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Letter from America
Cara Sheridan O’Donnell
my promise to my children
O'Donnell Irish EyesThe sentiment above (origin unknown) has popped up on various social networking sites innumerable times in the last couple of years. In general, I agree with it. What strikes me with the most intensity, however, is the last line: “If you don’t mutter under your breath, ‘I hate you’ at least once in your life, I am not doing my job properly.”
Hoo-boy! Most parents will never forget hearing those words for the first time. They hit the recipient like a knife dipped in poison, stuck into that parent’s gullet, and then twisted with a strength and ferocity which he or she never before could have believed that child possessed! I say this with first-hand experience. Having had four children, the “I hate you” line is something I heard from each of them at least once. Some parents hear it early on. When spoken at the age of four or so, it is associated with a child’s nascent understanding of emotions. The four-year-old boy or girl “loves” ice cream (or Tonka toys, American Girl dolls, Max and Ruby cartoon shows, etc.) and “hates” red cabbage (or black jelly beans, picking toys up from the floor, having a shampoo, or bedtime). They express these two emotions with equal fervor whether applying them to inanimate objects, activities, or (unfortunately) other individuals. You see, they really don’t understand the complexities of either love or hatred. So, while the first time we hear the words “I love you” from a child, we melt with love ourselves, we do have to remind ourselves that their love is simple, unencumbered by responsibility. Similarly, when we hear “I hate you,” we react negatively, forgetting in that moment that the child’s understanding of hatred is rudimentary, too. All parents, though – and all mothers, in particular – do not seem to react to that first “I hate you” in the same way most do. My dear friend Judy recently reminded me that when her young son, denied something he wanted, declared quite audibly and furiously that he hated her, she had to struggle to keep a straight face. In her most dignified and ladylike Southern accent, she responded, “Well, then, let’s go to Wal-Mart and get you a new mama!” Her son, at first visibly startled, then looked at her in horror and squealed, “Nooooooo!”
It’s the “I hate you” murmured by teenagers (and usually accompanied by a dramatic roll of the eyes) that might be cause for a bit more concern because, presumably, teenagers possess a deeper understanding of what love and hate entail. Well, at least one would hope that they do. On second thought, perhaps they do not. After all, most teens are notorious for falling in and out of love faster than they can text their plans for the evening to a friend. Such fickleness would indicate an incomplete development of either emotion. That said, a parent’s response to a teenager’s declaration of hatred would be far different from the response he or she would make to a preschooler. I can’t say that I ever heard any of my four children say that they hated me as teenagers. But perhaps I have a selective memory. Surely at least one of them did so, but I was probably too busy listening to a younger child gagging on red cabbage to have heard the older one.
WHATEVER (as teenagers still say occasionally), most of us parents of adult children who survived such episodes have kids who turned out just fine. Oh, sure: Some of them will still say they love ice cream and hate black jelly beans, but when it comes to loving other people, they fully appreciate the real deal.
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Letter From America.
By Cara Sheridan O’Donnell.
O'Donnell Irish EyesOh, the lengths to which women will go to enhance their natural beauty! Tell ten women that the latest and greatest wrinkle-reducing/pore-minimizing/elasticity-rejuvenating skin-care regimen consists of a weekly application of a mixture of olive oil, toothpaste, and oatmeal, massaged gently into facial skin, left to dry, then rinsed off with a pomegranate margarita, and you can be sure that at least one of them will try it. (The other nine will drink the margarita, or even two, while thinking about giving themselves that facial.) Over the centuries, women have tried just about everything under the sun (including but not limited to bird poop, human placental tissue, moistened clay, whale blubber, and blood) in an effort to improve their looks. They have also made use of substances found in any well-stocked kitchen: Mayonnaise is best “ironed” into the skin with the back of a heated teaspoon; cucumber slices or chilled wet teabags placed on closed eyes reduce puffiness; an oatmeal paste exfoliates nicely when used as a facial scrub or, if using it as a mask, apparently rinses off to reveal a glowing complexion. Mass-produced chemical concoctions, found in places as diverse as dollar stores and upscale salons, are relatively new. Manufacturers market these products enthusiastically in print ads, 30-second advertisements, and 30-minute “infomercials” on radio and television, and promise the users of their formulas miraculous results. Make no mistake about it: Their marketing strategies work. In 2005, Americans spent $7 billion – yes, you read that correctly – on skin-care products, and that figure doesn’t reflect the amount spent on home-remedy skin-care solutions, cosmetics, perfumes, and dermatologic or surgical procedures. According to analysts at Goldman-Sachs, who arrived at that number in 2006, the amount spent globally on skin-care remedies came to $24 billion. That’s a lot of bread, no matter how you slice it.
