My favorite line in Music and Lyrics isn’t one of Hugh Grant’s (a.k.a. Alex Fletcher’s) witty one liners, of which there are many. No, the line which makes me laugh the loudest is when, seconds after arriving to water the plants in Fletcher’s apartment, Drew Barrymore (as Sophie Fisher) pricks her finger on a cactus. Prompting her to declare she must leave immediately to treat the “wound” and thus avoid infection.

“I’m a little hypochondriacal,” she tells her not-yet-but-soon-to-be love interest and musical collaborator. At which point I laugh, as if on cue.

How silly, I think. Like she couldn’t just finish watering the handful of houseplants before going in search of anti-biotic ointment? Please. No one can be that neurotic. Can they?

As I poked fun at this seemingly over the top behavior, a part of me was secretly grateful. Because my own hypochondriacal tendencies paled in comparison to this demonstration.

I mean, sure, I may spend (far too much) time worrying about whether a cut, scrape or burn is getting infected. But that’s because I’m usually too lackadaisical in tending to such problems.

And I think all humans are influenced to at least a certain extent by the power of suggestion. I mean, it’s perfectly normal, after reading about something like the human botfly (which lays its eggs under the surface of the skin), to start checking for the tell-tale breathing tubes by which their parasitic young get oxygen while feeding on the flesh of their host. Right?

(It’s been over a month, but I just can’t get that horrific image out of my head. I’ve had to re-evaluate my desire to visit Costa Rica after reading about them. Thankfully, they aren’t exactly common in upstate New York.)

Now, despite what may appear to be evidence to the contrary, I still maintain that I’m not a hypochondria. But after today, I may be forced to rethink that assertion.

My mom has been pestering me for months to get the both the seasonal and H1N1 flu shots. Being as procrastination is much more of a problem for me than hypochondria, I’ve continually put it off.

So it seemed like the fates had aligned when this morning, the Chenango County’s Public Health Department held a vaccine clinic in the Pennysaver building. It’s just across the parking lot, and it was free, so it was kind of a no-brainer.

Not that I signed up for it in advance, mind you. Jeff and I waited until they made a sort of “last call” before sauntering across the parking lot.

It wasn’t what I would call a lengthy process. In fact, it happened kind of fast. A bit of paperwork followed by a nasal vaccine here, a jab there and we were back at our desks.

What followed was a period of time where we were both, as Jeff put it, “acutely aware of every body function.” We were a veritable hypochondriacal case study.

I could practically feel the H1N1 virus incubating inside my left nostril, plotting its virulent attack on my sinuses. At some point, Jeff became aware of a slight twitching of a muscle on his forehead, which he attributed to the flu bugs trying to tunnel into his brain.

Then came a subtle numbness, which somehow managed to spread from his right arm to my left.

Just as I began to reach my panic threshold – that wall right before full-on panic attack sets in – the voice of reason spoke up, reminding me that that’s where we’d just gotten our shots. It also told me, in a voice which sounded  suspiciously like that of my own mother, to stop whining.

I was just coming down from my near-panic buzz, when a new thought hit me. I mean, are anyone else’s hands really dry? And smell faintly of gardenias?

Oh wait, that could have something to do with the hand sanitizer I’ve practically been bathing in since our return from across the way.

Yeah. Maybe, like Drew Barrymore as Sophie Fisher, I’m a bit hypochondriacal. But only a bit.

I know it may seem cruel, I know, but this morning after I saw the revised weekend forecast predicting two feet of snow in and around our nation’s capital I immediately contacted one of my friends who lives in the area. I just couldn’t help myself. I had to rub it in.

You see, as it happens, the friend in question likes to gloat about how he had the wisdom to move south more than a decade ago. Thus escaping the “Frigid North” as he calls it. (He hails from the Albany area originally.)

After several years living further afield (like North Carolina and Afghanistan), Ed returned to Northern Virginia this past summer. Arlington to be precise, which is where I first made his acquaintance all those years ago.

As winter approached, Ed was not above rubbing in how, before long, I’d be buried under a blanket of snow. And he’d be enjoying the relatively mild temps which are more the norm below the Mason Dixon line.

