Hand-Stuffed Olives and Other Small Pleasures

More than two years ago I bought a lovely vintage-type book with blank pages, titled The Quest of Happy Hearts, from my creative young friend Alyssa. My intention was to keep it by my bedside and each day jot down all my deep thoughts and profound ideas. It turned out that, though other people apparently acquire life-changing insights on a daily basis, mine are embedded too deeply in my subconscious to regurgitate them on command at 10:00 Central Standard Time each night—charming hand-crafted journal notwithstanding. And said profundities were always competing for attention with the current book club selection on the nightstand. Alas, my journal languished unopened in the drawer.


At the same time, I’d fallen into the habit of dwelling on certain anxiety-producing situations in my life, leading to insomnia and excessive weight loss (yeah, sure— just hallucinating from lack of sleep for a moment). Time to put Plan B into action: My New Year’s resolution for 2011 was to keep a gratitude journal to remind myself of even the smallest things in my life for which I should be thankful each day. Obviously not an original idea, but a goal that seemed more easily attainable than the deep-thoughts business because I wouldn’t have to rely solely on creativity. I envisioned the sunny disposition I would develop as a result of this simple exercise, what with the glass-half-full mentality and hours of extra slumber I’d reap. “What a sweetheart,” my co-workers would murmur admiringly as I toiled tirelessly and amiably, interjecting thoughtful comments in long meetings and defusing flared tempers.

So now it’s November, and my resolution this year proved to work out about as well as all my past ones. Meetings at work are still long and boring, and few (none) of my co-workers, friends or family members have remarked on my uncannily serene temperament. My still-blank journal mocked me as we headed into this annual season of thankfulness, so I put it back into the top drawer. But, in the spirit of the season and to kick-start Project Self-Improvement 2012, I thought of several things to get me started toward achieving that “attitude of gratitude.” Here are a few of the really small things in life that give a little serotonin boost to my brain’s pleasure center:

1)      The electric butt-warmer in my car’s seat.

2)      Our 4-year-old granddaughter Catie, dressed as a cheerleader for Halloween, shaking her pompons and chanting , “Goooooo, Hot Guys!” (She’s used to hearing her dad cheer for the Iowa Hawkeyes.)

3)      Placing an online order for an odd-sized patio furniture cover, impossible to find in stores, and having it arrive on my doorstep in three days.

4)      Using the “Live” button on the cable TV remote to pause a show while I run to the kitchen for a handful of chocolate chips, then coming back and starting the show right where I left off. I have NO IDEA how or why this works. It’s magic.

5)      Handfuls of chocolate chips.

6)      The unbelievable sunsets for a few days as I drove home from work around 6:00 p.m., just before the return to standard time.

7)      Putting on a pair of jeans I haven’t worn in two years, and they still fit. (I’ve battled a weight problem all my life. See Item 5.)

8)      The luxurious, soft fur on our cat, Gramps.

9)      Hearing Journey’s “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” on the radio, and cranking up the volume on the “na na na na na”s.

10)   Online word games and computer Solitaire. (I know, waste of time. But I’m addicted.)

11)   Getting to the end of a yoga workout and lying inert for several minutes in “corpse” pose.

12)   Finding the box of red Wine4Grilling on sale at World Market, just in time for holiday entertaining. High class, we are indeed.

13)   The colossal pitted green olives that Curt stuffs by hand with Maytag blue cheese. The only reason one needs to drink a martini.

Lest anyone think my list incredibly shallow, I hasten to add that the huge blessings—family, health, love, security, friendship—are definitely worthy of gratitude. But while these things can ebb and flow, we can all find tiny delights in each day to remind us that life is a gift.

So I’ve got my first entries for The Quest of Happy Hearts. But I must add that I’m especially thankful for my handsome, brainy, supportive, faithful and all-around talented husband. Not every man would stuff olives for me.

Slip Slidin' Away

My ego and my body both took a little beating this past week. I’m actually feeling pretty good, considering.

A little history: From the first time I rode the Log Flume at Adventureland near Des Moines probably 30 years ago, I was hooked on water rides. Though no fan of roller coasters—too jerky and nausea-inducing—I’ve adored lazy rivers, giant raft slides and wave pools since they became de rigueur back in the eighties. Probably comes from all those childhood summer vacations floating in an inner tube on a Minnesota lake—the bigger the waves, the better.