The positive effects of potions and lotions are not permanent, of course. Treatments with longer-lasting benefits, such as collagen and Botox injections, chemical peels, dermabrasion, and the like, gained popularity in the U.S. and elsewhere long before the economic downturn of 2008. Among women whose wallets were negatively affected at that time, there were some in my own circle of acquaintances who had already begun such therapies and who were not about to give them up, even temporarily. One way or another, they would make room in their budgets for skin maintenance. One gal, a friend of a friend, had to choose between replacing her dead clothes dryer and re-upping for a new series of Botox injections and other procedures. Need I tell you what she chose to do? I have not seen her since I moved from Georgia to New York in 2011, so I don’t know for sure whether or not she has replaced that machine by now. I am told, however, by an always reliable source that our mutual friend still has a face as smooth (and as expressionless) as a brand-new container of Silly Putty, while I am developing a frighteningly close resemblance to a Shar-Pei puppy, minus its whiskers.
Prior to 2008, I had begun to hear women extol the myriad benefits of tattooed eyeliner and lip color. Indeed, I spotted such a tatted lady while on a 6:30 a.m. emergency run to the supermarket. I couldn’t help but notice her plumped-out, plum-colored lips as she pursed them while studiously examining expiration dates on the milk cartons. Her eyelids were precisely (but not heavily) lined in the darkest of browns. Without another bit of makeup visible on her face at all, she still looked great. I can’t say that I (sans makeup, in the wrinkled cotton shorts and tee shirt I had thrown on for this errand, and exhausted after having tried unsuccessfully to tame a case of malignant bed head before running out of the house) wasn’t a wee bit envious. Keeping jealousy in check proved to be easier than I expected, though. With smug satisfaction, I reminded myself that lips the color of a ripe plum are not to be found in nature. I then convinced myself that the shade she chose for her lips would be outdated with the next change of season but, because hers was tattooed lip color, it was destined to remain until she shed layer upon layer of skin. Those of us without the tattooed lips, on the other hand, needed only to walk into the nearest store, buy a new lipstick, and then remember to apply it every once in a while. Hah-hah! Take that, ugly green monster; be gone!
I have never, even for a second, been tempted to have a tattoo of any description at any time in my life. I have never even explored the possibility of being injected with a skin “plumper” or wrinkle “filler,” although I probably should. I have tried various skin-care products and cosmetics over the years with both good and bad results. One comically disastrous result of a DIY hair-coloring experiment inspired my ever-industrious youngest child to charge his friends a 25-cent admission fee to our house so that they could get a look at me. Have you ever been snookered into buying a cosmetic or lotion which you later regretted purchasing? Have you ever had an unexpected outcome after undergoing a minor cosmetic procedure? If so, what have you learned from that experience?
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Letter from America.
By Cara Sheridan O’Donnell.
O’Donnell Irish Eyes
Wow! What a greeting! Following my inaugural article, I received e-mails from many more DPN readers than I had anticipated. Most pertained to my family’s wellbeing in the wake of Hurricane Sandy. (In answer to that one, we are fine, but thousands of others face months of rebuilding their lives. Sandy left deep scars, to be sure, but we New Yorkers are a resilient lot!) Several readers asked more personal and specific questions: What do I do in my spare time? What other books would I recommend? One even asked me for a recipe for an Amish dish! (No can do: My foray into the “plain” life was not long enough to master even one.) But because my DPN publisher wanted a longer columnist’s biography, I thought I would get that out of the way by responding to some of those e-mailed questions. What better way to kill two birds with one stone than to provide biographical material in the form of selected trivial facts that define me as the ordinary American woman I am?
