
Recently, when my kids were going bonkers one afternoon and really making me crazy, I started to lay into them, shouting (or barking as my daughter likes to describe it) and ordering them about. But before I exploded, I stopped for a moment and tried to think about how we went from peaceful morning to afternoon anarchy with more bad behavior than you’d find in congress on any given day. I caused it. Not my children. They were behaving badly, naughty enough to end up on the list, but they got there because I had been rushing them, not listening to what they were saying, misinterpreting their actions and yelling at them because of it. My bad behavior incited their bad behavior. Now I’m not saying my kids are angels or that they never behave badly on their own. There are too many instances for me to mention of them crossing the line from good little girls to unholy terrors. In fact, one of my oldest friends affectionately calls them “Children of the Corn.” But in this particular instance, they were naughty not nice because of parental bad behavior. I think, probably more often then we’d like to admit, it is our own unfortunate reactions to things, our own bad behavior which brings out undesirable behaviors in our children. Conversely, we can bring out the nice as easily as we can incite the naughty. I’m only hoping my behavior doesn’t earn me a spot the naughty list this year!
Friday, December 10, 2010
'Tis the Season for Behaving Badly
Is it the holidays that tend to bring out the worst in everyone or is it just that we notice it more now because the bad behavior is such a contrast to the expected seasonal cheer? The foul attitudes, childish antics and rude comments are on display everywhere - from the grocery store, on the daily commute, and at holiday open houses. I had a septuagenarian try to bum rush a seat I was saving David at a school holiday concert yesterday. She asked if the seat was empty and when I told her I was saving it for my husband (and I was not the only person saving a seat – in fact, I might have been the only person saving just one seat), she snapped, “Well, he’s not in it now, is he,” and started to climb over me to claim the chair. I thought about tripping her but figured those calcium deficient old bones of hers would probably snap and she’d crack a hip or something. But before I could come up with another plan, the woman in the seat next to me, on the end of the row, contributed a silent assist, refusing to move her legs, blocking the row and keeping granny from pushing through. The old woman hissed at us both and moved on, trying to find someone else to bully. I was actually caught off guard by the old hag’s behavior. I guess I was fooled by the silver hair, sweet smile and the cheap but festive looking Christmas tree brooch pinned to her red wool lapel and thought, “Oh, here’s someone’s sweet grandma.” Yeah, right…sweet in the way that arsenic tastes sweet until it kills you.
And then there is the usual bad behavior resulting from holiday regression which, despite all vows to keep it from happening, occurs to anyone over the age of 30 when forced to be in close proximity with their parents for more than 48 hours. Before they arrive, you swear that you will not let them push your buttons, treat you like a child or allow yourself to behave like one in response. You’re able to manage maintaining your adult persona for a day or two, three if you’re a therapist, Oscar winning actor or trained hostage negotiator, but after that, the facade explodes, usually over something trivial like your dad leaving dirty socks on the kitchen table or your mother sneering at your choice of landscaping, and you find yourself engaged in a screaming match with your parent. There is shouting, maybe even a little foot stomping involved, names might even be called and inevitably your parent will accuse you of behaving in a way that you haven’t since 1982. You will respond as if you were back in 1982. And let’s face it, that tactic didn’t work then and it won’t work now. But these little holiday induced temper tantrums and acts of childish behavior aren’t limited to interactions with your parents. Try spending even a few hours with your siblings when your parents are around and see what happens. I do find it odd that my brother and I can get along great when my father isn’t in residence, but as soon as he enters California air space, the temptation to start acting like we’re 6 and 10 again is almost more that we can resist. A few years ago, over Christmas, my brother and I were out and I snatched something from him as if I was in second grade. He grabbed it back and I took it again. He responded the way any teenage big brother would and punched me in the arm. It was hilarious to us, but a woman passing stopped and glared at him, I guess assuming she’d just seen some spousal abuse or other horrible act of violence. My brother, in an effort to explain the punch he’d just thrown, said, “It’s okay, she’s my sister.” The woman laughed and continued on. Her parents were probably in town, too.
