C.W. Grody's Blog: C.W. Grody

Spiders are our friends. They eat other insects. They were good guys in Charlotte’s Web. But that doesn’t mean I want to live with them, especially when they’re poisonous and breeding faster than Amish rabbits.

I moved into a duplex sight unseen when I arrived in Columbus during the winter of 2000. Everything was fine for six months. But in early July, I came home to find our duplex deserted and a plastic container on the kitchen table. My then-wife labeled it, “Brown recluse spider – do not open.”

Um, okay.

I wasn’t really worried. The spider is called a recluse for a reason. There’s rarely more than one in a house, and you need to look in the dark corners of the basement to find that one. Brown recluses aren’t even native to Ohio; they hail from southern states. They ride here in suitcases or boxes belonging to Southerners heading out of Dixie.

A few days later, my wife found another recluse by the front door. And above our daughters’ bunk beds. And dancing across the kitchen floor. This was not a reclusive group of spiders. It was the Animal House frat party of spiders, complete with John Belushi smashing beer cans against his little arachnid head.

We called Ohio State University for help. OSU’s spiders guys reacted as if I said Kate Upton swore off athletes in favor of spiderologists. They rushed to the duplex to collect spiders two by two.

The spider guys were freakishly happy about finding so many brown recluse spiders. They also said it would take six months to kill all of them. Then they asked if we could catch more specimens for them – and if it wasn’t “too much trouble,” could we catch them alive?

Although bites are rare, a brown recluse can cause a “festering volcanic wound.” Your skin splits open, pops up like a volcano, and seeps goo for months. What else could I say? “Sure, we’d love to catch more spiders for you.”

So there we were in brown recluse Club Med, and the spiders raced around the house like drunken college boys searching for the Girls Gone Wild tour bus, and OSU added “spider hunt” to our list of things to do.

But the spider hunt had to wait. We needed to get the kids out of that duplex, and we needed to make sure the spiders didn’t hitch a ride to our new house.

To keep the girls from being bitten – heck, to keep me from being bitten – we went through everything we owned to make sure neither the spiders nor their eggs went with us. Whenever something was certified spider-free, it went in a plastic tub, and when the tub was full, it went in the backyard, which quickly took on the look of a department store display run amok.

We couldn’t sleep in the duplex. When the weather was nice, we camped in the backyard with our plastic tubs. When it rained, we stayed at hotels and left the plastic tubs to fend for themselves. Unfortunately, the Ohio State Fair was about to start, so hotel rooms were hard to find and even harder to afford. The nightly quest for lodging led to this late-night exchange in a hotel lobby.

Good ol’ boy from Alabama: “Where you from, boy?”

Me, just wanting a spider-free bed in which to collapse: “A few miles from here.”

Good ol’ boy, peeking curiously behind me: “Whatcha doin’ here? Sneaking in a filly?”

Me, too tired to feel either offended or complimented: “We’ve got poisonous spiders.”

Good ol’ boy: “They wouldn’t be brown recluses?”

Me, nodding with great effort and minimal result.

Good ol’ boy: “Hell, we got those crawlin’ in the grass back home. Just brush ‘em off your pillow when you go to bed.”

Me, trying to save some dignity: “I’ve got kids.”

Good ol’ boy: “Our kids make pets out of ‘em. I remember one time …”

Apparently, I’d have to be a lot tougher to live in Alabama.

Moving day finally arrived. Everything was packed. We just needed to load the truck and get the heck out of Dodge before a desperado spider took one of us down.

It was a simple plan.

It was a good plan.

It was not a fail-safe plan.

I woke up with chest pains and a severe rash across my chest and arms. It felt like six sumo wrestlers doing the tango on my torso. I was scared, but I took comfort in knowing that I could count on my wife to stay calm during this new crisis.

She screeched, “Oh, my God, the spiders got you!” and rushed me to the hospital.

Several unrushed hours later, as the spiders met and strategized at home, the ER doctor said that I wasn’t bitten. Instead, I had stress-induced shingles. It felt like fire ants feasting on my roasting flesh whenever I moved a muscle, so the doctor offered medication for the pain. “Just don’t operate heavy machinery after you take it,” he said.

