Strike Me, Spare Me

Last Saturday I celebrated an early Father's Day with my family -- what I called the "'Smith' Family Pre-Father's Day Extravaganza." It consisted of bowling with my parents and brother and a lovely dinner, followed by a showing of "The Blind Side." I should point out that I call all events "The 'Smith' Family [Name of Holiday] Extravaganza." Of course, I'm the only one in my family who does this. I think it makes everything more special. Try it sometime.

(In the future, I'm considering switching it up and using "Celebration" instead of "Extravaganza." Opinions?)

This is me -- in New Jersey, if you couldn't tell -- right after enjoying our delicious meal of Cuban food:

(It looks like I'm posing, but really I'm demonstrating my sense of direction, which I do not have. At all. When I started driving, I repeatedly asked my parents to draw maps to places I had known all my life. My mother, who was born with a compass in her brain, was flummoxed by this. She gave in and started drawing maps for me when my father explained that they had agreed to love me no matter what. Later, when my brother inherited my car, he opened the glove compartment and was buried under dozens of scraps of paper bearing all the places I had driven during the previous four years.)

In any case, my pre-Father's Day "Extravaganza" made me realize something important -- I am very lucky to like my family.

I always find it strange when people tell me they aren't close to their siblings. And they seem to find it equally strange when I say that my brother and I are good friends. My family is no Norman Rockwell painting, but he was painting an ideal that never existed. In real life, all of those scenes would have been captured about five minutes before everybody started arguing.

I know this, because my picture was taken about five minutes (give or take 15 hours) before we all started arguing. However, when we calmed down and apologies were exchanged, we sat down at the dinner table and carved our Thanksgiving turkey.

Wait...I think I'm flashing back to Rockwell's "Freedom From Want":


What I meant to say was, we sat down at the kitchen table and planned a family vacation.

Or as I called it, "The Smith Family Vacation-Planning Extravaganza."

A Horse of a Different Color

Prior to its migration to ABC for a long and unfunny march toward cancellation, I was an avid Scrubs viewer. I was reminded of a particular episode this afternoon in which a doctor named J.D. is discussing a difficult diagnosis with his mentor, Dr. Cox:

Dr. Cox: Newbie, do you happen to know what a zebra is?

J.D.: That patient just mocked me!

Dr. Cox: It’s a diagnosis of a ridiculously obscure disease when it’s much more likely that the patient has a common illness presenting with uncommon symptoms. In other words, if you hear hoof-beats, you just go ahead and think horsies – not zebras. Mm’kay, Mr. Silly Bear?

Well, even the brilliant Dr. Cox was wrong sometimes. According to the Immune Deficiency Foundation (IDF), “Patients with primary immunodeficiency diseases are the zebras of the medical world.”

I was looking at a chart today that showed the time between when people first manifest symptoms, until the time that they are diagnosed with an immunodeficiency.

Yours truly falls at the far end of the bar chart. I started having recurrent ear infections when I was a baby that continued throughout childhood, and was out more than 50 days my senior year of high school due to chronic sinusitis. I spent a lot of my life being sick and then being well but feeling exhausted. However, doctors told me that I simply “got sick a lot.” Even after sinus surgery and surgery to remove a giant (or as I like to think of it, “deluxe”) lymph node, no one considered looking at the bigger picture.

As the IDF points out, “Primary immunodeficiency diseases are a group of relatively rare conditions caused by intrinsic or genetic defects in the immune system.” Doctors rarely look for them. People don’t know they have them. According to research, this category of diseases occurs in one in 1,200 people. However, it’s speculated that the number would be higher if we had adequate screening at birth, or if doctors thought to look for an immune system issue when their patient had recurring infections.

I was finally diagnosed with Common Variable Immune Deficiency (CVID) after a hospital stay for an uncommon blood disorder. When I was 31 years old.

Yesterday, I wrote about a fantastic trip I trip I took during winter break of my junior year of college while studying in France. I mentioned how I got sick during those two weeks. What I didn’t mention was how sick. I had trouble sleeping in new places back then, so all the time my friend and I spent in youth hostels was time that I didn’t sleep. After a few days, my body was exhausted and I quickly developed the sniffles. By the time we wound up in Prague for New Year’s Eve, I was calling myself “Typhoid Nancy.” At midnight I rang in the new year on in the main square, giving healthy strangers viral kisses on each cheek as we wished each other a “Bonne Année.” (Still had the time of my life!)