Ah, the holiday parties, another excellent place for witnessing completely inappropriate behavior fueled by brandied egg nog and other holiday stresses. I was at one recently where a group of five or six moms had gravitated into the living room while the husbands watched the game on the flattest of big screens. While they were watching pigskins, we were listening to a pig. This one mother rattled on about her perfect children and their perfect lives and the perfect private school that she insisted – and here’s the piggy part – they had to go to because they couldn’t possibly attend their local public school which was overflowing with too many minorities! Yes, she said it. If you have that world view, you might think it, you might even say it in the privacy of your own home, but out in the open at a holiday party? There was a very awkward pause as the other women looked down at the floor and the perfect mother realized what she’d said in front of the two minority moms. I took a deep breath, kicked back my Merlot and tried to figure out the best way to respond without putting a damper on my friend’s party. However, before the words, “Listen you bitch, what’s wrong with a little diversity…” could come out of my mouth, the other minority mom changed the subject. She had to go to school with these people, I didn’t, so I guess overlooking the comment was her way of surviving. But I was immediately angered that I’d let the moment pass without at the very least pointing out the stupidity of her comment. I felt guilty, almost complicit in her bigotry by letting her statement go. But by the time I’d worked through all of this in my head, they were onto talk of winter breaks in Aspen and where to get the best take out in Beverly Hills. Another mother came over to me later and said, “Oh, she was talking about the Latinos, we have a big population of them in our area,” as if it I would think it was okay to make fun of the minorities as long as it wasn’t my minority group. So much for Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards Men.
Twenty-two days until the holidays are officially over. I know the bad behavior will continue after that, but at least the behavior won’t seem so ironic in contrast to all the good tiding that are supposed to be inherent in the season. I sound cranky. I guess I better be careful or three ghosts will visit me in the middle of the night. My luck, the ghosts will leave laundry, dirty dishes and bills for me to pay.
And then there is the usual bad behavior resulting from holiday regression which, despite all vows to keep it from happening, occurs to anyone over the age of 30 when forced to be in close proximity with their parents for more than 48 hours. Before they arrive, you swear that you will not let them push your buttons, treat you like a child or allow yourself to behave like one in response. You’re able to manage maintaining your adult persona for a day or two, three if you’re a therapist, Oscar winning actor or trained hostage negotiator, but after that, the facade explodes, usually over something trivial like your dad leaving dirty socks on the kitchen table or your mother sneering at your choice of landscaping, and you find yourself engaged in a screaming match with your parent. There is shouting, maybe even a little foot stomping involved, names might even be called and inevitably your parent will accuse you of behaving in a way that you haven’t since 1982. You will respond as if you were back in 1982. And let’s face it, that tactic didn’t work then and it won’t work now. But these little holiday induced temper tantrums and acts of childish behavior aren’t limited to interactions with your parents. Try spending even a few hours with your siblings when your parents are around and see what happens. I do find it odd that my brother and I can get along great when my father isn’t in residence, but as soon as he enters California air space, the temptation to start acting like we’re 6 and 10 again is almost more that we can resist. A few years ago, over Christmas, my brother and I were out and I snatched something from him as if I was in second grade. He grabbed it back and I took it again. He responded the way any teenage big brother would and punched me in the arm. It was hilarious to us, but a woman passing stopped and glared at him, I guess assuming she’d just seen some spousal abuse or other horrible act of violence. My brother, in an effort to explain the punch he’d just thrown, said, “It’s okay, she’s my sister.” The woman laughed and continued on. Her parents were probably in town, too.
Ah, the holiday parties, another excellent place for witnessing completely inappropriate behavior fueled by brandied egg nog and other holiday stresses. I was at one recently where a group of five or six moms had gravitated into the living room while the husbands watched the game on the flattest of big screens. While they were watching pigskins, we were listening to a pig. This one mother rattled on about her perfect children and their perfect lives and the perfect private school that she insisted – and here’s the piggy part – they had to go to because they couldn’t possibly attend their local public school which was overflowing with too many minorities! Yes, she said it. If you have that world view, you might think it, you might even say it in the privacy of your own home, but out in the open at a holiday party? There was a very awkward pause as the other women looked down at the floor and the perfect mother realized what she’d said in front of the two minority moms. I took a deep breath, kicked back my Merlot and tried to figure out the best way to respond without putting a damper on my friend’s party. However, before the words, “Listen you bitch, what’s wrong with a little diversity…” could come out of my mouth, the other minority mom changed the subject. She had to go to school with these people, I didn’t, so I guess overlooking the comment was her way of surviving. But I was immediately angered that I’d let the moment pass without at the very least pointing out the stupidity of her comment. I felt guilty, almost complicit in her bigotry by letting her statement go. But by the time I’d worked through all of this in my head, they were onto talk of winter breaks in Aspen and where to get the best take out in Beverly Hills. Another mother came over to me later and said, “Oh, she was talking about the Latinos, we have a big population of them in our area,” as if it I would think it was okay to make fun of the minorities as long as it wasn’t my minority group. So much for Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards Men.