Ever the calm one, my wife burst into tears and sprinted into the hall. The doctor looked confused for a moment before chasing after her. Finally, a group of nurses and orderlies managed to bring her, sobbing as if I were dying, back into the room.

“Ma’am, your husband’s going to be ok,” the doctor said.

“I’m not worried about that,” she whimpered.

“Then what – “

She burst into tears again. “He can’t take pain medication! He has to drive the truck! It’s rented in his name!”

Guess who didn’t take the medication?

I spent that day loading couches, chairs, tables, beds, a washer, a dryer, and a million plastic tubs onto the rented truck, then unloading it at the new place, all the while trying not to grimace so my wife wouldn’t feel guilty.

A few days later, I mentioned to someone that we were still new to Columbus. “Oh,” he said, “how do you like it so far?”

“Still getting the bugs out,” I muttered.

Parents, you’re about to get drafted.

No, you’re not headed to boot camp, although there might be days when you feel trapped and welcome any relief from the pressures of parenting. I’m talking about the kind of drafting that sounds like this:

“You know, it’s important that everybody does their part to help the kids succeed. Trust us, you’ll love being a coach, and it takes no time at all!”

At this point, you might be wiping your forehead because someone must’ve written “stupid” on your forehead. The idea that coaching a sport – be it Little League, soccer, even a bowling team – doesn’t take time is just silly, and the person saying it knows that better than you do. After all, he got roped into it a long time ago.

Your first instinct might be to politely say no and then run away as fast as possible. But speaking as a fellow parent and former volunteer coach, you might want to give it a try. You’ll spend a lot of time with your kids and their friends, you’ll be out in the sun getting exercise, and you’ll have the chance to interact with other adults. (Okay, the other parents can be challenging, but we’ll get to that.)

I coached for 10 years before going into family therapy, and I might be able to help you through the rough spots. Here are a few things that helped me:

 Remember that it’s about the kids. As parents, we want our children to have the best possible experience, but we often lose sight of what that means. Kids want to be challenged but still have fun with their friends; kids don’t have fun when they see adults arguing or hear parents badmouthing each other.

 Involve the other parents. This is the easiest way to make sure everyone feels involved (and it also keeps them off your back). Let’s face it, if I never hear another parent telling me why his kid should play shortstop, hit cleanup, pitch all of the important games, and be fed grapes between pitches by his teammates, I’ll be a happy man. But I’ve been on both sides of this; when you’re sitting in the stands, you can’t help but wonder what you might do differently. And believe it or not, some parents in the stands not only feel left out of the fun, but they might have a few good ideas, too.

 Don’t let other parents try to take over. If you have three parents helping, and they all try to run things, you’ll have chaos. You have to set boundaries and rules for the running of the team, and you don’t have to be mean or controlling about it. Just lay out your plan as simply as possible and then stick with it. If you’re helping someone coach a team, show enough respect for the head coach that you follow his plan. The team will not only function better, but you’ll be role-modeling for your children how to cooperate with others for the good of all.

 Accept that you won’t make everyone happy all of the time. If someone has a complaint, hear them out. They might’ve noticed something that you didn’t. If you like what they say, use it. If you don’t agree, politely thank them for their opinion, then do what you think is right. Don’t – I can’t say this enough – don’t get into an argument. It’s rare to change someone’s mind by arguing with them, and you risk the issue exploding into a larger problem.

 Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. Nobody expects you to be the next Tony LaRussa. Just do the best job that you can do, and accept that you don’t control everything about whether your team wins. Your job is to help teach a game to kids who are playing for fun, and nothing more. The more like work it becomes for you, the more like work it becomes for the kids.

 Let kids make mistakes. They’re going to do it anyway, so it helps to look at mistakes as learning opportunities. I once had an assistant coach who insisted on yelling out which infielder should catch a pop fly, which just made the kids stare at each other while the ball fell between them. Coach ‘em up at practice, and then give them the chance to perform during the game. They’ll learn from their mistakes, and more importantly, they’ll feel good about themselves when they make plays on their own.

