So, I have decided that this year, Christmas for me will be all about the feeling, the love and the spirit and not just about “things”. (Now where did I see that newspaper advertisement with the coupon for 15% off at the toy store and the listing of all the specials at the mall?)
I am totally committed to slowing down and enjoying the season. (I have 15 minutes to write this before I have to leave for another Christmas party.)
I am choosing not to go overboard with the decorating this year. (“Hi Mom. Oh, yes, we finished decorating. No, we definitely trimmed back – only 5 trees this year. And really, the one in the bathroom isn’t big enough to count.”)
I realize that I may get a little bit silly when it comes to making things “Christmas-y”. (“Honey, the dog is hiding under the bed. He refuses to let me put on the reindeer antlers and elf costume.”)
I don’t want to be out of control when it comes to gift wrap. (“Hello, Dollar Tree? Can you please hold one case of that pretty red and green checked gift wrap that has the matching red velvet ribbon for me? What, you don’t put items on hold? Ok, I’ll be right there. Uh huh, I know you close at midnight. Yes, I can drive fast. You still have a couple boxes of invisible tape, don’t you?”)
I refuse to over-spend and buy presents that really don’t mean anything to anyone. (“Honestly son, how can you say you don’t need the new Chia Pet? What about the new Clapper? It has its own remote control switch now…”)
I know that normally I go over-board with eating, and therefore I really am going to control my appetite. I will eat healthy and drink less during the holidays. (“Hey, thanks for inviting me to the party! Wow, great buffet line. Is that eggnog I see next to the cheese balls? Oh, and did you make your homemade fudge again? Wine? Why thank you, don’t mind if I do!”)
I am not going to over-dress for the various functions I am attending. It’s really kind of silly. December is just another month – no need to over-do it. (“Yes, hi, I noticed the display in the window and I was wondering if you have that silver glitter blouse in my size. Oh, and those dangly earrings with the snowflakes would look perfect with the black shiny skirt. Can you please call your other store location to see if they have these black leather pumps with the silver heel?”)
I truly intend to enjoy Christmas and the things I love most: To me it is about the people and about the happy joyous feeling. It’s about lunches and parties and meeting friends for a glass of Christmas cheer. It’s about planning Christmas Eve dinner with the kids and baking cookies for Santa. It’s about watching “Christmas Vacation” and “It’s a Wonderful Life” all month long - with “White Christmas” thrown in as well. It’s about fires in the fireplace, singing along with my favorite Christmas songs, and admiring the lights and decorations in my neighborhood. It’s about laughter, and hope and realizing that this joy I feel can really be felt all year long. I vow to slow down and experience all of it. (Right after I finish addressing my Christmas Cards and putting the final touches on the wreath.)
Santa Baby, all I really want for Christmas is peace. Not just for me though – for everyone I love: for my family, for all of my friends, and finally - for the world. I vow to sit back and bask in the peace that abounds in my life…all I have to do is actually slow down to realize it’s right there in front of me.
I wish you all peace and joy and goodwill towards men. Pass the sugar cookies, please. I still have 100 cards to address.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Search for the Perfect Jeans
She brought me about 10 pairs – they were hanging everywhere. I couldn’t see the wall. Or even the mirror, which at the time was a blessing. The time spent in the small, cramped room was agonizing. I was trying on jeans.
I had decided to bite the bullet and get a really good (read expensive) pair of jeans that fit well. (Or so the ads say). I was hoping it would make me feel better about the upcoming holiday grazing season. Truth be known, I wanted it all: to be able to eat all my favorite things and still be able to wear something besides sweat pants. So, I found myself in an extremely upscale clothing store with a very perky sales clerk who obviously bought her tiny-sized jeans in the children’s department.
“Now remember”, she said to me as she squeezed her petite frame inside the four-walled torture chamber. “Even though they all might be the same size, every make is different. Even if it is the same brand. So I brought you a few sizes and styles.” This variety included, but was not limited to: stretch jeans, jeans that hold your stomach in, jeans that have a no-gap waist band, jeans for curvier bodies, jeans with a certain tint to them, jeans that are made for moms and not their teenage daughters, boot cut jeans, straight leg jeans and the infamous “though I have worked my butt off at the gym for months they won’t even fit my big toe” jeans.
So I started going through all the jeans, mentally purging them. I didn’t look at the sizes, since realistically it should not matter….but that didn’t last long. If I can wear a brand that is a size smaller, you know that’s the one I’m going for. Once I separated the “maybes” from the “no way will those fit” I started the agonizing procedure of trying them all on.
Miss perky pants kept peeking her head in, wanting me to model them for her. I gracefully told her “over my dead body” would she be allowed to see me squeezing my body in blue sausage casings. She did remind me that since jeans now have spandex, that the tightness will go away and they will fit normal after awhile.
“Define awhile” I squeaked as I lay down on the floor, tugging the jeans up my body. “Do they also come with oxygen masks since I can’t breathe until they loosen up?” I swear I heard her say something about me loosening up as she grabbed the quick growing “no” pile I pressed out the door. “Do you have this problem when you wear children’s jeans” I asked her as I came out into the brightly lit hallway to stare into the three-way fun house mirror. “They are 5 inches too long.”
“Well, we don’t really have the perfect ‘models’ body now, do we?” Just as I thought of some incredibly clever comeback I turned and tripped on the dragging 5 inch hem, huffing into the cinnamon scented plush carpet. She mentioned something about her seamstress being available next week for hemming, and that the jeans fit great except for the length. ”They were meant for much taller women, but of course we can make exceptions to the rule and tailor them to fit.
Not sure if you have read any reports about a very tall and thin sales clerk that reported someone threatened to stuff a pair of jeans down her throat. I am sure such a story could not be true. I myself am happy with the 4 pair of sweatpants I bought…and vow to not return to that store for quite awhile…especially for the torturous swimsuit season.
I had decided to bite the bullet and get a really good (read expensive) pair of jeans that fit well. (Or so the ads say). I was hoping it would make me feel better about the upcoming holiday grazing season. Truth be known, I wanted it all: to be able to eat all my favorite things and still be able to wear something besides sweat pants. So, I found myself in an extremely upscale clothing store with a very perky sales clerk who obviously bought her tiny-sized jeans in the children’s department.
“Now remember”, she said to me as she squeezed her petite frame inside the four-walled torture chamber. “Even though they all might be the same size, every make is different. Even if it is the same brand. So I brought you a few sizes and styles.” This variety included, but was not limited to: stretch jeans, jeans that hold your stomach in, jeans that have a no-gap waist band, jeans for curvier bodies, jeans with a certain tint to them, jeans that are made for moms and not their teenage daughters, boot cut jeans, straight leg jeans and the infamous “though I have worked my butt off at the gym for months they won’t even fit my big toe” jeans.
So I started going through all the jeans, mentally purging them. I didn’t look at the sizes, since realistically it should not matter….but that didn’t last long. If I can wear a brand that is a size smaller, you know that’s the one I’m going for. Once I separated the “maybes” from the “no way will those fit” I started the agonizing procedure of trying them all on.
Miss perky pants kept peeking her head in, wanting me to model them for her. I gracefully told her “over my dead body” would she be allowed to see me squeezing my body in blue sausage casings. She did remind me that since jeans now have spandex, that the tightness will go away and they will fit normal after awhile.
“Define awhile” I squeaked as I lay down on the floor, tugging the jeans up my body. “Do they also come with oxygen masks since I can’t breathe until they loosen up?” I swear I heard her say something about me loosening up as she grabbed the quick growing “no” pile I pressed out the door. “Do you have this problem when you wear children’s jeans” I asked her as I came out into the brightly lit hallway to stare into the three-way fun house mirror. “They are 5 inches too long.”
“Well, we don’t really have the perfect ‘models’ body now, do we?” Just as I thought of some incredibly clever comeback I turned and tripped on the dragging 5 inch hem, huffing into the cinnamon scented plush carpet. She mentioned something about her seamstress being available next week for hemming, and that the jeans fit great except for the length. ”They were meant for much taller women, but of course we can make exceptions to the rule and tailor them to fit.
Not sure if you have read any reports about a very tall and thin sales clerk that reported someone threatened to stuff a pair of jeans down her throat. I am sure such a story could not be true. I myself am happy with the 4 pair of sweatpants I bought…and vow to not return to that store for quite awhile…especially for the torturous swimsuit season.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Autumn Delights
It’s my favorite time of the year - and the shortest one too. One blink of an eye (or one good wind) and it’s gone. Autumn. It’s so distinctive. During autumn, my senses are happily overwhelmed. As I am writing this, I am looking out my window during a raging thunderstorm at my neighbor’s maple tree. Through the rain, the leaves look like they are on fire. The rain creates a mist that looks like smoke, and the leaves are so bright red and orange they rival the color of afternoon sun. The birds are hiding in the branches, seeking shelter from the huge drops. They bounce back and forth, branch to branch, in a feathered game of tag. I see squirrels scrambling up and down the big tree trunks – chattering at the birds. No doubt they are arguing about double-booking their time share on the old oak. Have you noticed the over abundance of squirrels this year? It’s like a squirrel convention in my neighborhood. I see cars playing stop and go, while the squirrels run to the other side of the street, laughing at their recent brush with death. In the backyard, the dogs feel it is their duty to rid their territory of the furry tailed creatures. I watch out the window with laughter as they “tree” yet another quarry, barking out their delight in a job well done. The squirrel of course is long gone, having scored a perfect “10” on the gymnastics chart - vaulting from tree to phone wire to bird feeder to fence to safe territory.
A drive out in the country brought so many delights to my senses: a combine mowing down a once green and yellow cornfield – the stalks now dry and brown (and looking quite nice on my front porch, thank you!); a herd of cattle, lying in the field (yes, all of them lying down – I heard it meant rain is coming…hmmmm); a pile of burning leaves, smelling so crisp and acrid; a field of crows, scrounging up the last of the soybean crop; piles and piles of bright orange pumpkins, shining in the afternoon sun; the whinny of a horse, echoing across the valley; the sound of a distant train, it’s horn sounding haunting and lonely.
It’s a tantalizing delight, autumn. It’s a short but comforting time of year.
It’s a drive down the block, looking at all the fall decorations. It’s sipping hot apple cider as you carve pumpkins and bake the seeds. It’s meatloaf and chicken and dumplings and pot roast. It’s homemade soup and cornbread and cuddling up with a blanket and a great book while you wait for the chili to simmer on the stove. It’s snuggling by the fireplace while looking through the cookbook for new stuffing recipes and actually starting a Christmas card list, vowing to be early for once.
Autumn is a time to reflect. A time to realize that Thanksgiving is just around the corner, giving us thought on the blessings we have in our lives. It’s the time of year that slows down – right before it speeds up.
I plan on enjoying this slow pace for just awhile longer - before I think about getting those Christmas lights untangled. After all, the “Squirrel Olympics” only last for awhile longer.
A drive out in the country brought so many delights to my senses: a combine mowing down a once green and yellow cornfield – the stalks now dry and brown (and looking quite nice on my front porch, thank you!); a herd of cattle, lying in the field (yes, all of them lying down – I heard it meant rain is coming…hmmmm); a pile of burning leaves, smelling so crisp and acrid; a field of crows, scrounging up the last of the soybean crop; piles and piles of bright orange pumpkins, shining in the afternoon sun; the whinny of a horse, echoing across the valley; the sound of a distant train, it’s horn sounding haunting and lonely.
It’s a tantalizing delight, autumn. It’s a short but comforting time of year.
It’s a drive down the block, looking at all the fall decorations. It’s sipping hot apple cider as you carve pumpkins and bake the seeds. It’s meatloaf and chicken and dumplings and pot roast. It’s homemade soup and cornbread and cuddling up with a blanket and a great book while you wait for the chili to simmer on the stove. It’s snuggling by the fireplace while looking through the cookbook for new stuffing recipes and actually starting a Christmas card list, vowing to be early for once.
Autumn is a time to reflect. A time to realize that Thanksgiving is just around the corner, giving us thought on the blessings we have in our lives. It’s the time of year that slows down – right before it speeds up.
I plan on enjoying this slow pace for just awhile longer - before I think about getting those Christmas lights untangled. After all, the “Squirrel Olympics” only last for awhile longer.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Grandbaby, Sweet Grandbaby
She was anxious. The baby had to be taken by emergency c-section, so she hadn’t held her yet.
“I’m her mom…I want to hold my baby!”
“Be patient”, said her daddy – my husband. “Your will have that girl for another 18 years.”
“Only 18?” I asked. “Seriously?” They all laughed, because right now one of our 24 year old boomerang children is living with us. Being a parent is a lifetime commitment…one we all gladly take on. And now as grandparents, we had another precious life to treasure.
This latest granddaughter was born premature. Her sweet, little body was hooked up to oxygen. But she was perfect. She was beautiful. And I knew in my heart she would be just fine.
Amidst all the hectic energy in the hospital, I was able to find some alone time with this beautiful bundle of magical innocence. I put my finger down next to her hand and she grabbed it tightly in her tiny fist. I breathed a prayer, and silently watched her as I sent peaceful and loving thoughts and energy her way. Her laborious breathing competed with the beeping of the monitors. I only had a few minutes with her, so then and there I vowed to always watch out for her.
Her mommy was strong. She would not physically need my help raising her daughter. No, what I was offering was a gift of pure and honest (yet selfish) love. The love only that of a grandparent can offer. In my short and silent offering, I promised her cookies before dinner, piggy back rides, staying up late with me to watch princess movies, shopping for clothes that weren’t logical (bought purely for their cuteness factor), roller coaster rides, tea parties, pink painted toenails and long talks whenever they were wanted, wished for or required. I vowed to be her silent guardian – one of the many that will love her with all their might.
I am not trying to compete. I am not trying to be the favorite. This little agreement is just between the two of us…nobody else has to know. The important thing is that I know – and someday so will she. It is quite simple really: it is the undying and indescribable love that comes from a grandparent. A person never really knows this feeling until that magical moment arrives. And it doesn’t matter how many grandchildren one has…they all will take your breath away and leave you feeling like you really did accomplish something wonderful during your time on this earth.
She’s only been on this earth a few short hours. I was only able to see her for a few short moments. But the short time was precious and it gave me a glimpse of the future moments and what a treasure they will be. Each and every moment with her will be a gift I look forward to.
Even though they are only “ours” for a short while, our own kids are leaving us with legacies that last a lifetime: the gift of their own children. And when we look in our grandchildren’s eyes and see our own babies, and the unconditional love that we had for them when they were born, it makes the circle of life even sweeter. And that certainly makes the 18 (or 24) years they were with us totally worthwhile.
“I’m her mom…I want to hold my baby!”
“Be patient”, said her daddy – my husband. “Your will have that girl for another 18 years.”
“Only 18?” I asked. “Seriously?” They all laughed, because right now one of our 24 year old boomerang children is living with us. Being a parent is a lifetime commitment…one we all gladly take on. And now as grandparents, we had another precious life to treasure.
This latest granddaughter was born premature. Her sweet, little body was hooked up to oxygen. But she was perfect. She was beautiful. And I knew in my heart she would be just fine.
Amidst all the hectic energy in the hospital, I was able to find some alone time with this beautiful bundle of magical innocence. I put my finger down next to her hand and she grabbed it tightly in her tiny fist. I breathed a prayer, and silently watched her as I sent peaceful and loving thoughts and energy her way. Her laborious breathing competed with the beeping of the monitors. I only had a few minutes with her, so then and there I vowed to always watch out for her.
Her mommy was strong. She would not physically need my help raising her daughter. No, what I was offering was a gift of pure and honest (yet selfish) love. The love only that of a grandparent can offer. In my short and silent offering, I promised her cookies before dinner, piggy back rides, staying up late with me to watch princess movies, shopping for clothes that weren’t logical (bought purely for their cuteness factor), roller coaster rides, tea parties, pink painted toenails and long talks whenever they were wanted, wished for or required. I vowed to be her silent guardian – one of the many that will love her with all their might.
I am not trying to compete. I am not trying to be the favorite. This little agreement is just between the two of us…nobody else has to know. The important thing is that I know – and someday so will she. It is quite simple really: it is the undying and indescribable love that comes from a grandparent. A person never really knows this feeling until that magical moment arrives. And it doesn’t matter how many grandchildren one has…they all will take your breath away and leave you feeling like you really did accomplish something wonderful during your time on this earth.
She’s only been on this earth a few short hours. I was only able to see her for a few short moments. But the short time was precious and it gave me a glimpse of the future moments and what a treasure they will be. Each and every moment with her will be a gift I look forward to.
Even though they are only “ours” for a short while, our own kids are leaving us with legacies that last a lifetime: the gift of their own children. And when we look in our grandchildren’s eyes and see our own babies, and the unconditional love that we had for them when they were born, it makes the circle of life even sweeter. And that certainly makes the 18 (or 24) years they were with us totally worthwhile.
The Brown Crock Pot
I am losing my mind – I am totally losing my mind.
Yesterday I spent 10 minutes looking for my brown crock pot. Finally, I asked my husband.
“Where is the brown crock pot?”
“The what?”
“The brown crock pot – you know, the thingy I cook chili in….”
“Ah, I am pretty sure we don’t own a brown crock pot.”
“Sure we do – I made pot roast in it last winter. You didn’t give it away to the Goodwill with all the other stuff did you? You know I use it all the time. I swear I love that thing – if you gave…..”
“I did not give it away. We don’t own a brown crock pot.”
“Then what did I make the pot roast in, hot shot? Hmmmm?”
“Come with me.”
He took me into the laundry room where we store our unused and at times unwanted appliances. (That is where you will find my bread maker, pasta maker, large Cuisinart, and rice steamer. It’s like the ‘Island of Misfit Toys’ from the cartoon Rudolf, only the misfits here are all appliances.)
Anyway, he showed me the shelves. No brown crock pot.
“What did you do with it then?” I accused.
“Nothing – we don’t OWN a brown crock pot.”
“Oh please...now are you going to tell me I’m losing my mind?”
“Here, is this what you are looking for?” He had rooted around past the vegetable steamer and salad spinner, and found it. A blue crock pot.
“Ah…” For once in my life I was speechless.
I realized, amongst my tirade, that we didn’t own a brown crock pot. That crock pot was a wedding gift from my previous marriage, and I haven’t owned since, well, my previous marriage. My husband has mentioned that I look for things like a teenage boy, and grudgingly, I guess sometimes I do. But only sometimes. Now excuse me while I search for the chicken I bought to put in the brown, er, blue crock put. I swear I put it in the freezer just last week. It has to be in there…hidden right behind my mind that I really do think I am losing.
