LIFE WITH THE CAMPBELLS

MOVING ON UP

2010-09-27T15:37:00.004-04:00

While I have absolutely LOVED writing this blog, I have decided to move up in the cyberworld and get my very own domain name! From now on, I will be blogging at http://mollydcampbell.com. This is exciting for me, but those of you who subscribe to my posts will have to follow me to the new site and resubsribe. Since that involves a few extra steps for some of you, I hope you will take the time to follow me at my new site. I think you will like it better, find it easier to navigate, and simpler to view without reading glasses.

http://mollydcampbell.com SEE YOU OVER THERE!

MY METABOLISM IS MISSING

2010-09-25T11:05:00.003-04:00

When I was in my teens, I could come home from school, eat five brownies, and three hours later, do justice to my Mother’s home cooking. Before bed, I often had a handful of potato chips. I ate three squares a day. I was underweight.

In college, I was very busy, and found time to eat only breakfast, which consisted of multiple slices of toast, eggs or cereal, two big tumblers of juice, and a glass of milk. I filled in the rest of the day with snacks on the run. I had the body of a super model.

Then I became a young Mom myself. I raced around after two little girls, drove to school events and soccer games. There were horse shows and school plays. I made time to play racquetball and bake cookies. I was a rail.

My children grew up. When they left home, I substituted writing for all those frenzied mothering activities. I still found time for going to the gym regularly, walking the dog, and stooping to pick up nylabones and stray books and magazines off the floor. I felt good, and seemed to look lumpless in my clothing. I was smug.

Somewhere during the aging process, in between perimenopause and AARP membership, my metabolism left. It started with small things: those little under eye bags, and a slight mushiness in the abdominal area. These were so slight that I took no real notice of them. I continued with my exercise program, enrolled in a punishing yoga class, and started blogging. Dinners still featured dessert.

The evidence of the absent metabolism became harder to ignore. There was the tight waistband in the wide legged pants that had previously been so comfortable. I observed that in those three way mirrors in fitting rooms, I looked more like Paula Deen than I would have liked. Foods that had never been threatening started giving me “gas.” I invested heavily in “Spanx.”

Now I am just plain worried. When sitting in a chair, I can look down at a highly defined protrusion that is impossible to “suck in.” My derriere seems to be “following’ me. I no longer claim the bike in the front row in spinning class. I have started looking very suspiciously at things like brownies, ascribing to them a sinister ulterior motive. I worry that people have started referring to me as “portly."

This has got to stop! I need my metabolism back! I have issued pleas to various fitness experts to give me the secrets to resurrect my calorie burner. I now go to the gym every day, instead of three times a week. I use Splenda in EVERYTHING. I drink Slim Fast shakes for breakfast. The dog is starting to eye me suspiciously whenever I walk anywhere near her leash. But that midsection chubbiness remains. I continue to look for a solution to this horrible metabolism defection.

I am jogging in place as I type this.

FOOD GLORIOUS FOOD

2010-09-17T11:24:00.001-04:00

We all need to eat. It’s built in. Calories are essential. Judging by the look of many Americans, we take this necessity a bit too seriously. However, since eating and preparing to eat are lynchpins to our existence, I have spent some considerable time thinking about food. It seems to me that food falls into certain categories, as do all of us who eat it.

SNACKS. By definition, snacks are portable small meals. People have snacks between meals to boost their energy. Snacks ought to be healthy and low calorie. However, the American food conglomerates have turned snacks into “fun sized” versions of meals. We have smaller Blizzards, for example. I have often wondered how any person can finish a normal sized Blizzard, which probably amounts to around ten thousand calories. But as a “tide me over,” the smaller Blizzard is more manageable at around two thousand calories. Other “snacks” in America that have become popular are granola bars covered in chocolate (perhaps six hundred calories), pudding cups that have no sugar, no fat, and therefore no nutritive value, little one hundred calorie bags of everything from pretzels to cookies. My mother used to hand me an apple when I needed a snack.

COMFORT FOOD. Speaking of Mothers, they are the originators of “comfort food.” Again, we all like to remember tucking in to piles of mashed potatoes and gravy, pot roast, macaroni and cheese, and things like apple pie and brownies from scratch. Apparently, we still do this. But today, the comfort food is produced by Sarah Lee, Colonel Sanders and Marie Callender, and we are so comfortable that few of us wear pants that don’t have elastic waistbands.

GOURMET FOOD. If you watch the Food Network, you see this type of food prepared daily. Ina Garten, Emeril, and Mario Batali show everyone how it’s done. Frankly, I get weary of all the mincing, sautéing, macerating and gardening that is necessary to produce this food. Any recipe with more than three steps and four ingredients is exhausting. I love to eat gourmet food in restaurants, but having it at home requires at least a Christmas tree and one daughter.

ORGANIC FOOD. I am into the whole organic movement. I am embarrassed by the size of my carbon footprint. So whenever I can, I purchase organics. We all need to remember that organic food does not look flawless, like the things we are accustomed to seeing in the produce section. The apples may be misshapen and have little holes in them. The beans may not be all the same size. But organics are much more healthful. However, and this is a BIG however, organic produce, while healthful, still must be washed. I have had the diarrhea that proves this tenet.

RAW FOOD. This is a food movement that I can’t really understand. These foodies feel that anything cooked will make you sick or even kill you. Meat is obviously out for these people. I have actually been to a “raw food” restaurant, where their approximation of pizza was, I will have to say, interesting. Beet slices may look pepperoni-ish, but the resemblance ends there. The good news for raw food lovers is that pineapple tastes great uncooked.

I applaud all those people out there who are appalled at the beer bellies and large rear ends of many Americans. I think that we should all consider joining gyms and taking the stairs. Let us all remember our New Year’s Resolutions and get ourselves in order! I plan to to do this immediately.

I have packed some snacks into the pockets of my sweat pants, and I am going out for a walk.

SWEETIE PIES

2010-09-11T16:47:00.002-04:00

The news is terrible. There are fires, floods, heat waves and all such manner of horrible things and events. What we all need is a breath of fresh air. We need soothing voices and gentle hands. We need sopranos and tiny waists. What we need is a bunch of sweet young things to charm and delight us. Here they are, fresh from the pages of a book. Not really, but they could be:

SOPHIE: She copies poems into her diary at night and loves looking at the stars. She is just a tiny thing, and her voice is angelic. Her father is a country squire, and her mother often gets the vapors, but then Sophie rises to the occasion and charms her mother with little songs, then goes to make delightful snacks for her father. She is loved by all the villagers. I would hate her on sight.

DAHLIA: She lives in Paris, and has been subjected to all manner of indignities due to her low station. She works as a busker, playing her little flute in the streets for the meager coins thrown her way. Her eyes aren’t clear any more, and she has a subtle cough. She is always hungry, but still tries to share what little she has with her two tiny siblings in the hovel they inhabit. I get tired just thinking about her.

ADA: She is a big, hearty gal. Her boots would be too big for her father. She is better than any hired man, and she can bale hay, kill and roast a chicken, and repair the roof if she has to. Her Ma depends on Ada, because there are no sons in the family to take up the slack. When Pa gets drunk, which happens regularly, Ada hefts him into the loft and dumps him into bed. The next morning, Ada does all the chores before riding into town for provisions. I think women like Ada probably have body odor.

CHLOE: She has just TONS of energy! She started playing the guitar when she was seven, and by the time she hit her teens, she had formed an all girl garage band, “The Teeth,” which now plays to sold out houses in the Midwest. Chloe charms everyone with her red hair, freckles, and flashing smile. I think Chloe needs to be taken down a couple of notches.

SHANA: Her hair is black and her blue eyes shine. She waits tables at the diner, but dreams of a career in country music. She lives with her grandparents in a double wide, and she drives an old pickup. Shana hums tunes as she drives down country roads, and her bright red nails make clacking sounds on the steering wheel. Shana is dyslexic, but manages to write lyrics to the music in her head. I would prefer it if Shana just served me my eggs and moved on.

MOM: She makes everyone’s lunch. She is the only one who knows when all the dental appointments are. She keeps things clean. There is no better nurse, and only Mom can make spaghetti that delicious. She has eyes in the back of her head. She may not wear the latest styles, but she looks very nice in her pedal pushers. The world would be a better place if Moms ran everything. If she could read this, my Mom would tell me to stand up straight and have a little more respect.

As long as there are sweetie pies, the world will keep on turning..

TRADING SPACES

2010-09-08T09:17:00.004-04:00

One of my favorite writer friends and I challenged each other to a duel! We provided each other with a person's name and one adjective. The mission? To write a short story (very short) using just those tools. My friend, Simon Larter, is one you will want to get to know. His blog, "Constant Revisions" has been on my blog roll for a long time. Simon is very funny and a wonderful writer. I gave him the name ALDRICH JONES, and the adjective FECKLESS. If you would like to see the name he gave to me and the story I wrote, click on Simon's blog listed at the left on my blog roll (http://constantrevisions.blogspot.com) Here is Simon's story about a feckless young man named Aldrich Jones:

Aldrich Jones, for a very long time, thought that feckless meant something similar to reckless, and took it as a great compliment when his wife or coworkers used the adjective to describe him. It made him feel edgy, perhaps a little dangerous, although the context in which the word was used confused him. Still, it put a certain spring in his step whenever someone muttered it within his hearing.

One Thursday afternoon, following a rather uncomfortable performance review in which the lone bright spot was a feckless, Aldrich decided to soothe the pain of the tongue-lashing by taking a coffee break at the local Starbucks. The late spring air was crisp with sunshine, with that lovely undercurrent of coolness that only happens on certain days in April, and Aldrich, breathing deeply, made a solid effort to ignore the uncomplimentary comments of his boss and embrace his inner bad boy.

He called the girl at the register “sweetheart” when he ordered. She offered a slight smile before turning to assist the next customer.

Buoyed by the results of his flirtation, he decided to repeat the performance with the barista. “Good afternoon, sweetheart,” he said, brightly. She glanced up from the sputtering espresso machine and blinked at him. “Afternoon?” she said.

Kids these days, Aldrich thought. Everything seemed to turn into a question.
The girl brushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and turned back to her work. Aldrich decided to try again. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Mm-hmm?”

Another question. Aldrich sighed and soldiered on. “I really shouldn’t have left the office, you know. We’re only supposed to take 15 minutes for coffee in the morning and a half hour at lunch.”