Hence my unrestrained glee when I learned of the 24” they are expecting this weekend. And of course this isn’t their first major snowfall of the season. It’s really just the icing on the cake.

Part of me does feel for Ed. Because I know that, unlike Upstate New Yorkers, those living in and around the Beltway are ill-prepared for even a dusting of snow, let alone the significant accumulation they are expecting.

From having lived there, I can attest to the fact that the mere mention of flurries is enough to cause runs on bread and milk at the grocery stores. And lets not even talk about their inability to drive in the snow. Everything shuts down. Even the federal government. (I know, that explains a lot, doesn’t it?)

Invariably, local hospitals would make pleas to anyone with an SUV or 4-wheel drive vehicles to volunteer to provide transportation to doctors and nurses who couldn’t make it in. And inside the DC limits, vehicles would be towed in order for the snow plows (read: garbage trucks) to get through the streets. The owners, of course, were never notified where there cars had actually ended up, which was always highly entertaining. As was the garbage that would pile up while the sanitation crews were otherwise occupied.

Since most associations and other assorted businesses tend to follow the federal government’s closures, this meant I got to enjoy my share of snow days while I lived there. My friends and I, all from the “frigid north,” would delight in the media reports. Much as I will be doing this weekend, as I watch it all from afar.

Of course, as I poke fun at Ed, my amusement is touched with more than a little envy. I wish we were getting that two feet of snow up here. As it stands, we don’t even have enough for snow-shoeing, let alone an adequate base for snowmobiling.

Oooh. I know. Maybe we should trailer them up and head south!

Irises have long been my favorite flower. Why then, did it nearly break my heart this morning when I was forced to trade in the “fragrant cluster” of poppies, hydrangea, lilacs and freesia of January for February’s vase of the delicate indigo blossoms?

It isn’t the irises themselves which are to blame for my mental anguish, of course, but rather the act of flipping the pages of my calendar. (Which, in case you haven’t figured it out, has a flower theme.)

In theory, it’s easy enough, right? Flipping the calendar page from one month to the next. We do it like clockwork, after all. Every 28, 30 or 31 days. Why then, does that page, which logic clearly indicates weighs only a few ounces, seem to take on the weight of the world on the first of the month.

When I was younger, the time seemed to pass like molasses. Each season felt like it lasted for a full decade. You could fit an entire vacation into a weekend. The stretch of time between birthdays or Christmas was so long that you could barely remember the last.

I remember at 4, crying that a whole year would have to pass before I got to go to school.

Now, I cry for an entirely different reason. Because it’s as if time flies by, with days, weeks, months and even years slipping past in a blink of an eye.

Maybe it’s age, I don’t know. But I find myself fighting it more and more. Hence the difficulty I have in bringing myself to flip that calendar page every month.

I actually thought this calendar would help. Because while this time of year it makes me think of the new growth of spring and the sunny warmth of summer, it also reminds me to stop and smell the flowers of life along the way.

So this month, I’ll pledge to savor these irises each day and make the most of them before it’s time to flip the page once more. Hopefully, when  that time comes, and I have to trade them in for March’s tulips, I’ll be able to do it without regret for the passage of time.

That’s a tall order, but something to strive for, none the less.

Especially since I absolutely love tulips.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.

This Thursday is the Children’s Center’s second annual Cookies and Cream fundraiser. The event, held at the Norwich Fire Station, will feature a host of family friendly activities, an ample supply of cookies and milk and, as the piece de resistance, the celebrity cookie auction.

Last year, nearly 50 local celebrities “battered up” for the challenge. When the cookie crumbs had settled, it was Norwich Police Chief Joe Angelino who took top honors for both having the tastiest cookies and raising the most money in the silent auction – thereby winning the coveted Golden Cookie award.

Word has it that Chief Angelino has decided to bow out of this year’s competition in order to give some of the other local celebs a chance. But there are plenty of others who are stepping up to the challenge – and their cookie sheets – in an effort to help raise money for the Children’s Center’s scholarship fund.

And, as it happens, this Evening Sun reporter is one of them.