Twenty-two days until the holidays are officially over. I know the bad behavior will continue after that, but at least the behavior won’t seem so ironic in contrast to all the good tiding that are supposed to be inherent in the season. I sound cranky. I guess I better be careful or three ghosts will visit me in the middle of the night. My luck, the ghosts will leave laundry, dirty dishes and bills for me to pay.
Friday, December 3, 2010
What Parents Shouldn’t Do
One of a parent’s main responsibilities is to keep their under-aged kids out of bars. Yet a few weeks ago, we spent the better half of a weekend trying to sneak our 7 and 10 year old girls into a club where their father’s band was playing.
David invited us to join him for the weekend in Palm Springs where his band had booked a gig at an Indian casino. Rarely do the girls and I get invited along on gigs, and given that there was a free room in a new hotel with a nice pool involved, we drove down and met him there, ready to enjoy.
The first time he mentioned trying to get them in to see him play, I pointed out that he was performing in a club in the casino and that even if the girls were, “…with the band,” their age would not be overlooked. But David got it in his head that he really wanted them to see him play and he was going to “explore” every opportunity to get them in. He asked the front desk to check and see if there was an age restriction in the lounge where they were playing. Of course there was. It was a bar with people kicking back shots and the shots were not smoothies. Then he talked to the sound man and asked if they could stand next to him in the booth. He asked the waitress if there was a dark corner in the VIP lounge (because that’s where you want your kids to be, in dark corners in lounges with bottle service) where they could sit unnoticed for 15-20 minutes. He tried bringing them in during rehearsal while the club was closed and having them sit at the table by the stage. The bartenders and waitresses were fine with it, but when the manager saw my girls sitting ring-side, she quickly informed David that they had to go. He tried to feign innocence, seeming surprised that even with the bar closed, it was off limits to them. I used to waitress in a bar in college. I knew his multiple schemes were not going to work. After all, a liquor license is a terrible thing to lose.
At first, I tried to talk him out of it. Then, I mentioned how (truly) tired the girls were. There are many reasons kids shouldn’t be bar hopping, one very basic one is that they get tired early and want to go to bed. Finally, I told him that I didn’t want to be the one to get yelled at or incarcerated because he wanted me to sneak them into a club to watch him play. Yes, it was important to him, and in many ways his reasons were incredibly sweet and sentimental, but was seeing him worth a criminal record?
As a compromise, I looked around and realized that the ice cream parlor next door to the club lounge was open from 5am until 2am – because every club needs an ice cream parlor next door – and that if the girls and I ordered ice cream and stood directly in front of the ice cream parlor door pretending to read the menu, we had a direct view of the stage from the front door of the club.
So my children got to see their father play without breaking local, state and probably federal laws. I’m glad, because even though it’s holiday time, my idea of a family Christmas portrait is not a mug shot.
David invited us to join him for the weekend in Palm Springs where his band had booked a gig at an Indian casino. Rarely do the girls and I get invited along on gigs, and given that there was a free room in a new hotel with a nice pool involved, we drove down and met him there, ready to enjoy.