Yesterday I spent 10 minutes looking for my brown crock pot. Finally, I asked my husband.
“Where is the brown crock pot?”
“The what?”
“The brown crock pot – you know, the thingy I cook chili in….”
“Ah, I am pretty sure we don’t own a brown crock pot.”
“Sure we do – I made pot roast in it last winter. You didn’t give it away to the Goodwill with all the other stuff did you? You know I use it all the time. I swear I love that thing – if you gave…..”
“I did not give it away. We don’t own a brown crock pot.”
“Then what did I make the pot roast in, hot shot? Hmmmm?”
“Come with me.”
He took me into the laundry room where we store our unused and at times unwanted appliances. (That is where you will find my bread maker, pasta maker, large Cuisinart, and rice steamer. It’s like the ‘Island of Misfit Toys’ from the cartoon Rudolf, only the misfits here are all appliances.)
Anyway, he showed me the shelves. No brown crock pot.
“What did you do with it then?” I accused.
“Nothing – we don’t OWN a brown crock pot.”
“Oh please...now are you going to tell me I’m losing my mind?”
“Here, is this what you are looking for?” He had rooted around past the vegetable steamer and salad spinner, and found it. A blue crock pot.
“Ah…” For once in my life I was speechless.
I realized, amongst my tirade, that we didn’t own a brown crock pot. That crock pot was a wedding gift from my previous marriage, and I haven’t owned since, well, my previous marriage. My husband has mentioned that I look for things like a teenage boy, and grudgingly, I guess sometimes I do. But only sometimes. Now excuse me while I search for the chicken I bought to put in the brown, er, blue crock put. I swear I put it in the freezer just last week. It has to be in there…hidden right behind my mind that I really do think I am losing.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
In Moderation, dang it
Ok, so I guess it’s “crunch” time. And I’m not talking about abs – although I probably should be. It’s that time of year where I have a choice to make: diet to lose weight for the holidays or wear big sweaters and enjoy the wonderful food coming my way.
It’s such a challenge – I mean how important is to for me to look good in my dress for New Years versus all the wonderful goodies that I only get once a year. Everywhere I read the buzz words seem to be “in-moderation”. Those that know me realize there is nothing “moderate” about me – but I guess it’s never too late to learn. But it’s so tough – I mean from here on out, I run into many chances for an eating frenzy – and the boundaries and self-appointed guidelines I try to give myself.
I start with Halloween. Do I eat the candy corn, Butterfingers and caramel apples – or skip the candy corn so I can have a Snickers Bar? Do I indulge in the party fare that includes extra chili with cheese and garlic bread and hot apple cider? With every bite, I vow I will walk an extra mile. (At some point in my life, anyway.)
Once Halloween is over, Thanksgiving is around the corner and I have to prepare – I mean it’s my job to sample menu items, and try out new recipes all of which contain sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, stuffing, pumpkin pie and apple pie. And that is just the sample menu. After Thanksgiving come the leftovers. And just when I think I may be sick of Turkey, the Christmas parties arrive and there is an array of cookies, cakes and homemade candies. I start salivating over potential Christmas Eve dinners and even try out a few ahead of time. I mean what is Christmas without baked ham, more turkey and mashed potatoes, homemade dumplings and noodles. Again with the pumpkin pie and apple pie and add now the pecan pie with whipped cream and even pumpkin cake and pumpkin muffins and pumpkin bars with cream cheese icing.
This time of year is not quite as pressing as the few months before summer and swimsuit time. And the fact that big sweaters and large coats are the norm during the winter months helps. The fact that it’s dark when I come home from work and immediately don my sweatpants doesn’t help…it’s the elastic waistband curse.
Reality is such that whatever I gain during the holidays will be the price I pay in March and April. My goal is moderation. Moderate sized sweat pants, moderate big sweaters and a moderate amount of Butterfingers, pumpkin pie and sweet potatoes. Add that to the moderate amount of times I think about exercising and “Presto”, I’ve got that magical “in-moderation” key everyone is talking about down pat. So for now, it’s only 2 bite-size Snickers bars for me…I still have to save some for the kids Trick-or-Treating. Or maybe it’s time they started learning about this “in-moderation” thing too.
It’s such a challenge – I mean how important is to for me to look good in my dress for New Years versus all the wonderful goodies that I only get once a year. Everywhere I read the buzz words seem to be “in-moderation”. Those that know me realize there is nothing “moderate” about me – but I guess it’s never too late to learn. But it’s so tough – I mean from here on out, I run into many chances for an eating frenzy – and the boundaries and self-appointed guidelines I try to give myself.
I start with Halloween. Do I eat the candy corn, Butterfingers and caramel apples – or skip the candy corn so I can have a Snickers Bar? Do I indulge in the party fare that includes extra chili with cheese and garlic bread and hot apple cider? With every bite, I vow I will walk an extra mile. (At some point in my life, anyway.)
Once Halloween is over, Thanksgiving is around the corner and I have to prepare – I mean it’s my job to sample menu items, and try out new recipes all of which contain sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, stuffing, pumpkin pie and apple pie. And that is just the sample menu. After Thanksgiving come the leftovers. And just when I think I may be sick of Turkey, the Christmas parties arrive and there is an array of cookies, cakes and homemade candies. I start salivating over potential Christmas Eve dinners and even try out a few ahead of time. I mean what is Christmas without baked ham, more turkey and mashed potatoes, homemade dumplings and noodles. Again with the pumpkin pie and apple pie and add now the pecan pie with whipped cream and even pumpkin cake and pumpkin muffins and pumpkin bars with cream cheese icing.
This time of year is not quite as pressing as the few months before summer and swimsuit time. And the fact that big sweaters and large coats are the norm during the winter months helps. The fact that it’s dark when I come home from work and immediately don my sweatpants doesn’t help…it’s the elastic waistband curse.
Reality is such that whatever I gain during the holidays will be the price I pay in March and April. My goal is moderation. Moderate sized sweat pants, moderate big sweaters and a moderate amount of Butterfingers, pumpkin pie and sweet potatoes. Add that to the moderate amount of times I think about exercising and “Presto”, I’ve got that magical “in-moderation” key everyone is talking about down pat. So for now, it’s only 2 bite-size Snickers bars for me…I still have to save some for the kids Trick-or-Treating. Or maybe it’s time they started learning about this “in-moderation” thing too.
The Mind can Trick the Body
“Be careful, don’t hurt yourself. You aren’t 25 anymore, you know.”
This was from my (older) husband as we were hiking in the woods a few days ago, and I was climbing up a fairly rocky hill. I was holding on tightly to the dog’s leash, praying he’d pull me up the steep incline. Instead he kept waiting for me to lead the way – it’s the first time he’s ever actually “heeled” in his life - and for once I didn’t want him to. We got up to the top of the hill safely with no injuries except to my ego, and then and there I wondered what happened to my sense of adventure. I am never afraid of getting hurt. I’ve always loved climbing steep hills and rocks, jumping across streams and running through leaves. True, I’ve spent my share of times with an ice pack or ace bandage, but I never feared getting hurt. It wasn’t until my husband reminded me of my old age that I even considered I could sprain an ankle, hurt my hip or do something to a knee.
It’s funny, but even though my body does at times remind me that I am not 25 anymore, and haven’t been for, well, 25 years, I have quite a few moments in life that I just forget how old I am. I often wonder if I did not know my birth year, and if someone hadn’t invented mirrors, how old would I really be? The mind is such a powerful thing. And my mind still thinks it’s in its’ 30’s.
When I go clothes shopping, I automatically go to the section of clothes that are meant for someone 20 years younger. It’s like I am stuck in that strange middle-world: wanting to be young, but needing to grow up, and truly wondering how far I can push the envelope. You know - that fine line of dressing youthful versus looking like a grandmother that raided her teenaged granddaughter’s closet.
Luckily I don’t over-analyze the getting old thing, and I do still feel healthy. But because my mind doesn’t dwell on my “true age”, I do surprise sometimes myself when I look in the mirror. I’ve decided that the mirror will be my friend no matter what, even if the reflection isn’t exactly what I had assumed I would see. The torture times are when I use the magnifying mirrors. They were invented to show women over 40 all their flaws. The hair where there wasn’t any, the freckles that have changed to age spots and the tiny wrinkles that aren’t so tiny anymore. I normally would refuse to use the dang thing, except I need to be able to see to put my makeup on.
I am not ready to give up my adventuresome soul, and at times I do need to sit and have a chat with my body. Here is an example of my dialogues:
“Look, I know you are 51. I know you have a few issues with me doing things that may cause a pain or two. I know you really don’t want me to wear anything sleeveless. I understand that after I work out or dance the muscles are going to hurt. Let’s just start saying that this isn’t because we are getting old. Let’s just say it’s because we are living, and using and enjoying this body, and pushing it to limits that will remind us we are alive, and we can still climb and dance and wear clothes that don’t look like our grandmothers.
Life is good at any age. We just have to remind our body that the mind really is in control. And when your mind is only 30, there sure is a whole lot of living left to do – and there is no telling what it may wear, say or do. Ben-Gay anyone?
This was from my (older) husband as we were hiking in the woods a few days ago, and I was climbing up a fairly rocky hill. I was holding on tightly to the dog’s leash, praying he’d pull me up the steep incline. Instead he kept waiting for me to lead the way – it’s the first time he’s ever actually “heeled” in his life - and for once I didn’t want him to. We got up to the top of the hill safely with no injuries except to my ego, and then and there I wondered what happened to my sense of adventure. I am never afraid of getting hurt. I’ve always loved climbing steep hills and rocks, jumping across streams and running through leaves. True, I’ve spent my share of times with an ice pack or ace bandage, but I never feared getting hurt. It wasn’t until my husband reminded me of my old age that I even considered I could sprain an ankle, hurt my hip or do something to a knee.
It’s funny, but even though my body does at times remind me that I am not 25 anymore, and haven’t been for, well, 25 years, I have quite a few moments in life that I just forget how old I am. I often wonder if I did not know my birth year, and if someone hadn’t invented mirrors, how old would I really be? The mind is such a powerful thing. And my mind still thinks it’s in its’ 30’s.
When I go clothes shopping, I automatically go to the section of clothes that are meant for someone 20 years younger. It’s like I am stuck in that strange middle-world: wanting to be young, but needing to grow up, and truly wondering how far I can push the envelope. You know - that fine line of dressing youthful versus looking like a grandmother that raided her teenaged granddaughter’s closet.
Luckily I don’t over-analyze the getting old thing, and I do still feel healthy. But because my mind doesn’t dwell on my “true age”, I do surprise sometimes myself when I look in the mirror. I’ve decided that the mirror will be my friend no matter what, even if the reflection isn’t exactly what I had assumed I would see. The torture times are when I use the magnifying mirrors. They were invented to show women over 40 all their flaws. The hair where there wasn’t any, the freckles that have changed to age spots and the tiny wrinkles that aren’t so tiny anymore. I normally would refuse to use the dang thing, except I need to be able to see to put my makeup on.
I am not ready to give up my adventuresome soul, and at times I do need to sit and have a chat with my body. Here is an example of my dialogues:
“Look, I know you are 51. I know you have a few issues with me doing things that may cause a pain or two. I know you really don’t want me to wear anything sleeveless. I understand that after I work out or dance the muscles are going to hurt. Let’s just start saying that this isn’t because we are getting old. Let’s just say it’s because we are living, and using and enjoying this body, and pushing it to limits that will remind us we are alive, and we can still climb and dance and wear clothes that don’t look like our grandmothers.
Life is good at any age. We just have to remind our body that the mind really is in control. And when your mind is only 30, there sure is a whole lot of living left to do – and there is no telling what it may wear, say or do. Ben-Gay anyone?
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Blending the Technologies
Ok all you whippersnapper, genius kids. All you technological gurus. All you young computer and phone junkies. I am here to tell you that you can teach an old dog new tricks. I actually prefer to use the words mature and worldly woman, but I don’t like to hear you snicker.
Even though you believe you own the world of up and coming technological stuff, those of us that are in our fourth and fifth decades and beyond have infiltrated your seemingly private world.
“How could that happen?” you may ask. Of course you would say “How cud that hapN ”. Well, believe it or not, those of us that are in that “sandwich-tween generation” – the ones that are still raising you and your kids, and are helping our parents too – actually can multi-task.
I don’t really want to show off, but my life is a combination of the best of both worlds. Stuff I learned in school and stuff I am learning from present day life. For example, I can actually use a calculator to perform a math problem – not Google the answer. I can figure out the tip of a check in my head – and not have to look on my phone for the “tip calculator app.” I can spell. (Well, most of the time – I am human after all). Oh, I can text too. Ask my kids. However when I hand in a memo at work it doesn’t say: ‘Hay, gr8 job, ty. C U L8r.” I have, however, figured out your secret code, and language. It was fun for awhile, but I realized my brain was getting mushy, and have gone back to the old-fashioned way of writing.
I have also gone the Facebook route, and am slowly winding down; tiring of the daily diatribe and dribble of the best friends I’ve never met. I will keep in contact with those I care about, and use it as a platform for uplifting information . I have a Twitter account too – but I forgot my password, which is fine – since I don’t really care if someone is grocery shopping or getting their car washed. I do, however on occasion pick up my phone and call my friends and family. No texting. Just wonder when the last time all of you under 25 did that? It’s a lost art, but those of us in the ancient inner circle have a whole lot of desire to keep the art alive.
I have a smart phone, a laptop, and a desktop that of course has Word, with spell check (thank goodness). But I also have a notebook pad with a pencil, a dictionary and an eraser. My smart phone has a GPS that I am thankful for, but I can (believe it or not) read a map.
I can bowl in a real alley, not just with my Wii game. I can strum a guitar…without the “Hero” part. I read books with real pages, and take my real dog for a real walk outside in the real world.
I’m not saying that I don’t like the new technology. I am just saying that I like being able to blend both worlds…and yes, live in whichever one suits me at that moment. “Lyf iz gr8” in both my worlds. Just don’t make me chose one!
Even though you believe you own the world of up and coming technological stuff, those of us that are in our fourth and fifth decades and beyond have infiltrated your seemingly private world.
“How could that happen?” you may ask. Of course you would say “How cud that hapN ”. Well, believe it or not, those of us that are in that “sandwich-tween generation” – the ones that are still raising you and your kids, and are helping our parents too – actually can multi-task.
I don’t really want to show off, but my life is a combination of the best of both worlds. Stuff I learned in school and stuff I am learning from present day life. For example, I can actually use a calculator to perform a math problem – not Google the answer. I can figure out the tip of a check in my head – and not have to look on my phone for the “tip calculator app.” I can spell. (Well, most of the time – I am human after all). Oh, I can text too. Ask my kids. However when I hand in a memo at work it doesn’t say: ‘Hay, gr8 job, ty. C U L8r.” I have, however, figured out your secret code, and language. It was fun for awhile, but I realized my brain was getting mushy, and have gone back to the old-fashioned way of writing.
I have also gone the Facebook route, and am slowly winding down; tiring of the daily diatribe and dribble of the best friends I’ve never met. I will keep in contact with those I care about, and use it as a platform for uplifting information . I have a Twitter account too – but I forgot my password, which is fine – since I don’t really care if someone is grocery shopping or getting their car washed. I do, however on occasion pick up my phone and call my friends and family. No texting. Just wonder when the last time all of you under 25 did that? It’s a lost art, but those of us in the ancient inner circle have a whole lot of desire to keep the art alive.
I have a smart phone, a laptop, and a desktop that of course has Word, with spell check (thank goodness). But I also have a notebook pad with a pencil, a dictionary and an eraser. My smart phone has a GPS that I am thankful for, but I can (believe it or not) read a map.
I can bowl in a real alley, not just with my Wii game. I can strum a guitar…without the “Hero” part. I read books with real pages, and take my real dog for a real walk outside in the real world.
I’m not saying that I don’t like the new technology. I am just saying that I like being able to blend both worlds…and yes, live in whichever one suits me at that moment. “Lyf iz gr8” in both my worlds. Just don’t make me chose one!
My Halloween Alter-Ego
I could be a devil…you know, go against my apparently angelic personality. Or how about Snow White? I have never been Snow White….although I have, at some point or another in my life, been Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey and Grumpy. I am quite fond of princesses, also – and have been called that a time or two (a compliment, no doubt…) – so that isn’t really a stretch.
I am looking for an out of the box costume for Halloween. A homerun. A combination of cute, funny, fun, sexy and glamorous. Is that even possible? I mean, I don’t want to be predictable. (Why start now?)
There are a million costumes…it just is a challenge to find the right one. Google “Halloween costumes for women” and you get – you guessed it – angels, devils, maids, fairies, pirates and bunnies. Go figure. I want to be something much more memorable. Maybe Mommy Dearest or Sweet Baby Jane. Ok, so that is bringing out my dark side. But it is Halloween. Or I could go as one or more of my alter egos…such as Mary Poppins or Julie from the Love Boat. Or maybe Pepper Anderson from Policewoman. Even better, Betty White from anything she ever did. I also think I would make a great “Miss Kitty”, and maybe I could even pull off Cleopatra or a Geisha dancer, with the right wig.
Halloween is something that transcends the generations. Adults have fun being kids for a night. After all, we really do know how to have fun – it’s just that a few things have changed. I love haunted hayrides – the only difference is now I really shouldn’t drink a lot of liquid before I scream or laugh. If I choose to be a sexy nurse, I am going to have to wear the slimming “shapewear” underneath the fishnet hose. If I am going to be a clown, I will have to wear face primer so the make-up doesn’t get caught in my wrinkles. A ghost with a white sheet is sounding better all the time.
But I will keep pondering, hoping the perfect costume will materialize out of thin air (sorry, no witches, either). In the meantime, I will carve my pumpkins and decorate my front porch with scarecrows and a skeleton that sings “Bad to the Bone”, and I will eat candy corn while scanning the websites for my perfect alter-ego. After all, tricks and treats aren’t just for kids, are they?
I am looking for an out of the box costume for Halloween. A homerun. A combination of cute, funny, fun, sexy and glamorous. Is that even possible? I mean, I don’t want to be predictable. (Why start now?)
