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”.
Springtime is Grumpytime in Ohio
Spring is such a unique time in Ohio. We are all still trying to recover from our “spring forward” time change, and grumble when it’s still dark at 7am. We have to wear our winter coats to drive to work in the morning and are down to our shirt sleeves by the time we get home. We hope it won’t snow on Easter so we can hide our eggs outside.
I am not complaining, mind you. I celebrate spring just like the birds that are making nests in the holes in my house that the woodpeckers made last fall. I love spring so much that I don’t get (very) frustrated when said birds wake me at the crack of dawn trying to “feather” their nests right outside my bedroom window. There is one bird that is quite uncoordinated (or nearsighted), and keeps missing the hole in our house, hitting her wings and beak on my window. Normally I would say “awww, poor birdie”, and go outside and help her find her way. But at 6am I’m not in a very charitable mood. Especially when it is still dark and feels like it should be 3am.
The dogs are even a little confused by it all. When the alarm rings at the “you know what” crack of dawn, my husband and I aren’t the only ones hitting snooze and putting the covers over our heads…the dogs bury themselves deeper under the blankets too.
But once up, they embrace the day with such joy I only wish I could have half of their exuberance. When I say “they” I mean “him” - Charlie, our newest baby who is now two. Boo, the Newfie, doesn’t care much if the sun is out or not, just as long as he can lie around and lounge all day. But Charlie, well, he’s a certified bird watcher and squirrel chaser. He has his Master’s degree in both. And he strives to make himself better every day. Between our bird feeders and the woods behind our house, Charlie has plenty of subject matter. Charlie is also a white dog - that has perpetually muddy paws - and gets a bath every other day. Hunting for squirrels is a messy job, but somebody’s got to do it.
I sound a little bit grumpy about spring, but now that it’s 9am and the sun is finally up, I am a happy camper. The heat is still on in the house, and though my new spring clothes are begging to be worn, it’s on with the fleece yet one more weekend. If you think I sound grumpy now, just wait for the April Showers. Did I mention I have a white dog and light tan carpet?
It’s time now for me to go embrace the day, check out the new buds on the trees, admire the beautiful crocuses who have better cold weather stamina than I do, and thank God that we survived another long and grey Ohio winter.
I am not complaining, mind you. I celebrate spring just like the birds that are making nests in the holes in my house that the woodpeckers made last fall. I love spring so much that I don’t get (very) frustrated when said birds wake me at the crack of dawn trying to “feather” their nests right outside my bedroom window. There is one bird that is quite uncoordinated (or nearsighted), and keeps missing the hole in our house, hitting her wings and beak on my window. Normally I would say “awww, poor birdie”, and go outside and help her find her way. But at 6am I’m not in a very charitable mood. Especially when it is still dark and feels like it should be 3am.
The dogs are even a little confused by it all. When the alarm rings at the “you know what” crack of dawn, my husband and I aren’t the only ones hitting snooze and putting the covers over our heads…the dogs bury themselves deeper under the blankets too.
But once up, they embrace the day with such joy I only wish I could have half of their exuberance. When I say “they” I mean “him” - Charlie, our newest baby who is now two. Boo, the Newfie, doesn’t care much if the sun is out or not, just as long as he can lie around and lounge all day. But Charlie, well, he’s a certified bird watcher and squirrel chaser. He has his Master’s degree in both. And he strives to make himself better every day. Between our bird feeders and the woods behind our house, Charlie has plenty of subject matter. Charlie is also a white dog - that has perpetually muddy paws - and gets a bath every other day. Hunting for squirrels is a messy job, but somebody’s got to do it.
I sound a little bit grumpy about spring, but now that it’s 9am and the sun is finally up, I am a happy camper. The heat is still on in the house, and though my new spring clothes are begging to be worn, it’s on with the fleece yet one more weekend. If you think I sound grumpy now, just wait for the April Showers. Did I mention I have a white dog and light tan carpet?
It’s time now for me to go embrace the day, check out the new buds on the trees, admire the beautiful crocuses who have better cold weather stamina than I do, and thank God that we survived another long and grey Ohio winter.
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