 Finally, don’t yell. Don’t scream. Don’t bellow. And one more thing – don’t yell. It scares children and makes you look like an ogre. I coached a Babe Ruth team when I was in my 20s and figured my job was to “motivate” players and umpires to make sure they took their jobs seriously. Only nobody was there to work, and I made the game a lot less fun. One day, a veteran coach pulled me aside. His name was Slats Maple (yes, that really was his name), and he never raised his voice to anyone. He told me, “They don’t hear me any better when I yell, and they listen a whole lot better when I don’t.” I never yelled at my players again. And when I had kids of my own, I tried not to yell at them, either. So far, it’s worked pretty well.

(C.W. Grody is the author of 13 books, and he's written hundreds of articles for national magazines. (His latest humor book, Since Before You Were Born, can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/Since-Before-Yo....) He also specializes in child, adolescent, and family therapy at his private practice in Worthington, Ohio.)

At first glance, it seems odd for grown-ups to go to a large park by the thousands to watch other adults play. Imagine if you showed up somewhere to watch adults go down slides and swing on poles. (Wait, I just described a strip club. Bad example.)

Regardless, it doesn’t seem natural to watch someone else play golf unless you’re the caddy and someone’s tipping you a few bucks. But millions of people watch golf every year, and it’s actually more fun than you’d expect. People go for different reasons – they might admire greatness, they might network with other fans, they might be hoping for golf tips, or they might be looking for autographs. Heck, I knew someone who wanted an invitation to a Tiger Woods party (back in his married days, of course, when he was more carefree).

If you’ve never been to a tournament, here are a few observations that might help you enjoy the experience a little more.

 Expect hills. You know the old saying that TV adds 10 pounds to people on camera? Well, TV smoothes over hills on a golf course. What looks flat in HD actually requires a Sherpa guide and a mountain goat. Wear comfortable shoes that are stylish yet able to hike a mountain ravine, and you’ll be OK. Ladies, that means your heels need to come from L.L. Bean.

 Wearing comfortable shoes doesn’t mean middle-aged men can wear bright orange sneakers. Don’t argue. Just don’t do it.

 It’s OK to feel sorry for caddies. They’re lugging around golf bags the size of a Smart Car for hours on end. They also rake bunkers, get drinks and snacks for their players, shush people in the crowd, and deal with players’ fits when they do something stupid and need someone else to blame. Heck, the best caddy might just be a preschool teacher. With local knowledge, of course.

 You’ll be in the sun. A lot. You need a lot of sunscreen. Sure, there are trees, and you can strategize your way around the course so that you always have a place in the shade, except, of course, for the hundreds of other people planning the exact same thing. A single tree becomes ground zero for a group of hot, sweaty, sunburned fans all struggling to see a grown man hit a ball with a stick. (Not just any stick, of course – one that required more research and development than the supercollider, and one that’s priced slightly higher than your annual electric bill. Nike might be Greek for, “Please mail us your next paycheck.”)

 Be careful to use sunscreen on every exposed part of your body. Think you’ve got it covered with face, neck, arms, hands, and legs? What about your ears? Forget those, and you’ll look hopping mad until they peel. And when they peel, you’ll look like a snake with ears shedding its skin. (Why don’t snakes have ears? I’m guessing it’s because they know how they look when they peel. ) I saw one balding fellow at the Memorial Tournament who forgot his baseball cap had a small opening above the adjustable strap in the back. That patch of skin glowed like a setting sun. I could’ve cooked a burger by holding it near his head.

 Golfers have goofy nicknames. There’s a Bubba, a Tiger, a Walrus, a Golden Bear, and a Boom Boom, and fans just yell out these names whenever the player hits a shot. This happens when Matt Kuchar is playing, too, but it shouldn’t. No grown man should ever be called “Kooch.”

 Some fans yell out nonsense phrases like, “Boo Shaka Laka.” Don’t encourage these people. In fact, don’t even stand near them so nobody thinks you know them. And if you do know them, don’t bring them the next time; your ears (and the players) will thank you.

 How about “Booyah?” No. Just no.