Born in New York City and raised on Long Island, where much of the seafood sold in stores and restaurants is caught that very morning, I am, sadly, deathly allergic to clams. I am also allergic to most antibiotics, as well as to the pesky red fire ants so common in the state of Georgia, where I lived from 1994 until 2010. This makes me a very unsuitable guest at a clambake, a problem patient for doctors, and an insurance liability at any Southern garden party. (I am loads of fun otherwise.)
Some of my friends view me as a high-ranking member of the Grammar Police. I cannot imagine why. I simply happen to believe that people should master their native language, especially the lingo of their chosen profession. I won’t use a realtor who pronounces herself a “ree-la-tor” or buy anything from a jeweler who refers to his wares as “jew-lery,” but does that make me a bad person? There is no law against my refusal to make a follow-up appointment with a dermatologist who can’t make the distinction between nevus (singular mole) and nevi (plural) – not that I have any of those unsightly blemishes, of course (!) – or who asks if a rash is “puritic” instead of “pruritic.” (If he can’t pronounce the adjectival form of pruritus, he should just say “itchy.”) A florist should always articulate that final “i” in poinsettia. (The latter only annoys me in December, for obvious reasons, while the former example is a year-round irritant.) My interest in language has deep roots. With the blessing – nay, the unbridled! enthusiastic! encouragement! – of my sixth-grade teacher, Sister Michael Mary, I launched the first-ever Vocabulary Club in my parochial elementary school. Despite my most persuasive and endearing, yet completely incomprehensible polysyllabic pitch, very few of my classmates seemed inclined to sign up. Fewer actually became members. In truth, while I did eventually become president of the club, I remained its only member through the end of the school year. It is not only written language that intrigues me. Conversational language does, too. In the five years I spent traveling on business as communications director for a software company, my biggest personal accomplishment was to demonstrate to thousands of people all over the U.S. and Canada that not all people who grew up on Long Island sound like Joey Tribbiani, of the old hit TV show, “Friends.”
I consider myself to be a spiritual person and have spent more than a few sleepless nights pondering profound theological questions. For example, I’ve often wondered why it is that Westerners who embrace the notion of reincarnation are most often under the impression that they were grand personages in at least some of their former lives. You rarely meet one who tells you that he was once an embalmer or a chicken plucker. (Exception: A woman might tell you that she was a courtesan in a former incarnation but never, never a streetwalker.) In one nocturnal flight of imagination, it also occurred to me that a curmudgeonly editor must have deleted a few paragraphs (or even an entire chapter) from the Bible, and that is why more people don’t attribute a sense of humor to God.
In the looks-and-likes department: Some people like to say that they weigh the same today as they did in high school. I can proudly say that I weigh the same today as I did yesterday. Mysteriously, however, I have worn the same bra size since the age of 19, even through multiple pregnancies. If there were occasions when it appeared that I possessed four of the usual two, um, feminine attributes, people were too kind to inform me. Shame on them! Although I enjoy a good Jack Daniel’s Manhattan – heavy on the vermouth, in a delicately stemmed martini glass – I have no desire to balloon to a size requiring purchase of maternity clothes. To that end (and for other sound reasons), I do not overindulge. Finally (and I am ashamed to say this, being of proud Irish stock), I detest hot corned beef. Sliced and plated, it reminds me of a red and wrinkly neck one might see on an elderly, Caucasian Miami Beach vacationer who forgot to slather on his sunscreen that morning. Hide that corned beef between two pieces of rye bread, though, and I’m in heaven!
Random facts? Perhaps! More than anyone wanted to know? Probably! Sometimes, though, trivia is far more interesting than the big picture. If asked to provide a dozen random facts about yourself, what would top your list and what else would you include? Composing such a list is harder than you think, but the results might surprise you. Give it a try.
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Letter from America.
Living A Temporary "Plain" Life.
By Cara Sheridan O’Donnell.