There are a million costumes…it just is a challenge to find the right one. Google “Halloween costumes for women” and you get – you guessed it – angels, devils, maids, fairies, pirates and bunnies. Go figure. I want to be something much more memorable. Maybe Mommy Dearest or Sweet Baby Jane. Ok, so that is bringing out my dark side. But it is Halloween. Or I could go as one or more of my alter egos…such as Mary Poppins or Julie from the Love Boat. Or maybe Pepper Anderson from Policewoman. Even better, Betty White from anything she ever did. I also think I would make a great “Miss Kitty”, and maybe I could even pull off Cleopatra or a Geisha dancer, with the right wig.
Halloween is something that transcends the generations. Adults have fun being kids for a night. After all, we really do know how to have fun – it’s just that a few things have changed. I love haunted hayrides – the only difference is now I really shouldn’t drink a lot of liquid before I scream or laugh. If I choose to be a sexy nurse, I am going to have to wear the slimming “shapewear” underneath the fishnet hose. If I am going to be a clown, I will have to wear face primer so the make-up doesn’t get caught in my wrinkles. A ghost with a white sheet is sounding better all the time.
But I will keep pondering, hoping the perfect costume will materialize out of thin air (sorry, no witches, either). In the meantime, I will carve my pumpkins and decorate my front porch with scarecrows and a skeleton that sings “Bad to the Bone”, and I will eat candy corn while scanning the websites for my perfect alter-ego. After all, tricks and treats aren’t just for kids, are they?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
And the winner is.....
Well, my unofficial poll is complete. Everyone I asked has told me that fall is their favorite time of year.
Those of us that live in the southern most northern part of the mid-west probably think of fall as our reward for the humid dog days of summer and the freezing chill of winter. I think actually that fall is pretty sneaky, and has a good sense of humor. Like for instance how to dress during this in-between season.
I will never forget when I was growing up I could not wait to wear my new back-to-school clothes; especially my Bobbie Brook pants and avocado green poncho – accessorized of course by my new clogs and macramé purse. My mother would warn me that by noon I’d be hot, and of course she was right. But I would go ahead sweat under that poncho, knowing I looked very Marsha Brady-ish.
I think maybe fall plays tricks on us to get us back because it seems like we are forgetting about it. Christmas decorations are already up for sale; each year it seems they get put out earlier and earlier. Who really buys Christmas decorations in June, anyway? Fall seems to be pushed aside…Christmas overshadowing Halloween, poinsettias and fruitcakes trumping pumpkins and miniature Snickers bars. The Halloween costume stores seem to go up and back down in the flash of a few weeks. I need more time than that to decide if I should be the good fairy or the bad fairy.
There are some sure things about fall that I know we can depend on: hot apple cider with rum (it’s good, try it) and squirrels doing gymnastics in my chestnut trees. Bright colored mums, large orange pumpkins and beautiful red apples still greet us at the market. The crock pot calls my name, and the grill is soon to be a distant memory. It’s time to switch to my russet and dark green and deep red throw pillows. The summer scents and flowers get replaced with gourds and cinnamon candles and the skeleton that sings “Bad to the Bone.”
Fall, we have not forgotten you. Go ahead and take your time handing over the baton to winter. Let your amazingly beautiful leaves linger just a little bit longer before I have to jump-start the leaf blower. Keep giving us your gentle breezes, clear, crisp mornings and bright, starry nights. Let us plan our hayrides and bon fires and eat extra candy corn. We are begging you to stay as long as you want. So for now, the mittens and ice scrapers will just have to wait.
Those of us that live in the southern most northern part of the mid-west probably think of fall as our reward for the humid dog days of summer and the freezing chill of winter. I think actually that fall is pretty sneaky, and has a good sense of humor. Like for instance how to dress during this in-between season.
I will never forget when I was growing up I could not wait to wear my new back-to-school clothes; especially my Bobbie Brook pants and avocado green poncho – accessorized of course by my new clogs and macramé purse. My mother would warn me that by noon I’d be hot, and of course she was right. But I would go ahead sweat under that poncho, knowing I looked very Marsha Brady-ish.
I think maybe fall plays tricks on us to get us back because it seems like we are forgetting about it. Christmas decorations are already up for sale; each year it seems they get put out earlier and earlier. Who really buys Christmas decorations in June, anyway? Fall seems to be pushed aside…Christmas overshadowing Halloween, poinsettias and fruitcakes trumping pumpkins and miniature Snickers bars. The Halloween costume stores seem to go up and back down in the flash of a few weeks. I need more time than that to decide if I should be the good fairy or the bad fairy.
There are some sure things about fall that I know we can depend on: hot apple cider with rum (it’s good, try it) and squirrels doing gymnastics in my chestnut trees. Bright colored mums, large orange pumpkins and beautiful red apples still greet us at the market. The crock pot calls my name, and the grill is soon to be a distant memory. It’s time to switch to my russet and dark green and deep red throw pillows. The summer scents and flowers get replaced with gourds and cinnamon candles and the skeleton that sings “Bad to the Bone.”
Fall, we have not forgotten you. Go ahead and take your time handing over the baton to winter. Let your amazingly beautiful leaves linger just a little bit longer before I have to jump-start the leaf blower. Keep giving us your gentle breezes, clear, crisp mornings and bright, starry nights. Let us plan our hayrides and bon fires and eat extra candy corn. We are begging you to stay as long as you want. So for now, the mittens and ice scrapers will just have to wait.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Summer, don't go yet!
It happened in the wink of an eye…overnight actually. One day it was sweltering hot, humid and just, well summer, and then today I woke up and there – I swear – is a taste of fall in the air.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love fall! I do. It’s my favorite time. But only when we are ready. Because as soon as fall gets here, summer is over. And I see it slowly but surely slipping away. I am trying to savor it, sweet ear by sweet ear, BLT by BLT.
Dear Mother Nature, I will make a deal with you. If you want to start fall, say, tomorrow, I am fine with that. But here’s the deal: please let it last VERY long. Like say, until Thanksgiving or maybe even Christmas Eve? A snow at Christmas is fine…but if I could bargain one more time, how about an early spring…like maybe Valentine’s Day? I figured as long as I am asking, I may as well go for broke.
The thing about summer to me it is that it’s all about freedom. Freedom to sit outside on the deck all night. Freedom to wear flip flops and no socks. Freedom to eat myself silly with fresh fruit, melon and vegetables grown with love right here in our hometown. Freedom to go to outside concerts, festivals and fairs – to picnic from blankets and enjoy the dark, starlit nights and the private light show at dusk by our friends the fireflies.
I am not ready for the slaying of the senses that accompany summer to end; the sights and sounds and tastes. Summer is a cacophony of delightful wonders.
It’s about the food: Fried pickles and chocolate dipped strawberries. Homemade sangria and grilled zucchini. Elephant Ears, cotton candy and kettle corn at the fair – and sun tea, fresh cucumbers and homemade salsa at home.
It’s about the sounds: Playing the Jimmy Buffett CD over and over again, while drinking margaritas and dancing the salsa. It’s about the night music of the cicadas and the owls. The yell of an umpire, the roar of a racecar, the barking of a dog.
It’s about the smells: Coppertone, citronella and grilled burgers. Chlorine and campfires and charcoal.
When the heat ends, and we can sleep with our windows open – yet still wear short – that is when the planets align and all is well in my world. It is the magical time when summer is ending and fall is just around the corner….there are still fresh tomatoes in the garden but the apples are almost ripe for the picking.
Summer, I am not yet ready to bid you goodbye – but if you friend fall wants to hang out a bit with us before you leave, I will gladly put out the welcome mat.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love fall! I do. It’s my favorite time. But only when we are ready. Because as soon as fall gets here, summer is over. And I see it slowly but surely slipping away. I am trying to savor it, sweet ear by sweet ear, BLT by BLT.
Dear Mother Nature, I will make a deal with you. If you want to start fall, say, tomorrow, I am fine with that. But here’s the deal: please let it last VERY long. Like say, until Thanksgiving or maybe even Christmas Eve? A snow at Christmas is fine…but if I could bargain one more time, how about an early spring…like maybe Valentine’s Day? I figured as long as I am asking, I may as well go for broke.
The thing about summer to me it is that it’s all about freedom. Freedom to sit outside on the deck all night. Freedom to wear flip flops and no socks. Freedom to eat myself silly with fresh fruit, melon and vegetables grown with love right here in our hometown. Freedom to go to outside concerts, festivals and fairs – to picnic from blankets and enjoy the dark, starlit nights and the private light show at dusk by our friends the fireflies.
I am not ready for the slaying of the senses that accompany summer to end; the sights and sounds and tastes. Summer is a cacophony of delightful wonders.
It’s about the food: Fried pickles and chocolate dipped strawberries. Homemade sangria and grilled zucchini. Elephant Ears, cotton candy and kettle corn at the fair – and sun tea, fresh cucumbers and homemade salsa at home.
It’s about the sounds: Playing the Jimmy Buffett CD over and over again, while drinking margaritas and dancing the salsa. It’s about the night music of the cicadas and the owls. The yell of an umpire, the roar of a racecar, the barking of a dog.
It’s about the smells: Coppertone, citronella and grilled burgers. Chlorine and campfires and charcoal.
When the heat ends, and we can sleep with our windows open – yet still wear short – that is when the planets align and all is well in my world. It is the magical time when summer is ending and fall is just around the corner….there are still fresh tomatoes in the garden but the apples are almost ripe for the picking.
Summer, I am not yet ready to bid you goodbye – but if you friend fall wants to hang out a bit with us before you leave, I will gladly put out the welcome mat.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
My New Bucket List
So I have, along with tons of other people, the proverbial “Bucket List”. I think I called it my “wish list” or “to – do list” before the movie…but I like Bucket List much better.
It seems that in the past, as I got older, my wants and desires got a little crazier; go sky diving, get a tattoo, climb Mt. Fuji. Now, maybe it is the control freak in me, but those desires have been skewed a bit. Instead of jumping out of an airplane, I think I want to fly one. Instead of getting a tattoo, I got several ankle bracelets – not only are they pain-free, but I can change them like I change my mind. Instead of climbing Mt. Fuji, I will be content to eat sushi and drink sake at least once a week.
I hate to say this, but it seems my new additions to the list have gotten quite boring: a dishwasher that actually cleans without pre-washing; a manicure that will last longer than 4 days; jeans that fit every single time; red wine that doesn’t stain; being able to eat a loaf of sourdough bread and a half pound of chocolate without beating myself up about it; joints and muscles that don’t hurt when I exercise and dance Zumba.
Kinda boring eh? Well, in the words of Stevie Nicks (who I believe gets better looking as she ages) “But time makes you bolder, Children get older, I'm getting older too...I'm getting older too...” I know my children are getting older. And I know I’m getting older too. But I always forget that part of the song - time makes you bolder. So I ponder “my reflection in the snow covered hills”, and realize, because I am getting older, I cannot give up on getting bolder.
So though I don’t want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane anymore, I would gladly take the wheel of one and laugh as others do so. I do want to do a zip line, go white water rafting, and climb the hills of Ohio. I want to continue to have no fear, to be bold, and to not feel guilt or worry. My Bucket List will include smiling at my passerby, helping those that need it, dancing and singing and laughing and praying – and not feel pressured or self-conscious about any of it. I want to live my life with no regrets, having fulfilled my passions and dreams. In the words of John Denver, I want to be, I want to live!
“We are standing all together, face to face and arm in arm. We are standing on the threshold of a dream. No more hunger, no more killing, no more wasting life away. It is simply an idea and I know it’s time has come. I want to live I want to grow – I want to see I want to know. I want to share what I can give. I want to be, I want to live.”
So, what’s on your Bucket List?
It seems that in the past, as I got older, my wants and desires got a little crazier; go sky diving, get a tattoo, climb Mt. Fuji. Now, maybe it is the control freak in me, but those desires have been skewed a bit. Instead of jumping out of an airplane, I think I want to fly one. Instead of getting a tattoo, I got several ankle bracelets – not only are they pain-free, but I can change them like I change my mind. Instead of climbing Mt. Fuji, I will be content to eat sushi and drink sake at least once a week.
I hate to say this, but it seems my new additions to the list have gotten quite boring: a dishwasher that actually cleans without pre-washing; a manicure that will last longer than 4 days; jeans that fit every single time; red wine that doesn’t stain; being able to eat a loaf of sourdough bread and a half pound of chocolate without beating myself up about it; joints and muscles that don’t hurt when I exercise and dance Zumba.
Kinda boring eh? Well, in the words of Stevie Nicks (who I believe gets better looking as she ages) “But time makes you bolder, Children get older, I'm getting older too...I'm getting older too...” I know my children are getting older. And I know I’m getting older too. But I always forget that part of the song - time makes you bolder. So I ponder “my reflection in the snow covered hills”, and realize, because I am getting older, I cannot give up on getting bolder.
So though I don’t want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane anymore, I would gladly take the wheel of one and laugh as others do so. I do want to do a zip line, go white water rafting, and climb the hills of Ohio. I want to continue to have no fear, to be bold, and to not feel guilt or worry. My Bucket List will include smiling at my passerby, helping those that need it, dancing and singing and laughing and praying – and not feel pressured or self-conscious about any of it. I want to live my life with no regrets, having fulfilled my passions and dreams. In the words of John Denver, I want to be, I want to live!
“We are standing all together, face to face and arm in arm. We are standing on the threshold of a dream. No more hunger, no more killing, no more wasting life away. It is simply an idea and I know it’s time has come. I want to live I want to grow – I want to see I want to know. I want to share what I can give. I want to be, I want to live.”
So, what’s on your Bucket List?
Chocolate
You know, I’ve been reading a few reports lately about how scientists have discovered some kind of natural enzyme or something that will make us stop craving chocolate. The same study is saying that eating a vegetarian diet high in soy is another way of avoiding chocolate cravings. Hmmmm – that’s a tough choice: sautéed tofu or a yummy chocolate covered caramel.
Now I understand the benefits of eating healthy. I even used to be a vegetarian for quite a few years. I can also tell you that even vegetarians eat chocolate. I still eat healthy. I’ve complained about my weight for years. But dang it, I need chocolate. Not WANT chocolate – but NEED chocolate. Well, being somewhat creative, I try to always find my way around road blocks – especially when it comes to food – or more specifically, dessert. I have discovered if I give up the main course to a meal, I can have a Snickers Bar instead.
I believe if God had intended for us to not have chocolate, he would not have invented cravings. These scientists are wasting their time and money on their reports. I imagine they all must be men – for I don’t think men really truly understand the emotional attachment we women have to chocolate. I mean let’s face it – there are times that I would drive 10 miles in a rainstorm to get my favorite chocolate. I have learned to listen to my body when it talks. I hear it when it tells me, go buy the chocolate. I’m not going to argue with this body, nope. It knows it knows what is best for me. I guarantee you I would not drive 10 miles in a rainstorm for tofu.
Maybe the scientists better leave well enough alone. The female species is happy adoring chocolate. We like being addicted to chocolate. We even look forward to certain times when we truly have to have chocolate, or else everyone around us will have to duck and cover to protect their lives.
I know the secret to world peace. Chocolate. Who can fight when you have a savory, soft piece of peanut butter chocolate in your mouth? It’s impossible. Heck, when I start to get a little feisty, all my husband has to do is dangle a chocolate toffee in front of my face and I cave in like an old mine. Men, I hope you are listening. I’m divulging a deep, dark secret. A dark chocolate secret, that is.
Now I understand the benefits of eating healthy. I even used to be a vegetarian for quite a few years. I can also tell you that even vegetarians eat chocolate. I still eat healthy. I’ve complained about my weight for years. But dang it, I need chocolate. Not WANT chocolate – but NEED chocolate. Well, being somewhat creative, I try to always find my way around road blocks – especially when it comes to food – or more specifically, dessert. I have discovered if I give up the main course to a meal, I can have a Snickers Bar instead.
I believe if God had intended for us to not have chocolate, he would not have invented cravings. These scientists are wasting their time and money on their reports. I imagine they all must be men – for I don’t think men really truly understand the emotional attachment we women have to chocolate. I mean let’s face it – there are times that I would drive 10 miles in a rainstorm to get my favorite chocolate. I have learned to listen to my body when it talks. I hear it when it tells me, go buy the chocolate. I’m not going to argue with this body, nope. It knows it knows what is best for me. I guarantee you I would not drive 10 miles in a rainstorm for tofu.
Maybe the scientists better leave well enough alone. The female species is happy adoring chocolate. We like being addicted to chocolate. We even look forward to certain times when we truly have to have chocolate, or else everyone around us will have to duck and cover to protect their lives.
I know the secret to world peace. Chocolate. Who can fight when you have a savory, soft piece of peanut butter chocolate in your mouth? It’s impossible. Heck, when I start to get a little feisty, all my husband has to do is dangle a chocolate toffee in front of my face and I cave in like an old mine. Men, I hope you are listening. I’m divulging a deep, dark secret. A dark chocolate secret, that is.
Friday, August 6, 2010
A New Generation of "Tweens"
The sign read: “Be prepared to show ID. Those that look 30 and under will be carded. Consider it a compliment!” I smugly held my ID out to the cashier.
“Are you taking advantage of our Senior Citizen discount today?” She asked. She has no idea how lucky she is that I gave her the chance to live to see her braces removed and get her drivers license.
A few years back, a phrase was coined: Tween. Those that aren’t a kid anymore, but not quite a teenager. Well, young kids aren’t the only ones living in the in-between.
Those of us that are over 40 and under 65 are in that same boat.
We’ve been called the “sandwich generation” – helping care for elderly parents and college age children. This is true, but still, I feel more like a “Tween.” than a “Sandwich.” I am stuck between the world of 3 inch heels and support hose. I don’t want to wear sensible shoes, and I’m not ready to give up flavored lip gloss. I wear clothes that my mother won’t. I dance like nobody’s watching. I laugh and love and obviously, I must have enough wrinkles to make someone think twice about my age.
But I’m not yet a senior citizen. I don’t CARE that I get a 10% discount if I look older to you. I don’t CARE that I get a free cup of coffee. Not yet. That’s a privilege I will patiently wait for. My mind is still back in my 30’s, my body is in my 40’s and apparently according to some young punk check out girl, I appear to be in my late 50’s. That’s a great age, mind you. Terrific. 50 is the new 40. 55 is the new 45. But can I at least wait until I actually reach that part of the decade before someone implies I need a cane and those big, black wrap around sunglasses?
