Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
It's Alive, It's Alive! I'm choosing to embrace my hometown....
“It’s Alive! It’s Alive! It’s Alive!”
This is probably one of the most classic lines ever from a horror movie. And yet, I found myself repeating these same lines over and over this past Sunday while walking the streets of the Oregon District.
For years, everyone from Forbes Magazine to our own media touted that Dayton, Ohio was a dying city. With the loss of the GM and Delphi plants, many large corporations and more, it was almost like people were giving up hope – that there was no reason to even try. Ask almost anyone how they felt about Dayton and the entire Miami Valley, and the general consensus was, “I can’t wait to get the heck outta here.”
Slowly but surely, we are pulling ourselves up by the bootstraps. Slowly but surely, we are – once again – rebuilding our great city. In the aftermath of the flood of 1913, all the residents, near and far, rallied around each other, and helped put together the town, piece by piece, brick by brick.
This time around the re-building may not be as literal as it was after the flood, but the results of the damage were almost as devastating. Apathy seemed to be the common denominator. People took a “why bother” stance.
But something great was happening in the background. Positive energy and forward thinking and visions were brewing underneath the complacency and negativity. There were enough people around that loved Dayton, and that felt strongly enough about the culture, the people and the future, that good things started happening.
As a town that has one of the best arts, music, nightlife and park systems around, people starting re-discovering why they loved this area in the first place.
The “Dayton is Ok – if you’ve never been anywhere else” stickers were being torn down. The wonderful positive attitude of the few started spreading to the many. Our town started a re-birth. And most everyone was drawn to the potential and that we could have an “It’s Great in Dayton” attitude once more.
This past Sunday, at the First Four Festival, I couldn’t stop smiling. I couldn’t stop looking around at all the people that had come to celebrate not just basketball, but something bigger than that. Something you just can’t name. We were a town again. We were a city to be proud of. Our businesses and our politicians and Wright Pat Air Force Base came together with the Downtown Dayton Partnership and the Dayton Development Coalition to put on a party that celebrated so many things: community, college basketball, families, friends, survival and re-birth. And what a party it was.
Dayton, Ohio isn’t just the Birthplace of Aviation and the home of so many visionaries, inventors and more. More than that, Dayton is a just wonderful place to call home.
This is probably one of the most classic lines ever from a horror movie. And yet, I found myself repeating these same lines over and over this past Sunday while walking the streets of the Oregon District.
For years, everyone from Forbes Magazine to our own media touted that Dayton, Ohio was a dying city. With the loss of the GM and Delphi plants, many large corporations and more, it was almost like people were giving up hope – that there was no reason to even try. Ask almost anyone how they felt about Dayton and the entire Miami Valley, and the general consensus was, “I can’t wait to get the heck outta here.”
Slowly but surely, we are pulling ourselves up by the bootstraps. Slowly but surely, we are – once again – rebuilding our great city. In the aftermath of the flood of 1913, all the residents, near and far, rallied around each other, and helped put together the town, piece by piece, brick by brick.
This time around the re-building may not be as literal as it was after the flood, but the results of the damage were almost as devastating. Apathy seemed to be the common denominator. People took a “why bother” stance.
But something great was happening in the background. Positive energy and forward thinking and visions were brewing underneath the complacency and negativity. There were enough people around that loved Dayton, and that felt strongly enough about the culture, the people and the future, that good things started happening.
As a town that has one of the best arts, music, nightlife and park systems around, people starting re-discovering why they loved this area in the first place.
The “Dayton is Ok – if you’ve never been anywhere else” stickers were being torn down. The wonderful positive attitude of the few started spreading to the many. Our town started a re-birth. And most everyone was drawn to the potential and that we could have an “It’s Great in Dayton” attitude once more.
This past Sunday, at the First Four Festival, I couldn’t stop smiling. I couldn’t stop looking around at all the people that had come to celebrate not just basketball, but something bigger than that. Something you just can’t name. We were a town again. We were a city to be proud of. Our businesses and our politicians and Wright Pat Air Force Base came together with the Downtown Dayton Partnership and the Dayton Development Coalition to put on a party that celebrated so many things: community, college basketball, families, friends, survival and re-birth. And what a party it was.
Dayton, Ohio isn’t just the Birthplace of Aviation and the home of so many visionaries, inventors and more. More than that, Dayton is a just wonderful place to call home.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Exuberance Trumps Caution
“Sometimes your exuberance over-rides your brain.”
This was my husband, speaking to our dog Charlie when he made a failed attempt at jumping up on top of a fairly high chair. Luckily he wasn’t hurt – he never is. I had to laugh though, because it made me think of all the times I’ve done that very thing.
There are many times in my life where the actual idea far outweighs the intended goal. I have no doubt you can relate. As I look back, I’ve had many exuberant ideas that really sounded great – at the time. From failed attempts at jumping a bike over a backyard bench (sorry mom) to the almost relief that my last minute sky-diving lesson had been cancelled due to high winds.
I don’t think I go through life with blinders on; it’s more like rose colored glasses. At the time, almost every idea is a good one. When I am drinking a glass of wine, my ideas aren’t just good, they are utterly fantastic. I’ve planned parties, trips, businesses, another child, new careers, additions to our four-legged clan and the end to world hunger - all over some cabernet.