With an air of great concentration, the blonde poured milk into a stainless steel container and let steam bubble in the bottom of it. Aldrich had foregone his usual skim milk in favor of full-fat. He was, after all, feeling somewhat wild.

“Yes,” he continued, “I’m not supposed to leave until 5:30, but”—he leaned forward and winked—“I’m feeling feckless today.”

The girl did look at him, then. “Excuse me?”

“You know, a bit daring.” Aldrich gave her his best grin, the one that made his mustache hairs curl over his upper lip.

“You said feckless.”

“I did, didn’t I?” He allowed his grin to widen. His mustache hairs curled more aggressively over his upper lip.

“You don’t know what that means, do you?”

The grin faltered. “Of course I do!”

“Incompetent? Ineffectual? Inept?”

His grin disappeared altogether. He scratched at his lip where his mustache hairs had tickled him. “Pardon me?”

“That’s what it means. Feckless.”

She set his drink on the counter. She appeared to be biting her tongue.“Er . . . thank you.”

Aldrich retrieved his full-fat, double-shot latte from the counter and turned to go. A hastily-stifled giggle wafted over the counter toward him from the barista’s general direction.

The seats by the window were vacant. Aldrich sank into one like a deflated balloon. So . . . feckless was an insult after all?

Suddenly he was no longer confused by the context in which he’d been called that in the past. Hot resentment began to glow in his chest. Inept? Me? They’ve been calling me incompetent all these years?

He took a large gulp of his latte and promptly sputtered as the too-hot liquid scalded his throat. “Gosh…darnit!” For some reason, cursing made him feel better. “Crap!” he said. He hazarded a small “Damn?” That felt good too. Aldrich stood and strode for the door. Feckless. We’ll see about that, he thought. He would march right back into his boss’s office and give him a piece of his mind, that’s what he’d do.

The door careened open under his forceful hand. Another small giggle escaped from behind the counter. Aldrich stopped, turned to glare back at the barista, and promptly caught the return swing of the door on his elbow. Hot, full-fat, double shot latte spurted from the cup as his fist clenched around the cardboard.

A full-blown gale of laughter followed Aldrich out the door and down the street as he danced a small jig of pain. He glared at the offensive tan smear on his white dress shirt.

“Shucks!” he exclaimed vehemently. “Shoot!" How could he confront his boss now, burned tongue, coffee stain and all? No, better to take it up with him tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep on the couch. Because he certainly wasn’t going to share the bed with a woman who would call him feckless to his face. No, sir.

Sitting back at his desk, disgruntlement fizzing in his stomach, Aldrich thought that maybe he would do something reckless on the way home. He’d show them.

After all, there was that motorcycle dealership just a mile from his house.

SOCIAL MEDIA 101

2010-09-03T08:26:00.002-04:00

My husband barely knows what Facebook is. Most of my friends think that only the birds tweet. I feel that it is my obligation to educate those people who are ignorant about social media. Yes, social media is what is going to take over what is left of the “old world.” Social media is going to wipe out the few remaining newspapers, the book publishing industry, and thus libraries, bookstores, and probably person to person interaction. Since, according to experts, this is going to happen very soon, it is essential to know what social media is.

Everybody has heard of Facebook. Invented by a Harvard kid to make “hooking up” easier, Facebook quickly outstripped “My Space” and all other interactive sites. I think people even run their businesses on it. It has allowed millions of people worldwide to locate their high school boyfriends/girlfriends only to discover that they are now old and boring. It also allows many of us with eventless lives to post pictures of our children to share with others.

Twitter is much better than Facebook. Twitter is like the old “instant messaging” that our kids all did instead of their homework. Twitter is just much more encompassing. After just a few weeks on Twitter, one can talk in real time with people from Ireland, Africa, Ecuador, and Hackensack. Twitter messages are very efficient, allowing a person only 140 characters to get a message across. Thus it is very fast. One’s Twitter friends are called “tweeps.” A “tweet” is a twitter message. A “twit” is apparently anybody who isn’t on Twitter.

There are many other social media outlets such as “Discus,” “LinkedIn,” “StumbleUpon,” and “Digg,” just to name a few others. They must not be any good, because I am not on any of them. I have found over three thousand soul mates on Twitter, and therefore spend huge amounts of time sharing things with these dear friends, such as what I had for dinner, why I hate white kitchen floors, and how frustrating it is to be married to an accordion player.

I began my stints on Facebook and Twitter as a writer looking for an audience. I remain on both sites as a writer, yes, but also as a person who craves constant input from hundreds of people I will most likely never set eyes upon. I feel that these folks are my real friends. This is a bit absurd, since I know only small bytes of information about any of them. But it is comforting to be able to “shout out” to these hordes of people and get immediate conversation! Apparently, there is a little bit of loneliness in all of us that Facebook and Twitter seem to fill very nicely.

There are dire prognostications and bestselling books being published (probably mostly on Kindles) that we are headed for a time when each of us will remain isolated in our own little cell, interacting with others only on our keyboards. Yes, this sounds a bit dire, I must admit. HOWEVER, there is a sunny side to all of this, in my view. To me, interacting with people in Africa, while I wear pajamas and scratch myself, is perfect! Really, who doesn’t want to pontificate on the state of healthcare, Hurricane Earl, or string theory while belching? It is the best scenario for those of us with unsightly skin conditions, unbearable shyness, or bowed legs. Believe me when I tell you that I have friends out there of all colors, all religions, all ages, and even a few assorted tweeting dogs and cats. The Twitterworld is a wonderful place. Facebook isn’t bad, either. Social Media may replace books, and face to face conversations, but I seriously doubt it.

What Social Media IS doing is letting old ladies like me become popular again. People all over the world care about 140 characters worth of what I am thinking. All of my friends from grade school appreciate my input!

FOOTBALL IS NO FANTASY

2010-08-28T09:00:00.002-04:00

The leaves are turning. There is that nip in the air. Yes, fall would be a wonderful season if it weren’t for sports. Good grief, the amount of time my family spends on putting together fake football teams amounts to hundreds of man hours that could be devoted to much more worthwhile pursuits like reducing our carbon footprints.

A lot of time is spent deciding who will be in the Fantasy “League.” The league has to have a “commissioner.” I think this year, my husband received illegal campaign funds for his election, but despite it, he lost his bid. After that, there is much discussion about all the players--Carson, Peyton, Terrell, and all those other huge guys. I get to listen in on the arguments about who is in top form, who is most likely to get in trouble, and who is a thug. Then there is the “Draft.” Apparently, drafting a fantasy team requires a day long party with lots of beer and snacks. These parties get very loud, and I have no idea what anyone in the room is talking about.

Once everyone has his/her “team,” then there is a lot of worrying. Will Brett get hurt? Will the Manning brothers have funny commercials this year? Will there be some sort of social commitment that will cause anyone to miss a game on TV? Will we run out of guacamole?

As the season wears on, and Sunday nights (or is it Mondays? I am not really sure) fill up with endless games and constant texting back and forth, teeth gnashing, and shouting, I become a little more hostile to the whole thing. I try to watch the games, and I do know a first down from a field goal, but all this brouhaha about throwing around a pigskin just escapes me. And why anyone would want to sit in a cold stadium with face paint on, waving towels or cardboard signs is beyond my imagination.

At our house, the game comes on, and my husband grabs a beer, his cell phone, and the remote. He spends the first fifteen minutes of the game trying to get the “multiscreen” option on our TV to work, so that he can watch more than one game at once. When that ultimately fails, he sits intently, staring at the screen and changing channels. He moves from game to game and back again, grunting, texting his fellow “fantasizers,” and standing up once in awhile to shout something rude at the referee.

Thank God I have a Kindle. I think it will get me through football season and beyond. I have downloaded a large list of books, along with some word games and the New York Times. It even has a “search”option, in which I can Google things like “calling an audible,” “Hail Mary,” and “onside kick.”

This year, my husband bought us all tickets to go to see the Bengals. On December 26!

Look for me, my lawn chair, and my Kindle in the ladies room…

HERE COMES THE SON

2010-08-21T11:27:00.001-04:00

I successfully raised two daughters. At least, in my view, they grew up just fine. They are both lovely looking, they have good table manners, they know how to run meetings, and they both have managed to snag equally adorable young men.

We had a discussion about this very thing the last time both girls were home. I have to admit that I was shocked at what they revealed: my girls think that had I had a son, he would have turned out “all wrong.”

By “all wrong,” they explained, I would have encouraged a myriad of behaviors that are frowned upon by the masculine gender. According to the girls, a son born into the Campbell family would begin by playing dolls, move on to acting out plays in the driveway, most likely write poems during adolescence, and abhor sports. “But that sounds like a GIRL,” I told them. “EXACTLY,” they replied.

Apparently, as a mother, I was quite a pansy. I thought ALL mothers read “The Secret Garden” out loud to their kids. And telling children that mud pies are unsanitary is the truth, isn’t it? Although I do remember one particular visit when MY mother, as a houseguest, remarked that “Your girls don’t seem to get very dirty, do they?”

Come on! I was a good old American Mom! I let the girls play outside every day! They could stay out as long as they wanted, as long as they had on number 30 sunscreen, bug spray with DEET, and protective gear such as bike helmets, elbow padding, and shin guards. And by the way, despite protection, both girls managed to break at least two bones each during their childhoods.

The girls went on to say that the Campbell son would have also been “all wrong,” in his leisure pursuits. This boy, let’s call him “Ian,” which is what I would have named him, would have been teased about his name by boys named Bob and Chip. He would have grown up going to theatre camp in the summer, entering poetry contests, being the editor of the school newspaper, and playing bridge. Of course, I have no idea how to play bridge, but the girls assure me that “Ian” would know how.

Poor “Ian.” He would not have many friends. He would be tall and knobby, like his father. And good grief, it wouldn’t be ALL my fault: he would most likely play THE ACCORDION in the basement with his Dad. Consensus further states that “Ian”would have a gap between his front teeth (both my children received the blessings of orthodontics, so I am mystified) and would not attract girls.

It is a great relief to me that I had the appropriate children. Evidently, I am just not cut out to nurture males. I do admit that I am baffled by the results of testosterone: huge shoes, mouth guards of all sizes and colors, Old Spice, and fisticuffs. And I do enjoy “inside voices.” “The Secret Garden” was a WONDERFUL story. Oh, my gosh, it’s true. If I had had sons, they would have all been contestants on “Project Runway.”

NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT.

IT'S NOT THE HEAT

2010-08-14T12:37:00.002-04:00

According to the New York Times, Stan and Priti Cox, of Salina, Kansas, are very happy living without air conditioning. Apparently the Coxes haven’t turned on their air conditioners since 1977. The article in the Times refers to Mr. Cox as an agricultural scientist who is concerned with the effects that air conditioners have on global warming.

I applaud the Coxes. I worry about global warming. But as a menopausal and slightly grumpy person, it is obvious to me that the Coxes are either saints, secretly living with friends with AC, or lying. I read the article about them twice. They offer some tips for living in the heat, such as using fans, wearing little, and sitting very, very still.

My husband and I had a long discussion about the Coxes. My husband, who professes a lifelong love for things tropical, has always advocated “sitting still” when things heat up. For me, “sitting still” is boring, ridiculously ineffective in stopping perspiration, and counterproductive. But my husband argues that if you stay very quiet, the heat becomes bearable.

So what do people like the Coxes do while being “still?” Do they have interesting discussions? Do they plan their menus for the coming week? Do they watch TV? Do their shirts stick to their backs? Or are they wearing their underwear? I asked my husband what he would recommend as activities for people who want to turn off their central air in order to save the planet.

“Well, they could read books.”

“Not everybody enjoys reading. And after awhile, reading can get boring.”

“Well, then, they could do Sudokus or something.”

“Ok. You are telling me that Sudoku and reading are what people all over the United States should do when it’s hot? So President Obama, policemen, doctors, and everybody else that gets things accomplished in the world should just read and solve Sodoku puzzles?”

“Well, people doing Sudoku don’t start wars and things.”

“Oh, so now you are telling me that if we all turned off our AC units, that we would have world peace?”

“It’s possible. And I might try my hand at creating some Sudoku puzzles, myself.”

That gave me pause. The Coxes just might be the harbingers of a new world order. If global warming continues, it might lead to a time in which we all wear very little, do even less, and enjoy a life of reading and puzzle solving, in a gentle and pacific environment.

UNTIL WINTER.

DWELLINGS II

2010-08-08T01:25:00.002-04:00

The response has been startling. I have talked to many of my friends about what their houses mean to them. My women friends have fierce ideas about house and home. It seems to me that women view houses from three perspectives: the DREAM, the HEADQUARTERS, and the HAVEN. In order to incorporate the wonderful thoughts of my friends, I have chosen one fictional representative of each perspective:

Women who don’t have houses of their own dream of them. Some women never achieve their fondest hope for a home for their families. Some are too poor, some too young, and some too unlucky. Among those women I know who dream of owning a home of their own is one I call Deb. Deb comes from a poor family. She grew up in an Appalachian region where work was scarce, men who earned good money were scarcer, and the most one could hope for in life was a double wide trailer and a paycheck. Deb dreams of someday having a real house made of brick. She thinks about it while mopping counters at the coffee shop where she hustles tips. In her mind, the ultimate, shining possession would be that brick house with a front porch.

Marty is a go-getter. She had her own business for years. She made quite a bit of money, and then got married to a good guy who wanted kids. With three active boys under the age of 12 and a baby on the way, Marty organizes her life within an INCH. Her house is “activity central,” and she has everything under control. Each child has a locker in the mudroom. There are baskets in each bedroom labeled “Schoolbooks,” “Soft Toys,” “Toys With Little Pieces,” and “Pieces of Little Toys.” There is a calendar of events posted on the refrigerator. Marty and the kids are ever loading themselves, other people’s children, and mounds of sporting equipment into the car and driving away. If you asked Marty what color her powder room is painted, she would most likely hazard a vague guess.

Beth is retired from working. Her children are raised, and she is satisfied with the result. She now has all sorts of time on her hands that was never there before. One day, Beth looked around and sized up her home. Like a whirlwind, Beth began to make changes. She cleaned out the attic, and gave the children their toys and books back. She got rid of all the camping equipment in the basement. She threw away the items that she thought she might put into a garage sale someday. She painted rooms. She rearranged, and even bought a brand new and comfortable sofa for the family room. She went antiquing. And she washed the windows. Then she twirled around, looked at everything with great satisfaction, and settled down to enjoy the lovely surroundings she had created. With no time pressures and the rest of her life before her, she was filled with delight and the realization that now she didn’t need to go someplace else for a “vacation.” Her house was her haven. Beth and I have a lot of girlfriends just like us.

I have had the dream, presided very efficiently at headquarters, but now I hurry back to the haven of the home I have always wanted. Thank you, all my friends, for helping me write this one!

DWELLINGS

2010-08-05T23:44:00.002-04:00

It seems to me that some women wear their houses the way some men drive their cars. Success means a Ferrari or a McMansion. For other women, houses are havens. Some women just live in theirs. Artists drape and shape their homes. Women. Houses. I am obsessed with the idea of how we look at the places where we live.

I asked a bunch of my friends to characterize their “dream house.” What resulted ranged from cottage to villa. There were reveries about French doors, Agas, book lined rooms, and swimming pools. The more I talked with my friends, the more I wanted to write about women and their relationships with their houses.

When I was growing up, my mother subscribed to quite a few “decorating” magazines. I have no idea why, because we lived in a modest house, with green walls, matching green wall to wall carpeting, and a furniture arrangement that remained static for the entire time my parents lived in the house. Mom had good taste, but I never perceived her as a student of interior design. I, on the other hand, read all the decorating magazines from cover to cover each month, and developed a sense of “my own style” from reading them.

Part of my obsession with homes and their interiors comes from a deep sense of insecurity that I felt as a child. The currents of my life always seemed treacherous, and I clung to the idea of home as haven. I chose as my favorites books about safety within the walls. I loved the idea of Beatrix Potter, cozily creating her characters in the nursery, staying at home long after adulthood. Louisa May Alcott invented Jo and her sisters living such a delightful and soul satisfying life of “genteel poverty” in their lovely but shabby shuttered New England saltbox. “Anne of Green Gables” was my favorite and most re-read book. Anne Shirley and her beloved home and family soothed my fractious young soul.

At nights when sleep eluded me, I chose a location, and then chose a house to live in there. In my mind’s eye, I first created the outside, and then furnished it inside. I then inhabited the home with whatever family suited it, and finally moved on to appropriate pets. I can recommend this activity highly. It is totally absorbing and completely satisfying.

I am going to share with you one of my house fantasies, and then for the next few weeks, some of the fantasies of some of my favorite women. These fictional women are also my creations, but laced liberally with the ideas and imaginings of my actual women friends.

MOLLY. She’s me! In actuality, I have two cherished house dreams. These two homes have been with me for at least forty years. They were created by the eight year old me, after lights out, when sleep eluded me. To avoid reader boredom, I will share my first house here, and save house two for later:

My urban fantasy revolves around a beautiful apartment in a big city, preferably New York, because I don’t speak French. This dwelling would be very high up. The exterior of the building would be old stone, and the architecture would most certainly include a gargoyle or two. This apartment would be for me and one little dog and two cats. No husband visible in this fantasy, for I am living by myself, it seems. The apartment would be on the corner of the building, so that I could have a large front terrace as well as a smaller terrace off the kitchen. The front terrace would have lovely leaded glass French doors opening onto it from the living room. This “”big” terrace would have high walls so that my cats and dog could scamper about safely.

Usually at this point in the fantasy, I would have to pause to name the cats and choose the dog. Two Siamese, “Parsnip,” and “Coyote.” The dog. Hummm. Yes, a Scottie, “Magnus.” In order to design the terraces, the pets would have to be present and accounted for.

Terraces. Brick herringbone. Large trees in pots. Areas of grass for Magnus to do his business. Beautiful table and chairs. Pillows. I think orange and dark red. Perennials in pots. Room for a Christmas tree in the front terrace. Kitchen terrace would be narrow, and full of different sized pots for herbs, tomatoes, zinnias, and a tiny shed for my gardening equipment. A tiny table for drinking coffee and reading the paper would be essential.

Inside, the only important rooms are the living room and the kitchen. Of course there would be a library, but those tend to take care of themselves with the books and the ladder thingy that rolls. In the living room would be a large wood burning fireplace. I picture some sort of antique mantel, deep enough for the paintings I would lean against it and the daubs and orbs I would put up there as well.

I don’t worry too much about furniture. It would be plentiful, tasteful, and comfortable. I see more in colors: there would be greens and blues, with tiny bits of pink. Persian rugs, of course. Antiques, probably not valuable ones.

Going this far in the dream house usually gets me to sleep. I look forward to finishing the project the next night, populating the house with friends, family, and my fictional reason to be living there in the first place.

Yes, it did the trick once again! I am sleepy. So next time? I’ll flesh things out a bit more. In the meantime, if my blog host is gracious enough to let you, leave me a comment with your ideas of the perfect abode!

SEARCHING FOR MR. HACKMAN

2010-07-30T21:32:00.001-04:00

The view from our living room windows is pleasant, with trees, houses, and sidewalks. Apparently that is all I ever notice. It seems that I take everything out there for granted, and my eyes are truly unseeing. Agatha Christie would have never written about someone with my observational skills! THERE HAS BEEN A RED CAR PARKED OUTSIDE OUR HOUSE FOR THREE WEEKS.

My husband brought this to my attention yesterday. “That car has not moved in three weeks.”

ME: “What car?”

HIM: “That red one. Hasn’t moved.”

ME: “Well, call the police.”

HIM: “I did. It is from Michigan, and it belongs to someone named Hackman.”

At this point, I have to admit that I was a little intrigued. My husband, the detective. This started a lively conversation about said Mr. Hackman.

ME: “Are they going to tow this Hackman guy’s car away?”

HIM: “Well, I am concerned that maybe this Hackman guy is sick or something, and can’t come back for his car.”

ME: “SICK? What made you think of that? Why not DEAD?”

HIM: “The police would know if he were dead.”

ME: “So if you have his car towed, and he gets better, you are afraid he will be wandering the street in front of the house in his robe, looking for the car?”

HIM: “He wouldn’t be wearing a robe if he was better; that is just silly.”