 Be kind to the volunteers. Sure, some of them have control issues (especially the ones who volunteer to take fans’ phones away), but they’re generally nice people who want to help. I remember talking to a weary marshall during last year’s President’s Cup. “I just wish people would quit calling me, ‘Phone Nazi,’” he said.

 If you have to call someone a name, don’t be so lazy that you call them a nazi. “Seinfeld” ended in 1998; it’s time to let it go.

 Dump your buddies. That sounds awful, but it works. In my group of buddies, we have one person who likes to walk a little and sit a little; one who wants to find Jason Day; one who likes to park near the 18th green in the early morning to make sure he has a good view of the final putt 10 hours later; and me, who likes to constantly follow players around the course. Compromise is good in most things, but if we tried to make everybody happy, we’d all be miserable. So I dump my buddies, and we meet near the 18th green late in the day.

 Finally, don’t forget to thank the guy who sat at 18 all day saving your spot. He might actually deserve a “Booyah.”

(C.W. Grody’s latest book of humor, “Since Before You Were Born,” is available here: http://www.amazon.com/Since-Before-Yo.... He’s had 12 other books published, and he’s also written hundreds of articles for national magazines.)

Let’s start by making this clear: I love the Weather Channel.

I love the way that Stephanie Abrams towers over Al Roker. I love when my girlfriend complains for the fourth day in a row, “Stephanie’s wearing blue again.” I love how Jen Carfagno is in Utah one day and back in the studio 18 hours later. I love how the disaster experts get so much airtime. I love the specials about important topics like global warming, hurricanes, and tornado outbreaks. I don’t even mind that it identifies winter storms with names that you wouldn’t give a cat (c’mon, Quintas?). And then there’s “Prospectors” …

OK, I hate “Prospectors.” You can’t like everything. But I love almost everything else, including the myth that when Jim Cantore shows up at your Waffle House, you might as well head to the bunker and hunker down for this year’s storm of the century.

I’m not implying that Cantore is a weather wimp. Far from it. He seems to like bad weather in the same way that my girlfriend likes to point out ways that I’m wrong. If anything, Cantore seems disappointed when a weather system peters out before dumping all over him. But when it comes to taking the toughest hit from a storm, Cantore is a figurehead compared to the true guinea pig of Atlanta, Mike Seidel.

Here’s an example from a blizzard last year in New England:

Host: “Let’s head to Jim Cantore near Boston University.”

The scene switches to a scenic park in Boston, where college students run through the snow, build snowmen, and gently toss snowballs at each other.

Cantore: “As you can tell, it’s really coming down out here. The snow’s building up at the rate of two inches an hour, but look at these cool snowmen. These kids are sure having fun. Hopefully, they’ll be able to enjoy this devastating snowstorm that’s shut down all of Boston.”

Host: “Thanks, Jim. Now to Mike Seidel on the beach beside the Atlantic Ocean. Mike, how are things out there?”

The scene switches to a dark beach, where the staging lights highlight reeds blowing sideways with the snow. Seidel holds up a hand to steady himself as waves crash from the ocean and the wind tries to blow him over.

Seidel: “It’s certainly coming down out here. The wind is …”

Seidel stumbles, then regains his footing.

Host: “Mike, are you still with us?”

Seidel, screaming above the blizzard: “I’m here, and I’m fine. No worries, but people should stay off the beach tonight. If they could find it.”

A lawn chair flies by, along with a few confused birds.

Host: “Let’s check back with Jim Cantore to see how it’s going in Boston. Jim?”

Cantore, holding a steaming mug: “Thanks, Kim. The good people at the hotel across the street saw us on TV and wanted to do something to help us out. They were nice enough to send us a thermos of their special hot chocolate. Here’s to them.” He takes a sip and smiles.

Host: “I’m sorry, Jim, but we have a development on the beach. Mike Seidel, what’s going on?”

Scene changes to Seidel grasping for the reeds.

Seidel, gasping: “The wind has really picked up, Kim. The snow is mixing with sand and pelting me in the face like millions of tiny pieces of rock salt. I have to be careful when I open my eyes in order to protect my retinas. The sand is actually gouging flesh from my cheeks.”