I visited the doctor after we returned to school, and was told that along with an infection in both ears, I had sinusitis, laryngitis and bronchitis.

Many of my happy memories are colored by parallel memories of being sick.

Yet since I was diagnosed, I get sick a lot less often. I still catch everything everyone else has, but now I can get over it sooner than I used to.

I don’t usually leverage the [admittedly limited] power I have here. But it’s my blog. It’s my disorder. And there are too many people who go through hell on the way to diagnosis, and then go through hell once again as they try to navigate their new-found disease. So I’ll put myself on the line and direct you to the IDF donation page.

Granted, it’s not a sexy cause – it doesn’t come with a ribbon or a celebrity.

Hang on a minute…I’m wrong about that. It has a super sexy animal print logo!

This month, IDF launched their Think Zebra! campaign, to raise money for research.

So donate money for research, all ye horses!

Playing Dress-Up

My cousin and his wife visited New York City this past weekend. My family and I just saw them during our business trip...I mean, um, family visit...to Florida in early March. Not much time to let the heart grow fonder, but it was still exciting.

It was J's first trip to "La Grande Pomme," as I like to think the French call the Big Apple, and she had asked us what she and my cousin D should wear to see a Broadway musical. I looked at her jeans, t-shirts and flipflops and said, "Well, it's cold in New York, so you might want to put on sneakers." And that's the state of Thee-ay-tuh today – you don't dress to the nines unless you're attending a special event.

This instantly catapulted me back in time 10 years (ahem, 12 years), to junior year of college, when I was studying in France and planning my winter break excursion with my roommate, Sarah. We planned to take a two-week trek through Europe, with the halfway mark falling on Christmas in Vienna. And what does Christmas in Vienna mean? Vienna Boys’ Choir, and world-renowned opera.

Here is what I knew about Opera: it was spectacular, it was slightly boring, and, if Pretty Woman was any indicator, one was obliged to wear a gown.

Backpacking through Europe does not lend itself to packing a gown. Or more than two pairs of pants. So I settled – to the amusement of my friends – and stuffed a spring dress into my bag, insisting I would wear it to the opera. Let’s just say there were doubts.

Our first opera was in Budapest. Not my finest experience. I was sick, and the songs were in Italian. There was a digital sign above the stage that translated the words...into Czech. Watching the lyrics be translated from one language you don't know into another language you don't know, while suppressing a hacking cough and popping unidentifiable pills that a German pharmacist (or someone you hoped to god was a pharmacist) had promised you in broken English was "for the nose concern," is not particularly conducive to enjoying opera.

Christmas Eve in Vienna arrived.

It was winter. It was much too chilly for my dress. I hadn’t brought heels, stockings or a nice jacket. Or makeup or jewelry, for that matter. But I was determined to bring this vision to life. So I stepped into my green corduroy pants, threw on a long-sleeved cotton shirt and tied my French sneakers (which are similar to American sneakers, but purchased in France). And last, but not least, I shimmied into my "gown."

I remember Sarah doing a double take when I emerged from the bathroom in The Christmas Outfit.

This is my artistic rendering of what I wore to see Don Giovanni:

I looked ridiculous.

But you know what? I felt GREAT!

Sarah and I entered the magnificent Vienna State Opera and ascended the carpeted staircase. I looked down on a crowd of people wearing tuxedos and gowns. And I knew that I fit right in.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And corduroy pants or no corduroy pants, Julia Roberts had nothing on me that night.

An Abundance of Ethels

On Saturday, my parents held a Rosh Hashanah picnic. Normally, we go to my cousin's house for Rosh Hashanah and Passover, which involve appetizers, dinner and chatting. When I was a child, we would read from the haggadah, which, according to www.dictionary.com, is "a book containing the liturgy for the Seder service on the Jewish festival of Passover."