If you think I am blasting the elderly, you have it very wrong. I revere them. I admire them. I love their stories. I revel in their wisdom and knowledge and life lessons. I love their recipes and old pictures and letters from long ago. I love the stories of World War Two, the Depression and George Burns and Gracie Allen. I love the jitterbug and big bands and “An Affair to Remember.” I love their age. I respect their age. I admire their age.
Soon, I will be in their place. My grandkids will ask me about “American Idol” and iPods and DVD’s. They will dance to oldies like The Eagles and Kenny G and Dolly Parton. They will help me across the room to retrieve my walker, and take me to the hairdresser so I can still cover up the gray. They will listen to stories about the first woman to try to run for president, and the great hurricane of ’07. It is then that I won’t be a “Tween.” I will gladly wear sensible shoes and cheater glasses and show my Golden Buckeye card. I will smile and shake my head yes, when offered a 10% off my purchase. I will gladly take my free cup of coffee.
But not yet. Not just yet. I am enjoying being a “Sandwich Tween.” I am enjoying being a mom, a daughter and a grandma all at the same time. I like that I can dance all night and still be able to get out of bed in the morning. I am glad that I am still considered youthful. Now, excuse me while I go read this months issue of AARP. They have great articles.
“Are you taking advantage of our Senior Citizen discount today?” She asked. She has no idea how lucky she is that I gave her the chance to live to see her braces removed and get her drivers license.
A few years back, a phrase was coined: Tween. Those that aren’t a kid anymore, but not quite a teenager. Well, young kids aren’t the only ones living in the in-between.
Those of us that are over 40 and under 65 are in that same boat.
We’ve been called the “sandwich generation” – helping care for elderly parents and college age children. This is true, but still, I feel more like a “Tween.” than a “Sandwich.” I am stuck between the world of 3 inch heels and support hose. I don’t want to wear sensible shoes, and I’m not ready to give up flavored lip gloss. I wear clothes that my mother won’t. I dance like nobody’s watching. I laugh and love and obviously, I must have enough wrinkles to make someone think twice about my age.
But I’m not yet a senior citizen. I don’t CARE that I get a 10% discount if I look older to you. I don’t CARE that I get a free cup of coffee. Not yet. That’s a privilege I will patiently wait for. My mind is still back in my 30’s, my body is in my 40’s and apparently according to some young punk check out girl, I appear to be in my late 50’s. That’s a great age, mind you. Terrific. 50 is the new 40. 55 is the new 45. But can I at least wait until I actually reach that part of the decade before someone implies I need a cane and those big, black wrap around sunglasses?
If you think I am blasting the elderly, you have it very wrong. I revere them. I admire them. I love their stories. I revel in their wisdom and knowledge and life lessons. I love their recipes and old pictures and letters from long ago. I love the stories of World War Two, the Depression and George Burns and Gracie Allen. I love the jitterbug and big bands and “An Affair to Remember.” I love their age. I respect their age. I admire their age.
Soon, I will be in their place. My grandkids will ask me about “American Idol” and iPods and DVD’s. They will dance to oldies like The Eagles and Kenny G and Dolly Parton. They will help me across the room to retrieve my walker, and take me to the hairdresser so I can still cover up the gray. They will listen to stories about the first woman to try to run for president, and the great hurricane of ’07. It is then that I won’t be a “Tween.” I will gladly wear sensible shoes and cheater glasses and show my Golden Buckeye card. I will smile and shake my head yes, when offered a 10% off my purchase. I will gladly take my free cup of coffee.
But not yet. Not just yet. I am enjoying being a “Sandwich Tween.” I am enjoying being a mom, a daughter and a grandma all at the same time. I like that I can dance all night and still be able to get out of bed in the morning. I am glad that I am still considered youthful. Now, excuse me while I go read this months issue of AARP. They have great articles.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
It Started out to be a Great Day
The sun was shining brightly after a week of rain. I only had three loads of laundry instead of five. The chicken I took out for dinner didn’t have freezer burn. My jeans zipped up without me having to lie down to do it. It was going to be a great day.
After my Saturday morning chores, I went to a wine festival with my girlfriend. The kid at the gate carded me. After he unwrapped himself from my grateful hugs, he informed me over my girlish giggles that he was told to card anyone that looked under 80. Kids young enough to be my children should not be allowed at a wine festival.
I was determined to enjoy the day. I walked over to the first display, started down the steps and fell right on my behind. Holding back tears, I gratefully accepted the hand of a stranger. “I haven’t even had any wine yet!” I told him as I tried to find my girlfriend in the crowd of onlookers. He just started shaking his head and laughing. As he walked away I heard him say to his wife, “It’s sad when they try to deny the problem, isn’t it?” She just clucked her tongue and walked over to grab another glass of Chardonnay. I sat to wait for my girlfriend, who had donned a pair of dark glasses and pretended she didn’t see me. Once she saw my face, however, she felt guilty and brought me a taste of Merlot.
“Here”, she said. “I don’t think you need to have anymore than this – it seems you may already be over your limit”. At least she didn’t cluck her tongue as she drank her Chardonnay.
Later that night, I examined the newly spreading bruise on my behind. It really did look neat. I mean, it’s the neatest bruise that I've ever seen. Purple and blue and green. It even has a lovely, white, lacy pattern to it. I've never seen anything like it. I was so proud. I showed my husband. He said, "Hmmm - isn't it interesting that stretch marks don't bruise?"
So much for the great day.
After my Saturday morning chores, I went to a wine festival with my girlfriend. The kid at the gate carded me. After he unwrapped himself from my grateful hugs, he informed me over my girlish giggles that he was told to card anyone that looked under 80. Kids young enough to be my children should not be allowed at a wine festival.
I was determined to enjoy the day. I walked over to the first display, started down the steps and fell right on my behind. Holding back tears, I gratefully accepted the hand of a stranger. “I haven’t even had any wine yet!” I told him as I tried to find my girlfriend in the crowd of onlookers. He just started shaking his head and laughing. As he walked away I heard him say to his wife, “It’s sad when they try to deny the problem, isn’t it?” She just clucked her tongue and walked over to grab another glass of Chardonnay. I sat to wait for my girlfriend, who had donned a pair of dark glasses and pretended she didn’t see me. Once she saw my face, however, she felt guilty and brought me a taste of Merlot.
“Here”, she said. “I don’t think you need to have anymore than this – it seems you may already be over your limit”. At least she didn’t cluck her tongue as she drank her Chardonnay.
Later that night, I examined the newly spreading bruise on my behind. It really did look neat. I mean, it’s the neatest bruise that I've ever seen. Purple and blue and green. It even has a lovely, white, lacy pattern to it. I've never seen anything like it. I was so proud. I showed my husband. He said, "Hmmm - isn't it interesting that stretch marks don't bruise?"
So much for the great day.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Grumpy vs Mary Poppins
There are days when I get so grumpy I can’t even stand myself. I am not sure why it happens, or what causes it – if anything. I even have a couple of “Grumpy” T-shirts from Disney. One says “I’m Grumpy because you are Dopey”, but that’s another story.
I don’t plan on waking up grumpy. I don’t plan on not being in my usual perpetual happy mood. It just happens. And when it does, look out. Because I will enjoy being grumpy all day long. Even though I know I’m grumpy and even though friends and family try to coax me out of my bad mood, I choose to linger in it…to feel the grouchiness.
Now, I realize that isn’t really fair to those around me. Not just family and friends, but people in the checkout line at Kroger. People that are going 2 miles too slow in the fast lane. People that wore the wrong color that day. And most of all, I realize it’s not fair to me. Growing up a virtual Doris Day/Mary Poppins combination, being grumpy just does not suit me. I don’t even “do” it very well. Heck, half the time I am faking being grumpy just for the sake of not being nice.
Since I turned 50, I have decided to always (try to) be my authentic self. Which I thought meant whatever mood I’m in was to take precedence for the day. I’m realizing that isn’t true. My true self is just that…and nobody in the world is grumpy all the time. Well except for my ex-husband…and he said it was because he was married to Mary Poppins. Go figure.
Whenever I feel self-conscious about just being me, about wanting to laugh out loud and sing with the radio or dance to the music (which sometimes is just in my own head), I look at my 2 ½ year old granddaughter and my 3 year old dog. They don’t care or less what other people think. They both dance, and laugh and have a great time – almost all the time. Of course they both take lots of naps and eat with gusto without worrying about if they will fit into their jeans. No wonder they are happy all the time.
So my key to not being grumpy is to allow myself to figure out why I am being that way, and then to shrug my shoulders and dance or laugh it off – since the key to my authenticity is to not take myself too seriously – and not let my ego run my life. So, not everyone likes Mary Poppins. So what, who cares? I’m going to be my authentic happy (and sometimes grumpy) self, and if people don’t like it, they can just take it with a spoon full of sugar. Or salt, if you are drinking margaritas.
I don’t plan on waking up grumpy. I don’t plan on not being in my usual perpetual happy mood. It just happens. And when it does, look out. Because I will enjoy being grumpy all day long. Even though I know I’m grumpy and even though friends and family try to coax me out of my bad mood, I choose to linger in it…to feel the grouchiness.
Now, I realize that isn’t really fair to those around me. Not just family and friends, but people in the checkout line at Kroger. People that are going 2 miles too slow in the fast lane. People that wore the wrong color that day. And most of all, I realize it’s not fair to me. Growing up a virtual Doris Day/Mary Poppins combination, being grumpy just does not suit me. I don’t even “do” it very well. Heck, half the time I am faking being grumpy just for the sake of not being nice.
Since I turned 50, I have decided to always (try to) be my authentic self. Which I thought meant whatever mood I’m in was to take precedence for the day. I’m realizing that isn’t true. My true self is just that…and nobody in the world is grumpy all the time. Well except for my ex-husband…and he said it was because he was married to Mary Poppins. Go figure.
Whenever I feel self-conscious about just being me, about wanting to laugh out loud and sing with the radio or dance to the music (which sometimes is just in my own head), I look at my 2 ½ year old granddaughter and my 3 year old dog. They don’t care or less what other people think. They both dance, and laugh and have a great time – almost all the time. Of course they both take lots of naps and eat with gusto without worrying about if they will fit into their jeans. No wonder they are happy all the time.
So my key to not being grumpy is to allow myself to figure out why I am being that way, and then to shrug my shoulders and dance or laugh it off – since the key to my authenticity is to not take myself too seriously – and not let my ego run my life. So, not everyone likes Mary Poppins. So what, who cares? I’m going to be my authentic happy (and sometimes grumpy) self, and if people don’t like it, they can just take it with a spoon full of sugar. Or salt, if you are drinking margaritas.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Blooming Where I am Planted
I grew up in Southern California where I learned how to body surf, eat granola and wear flip flops. I worked at Disneyland. Yes, I have blonde hair. (And It continues with age, thanks to my hairdresser, Andrea). My family still lives there, and I yearn for them and the ocean daily. But staying there just wasn’t in the cards.
I was “planted” in Ohio several years ago. Now, not being very good at geography in school (that and math were not my #1 choices), I wasn’t even sure where I was moving. They call it the “mid-west”, but if you look at a map, it’s kind of at the north eastern southern part of the country.
What I did know that instead of earthquake drills I’d have tornado sirens. I had heard the tomatoes were incredible and that there was lots of sweet corn. I was told there were tons of beautiful big trees and lots of wildflowers. No ocean, but lots of lakes and rivers.
Snow. Snow? I had to buy earmuffs and cute coats and matching mittens. I had to learn to scrape my windshield. My dog had to wear a sweater. Moving to Ohio was quite a culture and weather shock.
What I didn’t know was that I’d find home. So many people ask me: “What is a California girl doing in Ohio?” Well, here is my answer:
I am living – truly living. I have chosen to bloom where I was planted. I have found my true love and soul mate. I have the best friends ever. I live in a house that has the most peaceful view of the woods. I embrace and enjoy the change of the seasons. I have my children and soon to be 3 grandchildren. I don’t have traffic. I have great farmers markets and talented artisans living near me. I have my favorite restaurants and wine bars. I know some of the coolest people in the world. I get to go to great concerts and outdoor events. I can build a snowman….or watch my granddaughter do it and cheer her on. I can canoe on the river and bike alongside it. I can drive a short distance to snow ski or boat on one of the great lakes. I am not far from the east coast and am within driving distance to some of the most beautiful places in the country. Ah, maybe that’s what they meant by “middle America”.
Being an Ohio transplant has been a journey…but a joyful one at that. I guess you could say my heart is split; part in Ohio and part back in California, where my family and childhood memories reside.
I’ve learned to discover the richness of where I am planted. I’ve learned to have an open mind and learn about the people and the culture. I’ve learned to embrace my own inner California style, while living where there is no ocean.
The melting pot of my life just continues to evolve. I’ve created my own “garden” where I will continue to grow and bloom and thrive…and at times throw around some fertilizer for good measure!
I was “planted” in Ohio several years ago. Now, not being very good at geography in school (that and math were not my #1 choices), I wasn’t even sure where I was moving. They call it the “mid-west”, but if you look at a map, it’s kind of at the north eastern southern part of the country.
What I did know that instead of earthquake drills I’d have tornado sirens. I had heard the tomatoes were incredible and that there was lots of sweet corn. I was told there were tons of beautiful big trees and lots of wildflowers. No ocean, but lots of lakes and rivers.
Snow. Snow? I had to buy earmuffs and cute coats and matching mittens. I had to learn to scrape my windshield. My dog had to wear a sweater. Moving to Ohio was quite a culture and weather shock.
What I didn’t know was that I’d find home. So many people ask me: “What is a California girl doing in Ohio?” Well, here is my answer:
I am living – truly living. I have chosen to bloom where I was planted. I have found my true love and soul mate. I have the best friends ever. I live in a house that has the most peaceful view of the woods. I embrace and enjoy the change of the seasons. I have my children and soon to be 3 grandchildren. I don’t have traffic. I have great farmers markets and talented artisans living near me. I have my favorite restaurants and wine bars. I know some of the coolest people in the world. I get to go to great concerts and outdoor events. I can build a snowman….or watch my granddaughter do it and cheer her on. I can canoe on the river and bike alongside it. I can drive a short distance to snow ski or boat on one of the great lakes. I am not far from the east coast and am within driving distance to some of the most beautiful places in the country. Ah, maybe that’s what they meant by “middle America”.
Being an Ohio transplant has been a journey…but a joyful one at that. I guess you could say my heart is split; part in Ohio and part back in California, where my family and childhood memories reside.
I’ve learned to discover the richness of where I am planted. I’ve learned to have an open mind and learn about the people and the culture. I’ve learned to embrace my own inner California style, while living where there is no ocean.
The melting pot of my life just continues to evolve. I’ve created my own “garden” where I will continue to grow and bloom and thrive…and at times throw around some fertilizer for good measure!
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Summertime is Flip Flop Time
The official dictionary definition of flip flop: reversal: a decision to reverse an earlier decision.
My definition of flip flop: A summertime feeling of freedom, especially when wearing said open-toed sandal. A way of life from June to October.
Ah, summer. Flip flops, margaritas and Jimmy Buffet songs. Doesn’t get much better than that, does it? I was raised in Southern California, where flip flops are a lifestyle. We wore them everywhere, all the time. We called them thongs, zori’s, sandals…it didn’t matter; it was the closest we could get to going barefoot.
My husband - mid-west born and bred - decided he doesn’t like to have anything between his toes. If it wasn’t for me, he’d probably wear socks with his sandals.
He is pretty set in his ways, and I finally figured out I may as well give up on trying to change him. (Not that I would ever do that, mind you….). I tried to explain to him that he was really missing the boat. There are so many cool and different kinds of flip flops to choose from. You can have flip flops that are leather, flip flops that are rubber, flip flops that have palm trees on them or flip flops with bottle openers in the bottom of the sole. You can get your flip flops wet and it doesn’t matter. They are just as relaxing as changing into sweatpants. They are definitely a “go to” pair of shoes.
I have a ton of flip flops. Red, yellow, brown, silver, gold, and a couple of basic black. Flip flops made from an old yoga mat. Flip flops with rhinestones. Flip flops that have heels. Flip flops that I would gladly wear daily if I could. My sister and I send flip flop paraphernalia back and forth to each other; notepads, cocktail napkins, patio glasses, refrigerator magnets…you get the idea. For us it’s not just about footwear – it’s a symbol of our favorite place in the whole world…the beach.
So when my husband surprised me the other day and brought home not one, but two pairs of flip flops, my heart soared. He’s ready to join the ranks of beach bums…getting by with the least amount of shoe on their feet as possible. Barely skating by the restaurant rule of “no shoes” (I still insist on wearing shirts). Living on sponge cake and watching the sun bake. (Thanks Jimmy).
Margaritas or not, flip flops are the epitome of summertime, wherever you may live. Putting flip flops on your soles, will surely make your heart soar. Add a little salt and lime, and your feet will be doing the happy dance in no time. Fins, anyone?
My definition of flip flop: A summertime feeling of freedom, especially when wearing said open-toed sandal. A way of life from June to October.
Ah, summer. Flip flops, margaritas and Jimmy Buffet songs. Doesn’t get much better than that, does it? I was raised in Southern California, where flip flops are a lifestyle. We wore them everywhere, all the time. We called them thongs, zori’s, sandals…it didn’t matter; it was the closest we could get to going barefoot.
My husband - mid-west born and bred - decided he doesn’t like to have anything between his toes. If it wasn’t for me, he’d probably wear socks with his sandals.
He is pretty set in his ways, and I finally figured out I may as well give up on trying to change him. (Not that I would ever do that, mind you….). I tried to explain to him that he was really missing the boat. There are so many cool and different kinds of flip flops to choose from. You can have flip flops that are leather, flip flops that are rubber, flip flops that have palm trees on them or flip flops with bottle openers in the bottom of the sole. You can get your flip flops wet and it doesn’t matter. They are just as relaxing as changing into sweatpants. They are definitely a “go to” pair of shoes.
I have a ton of flip flops. Red, yellow, brown, silver, gold, and a couple of basic black. Flip flops made from an old yoga mat. Flip flops with rhinestones. Flip flops that have heels. Flip flops that I would gladly wear daily if I could. My sister and I send flip flop paraphernalia back and forth to each other; notepads, cocktail napkins, patio glasses, refrigerator magnets…you get the idea. For us it’s not just about footwear – it’s a symbol of our favorite place in the whole world…the beach.
So when my husband surprised me the other day and brought home not one, but two pairs of flip flops, my heart soared. He’s ready to join the ranks of beach bums…getting by with the least amount of shoe on their feet as possible. Barely skating by the restaurant rule of “no shoes” (I still insist on wearing shirts). Living on sponge cake and watching the sun bake. (Thanks Jimmy).