In terms of celebrity, I’d have to say that Martha Brower-Ryan (who orchestrates this whole cookie-fest) was probably scraping the bottom of the barrel when she asked me to toss my cookies into the ring. In fact, the invitation so surprised me that she had to ask me three times before I realized she was after something other than an article heralding the event.

Once I did realize what she was after, I couldn’t say no. We all know I’m a sucker for a good cause. And I’ve never met a cookie I didn’t like.

OK, that’s not entirely true. There was one particular batch of oatmeal raisin cookies I’m trying hard to forget.

Not to toot my own horn, or anything, but I do have something of a cookie following. I can name at least one old friend whose main reason for keeping in touch is the fact that I occasionally send him care packages of my signature peanut butter thumbprints. You know, the ones with the Hershey kisses on top.

While those cookies – and my shortbreads – have been my calling card for many a year, I’ve always liked to sample different cookie recipes. Particularly those prepared by someone other than myself. So in a way, I’ve been in training for this competition for most of my life.

(Hmmm…I wonder if it’s possible to write off all those calories consumed trying different types of cookies as market research, kind of like you would for tax purposes. Yeah. Probably not.)

The result, other than a hopefully-not-too-noticeable thickening of the waistline, is that I’ve found the perfect cookie recipe for Thursday night’s competition. I’m not ready to reveal my secret just yet, but I will say that after tasting one of these delectable confections I badgered the baker for close to a month for the recipe.

Yep. They are that good.

And, you’ll have a chance to try them for yourself if, in the words of Bob Barker, the price is right.

My contribution to the celeb cookie showdown will be up on the block at 7 p.m. this Thursday, Jan. 28, at the Norwich Fire Station. I’m not going to lie, I’m up against some stiff competition with a lot more celebrity clout than I bring to the table – like Fire Chief Tracy Chawgo, Mayor Joe Maiurano and even Senator Tom Libous. But I’m hoping with the support of our readers I’ll have a fighting chance.

If you’ve got a soft spot for a good cause, a craving for cookies and a tendency to root for the underdog, I’m your gal.

And did I mention that I’m not too proud to beg?

Please, please, please, bid on my cookies.

And don’t think you’re off the hook if you live out of town, or can’t make Thursday’s fundraiser for some other reason. You can place advance bids by visiting the Children’s Center’s website at www.thechildrencenter.org.

Follow me no Twitter … @evesunmelissa

Find out about my experience at last year’s Cookie & Cream event: Sudden weight gain linked to Children’s Center fundraiser

We’re all familiar with buyer’s remorse, where shortly after making a major purchase decision you’re overwhelmed with regret. It was too much money, not exactly what you were looking for, you should have spent the money on something else – the reasons for second-guessing the decision are endless.

As are the feelings of deep, unadulterated guilt associated with it.

Now in my line of work, we sometimes run into a different variety of this same malady. I call it “source remorse.” This occurs when someone you’ve interviewed about an issue or event has second thoughts about what they said and are fully aware that they can – and probably will – be quoted on it.

Those suffering from an attack of source remorse usually might place a frantic phone call to the person they spilled their guts to begging them not to use those comments. On the rare occasion that may even work, but not likely, and particularly not if the story has already gone to print.

Maybe the remorseful source will call someone else they think will have a sympathetic ear to their plight. Or perhaps they go the denial route, claiming they didn’t know they were talking on the record.

That last excuse might even work for the higher-ups, but really folks, lets be realistic. If a reporter calls you and tells you they are writing an article about x and then start asking you questions about said topic, it’s probably safe to assume it’s not a social call. It’s a fair bet their inquiries are aimed at getting details for publication unless otherwise specified.

While I can sympathize with someone for feeling a little regret or trepidation after they’ve shared what they think may have been a little too much, its a little bit of a rush, too. A guilty pleasure, if you will, to know that you’ve been able to get someone to open up about something to that extent. After all, it’s kind of the name of the game in this business.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to alienate any sources. But as far as I know, there’s no such thing as “scoop” remorse.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa

I absolutely love having my family in town for the holidays. But I can’t tell you how much they are driving me crazy.