I’ve watched my children go through the stages of trial and error, as I know you have. They thought that the idea of eating crayons, drinking an entire gallon of milk while standing up at the refrigerator or climbing a fence with barbed wire at the top all sounded like a great idea, yet the end result had some pretty good repercussions. My granddaughters are starting to follow suit, although I do notice that one of them was born with the “caution gene” where the other two are more “throw caution to the wind”. Both are great, but don’t worry – I’m sure I will be able to loosen up the “caution gene”.
I watch my dogs do the same. Apparently they can’t see color, and don’t realize that the fly they’ve chased and are about to swallow is actually a bee. Or when you eat all of the stuffing out of your chew toy, the law of “what goes in must come out” suddenly applies.
I guess I belong to the “jump first, ask questions later” club. Those of you that are members understand that we were born this way, and sometimes common sense just never seems to factor into the equation.
Most of the time, the end results are fine. Or I actually do think about it and realize that maybe it wasn’t such a great idea after all. Thank God. Otherwise I’d have a child entering kindergarten right now, and I’d be living on a farm raising pot-bellied pigs.
In my world, exuberance trumps caution every time. I may have forgotten one thing though – and it’s quite important. Just as children have their parents, I too am blessed to have my own safety net – in the form of a much grounded husband.
This was my husband, speaking to our dog Charlie when he made a failed attempt at jumping up on top of a fairly high chair. Luckily he wasn’t hurt – he never is. I had to laugh though, because it made me think of all the times I’ve done that very thing.
There are many times in my life where the actual idea far outweighs the intended goal. I have no doubt you can relate. As I look back, I’ve had many exuberant ideas that really sounded great – at the time. From failed attempts at jumping a bike over a backyard bench (sorry mom) to the almost relief that my last minute sky-diving lesson had been cancelled due to high winds.
I don’t think I go through life with blinders on; it’s more like rose colored glasses. At the time, almost every idea is a good one. When I am drinking a glass of wine, my ideas aren’t just good, they are utterly fantastic. I’ve planned parties, trips, businesses, another child, new careers, additions to our four-legged clan and the end to world hunger - all over some cabernet.
I’ve watched my children go through the stages of trial and error, as I know you have. They thought that the idea of eating crayons, drinking an entire gallon of milk while standing up at the refrigerator or climbing a fence with barbed wire at the top all sounded like a great idea, yet the end result had some pretty good repercussions. My granddaughters are starting to follow suit, although I do notice that one of them was born with the “caution gene” where the other two are more “throw caution to the wind”. Both are great, but don’t worry – I’m sure I will be able to loosen up the “caution gene”.
I watch my dogs do the same. Apparently they can’t see color, and don’t realize that the fly they’ve chased and are about to swallow is actually a bee. Or when you eat all of the stuffing out of your chew toy, the law of “what goes in must come out” suddenly applies.
I guess I belong to the “jump first, ask questions later” club. Those of you that are members understand that we were born this way, and sometimes common sense just never seems to factor into the equation.
Most of the time, the end results are fine. Or I actually do think about it and realize that maybe it wasn’t such a great idea after all. Thank God. Otherwise I’d have a child entering kindergarten right now, and I’d be living on a farm raising pot-bellied pigs.
In my world, exuberance trumps caution every time. I may have forgotten one thing though – and it’s quite important. Just as children have their parents, I too am blessed to have my own safety net – in the form of a much grounded husband.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Modern (?) Recycling
In this day and age, it is oh so politically and ethically correct to be Green. So much so, that I believe all of you know I am talking about recycling and not Kermit. Recycling should be a habit by now, and by observing most around me, I believe it is.
Being green is much more than trash, however. I actually found out that I was green before green was even cool. (For you country fans, there’s a song in there…) I have been recycling my clothes forever. I found out a long time ago I have a knack for consignment stores and the Goodwill. I seriously have a hard time buying retail, even when I want to spend the money. Don’t worry, I still give back and do my part in re-vitalizing our economy – since I can’t figure out how to recycle a good bottle of wine or a great meal out.
Lately, I have tried to be creative with my recycling – and have certainly looked way out of the box. On some things, old is the “new” new. Take my house – it’s the ultimate green project. I live in a rehabbed home that is 100 years old. If that’s not recycling, I don’t know what is! Same with some of the furniture inside it. I am not normally an antiques kind of girl. I don’t thrive on shopping and hunting for old things and I have no idea what the value of anything old should or could be. But I’ve found that when I use my intuition, there are some wonderful old pieces out there that have just screamed to be a part of my household. And these pieces, acquired from Craigslist, consignment stores, and yes, antique shops, all have wonderful stories all their own. Take my new dining room table. It’s an old oak pedestal table we bought for $20 – just for an interim table, we said, until we find the one we really want. Well, this table decided that it wanted to stay in our home. Not unlike a stray dog or cat, it has been on its’ best behavior for us. Every table cloth, every center piece, every plate or platter placed on the table is welcomed with love and looks like it was meant to be there. I was able to find wonderful chairs for $10 each – beautiful high back chairs that look perfect with the table. They absorbed the joy of the room and they now are keepers as well. Both the table and the chairs came from families with very young children. I was able to get the crayon marks and spaghetti stains off of them, but the happy energy of youth still remains.
Having this house makes me want to try harder to be more responsible for our earth. It makes me want to rejoice in the memories behind me and try harder to keep the planet green for more years ahead. I have a sign that says “Our house is not decorated – it is a display of our favorite things.” And that is pretty much what it is – an eclectic collection of wonderful things that seem to just fit together and want to live with us.