Thankfully, I’ve managed to imbue my descendants with this value system as well. So I get no resistance when I propose a family trip to the Wisconsin Dells, waterpark capital of the Midwest and possibly the world.  Eight of us were able to make it for four days at the Wilderness resort last week: two daughters, a son-in-law, four grandkids between 4 and 14, and me.

Now I’m not going to pretend I’m a fitness hound or that my physical prowess outshines my daughters’. Indeed, I’ve noticed an alarming global gravity increase in the last several years (for which Congress really should fund a study once the national debt issues are ironed out) which tries to entrench me in the lazy river instead of allowing me to repeatedly bounce up the stairs to the top of the slides.

Will and Gramma, just goofing
around post-race

But when grandson Will, age six, asked me to race him on the racing slides, did I tell him to ask his mom or Aunt Tina instead? No, I did not. Even though I’d already done the wave pool, toilet bowl and hurricane that day--besides some tamer slides--and there are about five flights of steps to the top of the racing slides, I gamely agreed to take him on.

Legions of teens sped past me as I grasped the rail and took my time on the way up to the top platform. Fortunately Will and I were about fourth in line, allowing me some time to recover my breath. I was slightly bemused when I observed that NO ONE ELSE up there was over 50—or maybe even 40. But I really became unglued when I observed the takeoff protocol: one crouches over one’s mat in the flight position, hurtling oneself headfirst into the downhill chute when the lifeguard blows his whistle.

Casting about wildly for a way out of this, I briefly considered going back down the way I’d come up. But hey, I’d never tried this before, and I was not going to disappoint Will, who at the last minute had asked me to let him go ahead of me because “I want to watch you come down, Gramma!” (Apparently I have the reputation of being a bit of a screamer.) No, I’d just develop my own form—no one says it has to be pretty, right? So when it was my turn to line up for the death ride, I lodged myself onto the mat and wedged my feet behind me so I could give a big shove when the whistle blew.



Son-in-law Dave winning his heat against Christina, Jack and Autumn.
You can't see the top but it's WAY high. Believe me.



Now I certainly did not have the time advantage, as precious seconds were wasted as I wriggled, shimmied and heaved myself into the race. But I did have the weight advantage, and baby, I flew down that dang tube, around the curves and into the open! At one point I was bounced so forcefully I thought I’d be thrown into the next lane, but all too soon I was slowing enough that I ventured to open my eyes and see I was sliding under the finish line. Woo-hoo! What a rush! When Will asked me to go again and actually race him this time, I only hesitated a second as I contemplated that same tedious trek to the top.

We took our places at the starting line and he shot forward a good five seconds ahead of me as I performed my stylized takeoff maneuver, but that gravity business again gave me the big advantage and I sailed to the finish well ahead of him. “Gramma, how did you do that?” he wanted to know.

Well, William, we are a competitive family, though I take no pleasure in beating you at this. But Angie and Christina, if scores were being kept, I’m pretty sure my total sliding tally would be roughly double both of yours. Just sayin’.

Oh, Sister ...

Sisters with Mom (on our best behavior)

I’m both a little sister and a big sister. Juvenile, really, to refer to the sibling relationship in these terms at age 57. But though the Wissink siblings—big sister Lois, older brother Jay, me (Bonnie), and baby sister Pam—may appear well-grounded and reasonably mature to the rest of the world, to each other we are still the same bossypants, rat finks, do-nothings and attention hogs we’ve always known.

Oh, nuts. I take that back (Lois, you know you’d make me). My siblings are admirable members of society, each gifted with unique abilities and abounding in wisdom—noble souls, all. Still, the truth is that the family roles we assumed as children are not easily shed.

Take sisters in particular. Lois, eleven years older than I, is used to being large and in charge—an (over?) achiever. Pam, three years younger, is used to being Mom’s coddled pet. I, as the middle sister, am used to being overlooked and underappreciated (you get the picture, right? Wah, wah.)