The first time he mentioned trying to get them in to see him play, I pointed out that he was performing in a club in the casino and that even if the girls were, “…with the band,” their age would not be overlooked. But David got it in his head that he really wanted them to see him play and he was going to “explore” every opportunity to get them in. He asked the front desk to check and see if there was an age restriction in the lounge where they were playing. Of course there was. It was a bar with people kicking back shots and the shots were not smoothies. Then he talked to the sound man and asked if they could stand next to him in the booth. He asked the waitress if there was a dark corner in the VIP lounge (because that’s where you want your kids to be, in dark corners in lounges with bottle service) where they could sit unnoticed for 15-20 minutes. He tried bringing them in during rehearsal while the club was closed and having them sit at the table by the stage. The bartenders and waitresses were fine with it, but when the manager saw my girls sitting ring-side, she quickly informed David that they had to go. He tried to feign innocence, seeming surprised that even with the bar closed, it was off limits to them. I used to waitress in a bar in college. I knew his multiple schemes were not going to work. After all, a liquor license is a terrible thing to lose.
At first, I tried to talk him out of it. Then, I mentioned how (truly) tired the girls were. There are many reasons kids shouldn’t be bar hopping, one very basic one is that they get tired early and want to go to bed. Finally, I told him that I didn’t want to be the one to get yelled at or incarcerated because he wanted me to sneak them into a club to watch him play. Yes, it was important to him, and in many ways his reasons were incredibly sweet and sentimental, but was seeing him worth a criminal record?
As a compromise, I looked around and realized that the ice cream parlor next door to the club lounge was open from 5am until 2am – because every club needs an ice cream parlor next door – and that if the girls and I ordered ice cream and stood directly in front of the ice cream parlor door pretending to read the menu, we had a direct view of the stage from the front door of the club.
So my children got to see their father play without breaking local, state and probably federal laws. I’m glad, because even though it’s holiday time, my idea of a family Christmas portrait is not a mug shot.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Happy Hellidays
Okay, calling the holidays, hellidays is horrible and I’ll probably go to hell for saying it. I vaguely picture myself being roasted brown on a spit like a large stuffed pig complete with apple in my mouth by Lucifer himself, who in my mind vaguely resembles a mortgage broker in a pink polyester suit. But honestly, the holidays can be hell. I feel them approaching with impending trepidation about all the things to be done – of which there are many, of all the money to be spent – of which there is not so much, of all the extended family issues to navigate – of which there will be too many. I was in Ralphs grocery store on Wednesday trying to accomplish an hour’s worth of shopping in the twenty-five minutes that I had before picking up my kids from music class and I realized that I was talking to myself. Shopping for Thanksgiving dinner had driven me to talk to myself. Not just a word or two, but a full blown conversation trying to talk my way through the list of over fifty items from granulated sugar to canned yams to dinner rolls. I was talking to myself and honestly, I’m pretty damn sure the canned corn talked back. The bad thing is, I realized I was talking out loud to myself, and I didn’t stop. I needed to do it in order to get myself through the task at hand. At that moment, I clearly understood why crazy people talk to themselves. It’s comforting. It’s like someone’s with you. You’re not alone on this treacherous journey (in my case down the dairy aisle) that you are undertaking.
The hellidays, those thirtyplus days from Thanksgiving to New Year’s - although it seems longer because all the retailers have had Christmas lights and garland in the stores since before Halloween – are a time where regardless of whether you feel thankful or merry or newly resolved, you are expected to behave as if you are thankful or merry or newly resolved. It’s a conspiracy. You have to go along with it because everyone else does. Maybe it’s the idea of faking it until you make it. If you force yourself to go along with all the holiday cheer, the merry sentiments of the season, then eventually, you really start to feel that way. You recognize the things you have to feel thankful for, find merriment even in the midst of all the chaos, angst and family drama, and you steel yourself to face the New Year with the optimism and resolution to face even the most challenging tasks and personal improvement projects. Maybe that is the magic of the holidays-- that you can be transformed by the spirit of the season, at least until January 2nd when you fall of that new diet and realize the can of creamed corn is still talking to you.
Enjoy your turkey, be thankful, and stay out of my way in Ralphs. Happy Thanksgiving – in advance.