O'Donnell Irish EyesIt is Day 13 of life without power after Hurricane Sandy whipped her way through and damaged – no, ravaged – a good portion of my hometown of Manhasset, Long Island, New York. Spoiled by years of heat in winter, cool central air conditioning in summer, running hot water, and (in all seasons) immediate access to electricity to activate the technological devices at my disposal, I am not finding it easy to acclimate to “plain” living, even for a short period of time. To assist me in this endeavor, I called upon Ira Wagler, best-selling author of Growing Up Amish (Chicago, Illinois: Tyndale House Publishing, 2011). If my friends in Ireland have not yet been infected by the recent American fascination for all aspects of Amish culture, you will be after you read Ira’s memoir of his Amish boyhood and young adulthood. But I digress.
In the middle of Post-Sandy Night 11, I was, upon entering my darkened bathroom, still reaching, as if on auto-pilot, for the light switch. Oh, right, I reminded myself, power’s out. No big deal; I’ve been doing this for decades now. I think I can manage in the dark. What was truly a shock to my system, however, was that exquisitely painful moment when butt met freezing-cold toilet seat. People, I am here to assure you that this is most decidedly not a pleasant experience and, I dare say, is not something to which I could ever grow accustomed.
After slapping my hand across my mouth to muffle a completely involuntary squeal of a pitch in the human vocal register hitherto unheard, I reminded myself that there are thousands of people far worse off than we are in my household. We have a small generator to power up a couple of lamps in one room, but gasoline for it (and for cars, for that matter) is in extremely short supply, so we limit its use to evenings. The nor’easter that dumped close to a foot of snow on the ground one week after Sandy came and went caused further outages; many residents of locales in which power had been restored after Sandy were again made aware of the wrath of Mother Nature when they lost power for the second time in a week. Moreover, many thousands of folks are completely homeless and will be for some time. I am one of the fortunate; fallen tree disposal will cost plenty but, inside my home, the sentimental treasures of five generations remain intact.
The lighting of candles at night has become a somewhat comforting ritual, thanks to my conversation with Ira Wagler. In our telephone call, he mentioned that the lighting of kerosene lamps in the evening was a chore assigned to children old enough to strike a match. As a prelude to a tasty dinner cooked by a mother on gas- or a wood-burning stove in the typical, whitewashed Amish frame house, I can imagine that lamp-lighting was a chore quickly and cheerfully accomplished by those Amish kids. (After all, Amish cuisine is considered delicious; furthermore, Amish women like to cook bountifully, serving up generous portions for their larger-than-average families at every meal.) I told Ira that I’d try to think of a good meal as I placed flame to wick after wick after wick on the dozens of candles that now illuminate my kitchen with a rather romantic collective glow. Sadly, though, aside from a couple of delightful dinners out with friends to warm restaurants with working kitchens, our home fare since Sandy has consisted of take-out meals and sandwiches slapped together. And, heck, I am not Amish! I do not choose to live the plain life. It has been forced upon me, and I want out!
As a new correspondent to this column, I can only entreat you to keep the sentences above pertaining to my middle-of-the-night bathroom expedition to yourselves. I do want to be able to call Ira Wagler again in the future, should his expertise be required for another assignment. He might not be Amish anymore, but he is an absolutely delightful Mennonite. Now, I don’t know as much about Mennonites as I do about the Amish, but I’m pretty sure they frown upon uttering (much less writing) the word “butt.” (I’m not even certain that they would use the word “toilet” in polite society.) But because I would dearly love to get a signed copy of Ira’s next book, I simply ask that you don’t go forwarding this piece to him.
DO, though, go and get a copy of his current book! It’s available on Amazon.com Amazon.com, including a Kindle edition. (If my Kindle didn’t require a recharge right now, I’d get that version myself for a re-read.) Whatever version of Growing Up Amish you do acquire, I promise you that you’ll enjoy it!
Short Bio of Cara Sheridan O’Donnell
Cara is a former book editor for a major US publisher, mother of four, grandmother of two, and now a freelance writer and editor.
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O'Donnell Irish Eyes.
O'Donnell Irish EyesDPNlive has a new name and take on ‘Letter from America’.
Cara Sheridan O’Donnell lives in New York and her first article will appear online on the 17th November.
It’s very much about what has happened over there recently and Cara’s take on things.
She is a former book editor for a major US publisher, mother of four, grandmother of two, and now a freelance writer and editor.
Welcome on board Cara, and thanks for your contribution to DPNlive.com
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