No, seriously. I can’t tell you. Since there is a good chance that they’ll read this. And this little sister doesn’t want to get her buttinsky kicked. (Or ratted out to her parents, for that matter.)

Now before anyone (particularly any blood relations who may be currently staying in my house) takes offense to that, let me explain. I do love having my family close. For far, far too long I lived a couple of thousand miles away. I went for a couple of years without seeing my siblings at a stretch. I hated every minute of it. One of the best things about being back to New York is that I see them more often.

But I’m not used to living with them. And no matter how much you love your family, its hard to go back to sharing a bathroom – or a bedroom- with them again. Particularly if one of them feels the need to sleep with the window wide open when the outside temps are hovering right about zero. And another one hogs all the sesame bagels.

But I digress.

It’s just one of those things about family. Those closest too us know what buttons to push. They know what we’re most sensitive about, and exploit it to their own personal gain.

On the flip side, though, they are also the ones who it’s most fun to laze around with, watching movies, playing board games, telling stories and the like. It’s those moments I can’t get enough of. I love sitting around listening to my brother play guitar; gossiping with my sister while we clean up the kitchen after a meal (particularly one involving her amazing meatballs and some nice crusty bread from La Maison Blanche); playing the umpteenth game of Life with my niece; and catching up with my sister-in-law Lisa.

And while there are moments I want to scream and pull my hair out, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because I know that in the back of all of our minds, fueling these silly little squabbles, is the knowledge that at some point everyone has to go back home. And it will be far too long before we see each other again. All I’ll be able to think about is how I wish we’d had more time to do this or do that while they were here.

Every day that I wake up and they are still here, feels like a reprieve. Because I can’t even bear to think about how quiet the house will be once they go.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.

I did a bad thing last night. I lost my cool for a minute at the Oxford School Board meeting, and was apparently a little too honest with the board member who happened to ask me why I was frustrated by the proceeding.

My response wasn’t prompted by my professional role at The Evening Sun, but by the fact that I’m both a graduate of Oxford Academy and a current district resident. And I felt like I’d had the wool pulled over my eyes by the board and administration. I allowed them to convince me to cast my vote in favor of the Phase I capital project by promising to renovate and restore the historic Middle School building and keep it as an educational institution. But here they are, once again, talking about reconfiguring grades and – yes, there was mention of that single Pre-K through 12 campus idea – yet again.

Now, when I say “they,” I really mean the board president, as she acts as the board’s spokesperson. Some of the other board members were visibly uncomfortable with the discussion. And the board member in question did state for the record that she didn’t think the highly unpopular “Option 3” (unified campus) should be considered further because of the public’s previous response to the idea. But I was still shocked and appalled that the topic had not only raised its ugly head again. Especially since it hadn’t appeared on the agenda I’d received. Or the one I’d picked up when I entered the room, for that matter.

Just as anyone, I’m entitled to my opinion. But I work hard to put those feelings aside in my reporting. I’ve gotten used to compartmentalizing my opinions from the bare-bones facts of an issue, not only because it’s part of my job – which it is – but also because I feel very strongly that the facts of the case should stand on their own merit. That stakeholders should have the information they need to make an informed decision about whatever matter is being discussed, but whatever decision they arrive at should be theirs. So I strive to be unbiased, and give both sides, or as many sides of the issue as possible.

I save my opinions, thoughts and beliefs for a more appropriate forum: my columns, blogs and, everyone’s favorite, thumbs.

Despite the fact that I’ve done just that for well over a year – through the first go around when the board was flirting with the idea of demolishing a wing of that venerable old building, when community members were up at arms about proposed budget cuts, controversy over the superintendent’s contract, etc. – my little outburst last night could cost me. Because those that think I have been overly critical of the administration or the board and their actions in the past, are already trying to use it as ammunition against me.

It’s too late to take back my words, and I now realize that I made an error in judgment. But I’m not the only one.

Because, what Oxford’s school board still fails to realize, recognize or understand is that it isn’t my words that have people up at arms – It is their actions.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa

Sometimes, when our parents tell us not to do things, we nod and pledge our allegiance to adhere to their will. Even though we know darn well that we’re going to go right out and do it anyway.