Host: “I’m sorry, Mike, but we have another development with Jim Cantore in Boston. Jim?”

Cantore, making snow angels: “The students were doing this, and it looked like such fun. But don’t get me wrong; the snow’s really coming down out here. Look how deep my snow angel is. This is like being a kid again.”

Host: “We have another development with Mike Seidel. Mike?”

Scene shows the beach, the sideways snow, the bending reeds, but no Seidel.

Host: “It appears that Mike Seidel has been blown into the Atlantic Ocean. Jim Cantore, how are things there?”

Cantore, holding his mug with both hands: “It’s still horrible out here, Kim. I don’t know how long it’ll take to dig Boston out of this mess. I need another sip of this delicious hot chocolate.”

Again, don’t get me wrong. Cantore definitely finds his way into dicey weather situations, and he seems to love it. And if he walks into your Waffle House, it is a good idea to hunker down and hide. But let’s not assume that Cantore is the bellwether of bad weather; that’s Mike Seidel. When he comes to town, you might as well just move.

(C.W. Grody’s latest humor book, “Since Before You Were Born,” is available at Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Since-Before-Yo...)

A strange thing happened this year: I became okay with Christmas music.

Actually, I’ve always been okay with Christmas music, but only after Thanksgiving. Too much, too soon always drove me crazy. Every season needed its time in the spotlight: Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Putting one ahead of the other was just wrong, if for no other reason than there are Charlie Brown specials for each holiday, and the Peanuts gang deserves its due.

I even created a group in college (back in the dark ages of the 1980s) to make sure Thanksgiving didn’t get lost in the rush to Christmas. We called it S.A.N.T.A. – the Society Against the Neglection of Thanksgiving Altogether. It served a need – mainly, giving us something to complain about – and only half the people we knew treated us like we were psychotic. But like many college causes, SANTA eventually faded away into nostalgia, and the pressures of everyday living took over.

But this rule didn’t fade: No holiday shows or music before Thanksgiving. Not one moment. Respect the Pilgrims. Respect the turkey. Respect the movie matinees after Thanksgiving dinner. Good Lord, respect the football.

But something suddenly changed. As I was driving to the golf course this week, I clicked on a radio station that was all Christmas music, all the time. They apparently made the switch in the dead of night, like someone slipping out the window after a midnight tryst. There it was, in all its naked glory (to continue my ill-advised metaphor), blaring from my radio as if it actually belonged.

Of course it didn’t belong. How could it? Didn’t I say that I heard it while driving to the golf course? Fairways and “Jingle Bells” only mix in southern states where Christmas lights hang in palm trees and off the bows of boats in the harbor. I don’t live near a warm beach, and birdies and pars don’t happen in the snow.

And yet, as I drove, I found myself humming and singing along.

I should’ve seen this coming. I was visiting my daughter last November in Florida, where she was a freshman in college, on the weekend before Thanksgiving. She was under the weather, so she spent most of the weekend on the couch watching TV and relaxing. She’s not a football fan, so we watched Christmas movies on the Hallmark Channel. (I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my man card for admitting that.) Now she says she’ll need to be on her deathbed to do that again, yet there we were, watching movie after movie, soaking up Christmas joy and ambience, acting like there was nothing wrong with our behavior.

It was sooooo wrong.

I don’t know how it happened. Maybe we shared a delusion that it was December. Or that they really weren’t Christmas movies. Or that the Hallmark Channel was somehow cool. But the truth is more insidious than that. For whatever reason, I wanted Christmas early.

I’m not proud of it. I know it sounds weak. I know the 20-year-old me would call me a SANTA sellout. But I can’t help myself; the music just touches the right chord for me these days.

Maybe I’m feeling nostalgic for the days when my kids were small. They’re pretty grown up, and there are days that I wish they were still five, and that we were still going to see Santa at the mall, and still driving around the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights, and still watching “A Charlie Brown Christmas” together. That’s not such a bad reason. It’s okay to miss those days. It probably speaks to my feelings of mortality, to some overarching need to turn back the clock, to some understandable desire to be young and vibrant and share the holidays with my kids because I’m just a big kid myself.

