I love my in-laws. I almost feel guilty.

The truth is, whether you like it or not, when you marry your husband, you marry his family. Regardless of what you think of them, they are part of the package and part of him; and let’s face it, he’s known them a lot longer than he’s known you which means they are not going anywhere soon. This is cause for celebration for me. I won the in-law lottery and like a good marriage, the relationship and times we share get better every year. There is nothing more magical than being at your in-laws’ with your husband and his family, sitting around the table crying with laughter as they reminisce about that one Christmas when Mom forgot to label all the presents so nobody knew if they were about to open a doll or a truck.

Times like these are so priceless and heart-warming; it saddens me to imagine the alternative.

Dr. Laura – the radio talk show host – regularly fields callers whose question starts something like this: I really love my fiancé but…

The caller, usually female, then spews a litany of jarring examples of how his family is a bunch of mean-spirited people she plans to spend as little time with as possible. More often than not, the hostility is focused between her and her future mother-in-law, sounding more like a competition than a battle. She then asks Dr. Laura what she should do.

Dr. Laura’s opinion and answer is simple yet harsh: Don’t marry him. The caller, now speechless, then listens as Dr. Laura explains that if she marries this man, whose family she already detests, every birthday, anniversary and family get-together will be nightmarish. Not only is she setting herself up for a lifetime plagued by misery and family friction, but her husband will be stranded in the middle – a situation ripe for marital discourse no spouse wants to be in and in which there are no winners.

I always feel so bad for the caller as you know it was not the answer she was expecting. This in itself is odd because I wonder what answer she was secretly hoping for. Did she think Dr. Laura was going to side with her and suggest she tell her fiancé to choose her over his mother and family? (Sometimes I suspect this is exactly what the caller is thinking!)

But the main reason I feel sad for the caller is because of what she will miss: In-law brothers and sisters gathered around the adult’s table joking and laughing as they finally confess to Mom and Dad how they broke the bed that one year. Cousins growing up together eating hot dogs on paper plates always served up on the green fold-up tables that Grandma and Grandpa keep specially. Spouses and siblings developing friendships as they journey together through the for-better-and-for-worse times of their lives. Holiday gatherings so large that even with the extra leaf, there is more food than table. And finally, quiet evenings sitting around the table playing cards with his parents, just like they did with theirs.

Although I feel blessed to enjoy all of this now; 23 years ago it all had the potential to take a much uglier path.

The first time I announced to my own parents that we would not be with them, but instead were spending Christmas in Michigan with his parents, I told my Mum in July; I figured she would need six months to calm down. Within moments, she declared that if I was going to Michigan then everybody was, and she wasn’t joking. What made this even more unbelievable is that my family does not even live in the USA; they live in England. Two families, one house, ten days – I feared it might pre-empt another war between our countries. The British are coming, the British are coming!

That Christmas, 22 people sat down for dinner; grandparents, parents, and siblings from both sides of the Atlantic spanning four generations and two different cultures, all putting aside their differences to share the spirit of the season in harmony and togetherness. The effort, consideration and respect his family showed to mine brought tears to my eyes, and the Christmas proved to be one of the most magical in our 23 years of marriage. How could I not love them? As overjoyed as I was about the success of our international Christmas, I must confess that having five thousand miles and an ocean between each other’s families comes with benefits.

First, British people do not celebrate Thanksgiving; phewee, that’s one holiday solved. Second, the Atlantic Ocean means my husband and I will never have to juggle either of the following: Eat two Christmas meals on the same day, or pack everything up on Christmas Day morning for the long drive to the other parent’s house – a blessing not just for our waistline, but our stress level and our marriage.

Over the years, I have been elated whenever I discover other people sharing similar feelings and stories about their in-laws. Sadly, this is not necessarily the norm which makes me wonder if they keep it to themselves because they also feel guilty. Besides, when you gush happy-in-law stories in public, you never know who might be listening; it might be the girl who just called Dr. Laura – talk about adding salt to the wound. Maybe it is better to keep quiet just in case.

But then again, there are too many sad thoughts in the world not to share those that are happy. My in-laws are a beautiful family, and I love them all.

There, I’ve said it.

If people took their honeymoon before they got married, would they still get married? The problem is, one unavoidable reality lurks beneath the picture-postcard ideal they have in their minds: When you spend every claustrophobic moment of every blissful day in the company of your beloved, whether you like it or not, each other’s quirks and flaws will rise to the surface like enemy torpedoes.

Welcome to the magical, vertical learning curve we call marriage, and what better place to start that journey of love than on vacation. Yes, that week-long celebration of laughter and love guaranteed to unite couples and bond families – nothing tests a couple’s patience or tolerance like it. Even decades-married couples can crack under the pressure.

Blinded by love and anxious to christen their new life together, the happy lovebirds giggle with dreamy excitement about their long-awaited trip. Practical clothing has no place on this vacation, and eye-candy outfits bulge from their pristine suitcases. As they fly off into the sunset, visions of togetherness, laughter and harmony warm their hearts. They don’t need rose-tinted sunglasses; tension, sulking and miscommunication will not happen on their honeymoon. Their love will conquer all.

For extra fireworks, they embark on this eye-opening, joyous adventure into togetherness by obtaining passports they fear daily of losing, staying in a city they don’t know, using a currency they can’t calculate, surrounded by a language they don’t understand, and eating food they can’t pronounce and will later discover does not agree with them.

But all of this pales in comparison to their ultimate challenge: Sharing the same bathroom for the first time ever. Is that the smell of romance in the air?

Do not fear, tropical sunshine awaits at the end of that love tunnel. Whether you are a future honeymooner or a married old timer, here are some basic dos and don’ts for vacation success.