My earliest memories of Lois are of her competent, self-confident, breezy style—someone worthy of emulation, a natural-born leader. I would peep out the living-room window as she and her bubbly high-school friends stood chattering and laughing after school, showing off their circle skirts and saddle shoes. All of her teachers loved her (to hear Dad tell it). She was Homecoming queen. She got out of doing chores around the house because of her overbooked social calendar. She once baked Jay a birthday cake (probably because Mom was trying to get her to help out) with the words, “Happy birthday, Lard Butt” spelled out in chocolate chips. Dad once extolled the whiteness of Lois’s teeth in my presence, and at age 7 one of my life’s goals became having people notice MY white teeth. Lois’s life was good, probably because she wouldn’t have it any other way.



On the other hand, Pam and I were constant adversaries, vying for recognition, affirmation and the largest piece of Mom’s homemade chocolate cake. Nothing was too trivial to argue about—the number of peas on our plates; whose turn it was to dry the dishes; which of us Emile, the toy poodle, liked better; whether Mickey was cuter than Davey; and the loudness of my stereo during Pam’s clarinet practice. (This last incident escalated to the point of my life being threatened with clarinet assault. I was saved when the instrument in question, being waved about in a malicious manner, came apart and went flying across the room. Hilarious, to my way of thinking.) Of course, from my perspective Pam always got the favored parental treatment because of her smaller, cuter and more devious nature. Maddening though she was, we shared an ornery streak that gave us a lot to laugh about when we could get our parents’ goats. We weren’t bad, just high-spirited at times.

So how has all of this played out, 50 years later? You’d think that, as adults, we’ve all mellowed and learned to assert ourselves when our big sister is bossy, wouldn’t you? 

You’d be wrong.



On a recent visit to Sibley, Iowa, where my mom and Lois both live, Lois lugged two garbage bags of clothes that she no longer wanted into Mom’s house, and insisted I try them on and model each article for her approbation. If I said I didn’t like the way the capri pants fit, she’d say they were flattering on me. If I said I had enough casual black pants already, she argued that you could never have enough. (To her credit, when I said a hideous greenish top was ugly, she didn’t counter.) When I protested that I was flying and couldn’t possibly fit all this into my luggage, she offered an extra bag for me to carry on. When we went over to her house, she bade me go into the basement and paint on newspapers at the ping-pong table with her granddaughter while she altered some of the pants.



The kicker is, I did what she said—all of it. Painted watery daisies in the freezing basement, carried the castoff clothes through two airports. Why didn’t I just tell her no, thanks? Honestly, it didn’t even occur to me until I got home. We just played our respective parts as mindlessly as we’d always done.



And as for Pam? We were chatting on the phone the other day when she mentioned she is mad at me after reading my recent blog post listing a few things I’ve been doing. She was hurt that her May visit to my home (with her friend Barb) didn’t receive a mention.



Pam, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this blog is not The Chicago Tribune or even the Cedar Falls Times. You’re a stoopnagle and my teeth are almost as white as Lois’s. Hahahahaha on you!



Thoughts on Writing and Sinfulness

“In order for other people to label you a writer, you should write some stuff.” –Captain Obvious

This is an immutable truth; I don’t mind if you quote me (or the Captain). It’s along the same lines as, for other people to consider you a runner, you maybe should lace up the shoes and hit the pavement now and then (in jeans, preferably). Or, for other people to view you as a sinner, you should drink too much red wine, watch questionable movies, play fast and loose with the speed limit, or at least arrive late at work a few times a week. (I didn’t have a lot of trouble coming up with those examples.) In other words, do some good old-fashioned sinning. The list, as they say, goes on.

For me to consider myself a writer, I need only think about writing from time to time. Just like sinning, if I commit the deed in my heart, it’s on the record somewhere. Action completed. OK, so I haven’t actually set pen to paper (so to speak; who really writes on paper these days?) for anything beyond email messages for the last three-plus months. But I’ve intended to! The flesh is willing, the spirit weak. Or vice versa.

To get my creative juices flowing, and to repent of my wicked ways, I thought I’d start simple, listing a few of the activities I haven’t blogged about in the last few months.


At the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry
(no photos allowed in Body Worlds).