That’s pretty much what I did, when my mother told me in no uncertain terms that she did not want any kind of birthday celebration this year. Sure, Mom, no problem, I said. We won’t do anything special.

Good thing I had my fingers crossed, because the next item on my to-do list was to plan her birthday shindig. As soon as our conversation was over, I promptly picked up the phone and began dialing up a few of my parent’s closest friends.

It crossed my mind as I planned the event, that it might be fun to keep it a surprise. But I figured it would be difficult to explain why I was roasting a 10 lb pork roast for just the three of us.

Regardless of her protestations to the contrary (and boy, did she protest when I unveiled my master plan), I knew she would enjoy herself. And she did. We all did, thanks to the wonderful company, the freely-flowing champagne and the mouthwatering dinner – which I somehow managed to prepare despite the aforementioned bubbly.

Why did I insist on the birthday party? Because my Mumsy deserved it. With her birthday falling just a few days before Christmas, she’s gotten short changed far too often. And since she was always the one to plan our celebrations, there wasn’t anyone to really take the lead on hers.

Our birthdays would be feted with plenty of gaily wrapped presents, our favorite meal and usually a gathering of friends. She, on the other hand, would end up with a few last minute gifts, hastily wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper, and one of those Pepperidge Farm frozen layer cakes.

And that was if she was lucky!

Far too often she would fall victim to my father’s unique brand of gift giving. Where he would buy something for himself, and say it was for her Like the year he bought her a pair of skeet guns. It probably goes without saying that my mother is not the member of our family who was into skeet at the time.

My personal favorite was the I called home from Colorado to find he had tried to pass off a four wheeler and a wood splitter as her birthday gift.

When, during hunting season, my father was lamenting the untimely demise of that four wheeler, I reminded him that mom’s birthday was coming up. Let’s just say my mother’s reaction to this helpful suggestion wasn’t suitable for print.

But I think you can get an idea why this year I thought it was high time to raise the bar on her celebration, hence the little dinner party. After putting up with us for all of these years, my Mumsy deserves the very best.

We celebrated a couple of days early, but today is actually “the day.” So, if you see her, make sure to wish her a happy birthday.

How old is she, you ask? Why 49 and holding, of course.

I love you, Mumsy. Happy Birthday.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa

My first exposure – no pun intended – to the work of humorist David Sedaris was more than a decade ago when I read Naked, a series of essays focused on the author’s early years and young adulthood. Although I’d originally purchased the book for a friend, once I realized how freaking funny it was, I promptly re-appropriated it.

(I justified this act, which in the days before political correctness we would have referred to as “Indian-giving,” by assuring myself that she didn’t appreciate it as much as I did. After all, if she had, she wouldn’t have let it out of her sight long enough for me to steal.)

Since that first reading, I have read, re-read and listened to just about everything Sedaris has ever published. From his early Holidays on Ice and Barrel Fever, to Me Talk Pretty One Day, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim and, his most recent work, When You are Engulfed by Flames.

Perhaps my favorite, however, is an audio recording of a performance he did at Carnegie Hall called, appropriately, Live at Carnegie Hall. Without fail, every time I listen to it I laugh so hard that I cry, particularly during “Six to Eight Black Men,” where he discusses holiday traditions in the Netherlands.

Since I started working at the Evening Sun, however, one of the essays included on the CD gives me pause. It’s called “Repeat After Me.”

In it, Sedaris talks about his sister’s reaction to the news that some of his work, in which she and his other family members feature prominently, may be made into a movie. The essay – in which he trains her parrot to say he is “so sorry” for using her life as source material – is in part an apology to her. And I think of it every time I write a blog or column where I dip into my own well of source material gathered from the exploits and  embarrassments of those nearest and dearest to me.

Which, lets face it, is every time I write a blog or column.

I’d be lying if I said there weren’t times when my friends and family members didn’t start, end or at some point interrupt a conversation by saying, “wait, are you going to write about this?” But for the most part, they are willing participants. So willing, in fact, that a few are actually disappointed if I spend time with them and don’t write about it.