But it’s probably not any of those things. It’s probably just that as I get older, I’m less rigid. Or maybe it’s just because I’m looking for a reason to listen to Christmas music because it reminds me of being a kid … wait, now we’re back to wanting to feel younger again.

Whatever it is, I just shrug and sing along.

But I do still have standards. For example, the last song I heard the other day on my way to the course was “Do You Hear What I Hear?” When I got back into the car after playing nine holes, the first song I heard was a different version of the same song.

I stared at the radio and said, “Enough already – I heard you the first time.”

My 20-year-old self would be proud.

(C.W. Grody has published 13 books and hundreds of articles in national magazines. His latest book, “Since Before You Were Born,” is a collection of humorous stories loosely based on his childhood. It’s available on Amazon.com.)

I’ve lived in a lot of snowy places.

I grew up in west-central Ohio, where as a teenager we had two of the best blizzards seen in the Midwest before global warming. I moved to Colorado, where I once spent an hour driving through a whiteout in the mountains; the only reason I survived is that the tail lights belonging to the truck I was following didn’t drive into a ravine. I moved to Connecticut, where we had more than 100 inches of snow during my first winter there; it snowed before Thanksgiving, and I only saw one blade of grass poke through the white blanket of pain until the snow finally melted in April. And I’ve owned a lake cottage in central Michigan, where it snowed so much and for so long that we’d occasionally have to shovel the roof.

Yet, it was only when I moved to Columbus, Ohio, that I found the world’s worst winter drivers.

Come to think of it, it’s misleading to refer to them as winter drivers. They’re more like drivers who anticipate winter weather, so they start driving like they’re in the middle of Winter Storm Cantore when it starts sprinkling and the roads get a tiny bit wet. Traffic breaks down as if someone released a million marbles across the road.

So today, with the temperature a mild 50 degrees but with a forecast for rain later in the day turning to snow overnight – an inch of snow, mind you, that will melt tomorrow because the ground’s so warm – I decided it was time to risk the stares and scorn of my teenage daughter by texting her a few reminders of how to handle driving in this weather. I probably would’ve left it alone except that she hasn’t driven on snow or ice since I took her to a frozen store parking lot when she was learning to drive. Then she went to Florida for her freshman year of college, where I’m sure she didn’t get to practice her snow skills; Florida’s idea of winter driving is going around the elderly on your way to the beach.

So here’s what I wrote to her:

“Since the weather’s turning bad this afternoon, and you haven’t driven on snow or ice since, well, ever, I’m going to annoy you with several driving tips:

“1. Everyone driving around you is crazy.

“2. Allow for extra following distance.

“3. Don’t jam or lock your brakes.

“4. Everyone around you is nuts.

“5. Do everything slowly.

“6. If you start skidding, just turn the wheel in the direction that you want to go.

“7. Oh, yeah, almost forgot this one – everyone driving around you is bat-shit crazy.

“Have fun with it! Love, Dad.”

Hey, it doesn’t make me Father of the Year, but it makes me feel better that I sent the reminder. She’s a smart kid; she can handle herself on snowy roads. Still, I can’t help but wonder – did I give enough attention to how bad the other drivers will be?

(C.W. Grody’s latest humor book, “Since Before You Were Born,” is available on Amazon.com.)

This time of year reminds me of a joke I heard in graduate school. We’d missed a week of classes because of an ice storm. My professor welcomed us back by asking, “Did you have fun . . . at home for a week . . . locked up with your families?!?”

We laughed, but only because he was right. Many students did feel like they survived a week with people who drove them nuts.

Well, welcome to November. Thanksgiving is a few weeks away, and your family’s already making plans to visit. Maybe it’s time to make plans to survive not only turkey day, but all the ho-ho-hos in December, too.

I shouldn’t make it sound like a chore. Many of us love spending time with our families, and even when the occasional odd cousin or slobbering uncle comes around, we learn to make due. We silently agree not to argue about which type of stuffing is better, whether to watch football or chick flicks, religion (trickier at Christmas and Hanukkah), and politics. (Trust me, debating the effectiveness of Obamacare doesn’t go down smoother with egg nog.)