The hellidays, those thirtyplus days from Thanksgiving to New Year’s - although it seems longer because all the retailers have had Christmas lights and garland in the stores since before Halloween – are a time where regardless of whether you feel thankful or merry or newly resolved, you are expected to behave as if you are thankful or merry or newly resolved. It’s a conspiracy. You have to go along with it because everyone else does. Maybe it’s the idea of faking it until you make it. If you force yourself to go along with all the holiday cheer, the merry sentiments of the season, then eventually, you really start to feel that way. You recognize the things you have to feel thankful for, find merriment even in the midst of all the chaos, angst and family drama, and you steel yourself to face the New Year with the optimism and resolution to face even the most challenging tasks and personal improvement projects. Maybe that is the magic of the holidays-- that you can be transformed by the spirit of the season, at least until January 2nd when you fall of that new diet and realize the can of creamed corn is still talking to you.
Enjoy your turkey, be thankful, and stay out of my way in Ralphs. Happy Thanksgiving – in advance.
Friday, November 12, 2010
So Many Reasons to be Thankful
November and the impending holidays always trigger more frequent conversations with my daughters about being thankful. Back when grocery stores would give away free frozen turkeys for purchases over $150 (they don’t seem to do that anymore), I would cook up two or three (because how many turkeys does a family really need???) and all the accompaniments – gravy, mashed potatoes and stuffing, plate them, drive around my neighborhood looking for homeless under overpasses or by the freeway exits and handout the plates of food the day before Thanksgiving. I did it for several years before I was married and had children, but last year my husband, David, suggested that it wasn’t the safest idea. I really hadn’t had a problem and the response from the homeless who I gave the food to was always one of surprise and gratitude with the one exception of the woman who complained (and in retrospect, rightfully so) that there was no beverage to accompany the meal. So this year, I will be content with taking my daughters to pack food boxes for a shelter to hand out, rather than doing our own makeshift meal delivery.
But I struggle with how to teach my kids about need and want, particularly when they are surrounded by messages that confuse the two. Do they need an iPhone? A flat screen in their bedroom? Real Ugg boots? No, they want those things, but they certainly don’t need them. And yet in their world – being hit by ads, tv, music lyrics and friends who have and encourage them to want the same - they believe they are deprived without them. I had to bite my tongue from snapping at Natalie when she came home and rattled off a list of things that another child at school had, wants of hers which she considered needs that I refused (and in her mind stubbornly and maliciously so) to provide her with. They included a European vacation over winter break, horseback riding lessons and a credit card at Justice. Not that I could have done any of those things right now anyway, but even if I could, I wouldn’t. Yet, her seven year, old credit card toting friend had all those things and I was the mean mommy keeping my second grader from having them. Natalie complained that we must be poor because she couldn’t have those things. That’s when I regretted that I wasn’t making them come with me to take turkey to the homeless. Then they’d see what poor really was.
It also feels like what kids think they need nowadays has changed drastically since I was young. Maybe I’m having selective memory, but I don’t think I ever coveted lines of credit in elementary school. So, I’ve ramped up the being thankful discussions and all this talk about it inspired me to come up with a small list of my own:
Here are ten things – in no particular order - that I’m thankful for beyond family, health, friends and shelter:
Bubble wrap and the fact that popping it still makes me laugh
That JJ Abrams cast black people as leads in a television drama series that isn’t about race, even if NBC was silly enough to cancel it
Playdates that don’t end in children (or parents) crying
Dark chocolate
My ten year old telling a boy who asked her, that she was too young to be anyone’s girlfriend
Having ten minutes alone in the bathroom without someone under five feet tall knocking on the door and needing me from something
That even with my bad back, I can still touch my toes without bending my knees
Feeling energized after arguing politics
Getting old enough to realize that whatever it is, isn’t as bad as it seems
Being able to appreciate (and mostly accept) myself and those around me for who we are
But I struggle with how to teach my kids about need and want, particularly when they are surrounded by messages that confuse the two. Do they need an iPhone? A flat screen in their bedroom? Real Ugg boots? No, they want those things, but they certainly don’t need them. And yet in their world – being hit by ads, tv, music lyrics and friends who have and encourage them to want the same - they believe they are deprived without them. I had to bite my tongue from snapping at Natalie when she came home and rattled off a list of things that another child at school had, wants of hers which she considered needs that I refused (and in her mind stubbornly and maliciously so) to provide her with. They included a European vacation over winter break, horseback riding lessons and a credit card at Justice. Not that I could have done any of those things right now anyway, but even if I could, I wouldn’t. Yet, her seven year, old credit card toting friend had all those things and I was the mean mommy keeping my second grader from having them. Natalie complained that we must be poor because she couldn’t have those things. That’s when I regretted that I wasn’t making them come with me to take turkey to the homeless. Then they’d see what poor really was.
