Snarky is as snarky does

"Sarcasm helps me overcome the harshness of the reality we live, eases the pain of scars and makes people smile

------Mahmoud Darwish

My mother said to me, more times than I can count, "You think you're so smart, with the wisecracks, just you wait and see." OK, Ma, I'm still waiting, what is it I'm supposed to see? She said that so often I was convinced that something monumental was going to happen.  I was really hoping it was going to be a magical unicorn or maybe Pierce Brosnan would finally realize we were meant for each other. She was right about the wisecracks though. 

(Pierce, kissing someone who isn't me)

Truly, I'm pretty sure I need one of those six-second delay features they have on some radio stations. It's completely organic; sometimes there is just no way to keep what's inside my head from coming out in a storm of snappy comebacks. English isn't my first language, sarcasm is and it's been that way my whole life. The Girl Scouts said I was rude, and they were right because when the leader asked me why I hadn't sold very many boxes of cookies, my answer was truthful, but perhaps not very polite. "I didn't sell very many because you can get a box of Oreos that's twice as big and costs half as much, who's going to be stupid enough to want Trefoils when they could have Oreos?" I didn't last long as a Girl Scout, shocking, huh?

Now that I'm an adult, it could be said that I've mellowed and left the sarcasm behind.  Whoever says that is lying; it's not even remotely true. I have tried, very hard, to at least not be rude (mostly) but the wisecracks are still coming. For me, these little gems are like the valves on a pressure cooker; they have to work or the whole thing explodes. There's a school of thought that says before we speak, we should ask ourselves if what we are about to say is true, kind, and necessary. Well, I don't lie, mostly because I'm very bad at it. Kindness matters to me a great deal, but no one is perfect, and sometimes I'm not very nice. Necessary? This is where you lose me. If every word ever spoken by me had to meet all three of those criteria, I'd barely talk at all and this column would be empty. There are probably more than a few people that think that would be a good thing, but they can kiss my…ok, never mind, this is a family paper.

Snarky is one of those words that sounds exactly like what it means and this is true of me as well. What you see, is what you get. So, while it will not come as a galloping shock to anyone who knows me, I'm snarky and that's never going to change. Why? Because, especially lately, there's been some serious crap hitting the fan, in my life, but more importantly the world around me. Without getting political, let's just say that between newscasts full of over-entitled behavior by those who should know better, and people who seemed to have everything but were in so much pain they literally checked out of life, I've had it. It's just so overwhelming sometimes. Blowing off a little steam by hoisting my snark flag high and letting it fly is just about the only way I'm going to get through a tough day without winding up in an orange jumpsuit. There's only so much badminton I can play, there are only so many birds I can whack the crap out of before my arm falls off. It's the same with this crazy world we're living in, my patience (which has never been something I'm known for) is wearing thin. I'm talking back to the television way too much and guess what? No one that's on it is listening to me. If I toss a few snotty remarks around now and then, well, at least my friends and family know it's just me being me. They are also the first ones to call me out when that line we shouldn't cross comes up behind me.

There's a lot going on now, and so much of it heart-wrenching and sad and phenomenally atrocious. If I'm rolling my eyes because the person in front of me at the grocery store is playing some complicated game of Tetris with her produce on the conveyor belt and then has to unfold her reusable bags from the origami animals she'd made them into because she saw it on Pinterest, you can bet it's because I'm trying to ignore the news on some of the magazine covers. I'm also going to think to myself, "If this chick pulls out a checkbook to pay, I'm going to bounce a can of Spaghetti-Os right off her skull."  My challenge is to not actually say it in my out loud voice. No promises though. It's tough out there, I'm doing the best I can.

Make A List But CHECK IT TWICE!

"Man plans, and God laughs."

---Yiddish Proverb

"Make time for planning. Wars are won in the General's tent."

---Steven Covey

AUTHOR NOTE: This column was supposed to published last week. Except I forgot to actually submit it to Chris and Mary, your fearless editors. That is what we call "Irony" in the English major world. Everyone else just calls it stupidity. See updates in parenthesis Enjoy.

 I am confident that I don't have multiple personalities (there was a Facebook quiz, I aced it) but regarding the organization, planning, and staying on task I do bounce between the two extremes. It's healthy to realize that not every plan you make is going to work out, but you can't just stumble through life with no direction, no road map of where you want to go and what you want to do. At least that's what people tell me.

Lists tend to work for me, neatly written on a calendar (not always, clearly.) Each day has a few items on it and in a perfect world, the end of the day comes, and everything is checked off. That literally has never happened, but hope springs eternal. Some of it might have more to do with the items on the list than my poor planning skills. It's good to set the bar high, but seriously at times, the list looks about as realistic as a fantasy baseball roster. Last week one of the tasks was "Clean the basement." The basement has never been cleaned; by me or anyone else. Now and then I go down there, make sure no woodland creatures are living under the laundry hamper, grab the toilet paper to stock the hall closet and come back upstairs. Sure, the TP would be a lot easier to access if there weren't twelve boxes of macaroni and cheese and a bag of "giveaway clothes" in the way, but no one who knows me thinks that will ever change.

 

So, whatever, it's the basement, it's not like the Queen is coming for tea and will want to see it, so not getting it done doesn't bother me. The daily lists are mostly suggestions for me. The science articles have to get done, and always do because being employed is a necessity, but after that, it's a crapshoot (or an epic fail, either way.) One of my favorite movies is "Gone With the Wind" because Katy Scarlett O'Hara is one sharp-tongued Irish girl. She said, "After all, tomorrow is another day." In my house, it means there's another list, but that's how it goes.

