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!
Monday, January 30, 2012
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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