It also feels like what kids think they need nowadays has changed drastically since I was young. Maybe I’m having selective memory, but I don’t think I ever coveted lines of credit in elementary school. So, I’ve ramped up the being thankful discussions and all this talk about it inspired me to come up with a small list of my own:
Here are ten things – in no particular order - that I’m thankful for beyond family, health, friends and shelter:
Bubble wrap and the fact that popping it still makes me laugh
That JJ Abrams cast black people as leads in a television drama series that isn’t about race, even if NBC was silly enough to cancel it
Playdates that don’t end in children (or parents) crying
Dark chocolate
My ten year old telling a boy who asked her, that she was too young to be anyone’s girlfriend
Having ten minutes alone in the bathroom without someone under five feet tall knocking on the door and needing me from something
That even with my bad back, I can still touch my toes without bending my knees
Feeling energized after arguing politics
Getting old enough to realize that whatever it is, isn’t as bad as it seems
Being able to appreciate (and mostly accept) myself and those around me for who we are
Friday, November 5, 2010
Cheaper than Therapy
A few months ago, David looked at our cell phone bill and asked (in a rather suspicious fashion) who I was calling 3-4 times a week at 8am and talking to for a half hour on my drive in to work. I admitted that my friend (I'll call her Judith rather than put her real name and associated admissions out in the street) and I used that time to chat, talk about how are lives are going complain or boast about our kids, jobs, politics, you name it. We cry, we laugh, we compare and contrast our childhoods and family dysfunctions. We admit things to each other that we probably don't admit to many other folks. It is our own personal rantfest. Another friend, who I'll call WH, and I have similar exchanges but not as often, mostly because she works from home and doesn't have the leisure (or burden) of a drive in rush hour traffic to let off steam. But oddly, our exchanges seem mostly to revolve around health and sex and relationships - probably because she teaches that to teens - but also because she's very frank in a way that other women tend not to be. She'll call and tell me about her health or ask me about something very personal in a way that is disarming and freeing, allowing you to open up in a way that you might not even feel comfortable doing with your own doctor without blushing. Some people have a gift, or a curse depending on how you look at it. I have other friends who are my food buddies or my home repair pals, women I can chat with about those subjects and bemoan the house fixing up that never gets completed or the challenges of finding gluten free pizza in the valley.
But the point is, we have these discussions, often, because they are not only enjoyable (and helpful) but because they make us happy. I knew this already from experience, but then was surprised and pleased to find an article in the New York Times called, “Why Sisterly chats Make People Happier,” and felt that what I had suspected all along had finally been validated. (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/26/health/26essay.html) And the great thing is, the sisters don’t have to be biological sisters, just women with whom you connect with on a certain topic or no particular topic at all – someone you just know you can chat with and even the most frivolous or benign conversation will bring you as much comfort as that call which helps you through a bad diagnosis or a marital crisis.
Now whenever David looks at the cell phone bill and sees Judith’s number showing up repeatedly, he knows better than to comment. He realizes my sisterly chats with my friends are vastly cheaper than therapy (and far more enjoyable).
But the point is, we have these discussions, often, because they are not only enjoyable (and helpful) but because they make us happy. I knew this already from experience, but then was surprised and pleased to find an article in the New York Times called, “Why Sisterly chats Make People Happier,” and felt that what I had suspected all along had finally been validated. (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/26/health/26essay.html) And the great thing is, the sisters don’t have to be biological sisters, just women with whom you connect with on a certain topic or no particular topic at all – someone you just know you can chat with and even the most frivolous or benign conversation will bring you as much comfort as that call which helps you through a bad diagnosis or a marital crisis.
Now whenever David looks at the cell phone bill and sees Judith’s number showing up repeatedly, he knows better than to comment. He realizes my sisterly chats with my friends are vastly cheaper than therapy (and far more enjoyable).
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