A Tryptophan-free Thanksgiving

Something just wasn't right about Thanksgiving this year. I think it's because I didn't have the traditional feast. That's right -- no turkey, stuffing, yams, cranberries or pumpkin pie. I never realized how much a traditionalist I was until I decided to do something, well, nontraditional.

In San Francisco, it's crab season. Fresh crab ranks high on my yummy scale and I know a lot of people who serve it up for their holiday meal. This year I jumped on the crustacean bandwagon. Delicious, yes. Full of memories, no.

Thanksgiving sparks all variety of stories. My first turkey was cooked with the giblets in their little bag inside the bird. Who knew they were in the other end? Or the year I turned the would-be gravy into a foaming chemistry experiment because I couldn't remember whether to use baking soda or powder.

I have no such memories connected with crab. Not yet, anyway. So let me start one: this is the first Thanksgiving I was able to make it through the meal without secretly unbuttoning my pants. And, since crab is tryptophan-free, there was none of that pesky nodding off after dinner.

But like everything else there is a downside -- a cold crab sandwich the following day just doesn't have the same appeal as that leftover poultry.

Losing the Fitted Sheet Battle -- Again

To be honest, I've never been the best housekeeper. My apartment is neat, uncluttered and I mop, dust, vacuum and scrub regularly. You know, the basics. I'm just not the housekeeper my mother was.

She ironed our underwear, towels and sheets. I always thought that was a tad above and beyond the call but of course I never said anything out loud. She would be displeased to know that her youngest daughter currently doesn't even own a working iron. Before you imagine me a ball of wrinkles, you should know that I am on very friendly terms with the dry cleaner downstairs. Their "in by 7 out by 5" policy is a lifesaver.

Mother never really showed us how to cook or do housework. Perhaps she hoped we'd osmose it or, way better, marry someone rich enough to provide a maid or two. In her dreams! Neither happened which is why, 40 years later, I still can't fold a fitted sheet.

Is there some secret to this? Does it involve a grasp of geometry -- folding angle to angle? Or is origami a better approach? What if I treat it like fine Japanese paper? Will I wind up with a neatly folded sheet -- or a locust perched on a lotus blossom?

I lose the fitted sheet battle every time I fold laundry. My solution? Roll the damn thing up like a sleeping bag and shove it in the linen closet. However, if you should meet my mother in that great big laundry room in the sky, tell her how orderly my apartment is -- and evade any questions about wrinkled sheets.

The Anti Anti-Aging Argument

Go to your local pharmacy and you'll find an array of anti-aging products -- creams, gels, lotions all promising to slow down the aging process. Buy ours and you're sure to be mistaken for your twenty-year-old daughter. Buy theirs and you're sure to be carded next time you go to a club.

While these products might have some actual benefits, I remain wary of their effectiveness. And I certainly don't cotton to the message they send -- getting older is some how bad. Wrinkles are the new leprosy. Soon we'll be wearing little bells to warn the unwrinkled that we're approaching. Children will point. Colleagues will turn away. The subway seat next to us will remain empty.

We are The Wrinkled. Pooh-poohers of botox. Debunkers of Madison Avenue's look-younger campaigns. Admirers of the Keith Richard's look. Crow's feet? We've got 'em. Frown lines? Bring 'em on. Turkey neck? Oh, please don't make me go there. My entire anti anti-aging argument falls apart when it comes to the dreaded turkey neck. So far camouflage like turtle necks and scarves have been successful but I'm open --- waaayyyy open --- to suggestions.

Letting Go

A minimalist. That's how I'd describe myself. I've never been a collector of stuff. In fact, too much stuff makes me uneasy and I feel compelled to offload some of it.

You see I've always had this dream that should I wake up some morning and want to run away, I could tie all my stuff in that proverbial red bandanna and go. Granted, I've yet to take action on that dream but I'm not giving up on it either. So if you some day see a white haired woman along the highway toting a bandanna on a stick, just honk.

Now here's the problem. I can't seem to apply my minimalist red bandanna theory to my closet. I have clothes in there from 10 years ago -- maybe longer. One jacket has so much shoulder padding it looks like I could play for the NFL.

Come on. Fess up. Raise your hand if you have something in your closet from your hippie or disco days --- maybe both! Hot pants? Go-go boots? Anything tie-dyed? Anything tie-dyed bearing a peace symbol?

Most of my things just don't fit anymore. I keep them mainly as incentive to lose the 20 pounds I've gained the past couple of years. Right! And those pounds will melt away as unicorns frolic in the forest of World Peace.

That line between delusional and hopeful gets more blurry every day, yet I just can't put my skinny jeans in the Goodwill bag.