1. Make Up.

Men don’t realize how much “stuff” it takes to look good. As you start unloading your collection of pink, dusty make up, he may go into shock. Don’t elevate his angst by relegating his razor and deodorant to the far corner of available space while you recreate the make-up counter at Macy’s in your bathroom.

2. Getting Ready.

He will try not to get impatient but will fail. The truth is, men just don’t understand what takes us so long. He will crack. Train yourself to notice the signs – loud huffing while he looks at his watch, taking his shoes back off or switching the TV’s romantic-music channel over to sports and blasting the sound to drown out his frustration. Preempt his mood crash by pouring him a beer and suggest he drink it on the balcony while you beauty-up. Tip: If you are a high-maintenance woman, just do yourself a favor and book a hotel with an on-site bar. Life is short.

3. Don’t be shy about giving him wardrobe guidance.

It’s time to go out. You’re dressed to the nines, and he’s wearing shorts and his favorite college t-shirt. Don’t ruin an evening by sulking over his perceived lack of wardrobe consideration. He’s on vacation, and his priority is what beer to drink not what shirt to wear. Speak up or shut up, and embrace the learning curve. Pull out the collar you secretly hoped he would choose, gush how good he looks in it, offer to buy him a beer and go have a fun evening.

4. Never, ever ask him to pick out your outfit for the evening.

He will pick the wrong one. This leaves you two choices: One, wear his outfit and suck it up, (serves you right!); or two, shatter his ego by unsuccessfully sugar-coating the fact that you are over-ruling him and wear what you really wanted to wear anyway. Either way, you will ruin the evening. Twenty years of marriage later, there will be misguided moments when you are still tempted to do this. Drop this romantic notion. This is a game few men want to play and even less men win.

5. Never ask: Does this make me look fat?

He may say yes. Instead, live by the following rule: Don’t ask the question if you might not like the answer. I didn’t. I asked, he told me, I cried.

6. Prepare for bathroom noise.

It will happen, so save yourself a lot of cramping. Embrace and accept it or pack the spare iPod-and-speaker set with the best volume.

7. Don’t succumb to the “sulk, sulk, he-should-have-known” trap.

If you want him to do something, tell him. If your wine glass is empty, ask him to pour you another. If you are cold, and he hasn’t offered you his jacket, ask for it. Stay warm, drink wine, and save yourself a lot of disappointment. He is not clairvoyant, never will be, and when you feel yourself going to the “sulky” place, twirl your ring and admire his collar.

8. Beware making blind-love decisions.

Many a regretful (and costly) honeymoon and vacation decision has been made in the name of love. (Timeshare anybody?)

“I only did it because I thought you wanted to.”

“Well I only did it because I thought you did.”

Learn to speak up now; it’s better to negotiate through a few minutes of awkward discussion sooner, than waste an evening or suffer a lifetime of expensive regrets later. And embrace compromise. Admit you’d rather order room service than eat out, (romantic dinner on the balcony?) and if you want red but he wants white, get both.

The honeymoon is the cusp of the learning curve, and life runs smoother if you prioritize magic over melodrama. Don’t assume, expect or hope; start as you mean to go on, learn to communicate calmly, and compromise. And remember practice makes perfect; besides, it will all come in handy on that first vacation with your in-laws.

And you thought your partner had quirks!

I love lists. I need lists. I would not be able to function without lists. I can never figure out though, whether the reason I make so many is because, one, I am an organized genius, or two, my memory is shot. As I get older, my need to make lists is intensifying, as is my dependency on calendars. Do I have some sort of weird addiction or just one horrendous memory?

In my kitchen hangs the essential wall calendar – my lifeline – the bigger the squares the better. Without this, I would never show up for appointments, renew my lottery ticket or send out birthday cards. I also have my fridge-magnet list for daily but less vital reminders to take out the chicken, vacuum and bake cookies, which strangely I never forget. In addition, a blank notepad hides permanently behind my fruit bowl for when I’m peeling potatoes and my brain suddenly spurts out that we are down to our last roll of toilet paper. It is a fact of life that these spontaneous reminders never happen when hands are free, clean or dry. On my desk notepad, I list overly-ambitious “To Do This Week” goals, but the mother of all lists is my yellow legal pad.

No flimsy scraps of paper for me; my master list is a full-sized, yellow writing tablet, and if I say so myself, a work of art. I list the groceries I need down the index, and write the items on sale, grouped by store, on the top half of the page with the grocery ads (complete with sale items circled) tucked in the back, all held in place by a large rubber band. I even attach paper clips for the coupons I don’t want to forget at the register. Nothing tortures the soul more than forgetting to use a coupon that sat just inches from your wallet. One time, my Mom and I both forgot to use our $5-off-2-entrees coupons at Red Lobster. Our husbands never flinched at our wasteful oversight; five years later, it still makes us cringe.

How do people even shop without a list? If I get to the store and don’t have my list, I might as well go home, otherwise I’ll buy everything I don’t need and nothing that I do. I found someone else’s list once on a bunch of broccoli. I was tempted to make a customer service announcement for the distraught shopper; I felt her pain. I should know; I lost my list once – scariest day of my life.

To the addicted list keeper, lists are a science.

I value neat lists, I have rewritten a list that looks messy, and I don’t like the way others make my lists for me. One time, I sounded off to my husband items I needed him to write down as I was handling raw chicken. When I looked at my list later, he had included too much product detail and his writing was too small. When I write cottage cheese, I automatically know I only buy low-fat. I don’t need to read “low-fat, large-curd, 2% cottage cheese” – too wordy. I rewrote it when he wasn’t looking. Also, if we are shopping together and he has control of the list, he makes a measly, simple check mark next to the item once it goes into the cart. I hate that. I wait until he gets sidetracked at steak and seafood, then I grab the pen and strike lines with abandon. Secretly, I love the feeling of crossing something off a list. I have even written things on a list just for the satisfaction of crossing them off – it’s the sense of accomplishment. The list is my “in” basket and nothing satisfies like seeing it empty; it’s a sign of a job well done.