But there will be times, even with people you love, that you’ll be tempted to pound someone with a drumstick. Here are a few tips to help you avoid assault with a turkey leg:

 Share the work. Many families dump most of the cooking on the host, often because that person “always cooks Thanksgiving dinner.” And these people (often referred to as Grandma) seem to love that. But why should one person wrestle with the turkey, mash the potatoes, bake the pies, boil cranberries, churn butter … well, you get the idea. If people offer to bring something, let them. It takes stress off you. If you’re the guest, bring along a pie or side dish.

 Be patient. The larger your group, the more potential for people to be late. Don’t be that person who announces, “Everyone knows we eat at one!” and then announces it again at 1:30, 2:00, and 3:45. That just stresses everyone out. And if you’re running late, let someone know. Heck, you might even tell them to start without you; someone will save you some turkey.

 Avoid topics that’ve been talked to death, resurrected, and then killed again without resolution. If you haven’t worked it out before, why try when everyone’s distracted by the smell of turkey and someone’s bellowing, “Everyone knows we eat at one!” (If you really can’t resolve an issue, try family therapy. You’ll be thankful you did.)

 This is good advice anytime: Don’t gossip about each other. Ben Franklin said, “Three people keep a secret if two of them are dead.” It’s a good bet that what you say in the kitchen while mashing potatoes will filter to the karaoke group in the garage within an hour.

 Try not to take anything too seriously. So what if there are lumps in the gravy, or the meringue won’t fluff, or the seating chart is off? You’re there to enjoy a meal, not to get a positive rating from Urbanspoon.

If all of this fails, if you find yourself so stressed that you just have to pound something, try this deep breathing exercise. Breathe in slowly through the nose, pause for a second, then slowly – so slowly that it feels like blowing out a birthday candle in slow motion – exhale through your mouth. Repeat as many times as needed to keep you from braining somebody with the gravy ladle.

(C.W. Grody is the author of 13 books and hundreds of magazine articles. His most recent book, “Since Before You Were Born,” is a collection of humorous stories based on his childhood; it’s available for Kindle on Amazon.com. Grody is also a LISW-S in private practice in Worthington, Ohio, where he specializes in family therapy.)

Someone referred to me as a humorist the other day. (Who knows? They might just be humoring me.) But I did recently publish what’s supposed to be a humor book of stories based on my childhood, and I was certainly trying to be funny, and I’ve had plenty of people say that the book made them laugh, so make of that what you will.

I don’t think of myself that way, though. I’ve written for a long time. I’ve published a lot of nonfiction. I’ve written for "Sports Illustrated," "Sport," "Boys Life," and a bunch of other magazines. I’ve written 12 books for children that not even my kids have read all the way through. (In their defense, most of them were written as parts of school curriculum packages, and what kid wants to read those?) So I don’t consider myself anything more than a storyteller.

Maybe I shouldn’t say it like that. I think being a storyteller is one of the greatest gifts ever given to me. It doesn’t matter if I’m writing, or telling stories around the dinner table, or hanging out with friends in someone’s backyard around a fire on a summer evening; I’ve always loved to tell stories. And when pressed to think about how I write humor for this blog, I realized that’s all I really try to do: tell a story and let the humor fall where it may.

Every writer has a different approach. One of my best buddies is a meticulous planner and plotter of her fiction. I know other writers who simply start with a character and follow them around, trusting that in the writing, they’ll fall into some semblance of a storyline. I’ve known writers who try both approaches (and normally write themselves into a literary pretzel).

For me, I don’t think about any of that stuff. I used to, of course, back in the days when writing could be a struggle and it seemed like work to meet your quota of words each day. But finally a magical thing happened: I wrote long enough, hard enough, and even poorly enough to “suddenly” find my voice. And that’s when writing not only started to make sense but also became a lot more fun. That’s also when I started to think I might be a decent writer after all.

So when people ask me the key to writing funny – or writing poignantly, or writing angrily, or writing sadly – I can only tell them this. Yes, there are techniques that I’ve learned along the way, and hopefully I’m smart enough to use them effectively. You do learn something about craft when you write for a living for as long as I did. But none of that is the key to writing funny. The key is just to be a storyteller, and to tell stories that you find funny.