Once the daily stuff is out the way, what about long range plans? Careers, finances, and all the rest are much bigger issues than chores (Is USA Today hiring was one issue I considered last week.) Should I have a 20-year plan? What about a ten-year plan? In twenty years I will be in my 70s, and while I plan to stay healthy and active, it's a safe bet that my 70s won't be nearly as much fun as the 1970s were. In those days gone by, my to-do list didn't exist. The goals were to ride my bike to the store and spend as much time as possible on the beach with my friends. Looking two decades down the road means strategizing about mutual funds and long-term care insurance. Honestly, I think I'd rather clean the basement.

Plan or don't, that's the question (Pro tip: Plan, trust me on this.) Perhaps a middle ground needs to be found, where sometimes you let go, and sometimes you stick to the list? There was one time in my life that involved almost no plans and worked out perfectly. I wanted to take my oldest to Ireland; it was something that was important to me, to show him part of his heritage. We got plane tickets, reserved a rental car and booked the first night's lodging. I didn't do another thing except for ordering the Tourist Board's book of B&Bs.

It was three solid weeks of getting in the car (on the wrong side) and driving around to wherever looked good on the map. Once we stayed in a town for two days because a local pub had the most delicious Shepard's Pie ever. We wandered aimlessly and got lost more times than I can count. At one point we were driving down a country road and had to stop because a mule wouldn't get out of the way. Another time a group of boys ran up to the car asking, "Stop! Oi! Are you lost then?" I smiled and said, "No, this is the way I want to go, thanks!"  I'm not one to be shouted at by hooligans. 

500 yards down the road the ocean appeared, almost out of thin air. In Ireland, they farm right up to the water's edge. Reversing a car that's built backward, up a boggy unpaved road is quite the experience. The boys were still there, chuckling, and I said, "Well, that was grand then, wasn't it?" I think another trip is in order because lately, I've come to believe that plans are overrated. Ireland Escape 2018? Sure, it'll be brilliant (if I don't forget to buy tickets.)

Food, Glorious Food....

“Laughter is brightest where food is best”

-----Irish proverb

When someone says, “home cooking” or “homemade” the image that comes to mind is something delicious, made fresh, with tradition and love. That’s a nice thought; it just has never been my experience. Recently one of those pictures with the sayings on the bottom (they’re called memes I am told) came across my social media feed and it said “Name something your mother or grandmother made” and it was this retro scene of an older lady in the kitchen, wearing an apron and concentrating on something being cooked. In my head, I tried to remember what dish or treat my mother or grandmother had made that was a favorite of mine, or anyone’s for that matter.

Like my friend Winnie The Pooh, I sat and had a good think on it and… nothing. There was absolutely no memory of any amazing family recipe or special holiday treat that my mother or grandmother always made. Meanwhile, dozens of my friends were going on about Granny’s walnut bread, or Mama’s gravy. Gravy in this case being spaghetti sauce, since that’s what Italian grandmothers call it. It seemed that in everyone’s family but my own, there were heirloom recipes that had been handed down from one generation to the next. Holidays were not complete without these special dishes.

It’s likely because just as we get hair color and eye color from our parents and grandparents, we get a kind of history as well. Family stories for one. In my family what we might lack in recipes we make up for in pure, unadulterated legends. Like the time my father took a police cruiser for a joy ride. Or the time my mother wore a pair of shoes to a party that she didn’t realize still had the bright orange price tag stuck on the bottom sole. The entire evening she wondered why everyone walking by the couch she was sitting on (with her legs crossed like any proper lady would do) was craning their necks to get a look at the bottom of her feet. We have stories, enough for ten more generations to come and more are being created every year, but cherished homemade dishes? Not so much.

Growing up I can recall no occasion where my grandmother, mother or any other family member said, “Come to the kitchen Brenda, it’s time you learned the secret recipe.” We never starved of course, there was always plenty of food. It just wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Gourmet night usually consisted of a hamburger patty, a box of mac and cheese and whatever frozen brick of vegetables was available. The veg was my job because I am hazardous in the kitchen. My mother figured nothing much could go wrong if she handed me a sauce pan and a brick of green beans and said, “Smash those up in the pan, but do NOT turn on the stove, just leave them there.” Culinary traditions in the Kelley family were less about homemade goodness and more about making sure nothing caught on fire and with me in the kitchen, that’s a challenge.

As for the previous generation, my grandmother was a pioneer of sorts. She was the first woman in the State of Massachusetts to be granted a chauffeur’s license. She always had a job of some kind. She was out working when many women were perfecting their pie dough. She married a man who owned a restaurant, which honestly was mostly a bar, but whatever. Cooking was not her thing. Over a pack of Pall Malls and two fingers of Jameson she would say, “There’s some ham salad in the fridge if you’re hungry, I just picked it up at the deli and if you won’t eat that, have some Oreos.”  She was nothing short of amazing though. In the course of the discussion on home cooking, one of my cousins did tell me she used to make a really good oyster stew of some kind, but that was before my time.

Food is food is food is food, right? Some people have a gift for making amazing dishes and handing down those recipes and traditions. In my family, we don’t, but while a friend was telling me about how her grandmother churned ice cream on the porch on hot summer nights, I remember my father herding us all in the car and going on a late night run for cones. As long as there is a tradition of some kind, and lots of laughter, the food will always be the best.