ME: “Well, then, maybe you should go around the neighborhood, knocking on doors, asking if anyone is harboring the ailing Mr. Hackman from Michigan.”

HIM: “I thought of that. The sick thing is probably ridiculous, right? So maybe he is a victim of foul play.”

So there we stood, looking out the window, speculating about Mr. Hackman. Is he a criminal, who put his car there for a getaway vehicle after a robbery that is in the offing? Is he just somebody’s houseguest? Is he IN THE TRUNK of that car? Did the car just break down three weeks ago, and Hackman abandoned it? What if Mr. Hackman is an Alzheimer’s victim, aimlessly wandering the area, searching for his auto? IS he actually sick somewhere? It was fun for awhile, but soon we got bored with Mr. Hackman, and went back to our laptops.

It is still sitting there. If anyone out there knows this Hackman guy, will you tell him to move his car?

And tell him we hope he feels better soon...

A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

2010-07-24T10:15:00.002-04:00

I live in a regular neighborhood. It’s full of regular people doing regular things. As a writer, I have often wondered what it would be like to have other writers living around me. Famous ones. I think block parties would be incredibly interesting, and borrowing cups of sugar could turn into epic conversations. What would carpools be like? Trick or treating?

If Nora Ephron lived next door, I would probably spend a lot of time hanging around at her house. I’ll never forget the article she wrote about being mystified as to how those of us in suburbia get anything accomplished, due to all the walking and driving required out here in the heartland. So having Nora next door and taking her to the mall would be hilarious. She would DIE at the size of the parking lot! We’d get makeovers and talk about our neck wrinkles. We would compare notes about menopause. I am sure she would love being my pal.

I would think that a romance novelist would make a great neighbor. My choices would be writers who write with a bit of edge and insight. Not that Danielle Steele would be unwelcome, but I would prefer Elizabeth Buchan. She can write about the spurned wife like no other. I bet her house would be very comfortable and that her bookshelves would cause me pangs of envy. And if we also had Joanna Trollope in the area, would the three of us get together and talk about our angst ridden children or the just how difficult our relatives are?

For some excitement, I would love having Elizabeth George in the vicinity. What kinds of mysteries might she concoct using the locals as inspiration? Would she craft a character around me? Would an accordion player get murdered and his wife be the main suspect? How fun! And if Sue Grafton was around, would she include ME in one of her alphabet mysteries?

I would be thrilled if Meghan Daum lived nearby. That would mean that our neighborhood is of a very high standard, indeed. Our property values would go up due directly to her decision to buy a house here. She and I would compare DIY projects and I would be very honest in advising her about paint colors.

If Craig Wilson were a neighbor, everyone would want to go over to his house during the holidays. His columns in USA Today evoke such charm. I am sure that his Christmas decorations would be inspired, and that we’d gather around the piano and sing Carols. There would be delicious food, punch, and mistletoe. He would regale us with stories of his fascinating life and travels.

I have a great neighborhood. There are doctors, lawyers, delightful children, lovable dogs, and women that I admire. We are a congenial group. But I can’t help thinking about what having Steig Larsson around the block might have been like. Dark. Would he have brooded at the block parties? Would he have given out "Swedish Fish" on Halloween?

But then again, if he lived around here, his book might have been called “The Girl with the Ladybug Tattoo.”

WOMAN, HOUSE, DOG

2010-07-18T12:10:00.002-04:00

It is a common assumption that people come to resemble their dogs. I have not necessarily followed this line of reasoning, but then again, it might hold some truth. I am a firm believer, however, in the idea that one chooses one’s home for deep psychological reasons. Taking this just a bit further, if women are one with their homes, and resemble their dogs, somebody should write about it. I feel uniquely qualified, and I have categorized some “common” archetypes of female homeowners and their dogs.

HERMIONE. She lives in an upscale neighborhood in a large American city. Her flat, in an old brownstone, has wide planked hardwood floors and a non working fireplace. An Anglophile, Hermione drinks tea in the afternoons and has antique chintz draperies. Her overweight Pug, Dashiell, has access to the back garden, and prefers coddled eggs to processed dog food. Hermione has noticed a tendency to gain weight as she ages, and her facial wrinkles cause much worry. Hermione spends too much money on facial creams and exfoliators. Dashiell watches it all with amusement, and takes frequent naps.

MADELINE. A graduate of a prestigious Ivy League College, Maddie, as she is known to her friends, is an attorney. Recently married to a dermatologist, Maddie and her husband own a lovely Tudor cottage in an old suburb of Chicago. Maddie is allergic to cats, and her husband likes big dogs. Fred is a Borzoi, whose grace and charm have won Maddie’s heart. Fred and Maddie spend inordinate amounts of time in the garden outside the cottage, where Maddie is growing climbing roses and lavender, and where Fred’s flowing white tresses contrast nicely with the herbaceous borders and Maddie’s black braids.

SMUT. Of dubious parentage, Smut spent the formative weeks of his life in a cage at a kill shelter. Black and white, and slightly bowlegged, Smut was often passed over for more attractive pups. The day Sheila walked in, it seemed like Kismet. Sheila, who had angry chicken pox at age six, has always felt inferior to her coworkers at the fashion magazine where she is a copywriter. With coarse hair and uneven facial terrain, Sheila is single and lonely. Sheila and Smut live in a small loft in Soho, where they often gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows and dream. Their loft is sparsely furnished, and what is there is primarily from the thrift store. Their prized possession is a roomy, overstuffed plaid sofa, where they spend Sunday mornings dozing and reading The New York Times. Smut often persuades Sheila to buy croissants, which they share.

BETHANY. She’s busy. She has four children under the age of ten. Her husband is a successful corporate type, and they live in a gated community in a house with all master bedrooms, an unused back yard, and a media room. Bethany is WAY too busy for a pet, and so she rarely pays much attention to their two ill mannered Labrador Retrievers, Chloe and Pepper. As a result, the new suede sectional has major tears. The children complain that the dogs knock them down. Somebody peed in the mud room yesterday. The electric collars are somewhere in the back of the junk drawer, and Chloe was last seen running down the street after the mail carrier. Bethany was unavailable at the time, as it was her day for her golf lesson and Bikram yoga class.

CARLETON. He is a very distinguished eight year old Dachshund, of the smooth coat variety. He has impeccable manners and a very soft spot in his heart for his mistress, Mrs. Duncan, who returns his adoration. They live in an old, Victorian house, full of antiques and Persian rugs. Mr. Duncan, who was a lovely man, died soon after Carleton was adopted. So Carleton and Mrs. Duncan rattle around together in the old house, sharing memories and tidbits while sitting by the fire. Carleton loves his walks, and he and his mistress can be seen strolling through the leafy streets in all weathers. When it is cold, Carleton wears a plaid jacket. When it rains, Mrs. Duncan carries an old Burberry umbrella. Mrs. Duncan is very soft spoken, and Carleton rarely barks.

There are, of course, as many types of dogs out there as there are women and their houses. But I would venture to say that our choice of canine is reflective of our true selves. Take me, for example: I am bossy. I live in an old house with lots of breakables. I have a dog who knows her place, has impeccable manners around my good china, and who knows that I am the pack leader. I love cats, and she pretends to. It’s a match made in heaven. But wait. Our dog doesn’t resemble me at all! Oh my gosh.

She’s the spitting image of my husband…

WITH THIS RING

2010-07-10T10:08:00.002-04:00

I thought I was done. The children are both paying their own bills now, and I just assumed that once that happened, the parenting part was over. I thought that after offspring finish college, parents get to look forward to dandling grandchildren on their knees, and that’s it. I was not prepared for the next stage of parenting.

The needs of adult children, as it turns out, take a big bite out of the empty nester’s schedule. I didn’t realize that our children would need advice on their retirement plans, whether or not they should buy houses now before the economic downturn ends, or if it is a good idea to get dental coverage. And I forgot all about weddings!

Within the next twelve months, there will be two weddings in our family. As parents of brides, we suddenly realized the enormity of what looms before us. Did you know that there are companies out there who specialize in LIGHTING for weddings? Apparently, these days, weddings include special effects. One of our daughters wants to get married in a barn in front of a horse, and the other will be tying the knot in a winery. It’s complicated.

The disappearance of dowries, which generated sighs of relief for parents all over the world, has not benefited my generation of parents. Back then, all it took to marry a girl off was a respectably put together hope chest. I would love to send both girls out with a few sheep and some chickens. I would even throw in a few pots and pans. Instead, we have to grapple with wedding planners, musicians, decorative hay bales for the barn wedding, and large wheels of cheese at the winery. Decisions about guest lists and bridal parties must be made, and save the date postcards sent out.

At weddings I have attended recently, there have been singing brides, indoor fireworks, multi media presentations, stand up comedians, gluten free wedding cakes, signature cocktails, and multi lingual ceremonies. Not to mention wedding singers, disc jockeys, vegan entrees, and cake balls.

As I recall, my wedding was very simple and inexpensive. We had a few people in a little chapel, I had a very attractive off the rack dress, and my mother planned a very nice luncheon afterwards. The whole thing probably set my parents back a couple of grand. These days, weddings have become extravaganzas. During this next year, I will be talking with florists, caterers, and seating planners. I will be sampling sushi and cake balls. There will be meetings, long distance phone calls, and dancing lessons. It sounds exhausting, expensive, and a little exhilarating.

It takes a village. To plan a wedding.

MISS MANNERS

2010-07-03T10:50:00.002-04:00

I was appalled. Yes, there were three children in a shopping cart. And yes, they were very active. But letting them hurl cereal in the aisle, take their shirts off, and use the F word caused at least a dozen elderly shoppers to have near-coronaries. I was among them. It seems that it is again time for me to put on my “Emily Post hat” and give all you young whippersnappers out there some of the finer points of daily etiquette.

CHILDREN ARE REALLY BETTER SEEN AND NOT HEARD. Is Dr. Spock no longer in vogue? Who is giving out advice to young parents these days? Believe me, it won’t hurt their forming psyches one bit to learn how to keep their little mouths shut in adult company. I have yet to meet a toddler who has anything REALLY interesting to say!

ALL PANTS SHOULD BE KEPT ON IN PUBLIC. I must admit that there are pictures in our family archive of naked children pushing shopping carts, but it was in the privacy of our own home. And once they hit the age of two, nude toddlers are no longer charming to the general public. Those little tushes should be encased in something during outings.