We never did the entire book, and I was happy to be spared a two-hour prayer dinner so I could instead focus on what was really important – my cousin's fantastic matzo ball soup and to-die-for brisket. I was raised as a happy little heathen, so when the haggadah asked, "Why is this night different from all other nights," I would think, Because I get to eat gefilte fish. We eventually stopped reading on Passover, and instead started with the most important element: food. I'm told the haggadah is still in the room, but we leave each other be.

This year, there was a fantastic addition to the festivities – family from my mother’s side that I had never met. I learned something this weekend: I do not have a small family. Finding this out made me happy. I always envied family reunions where all seven aunts and uncles, 22 first cousins, 13 second cousins, their kids, and various family friends crowded into one house for a lobster boil, sack races and in-fighting. Doesn’t that sound marvelous?

My mother had conveniently omitted (or, more likely, I hadn’t paid attention to the fact) that she has a bunch of first cousins, four of whom I had never met. They were invited to the picnic, and I was slated to be introduced to a few of her first and second cousins and their wives and children.

I was so excited that I started using exclamation points after everything:

“Here are the platters!”

“I’m taking a shower!”

“Did you clean the tables and chairs!”

Not grammatically correct, but I was a little emotional.

With all of these extra people we needed a venue bigger than my cousin's house, where it's normally held. Thus, my secular family ended up hosting their First Inaugural Rosh Hashanah Picnic. It had all the traditional food, including brisket, matzo balls, chicken with brie, spinach and pears, noodle kugel, kasha varnishkes and tandoori chicken. For dessert: cakes from a Lithuanian bakery, fruit salad, gulab jamun and Chocorooms.

Take notes, non-Jews. I will teach you the right way to throw a religious Jewish holiday party.

My long-lost relatives turned out to be lovely and, thankfully, talkative. I learned that I had a great-grandmother named Ethel. She was highly beloved, and after she died, my grandmother’s generation followed the tradition of naming their children after this respected relative. Therefore, my mother has three first cousins named Ethel. My grandmother didn’t like the name, and chose to use only the letter “E” and pick the name Ellen. Smart lady – none of the Ethels like their name. (Even though they did love their namesake.)

There’s New York Ethel. She uses her name, but thinks it’s ugly. There’s Boston Ethel, who goes by “Saf,” an abbreviation of her maiden name. And there’s Florida Ethel, who is referred to alternately as “Big Ethel” and “Tall Ethel.” It wasn’t clear whether she objects to her nicknames or her actual name. I’d understand either way. (On a side note, I find it telling that at 5-foot-7-inches, she is considered the tall one in our family. We are a short people.)

Disappointingly, my dreams of a crazy family reunion were dashed. Not one of my new relatives showed up drunk. No one appeared bitter about their portion of a long-forgotten will or wanted to continue arguments begun in 1968. And all of the children were adorable, well-behaved and friendly.

However, I still have high hopes. You never know who’ll show up next year!

'Tis the Season

There are so many good holidays in August. While I'm staying away from Potato Day (too high in carbs), Work Like a Dog Day (or as I call it, "every day") and World Sauntering Day (I don't saunter in public), there are a few that I might celebrate.

National S'mores Day: August 10

Several years ago, I went on the most romantic date of my life. It was with my friend B, and she and I agreed that had one of us been a man, the other would have definitely wanted a second date. It started off with Italian for Beginners, a funny, sweet film that seemed very magical at the time. I recommend it highly. We then walked around Washington, D.C. and ended up at a little restaurant where we made s'mores for dessert. They gave us a little flame, all the s'mores accoutrements, and then let us go to it. Highly delicious and interactive, which was a great combo. I like to be hands-on. The day culminated on her doorstep, where we both went in, neither for coffee nor for "coffee," because I was visiting her for a long weekend and also because it wasn't an actual date.

On August 10, I will send B a picture of a s'mores and tell her I'm still waiting by the phone.

Roller Coaster Day: August 16

If this holiday were Christmas, I would be like, "Well, I'm Jewish so I can't really celebrate. I already celebrated a similar, not-as-fun version of this holiday several weeks ago, when it didn't yet feel like the holiday season." (Although I can't actually complain, because my parents gave us Christmas presents too. There are advantages to being a secular Jewish family.)