Sounds simple, but it’s not. (Go ahead – sit at the computer and tell yourself to write something funny. Not easy to do.) Just make sure you’re writing a story that you want to tell, and that you’d like to have told to you. Then quit thinking and just write it. (Don’t worry, you can fix the mistakes in the second draft.)

When you’re able to do that, you’ll discover something more important than how to be funny or write horror that scares people or craft mysteries that challenge your readers. You’ll discover your writing voice. And just like that, you’ll be the storyteller you were meant to be.

(C.W. Grody’s latest book, "Since Before You Were Born," is available to download from Amazon.com.)

My new book, Since Before You Were Born, is based on stories of my childhood. For the record, I was a good kid. Respectful. God-fearing. Sensitive to the needs of others. Just ask anyone. (Well, except for my parents. They might have a different point of view. Oh, and my sisters. They sure argued with me a lot. And definitely don’t ask my brother …)

Okay, it’s tricky writing stories about your family. That’s because truth is subjective. (That’s probably going to be my defense if they sue me.) Everyone sees the world through the lens of their experiences, thoughts, feelings, and relationships, and no two people see through the exact same lens. Put five people on a street corner to witness a crash, and you’ll get five different stories about what happened. Nobody’s right or wrong. They’re all telling the truth as they saw it. They just each saw it through a different lens, so each of them will have a different and legitimate truth about the crash.

Writing about your family is a lot like that. (Man, this approach might be legal gold if I get sued. Did I mention that my brother is a lawyer?) I remember stories one way, and someone else in the family – sometimes, everyone else in the family – might remember them differently. I worked hard to keep that in mind while I wrote the book. But at the end of the day, it’s still my book, and I’m telling stories in the way that fits what I’m trying to do. I wanted to write a funny book about growing up that occasionally might veer off into being poignant. Sometimes, that means exaggeration, and sometimes that means just making stuff up because it fits the story well. All writers mine their own families and friends for material, but all writers also tell a different story than those loved ones might tell. As Stephen King said, writers lie for a living. The key is to find the truth within that lie.

But I still don’t want my family and childhood friends to be angry or embarrassed by the stories in the book. (Trust me, the one who probably looks the worst is me.) So when the book was finished, I gave it to my daughter to read. She’d see it through a fresh lens. She’d tell me the truth. She’d give me specifics where needed.

I was most worried that my mother might look bad because I was, um, never a fan of her cooking when I was growing up. (Picture canned spinach plopped on a plate.) So I asked my daughter, “Do you think Grandma’s going to be mad when she reads the book?”

“Naw,” my daughter said. “Grandma comes out looking pretty good. She seems to be the sane one in the family.”

“Good,” I said. “I hoped it read that way.”

“But …” she added.

Damn. There’s always a “but.”

“But,” she continued, “you probably shouldn’t let Uncle Warren read it.”

Uh-oh. (I may have mentioned that my brother is a lawyer.)

“Why not?” I asked, expecting a long, specific list that would take weeks to correct.

She shrugged. “You sure seemed to make him mad a lot.”

Well, that’s a view that anyone in my family would find reasonable.

I’ve thought about it a lot since then, and I’ve decided to leave the book as it is. It’s an honest (although exaggerated in an incredibly fictional way, for my legally inclined readers) portrayal of what I was like as a kid, and how I maybe, sometimes, every once in awhile, really not often enough to mention now that I think about it, might’ve annoyed my brother. From time to time, that is. Hardly worth talking about.

Besides, my brother’s been supportive of the idea of the book. In fact, he shared my last blog with his friends and colleagues on Facebook to let them all know the book would be coming out soon. There were a lot of positive responses, including one of his co-workers suggesting they should pick my book for one of their monthly Book Club meetings. That’s exciting when you first think about it. But again, my brother works at a law firm … with oodles of other lawyers … all of whom are proficient in filing legal briefs …

So just in case, there’s something I’d like to say.

Hey, Bro. Really sorry for hitting you with that monkey.