Other pearls of list wisdom: Never compose a list on anything that may double up as a Kleenex or on the back of paper napkins at fast-food restaurants. You will, without question, forget what you did and trash everything on your tray on the way out. Two hours later, one of two scenarios will plague you. One, the forgotten item still haunts you, to the point of being stressful, or two, you remembered it and scribbled it blindly down on the car notepad while driving, which now means you have gobbledygook posing as a word that you can neither decipher nor remember. The size, shape, and feel of a notepad are also key.

Lined notepaper is too restricting as my scribble rarely fits in the tiny space, so I prefer a blank slate or minimum half an inch between lines. I don’t like pre-printed titles like “Don’t Forget.” I mean, why not just slap me in the face. I’m only using the list because if I don’t, that’s exactly what I will do. You don’t need to rub salt in the wounds of my absent-mindedness. Let me title my own lists thank you very much. Also, notepads are like purses – best selected by the user. I even take my favorite on vacation with me. The thought of being in a hotel room with nothing to make a list on makes me panicky. What if I suddenly think of something we need to buy when we’re out? Too risky.

I also keep permanent lists on my desktop: Christmas-Gift Ideas; Upcoming Vacation Packing list; Books Recommended to Me and my New Year Resolutions list. As this last list rarely changes – lose weight, clean more, drink less – I don’t even put the year on it now. One year, I resolved to keep less lists. I failed after three days. I deleted the resolution from the document and instead embraced my quirky habit. Lists are my life. They complete me.

Lest you think I’m shallow, there are some other things that complete me too; I just can’t quite remember what they are. Wait a minute; I think I wrote them down somewhere.

Let me just get that list.

Someone, (sorry, if you are reading this) gave me a music CD with the plastic wrap missing for Christmas one year. I later learned she had opened it, recorded it, wrapped it and then given it to me. I know this because she told me – not that she had much choice, the missing plastic wrap was a dead giveaway. Maybe I should thank her; I can never get that plastic off anyway.

It is a soothing-sounds CD. Every time I play it, un-soothing thoughts enter my head and remind me that she opened it first. In a way, she wasn’t guilty of regifting because the CD was new. Wait a minute, I assume it was new. Oh no, maybe she just scoured her CD rack for something she hadn’t listened too in ages that she thought might make a suitable gift. In my heart, I believe it was new, but now I feel guilty for even thinking that. I need to go play it; I feel stressed now.

Regifting scares me. I always worry that one day I will regift something to someone that they previously gave me. Of course, I usually give to others gifts that I would use myself, so at least if ever I did get one back, I’d like it. The few times I have regifted, I have always regretted it. My conscience is my punishment though, as years later, I still recall what the items were, what the occasion was, and who the victims were. And let’s just say it’s not pride that oozes from my pores.

Whether or not you regift really boils down to how you answer the following questions: Is it wrong? Is it okay but tacky? Or, is it perfectly acceptable as long as you tell the person?

My CD friend believes in the latter; I, on the other hand, think regifting is tacky, which is a shame because it solves so many “stuff” problems. I mean, what else can you do with all those unwanted desirables that seem inappropriate for Goodwill, too expensive for a garage sale, and too valued not to pass on to someone?

Hopefully there won’t be any more deceptively-wrapped, regifted presents under my tree this year – Christmas is complicated enough as it is. Not only does it expose the etiquette minefield of regifting, but it also confronts us with the equally-explosive issue of handling “the unwanted gift.” Do you keep it, return it, or exchange it? If you do decide to return or exchange, should you ask the person first, or just go ahead and return it, hoping the subject never comes up?

Choosing the ignorance-is-bliss option seems like the perfect solution, until that is, the gift-giver comes to your house. Guilt consumes you, especially if the occasion warrants using the item in question. You sit there, smiling and chatting away, all the while knowing that the gift-giver is secretly strategizing how to bring up the subject of their seemingly-unused gift into the conversation. Thankfully for the friendship, the gorilla in the room never gets mentioned, and you are safe until their next visit.

Whether we like it or not, all gifts elicit emotional reactions – good and bad. I know this because on the flip side, nothing nourishes the heart more than seeing a gift you gave, being used. Conversely, I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge a twinge of sadness, (or ashamed to admit, a prick of annoyance) to learn that my gift had been shoved in the back of a closet somewhere, destined to earn pennies on the dollar at their next garage sale. It makes me want to ask for it back.

Early in our marriage, my husband gave me a vase for Christmas. Hard as I tried to love it, I couldn’t escape one basic truth – I didn’t. I wanted a vase but not that one. Finally, one day, as we stood in line at a food court to buy pizza, I broke the news to him. I chose the food court specifically because if he took it badly, steaming slices of cheesy pepperoni will lift anybody’s spirits; it’s food band aid. To my relief, he didn’t mind and the vase was forgotten before he even got to the crust. Months later, the subject came up. He admitted that although the pizza had helped, he felt gutted I didn’t like his vase. It broke my heart. Consequently, I have adored everything he has bought me ever since – as far as he knows.

Twenty-plus years of marriage later, the only gifts my husband and I now buy for each other are small, (read: cheap) token gifts. Every dollar that comes into our house, regardless of who earns it, goes into the same “pot.” Consequently, I can never quite get my head around the fact that if I buy him something (which he may or may not want), it is our “joint” money paying for it. Also, if he buys me a gift and pays by credit card, I am the one who pays the bills which can be especially brutal when the amount due includes that gift you know you’ll never use.