1) Hosted Easter dinner for 15, including all kids and grandkids, friends Paul and Nancy, and father-in-law Bud with his 90-year-old girlfriend Doris.

2) Attended 8th-grade graduation ceremony for oldest grandson Jack.

3) Took grandkids Jack and Autumn to see Body Worlds exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry. 



Easy Riders Dennis and Bonnie



4) Attended commencement for nephew Spencer and wife Ashley at University of Northern Iowa, Cedar Falls, where Michelle Obama was keynote speaker. Clung to brother-in-law Dennis as he took me on a motorcycle tour of the northern Iowa countryside.

5) Celebrated 40th wedding anniversary with husband Curt, with a Segway architectural tour of Oak Park, IL (Frank Lloyd Wright hotbed).

6) Treated 12-year-old granddaughter Autumn to a week’s birthday vacation in California, traveling the coast from LA to San Francisco.

Don't hate us because we're nerds.



7) Witnessed my husband suffer a serious heart attack after biking across the Golden Gate Bridge.

8) Enjoyed (and celebrated!) his recuperation in Marin County and Sonoma/Napa.

9) Went sailing on Saylorville Lake, Iowa, with our friends Bryson and Mary.


10) Attended my 40-year high school class reunion in Ankeny, Iowa. Wonderful connections; these people are salt of the earth. Extra time spent with best friend from-back-then Paula: priceless.



Me and Paula at the 40th reunion, still
 crazy after all these years.



11) Basement flooded—again—and now having to spend the bucks to have the back yard regraded.

12) Finally took the step to meet with a financial planner, which forced us to think about the future in a more concrete way.

13) Lost a few nights’ sleep wondering whether we will even have a future, considering Curt’s heart attack.

I kind of hate to stop with unlucky 13, but there’s enough material there should I decide to wax eloquent on any of those topics. I’d particularly like to expound on Curt’s heart attack, but cardiac incidents are notoriously unfunny.

Oh yeah—time for a confession. After a tall bloody Mary, we went to see the movie “Bridesmaids” today. Laughed till we cried. Then came home and hoisted a few glasses of red.

Sinner? Check. Runner? Not for a while now. (There’s always tomorrow.) Writer? Double cha-ching. Not only thought about it, but did it! I’m golden.

The Pitfalls of Bargain Shopping

For some reason Curt and I took it into our heads to go shopping at the Premium Outlet Mall yesterday. Let the record show that’s the last time we’ll try that stunt on a weekend.

People were getting mowed down like bowling pins in the parking lot; the queues for a crappy cardboard plate of Chinese in the food court were 40 feet long; and don’t even get me started on the crowd waiting to be given dispensation to enter the Coach Factory Store. You’re standing in a freaking line at least a hundred feet long OUTSIDE THE STORE before being allowed inside, two-by-two, to view and purchase the handbags? President Obama, I have good news: the recession is over.

But O – M – G. Unbeknownst to me, Shangri-La awaited. How in the world had it escaped my notice that an entire Lindt chocolate store exists, devoted solely to the exploitation of addicts such as myself?

Almost as soon as we began our mall meander, I spied it. “Let’s pop in here and see what they’re selling.” My feint didn’t fool Curt, who knows of my heart’s greatest vice (aside from competitive frugality). If Lindor balls (technically Lindor Truffles) had any earning capacity, I’d have dumped Curt and married them years ago. He recognizes and accepts this fact.

Imagine bins filled with every variety of the tasty little demons at $7.50 per pound. Imagine 45-piece bags of the dreamy confections, on sale two for $20. Do the math, people—that’s 22 cents apiece! But wait—what is this in the back of the store? Let me sit down. Bring mama her defibrillator. Irregulars? Whole bags of mint-filled dark chocolate gratification, unencumbered by wrappers (the easier to pop in one’s mouth as the mood strikes)? Does that sign say $5.99 a pound? Why yes, Virginia, it does.

I’m almost sure I heard angels singing.



The sum total of my outlet-shopping spoils

 And do the math, I did. This cheapskate Dutchwoman made sure she got the best deals in the store. Since the mints were the only one of my favorite varieties available as irregulars, I had to buy the extra-dark and the peanut butter types in traditional bags.