So every step of the way, as I acquire new/old items, antiques and lots and lots of plants, my house keeps smiling bigger and bigger. I refuse to think my home doesn’t give off a positive energy feel, for indeed it does – and many have felt it.
I would like to think that because of all our efforts to reuse and recycle, our planet – and not just our home – will be smiling for hundreds and thousands of years to come. For just like the earth, everything that I have, everything that lives with us – is not owned. It is just on loan, given to us with the hope that we will take good care of it so it can be loved and enjoyed for many generations to come.
Thank you, old home. Thank you, mother earth. Thank you loving beings that care enough to have this circle of life continue on.
Being green is much more than trash, however. I actually found out that I was green before green was even cool. (For you country fans, there’s a song in there…) I have been recycling my clothes forever. I found out a long time ago I have a knack for consignment stores and the Goodwill. I seriously have a hard time buying retail, even when I want to spend the money. Don’t worry, I still give back and do my part in re-vitalizing our economy – since I can’t figure out how to recycle a good bottle of wine or a great meal out.
Lately, I have tried to be creative with my recycling – and have certainly looked way out of the box. On some things, old is the “new” new. Take my house – it’s the ultimate green project. I live in a rehabbed home that is 100 years old. If that’s not recycling, I don’t know what is! Same with some of the furniture inside it. I am not normally an antiques kind of girl. I don’t thrive on shopping and hunting for old things and I have no idea what the value of anything old should or could be. But I’ve found that when I use my intuition, there are some wonderful old pieces out there that have just screamed to be a part of my household. And these pieces, acquired from Craigslist, consignment stores, and yes, antique shops, all have wonderful stories all their own. Take my new dining room table. It’s an old oak pedestal table we bought for $20 – just for an interim table, we said, until we find the one we really want. Well, this table decided that it wanted to stay in our home. Not unlike a stray dog or cat, it has been on its’ best behavior for us. Every table cloth, every center piece, every plate or platter placed on the table is welcomed with love and looks like it was meant to be there. I was able to find wonderful chairs for $10 each – beautiful high back chairs that look perfect with the table. They absorbed the joy of the room and they now are keepers as well. Both the table and the chairs came from families with very young children. I was able to get the crayon marks and spaghetti stains off of them, but the happy energy of youth still remains.
Having this house makes me want to try harder to be more responsible for our earth. It makes me want to rejoice in the memories behind me and try harder to keep the planet green for more years ahead. I have a sign that says “Our house is not decorated – it is a display of our favorite things.” And that is pretty much what it is – an eclectic collection of wonderful things that seem to just fit together and want to live with us.
So every step of the way, as I acquire new/old items, antiques and lots and lots of plants, my house keeps smiling bigger and bigger. I refuse to think my home doesn’t give off a positive energy feel, for indeed it does – and many have felt it.
I would like to think that because of all our efforts to reuse and recycle, our planet – and not just our home – will be smiling for hundreds and thousands of years to come. For just like the earth, everything that I have, everything that lives with us – is not owned. It is just on loan, given to us with the hope that we will take good care of it so it can be loved and enjoyed for many generations to come.
Thank you, old home. Thank you, mother earth. Thank you loving beings that care enough to have this circle of life continue on.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Sleep? Who needs it. Blaming it all on the men in my life...
It seems that I’ve not had a good night sleep for about three decades. And I blame it all on the men in my life. First it was my first born son. Just like any new mommy, I got about 30 minutes of sleep a night. Between feedings, diaper changes and getting up just to make sure he was breathing, I didn’t seem to occupy my bed very often. When he finally was old enough for me to actually attempt to sleep an entire 3 or 4 hours, I was pregnant with his little brother and the cycle began all over again.
Moms were made to sleep with one ear open, and I did just that. I would wake up with every cough, every cry and every request for a glass of water. I soothed bad dreams, read one last story, calmed one last fear and listened to wonderful accounts of amazing ball games. I stayed up way past midnight to bake cupcakes that had to be taken to school the next day (even though they’d known about it for weeks) and spent many a night with David Letterman, putting together last minute touches on science projects. I did laundry at 2am because the baseball uniform wasn’t ready for the big game. I helped address Valentine cards, coached them to memorize words to the Christmas show and tried concoct a witch’s costume late one night so I could be the cool room mom for Halloween.
But it didn’t end when they started sleeping through the night. No, I still didn’t get any sleep. Because then it was waiting for them to get home after the first night having a drivers license. Of listening for the front door to sneak open and click shut because they missed their curfew for the senior prom. I sat waiting for phone calls assuring me they’d arrived safely at camp. And let’s not forget the sleep-overs. Those boys had stamina. They’d stay up all night playing cards and ping pong and video games – grateful for the 2am snack I’d conjure up for the crew. They’d play the movies low, but still I could hear the laughter and the wrestling, long into the wee hours of the morning.
When the bear cubs went away to college or moved out, the entire night sleep scenario didn’t always last. When they came back home, I still slept with one ear open waiting for the front door to close and lock. When they drove back to their respective apartments, I didn’t sleep until I got the “I’m home safe, mom” text.
Even though the kids have all moved out, I still don’t get my beauty sleep. No, now there are other men that impair my potential good night’s sleep. These men are the ones that snore throughout the night. One has two legs, the other has four and lots of fur. They move around, steal covers and generally take up the whole bed.