Margaritas or not, flip flops are the epitome of summertime, wherever you may live. Putting flip flops on your soles, will surely make your heart soar. Add a little salt and lime, and your feet will be doing the happy dance in no time. Fins, anyone?
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Public Swim
They were all lined up. There must have been five, maybe even six of them. Normally that’s way too many for my taste. Their brown bodies arched and splashed as they jumped into the pool at the same time, arms touching close enough to hold hands. Of course they wouldn’t consider holding hands, because unlike 4th grade girls, 4th grade boys wouldn’t be caught dead touching each other – unless of course it was to punch someone in the arm. They gleefully splashed into the pool, shaking their heads like dogs as they broke the surface. They’d jump up on the side, and do it again and again.
“No diving,” the lifeguard would yell, as one of the jumpers changed directions at the last minute and went in head-first. They would do it, over and over again – and each time the life guard would deepen his voice, puff out his tanned chest, glance at the 14 year old girls in their little bikinis giggling at him, and yell once again at the fourth grade boys.
Thankfully there was a “time-out” every hour and everyone under the age of 18 had to clear the pool for us old people to swim. Grandmas were there, doing their water walking, young moms had their babies in waterproof (I hoped) diapers, laughing and cheering them on as they felt the cold water creep up their young bodies. Moms and dads cooled off as they kept a close eye on their kids sitting on the edge, waiting for the time out to be over. I was grateful to be in the pool and not be splashed during adult swim…although the longer I hung out, the more I realized it didn’t matter.
At the pool, defenses seem to lower. Kids are just plain kids and I love that. They didn’t know they were splashing me as they dove down to fetch their treasure – a penny they’d thrown in just minutes before. They didn’t care if my hair got wet – so eventually, neither did I.
There is a definite culture at the pool – and I spent my entire time people watching. It also brought back so many memories – of every stage of my life. I distinctly remember diving off the high dive, begging my mom to “watch me” each time. I then remember my first two-piece, and around that time came recognizing boys, too. I remember having a crush on the life guard. I also remember being the life guard, hoping I looked cool to the younger kids. I then remember my teens, and glanced around the pool once again. High School girls met in the corner, trying to appear nonchalant as they posed their tanned bodies and snuck looks at the senior boys playing volleyball. The boys would glance back from time to time; glad their sunglasses didn’t show exactly which girl they were checking out.
Snow cones and potato chips, suntan lotion and tan lines. Starving for peanut butter sandwiches, fighting off a nap and losing track of all time. The feeling of a public pool is the same – no matter what town you are in, or what age you are. Even better, the memories are sweeter than ever. Cannonball contest anyone?
“No diving,” the lifeguard would yell, as one of the jumpers changed directions at the last minute and went in head-first. They would do it, over and over again – and each time the life guard would deepen his voice, puff out his tanned chest, glance at the 14 year old girls in their little bikinis giggling at him, and yell once again at the fourth grade boys.
Thankfully there was a “time-out” every hour and everyone under the age of 18 had to clear the pool for us old people to swim. Grandmas were there, doing their water walking, young moms had their babies in waterproof (I hoped) diapers, laughing and cheering them on as they felt the cold water creep up their young bodies. Moms and dads cooled off as they kept a close eye on their kids sitting on the edge, waiting for the time out to be over. I was grateful to be in the pool and not be splashed during adult swim…although the longer I hung out, the more I realized it didn’t matter.
At the pool, defenses seem to lower. Kids are just plain kids and I love that. They didn’t know they were splashing me as they dove down to fetch their treasure – a penny they’d thrown in just minutes before. They didn’t care if my hair got wet – so eventually, neither did I.
There is a definite culture at the pool – and I spent my entire time people watching. It also brought back so many memories – of every stage of my life. I distinctly remember diving off the high dive, begging my mom to “watch me” each time. I then remember my first two-piece, and around that time came recognizing boys, too. I remember having a crush on the life guard. I also remember being the life guard, hoping I looked cool to the younger kids. I then remember my teens, and glanced around the pool once again. High School girls met in the corner, trying to appear nonchalant as they posed their tanned bodies and snuck looks at the senior boys playing volleyball. The boys would glance back from time to time; glad their sunglasses didn’t show exactly which girl they were checking out.
Snow cones and potato chips, suntan lotion and tan lines. Starving for peanut butter sandwiches, fighting off a nap and losing track of all time. The feeling of a public pool is the same – no matter what town you are in, or what age you are. Even better, the memories are sweeter than ever. Cannonball contest anyone?
Monday, June 14, 2010
What Makes a House Just a House, and Not a Home
What makes a house just a house and not a “home”? I am finding that out as I purge my home of its contents, making it “sellable” and “open house worthy”.
Apparently potential buyers don’t want to see the pictures of my sons wedding or of my granddaughter, or of our trip to Key West. Nobody wants to see the fish my husband caught or the picture of me hugging my dad. Except me that is.
Getting my house ready for sale has been an adventure in excavating. We went through the garage sale experience. We donated bags and bags of stuff to the Goodwill. We cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. And we made it very low key on the décor. I had to store vases and books and pictures and clocks and signs and things that to me made our house a home.
“My house is not decorated – It is a showplace for my favorite things”. That is a sign that I had to hide in a cupboard, along with the one that says “Wine is liquid poetry”.
We are “right-sizing” our lives. We are (at least if we sell) moving to a smaller home with less space to clean, smaller heating bills and little or no grass to mow. I will only be able to display one of my three Christmas trees in a smaller home, and won’t even have stairs (hopefully) for the garland.
The dog bed for my 165 pound Newfoundland will have to be stored or sold, since it takes up the same amount of space as a twin bed. I am going to have to find some storage room for all the pictures, letters and cards that I have yet had the heart to part with.
I know it’s all just “stuff”. I don’t need the stuff. I have wonderful memories of family, trips, animals, high school friends and other important (or not so much) events in my life.
I don’t need boxes and boxes of the same 3rd grade picture of my son. I don’t need the old collars of dogs gone by. I don’t need the broken ornaments, lovingly made in kindergarten. I don’t need them, but parting with them is kind of hard. I’m doing it though, box by box, teardrop by teardrop.
We are “rightsizing” our life. We are moving on to our next adventure, whatever that may be. So even though I feel like my home has less personality, the memories are still here. And I am the one that knows where I have hidden all the pictures.
So if and when we sell this home, I will eagerly await for another one. It will start out as a house – four walls and no personality. But I will dig out the family photos, hang up my signs and turn it into a home, one more time.
Apparently potential buyers don’t want to see the pictures of my sons wedding or of my granddaughter, or of our trip to Key West. Nobody wants to see the fish my husband caught or the picture of me hugging my dad. Except me that is.
Getting my house ready for sale has been an adventure in excavating. We went through the garage sale experience. We donated bags and bags of stuff to the Goodwill. We cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. And we made it very low key on the décor. I had to store vases and books and pictures and clocks and signs and things that to me made our house a home.
“My house is not decorated – It is a showplace for my favorite things”. That is a sign that I had to hide in a cupboard, along with the one that says “Wine is liquid poetry”.
We are “right-sizing” our lives. We are (at least if we sell) moving to a smaller home with less space to clean, smaller heating bills and little or no grass to mow. I will only be able to display one of my three Christmas trees in a smaller home, and won’t even have stairs (hopefully) for the garland.
The dog bed for my 165 pound Newfoundland will have to be stored or sold, since it takes up the same amount of space as a twin bed. I am going to have to find some storage room for all the pictures, letters and cards that I have yet had the heart to part with.
I know it’s all just “stuff”. I don’t need the stuff. I have wonderful memories of family, trips, animals, high school friends and other important (or not so much) events in my life.
I don’t need boxes and boxes of the same 3rd grade picture of my son. I don’t need the old collars of dogs gone by. I don’t need the broken ornaments, lovingly made in kindergarten. I don’t need them, but parting with them is kind of hard. I’m doing it though, box by box, teardrop by teardrop.
We are “rightsizing” our life. We are moving on to our next adventure, whatever that may be. So even though I feel like my home has less personality, the memories are still here. And I am the one that knows where I have hidden all the pictures.
So if and when we sell this home, I will eagerly await for another one. It will start out as a house – four walls and no personality. But I will dig out the family photos, hang up my signs and turn it into a home, one more time.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
To Friend or Not to Friend
To friend or not to friend: that is the question. Unlike Hamlet, my choice won’t lead me to death…for no matter how many Facebook friends I have, I definitely like “being”.
I had no worldly idea I had 526 friends. Wow. My house isn’t that big. When I started questioning if it was time to purge some of my friends, I did a little research. I went through the list, and surprise – I do have a connection with them all. I mean I don’t have a glass of wine or lunch or even exchange forwarded emails with them all, but I do have a connection with them.
The friend-types vary: I went so 2nd grade with them. I dated their best friend’s brother in High School. I sang with them in 6th grade choir. I lived next door to their uncle. I worked with them at Disneyland but never knew them. We like the same music. We like Newfoundland dogs. We like inspirational quotes. They are my mother’s friend’s neighbor’s sister. The list goes on and on and on.
They are semi-close friends, every 526 of them. How could I even think about purging them, even if I do think that Facebook is a little self-serving? I really don’t care what my “friends” had for their mid-morning snack or if they went to bed a half hour late. I have enough of my own issues. But on the other hand, it’s fun to catch up with a Facebook thread and throw in my two cents worth. Many of my friends are very witty. At times it’s fun to read some of the comments, and even to “chat” with a “friend” that I have never met. It’s also fun to catch up with the people I really do care about.
What I don’t want Facebook to be for me is an emotional crutch. I don’t want to be the Sally Field of Facebook – “You like me, you really do!” I don’t want to depend on my 526 friends for validation that someone cares or someone is paying attention to me. However, it is nice to know they are there for me if I am struggling with something, want to share a funny joke or an inspirational quote. It’s fun to see pictures of my friends from High School, most who look totally amazing. It’s nice to hear about new networking groups and restaurants and events in my area. So for now, the 526 friends stay. I’m not in the right frame of mind to “unfriend” anyone.
So if you are among the throng, you are still my friend. Nobody was cut. I mean, how else will I find out which of my friends had Fruitloops for breakfast?
Karen Kelly is a freelance writer and welcomes your comment at karenkellybrown@aol.com or http://bleachblondemind.blogspot.com/. Oh, you can also “friend” her on Facebook.
I had no worldly idea I had 526 friends. Wow. My house isn’t that big. When I started questioning if it was time to purge some of my friends, I did a little research. I went through the list, and surprise – I do have a connection with them all. I mean I don’t have a glass of wine or lunch or even exchange forwarded emails with them all, but I do have a connection with them.
The friend-types vary: I went so 2nd grade with them. I dated their best friend’s brother in High School. I sang with them in 6th grade choir. I lived next door to their uncle. I worked with them at Disneyland but never knew them. We like the same music. We like Newfoundland dogs. We like inspirational quotes. They are my mother’s friend’s neighbor’s sister. The list goes on and on and on.
They are semi-close friends, every 526 of them. How could I even think about purging them, even if I do think that Facebook is a little self-serving? I really don’t care what my “friends” had for their mid-morning snack or if they went to bed a half hour late. I have enough of my own issues. But on the other hand, it’s fun to catch up with a Facebook thread and throw in my two cents worth. Many of my friends are very witty. At times it’s fun to read some of the comments, and even to “chat” with a “friend” that I have never met. It’s also fun to catch up with the people I really do care about.
What I don’t want Facebook to be for me is an emotional crutch. I don’t want to be the Sally Field of Facebook – “You like me, you really do!” I don’t want to depend on my 526 friends for validation that someone cares or someone is paying attention to me. However, it is nice to know they are there for me if I am struggling with something, want to share a funny joke or an inspirational quote. It’s fun to see pictures of my friends from High School, most who look totally amazing. It’s nice to hear about new networking groups and restaurants and events in my area. So for now, the 526 friends stay. I’m not in the right frame of mind to “unfriend” anyone.
So if you are among the throng, you are still my friend. Nobody was cut. I mean, how else will I find out which of my friends had Fruitloops for breakfast?
Karen Kelly is a freelance writer and welcomes your comment at karenkellybrown@aol.com or http://bleachblondemind.blogspot.com/. Oh, you can also “friend” her on Facebook.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Bleached Blonde Mind: Being a Princess
Princess. Noun.
1. A woman member of a royal family other than the monarch, especially a daughter of a monarch.
2. A woman regarded as having the status or qualities of a princess.
Princess. Adjective.
1. Me.
2. My granddaughter.
3. My future granddaughters.
4. Several of my friends.
There are times when people use the term “princess” like it’s a bad thing. I mean what in the world could be bad about being a princess? I own three tiaras. Being a princess is just the right place to be. If I were a Queen, I’d have to make all sorts of decisions, and it would cut into party-time. Besides, the crown isn’t as pretty as a tiara.
Being a princess in this day and age is a wonderful frame of mind. I don’t expect to have anything handed to me on a silver (or silver plated) platter. I don’t expect to wear ball gowns all the time. I don’t even expect to have a servant. Although someone to do the dishes and laundry every once in awhile would be nice. (Oh wait, that’s called my husband, also known as the prince- just don’t tell him I said that).
In the past, being a princess would infer that someone is spoiled. And being spoiled means you get every little thing you want and ask for. Not the case in those of us that are modern day princesses. Most of us work for a living. We can’t have fake nails because we scrub our own toilets and wash the dog. We buy our clothes on sale or at the Goodwill. We wait a few extra weeks to get our roots touched up. We change diapers and we drive cars that have dog slobber on the windows and Happy Meal toys strewn about.
Being a modern day princess definitely has its’ pluses. It means you don’t run into the grocery store in the rain – your prince will drop you off and meet you with the umbrella. It means the bartender will pour you an extra ounce or two of red wine at the tasting. It means eating dessert before your dinner. It means that when you start dancing alone on the dance floor, all your fellow princesses will join you. Being a princess means your granddaughter looks at you with adoring eyes as you paint her tiny fingernails blue. Being a princess means your dog can wear a rhinestone collar. Being a princess gives me an excuse to wear glitter on New Years.
Most of all, being a princess means you get to hang out with all the other wonderful princesses in your life. I am blessed to have quite a few – young and old. And for those that just don’t get it yet, they can gladly be my princess in training.
After all, if we didn’t have modern day princesses, who would wear the pink boas and drink out of wine glasses with crystals on them? It’s a tough job, but it beats being called a commoner!
1. A woman member of a royal family other than the monarch, especially a daughter of a monarch.
2. A woman regarded as having the status or qualities of a princess.
Princess. Adjective.
1. Me.
2. My granddaughter.
3. My future granddaughters.
4. Several of my friends.
There are times when people use the term “princess” like it’s a bad thing. I mean what in the world could be bad about being a princess? I own three tiaras. Being a princess is just the right place to be. If I were a Queen, I’d have to make all sorts of decisions, and it would cut into party-time. Besides, the crown isn’t as pretty as a tiara.
Being a princess in this day and age is a wonderful frame of mind. I don’t expect to have anything handed to me on a silver (or silver plated) platter. I don’t expect to wear ball gowns all the time. I don’t even expect to have a servant. Although someone to do the dishes and laundry every once in awhile would be nice. (Oh wait, that’s called my husband, also known as the prince- just don’t tell him I said that).
In the past, being a princess would infer that someone is spoiled. And being spoiled means you get every little thing you want and ask for. Not the case in those of us that are modern day princesses. Most of us work for a living. We can’t have fake nails because we scrub our own toilets and wash the dog. We buy our clothes on sale or at the Goodwill. We wait a few extra weeks to get our roots touched up. We change diapers and we drive cars that have dog slobber on the windows and Happy Meal toys strewn about.
Being a modern day princess definitely has its’ pluses. It means you don’t run into the grocery store in the rain – your prince will drop you off and meet you with the umbrella. It means the bartender will pour you an extra ounce or two of red wine at the tasting. It means eating dessert before your dinner. It means that when you start dancing alone on the dance floor, all your fellow princesses will join you. Being a princess means your granddaughter looks at you with adoring eyes as you paint her tiny fingernails blue. Being a princess means your dog can wear a rhinestone collar. Being a princess gives me an excuse to wear glitter on New Years.
Most of all, being a princess means you get to hang out with all the other wonderful princesses in your life. I am blessed to have quite a few – young and old. And for those that just don’t get it yet, they can gladly be my princess in training.
After all, if we didn’t have modern day princesses, who would wear the pink boas and drink out of wine glasses with crystals on them? It’s a tough job, but it beats being called a commoner!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Bleached Blonde Mind: You Can't Always Get What You Want
What is it about human nature that makes us want the things that others have? I don’t really mean houses or boats (however a red and white 1959 Corvette would be nice). I’m talking about basic things.
For instance when I go to a restaurant, I usually order last, because undoubtedly I will change my mind each time I hear my friends order something different. I even compare our plates of food, wondering to myself if I should have ordered what they had.
Funny thing though - it’s not just humans that are that way. Take my dogs. I learn a lot about people by watching them – seriously.
I have two of them: a 165 pound Newfoundland that is actually a Water Buffalo in dogs clothing, and a 20 pound Westie wanna be. They have their own bowls and eat their breakfast and dinner at the same time, same place, every day. They eat the same exact food. Nothing is magical about the other bowl. It looks the same and undoubtedly tastes the same. But they insist on eating each others food from each others bowl.
Then there’s the water. Our Newfie is a water hog, and he has bowls of water all over the house – heaven forbid he would go about five minutes without water. But he prefers to drink out of the toilet. I guess the water tastes better for some reason. It doesn’t matter that he has clean, fresh water around every corner – it’s the toilet water he wants. I have trained him, more or less, to not drink out of the toilet. He can get rather sloppy, if you get my drift. But even though he knows he’s not supposed to do it, and he knows there is a bowl of fresh water 5 feet away, he sneaks (as much as a 165 pound bull can sneak) into the bathroom and drinks the bowl dry. He has gotten rather bold about it, too. I close the lid, and have taught my other giant being, my husband, to do so too. But the Water Buffalo has learned how to open the lid, drink, and put the lid down. I kid you not. As soon as I video it, it will be on YouTube.
So I figured that I should be a good role model, and therefore have tried to stop lusting after my friends food, wine and red and white Corvette. I have tried to be happy and content with exactly what I have. I’m hoping that by living by example, the Water Buffalo will stop draining the toilets dry.