The truth is I have always hated the sensation of falling. Thus, I would place "Eternal ride on a log flume" at the top of the list that God would use to punish me in the afterlife for being an atheist. I distinctly remember my mother standing on the platform of a roller coaster, getting in the car and shouting as it pulled away, "If you try it, I'll buy you a denim jacket! And matching jeans!" I should note that this was a kiddy roller coaster, which did nothing more than gently traverse a few low-lying hills and valleys. I opted out, even if it meant losing out on what might have been the seminal outfit of my '80s childhood.

So I will participate in Roller Coaster Day by holding everyone's jackets and purses as they race skyward at unnatural speeds.

National Radio Day: August 20

Little-known fact: I was an extra in Radio Days, the Woody Allen film. I will be celebrating the holiday by passing along this nugget of information to you, thereby enriching your life. Do you feel enriched? There! Holiday celebrated.

National Secondhand Wardrobe Day: August 25

How you observe this holiday depends on where you live. In America, the younger sibling traditionally sends a card to their older sibling bearing the message, "Thanks for those crummy hand-me-downs. I really hated wearing your stupid old clothing." I prefer the British version of this holiday, which mostly involves dragging out the C.S. Lewis books and reading the Narnia stories to your children while gathered around an armoire. Which, in Britain, is called a wardrobe.

When my grandfather passed away, I inherited (by virtue of helping to clean out his apartment) a vintage dice game called Scribbage (which is unrelated to Cribbage), a backgammon set and his favorite magnifying glass. I gratefully took home a coffee table book of paintings by Ralph Fasanella that I had always loved. Incidentally, I got the coffee table too. I needed furniture, so I ended up with what I call the Faux-moire - an ugly cabinet-on-top, drawers-below behemoth that weighs a good 300 pounds and is deceptively un-spacious.

But in honor of the holiday, I will set aside my dislike for the Faux-moire and instead appreciate where it came from.

Won't you join me in making a National Secondhand Wardrobe Day resolution?

In Memoriam

The event of the season – my family’s annual Memorial Day Barbecue – was an unqualified success for several reasons.

1. The rain held off until the last moment, despite some false starts, so that everyone was already leaving when it really came down. It was like the French and fruit juice – when they serve it to you, it’s a sign that the evening is over.
2. We had several adorable children roaming around. It was tremendous fun, even if I was asked when I was going to have one of my own.
3. Lastly, I made a fantastic dessert, a batch of chocolate-dipped frozen bananas. It was the first time I had cooked (or, in this case, dipped) something that people wanted to eat. Most awesome? People even asked me for the recipe! (Thanks, Yum Sugar.)

I usually contribute taramasalada, a creamy Greek caviar dip that I am required, by law, to purchase for parties, since I live in New York’s Greek-est neighborhood. It’s true – you can check my lease.

Preparations for this day-long extravaganza were long and arduous, and involved me going on several shopping runs with my father, making multiple lists, and cleaning my parents’ house top-to-bottom until I collapsed on their living room couch. They thought I was napping, but I’m pretty sure I was in a temporary cleaning-induced coma.

When I saw this at Stop’n’Shop (on our first trip to the store), I suggested we leave a bottle in the guest bathroom:

We don’t have pets. I just thought it would be fun to make people guess who was using it, and why.

What my parents opted to leave in the bathroom, on the tray that sits on top of the toilet tank, was this:
I am not normally a conspiracy theorist, but I have always believed that my parents wait for me to come home to change the toilet paper rolls. I don’t know what they do when I’m not around, but I am always the one who wanders into the powder room to find one lonely 2-ply square of Cottonelle. I decided to send a strong message several months ago by leaving empty toilet paper rolls in both bathrooms with personalized inscriptions on them. They not only thought it was funny, they kept the one downstairs and put it on display for guests. And I still refuse to change the roll.

Cleaning wasn’t confined indoors. My father, brother and I ventured to the backyard to wash all the chairs and tables, which were covered in a winter’s worth of crud.

After so many years hosting the barbecue, we have amassed an extensive collection of plastic seating. I learned something new this time around, after we hosed them down. Wet chairs will turn to face the sun, like flowers:


I voted for telling people they weren’t allowed to move them, but was quickly vetoed. Some people just don’t know how to have a good time.

MOM.