I wouldn’t trade any of the experiences in my life that have caused me lack of sleep. The joys way out weigh the under eye bags. In fact, sleeplessness seems to have become a habit after all these years, since I have more “men” in my life keeping me awake. Yes, this time it’s the lovely joy of menopause. It’s like having a baby all over again – I wake up automatically at 3am. Instead of the joy of cuddling and feeding my little boys, I am greeted by night sweats and the probability that I won’t fall back asleep until 15 minutes before the alarm is set to go off.
I have calculated that because of all these men in my life, I’ve probably actually only had a week’s worth of a full nights rest for the past 30 years. Most of the men are calming down. And it’s a good thing, because I have three little women in my life that are going to take their place. Thank goodness for menopause – it’s keeping me caught up on my lack of sleep. I will now be already be up at 3am when my granddaughters are visiting and need a drink of water or have a bad dream. Yes, I do believe I can blame these under eye circles on all the men in my life. In all honesty, I wouldn’t trade all the sleep in the world for my life with all my wonderful men. Who needs sleep, anyway? Like the song by Aerosmith says – “I don’t want close my eyes, don’t want to fall asleep – cause I’d miss you, babe – and I don’t want to miss a thing.”
Moms were made to sleep with one ear open, and I did just that. I would wake up with every cough, every cry and every request for a glass of water. I soothed bad dreams, read one last story, calmed one last fear and listened to wonderful accounts of amazing ball games. I stayed up way past midnight to bake cupcakes that had to be taken to school the next day (even though they’d known about it for weeks) and spent many a night with David Letterman, putting together last minute touches on science projects. I did laundry at 2am because the baseball uniform wasn’t ready for the big game. I helped address Valentine cards, coached them to memorize words to the Christmas show and tried concoct a witch’s costume late one night so I could be the cool room mom for Halloween.
But it didn’t end when they started sleeping through the night. No, I still didn’t get any sleep. Because then it was waiting for them to get home after the first night having a drivers license. Of listening for the front door to sneak open and click shut because they missed their curfew for the senior prom. I sat waiting for phone calls assuring me they’d arrived safely at camp. And let’s not forget the sleep-overs. Those boys had stamina. They’d stay up all night playing cards and ping pong and video games – grateful for the 2am snack I’d conjure up for the crew. They’d play the movies low, but still I could hear the laughter and the wrestling, long into the wee hours of the morning.
When the bear cubs went away to college or moved out, the entire night sleep scenario didn’t always last. When they came back home, I still slept with one ear open waiting for the front door to close and lock. When they drove back to their respective apartments, I didn’t sleep until I got the “I’m home safe, mom” text.
Even though the kids have all moved out, I still don’t get my beauty sleep. No, now there are other men that impair my potential good night’s sleep. These men are the ones that snore throughout the night. One has two legs, the other has four and lots of fur. They move around, steal covers and generally take up the whole bed.
I wouldn’t trade any of the experiences in my life that have caused me lack of sleep. The joys way out weigh the under eye bags. In fact, sleeplessness seems to have become a habit after all these years, since I have more “men” in my life keeping me awake. Yes, this time it’s the lovely joy of menopause. It’s like having a baby all over again – I wake up automatically at 3am. Instead of the joy of cuddling and feeding my little boys, I am greeted by night sweats and the probability that I won’t fall back asleep until 15 minutes before the alarm is set to go off.
I have calculated that because of all these men in my life, I’ve probably actually only had a week’s worth of a full nights rest for the past 30 years. Most of the men are calming down. And it’s a good thing, because I have three little women in my life that are going to take their place. Thank goodness for menopause – it’s keeping me caught up on my lack of sleep. I will now be already be up at 3am when my granddaughters are visiting and need a drink of water or have a bad dream. Yes, I do believe I can blame these under eye circles on all the men in my life. In all honesty, I wouldn’t trade all the sleep in the world for my life with all my wonderful men. Who needs sleep, anyway? Like the song by Aerosmith says – “I don’t want close my eyes, don’t want to fall asleep – cause I’d miss you, babe – and I don’t want to miss a thing.”
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
A Human Mutt
Definition of Mutt: Mongrel; dog of many mixed breeds.
My newest acquisition, Lucy (aka Lulu Belle) is a mutt. At any given time I don’t know if she will wiggle her butt and try to catch Frisbees like an Aussie, hunt for ducks (or squirrels) like a Golden Retriever or sit like a regal queen on a pillow like a Poodle. She’s capable of all three and more, and at times it is amusing to watch her morph from one breed to another right before my eyes. Because of the three breeds, she’s quite intelligent. The breeds work together in her favor I believe. The prima-donna Poodle in her convinces the Australian Sheppard in her that’s it is really a waste of time to actually “jump” up and catch a Frisbee. After a futile attempt of chasing the disk, the Poodle pulls her back and whispers in her ear that it’d be much more fun to get her toenails painted and eat doggie bon-bons. The Golden Retriever in her makes her nose very sensitive, and when she’s running across a field like an Aussie, she’ll stop and smell the tracks of a raccoon like a retriever. She’s a canine Sybil in a black, furry body.
I understand what she is going through, however. Being of mixed decent myself, I too am a mutt with an ever-changing personality. The English in me is quite proper and loves tea and the German in me adores sour kraut and gives me, I believe, excellent work ethics. The Welsh part in me makes me want to swivel my hips and sing “It’s Not Unusual”. I found out mid-life that I also have Irish in me and I was grateful. It explained the sudden love of Guinness and obviously contributes to my perfection of the fine art of “you know what-ing”.