For instance when I go to a restaurant, I usually order last, because undoubtedly I will change my mind each time I hear my friends order something different. I even compare our plates of food, wondering to myself if I should have ordered what they had.
Funny thing though - it’s not just humans that are that way. Take my dogs. I learn a lot about people by watching them – seriously.
I have two of them: a 165 pound Newfoundland that is actually a Water Buffalo in dogs clothing, and a 20 pound Westie wanna be. They have their own bowls and eat their breakfast and dinner at the same time, same place, every day. They eat the same exact food. Nothing is magical about the other bowl. It looks the same and undoubtedly tastes the same. But they insist on eating each others food from each others bowl.
Then there’s the water. Our Newfie is a water hog, and he has bowls of water all over the house – heaven forbid he would go about five minutes without water. But he prefers to drink out of the toilet. I guess the water tastes better for some reason. It doesn’t matter that he has clean, fresh water around every corner – it’s the toilet water he wants. I have trained him, more or less, to not drink out of the toilet. He can get rather sloppy, if you get my drift. But even though he knows he’s not supposed to do it, and he knows there is a bowl of fresh water 5 feet away, he sneaks (as much as a 165 pound bull can sneak) into the bathroom and drinks the bowl dry. He has gotten rather bold about it, too. I close the lid, and have taught my other giant being, my husband, to do so too. But the Water Buffalo has learned how to open the lid, drink, and put the lid down. I kid you not. As soon as I video it, it will be on YouTube.
So I figured that I should be a good role model, and therefore have tried to stop lusting after my friends food, wine and red and white Corvette. I have tried to be happy and content with exactly what I have. I’m hoping that by living by example, the Water Buffalo will stop draining the toilets dry.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Politically Correct Dog Walk
So I finally convinced my husband to start exercising. Well, not as in weight lifting and sweating; but a compromise - he’s now taking walks with me.
We have two dogs, so of course a walk should be a no-brainer. Our Newfoundland, Boo, is becoming an old man with hip problems (I told my husband to start moving his body or he’d shortly become much like our old dog) and can’t really take walks anymore. I feel sorry for the old boy; his body is screaming “no”, and his mind is still in puppy hood and is dying to get outside and run – not unlike me and my 50 year old body that still thinks it can fit into jeans from the teenage department. There are a lot of times when the body and mind just don’t match up.
Getting ready for a walk is kind of an ordeal. We have to find the leash for our 2 year old terrier, Charlie, we have to hide Boo’s eyes so he can’t see us taking Charlie without him, we have to change into our sweats and shoes and wear our sunglasses, and we have to make sure we take a plastic bag in case Charlie needs to do his business. I’d say actually we’ve come a long way, because before when I wanted to walk, my husband would wear his jeans, boat shoes, a nice shirt and carry either a glass of wine or a cup of coffee in one hand (depending on the time of day), and his cell phone in the other. Now he finally understands the words “sweat” and “aerobic exercise” – not to mention “quality spousal time”.
The only problem is, I am so grateful that he is finally accompanying us on these walks that I don’t make him “do” anything. I walk the dog and I carry the doggy bag. I correct the dog when he wants to pull my arm out of the socket because he sees a squirrel or, heaven forbid, a cat. I am the one training him to “heal” and “sit” and walk nice on the leash (Charlie, not my husband).
And guess what other job I get to do? I get to pick up any doggie presents Charlie leaves behind. And I get to hold the full bag for the entire walk. What is wrong with this picture? I know that I am grateful that my husband is coming with us, and that he is getting his cardio-vascular workout. And that I have a captive audience to complain to – I mean talk to – for at least a half hour of the day. But really, he needs to start holding his own. Or, to be more specific, he needs to start doing his duty, and holding the doody bag. And Charlie has it down to a science. He waits until we are several blocks away from home to let nature call…too far to turn around and throw the bag away. So it has to be carried for the next half hour. And I’m not sure about your neighborhood, but in our neighborhood, the doggie bag is almost a status symbol. If you are seen walking your dog without a bag, you may as well consider yourself uninvited to the block party. It is considered totally un-cool. I have decided, however, since my husband won’t have a leash or glass of wine or coffee or cell phone in his hand to distract him, he will be the one you will see him coming a block away with his status symbol, florescent blue doggie bag.
What more could I want? I finally have my hearts desire: A healthy, attentive, poop carrying husband. Sometimes it’s just the simple things.
We have two dogs, so of course a walk should be a no-brainer. Our Newfoundland, Boo, is becoming an old man with hip problems (I told my husband to start moving his body or he’d shortly become much like our old dog) and can’t really take walks anymore. I feel sorry for the old boy; his body is screaming “no”, and his mind is still in puppy hood and is dying to get outside and run – not unlike me and my 50 year old body that still thinks it can fit into jeans from the teenage department. There are a lot of times when the body and mind just don’t match up.
Getting ready for a walk is kind of an ordeal. We have to find the leash for our 2 year old terrier, Charlie, we have to hide Boo’s eyes so he can’t see us taking Charlie without him, we have to change into our sweats and shoes and wear our sunglasses, and we have to make sure we take a plastic bag in case Charlie needs to do his business. I’d say actually we’ve come a long way, because before when I wanted to walk, my husband would wear his jeans, boat shoes, a nice shirt and carry either a glass of wine or a cup of coffee in one hand (depending on the time of day), and his cell phone in the other. Now he finally understands the words “sweat” and “aerobic exercise” – not to mention “quality spousal time”.
The only problem is, I am so grateful that he is finally accompanying us on these walks that I don’t make him “do” anything. I walk the dog and I carry the doggy bag. I correct the dog when he wants to pull my arm out of the socket because he sees a squirrel or, heaven forbid, a cat. I am the one training him to “heal” and “sit” and walk nice on the leash (Charlie, not my husband).
And guess what other job I get to do? I get to pick up any doggie presents Charlie leaves behind. And I get to hold the full bag for the entire walk. What is wrong with this picture? I know that I am grateful that my husband is coming with us, and that he is getting his cardio-vascular workout. And that I have a captive audience to complain to – I mean talk to – for at least a half hour of the day. But really, he needs to start holding his own. Or, to be more specific, he needs to start doing his duty, and holding the doody bag. And Charlie has it down to a science. He waits until we are several blocks away from home to let nature call…too far to turn around and throw the bag away. So it has to be carried for the next half hour. And I’m not sure about your neighborhood, but in our neighborhood, the doggie bag is almost a status symbol. If you are seen walking your dog without a bag, you may as well consider yourself uninvited to the block party. It is considered totally un-cool. I have decided, however, since my husband won’t have a leash or glass of wine or coffee or cell phone in his hand to distract him, he will be the one you will see him coming a block away with his status symbol, florescent blue doggie bag.
What more could I want? I finally have my hearts desire: A healthy, attentive, poop carrying husband. Sometimes it’s just the simple things.
The Saga of the Garage Sale - Final Chapter
I watched them load it into the truck…a single tear running down my cheek. That dining room hutch had survived my first marriage, a gift from my parents. And now it was gone, in a single “garage sale moment”.
And so the saga continued. After weeks of preparation and purging, the big day had finally arrived. THE sale. I found out the serious garage-sale-partakers don’t take a late start very lightly.
I was woken up around 8am by a series of horn honks and a few shouts. I pushed my husband hoping he’d take the first duty but to no avail. So I bounded out of bed – if one can bound in slow motion – threw on my sweats, put my hair in a pony tail and ran – well, ok, walked, to the garage. As I watched garage door slowly rise, it revealed several pairs of shoes that I knew I wasn’t selling. The shoes ended up being attached to the feet of some very impatient people – most of them donning fanny packs and knee socks.
I mumbled something incoherent, since I still had not had my coffee, and moved out of the way as they pushed their way into the garage, pawing at my stuff. Now I know why they call it a “rummage” sale. I tried not to take it personally as they passed over table after table of treasures; treasures that had been lovingly piled onto a display that read “Everything on this Table 25¢”. I also had one for 50¢, $1.00 and even 10¢. Piles and piles of junk adorned my garage.
Let me tell you something interesting about human nature. Nothing on the 10¢ table sold. Until I moved it to the 50¢ table…and all of a sudden it had value. I spent all day moving stuff from table to table. It was fun to play with the minds of the repeat visitors. I had one guy look at some stuff, put it down, and walk to his truck. When he glanced back and saw someone else pick up the same stuff, he ran back and grabbed it from their hands yelling it was already sold.
When my husband finally did join me, he almost tripped on the pile of stuff I had laid aside on the steps down to the garage.
“What’s all this stuff?” he said. “Why isn’t it on one of the tables?” I sheepishly told him it was stuff that I couldn’t bear to part with. It was a hard day. There was one incident where I almost tore a pair of little baby shoes out of a woman’s hand. But I swallowed hard and looked the other way as she handed me her change. They were my granddaughters. I told her to give them a good home. That’s also what I told the parents that bought my hutch. They said it was for their young daughter – and they knew she’d love it. I told her that I was glad it was going somewhere nice…I almost felt like we were completing a transaction for an adoption.
But alas, the sale is over, my garage is clean again, and the rest of the stuff will be donated to the Goodwill. And I will use my newfound money to buy more stuff. And so the cycle continues.
And so the saga continued. After weeks of preparation and purging, the big day had finally arrived. THE sale. I found out the serious garage-sale-partakers don’t take a late start very lightly.
I was woken up around 8am by a series of horn honks and a few shouts. I pushed my husband hoping he’d take the first duty but to no avail. So I bounded out of bed – if one can bound in slow motion – threw on my sweats, put my hair in a pony tail and ran – well, ok, walked, to the garage. As I watched garage door slowly rise, it revealed several pairs of shoes that I knew I wasn’t selling. The shoes ended up being attached to the feet of some very impatient people – most of them donning fanny packs and knee socks.
I mumbled something incoherent, since I still had not had my coffee, and moved out of the way as they pushed their way into the garage, pawing at my stuff. Now I know why they call it a “rummage” sale. I tried not to take it personally as they passed over table after table of treasures; treasures that had been lovingly piled onto a display that read “Everything on this Table 25¢”. I also had one for 50¢, $1.00 and even 10¢. Piles and piles of junk adorned my garage.
Let me tell you something interesting about human nature. Nothing on the 10¢ table sold. Until I moved it to the 50¢ table…and all of a sudden it had value. I spent all day moving stuff from table to table. It was fun to play with the minds of the repeat visitors. I had one guy look at some stuff, put it down, and walk to his truck. When he glanced back and saw someone else pick up the same stuff, he ran back and grabbed it from their hands yelling it was already sold.
When my husband finally did join me, he almost tripped on the pile of stuff I had laid aside on the steps down to the garage.
“What’s all this stuff?” he said. “Why isn’t it on one of the tables?” I sheepishly told him it was stuff that I couldn’t bear to part with. It was a hard day. There was one incident where I almost tore a pair of little baby shoes out of a woman’s hand. But I swallowed hard and looked the other way as she handed me her change. They were my granddaughters. I told her to give them a good home. That’s also what I told the parents that bought my hutch. They said it was for their young daughter – and they knew she’d love it. I told her that I was glad it was going somewhere nice…I almost felt like we were completing a transaction for an adoption.
But alas, the sale is over, my garage is clean again, and the rest of the stuff will be donated to the Goodwill. And I will use my newfound money to buy more stuff. And so the cycle continues.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Fighting the War in My Rack
They were pink camouflage, and the words on the front said “Fighting the War in My Rack”. And it had a little pink ribbon in the corner.
We were at a party for a friend. She needed us to rally and so, we all did. In pink t-shirts. Even our guys.
She found out through a routine mammogram that she had to have a mastectomy – possibly a double. And that it was going to happen quickly. She was overwhelmed by it all and was feeling very vulnerable; especially since she found out she had cancer while her husband was out of town.
So we all came, brought food and wine and hugs, and showed her how much we care – and told her that we will do whatever it takes to help her, her husband and her two young kids get through it.
“My doctor says one in eight women get it”, she said as she looked around the table. “You can all thank me; I am ‘the one’ in this group of eight.” Even in the gray light of cancer, she still was a beacon of brightness. Her humor was still intact, her smile showing through her tears.
It’s the fear of the unknown that is getting her down. It is the not knowing how she will look, how she will feel, how she will handle this big change in her life.
Knowing her as I do, I can pretty much guarantee that in a few months, when it’s all finished and she is mending and her rack is new and improved, she will have realized that she needn’t have been so fearful. But for now, fear is what is over-riding the calm.
On the way home, my husband was very silent. He finally reached over and patted my knee and said, “This was quite a learning experience for all of us men. We really didn’t realize how much breast cancer can challenge your femininity. And no matter what, if we tell you it doesn’t matter to us – I guess what we do have to realize is that is does matter to you – to a woman.” He was silent again but then said, “Just do me a favor. Remember that your rack is not why I love you. It does not make the woman that you are.”
He’s quite amazing my husband. And I hope that someday very soon, our friend will discover that we love her no matter what size or shape she is. It’s hard for us to remember that, isn’t it? It’s hard to keep in mind that no matter what hair color, clothing size, age, shape, weight or bra size we are, it’s the beauty inside that truly defines us.
In the meantime, we will all keep Fighting the War on My Rack, and show her that we love her through good times and through bad – and know that thankfully this war – at least for her – will soon be won.
We were at a party for a friend. She needed us to rally and so, we all did. In pink t-shirts. Even our guys.
She found out through a routine mammogram that she had to have a mastectomy – possibly a double. And that it was going to happen quickly. She was overwhelmed by it all and was feeling very vulnerable; especially since she found out she had cancer while her husband was out of town.
So we all came, brought food and wine and hugs, and showed her how much we care – and told her that we will do whatever it takes to help her, her husband and her two young kids get through it.
“My doctor says one in eight women get it”, she said as she looked around the table. “You can all thank me; I am ‘the one’ in this group of eight.” Even in the gray light of cancer, she still was a beacon of brightness. Her humor was still intact, her smile showing through her tears.
It’s the fear of the unknown that is getting her down. It is the not knowing how she will look, how she will feel, how she will handle this big change in her life.
Knowing her as I do, I can pretty much guarantee that in a few months, when it’s all finished and she is mending and her rack is new and improved, she will have realized that she needn’t have been so fearful. But for now, fear is what is over-riding the calm.
On the way home, my husband was very silent. He finally reached over and patted my knee and said, “This was quite a learning experience for all of us men. We really didn’t realize how much breast cancer can challenge your femininity. And no matter what, if we tell you it doesn’t matter to us – I guess what we do have to realize is that is does matter to you – to a woman.” He was silent again but then said, “Just do me a favor. Remember that your rack is not why I love you. It does not make the woman that you are.”
He’s quite amazing my husband. And I hope that someday very soon, our friend will discover that we love her no matter what size or shape she is. It’s hard for us to remember that, isn’t it? It’s hard to keep in mind that no matter what hair color, clothing size, age, shape, weight or bra size we are, it’s the beauty inside that truly defines us.
In the meantime, we will all keep Fighting the War on My Rack, and show her that we love her through good times and through bad – and know that thankfully this war – at least for her – will soon be won.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The Annual Family Vacation
The Annual Family Vacation
I was in the store the other day listening to a child complain to his parents and it reminded me that it’s that wonderful time of year where dads start grinding their teeth and moms develop facial ticks. It’s why we work 50 weeks a year. It’s the chance we have to bond and renew our friendships with the kids. It’s the annual family vacation. When the kids were little, vacations were fun. Oh sure, they complained and whined while driving. They fought and kicked the back of the seat. But they WANTED to go. They wanted to be in the car, traveling to an exciting destination. They wanted to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the road and play license plates tag. It was truly an adventure.
Then they got to be in their mid-teens. And their tastes started to change. They refused to eat peanut butter and jelly, and couldn’t play the games because their iPods were turned up too loud. The trip to get there was usually uneventful, but then again, they usually slept the whole way. Once we were there they actually enjoyed it. And since they didn’t know anyone, they could show their interest and not pretend they didn’t know us. Then came the latter teen years. Does any of this sound familiar? “Vacation? With my PARENTS? Like, in the same car? What, leave my girlfriend and all the guys? Are you kidding? Look, I’ll stay with my buddy, his parents won’t mind. PULEEEEZ don’t make me go with you. How can you do this to me – are you trying to ruin my life? Let me stay home alone. I PROMISE I will take care of the house, feed the cat and NO parties – oh, absolutely not. What? I’m shocked – you don’t trust me? I’m almost 18. Well, almost. But I can do this. LET me do this. Oh, fine. I’ll go pack. But I’m not happy about this. I won’t be any fun, I promise. You’ll wish you left me home.” The last time I heard that speech, my son had an absolute blast, and wanted to go back again. I suppose vacations are kind of like childbirth. You forget how painful they are, and so you want to do it again. At least in childbirth you get drugs.
Now, my kids are actually adults. They are older and have jobs and they WANT me to pay for their vacation. Funny though – they don’t mention that they want me to go with them. Except now, my vacations are taken kid-free. By choice. And they really DO stay home and watch the cat. The main difference is we threaten them with their life. No friends. Stay out of the basement (meaning bar…), lock the door. Take phone messages. Water the plants. Geez, it may just be easier to take them with me. It’ll be like old times. Only this time, I plan to have an extra glass of wine and my own iPod. I’ll just smile and nod and soak up the sun. Anyway, aren’t vacations supposed to be fun? We’ll do whatever it takes.
So, wherever you plan on taking your family truckster this spring break or summer, happy trails to you. And don’t forget the Advil.
I was in the store the other day listening to a child complain to his parents and it reminded me that it’s that wonderful time of year where dads start grinding their teeth and moms develop facial ticks. It’s why we work 50 weeks a year. It’s the chance we have to bond and renew our friendships with the kids. It’s the annual family vacation. When the kids were little, vacations were fun. Oh sure, they complained and whined while driving. They fought and kicked the back of the seat. But they WANTED to go. They wanted to be in the car, traveling to an exciting destination. They wanted to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the road and play license plates tag. It was truly an adventure.