The first two irregular mint balls we downed were just empty chocolate shells, devoid of any mint truffle filling. Never mind that; I’d gotten a bargain. Don’t rain on my parade.

People who know me well are keenly aware of the fact that I constantly agonize over weight and nutrition, and often make indiscriminate vows to change my evil ways. Vegetarian? Low-carb? Gluten-free? Sustainability? Glycemic index? I can hold up any end of a debate. But just in case anyone feels they might be justified in chastising me for my dietary imprudence in purchasing over three pounds of pure melt-in-your-mouth joy: you do understand that the Lindor balls were a great bargain, right? Not to mention gluten-free, and a great source of antioxidants.

Who knows how long this windfall may last me. Today I ate approximately ten balls (who’s counting?). At that rate, maybe two weeks? By my calculations, that’s a $60/month habit. Cheaper than cigarettes. On the other hand, ten cigarettes don’t contain 700 calories.

I could run seven miles a day. I could take the balls to work and share them with my co-workers. I could save them for the grandkids’ Easter baskets. Great suggestions, all.

Or, I could prudently limit myself to one ball per day, starting tomorrow. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Something for Nothing

My family excels at nothing.

Literally. We are absolutely unstoppable when it comes to idleness. We love doing nothing. We’ve even coined a term for our passion: QAT (Quality Ass Time). Meaning, we recreationally sit on our asses and have a great time doing it. Curt and I raised our three daughters with this philosophy, and they’ve embraced it wholeheartedly. 



Flag football game at family gatherings? Nuh-uh. Might break a sweat. Pitch a tent in the great outdoors? No, thanks. Too much effort and, mosquitoes, you know.

We prefer to engage in some quiet pursuit as we sit: reading, table games, conversation, puzzles, eating. But don’t assume we’re a passel of slack-jawed two-ton Tessies. Just ask anyone who’s married into the family: we Welsh women are highly competitive at our favorite less-active pursuits, and especially like to demonstrate our prowess at games of skill and chance. I say “women” because Curt wants no part of the competition; he only plays for fun, he says. To which I reply, where’s the fun if you’re not playing to win?

The three idlers doing nothing



Flash to vacation time in Florida last week. For some people, a week of sunning by a resort pool, sipping drinks with whipped cream and a cherry, strolling along a sandy beach, and reading the latest bestsellers would grow tiresome and monotonous. But throw in a few poolside trivia games—with prizes—and you’ve just described nirvana for me and two of my daughters.



Name That Tune winners!



On two days we played TV show theme-song “Name That Tune,” and I’m proud to say that Angie and Christina swept first and second place on both occasions. Not only did they identify slam-dunks like “Family Ties” and “Growing Pains,” but they recognized oldies like “Magnum, P.I.” and “Hawaii Five-O.” The glory of strutting forward to their mother’s cheers to claim free drink coupons, mini-golf passes, bags of candy—why, these are moments to cherish. On another day, Christina and I mined our vast storehouses of knowledge, squashing all competition like bugs at Poolside Trivia. We knew such things as who was Michael Jackson’s first wife (Lisa Marie Presley), how to spell Cincinnati, and the name of Ross’s monkey in the first season of “Friends” (Marcel). Formidable forces we were, indeed, earning more drink coupons and mini-golf passes.



Morning Boggle



With all these free passes, we were compelled to move our legs and arms enough to actually play some mini-golf. Fortunately, I was able to avenge my Boggle losses to Christina earlier in the week with a three-stroke links victory. Now, I must admit we didn’t win at everything. We were losers at Bingo, and that was real money—$2 a card—so it was especially painful. 

As we boarded our homeward-bound flight, we marveled anew at how easily we are entertained, and agreed we could easily spend another week doing nothing without becoming bored. But I have a little secret: For this mother, getting to spend a week with the undivided attention of her adult daughters is not nothing. It’s really something.



Gettin’ Down with Hip-Hop

“Mom, if you want to, bring your workout clothes this weekend so you can go to my hip-hop dance class with me on Saturday morning.” This was the seemingly friendly and innocuous voicemail message I received Friday afternoon from middle daughter Angie.