I also have a lot of Southern influences in me, since my dad was born in Alabama. Just the other day I found myself saying, quite loudly: “Well butter my buns and call me a biscuit.” That in itself isn’t such a bad thing, except for the fact that I was in a very quiet and subdued Japanese restaurant (a culture of which I share no qualities at all except that I adore Sushi and Saki). There are times when I wish I had other cultures in me, such as Italian or French – it would really give me a good excuse for this whole wine-drinking thing.
It’s hard for me to get upset with Lulu when she turns mid-stride and decides she’d rather chase the birds than herd them. I mean I can do a 180 in a heartbeat – going from my proper English business mode to my blarney mode as fast as you can say “Cheerio”. I can go from drinking a “spot o tea” to singing Danny Boy in zero to sixty.
I’ve come to embrace my “inner mutt”. I mean most of us are a mix of various heritages. My husband has Native American in him. It explains the way he sits cross legged in front of our fireplace. In hanging out with people that are from different descents I find that I also have acquired many of their attributes. I can speak with my hands just as well as my Italian friends, make my kid feel guilty and make great soup just like my Jewish friends, and can (kinda) dance the hula like my Hawaiian friends. And let’s not even talk about dancing – I have also inherited that gene from somewhere along that large pool.
I’m not going to worry when I have my multi-cultural Sybil mode kick in. It’s why it’s so great to live in this melting pot called America – I’m free to be whoever I want to be (even when I’m not trying). I will only start to worry when I go from drinking tea to chasing sticks and Frisbees. If it does happen, I’m sure it will have nothing to do with the Guinness.
My newest acquisition, Lucy (aka Lulu Belle) is a mutt. At any given time I don’t know if she will wiggle her butt and try to catch Frisbees like an Aussie, hunt for ducks (or squirrels) like a Golden Retriever or sit like a regal queen on a pillow like a Poodle. She’s capable of all three and more, and at times it is amusing to watch her morph from one breed to another right before my eyes. Because of the three breeds, she’s quite intelligent. The breeds work together in her favor I believe. The prima-donna Poodle in her convinces the Australian Sheppard in her that’s it is really a waste of time to actually “jump” up and catch a Frisbee. After a futile attempt of chasing the disk, the Poodle pulls her back and whispers in her ear that it’d be much more fun to get her toenails painted and eat doggie bon-bons. The Golden Retriever in her makes her nose very sensitive, and when she’s running across a field like an Aussie, she’ll stop and smell the tracks of a raccoon like a retriever. She’s a canine Sybil in a black, furry body.
I understand what she is going through, however. Being of mixed decent myself, I too am a mutt with an ever-changing personality. The English in me is quite proper and loves tea and the German in me adores sour kraut and gives me, I believe, excellent work ethics. The Welsh part in me makes me want to swivel my hips and sing “It’s Not Unusual”. I found out mid-life that I also have Irish in me and I was grateful. It explained the sudden love of Guinness and obviously contributes to my perfection of the fine art of “you know what-ing”.
I also have a lot of Southern influences in me, since my dad was born in Alabama. Just the other day I found myself saying, quite loudly: “Well butter my buns and call me a biscuit.” That in itself isn’t such a bad thing, except for the fact that I was in a very quiet and subdued Japanese restaurant (a culture of which I share no qualities at all except that I adore Sushi and Saki). There are times when I wish I had other cultures in me, such as Italian or French – it would really give me a good excuse for this whole wine-drinking thing.
It’s hard for me to get upset with Lulu when she turns mid-stride and decides she’d rather chase the birds than herd them. I mean I can do a 180 in a heartbeat – going from my proper English business mode to my blarney mode as fast as you can say “Cheerio”. I can go from drinking a “spot o tea” to singing Danny Boy in zero to sixty.
I’ve come to embrace my “inner mutt”. I mean most of us are a mix of various heritages. My husband has Native American in him. It explains the way he sits cross legged in front of our fireplace. In hanging out with people that are from different descents I find that I also have acquired many of their attributes. I can speak with my hands just as well as my Italian friends, make my kid feel guilty and make great soup just like my Jewish friends, and can (kinda) dance the hula like my Hawaiian friends. And let’s not even talk about dancing – I have also inherited that gene from somewhere along that large pool.
I’m not going to worry when I have my multi-cultural Sybil mode kick in. It’s why it’s so great to live in this melting pot called America – I’m free to be whoever I want to be (even when I’m not trying). I will only start to worry when I go from drinking tea to chasing sticks and Frisbees. If it does happen, I’m sure it will have nothing to do with the Guinness.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Toddlers - the perfect cleaning solution
I was recently at a local shop that sells bedding, kitchen supplies, dishes, and more. It’s one of those stores that you can find anything or nothing…plus lots of fun stuff you really don’t need. I came across something that actually made me look twice – and then ponder the ultimate possibilities.
It was a kids “toy” snow shovel. Looked just like mom and dad’s, but in a smaller size. The tag said “for playtime only” or something like that. It looked like a perfectly good shovel…truly. So why for “play” only? Why not put that kid outside and let him or her “play” at shoveling the sidewalk. That got me to thinking about all the possibilities.