Talking of which, I am desperate for a gift idea for my husband this year. Maybe I’ll find something during my next cleaning purge that I could wrap up and give to him. Just because I consider it tacky to regift to friends, it doesn’t mean I can’t regift to my husband. Different rules apply between spouses – especially after 20 years. In our house, any time we can put old stuff to new use is cause for celebration.

Wait a minute; his job has been stressful lately. I think he’d love a soothing-sounds music CD, and I know just where I can find one. But what if he gets suspicious about the missing plastic wrap? I know, I’ll have him unwrap it right before dinner which I’ll order out.

“I’d like to order a large cheese pepperoni please.”

Three years ago, I bought my first turkey with a built-in, pop-up timer. I had no choice. My sister, Mom and I had decided to gamble and purchase the family turkey last minute. We anticipated that the stores would slash prices closer to the time and felt sure we’d be able to snag a bargain somewhere. The problem with gambling, however, is that when it doesn’t pay, you do. By the time we got to the store, there were no 50%-off signs or red-penned stickers anywhere, and my heart raced as we approached the turkey aisle. Gone were the bargain-priced birds that had spilled out of the freezer cases just two days earlier and as we stared blankly into the refrigerated abyss below, two lonely choices stared back.

Choice one: The boneless, turkey-breast roll.

Now there is nothing wrong with a turkey breast shaped like a toilet roll. In fact, I cooked one the year it was just me and my husband, and I can attest to some extremely-appealing advantages:

First, clean up is a cinch. Apart from the fact that bacteria-laden, pink liquid drips from the wrapper as you walk it over to the trash, necessitating washing the kitchen floor when you have all four burners going, it’s a breeze. Second, there is no jagged carcass to dispose of which, despite how carefully you place it in the extra-strength trash bag will, without fail, still rip it to shreds. Third, as long as you don’t count the meat that didn’t get eaten (because let’s face it, meat shaped like a toilet roll will not taste as scrumptious as something with wings), or focus on the leftovers unworthy of keeping because limited freezer space meant choosing between that or Butter Pecan Ice Cream, (a no-brainer), then there is no wastage either. And fourth, it frees up oven space, which means you can cook sides at the same time, save on the utility bill and still find time to watch Shrek.

All said and cooked, the turkey roll was a wise choice given our circumstances. The cost per pound worked out more, but a twelve-pound bird was too much meat for even the keenest of turkey-sandwich lovers.

It comes with one consumer warning though: Norman Rockwell.

Let’s just say if Norman had been a fan of boneless turkey rolls, his infamous family Thanksgiving dinner scene would have looked drastically different. For one, they would not have needed such a large carving knife; Grandma’s old bread knife in the drawer would have sufficed. Two, the table center piece would have hidden the roll, potentially leaving the father looking like some crazy man yielding a knife. And finally, panicked, fearful faces would have added to the pandemonium once the family realized that the pale, disc of white staring up at them from Grandma’s once-a-year china was an imposter protein posing as turkey. Hardly the stuff of paintings.

So, if you want Norman Rockwell, go with the bird. If you don’t, shop early or pay the big bucks.

The other choice that stared back at us was the over-priced, more-than-we-needed, 22-pound turkey. It did, however, boast a convenient (read expensive) pop-up timer and tantalize our taste buds with its guarantee of a perfectly-cooked, juicy, unforgettable bird. Four hands loaded it into the cart which we then pushed and pulled over to the produce section, fingers crossed. Fortunately, Brussels sprouts are a love it or hate it kind of vegetable, and we love it. We piled them in and with everything on our mental-dinner plates checked off, steered our heaving cart to the check out where we contemplated taking out a small loan to pay for our Cadillac turkey.

Back home, we deliberated its defrosting. Should we put the turkey in the bathtub like when we were growing up, or empty the contents of the bulging fridge and safely follow the advice of the experts? Fortunately, much has changed since our single-bathroom days growing up, and we now have a separate shower stall. At least while the turkey sat in the bathtub, we would no longer have to choose between a strip wash, not bathing, or bathing with a naked bird. After sharing laughter and dangerous turkey-defrosting stories, we safely followed modern-day practices and began emptying the fridge.

When the big day arrived, I wrapped the bird in foil with the same precision I reserve for expensive Christmas gifts. I gingerly cut a hole to expose the little white tube that stuck out from its raw breast and set my own kitchen timer as a backup; ten people were relying on that pop. My sister opened the oven door, and with two of us holding the pan, we crammed the giant bird into our oven and hoped for the best. It was a team effort; we just hoped Tom would not let our side down.

Near the projected “pop” time, a nervous but excited crowd gathered around the oven door, and no-one dared leave the scene for fear of missing the action. It was family bonding at its finest and the anticipation and aroma of roasting turkey hung heavy in the air. Would the pop make a noise? Would we hear it through the glass? Would chimes of “Hallelujah” ring out from its cooked breast? We turned on the oven light just in case, and took turns peering through the heat-stained window.

Almost on cue, Tom delivered a faint but visible pop, and it felt like a New Year’s Eve party – everybody cheered jubilantly, and then left. Thirty minutes later, we re-gathered at the bountiful table and dug into our picture-perfect bird; the juicy, tender meat was everything the label promised and more, and we were pop-up hooked. Our Rockwellian-looking turkey inspired so many mouth noises and compliments that it left me in no doubt as to the real reason why such joy and excitement had oozed from the faces of the family in Norman Rockwell’s famous Thanksgiving scene:

It was their first pop-up too.