Whoa! I’d been geared up for a quick weekend jaunt to Des Moines with Curt for our granddaughter Catie’s fourth birthday party, envisioning cupcakes, book-reading and hugs. Suddenly the vision of my carefree weekend had taken a more ominous turn, suggestive of pain, suffering and/or humiliation.

I like to think of myself as reasonably fit for my age, but the truth is that lately my exercise habit has been, well, not a habit. I have a pattern of fits and spurts: long gung-ho periods where I hit the gym three times a week for weight training and treadmill, seasoned with yoga classes; interspersed with longer periods where I do Jack Squat. Zilch. Zippo. But even if the gym and I weren’t currently on a break, hour-long dance sessions led by finely toned, exuberant, jiggly-in-only-the-right-places Beyonces would spell only pain and suffering to me, of both the physical and emotional varieties.

The grueling physical exertion, though, I could deal with for one looooong hour. The hip-hop dance is what promised the humiliation. I know I’m not a bad dancer, because my daughters often ask me to perform impromptu a few of my signature moves. They especially admire a hand motion they term “Pet the Cat.” Based on the huge grins that break out across their faces, they obviously derive great pleasure from watching this hootchy mama get down. Sometimes they even call their friends into the room to share in observing my dance artistry.

But I’m nothing if not a realist. My heritage is of the inhibited, sturdy, practical, northern European variety. I didn’t get dance lessons as a child. Walls often jump in front of me as I attempt to pass through doorways. I dropped out of Zumba class last year halfway through the session for lack of coordination. And youth. And ability. Actually, there are lots more lacks that come into play, now that I think about it.

So, what to do about Angie’s proposition? As I saw it, I had three viable options:
a) Admit I was too lazy and would rather lounge in my pj’s drinking coffee all morning.
b) Pretend I hadn’t picked up my messages and hence, brought no appropriate clothes or shoes.
c) Suck it up, bring the stupid clothes and feign enthusiasm for the outing. After all, feelings follow actions, right?

In spite of myself I decided on Option C. Upon arrival in Des Moines, I informed Angie of my choice. “Great!” she enthused. “I’m so excited to post a status update on Facebook about it tomorrow.” Obviously, she relished the idea of showing off her hip mother’s boogeying ability to her Des Moines friends.

Class time arrived. I stood in the back row, in the corner, and hip-hopped up a storm. A full step behind all the at-least-20-years-younger women in the room, my arms flailing wildly, without the jumps, without most of the hip action, sweating like a stuck pig. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected, mostly because no one was looking at me. In fact, it was a lot of fun, proving that feelings really DO follow actions.

As I watched Angie and her friends from behind, excellent dancers all, and compared myself in the sea of mirrors, a disquieting thought came to me. Is it possible, just maybe, that my daughters enjoy my dancing more for the spectacle than for the art of it? I really don’t care. Let them laugh! One day, their daughters will pay them back, and they won’t care, either.

Besides, Angie said I did great, and I believe her. Feel free to ask me for instruction in “Pet the Cat.”

Blades, Trains, and Grenades

A while back, hearing the pop song “Grenade” by Bruno Mars for the first time, I thought the lyrics macabre, a bit pathetic and totally unrealistic. OK, granted, my particular age group would not be his target audience. Undoubtedly I’ve grown somewhat cynical through my life’s journey and I’ve left my bright-eyed passion at a rest area somewhere along the way. But I’m pretty sure that even as a 17-year-old I never felt this way about anyone:

I'd catch a grenade for ya,
Throw my head on a blade for ya,
I'd jump in front of a train for ya …
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for you baby,
But you won't do the same.

My first thought was good lord, no! If it were my daughter he was singing about, I would hope she wouldn’t do the same. That’s just Mr. Mars’s off-kilter notion of romance. I’ve never even seen a grenade, except in the movies. Throw my head on a blade? Circumstances that would require such drastic actions are pretty much beyond the scope of my imagination. Take a bullet straight through my brain? Well, maybe … but only if it actually goes straight through. I desire a swift end; I wouldn’t care to have a bullet lodge in there permanently.