Then they got to be in their mid-teens. And their tastes started to change. They refused to eat peanut butter and jelly, and couldn’t play the games because their iPods were turned up too loud. The trip to get there was usually uneventful, but then again, they usually slept the whole way. Once we were there they actually enjoyed it. And since they didn’t know anyone, they could show their interest and not pretend they didn’t know us. Then came the latter teen years. Does any of this sound familiar? “Vacation? With my PARENTS? Like, in the same car? What, leave my girlfriend and all the guys? Are you kidding? Look, I’ll stay with my buddy, his parents won’t mind. PULEEEEZ don’t make me go with you. How can you do this to me – are you trying to ruin my life? Let me stay home alone. I PROMISE I will take care of the house, feed the cat and NO parties – oh, absolutely not. What? I’m shocked – you don’t trust me? I’m almost 18. Well, almost. But I can do this. LET me do this. Oh, fine. I’ll go pack. But I’m not happy about this. I won’t be any fun, I promise. You’ll wish you left me home.” The last time I heard that speech, my son had an absolute blast, and wanted to go back again. I suppose vacations are kind of like childbirth. You forget how painful they are, and so you want to do it again. At least in childbirth you get drugs.
Now, my kids are actually adults. They are older and have jobs and they WANT me to pay for their vacation. Funny though – they don’t mention that they want me to go with them. Except now, my vacations are taken kid-free. By choice. And they really DO stay home and watch the cat. The main difference is we threaten them with their life. No friends. Stay out of the basement (meaning bar…), lock the door. Take phone messages. Water the plants. Geez, it may just be easier to take them with me. It’ll be like old times. Only this time, I plan to have an extra glass of wine and my own iPod. I’ll just smile and nod and soak up the sun. Anyway, aren’t vacations supposed to be fun? We’ll do whatever it takes.
So, wherever you plan on taking your family truckster this spring break or summer, happy trails to you. And don’t forget the Advil.
The Sisterhood of the "Designer Jeans that Fit"
I am still on my quest, and I really thought I was getting somewhere. I cleaned out closets, drawers, garage and more. I am living the experience that “less is more”. I am realizing that I am not the slave of my stuff. I am exfoliating the unwanted things right out of my life. My new mantra is: my stuff does not define me. Pillows, vases and clothes do not make the woman. I strive for freedom from clutter and chaos.
So then why am I so darned tickled to find a pair of extremely expensive designer jeans for a steal at a thrift store? (Don’t ask why I was there, since I did announce I am giving up thrift store shopping….).
I really didn’t believe it. I mean, they are just jeans, right? Who cares if “all” the stars are wearing them, that they are “all” the rage, and that the price tag on a pair of new ones is upwards of a car payment?
I mean I wasn’t looking for them. They found me, I swear. I was innocently walking down the aisle when I heard a soft whisper: “You need me.” What? “I want to own you. I will make you feel amazing.” Of course, I looked around hoping to find George Clooney, Hugh Jackman or Eric Bana (google him, trust me), saying those compelling words. But no, it was a pair of equally gorgeous jeans…in my size.
Now, as far as “sizes” go, we all know that each designer is different, and the “true” designers seem to fit smaller than most. So I was a little wary about buying these jeans, since the thrift store didn’t have dressing rooms. But hey, they were calling for me! They wanted to own me! These jeans would change my life, no doubt about it. And they were less than two morning lattés! I mean I would still be the same down to earth, stuff doesn’t matter Karen. But a newer better version because I had these jeans. I tried to walk past once, but they beckoned me back. They were serious. They wanted to go home with me. Ah, they were just jeans, not Hugh. But I did it. I bought them and brought them home.
I am wearing them right now. I may never take them off. Because these very expensive designer jeans that fit smaller and would normally cost the same as a mortgage fit me! And I love them as much as they love me. I’m still on the less is more mode. I mean I may just give away something else and keep the jeans. Like my car.
I never really got it. I didn’t understand the draw of very expensive jeans. Until now. It’s not a pair of jeans – it’s a feeling. It’s an “aha” moment. It’s a new book. The Sisterhood of the Designer Pants that Fit. That’s my next novel. Even though I didn’t get a date with George or Eric (and I really believe that my husband would have totally been cool with it), I got the jeans. And as soon as he sees me in them, I think my husband will be cool with the fact that I added to my wardrobe and didn’t give away something. And tomorrow, no more stuff. I promise.
So then why am I so darned tickled to find a pair of extremely expensive designer jeans for a steal at a thrift store? (Don’t ask why I was there, since I did announce I am giving up thrift store shopping….).
I really didn’t believe it. I mean, they are just jeans, right? Who cares if “all” the stars are wearing them, that they are “all” the rage, and that the price tag on a pair of new ones is upwards of a car payment?
I mean I wasn’t looking for them. They found me, I swear. I was innocently walking down the aisle when I heard a soft whisper: “You need me.” What? “I want to own you. I will make you feel amazing.” Of course, I looked around hoping to find George Clooney, Hugh Jackman or Eric Bana (google him, trust me), saying those compelling words. But no, it was a pair of equally gorgeous jeans…in my size.
Now, as far as “sizes” go, we all know that each designer is different, and the “true” designers seem to fit smaller than most. So I was a little wary about buying these jeans, since the thrift store didn’t have dressing rooms. But hey, they were calling for me! They wanted to own me! These jeans would change my life, no doubt about it. And they were less than two morning lattés! I mean I would still be the same down to earth, stuff doesn’t matter Karen. But a newer better version because I had these jeans. I tried to walk past once, but they beckoned me back. They were serious. They wanted to go home with me. Ah, they were just jeans, not Hugh. But I did it. I bought them and brought them home.
I am wearing them right now. I may never take them off. Because these very expensive designer jeans that fit smaller and would normally cost the same as a mortgage fit me! And I love them as much as they love me. I’m still on the less is more mode. I mean I may just give away something else and keep the jeans. Like my car.
I never really got it. I didn’t understand the draw of very expensive jeans. Until now. It’s not a pair of jeans – it’s a feeling. It’s an “aha” moment. It’s a new book. The Sisterhood of the Designer Pants that Fit. That’s my next novel. Even though I didn’t get a date with George or Eric (and I really believe that my husband would have totally been cool with it), I got the jeans. And as soon as he sees me in them, I think my husband will be cool with the fact that I added to my wardrobe and didn’t give away something. And tomorrow, no more stuff. I promise.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Ok, so I consider myself pretty technologically savvy. I can Twitter, Tweet, email, text and I even have my own blog. I just joined the 12-step program for those that Facebook too often.
So why then, is my so-called “smart phone” making me feel so very stupid?
I mean if you watch the commercials, this thing has an application for just about everything but washing your car – and you can almost bet those techies are working on that as we speak. I really like all the things that they say it can do. But the only problem is: I can’t do them!
My husband says it’s operator error. He also said I have to actually research it online AND read the directions. What? I mean c’mon. Why can’t I just pick it up and push a few buttons and it will do what I want it to do. Like, for example, make a phone call.
Now, in my household, we are having a “phone war”. He has an iPhone. I swear if there was a bumper sticker that said “Don’t Hate me Just Because I have an iPhone” he would get it. I mean this is the man that had a “Starfleet Command” bumper sticker on his vehicle when I first met him. I’ve since learned to not judge a person by their bumper sticker, but that’s another story.
Anyway, I have the new DROID. Yes, it is supposed to be in all caps. I mean it is, after all, a DROID. It is new, hip, cool, Google-powered and is working on that carwash app. But here is the problem. I can’t figure out how to use the dang thing! There is actually an online community called “Fan-Droid” (yes, I am serious) that I plan on researching. In my spare time. It will show me how to use those all important apps like 1001 Cocktails, Calorie Counter and Cheap Gas. It will teach me how to apply the new girly “skin” I downloaded but don’t know how to access. It will allow me to text in one window, place a call in another and Google the definition for application in another. I mean with a phone like this, you know my husband has to be totally envious.
My husband is truly a techie “savant” and I know darned well that he can spend 20 minutes with my phone, have it all figured out and then teach me. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem. But I guess I took the phone-wars thing a little too seriously, because when I ask him a question, he will text the answer to my DROID and then watch with laughter as I use every four letter word I know trying to figure out the dang thing. I don’t mean to sound ancient, but at times I do crave for the not so distant past when my phone, of all things, wasn’t smarter than me. Even though I am perturbed at Mr. iPhone User, it’s time for me to go make him dinner. There’s a great new Recipe app on my phone…now if I can just figure out how to open it. Or maybe I will just use the actual phone to call for pizza. Does anyone have a regular phone I can borrow?
So why then, is my so-called “smart phone” making me feel so very stupid?
I mean if you watch the commercials, this thing has an application for just about everything but washing your car – and you can almost bet those techies are working on that as we speak. I really like all the things that they say it can do. But the only problem is: I can’t do them!
My husband says it’s operator error. He also said I have to actually research it online AND read the directions. What? I mean c’mon. Why can’t I just pick it up and push a few buttons and it will do what I want it to do. Like, for example, make a phone call.
Now, in my household, we are having a “phone war”. He has an iPhone. I swear if there was a bumper sticker that said “Don’t Hate me Just Because I have an iPhone” he would get it. I mean this is the man that had a “Starfleet Command” bumper sticker on his vehicle when I first met him. I’ve since learned to not judge a person by their bumper sticker, but that’s another story.
Anyway, I have the new DROID. Yes, it is supposed to be in all caps. I mean it is, after all, a DROID. It is new, hip, cool, Google-powered and is working on that carwash app. But here is the problem. I can’t figure out how to use the dang thing! There is actually an online community called “Fan-Droid” (yes, I am serious) that I plan on researching. In my spare time. It will show me how to use those all important apps like 1001 Cocktails, Calorie Counter and Cheap Gas. It will teach me how to apply the new girly “skin” I downloaded but don’t know how to access. It will allow me to text in one window, place a call in another and Google the definition for application in another. I mean with a phone like this, you know my husband has to be totally envious.
My husband is truly a techie “savant” and I know darned well that he can spend 20 minutes with my phone, have it all figured out and then teach me. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem. But I guess I took the phone-wars thing a little too seriously, because when I ask him a question, he will text the answer to my DROID and then watch with laughter as I use every four letter word I know trying to figure out the dang thing. I don’t mean to sound ancient, but at times I do crave for the not so distant past when my phone, of all things, wasn’t smarter than me. Even though I am perturbed at Mr. iPhone User, it’s time for me to go make him dinner. There’s a great new Recipe app on my phone…now if I can just figure out how to open it. Or maybe I will just use the actual phone to call for pizza. Does anyone have a regular phone I can borrow?
Monday, March 29, 2010
Red Wine Walking
Adjective: graceful greys-ful
1. Characterized by beauty of movement, style, form, or execution Be like a bull in a china shop:
1. to often drop or break things because you move awkwardly or roughly.
2. me
Yes, I am a Taurus. And yes, I am left-handed. Other than that I have no rhyme or reason of why I have the nickname “Red Wine Walking.”
I don’t go around spilling a lot of things…well, not all the time. I don’t always bump into things – except a few times a day…which explains the unusual bruises that appear on my shins. And I am not accident prone. Anymore. But for some unknown reason, I spill red wine. A lot. And not because I’ve had too much of it. I don’t spill water or juice or diet Coke or even white wine. Just red wine.
I have a group of friends that I often travel with. One of the things we have in common is we all do like to drink wine. Red wine. On a trip to Atlanta a few years back, my friends (who thankfully have a great sense of humor) decided to surprise me. I walked out of the room, and when I returned, they had all donned rain ponchos (hood and all) and were holding up signs that read “NO Red Wine Walking”.
Ha. Like I said, they have a good sense of humor most of the time. Well, this really was a surprise and caught me so off guard I fell on the floor laughing so hard I almost spilled my red wine.
I was at an art gallery last week with all my buddies, and there were appetizers and – ah – red wine. I was innocently sitting in a chair, with my wine on a table next to me, and the table tipped over…splattering red wine all over my friends freshly dry-cleaned pants. Yup. The entire gallery now knows my nickname.
I have stock in enzyme, Shout, Oxi-Clean, you name it. I have gotten quite proficient in getting red wine stains out of the carpet, clothing, and dogs (don’t ask…).
I have decided to wear my nickname as a badge of honor. I have framed my “Red Wine Walking” signs and put them in the basement. By the bar. I try to wear red or other dark colors when I know I will be drinking wine. I try to adhere to the “six foot” rule my friends have now given me whenever I have a glass of wine in my hand. Most of my friends are accommodating. Others will only serve Chardonnay if they know I’m coming over. Still others just wear red along with me, and bravely stand next to me at cocktail parties, concerts and events. I guess if I have to be dubbed a nickname, it may as well be something I enjoy. I mean at least I’m “Pickled Beets Walking” or “Lima Beans Walking.” Now if I can just figure out how not to break my good wine glasses and cut myself on the corkscrew, I’ll be all set.
1. Characterized by beauty of movement, style, form, or execution Be like a bull in a china shop:
1. to often drop or break things because you move awkwardly or roughly.
2. me
Yes, I am a Taurus. And yes, I am left-handed. Other than that I have no rhyme or reason of why I have the nickname “Red Wine Walking.”
I don’t go around spilling a lot of things…well, not all the time. I don’t always bump into things – except a few times a day…which explains the unusual bruises that appear on my shins. And I am not accident prone. Anymore. But for some unknown reason, I spill red wine. A lot. And not because I’ve had too much of it. I don’t spill water or juice or diet Coke or even white wine. Just red wine.
I have a group of friends that I often travel with. One of the things we have in common is we all do like to drink wine. Red wine. On a trip to Atlanta a few years back, my friends (who thankfully have a great sense of humor) decided to surprise me. I walked out of the room, and when I returned, they had all donned rain ponchos (hood and all) and were holding up signs that read “NO Red Wine Walking”.
Ha. Like I said, they have a good sense of humor most of the time. Well, this really was a surprise and caught me so off guard I fell on the floor laughing so hard I almost spilled my red wine.
I was at an art gallery last week with all my buddies, and there were appetizers and – ah – red wine. I was innocently sitting in a chair, with my wine on a table next to me, and the table tipped over…splattering red wine all over my friends freshly dry-cleaned pants. Yup. The entire gallery now knows my nickname.
I have stock in enzyme, Shout, Oxi-Clean, you name it. I have gotten quite proficient in getting red wine stains out of the carpet, clothing, and dogs (don’t ask…).
I have decided to wear my nickname as a badge of honor. I have framed my “Red Wine Walking” signs and put them in the basement. By the bar. I try to wear red or other dark colors when I know I will be drinking wine. I try to adhere to the “six foot” rule my friends have now given me whenever I have a glass of wine in my hand. Most of my friends are accommodating. Others will only serve Chardonnay if they know I’m coming over. Still others just wear red along with me, and bravely stand next to me at cocktail parties, concerts and events. I guess if I have to be dubbed a nickname, it may as well be something I enjoy. I mean at least I’m “Pickled Beets Walking” or “Lima Beans Walking.” Now if I can just figure out how not to break my good wine glasses and cut myself on the corkscrew, I’ll be all set.
A 4th Grader at Disney World
Winter is a tough time in the Miami Valley. It’s cold and depressing and seemingly endless. So, while all my friends and family shoveled snow from their driveways, my husband and I escaped – and went to Disney World!
It was my first visit and I was so excited! I called my older sister and told her about my plans. “You sound like a 4th grader!” she said with sarcasm. I took that as envy as I packed my mouse ears and prepared for our journey. Shoving shorts and t-shirts and flip flops into my suitcase was a pleasure – and I breezed past my winter coat hanging on the coat rack without a backward glance. I was going to Orlando!
During our first morning at Disney we endured a frost warning. The oranges weren’t the only ones freezing their little skins off. But as I plied myself with hot chocolate and coffee, I kept repeating, “A cold day in Florida is still warmer than a cold day in Dayton”.
It’s hard to be grumpy in the Magic Kingdom, after all. We could all take “happy lessons” from the cast and crew. Add to that a cheerleading convention, and well, we were stuck with smiling, cheery people for two whole days. I couldn’t be in a bad mood if I wanted to. While waiting in line for Thunder Mountain we were serenaded by the chant of “E-A-G-L-E-S – Eagles are the very best!” The whole time. Did I mention those lines can be lengthy?
I called my son after I got off Space Mountain. “It was awesome!” I exclaimed. “Mom, you sound like you’re in 4th grade”, he said. Hmmm, is there a theme here? It’s hard not to feel like a kid at the Magic Kingdom. Those of you that have been there know what I mean. Each place we went was better than the last. We ate our way through all of the theme parks. I drank real Coke, not diet. I screamed and laughed and smiled so long my mouth stared hurting. Being in 4th grade is a tough job.
.
We ended our journey of rides on the Rock and Roll Roller Coaster at Disney Hollywood. It’s a G-force coaster. Zero to 60 in something like 3.2 seconds. Luckily Disney has restrooms on every corner. We stayed until the very last possible minute, enjoying the show Phantasmic as our grand finale. By that time, I was cold, tired and had too much sugar. As my husband dragged me to the car, he mumbled something like “You are just like a 4th grader but heavier” – I was too tired to hear exactly what he said, and that’s probably a good thing.
As I write this we are on our long trek back home to Dayton. March back home may be snowy and yucky, but in my opinion it’s still the “Happiest place on Earth” – and I mean that from the bottom of my 4th grade heart.
12 Feet
Guess what it takes to make me feel happy, secure and loved? 12 feet. Yup – 12. And these aren’t just any ordinary feet. Nor are they a form of measurement. These are furry feet with toenails that click on the wooden floor. These are feet that get cold in the snow and haul in leaves after they’ve walked outside in the fall. They are feet that are lovingly put in my hand when I use the command “shake” – at the hope of a yummy treat.
Attached to these 12 feet are 3 terrific tails. These tails have many uses. They are used as warning signals to tell me that they have to go outside to do their business. They are weapons that knock me in the face when I am sitting on the floor not paying attention. They are bulldozers that knock over glasses of wine that are sitting on the coffee table. When they swing so fast that their whole body shakes with joy and they are the happiest signal of love that I can think of.
Attached to the feet and the tail are fluffy ears and cold noses, soft brown eyes that can melt my heart when they look into my soul and long, wet tongues that offer up kisses or lick tears off my cheek.
Then there are the hearts. Their bodies may be small and furry but their hearts are as big as this world. They know nothing but love – and they seem anxious to give more than receive.
Their brains may not be as developed as humans, but in some ways they are wiser than we are. They don’t judge or make fun of anyone. They don’t speak badly of anyone. They are happy just being with us. It feels great to be so adored! They don’t expect much in return. They hope for food and water and a warm place to sleep. They crave love and affection and attention and a great scratch behind the ears.