TEENAGERS MUST SPIT OUT THAT GUM. I know that teens lack self confidence, and that the teen years can be brutal. But I am lost as to how chewing gum 24/7 helps ease the transition into adulthood. And summer jobs are scarce. Gum chewing during job interviews does not endear you to any employer that I am aware of.

I UNDERSTAND THE LURE OF TATTOOS. BUT BE SO VERY CAREFUL WHERE YOU PUT THEM. The Baby Boomer generation still associates tattoos with drunken sailors. I realize that every single one of my grown children’s friends has at least five tattoos. But please don’t get one across the bridge of your nose! I really think you will regret that one. And for those of you out there who have uncivil words anywhere on your body, think of how you are going to explain them to YOUR children!

PUT YOUR NAPKIN IN YOUR LAP. Perhaps eating while sitting at a table is a lost habit, what with all those soccer games and dancing recitals, but honestly, all children must learn table manners. Forks, not fingers. Straws for drinking, and not shooting coke at your sister. No slurping. Elbows are still unwelcome on the table, no matter how comfortable that is. And for heaven’s sake, sit up straight in your chair and stop kicking your fellow diners under the table!

PLEASE AND THANK YOU ARE STILL IN THE LEXICON. There seems to be a bit of a sense of entitlement going on out there. Just a reminder, here, that gracious people get a lot further in life than their counterparts.

WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY? Are there any words that are considered taboo these days? Scatological terminology and sexual descriptives are everywhere. Does it really help to loudly use the “F” word when frustrated, say, at the mall? Is it ok to call women and girls “bitches?” I blame rap music for this. I blame rap music for a lot of things. As a matter of fact, just this morning, when I stubbed my toe, the word that came flying out of my mouth was directly due to the worldwide influence of rap music.

FINALLY, ALL CHILDREN OVER THE AGE OF TWENTY FIVE SHOULD GET MARRIED AND HAVE CHILDREN. It is only good manners to award your parents with grandchildren before those parents are in nursing homes. This practice of having careers, living together for extended periods, and THEN tuning in to the biological clock is creating an entire generation of diaper wearing GRANDPARENTS.

I want to thank you for reading this. Please come again.

THE PAJAMA GAME

2010-06-26T14:49:00.002-04:00

I used to jump out of bed at the sound of the alarm, rush through a shower, and then get dressed and start the day. This has pretty much been the pattern of my life for as long as I can remember. Up and at it. Rise and shine.

But then I became a “writer.” I am sure I am not the only person with literary leanings that has trouble getting dressed in the morning. Perhaps it comes with the territory, but I am still a little ashamed of the fact that there are days when I look at the clock, and realize that it is long past noon, and I am still wearing bedclothes.

I like to think that I have joined a sorority of literary women who also write in their pajamas. I imagine Nora Ephron typing hilarious things while wearing a flannel nightshirt. I cherish the fantasy that Erma Bombeck sometimes dashed off one of her columns while wearing a nightie. There is no doubt in my mind that Julie Powell wrote her famous blog without getting completely dressed.

However, I am sure that not all writers would agree about the pajamas. Ayn Rand probably wrote her revolutionary prose wearing a business suit, or at least man- tailored slacks. I know that Emily Dickinson was always in a proper peplum. Jane Austen would have been scandalized to see me at my desk wearing coffee stained boxer shorts and an old Metallica T-shirt.

I know my Mom would be horrified at my creative writing uniform. This is a woman who never let the sun rise on her nightgowns. She wore tube tops and pedal pushers, but she was always DRESSED. She always, as I recall, wore shoes as well. Her opinion of people in pajamas after waking was that they must be either unwell or oversexed. I feel a little guilty when I think about this, but then I console myself that my mother came from a different age, and that the fact that I am writing this while wearing the Metallica T-shirt is really ok.

So I sit here, shoeless and attired in what would shock my Mom, “writing.” It is quarter to three. Soon, I will have to think about what to make for dinner. In just a little while, I will go upstairs, comb my hair and get some regular clothes on. Although I “write,” I still have some standards. I have never served dinner to my family while wearing pajamas.

But there is a first time for everything…

THE MAESTRO

2010-06-20T08:50:00.001-04:00

My father was far from ordinary. Other children’s dads were doctors, lawyers and teachers. Their dads went to work in the morning and came home for dinner. Their dads played golf on the weekends. My father was a maestro.

I grew up hearing him play the violin, beautifully. He had a lovely one, with real gold on the pegs, and also on the bow. It had a beautiful velvet lined case, with little pockets for rosin and extra strings. There was a silk lined velvet blanket to cover the violin. When he played, I used the case as a doll bed.

I grew up in concert halls, sitting very quietly during rehearsals, where my father stood on a big podium in front of the orchestra, waving his arms. Everyone in the orchestra seemed in awe of my Dad. I thought it was because he was so handsome. But I knew he was the boss of all of those musicians, and I was very proud.

When my father went to work, it was at night. After an early dinner, he would get dressed. I loved this ritual. First the beautiful white shirt with all the little pleats. Pearl buttons. Black pants with a satin stripe down the sides. Cummerbund. Dad had a few different pairs of cufflinks, and I got to choose which ones he wore. I felt so important. Then the shiny patent leather shoes. And finally, the tails and bow tie, which he tied himself. He was a glorious man.

I hated actually going to see him conduct, because those evenings were long and boring. I got tired of watching him in front of the orchestra after about five minutes. My mother had made it clear that there was to be no twitching, no neck craning, and no noise. I perfected this, but for years afterwards, I hated going to concerts, remembering the constraints of childhood!

My father was magnificently handsome. He was tall, dark, and charming. He was the object of many women’s fantasies, and I think indulged many of them. It made me cherish him all the more, because I think in my childish subconscious, I was afraid one of his admirers might carry him away from us.

The maestro was my biggest fan. He thought I was beautiful when I had pimples. He was the first person to tell me that I should be a writer. He was never too busy to hug, or to listen. We watched “The Tonight Show” together every weeknight. He concocted very interesting late night snacks.

The Maestro died when I was a young mother. I wish I could go to just one more concert. I wouldn’t move a muscle.

HOARDERS

2010-06-12T11:41:00.001-04:00

By now, we have all either seen or heard of that horrible reality show that exposes the folks who can’t seem to throw anything away. Most of us feel calmly superior while watching, patting ourselves on the back that here is at least ONE personality disorder that we don’t have to worry about.

But this morning, I went down into the basement to put in a load of laundry, and I took a look around. In the midst of a huge collection of stuff sat the accordion man, happily working on a project. I pointed out to him that we were both surrounded by THINGS. He nodded. “I have been trying to get rid of this stuff and the stuff in the attic for years now, but you don’t want me to.”

So I took an inventory of the things that I have been hesitating to eliminate:

LIBRARY CHAIRS. We don’t use them any more, but they are very comfortable, all wood, and I see ones just like them in catalogs. That makes them worth something, doesn’t it? Despite the chewing gum on the bottoms, the puffy paint on the seats, and the fact that they wobble when sat upon?

PINE CONES. It galls me to have to PAY for something that is plentiful in nature. Pine cones are used by some of the most famous decorators on HGTV, and they can enhance any table setting. They also look smart filling baskets by the hearth. A stash of pine cones is a necessity for modern trend setters.

FOLDING CHAIRS. I once had a party for over fifty people, and those chairs came in handy. Extra seating is another thing that folks like Carolyn Roehm and Vern Yip recommend. I believe that Sister Parrish had folding chairs aplenty in her home also. I rest my case.

LUGGAGE. Although we take few trips, it never hurts to be ready for an excursion. Writers need inspiration, and often find it in faraway places. The fact that the last trip we took was to West Virginia to see my mother is no way a factor. It is necessary to be ready to take off for parts unknown at a moment’s notice. Rick Steves says so.

WEDDING GIFTS. There are some really nice silver items in the basement that have never come out of their original boxes. Why, just the other day, I discovered a BEAUTIFUL pair of candlesticks that I don’t even remember receiving! It was like Christmas! They are now on the dining room table. I do admit that the three fondue sets are expendable, but there are three bun warmers and two hot trays that I will need to use along with the folding chairs, at my next party for fifty people. They stay.

If you live in an apartment or condo, you must be streamlined in your approach to life. But if you live in a house with a large basement and an attic, you can afford to hold on to valuable items that might some day have usefulness or great worth as antiquities. “Antiques Roadshow” was created for people with full basements and attics.

“Hoarders” is for sick people.

CHALK AND CHEESE

2010-06-05T13:03:00.002-04:00

It’s no secret that my husband and I are different. Opposites attract, as we all know. But nowhere is this more apparent than in our approaches to what we do in our spare time. My husband has prepared a Powerpoint presentation on “The Origins of Life,” which he totes around with him on his laptop and extols to unsuspecting people he invites out for coffee. Charlie ponders what motivates people to do the things they do. I like to read a lot of books, but I don’t particularly want to be in a book club. I don’t like to overthink things.

Charlie likes people who have vast compendiums of knowledge. When asked a “yes or no” question, he always answers by saying “Well, there are a number of issues involved.” Charlie likes to go to plays and then discuss their ramifications afterwards. I like to leave at intermission and get a good night’s sleep.

We once met a couple who both had their doctorates in some sort of ancient, historical or mythical subject matter. To add to their cachet, they hardly spoke English. We spent an evening with them eating wonderful food, but discussing something that sounded to me like sacrificing goats and then roasting the meat. Charlie just loved these people. He has wanted to have them over for dinner for the longest time. I just saw a “SOLD” sign in front of their house. I am ecstatic.

In restaurants, we can never place our order the first time the waitress asks, because Charlie STUDIES the menu. He orders exactly as listed. For instance, I order “The fried fish.” He orders “The fresh Tilapia, dusted with cornmeal and lightly fried, with sautéed apples and freshly baked biscuits.” For crying out loud, there is only one fish choice on the menu! Then he asks what kind of COFFEE BEANS they use. Sounds like a real epicure, right? But this is at THE CRACKER BARREL.

Charlie is intrigued by “BEAUTY.” It’s not what you think. He wonders what it is that triggers someone to call a thing beautiful, when that same thing might be uninspiring to somebody else. He tries to engage me in this subject:

HIM: Do you think that rosebush is beautiful?