If the title piqued your interest enough to start reading this, then you already know the answer. You even know who you’d write about don’t you? For some of you, it may be yourself; for others, it’s that one family member whose life and experiences are so unique and precious, you know if they are not captured by you, they will be lost forever.

And memories lost forever are exactly that.

So, if you’ve been procrastinating about doing this, I have a suggestion for you this summer: start writing. If you don’t have time; find it. If you don’t have a computer, use a notebook. If you don’t know where to start, write “Once upon a time…” and see where it leads you. You will never be sorry.

I wrote my mother-in-law’s story and never a day goes by that I don’t breathe pride and relief that we took the time. I titled her book, Who Knew? because of the slew of never-heard stories that spilled from its pages. I chose to open the book with her recollections of her parent’s love story which led nicely into the where, what and when details surrounding her own birth. It covered depression-era stories of wealth lost, the pain of auctioning their farm, houses traded on a handshake, midnight climbs out of bedroom windows, even her excitement over their first shower, albeit outdoors! Her day-to-day tales of growing up without refrigeration or indoor plumbing were both humbling and riveting. It was a slice of history captured forever, a magical story that deserved to be told and a wonderful tribute to a beautiful woman.

1. Getting Started

Ask questions – lots of them. There are numerous life-story-writing books available featuring hundreds of memory-jolting questions. Search them out online or in your local bookstore. I did consider making my own list, but realize now I would have missed out on so much because I might not have thought to ask questions like what was her most memorable present.

She was eight years old, money was scarce, but she received a beautiful doll with a china face that Christmas. Her school was a one-roomed building with rustic outhouses and one day, she and her friend, Nellie, decided to play make believe with their new dolls and took them to the outhouse so that the dolls could “go potty.” Tragedy struck, however, when her beautiful doll fell through the wooden hole into the stinking pit below. That night, she cried and cried when she told her father but felt for sure he’d go rescue her; he never did. She had so few toys and now her beloved doll was gone forever. Fifty years later, it was still heartbreaking.

2. Gathering the Information

Gathering the information takes time so schedule several afternoons to ask questions and make notes. You want more than just a string of data and facts so probe beyond initial answers. Let’s assume you are writing the life story about your Dad and you ask the question: “What was your first job?” Your father responds, “I worked at the local store.” Don’t stop there – expand the story. How did you get the job? How much did you get paid? What did you spend your first paycheck on? What was your proudest day/worst day? Tell me about your memorable customers. How did you get to work? What was in your lunch box?

Before you know it, stories will spill out and you will have a chapter. Then, tie up the initial what-was-your-first-job-question with: Why did you leave? Chances are this will transition you on to another stage of his life, and another chapter.

3. Other Useful Material

If multiple family members feature heavily in the book, you may want to compose a basic two or three-generational family tree as a handy-reader guide. (For the super creative, consider including this as a bookmark versus an appendix page.) Scanning old photos – including family members, even houses they grew up in – can help embellish the memories.

4. Putting it together.

Group the memories, and think about how you want to present them. Do you want the book to be a chronological story? Or do you want the book to be a collection of stories by subject; for example, a chapter on all his jobs, a chapter on his family, a chapter on school and so on. Also, don’t assume you need to cover his entire life. You may want to focus on just one era – from birth to age 18, or his military service. Or, if you are writing about your parents, focus on their lives up until they became Mom and Dad. Ask questions, listen to the stories, and then ask yourself which ones most captured your attention. Answer that, and you’ve probably found the essence of your book.

5. Whose voice is telling the story?

I wanted the story to sound like my mother-in-law was telling it, so I chose to use “I” and “my” when writing it; for example, “My first job was…l” You may, however, prefer to write in the third person as in, “Dad’s first job was at a store. He stocked shelves for 50 cents an hour.”

6. Finding the Time

You have the stories, you’ve decided how to write it; the bigger issue is whether you have the time. Everybody has twenty-four hours in a day, seven days a week. In two weeks, two months, even two years, your errands and your laundry will still be there. The memories, however, may not.

Memories can get foggy as some people get older so resist waiting and find the time. Besides, nothing is more magical than watching their faces light up as they remember things they have not thought about in fifty years.

They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. In this case, it’s a single question: Should you write it?

And you already know that answer.

I miss my cookbooks.

No longer do stained, tattered and brow-beaten spines spill from shelves in my kitchen and steal valuable space elsewhere. My once bountiful cookbook collection has dwindled; even my magazine collection shrank. No more bulging magazine racks, old copies in guest bathrooms, or magazine stacks growing in out-of-the-way corners. I blame the internet.

The sad demise of my culinary library started not long after I realized the space-saving and cost-free value of online food sites and recipe reviews. Not only did they allow you to adjust the ingredient amounts to suit your serving size – genius – but other people’s tips and comments became invaluable. Never again would unwanted spices sit in the back of my pantry, casualties of recipes that turned out to be tasteless. Consequently, cookbooks that once filled an entire wall in my kitchen now inhabit one shelf and one recipe box. As much as I love the internet and the extra space, it’s not the same.

There’s something about walking into a kitchen where irregularly-stacked cookbooks spill from the shelves that just makes you want to sit down and eat. Just the sight of them leaves you secretly hoping that any minute now freshly-baked brownies will magically appear from the oven.

My cookbook collection now totals less than ten and lazy afternoons are not the same. I used to love grabbing a pile of my books, curling up in a comfy chair, and perusing recipes I aspired to one day cook at elegant dinner parties that never transpired. The beautiful photos of dishes so elegant and perfect were not just inspiring, they were uplifting. My cookbooks did more than just provide recipes; their grease-splattered, tomato-stained pages transported me back to memorable (or in some case forgettable) meals, and over the years, the books themselves came to represent the culinary and marital journey of my life.