The only real exception to that is my parents, who grew up in a time when privacy actually existed (read: pre-internet). When I told my father I would be writing a column, he didn’t congratulate me. Instead, he said, “You’re not going to write about your family, are you?”

In an effort to avoid confrontation, I quickly answered no. Okay, it was a blatant lie. But I kept my fingers crossed.

He and my mom tend to take it in stride now, perhaps they have realized that resistance is futile. Or maybe it’s the fact that I ply them with wine and martinis before I start digging for the good stuff.

A lot of those I write about most don’t live around here. They feel like minor celebrities when they see their name (repeatedly) in print. When they haven’t gotten their fix in awhile, they start jumping up and down begging, “Blog about me, Blog about me!” (I keep telling Liz this is unbecoming, but she doesn’t listen to me.)

That’s why when someone asked me last week if my friends get upset when I blog about them, I had to laugh.

And then I felt compelled to write about it.

I’d wager that on Thanksgiving Eve, many people’s thoughts were running a-fowl. But while Tom Turkey probably featured prominently on most minds, mine was focused on, well, hens. You see, last Wednesday night was my friend Kerri’s Bachelorette Party – which, in case you are wondering about that poultry reference, is sometimes called a “hen night” in other parts of the world.

Now, when I hear bachelorette party, I think of a bride-to-be’s last hoorah – complete with phallic themed party favors, raucous laughter, indecent party games and copious amounts of booze. Oh, and male dancers. You wouldn’t want to forget the male dancers.

Kerri’s party wasn’t any of those things. And I couldn’t have been more relieved. But that stereotypical bachelorette bash is a pretty apt description of the first such event I ever attended.

I was just out of college and Danielle, a friend of my friend Liz, was getting married. In honor of the impending nuptials, her bridal party had organized a trip to a traveling male revues – one of those Chippendales wannabe-type shows, at some Holiday Inn out on Long Island.

Even though I didn’t know Danielle that well, I was invited to tag along to fill out the group. I was more than happy to oblige – after all, who was I to pass up a chance to see a whole troupe of scantily clad, gyrating male dancers!

It was August 31, 1997 – a date I remember, not because of the show itself, but because it also happened to be the night Princess Diana died. In fact, we learned of her death at the party. From the bartender, no less, on one of many visits to the banquet room’s port-a-bar to get more dollar bills.

Before you get all judgmental (or let your mind go too far into the gutter), let me explain that the frequency of our trips to get change was absolutely not in an effort to encourage the performers, but rather to discourage them. You see, this particular group of male dancers seemed to think that we were there for their pleasure rather than the other way around. Throwing money at them was a kind of self defense.

There was a definite “ick” factor.

Those overly oiled studmuffin wannabes would come waving his leopard print banana hammock in my direction, and I’d do the only thing I could. Which was to frantically stuff dollar bills in his g-string. In the hopes that he would leave us alone, of course.

Rather than titillating, the whole thing was a bit traumatic. But not wanting to disappoint Danielle, we played along. All of which was well documented in photos, unfortunately.

While I tried to destroy all evidence of my participation in the event, others flaunted it. Liz, for example, sent out Christmas cards that year featured one of the photos from that night.

Despite the evidence that she’d secretly enjoyed the experience, when Liz got married a couple of years ago she made all of us in her bridal party pinkie swear that we wouldn’t attempt to recreate that evening in her honor.

We were all a bit disappointed, although none so much as Danielle, who had probably been waiting for a decade to return the favor.

But no, Liz had to be a spoil sport. So instead of a raucous night out, we had a perfectly respectable dinner at a great restaurant. What a let down. I mean, she wouldn’t even wear anything proclaiming her bride-to-be status. And there wasn’t so much as a phallus-inspired straw in sight.
No offense, it was a little boring.

Kerri’s Bachelorette Party, on the other hand, was the perfect mix. A dozen or so of us hopped on a mini-bus and headed to Turning Stone Resort Casino for a comedy show. There was lots of female bonding, plenty of free-flowing champagne and lots of laughs. And Kerri even wore the requisite ‘Bride-to-Be’ sash.

Thankfully, there were no male dancers.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.