ME: Sure.

HIM: No, really. Look at the composition of the rosebush juxtaposed with the fence.

ME: It’s fine.

HIM: But what IS beauty? Do you think there is a kind of beauty in ugly things, like that tractor over there?

ME: What tractor? And by the way, you can speed up; the speed limit along here is 65.

HIM: But what is beautiful to YOU?

ME: Getting home quickly. I have to pee.

Slow married fast. Deep married shallow. The long of it and the short of it got hitched. Chalk and cheese have managed somehow to stay together for forty years. Charlie is preparing a Powerpoint presentation on the subject--care to have coffee?

ODE TO SPANX

2010-05-30T16:01:00.001-04:00

Women of a certain age need help. Luckily, there is help available. With the huge Boomer Generation now approaching their dotage, the free market has seen the opportunity for huge profits, and thus the underwear and cosmetic giants have introduced many miracle products.

I have five different pairs of Spanx. These wonder undergarments slim you, make you look firm, and remain somehow comfortable for long periods. I remember the old days of long line girdles, and I DO NOT want to go back there! I have black Spanx for evening wear, skin toned Spanx for every day, and for extra special occasions, I have a Spanx bra/panty combination that makes me look fine even in a TIGHT TOP.

These days, sweating is no longer a worry. The pharmaceutical folks have figured out a way to make their deodorants PRESCRIPTION STRENGTH. This means that hot flashes can’t ruin my silk blouse. I haven’t bought a silk blouse in years, but I could if I wanted to, thanks to those scientists.

Wrinkles and crows feet? I LAUGH AT THEM. Those powder foundations seem to banish just about all my flaws! I buy creams that burn the hell out of my face when I put them on, but boy, they peel off all my spots and leave baby clear skin in their wake. Some very rich dermatologists apparently have discovered the fountain of youth, and now you don’t have to visit their competitors, the plastic surgeons! OH NO. Now you just purchase extremely expensive lotions and creams after your yearly mole check!

Those hair dye people have been making money for years. But they too have refined their products, so that you don’t have to drip dye all over your good towels or worry about dark roots. Now you can COMB on your dripless hair dye, and use a mascara-like thingy to banish roots when they show up suddenly.

I love to use facials that peel off. I study the peel after I remove it, and marvel at all that debris that must have been in my pores. I also use those scrubby, sandy exfoliators. They are guaranteed to “smooth your face and make you glow.”

I am menopausal, but I look marvelous. I have my beauty routine down to a science. I look almost as good as I did when I was in my twenties. I swagger around the Mall in my Spankified glory, glowing, radiating youth and confidence.

But it takes me two hours to get ready to leave the house.

TIVO WARS CONTINUE TO RAGE

2010-05-23T09:22:00.001-04:00

They say that opposites attract. That certainly seems to be the case with my marriage. He is skinny, and let’s not say that I am FAT, but that Weight Watchers is my sorority. He plays a pretty good game of golf, and I think that nothing could be more boring than hitting a little ball, then having to walk a mile, talking with three other people about Tiger Woods, and then hitting it again.

However, the source of a great deal of my angst these days is the brand new, high def, slender screened, sleek looking television in the den. Really, you can see Matt Lauer’s PORES. I am thrilled with it. I want to watch all my shows and see them in a way I have never seen them before.

My husband, the accordion man, has his own ideas about entertainment. Apparently he studies the TV guide and marks the shows he wants to TiVo with a highlighter. He then TiVos every single one of them. Nothing wrong with that. However, there is a huge imbalance that exists, and this is going to be my undoing.

Here are the shows I adore: Grey’s Anatomy. Anything involving hunting for a house, designing a house, staging battles on blocks, and losing massive amounts of weight. I also favor dog training, infomercials for gadgets that make omelets and bake cakes at the same time, and yoga shows. I love nothing more than sitting down to the TiVo with a nice steaming cup of coffee with sugarfree Vanilla dairy less creamer, a cat on my lap, to watch some rich person look at New York lofts with the Kliers.

But this is not happening! The TiVo has been taken over by my husband’s interests. The “browse recordings” screen has NOTHING TO OFFER ME. For instance, just yesterday afternoon, here was the bill of fare: “The First Christians,” “Black Holes,” “Stephen Hawking Explains the Universe,” “Lions and Other Massive Predators Killing and Eating Things Right Before Your Eyes,” “String Theory Demystified,” and last but certainly not least, “The Three Stooges.”

On that same screen, here were my options: “House Hunters” (a rerun), and “Cats 101” also a rerun. The Siamese and I were out of luck. I considered trying Stephen Hawking, but he is impossible for a lowbrow like me to fathom. “The Early Christians” was, truthfully, BORING. Oh yes, and there was one episode of “Red Green” available, but I had seen that one.

What is a person to do? We have had some discussions about the fact that Charlie RECORDS all of these shows, but rarely WATCHES them, thus leaving them on the TiVo roster, and hogging all the space. I swear, “Vandals and Goths” has been sitting there waiting for someone to watch them rape and pillage for SIX MONTHS.

I have figured out a revenge strategy, though. Once a week, in the afternoon when he is in the basement communing with his accordion, I go in and ERASE a show. Yesterday I killed “Early Attempts at Creating Atomic Fission in a Basement in Milwaukee.” So far, he hasn’t noticed.

Have any of you seen the latest “Househunters International?” Will you tell me about it?

RECIPE FOR DISASTER

2010-05-15T16:16:00.003-04:00

My husband and I are not nearly as cute as the Tripplehorns. If you don’t know who the Tripplehorns are, you aren’t getting out enough. While we are not as young or cute as the couple in the movie, we have had our share of date night calamities.

My first horrible restaurant recollection: the night of my 50th birthday, when my nerdy husband decided it would be funny to have our friends call me on my cell phone at intervals throughout the evening to wish me well. The first call was hilarious! After the tenth call, I was furious, the other patrons were seething at the constant beeping, and I developed acid reflux.

Restaurants these days rarely have dress codes. Americans are notorious for wearing golf shirts and sneakers everywhere. So when we were on vacation in New York, Charlie confidently made reservations at a fine eatery, reassuring me that our attire was entirely appropriate. Upon arrival, the maitre d’ offered us a pair of pantyhose and a necktie.

Dinner and a movie sound fun. But dinner IN THE MOVIE isn’t. At our local theatre, you can get pizza, hot dogs, Starbucks and funnel cakes right in the lobby. We were bored and hungry one Friday night, and so we decided to try it. While juggling his pizza, Charlie knocked my arm off the armrest, causing me to spill my Belgian Caramel half-caff Mocha Latte all over the lap of the woman next to me. We missed all the good sex scenes while mopping up.

Having friends over for dinner is a no brainer. Smart hostesses serve tried and true recipes with sure-fire desserts purchased from the bakery. I, on the other hand, in a social climbing frenzy, hired a chef and invited around a dozen guests for dinner. That evening began with lovely cascades of snow which quickly developed into a blizzard. The guests all arrived bedecked in their finery, but the chef got lost in the whiteout. At nine o’clock, with no chef in sight, we broke out the Cheerios. We have not seen those twelve people since.

This year, we celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary. We are now very old, and very wise. We had the foolproof date night: Pizza carry-out, two bottles of wine, HBO, and Klondike Bars.

MAY AND DECEMBER

2010-05-09T16:12:00.002-04:00

Every precocious little girl should have an old lady for a friend. Adults are much more interesting than children. Adults know about the world. Adults know great big words, and use them without affectation. For a child who is easily bored with childish things, an older woman can be the friend that changes life forever.

My lady friend was named Mrs. Mason. She lived next door with her irascible husband Kermit, their two adultish children, and lots and lots of books. Mrs. Mason (I was absolutely NOT allowed to call her Rebecca) had a college education, a charming lack of commitment to keeping house, and a real LIBRARY. In our house, that room was called a “rec” room, and it had our TV in it. At the Masons, the television was in the living room, and the big room on the first floor was full of books.

I went over to the Masons' house just about every day after school. I was always welcome. I followed Mrs. Mason around, watching her make supper, plant seeds, or we just sat and talked. We talked about adult things, like politics and the neighbors. I gave my opinion, and she listened. Mrs. Mason was a terrible cook, and so when she wanted to make something good, she always asked for my help. We would make a treat, and go downstairs to the library while we waited for it to bake. Mrs. Mason would bring the laundry into the library and do some ironing, while I browsed through the books, looking for a good one. I could borrow any book I wanted to. Some of the books I read from Mrs. Mason’s library included “The Thirteen Clocks,” which scared the daylights out of me; “The Complete Works of Rabelais,” which luckily had some illustrations that gave a rough idea of the goings on; and “Wuthering Heights,” which Mrs. Mason and I both LOVED, and which we discussed at length.

I was an eccentric child, and reveled in my friendship with the Mason family. None of them minded my constant presence, and all gave me the respect that most adults reserve for each other and rarely grant to kids. Apparently, the Masons were also eccentrics, but I didn’t realize that. I thought all next door neighbors dried their own herbs, dabbled in oil painting, let all the dishes sit in the sink to wash “tomorrow,” and listened to classical music on the stereo full blast.

My Mother worried that I was an annoyance next door, and she tried her best to interest me in more age appropriate pursuits, like the Girl Scouts, roller skating, and dancing lessons, but I remained steadfastly devoted to Mrs. Mason. Finally, my mother gave up, and Mrs. Mason and I continued being best chums. We experimented in making our own ink out of flowers, which didn’t work. We grew cactuses. We painted faces on rocks, and placed them artfully in the garden. But more than anything, we talked about books.

When I went to high school, I saw less and less of Mrs. Mason, who seemed very understanding. We were still very friendly, but I just ran out of spare time. However, until I got married and moved away, I made the trip next door once in awhile.

I am now at about the same age that Mrs. Mason was when we met. I don’t have a “library” in my house, but I wish I did. I am a bit eccentric. I actually HAVE dried some herbs successfully. I sometimes let the dishes sit in the sink for awhile.

But I don’t have a seven year old best friend.

TWITTER FOR THE TWITLESS

2010-05-03T10:44:00.001-04:00

“Why would anyone care if you are having a bagel?”

My husband doesn’t use Twitter. Furthermore, he is mystified why I spend so much time there. So I felt obligated to explain to him the workings of this particular social media giant. It didn’t begin well.