They are more than dogs. They are feet warmers on cold nights. They are great vacuum cleaners. They also help save room in the garbage disposal, and can help pre-clean the dishes before they go in the dishwasher.
They are TV pillows, alarm clocks, company on walks, hikers, swimmers, great snugglers and awesome listeners. They are protectors and doorbells. They are non-judgmental, love my odd humor and listen to my stories without interrupting. They follow me to the kitchen, the bathroom, my office and the living room – and would follow me to the end of the earth if I asked them. They sleep in bed with us, and are great at just hanging out.
I accept them in good times and bad: for doggy mats and slobber, for dumped over garbage cans and dog hair in my cereal. For muddy footprints and clumps of black fur on the tan carpet, for stealing the covers and stealing the last cookie.
These are the best 12 feet of my life. And I love them all – inch by inch.
Attached to these 12 feet are 3 terrific tails. These tails have many uses. They are used as warning signals to tell me that they have to go outside to do their business. They are weapons that knock me in the face when I am sitting on the floor not paying attention. They are bulldozers that knock over glasses of wine that are sitting on the coffee table. When they swing so fast that their whole body shakes with joy and they are the happiest signal of love that I can think of.
Attached to the feet and the tail are fluffy ears and cold noses, soft brown eyes that can melt my heart when they look into my soul and long, wet tongues that offer up kisses or lick tears off my cheek.
Then there are the hearts. Their bodies may be small and furry but their hearts are as big as this world. They know nothing but love – and they seem anxious to give more than receive.
Their brains may not be as developed as humans, but in some ways they are wiser than we are. They don’t judge or make fun of anyone. They don’t speak badly of anyone. They are happy just being with us. It feels great to be so adored! They don’t expect much in return. They hope for food and water and a warm place to sleep. They crave love and affection and attention and a great scratch behind the ears.
They are more than dogs. They are feet warmers on cold nights. They are great vacuum cleaners. They also help save room in the garbage disposal, and can help pre-clean the dishes before they go in the dishwasher.
They are TV pillows, alarm clocks, company on walks, hikers, swimmers, great snugglers and awesome listeners. They are protectors and doorbells. They are non-judgmental, love my odd humor and listen to my stories without interrupting. They follow me to the kitchen, the bathroom, my office and the living room – and would follow me to the end of the earth if I asked them. They sleep in bed with us, and are great at just hanging out.
I accept them in good times and bad: for doggy mats and slobber, for dumped over garbage cans and dog hair in my cereal. For muddy footprints and clumps of black fur on the tan carpet, for stealing the covers and stealing the last cookie.
These are the best 12 feet of my life. And I love them all – inch by inch.
The Magic of the 5th Decade
So you’ve heard me talking about turning 50, and how it’s a magical number in my life. So much so, that I’d like to share with you the magic that has happened – just in the course of a few weeks! I decided that I deserved to give myself some presents – and so that is exactly what I did. Feel free to follow suit.
First off, I gave myself a mammography. I know, I know, don’t be jealous. Being pulled and prodded and moved into shapes that play-dough couldn’t achieve is my relaxing way of spending a weekday morning. I love the cute little hospital gowns that don’t close, and the way that my whole body just “wakes up” when my parts hit that cold, cold machine. It was a special time for me – and I had to share it with you.
Next up is in two days. You guessed it. My colonoscopy. I know, I live on the wild side. I’m kind of bummed about this one, because my close friend and I decided to do this rite of passage together. She bailed, and I am alone, choking down Dulcolax pills by the handful…and waiting for the inevitable. She is sitting in a wine bar drinking cabernet. Traitor.
This is a three day process, for those of you that are colon-challenged. It takes awhile to get it all out I guess. So tomorrow is the day I start the Miralax. Nasty, nasty stuff. They say it has no taste. Whoever “they” are – well, let’s just say that “they” are lying. Big time. You are supposed to mix it with clear liquid…so of course I’m thinking maybe Grey Goose or Chardonnay. No problem. Then I read the dang fine print. No alcohol. Kill joys.
I’ve obviously not had the actual test yet – though since my husband has to drive me home, I’m thinking/hoping/praying the drugs are fantastic and I won’t remember a dadgum thing about the procedure. The best thing about this? My husband can no longer tell me that I am “full of it” – ha!
What is next you may ask? Well, I’ll give you a tiny hint. Those of you 50 plus women that hold your breath anytime you sneeze or do jumping jacks will understand this one: no more leaky valves!
So in honor of my half-century mark, I’m getting all my plumbing fixed, my mammary parts examined and having a rotor router job done to complete the picture. I plan on living for another fifty years at least. I will be the one having wheel chair races and playing strip poker in my assisted living home. Can’t do that unless I keep all the parts tuned up, right? So as I hold my breath and drink the dreaded stuff, I say “cheers” to this magical, wonderful fifth decade of life. Can anyone point me to the nearest bathroom?
First off, I gave myself a mammography. I know, I know, don’t be jealous. Being pulled and prodded and moved into shapes that play-dough couldn’t achieve is my relaxing way of spending a weekday morning. I love the cute little hospital gowns that don’t close, and the way that my whole body just “wakes up” when my parts hit that cold, cold machine. It was a special time for me – and I had to share it with you.
Next up is in two days. You guessed it. My colonoscopy. I know, I live on the wild side. I’m kind of bummed about this one, because my close friend and I decided to do this rite of passage together. She bailed, and I am alone, choking down Dulcolax pills by the handful…and waiting for the inevitable. She is sitting in a wine bar drinking cabernet. Traitor.
This is a three day process, for those of you that are colon-challenged. It takes awhile to get it all out I guess. So tomorrow is the day I start the Miralax. Nasty, nasty stuff. They say it has no taste. Whoever “they” are – well, let’s just say that “they” are lying. Big time. You are supposed to mix it with clear liquid…so of course I’m thinking maybe Grey Goose or Chardonnay. No problem. Then I read the dang fine print. No alcohol. Kill joys.
I’ve obviously not had the actual test yet – though since my husband has to drive me home, I’m thinking/hoping/praying the drugs are fantastic and I won’t remember a dadgum thing about the procedure. The best thing about this? My husband can no longer tell me that I am “full of it” – ha!
What is next you may ask? Well, I’ll give you a tiny hint. Those of you 50 plus women that hold your breath anytime you sneeze or do jumping jacks will understand this one: no more leaky valves!
So in honor of my half-century mark, I’m getting all my plumbing fixed, my mammary parts examined and having a rotor router job done to complete the picture. I plan on living for another fifty years at least. I will be the one having wheel chair races and playing strip poker in my assisted living home. Can’t do that unless I keep all the parts tuned up, right? So as I hold my breath and drink the dreaded stuff, I say “cheers” to this magical, wonderful fifth decade of life. Can anyone point me to the nearest bathroom?
Sacred Tears
“There is sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love.” - Washington Irving
How many tears can one woman cry? The answer: Infinite.
The circle of life just keeps moving – and it keeps adding to my joys and sorrows of time. Saturday, July 11, 2009, I saw my first born son walk down the aisle and marry his soul mate and love of his life. The tears were of joy and gratitude – of feeling proud and maybe a little (ok – a lot) sentimental. I had the honor of dancing with him to “Family Traditions” (yes, we do have a sense of humor) and toasted his happiness and future. I gathered with friends and love ones, cherishing this special day forever, praying the happiness would never end. I’ve grown closer to my son, and I’ve gained the most precious daughter in the world. One of the best parts? Her mother and I are best friends – and now, family.
As I starting coming down from the high of the weekend, knowing the newlyweds were enjoying their honeymoon, the circle took a turn. I am now crying tears of extreme sorrow and sadness. Our dog, Scruffy, took her last breath at 4:30 pm on July 13, 2009. As her selfless and beautiful soul left her body, I had the honor of looking her into her eyes and telling her how much she was loved. My husband and I held her and cried – sharing our sorrow and grief. We’ve had her for 11 years. She was a “who knows what” kind of terrier mix that my son and I rescued from the pound. She loved her family as no other dog could. She was a 13 pound bundle of energy, life, love and zest. She was an “adventure dog” to say the least. She loved hiking and swimming and running and boating. She loved to travel and ride in the car. She loved chasing birds across meadows and beaches. And she loved us unconditionally every second of every day. As I write this I have a sense of emptiness. She always sat under my chair while I worked…she was my shadow – my buddy – my confidant.
The tears keep flowing…but for now I will not stop them. Everywhere I turn I see Scruffy. Everywhere I turn there are wedding pictures of my son. Around every corner is another reason to cry. The feelings bubble up when I least expect them to. Grief. Sorrow. Thankfulness. Loneliness. Sadness. Happiness. Joy. For now I invite all my tears to stay in my life, and appreciate their sacredness – and allow them to be my catharsis.
How many tears can one woman cry? As many as she needs to.
How many tears can one woman cry? The answer: Infinite.
The circle of life just keeps moving – and it keeps adding to my joys and sorrows of time. Saturday, July 11, 2009, I saw my first born son walk down the aisle and marry his soul mate and love of his life. The tears were of joy and gratitude – of feeling proud and maybe a little (ok – a lot) sentimental. I had the honor of dancing with him to “Family Traditions” (yes, we do have a sense of humor) and toasted his happiness and future. I gathered with friends and love ones, cherishing this special day forever, praying the happiness would never end. I’ve grown closer to my son, and I’ve gained the most precious daughter in the world. One of the best parts? Her mother and I are best friends – and now, family.
As I starting coming down from the high of the weekend, knowing the newlyweds were enjoying their honeymoon, the circle took a turn. I am now crying tears of extreme sorrow and sadness. Our dog, Scruffy, took her last breath at 4:30 pm on July 13, 2009. As her selfless and beautiful soul left her body, I had the honor of looking her into her eyes and telling her how much she was loved. My husband and I held her and cried – sharing our sorrow and grief. We’ve had her for 11 years. She was a “who knows what” kind of terrier mix that my son and I rescued from the pound. She loved her family as no other dog could. She was a 13 pound bundle of energy, life, love and zest. She was an “adventure dog” to say the least. She loved hiking and swimming and running and boating. She loved to travel and ride in the car. She loved chasing birds across meadows and beaches. And she loved us unconditionally every second of every day. As I write this I have a sense of emptiness. She always sat under my chair while I worked…she was my shadow – my buddy – my confidant.
The tears keep flowing…but for now I will not stop them. Everywhere I turn I see Scruffy. Everywhere I turn there are wedding pictures of my son. Around every corner is another reason to cry. The feelings bubble up when I least expect them to. Grief. Sorrow. Thankfulness. Loneliness. Sadness. Happiness. Joy. For now I invite all my tears to stay in my life, and appreciate their sacredness – and allow them to be my catharsis.
How many tears can one woman cry? As many as she needs to.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
One Man's Junk - The Garage Sale Saga
It’s that time of year, when the weather starts to warm up, the trees are finally filling in with green leaves and homeowners decide to clean out all of their stuff. It’s time for the annual Garage Sale.
Personally, I haven’t done a garage sale in well, never. Ok, maybe once a gazillion years ago when the items were baby clothes and pre-school toys. So this is a new thing for me. If you are wondering what prompted it, the reason is because we are moving. So actually, we will be selling the home in the garage sale. It won’t be on the 25¢ or even $5.00 table, however. You would actually still have to go through my realtor. But it’s still up for grabs.
In getting my house ready to show, my eyes were totally opened to how much STUFF we really have. It’s rather ridiculous and I’m almost embarrassed. Already, bags and bags of clothing have gone to the Goodwill, and some of the good stuff I took to a consignment store. But the rest of the stuff is going to be laid out in all its’ glory in a few weeks. The prices will be ridiculously low. So I hope my stuff doesn’t have feelings, because it won’t be sold for even a fraction of what it is worth.
Thank goodness for that saying “one mans junk is another mans treasure”. Because I’m looking at all this junk thinking “why in the world did I keep it?” If you are so inclined to come to my garage sale and support our moving box fund, you will find a lot of junk – I mean treasures – to choose from:
Old coffee mugs, dated champagne glasses from weddings we never attended, vases (they multiplied in my cupboards like bunnies), Christmas decorations, grandbaby stuff, blankets, throw pillows, plates, flower arrangements, candles, books – books – more books, toys, clothes, purses, board games, furniture, lawn stuff, cutsie knick-knacks, did I mention books?, tools, (Shhhh, my husband doesn’t know this part yet), boxes of electronic stuff (again, Shhhh), toy trains, stuffed animals, whew, need I say more?
This cleaning out stuff has been a real lesson; when you have a fairly large house, the object of the game is not to stuff every single corner full of stuff. Along with the useless stuff we are selling a wide array of what I still consider treasures - a dining room hutch, a pool table, (must move yourself), barware (from two bars), and an antique beer can collection that would make any redneck proud. But since we are downsizing, I decided to bite the bullet and just finally say goodbye to it all. So has my husband – he just doesn’t know it yet.
Ok, now I’ve gotta go find some more stuff to give away. My husband isn’t home right now, so I figure what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. If he wants to buy it back, he can pay me at the garage sale.
Now, in the meantime, does anyone have a very small house I can buy that has hardly any storage room for me to collect all new stuff?
Personally, I haven’t done a garage sale in well, never. Ok, maybe once a gazillion years ago when the items were baby clothes and pre-school toys. So this is a new thing for me. If you are wondering what prompted it, the reason is because we are moving. So actually, we will be selling the home in the garage sale. It won’t be on the 25¢ or even $5.00 table, however. You would actually still have to go through my realtor. But it’s still up for grabs.
In getting my house ready to show, my eyes were totally opened to how much STUFF we really have. It’s rather ridiculous and I’m almost embarrassed. Already, bags and bags of clothing have gone to the Goodwill, and some of the good stuff I took to a consignment store. But the rest of the stuff is going to be laid out in all its’ glory in a few weeks. The prices will be ridiculously low. So I hope my stuff doesn’t have feelings, because it won’t be sold for even a fraction of what it is worth.
Thank goodness for that saying “one mans junk is another mans treasure”. Because I’m looking at all this junk thinking “why in the world did I keep it?” If you are so inclined to come to my garage sale and support our moving box fund, you will find a lot of junk – I mean treasures – to choose from:
Old coffee mugs, dated champagne glasses from weddings we never attended, vases (they multiplied in my cupboards like bunnies), Christmas decorations, grandbaby stuff, blankets, throw pillows, plates, flower arrangements, candles, books – books – more books, toys, clothes, purses, board games, furniture, lawn stuff, cutsie knick-knacks, did I mention books?, tools, (Shhhh, my husband doesn’t know this part yet), boxes of electronic stuff (again, Shhhh), toy trains, stuffed animals, whew, need I say more?
This cleaning out stuff has been a real lesson; when you have a fairly large house, the object of the game is not to stuff every single corner full of stuff. Along with the useless stuff we are selling a wide array of what I still consider treasures - a dining room hutch, a pool table, (must move yourself), barware (from two bars), and an antique beer can collection that would make any redneck proud. But since we are downsizing, I decided to bite the bullet and just finally say goodbye to it all. So has my husband – he just doesn’t know it yet.
Ok, now I’ve gotta go find some more stuff to give away. My husband isn’t home right now, so I figure what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. If he wants to buy it back, he can pay me at the garage sale.
Now, in the meantime, does anyone have a very small house I can buy that has hardly any storage room for me to collect all new stuff?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Life is a Cabernet, Ol' Chum...
In a perfect world, my daily dinner would be bread, wine and cheese. What a well balanced meal, right? OK, throw in a few pieces of oh, lettuce, to make it food pyramid-worthy.
So, for some reason, my friends think that I may be obsessed with these perfect foods. A lot. I mean just because I have a bumper sticker that says “life is gouda”, or an apron that says “life is bleu-tiful” doesn’t mean I would go through withdrawals if I couldn’t eat it – as far as I know. Even though my beach towel shows a picture of three bottles of wine and says “group therapy” doesn’t mean I actually need the therapy does it?
When asked if man could live on bread alone, I would venture to say “heck yes!” But only if it’s served with olive oil, cheese, and – oh yes, vino.
Bread is the food of the gods. Especially San Francisco sour dough. And rosemary Focccia with sea salt. Let’s not forget warm salted rye and French bread with roasted garlic.
See what I mean? How could one not love a life of bread? Along with a little Gorgonzola. And Zinfandel. And maybe a few apples and red grapes.
I have a flag that I bought on a trip that my husband refuses to hang outside our home. It says “Wine a bit – you’ll feel better.” Well, yeah! It works! He doesn’t think it’s funny. Or maybe it’s the wine tote I have that says “Will trade husband for wine.” No sense of humor.
A loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, a bottle of wine and thou. Isn’t that how the famous saying goes? Life is too short to not enjoy your favorite things. Julie Andrews has her “raindrops on roses and whispers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens.” My song goes more like this: “Swiss cheese on rye bread and brie that is gooey, bright chardonnay wine and French bread that’s chewy…”. Well you get the picture. So I fully to intend to embrace my love for all things Mediterranean. After all, “Life IS a Cabernet, old chum”.
So, for some reason, my friends think that I may be obsessed with these perfect foods. A lot. I mean just because I have a bumper sticker that says “life is gouda”, or an apron that says “life is bleu-tiful” doesn’t mean I would go through withdrawals if I couldn’t eat it – as far as I know. Even though my beach towel shows a picture of three bottles of wine and says “group therapy” doesn’t mean I actually need the therapy does it?
When asked if man could live on bread alone, I would venture to say “heck yes!” But only if it’s served with olive oil, cheese, and – oh yes, vino.
Bread is the food of the gods. Especially San Francisco sour dough. And rosemary Focccia with sea salt. Let’s not forget warm salted rye and French bread with roasted garlic.
See what I mean? How could one not love a life of bread? Along with a little Gorgonzola. And Zinfandel. And maybe a few apples and red grapes.
I have a flag that I bought on a trip that my husband refuses to hang outside our home. It says “Wine a bit – you’ll feel better.” Well, yeah! It works! He doesn’t think it’s funny. Or maybe it’s the wine tote I have that says “Will trade husband for wine.” No sense of humor.
A loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, a bottle of wine and thou. Isn’t that how the famous saying goes? Life is too short to not enjoy your favorite things. Julie Andrews has her “raindrops on roses and whispers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens.” My song goes more like this: “Swiss cheese on rye bread and brie that is gooey, bright chardonnay wine and French bread that’s chewy…”. Well you get the picture. So I fully to intend to embrace my love for all things Mediterranean. After all, “Life IS a Cabernet, old chum”.
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