My almost 4-year-old granddaughter told me that she wanted pretend food, fruit and a shopping cart for her upcoming birthday. Why stop there? Why not give her $125 bucks and let her do some shopping for me? Same with the pretend vacuum cleaner and mop. Seriously? Why waste a perfectly good opportunity for clean floors? Let’s just make smaller sized vacuums and let her go to town. And for my granddaughter that isn’t yet walking, but is a crawling maniac, how about taping two Swiffer’s on the bottom of her knees so she can help me clean my hardwood floors.
Remember Easy Bake Ovens? How about making them a little larger so they can make things besides tasteless brownies? And the pretend sinks are great –but they’d be even better if we could actually add water and let them go to town on the real dirty dishes. (The plastic ones, of course – I’m not THAT crazy…).
They now have stuffed dogs that bark and move and kids can take them for pretend walks. I say put a leash on my two furry friends and let the toddlers have at it. See if they can wear each other down.
Now, there are certain things that should remain just for “play” – like the new iPhone look alikes – and the little computers. I am fine with them pretending to call and email. But unfortunately even the one- year-old knows the difference between the “real” cell phone and the “toy” cell phone. So I still get sticky fingerprints on my keypad no matter what.
I will draw the line at certain items that would be a safety issue. I mean pretend ironing boards should be left as just a toy…after all, what toddler knows how to do a perfect crease anyway? And I don’t think a toddler blender and/or food processor would fly either. (Unless they are planning on making their own baby food –but that’s another story). I think a small leaf blower may fly though – and of course a push broom and dust pan would fit right in as well.
Think of the possibilities! We have Merry Maids and Clean Sweep, why not “Babies and Brooms” or “Tots and Vacs”? Maybe “Dirt-Free Dependents” or “Rugrats Rug Cleaners”. How about “Diaper-wearing Dustbusters”. The possibilities are limitless.
Having kids clean is a great idea except for one thing: it only works if they are having fun and it appears to be a game. They are sneaky and intelligent beings. The minute they realize that they are actually helping clean for real, they’d rather go back to watching Dora. Go figure. I guess my next goal is to learn how to “out sneak” them. Wonder how they’d feel about using a pretend hose to clean my pretend car?
It was a kids “toy” snow shovel. Looked just like mom and dad’s, but in a smaller size. The tag said “for playtime only” or something like that. It looked like a perfectly good shovel…truly. So why for “play” only? Why not put that kid outside and let him or her “play” at shoveling the sidewalk. That got me to thinking about all the possibilities.
My almost 4-year-old granddaughter told me that she wanted pretend food, fruit and a shopping cart for her upcoming birthday. Why stop there? Why not give her $125 bucks and let her do some shopping for me? Same with the pretend vacuum cleaner and mop. Seriously? Why waste a perfectly good opportunity for clean floors? Let’s just make smaller sized vacuums and let her go to town. And for my granddaughter that isn’t yet walking, but is a crawling maniac, how about taping two Swiffer’s on the bottom of her knees so she can help me clean my hardwood floors.
Remember Easy Bake Ovens? How about making them a little larger so they can make things besides tasteless brownies? And the pretend sinks are great –but they’d be even better if we could actually add water and let them go to town on the real dirty dishes. (The plastic ones, of course – I’m not THAT crazy…).
They now have stuffed dogs that bark and move and kids can take them for pretend walks. I say put a leash on my two furry friends and let the toddlers have at it. See if they can wear each other down.
Now, there are certain things that should remain just for “play” – like the new iPhone look alikes – and the little computers. I am fine with them pretending to call and email. But unfortunately even the one- year-old knows the difference between the “real” cell phone and the “toy” cell phone. So I still get sticky fingerprints on my keypad no matter what.
I will draw the line at certain items that would be a safety issue. I mean pretend ironing boards should be left as just a toy…after all, what toddler knows how to do a perfect crease anyway? And I don’t think a toddler blender and/or food processor would fly either. (Unless they are planning on making their own baby food –but that’s another story). I think a small leaf blower may fly though – and of course a push broom and dust pan would fit right in as well.
Think of the possibilities! We have Merry Maids and Clean Sweep, why not “Babies and Brooms” or “Tots and Vacs”? Maybe “Dirt-Free Dependents” or “Rugrats Rug Cleaners”. How about “Diaper-wearing Dustbusters”. The possibilities are limitless.
Having kids clean is a great idea except for one thing: it only works if they are having fun and it appears to be a game. They are sneaky and intelligent beings. The minute they realize that they are actually helping clean for real, they’d rather go back to watching Dora. Go figure. I guess my next goal is to learn how to “out sneak” them. Wonder how they’d feel about using a pretend hose to clean my pretend car?
Monday, January 30, 2012
Life as a City Princess
So, I’m really not much of a princess, I swear. I’m not married to a prince (well, yes, he is Prince
Charming to me, but not in the sovereign sense), nor is my mother the Queen (hmm, maybe I should rethink
that statement as well). As for other definitions, I am not a fairytale princess: I don’t live in a
tower, I’ve never been poisoned by a witch and none of my shoes are made from glass. Conversely, I’m
also not a spoiled rich girl: I take out garbage, buy clothes at a consignment store, do dishes and can bait
a hook.
However, there is an addendum to my first statement. I wear tiaras when playing cards and drinking
whiskey, I have clothing that has feathers on it, and I don’t like to be cold or walk far in the rain (unless
it’s on purpose). So when I moved to the city, I realized right away I had to make some changes; I had to
lose part of my inner princess.
First of all, I live in an artsy area, so thank goodness my wardrobe choices didn’t have to change.
Actually, I found I could get even a little more creative and still not seem too far out there. No, what I
had to change was my attitude.