In the early years, titles like Introduction to Cooking and Kitchen Basics 101 were indispensable. They epitomized home cooking and were penned in an era when women wore aprons, computers and cell phones were the stuff of scientists, and nobody had heard of cholesterol. Even with all the technology, they are still my first line of defense when I need to cook the perfect hard-boiled egg, (as I in fact did this week for the first time in twenty years, after suddenly hankering for chopped egg on my salad).

Next came my prove-to-my-husband-he-had-made-a-wise-choice phase that occurs post honeymoon. I was desperate to show off my culinary prowess and aspired to the old adage, “The way to a man’s heart…” I bought anything with words in the title like gourmet, entertaining, and French; I also ironed everything. Fortunately, neither phase survived.

Next came my Italian collection. This phase is ongoing as everyone loves pasta; it’s the perfect go-to for family or guests, and the photos always look so damn irresistible. If it weren’t for my metabolism, I would have kept buying.

Then the busy years take over. The wedding is a distant memory, life becomes consuming, and titles promising fast and easy, under 30-minutes, 5 ingredients or less, and slow cooking fill the shelves; ironically, so do microwaveable meals. Bizarrely, this phase also includes the mandatory bread-maker machine.

Culinary-exploration phase was next. This generation of cookbooks appears a decade or more into the marriage when you suddenly wake up one day and realize you have been cooking the same eight dishes for the last ten years. Their titles represent adventure (and boredom) and seem like a good idea at the time. Words like cake-decorating, vegetarian and multiple international cuisines grace their covers and you cook roughly three out of the one hundred-plus recipes within their pages.

Check-out line cookbooks – these are the cookbooks you buy when you need to stop buying. They are the handy-sized, Betty-Crocker style books that sit in between the magazines and chewing gum in the checkout line. All these recipes use a can of cream soup and eight ounces of cheese. What more do you need?

Two or more decades have now passed nudging you into the final cookbook phase – the unavoidable watch-what-you-eat period. This era of books attempts to make anything healthy, sugar-free, low-calorie or fat-free sound exciting. Their shelf life lasts about ten years before they end up in a garage sale next to the cake-decorating and bread-maker cookbook because, one, we all revert to our old habits anyway, and two, because regardless of how many books you own, you will still cook and rotate the same eight meals for dinner.

The cookbooks that I do still have are now trusted friends that I will never get rid of; I can pick up any of them and almost turn to the page I need. In contrast, I don’t even know half the websites I get e-mails from, and can’t access most of them because I can rarely remember the correct combination of user name and password. The truth is, what were all those recipes I saved into that little recipe box icon anyway?

My “real” recipes live in two places – within the pages of my few remaining, beloved cookbooks, and in the large, open recipe box that acts as their book-end. Decades of well-used, fading, hand-written cards bulge from this box and range from the “I-must-have-that-recipe” cards, (most of which I never cooked yet begged from family and friends), to the multiple pages torn from magazines. I cherish these cards and the memories they inspire: Grandma’s onion dressing; Patricia’s chocolate-zucchini cake; Rick’s shrimp dip. Recipes are named, and often written by, the people who inspired them and provide more than just a list of ingredients and instructions. They invoke sweet memories of times shared, memorable meals and beloved friends and family.

I still believe the internet is invaluable but there is something about the look, the feel, and the magic of cookbooks that always pulls at my heartstrings. Their pages yield more than recipes, they yield comfort.

I miss my cookbooks.

Our multi-generational, extended family has solved the key to vacationing together – and more importantly, still liking each other. Who knew all it would take was one set of rules and an embarrassing wig.

As our family grew, the reality of our group vacations rarely matched the dream. For months beforehand, we would blissfully anticipate long, joyous days bubbling over with laughter and fun. More often than not, bickering and sulking drowned out the laughter, and rarely did the memories inspire the words of postcards.

Successful group vacations start with three things: Matching expectations with reality, open communication and tolerant, considerate behavior. When people don’t know what is going on, feel left out, or are over-exposed to each other for longer-than-normal periods of time, criticism, bickering and whining sets in – a lesson we knew all too well.

Our family now encompasses all ranges of ages and mobility levels, and we need a vacation that offers something for everybody – we found it in cruising. There were sixteen of us on our first cruise which meant the potential for personality conflict and family drama was ripe. To avoid this, we decided to implement some light-hearted guidelines to promote considerate, fun vacation behavior. We came up with eight rules which we unveiled at a pre-vacation, communication party shortly before the cruise. But how would we enforce them?

On a previous Caribbean holiday, we had picked up a Jamaican-style wig as a souvenir – just looking at it made you laugh. Pea-sized, colorful beads secured the ends of long, dangly dreadlocks which hung from all sides of a black, crocheted cap. We named our dreadlocked cap, “Wiggy.” Adults feared it; children loved it, and anybody caught breaking the rules had to wear it.

1. He who whines wears Wiggy.

Who knew that a simple no-whining rule could be so life and vacation changing? Many people are unaware how much they whine until they pay attention to it. The way it worked was that anybody overheard whining would be tattled on at the end of the day at our nightly, pre-dinner, family social. If there were multiple whiners, we would vote on the worst, and the culprit would have to wear Wiggy at dinner, or at the least, for the hour of our get-together.

What constituted a whine included: I’m bored, I’ve eaten too much, (especially relevant on a cruise), any sentence that starts with “I hate,” complaints about the weather, I feel sick (unless validated by the presence of vomit), hangover whines (adults only), and basically any whiny or negative comment or criticism.

2. Each person reserves the right to eat what they want, when they want, where they want, and how much they want, without comment or critique by fellow family travelers. Any member caught commenting on another person’s eating habits shall wear Wiggy.