Most likely Bruno Mars just wanted his song to rhyme, and didn’t intend anyone to dissect it for its sociological implications. Grenades, blades and bullets aside, the jumping-in-front-of-a-train scenario IS somewhat plausible, especially around here with the busy Metra line. Such are the musings of a born-and-bred pragmatist.

Of course, someone with a less practical nature than mine would say Mr. Mars is expressing a very sweet sentiment, which is not necessarily meant to be taken literally. Although when I launched into the subject with two of my daughters, Christina asked me if I wouldn’t take a bullet to the brain for her dad. (Curt, if you’re reading this, now might be a good time to play some Spider Solitaire instead.) Though I love him dearly and I’d love to be the sort of heroic person who could honestly answer “of course!” without a moment’s hesitation, I had to think about it. Which, I suppose, is your answer, because if a bullet came whirring out of nowhere on a direct course toward Curt’s rather impressively-sized noggin, my taking a moment to think it over would render the point moot.

This macabre vein of conversation continued as Christina and Angie took up the subject in earnest. Probably in order to clinch her continued status as favorite daughter (at least as viewed by her older sisters), Christina shocked me by saying that she would take a bullet for me. Not to be outdone, Angie said that of course she would as well, but it would seem merely ingratiating to say so after Christina had said it first.

As dear expressions of love as those were, sincere or not, let the record show that if anyone is going to be taking bullets for anyone else here, it’s me who’s going to do the taking for my daughters or grandkids. Without hesitating for even a nanosecond. What mother wouldn’t? (The ones featured on the cable TV show “Snapped,” for starters. But that was just a rhetorical question.) Dredge up that old philosophical discussion question about who gets to board the lifeboat when the ship is sinking; if there’s only room for eight, our daughters and grandkids are getting on, no argument. Curt and I will go down with the ship.

And if that lifeboat should have room for nine, the person who I’m pretty sure would take a bullet to the brain for me is way more deserving of the spot.

Smiling in the Face of Cable TV

Let me state right up front, I am NOT a crier. I’ve often wondered at my lack of emotional response in heart-tugging situations. Unlike other women—for instance, my friend Pat who I swear tears up at any mention of babies or upon hearing any Irish song (even though she’s not Irish)—it takes a lot to activate my waterworks. Put it down to my Dutch stoicism.

By all rights, I should be all smiles right now. It’s a new year, and there’s a lot to cheer. Small things, like the sunlight streaming through the windows, even though it’s cold outside; the great cup of coffee topped with whipped cream I’m sipping on; and my Christmas cactus, a memorial from my dad’s funeral 15 years ago in December, is blooming like mad in spite of my brown thumb.

The big things—really, huge things—can be checked off too. Curt and I are both gainfully employed; we and our entire family are healthy and speaking to one another; my 88-year-old mom still lives on her own quite successfully and contentedly.

So, why are these tears running down my cheeks? Not for missing Curt, who just left on another business trip, or for the girls and grandkids, with whom we’ve spent a lot of time over the holidays. No, I didn’t shed a drop at parting with anyone.

But there’s a new kid on the block this year: cable television. Last month we finally succumbed to a package deal too good to pass up and became subscribers. No longer will I be forced to stand by silently while others discuss “What Not to Wear” and “House Hunters International.” And that’s what’s bringing on the blubbering.

Cable TV has unleashed my inner teddy bear. For the life of me, I don’t recall anyone ever warning me about the potential emotional impact of watching inane reality shows. Shows like “Say Yes to the Dress,” where the bride-to-be is missing her late mother as she shops for her wedding gown; and some show on which grown adoptees search for their birth parents, and sometimes when found, the birth parents don’t wish to meet them. Then there’s the one (“Hoarders”? I’m not really sure) where the family has to confront their emotional and physical clutter due to the father’s dying of leukemia.

I’m sure that this new world of virtually unlimited programming will become old-hat. After all, one can’t watch everything on several hundred channels, so hopefully I’ll learn to pick and choose so I won’t be blindsided by emotion.

Then maybe I can get worked up over something more deserving of my tears. Like a peek at the bathroom scales, perhaps? Nah. My grandkids love me pudgy or thin, and dark chocolate makes me smile every day.

Happy new year, everyone! May you find many reasons to smile this year. If you need to, lay off the cable. But apparently everyone else already knew that.