I’ve never been a city mouse. Actually, I’ve never been a country mouse either, unless you count the
time my ex-husband and I lived on a half-acre of land and had chickens and ducks and tomato plants and
a rooster that annoyed the whole neighborhood. No, I’ve always been a suburbs kinda girl. Sidewalks,
driveways, garages, and neighbors who kept to themselves pretty much - that was the norm of my
existence. Walking to a store or restaurant was unheard of. Walking the dog was the only time I’d
venture out. I would drive home, open the garage, pull the car in, close the garage and walk into the
house. If I went outside it was to sit on our back deck. I saw our neighbors when we’d have a party or
when shoveling snow from a big snowfall. (I guess I should be clear – I watched my husband shovel
snow as I played with the dogs and chatted with the neighbors).
Being a suburb mouse is great. It’s what we all know and feel comfortable with. Being a city mouse is
more of an adventure. It’s a life where you aren’t sure what will come next. It’s a life filled with
scraping ice off of the windshield yourself, because your husband left for work early. And not just ice off
the windshield. Since I wasn’t able to just walk into the garage and jump into my warm, dry car, I had to
navigate down icy steps to do it. Wanting to be safe, I realized I needed to salt the steps. There really
isn’t much salt in those little Morton salt shakers.
Being a city mouse means changing how you look at things. Wanting to totally live outside our comfort
zone, we chose a 100 year old home. Old homes are charming and warm and inviting. Old homes
generally don’t have Jacuzzi bathtubs, basements with bars and a pantry the size of a small bedroom.
Old homes don’t have much closet space. Princesses tend to have large wardrobes. Since I’m not really
a princess, my wardrobe is only kind of large. So two weeks after moving in, I am still trying to find
creative ways to store my clothes, and they are all spread out throughout the house. Soon I will need a
map of the places I have squirreled away my wardrobe. (Note to self: remove belts and hats before
turning on the oven). However, I have found that what I lack in space, I have garnered two-fold in
charm.
Being a city princess isn’t that bad. I know my neighbors better here in two weeks than I ever did in the
‘burbs. I can walk just about anyplace worthwhile. I have a front porch. And I will use it. I already know
my mail carriers name and that she is left-handed. I can put out my used treasures in the alley and the
“pickers” will magically make them disappear. I have found more dog-lovers per square foot than I
knew existed. And best of all, I found out that I am stronger willed than I ever thought I was – and that if
I put my mind to something, I truly can do it. Here’s to a new adventure and here’s to a new type of
princess. And here’s to my 180 shift of the show Green Acres – Hello, City Life!
Charming to me, but not in the sovereign sense), nor is my mother the Queen (hmm, maybe I should rethink
that statement as well). As for other definitions, I am not a fairytale princess: I don’t live in a
tower, I’ve never been poisoned by a witch and none of my shoes are made from glass. Conversely, I’m
also not a spoiled rich girl: I take out garbage, buy clothes at a consignment store, do dishes and can bait
a hook.
However, there is an addendum to my first statement. I wear tiaras when playing cards and drinking
whiskey, I have clothing that has feathers on it, and I don’t like to be cold or walk far in the rain (unless
it’s on purpose). So when I moved to the city, I realized right away I had to make some changes; I had to
lose part of my inner princess.
First of all, I live in an artsy area, so thank goodness my wardrobe choices didn’t have to change.
Actually, I found I could get even a little more creative and still not seem too far out there. No, what I
had to change was my attitude.
I’ve never been a city mouse. Actually, I’ve never been a country mouse either, unless you count the
time my ex-husband and I lived on a half-acre of land and had chickens and ducks and tomato plants and
a rooster that annoyed the whole neighborhood. No, I’ve always been a suburbs kinda girl. Sidewalks,
driveways, garages, and neighbors who kept to themselves pretty much - that was the norm of my
existence. Walking to a store or restaurant was unheard of. Walking the dog was the only time I’d
venture out. I would drive home, open the garage, pull the car in, close the garage and walk into the
house. If I went outside it was to sit on our back deck. I saw our neighbors when we’d have a party or
when shoveling snow from a big snowfall. (I guess I should be clear – I watched my husband shovel
snow as I played with the dogs and chatted with the neighbors).
Being a suburb mouse is great. It’s what we all know and feel comfortable with. Being a city mouse is
more of an adventure. It’s a life where you aren’t sure what will come next. It’s a life filled with
scraping ice off of the windshield yourself, because your husband left for work early. And not just ice off
the windshield. Since I wasn’t able to just walk into the garage and jump into my warm, dry car, I had to
navigate down icy steps to do it. Wanting to be safe, I realized I needed to salt the steps. There really
isn’t much salt in those little Morton salt shakers.
Being a city mouse means changing how you look at things. Wanting to totally live outside our comfort
zone, we chose a 100 year old home. Old homes are charming and warm and inviting. Old homes
generally don’t have Jacuzzi bathtubs, basements with bars and a pantry the size of a small bedroom.
Old homes don’t have much closet space. Princesses tend to have large wardrobes. Since I’m not really
a princess, my wardrobe is only kind of large. So two weeks after moving in, I am still trying to find
creative ways to store my clothes, and they are all spread out throughout the house. Soon I will need a
map of the places I have squirreled away my wardrobe. (Note to self: remove belts and hats before
turning on the oven). However, I have found that what I lack in space, I have garnered two-fold in
charm.