Vacations are for relaxing and having fun, and eating plays a key part of that, especially on a cruise. People often comment on other people’s food intake because deep down, it makes them feel better about their own less-than-stellar eating habits. The hypocrisy is – who doesn’t indulge on vacation?

3. Not everybody has to do every thing together, all of the time.

People need their own space, and so we agreed that every family should be free to do their own thing during the day. The reality is, similar interests meant that one was rarely alone, unless by choice. However, we also agreed to all meet at the same designated place, (usually a child-friendly bar), before dinner to chat about our day and cast our “Wiggy” votes. Not only did this provide a fun start to the evening, but everybody got to share in the group’s conversation – often difficult once the process of dinner starts. There would be no specific meet time – just an hour or so before dinner with heavy emphasis on the “or so.” That way, nobody felt rushed, nobody could be accused of being late, and everybody started the evening relaxed.

4. No counting calories. You’re on vacation.

5. No getting serious. You’re on vacation.

6. Volunteering for any activity that is fun or free is highly encouraged.

7. Stop worrying about what strangers think because “you’ll never see them again anyway.”

The last rule?

8. Never forget rule number one.

Not only was the cruise one of our most joyous, whine-free, memorable vacations ever, but Wiggy became a permanent fixture. We now even refer to ourselves as the Wiggy Group, have Wiggy newsletters, even a Wiggy salute.

We have come a long way since the drama-filled trips we once called vacations. It isn’t that we are a challenging family, (okay maybe we are), but all things considered, I like to think we aren’t that different from yours. We have those who organize, and those who let them; we have those who smile, and those who whine; we have those who see the glass half-full and those for whom it is always empty; we have the lets-do-everything-together people, and the no-lets-really-not. We are united by blood, divided by quirks, yet love each other dearly. The problem is, after a few days on vacation together, the presence of each other’s company causes our quirks to rise to the surface like enemy torpedoes and it is only a matter of time before we go to battle. Who knew that a set of rules and a fun wig could make so much difference?

Our next group vacation is in December. Wiggy will be there just in case, but everybody behaves so well now that we’ve introduced a new set of rules to reward positive behavior. The person demonstrating the most selfless, kind, or considerate act of the day now gets rewarded with a Hawaiian lei adorned with a gold medal. We already know the upcoming vacation will be the stuff of postcards, but if it isn’t, at least nobody will be whining.

Unless, of course, they want to wear Wiggy at dinner.

We have moved eight times. Each move was successful – except one. We were in the military, stationed in Florida, and after 13 years of service, decided to leave both for greener pastures.

The military would store our belongings for up to two years while we searched for the what, when, where of our next life. We put the house up for sale, kept out four suitcases, and with no idea when we would see our possessions again, started the exhausting process of deciding what to store, what to chuck, and what we needed to keep with us.

On moving day, three burly men feverishly wrapped and packed our entire house into brown boxes. The key to successful moving is in the detail – the more you write on the box, the easier it is to find things at the other end. Unfortunately, the sheer number of boxes meant that on many all we had time to write was “bedroom, kitchen, bathroom” etc., or the worst of all, “miscellaneous.” Once done, the movers pulled out a roll of sticky numbers and a clipboard to perform the inventory. One man stuck a number on each item or box, then shouted out, “Number 13 kitchen box; 14 kitchen box; 15 bedroom box,” and so on. His partner then scribbled down the item description against the inventory sheet’s corresponding number. By the end of the day, our inventory stretched over five pages, including 156 items, almost 100 of which were boxes.

Ten hours after arriving, the movers packed our 156 items into three giant crates, then sealed them shut, ready for transportation to a storage facility. We stood in silence and ignored the pit in our stomachs as we watched the truck drive off, our lives in the back. Two hours and four suitcases later, with the “for sale” sign still in the yard, we set off on our own journey. We were heading to Michigan to that place where all children go when they are jobless and homeless – Mom and Dad’s.

One exhausting job search, two furnished apartments and 18 months later, we were established again and living in Tennessee. We had sold our Florida home, bought a new one and were desperate to see all our stuff again. As ill-fate would have it, a family health issue meant I would be away when the moving truck came, so my husband would have to handle the delivery alone. As the packers wheeled furniture and boxes into the house, often stacked three high, they shouted out sticker numbers like a fast-paced game of bingo. Unfortunately, there was no order to the numbers, leaving my husband scrambling back and forth over five pages of inventory, trying to check off delivery of each item, while simultaneously instructing the packers where to take each box.

In less than three hours, their truck was empty, and row after row of generic brown boxes lined every wall of our new home. The packers hovered while my husband checked the inventory list. He was crushed to find one item – labeled simply “miscellaneous box” – unaccounted for. Unfortunately, their truck was empty and with no way of re-checking every single item, my husband had no choice but to sign on the dotted line.

For the second time in 18 months, he watched the truck drive off, once more with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Of the 156 items that were loaded in Florida, only 155 made it to our new home. In time, the missing item would reveal itself; we just hoped it was nothing valuable. How wrong we would be.

From the beginning of our relationship, I made it a habit of keeping every card we had ever given each other – whether for a birthday, Valentines, sorry, thank-you or anniversary. Afterwards, I would write on the back; the occasion, the date, how we celebrated, what we ate, what we wore, or any other fun and special memories from the day. Then, still in its envelope, I placed the card into a giant red shoe box which contained all our other memories and keepsakes. I labeled it our “Love Box.”

Several months later, we celebrated our wedding anniversary. After the celebration was over, I made some fun notes on the back of the card then went in search of our precious “love box.” After hours of laboring through all the still-unopened boxes, horror gripped me as I realized the unthinkable – it was the missing box. Years of memories lost forever. I felt gutted.