Being a city princess isn’t that bad. I know my neighbors better here in two weeks than I ever did in the
‘burbs. I can walk just about anyplace worthwhile. I have a front porch. And I will use it. I already know
my mail carriers name and that she is left-handed. I can put out my used treasures in the alley and the
“pickers” will magically make them disappear. I have found more dog-lovers per square foot than I
knew existed. And best of all, I found out that I am stronger willed than I ever thought I was – and that if
I put my mind to something, I truly can do it. Here’s to a new adventure and here’s to a new type of
princess. And here’s to my 180 shift of the show Green Acres – Hello, City Life!
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Every Day is Special
“If I had to live my life over, I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.” Erma Bombeck
“I think I’m going to wear the diamond earrings your dad gave me, even though it’s not a special occasion.”
This was a comment from my mom yesterday.
“I also think I’ll wear the wedding band I had re-designed, even though it’s not a special day or anything.”
She was speaking to the wrong person. I jumped ship on the “waiting for a special time game” a long time ago. I am the person that wears my fake fur with my jeans, my 1940’s fedora with a dress and burns all the candles in my house on a daily basis. So I really thought I belonged to the “every day is special” club. But, I was wrong.
Having just moved, I found out that I have a box of things that I obviously had been storing for a long time. I thought I’d found all of them in the last move, six years ago. Nope – this box was a treasure trove of outdated stuff that apparently I’d set aside for the right time, or the correct special occasion. The box had been carried to our attic, and had just been sitting there – no urgency to open it. It was marked “Karen – mementos and stuff”. Wow, that explains all the contents inside, doesn’t it? It’s no wonder it had been carried from move to move, never opened.
My curiosity finally got the best of me and I sat on the attic floor with the box between my legs. I blew the dust off the top and slowly pulled the yellow tape off the top. I was greeted by a shoe. One, tiny, white baby shoe. It too, had faded with time – since it was now almost 30 years old. It was scuffed and worn, a testament of the busy and happy life of the little boy that wore it. Peering through my tears, I reached down again inside this time capsule. This time I was greeted with a book. The corners were frayed and worn, and when I opened it I saw the handwriting of yet another little boy – his name written in the awkward penmanship of a five-year-old. Lost in my world now, I kept digging. Photos here, cards and letters there. It was an emotional trip down memory lane. Then I found it – there at the bottom of the box. A ring. A small, gold ring with either a ruby or a garnet on it. It was the ring presented to my mom on her 16th birthday. I had set it aside so I could wear it on special occasions. It’d been buried for all these years. I put it on my finger and felt the closeness of mom. I am the one that said I don’t need a vase to remember Grandma. I am the one that is purging my life of all the “stuff” I have acquired through the years. But I realized that maybe I’d hardened my heart a little too much – and tried to give away too much of me. And that some memories are meant to be shared – or in this case worn.
I’m sorry I judged you mom for not wearing your diamond earrings more often. But just like your earrings, I now will wear your childhood ring with love and pride. And when I look at it, it is my reminder that everyday really is special, and I will never save my treasures for a better time – because that time is right now.
“I think I’m going to wear the diamond earrings your dad gave me, even though it’s not a special occasion.”
This was a comment from my mom yesterday.
“I also think I’ll wear the wedding band I had re-designed, even though it’s not a special day or anything.”
She was speaking to the wrong person. I jumped ship on the “waiting for a special time game” a long time ago. I am the person that wears my fake fur with my jeans, my 1940’s fedora with a dress and burns all the candles in my house on a daily basis. So I really thought I belonged to the “every day is special” club. But, I was wrong.
Having just moved, I found out that I have a box of things that I obviously had been storing for a long time. I thought I’d found all of them in the last move, six years ago. Nope – this box was a treasure trove of outdated stuff that apparently I’d set aside for the right time, or the correct special occasion. The box had been carried to our attic, and had just been sitting there – no urgency to open it. It was marked “Karen – mementos and stuff”. Wow, that explains all the contents inside, doesn’t it? It’s no wonder it had been carried from move to move, never opened.
My curiosity finally got the best of me and I sat on the attic floor with the box between my legs. I blew the dust off the top and slowly pulled the yellow tape off the top. I was greeted by a shoe. One, tiny, white baby shoe. It too, had faded with time – since it was now almost 30 years old. It was scuffed and worn, a testament of the busy and happy life of the little boy that wore it. Peering through my tears, I reached down again inside this time capsule. This time I was greeted with a book. The corners were frayed and worn, and when I opened it I saw the handwriting of yet another little boy – his name written in the awkward penmanship of a five-year-old. Lost in my world now, I kept digging. Photos here, cards and letters there. It was an emotional trip down memory lane. Then I found it – there at the bottom of the box. A ring. A small, gold ring with either a ruby or a garnet on it. It was the ring presented to my mom on her 16th birthday. I had set it aside so I could wear it on special occasions. It’d been buried for all these years. I put it on my finger and felt the closeness of mom. I am the one that said I don’t need a vase to remember Grandma. I am the one that is purging my life of all the “stuff” I have acquired through the years. But I realized that maybe I’d hardened my heart a little too much – and tried to give away too much of me. And that some memories are meant to be shared – or in this case worn.
I’m sorry I judged you mom for not wearing your diamond earrings more often. But just like your earrings, I now will wear your childhood ring with love and pride. And when I look at it, it is my reminder that everyday really is special, and I will never save my treasures for a better time – because that time is right now.
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