About a year later, I was paying bills when the phone rang. After verifying my name and address, the young lady announced she was from the moving company that had moved us the previous year. They had located a box which they had traced back to us and she wanted to verify our details. My heart skipped a bit, blood rushed through my body, and I burst into tears right there on the phone.

A few days later, a battered, bruised box arrived at our home. When we opened it up and saw our huge, red “Love Box” inside, I sobbed for the second time that week.

We recently celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary over a decadent bottle of red wine, a simple meal of warm bread, cheese and pesto, and our red love box. Duct tape now holds together its 20 years of bulging memories. We took it in turns to reach in, pull out a card, then read the message and notes on the back. Forgotten memories flooded back. We laughed, we cried, and we remembered. It was one of the most romantic and magical evenings we have ever shared.

So, a note to newlyweds: Start writing and start keeping. Take time to make notes, and in years to come, the notes and memories on all those greeting cards will bring you more joy than you can possibly imagine. And if you ever have to move, consider keeping them with you.

Memories are priceless; lost ones are gut-wrenching.

Do sheets dried on a washing line smell better than sheets dried in the dryer?

To many, this is a no brainer. When it comes to laundry, there are two types of people in this world: Those who believe that nothing smells as fresh as sheets dried on the line. And everybody else.

Actually, there is a third kind – those who dry clean. I’ve never understood them though; I mean, where is their fun? Talk to any advocate of the line-drying crowd and enthusiasm gushes out; they can’t stop themselves. To them, nothing beats the sunny, crisp freshness of sheets dried by Mother Nature.

I feel the same way about my tumble dryer, especially when I use the “tranquil-lavender” scented drier sheets. Not only do I like the smell, but the used-up drier sheets are handy for giving faucets a quick shine and for scraping the fuzz off the lint screen. Where is the benefit from picking up your clothes at the dry cleaners though? Admittedly, you get a free hanger, and the plastic covers are handy when travelling, but the hangers are rubbish. Hang a pair of jeans on them and it’s just a matter of time before they bend in the middle. I hate that.

I guess I’m just a dryer girl. If the label doesn’t say tumble dry, it’s not in my closet. I do own a few dry-clean tops; they pretty much represent the only high-priced items in my clearance-rack closet. I tend to save them for special occasions, which basically means they never get worn. Actually, I can never get past the fact that they will then need laundering; the scratch and sniff test only works for so long. Before you know it, you’re searching through coupon books or calling around for prices in a sad attempt to lessen the pain. Laundry is stressful enough without adding more.

The truth is, we are a nation divided by housekeeping. Don’t even get me started on ironing. That’s another one of those do-or-don’t rituals: There are those who iron, and those who avoid it at all costs. Certain behavioral traits, however, give each type away. The “ironer” will instinctively smooth down her clothes at the mere suggestion of a photograph; heaven forbid she gets caught in public with a wrinkle. The non-ironer doesn’t care. She does, however, bolt from her chair the instant she realizes the dryer finished ten minutes beforehand. She scrambles to the laundry room praying that the dreaded wrinkle will not have set in, so she doesn’t have to iron. Fortunately, she probably has that wrinkle-remover spray lurking in the depths of her closet somewhere.

I know women who iron everything. Forget shirts, these women are ironing pillow cases and panties. I mean, what is all that about? When I stand in my panties, there is no amount of ironing that will stop my butt from looking like Wrinkle City. Unfortunately, that has more to do with the saggy, rippled skin underneath than it does my laundry habits. Wrinkles are not choosy where they live, and there is no iron in the world that will smooth out nature’s creases. I wish there were. Can you imagine?

“I’m almost ready Sweetheart; I’m just ironing my face.”

Some friends of ours went to great effort and expense to visit us recently. She’s an ironer. I figured the least I could do was let them slumber on wrinkle-free cotton, so I ironed their pillow cases. This was a first for me. It could have been worse though; they could have been the sort of people who use a clean towel for every shower. Yes, such people exist! I’ve never understood that either. (How much cleaner can your body get?) I had one house guest who put his towel in the laundry basket after each use. When he went out, I retrieved it, popped it in the dryer for a quick hit of tranquil lavender, and hung it back up. He was none the wiser. He stayed 4 days – so did his towel.

The strange thing is, housework does give me a wonderful sense of satisfaction; not that I would miss it mind you. Years ago, I had a cleaner. We lived in Germany at the time, and our apartment had stone-tile floors throughout. No matter how often I swept, dust bunnies rolled down the passageway like Texan tumbleweeds. The night before our cleaner first came, I cleaned the entire house; I didn’t want her to think it was dirty. When I returned home from work later that day, the smell of cleanliness hit me the moment I opened the door, and I never looked back. I never could admit to my mother though that I paid another woman to clean my house. Two decades later, that still sounds odd. Any woman who has ever hired a cleaner, though, is lying if she doesn’t tell you how blissful it is, coming home to a clean house after a full day’s work.

My cleaner never did our laundry; it was probably a good thing. People are fussy about the way their clothes are folded, especially socks. I tie my husband’s socks in a knot; my Mum rolls hers and my mother-in-law folds hers over. I think my way is more logical but foolishly, so do they. I’ve decided, therefore, it’s just best not to mess with another woman’s laundry. It is rarely wise to stack or unload her dishwasher either. But that’s a whole different story. Or is it?

When it comes to housework, it seems we all have quirks – apart from me. If you ever come to visit, you’d discover that. You see, nothing bothers me as long as you abide by a few small rules: Don’t expect a clean towel every day, ignore wrinkled linens, and don’t load my dishwasher the wrong way. Other than that, my door is open, so feel free to come in.

Unless, that is, you don’t like your tranquil-lavender-scented socks knotted.