“Twitter is a very fast link-up for people, and when you communicate, you use only 140 characters.”

“Why?”

“So it will be very fast.”

“Very fast to tell the world you are having a bagel?”

“Well, I use it for more lofty reasons. I use it to promote my blog.”

“Do your blog readers want to know if you are having a bagel?”

“IT’S NOT ABOUT BAGELS! People on Twitter tweet about Haiti, politics, animal rescue, the oil spill, and women’s issues!”

“But you don’t blog about any of that. You blog about cleaning the house, infomercials, shaving your legs, and getting old. How do you Tweet about shaving your legs?”

“I don’t Tweet about shaving my legs! I tweet with others about their writing, their state of mind, books, and cooking.”

“How in heaven’s name do you tweet about someone’s state of mind in 140 characters? Howru?”

“My God, you are so dense! Twitter is responsible for spreading the news faster than CNN or CNBC! The earthquake on Haiti was reported on Twitter first!”

“But you don’t tweet about the news. You tweet about doing laundry. I still don’t understand why your hundreds of followers want to know whether you use Chlorox or all fabric bleach…”

“I have never tweeted about the laundry.”

“So give me an example of one of your tweets!”

“Ok. I say things like: visit my latest blog post about my children.”

“And you say you have HOW MANY followers?”

To all my twitter friends: I am having a bagel.

INSPIRATION GENERATION

2010-04-28T10:44:00.003-04:00

My generation of women demonstrated against the Vietnam War, burned our bras, and founded the Women’s Lib movement. Along the way, some of us discovered drugs and free love. My friends and I wore bell bottoms, competed for corporate jobs, and had nannies.

Our daughters watched. They watched their Mommies pack lunches, wear pearls and pantyhose, write business plans, and worship Steven Covey. They also watched us cook meals, schlep them around to soccer games, and bake cookies. Our daughters were much more observant than we thought they were. They learned from us.

Our daughters learned how to multi task. Some of them became techno geniuses and helped invent the gadgets that have made multi tasking so manageable. Others used their burgeoning awareness of opportunities for women to become highly paid professionals in careers that were not yet open to their mothers’ generation.

This group of talented girls, now into their twenties and thirties, makes achievement look like a walk in the park. They have careers. They run marathons. They cook like Ina Garten. They look like Cameron Diaz, and they entertain like Martha Stewart.

I have observed my two daughters become women that I could never imaging being. One speaks Spanish fluently, teaches high school, and mentors inner city children, while keeping horses and showing them regularly all over the country. My other daughter is a talent agent, a wine consultant, and a professional hostess who schedules wine tastings and dinner parties several times a week

I have been in awe of both of my girls since they were teens. They do things right now that I still have on my bucket list. They are confident, bold, and a little sassy! They lead their lives instead of following life, a job, or a man around.

Now they are approaching parenthood. I know my girls won’t be the Mom I was. They will be efficient, involved, inspiring, and yet nurturing. They will tire themselves out and sell themselves short, just as we did raising them. But just as our generation learned from our Mothers, this group of enterprising young women has done the same. Unlike us, they won’t put off adventure in favor of parenthood. They won’t worry about starting families in their thirties or beyond. They won’t work for others—they will create their own enterprises. Our daughters will be their own bosses. Call the shots.

My girls don’t think I am watching them. But I do. And what I see them doing each day enthralls and amazes me. This generation of young women is ASTOUNDING.

Their Mothers and Grandmothers take all the credit.

LITTLE WOMEN

2010-04-21T22:30:00.003-04:00

My two dearest friends are very strong women. One is small in stature but has a huge and menacing presence. The other is of normal size, but has a mean right hook and a standup routine that would make Seinfeld laugh. I am nothing like these women and sometimes wonder if they speculate which planet I come from. We are like night and day. You see, they raised five sons between them, and I mothered two girls.

Mothers who raise sons have to have testosterone shields. They face horrors in their homes that I can only TRY to imagine. My small friend has had to deal with male frustration that resulted in holes punched through walls. The comedian noted once that “boys are unable to be in the same room without making repeated physical contact.”

Mothers of girls can go about their parenting without worrying whether the house will be burned down while they are at the grocery. Girls can eat lunch without getting it on the walls. Girls usually don’t swear like troopers, at least at the dinner table. My daughters grew up with manners and inside voices.

As I understand it, boys are simple beings. They usually don’t suffer mood swings or harbor grudges. When mad, they punch the object of their fury and then go on to eat three sandwiches washed down with a gallon of milk. Girls, on the other hand, have angst up to their eyeballs. They have poetry in their souls and send endless notes to one another in class about it. Girls are either dreamy or depressed, with nothing in between.

Keeping boys clean is a full time job, I hear. In our house, the showers were rarely unoccupied. While we did't have to spend wads of money on sporting equipment, I can attest to the fact that depilatories and feminine products aren’t cheap. Our budget had columns for things like “Food,” “Insurance,” “Mortgage,” and then one special category for “Mascara.”

Boys are eating machines. They burn millions of calories even while sleeping. Girls, on the other hand, are obsessed with their appearance. While my girlfriends were making pans of lasagna, freezing dozens of cupcakes for future reference, and stoking the fires with pizza and pancakes, at our house, I was trying to figure out how to make low fat entrees using yogurt. We ate a lot of salad, and everything was sugar free.

Socially, boys are, to put it bluntly, retarded. But girls take relationships with others to a level of sophistication that requires the patience of saints and the counseling skills of Freud. My friends told me that the biggest emotional scenes with their boys involved whose turn it was to take out the trash. In our house, there were nightly dramas involving love, envy, power, isolation, and pimples.

Despite it all, I have taken pride in the orderly, serene and feminine household I maintained during my girls’ childhoods. They acquired culture, great manners, the ability to shop for bargains, and a real appreciation for music and books. My girls grew up in a home that was peaceful, tidy, and quiet. Both of my girlfriends think this is hilarious, because more than likely,

MY DAUGHTERS WILL HAVE SONS.

GOOD ENOUGH

2010-04-17T16:04:00.001-04:00

I hate perfectionists. They take way too long to do things. They waste precious time refining things. They do WAY too much research. They are finicky, fussy, and fastidious. Striving for perfection takes a lot of energy, and we all know that in this day and age, energy conservation is of the essence! Do you admire perfection? Well, STOP IT! Calm down, and set your sights just a bit lower. You will heave a sigh of relief, most likely extend your life span, and significantly reduce headaches and lower back pain. Here are some things you might want to consider:

Quit all that cooking from scratch! The microwave and freezer were invented a long time ago! Research has shown that nine out of ten family members PREFER Stouffer’s frozen macaroni and cheese to the stuff made from a recipe! Do you feel guilty about using cake mix and instant pudding? Get over it! Those products were developed by researchers who used focus groups to determine that these foods taste GOOD ENOUGH.

And really, “a house so clean that you could eat off the floor” is JUST AN EXPRESSION. No one in their right minds would ever want to eat off a floor! So why clean it so much? A light film of dust is not even really noticeable. Dusty furniture and floors have never been proven to be a health hazard. As long as you can walk in your house without having to wash your feet afterwards, your house is CLEAN ENOUGH.

All the women in fashion magazines don’t really look that good in real life. The airbrush was invented to erase any pore, pimple, or pooch on those women. And we all know that they aren’t allowed to eat anything. So aspiring to THAT level of perfection is pointless. With a little lip gloss, some mascara, and good foundation garments, you look PRETTY ENOUGH.

Workouts and low cholesterol diets won’t prevent everything. We all have to go sometime. It is a good idea to walk on the treadmill instead of using it as a towel bar, and cardio vascular fitness is nothing to sniff at. But in actuality, if you can get around without a cane, walk your dog in the park, lift a bag of groceries, go up the stairs, and sleep at night, then you are HEALTHY ENOUGH.

Love stories on television and in the movies are purely for entertainment. Real couples have fights, get bored, find each other annoying, and have second thoughts. And this is just during the honeymoon! If you manage to stay married to one person for longer that a few years without murdering him/her, and if you still manage to have a few laughs, hold hands, and share private jokes, you are HAPPY ENOUGH.

Wake up and smell the coffee! And for Pete’s sake, you DON’T HAVE TO GRIND IT YOURSELF!

COMPLETELY UNSOLICITED ADVICE

2010-04-11T12:27:00.002-04:00

I am most certainly not a famous writer. But a writer I am, and as a result of a year of blogging, I have begun to get a few questions about writers and writing that I do feel qualified to answer. Just this week, someone asked me how on earth I came to write a blog in the first place.

So here goes: advice to writers from a writer who is not famous, not published, not represented by a literary agent, and probably not destined for greatness. But in the “you can learn something from just about anybody” school of life, here are my writing tips for aspiring authors:

WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW. I know my husband better than anybody else. I can finish his sentences for him, and often do. I have spent forty years plumbing the depths of his wondrous mind, and I have discovered a writer’s gold mine there. I could no more write a treatise on the economy than win a Nobel prize, but I have found enough fodder in my husband to fuel blogs aplenty.

KEEP IT SHORT. The best writers get an idea, and then say it. Period. A few great ones can throw in adjectives and adverbs that make their writing sing, but the rest of us hang ourselves by adding too many modifiers. It truly is the thought that counts, not how uniquely you can say it.

MAKE IT COHESIVE. Get one good idea. Build a piece around IT. Too many ideas expressed in one place are confusing, confounding, and just plain muddy. Outlines are the greatest things since sliced bread! Figuring out what you want to say before you write makes writing flow. Or, as my small daughter said once, “I didn’t like that story. It didn’t have a skeleton.”

GET GRAMMAR. Man, oh man, if I had a dollar for every punctuation error, misplaced modifier, or misused apostrophe I see, I would have my own butler. Good writers are understandable. Grammar is what makes the written word understandable. James Joyce and a few others could ignore it, but I think that grammar is a writer’s best friend!

THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX. If it is a beautiful day out there, you can be sure that there are hundreds of would-be writers writing about the breeze, the rays hitting the daffodils, or the beauty of their children as they tumble in the park. On beautiful days, I see all the dog poop in the yard, my husband coming at me with a power washer, and an opportunity to acquire four new pairs of Capri pants. Don’t write about the obvious.

PRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE. All good writers write a lot. I pride myself on a grocery list well done. It doesn’t matter whether it is a note to the teacher, a letter to the editor, or an email to a friend. If you are going to write something, do it as well as you can. Then do it over. Writers write. It doesn’t matter, really, what you write, as long as you are practicing.

EXPERIENCE MAKES THE WRITER. The layers of one’s life are what make a person interesting. Are you an adventurer? You are fortunate; you will have a lot to draw on as a writer. Are you housebound? No excuse; it didn’t stop Emily Dickinson. Are you just a kid? Well that is a whole world you can explore. I do feel that I have found my voice just recently as an older woman, but for me, life got in the way of my writing. Don’t let that happen to you.

LEARN AS MUCH AS YOU CAN FROM OTHER PEOPLE. My husband is a man of a million questions. If you have a story, he will drag it out of you. Over the years, he has become friends with waitresses, plumbers, every neighbor in a five mile radius, and much to my chagrin, the people in the rows in front of and behind us at every movie we have attended. But what he uncovers are human truths. And those truths are worth writing about.

My fifteen minutes of fame may never come, or I might just get five minutes. But I am a writer. I love words. I make myself laugh. I just keep on typing. And my advice to all of you out there who want to be writers? Write something. Wait. Revise it. Wait. Revise it once again. Think about your life.

Then repeat the process.

PHOO ON JIMMY CHOO

2010-04-05T13:45:00.002-04:00

My daughters will attest to the fact that a fashionista I am NOT. However, I feel qualified to comment on fashion trends, anyway. I read Vogue in the doctor’s waiting room, and I look at all of those People magazines when I am at the hair salon. I occasionally see an episode of “American Idol.” Here is what I, and probably many other women with good sense, wonder:

WHAT ON EARTH IS JIMMY CHOO THINKING? Those Chinese people who bound the feet of their women must have been Jimmy’s ancestors! Hobbling around in foot bindings can’t have been too much more agonizing than tottering along in five inch platform heels! I know, with short skirts, heels make legs look longer. But are long legs worth risking one’s neck for? For that matter, even DANSKOS are dangerous!

While I am on the subject, I feel that purse designers must also have a nasty streak. Handbags are no longer a small accessory for conveniently stashing a lipstick, a few dollars and a tampon. Do young women now really need enough room in their purses for a change of clothes, lunch, a dictionary, and a small dog?

WHY ARE TATOOS SO POPULAR? I just can’t understand this trend. Personally, I get tired of looking at the same pictures on my walls, and I like to switch things around once in awhile. I can’t imagine having to look at the same old butterfly on my hip year in and year out. And let’s face it—that lyric from your favorite song? In twenty years, you will look at your arm and wonder what those words MEAN.

Gladiators are apparently much admired by fashion designers. Straps that wind from ankle to knee are featured in every fashion spread I see. The girls in the photos look fine, but how does the average female keep those straps from sagging down around the ankles? And the dominatrix look is in again with all the spikes, studs, leather and flagellant appendages. It makes young girls look like Pit Bulls, in my humble opinion.

Who decides what becomes stylish, anyway? Is it Anna Wintour? How do these people make the decisions that will so affect our lives? I imagine all the fashionistas and style mavens at a meeting:

“What do you think about making shoes out of metal?”

“Better idea! Let’s start lining everything with sheepswool!”

“Ok, and here’s a great idea: let’s invent a teeny, tiny jacket that is completely useless and call it a SHRUG!”

“And let’s start putting the bras and underpants ON TOP OF THE CLOTHING!”

I am a wise woman. I have lived through mini skirts, bell bottoms, the ORIGINAL platform heels, Go-Go boots, ironing my hair, and the braless look. But here’s a note to today’s fashion designers:

If it could cause torn ligaments, hypothermia, indecent exposure, or puncture wounds, it isn’t fashion now, is it? Let’s be honest, IT’S SADISM!

EXERCISE 101

2010-03-29T11:10:00.001-04:00

It’s in all the papers this week. Everywhere I turn, there is another fitness pundit setting out guidelines for people my age. It all sounds good on paper, but let me be the little voice of sanity in the wilderness of all the metabolism and cardio Nazis out there. Fitness is imperative for seniors, but I bet that those who are slinging advice to the over fifty five set are all IN THEIR TWENTIES.

I have been a real devotee of exercise all my life. I played racquetball, I hiked around with my dog. I have been a gym rat, a spinner, and I have personally worn out two treadmills. I am that old lady in the back of the yoga class, the one who can barely stifle my groans during the “downward dog.” I feel that I have earned my stripes, and thus am very qualified to respond to all the scientists, personal trainers, and Richard Simmons wannabes out there who are now recommending that women over 55 should exercise strenuously for at least ONE HOUR per day:

MY DOCTOR SAYS THAT I GET TOO MUCH EXERCISE. It all started with that little spare tire around my middle. T-shirts didn’t look that flattering any more. “Sucking it in,” which was always no big deal, became an exercise in futility. So, one fine day, I decided that I needed to beef up my exercise regimen. I joined a gym, and found the dizzying array of exercise classes to be so tempting! I joined an “ABSOLUTE ABS” class. That one required two sizes of exercise ball. I did fine with the small one, but fell off the big one so many times that I sustained serious rug burns on my knees and elbows.

Spinning was an appealing class. On the flyer, it promised a total calorie burn of 800+ in an hour. To me, that spelled hot fudge sundae, and so I enrolled. I did fine for the first ten minutes, but then the instructor forced us to crank up the resistance on our bikes, and the fun turned into agony. I persevered, however! No way was I going to give up—damn those torpedos, I spun at full speed ahead!

As a result, I have become addicted to exercise. I am not bragging, oh, no! Because, you see, my devotion to the gym has necessitated my building a close relationship with a chiropractor, a physical therapist, a massage therapist, and a heating pad. I have a stiff neck that just won’t quit. After spinning, my back seizes up. Yoga, which is great for balance and inner peace, caused me to pull a groin muscle. I fall off my MBT’s frequently.

And now, the pundits are telling me that I AM NOT DOING ENOUGH. I have to increase my biking! When walking, if I can still talk, I am not going fast enough! And I have to go for the burn seven days a week! This is just, according to those experts, enough to keep me looking as thin and fit as I did ten years ago. If I want to look REALLY good, like the real housewives in those towns, I have to do even more!

So I had this discussion with my doctor, article from the newspaper in hand. He looked at me, sighed, and as he wrote out yet another prescription for physical therapy for my knee, neck and that niggling pain in my wrists, he said this: “If your personal trainer jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too?”

This got me thinking. I don’t eat animals, much. The only things with faces that grace our table are birds. We stoke enough fiber in our engines to do justice to a decent sized septic field. We have been organic since before it was in style. We take supplements and drink fucoidan. We floss, we exfoliate, and we meditate. What on earth are we thinking?

How many centenarians do YOU know who are having fun? Do any of them have friends their own age?

THERE IS LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

2010-03-22T15:51:00.004-04:00

I watched the young mother load up her car. First the kids, one in a baby seat, followed by two whingeing toddlers into their respective straitjackets. Then the gear: a stroller for two, a diaper bag, and finally, some packages. She looked over at me long enough to give me a piteous sigh, and then got in herself, off to her next errand, a playdate, or the pediatrician’s office. I sighed in return. I remember those days of exhaustion, frustration, and challenge.

When I was young, I thought that life would stay the way it was forever. My children seemed as if they would never mature. My housework never seemed to get done. Scrambling around from one activity to another took inordinate amounts of time that I couldn’t devote to more important things like thinking, noticing what season it was, fantasizing about sex, or combing my hair.

There was a frantic quality to life as a young parent. Experts advised all kinds of activities to enhance the mental acuity and physical prowess of children. It wasn’t enough to just squire them around to pre-school, give them nutritious food and daily baths. It was also recommended that parents PLAY with their children, encourage them to help with meal preparation (kids? With flour and moistening ingredients? Are you KIDDING?), engage them in artistic projects, and tussle with them in the grass. My husband and I dutifully followed the experts, and as a result, we were very tired, very often.

As our kids grew, the sophistication of their activities grew with them. Now there were debates, horse shows, dances that required chaperones, and lots and lots of homework that necessitated proofreading. I became very good at sizing up boys by the hang of their trousers and the subject matter of their tattoos. Driving lessons replaced nature walks, and curfews had to be enforced. Still tired, my husband and I gamely attended soccer matches, listened to rock music, and became familiar with instant messaging, Ipods, and the beginnings of the world of computer games.

We thought that life as parents would always require the same amount of caloric output as it did when our kids were developing. We assumed that the frenetic pace would continue, and that somehow we would need infinite strength and resolve.

But as suddenly as it all began, it ended. The kids left for college, and the world changed. There were books again. Meals could be enjoyed slowly, and no one had to jump from the table, race to the car and go somewhere. There were no shoes, schoolbooks, or sporting equipment left on the floor of the kitchen. My God, the phone didn’t ring any more! My husband looked at me, and I looked at him, and we SMILED.

Life in an empty nest is so enjoyable! We watch public television, and there is classical music in the air. I can take a nap if I want to! There are days when I actually GET BORED. I have all the time in the world to contemplate my navel. The people at the library know me by my first name! I wear pajamas all day on days when I am not even slightly sick. I can think about politics and ponder the impact of the newly passed healthcare bill. Freedom isn't just another word!

To all the young parents out there, coaching T-ball, baking cookies, housebreaking puppies, cleaning up fingerpaints, and wiping noses, I have soothing words for you:

ALL CHILDREN LEAVE HOME.

YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT

2010-03-16T14:02:00.001-04:00

Zooming along in my car, I hummed along with Mick Jagger. Then I paid a little attention to what he was singing, and the words hit home. He’s right: you can’t always get what you want. I have almost NEVER gotten what I want.

In grade school, what I wanted was a bike. My Dad, in wisdom that he acquired from a spurious source, informed me that I could only get a bike if I learned how to ride one. How, in heaven’s name, I wondered, would I be able to achieve learning how to ride one WITHOUT A BIKE? But I was determined, and I learned on my friend’s bike, which was missing a pedal, and every time I tried to mount the thing and balance, that pedal spike gouged me in the calf. Bruised and battered, I triumphed, and Dad did get me a very nice, used Schwinn, with blue streamers coming out of the handle bar holders. I learned very little from this “lesson,” and you can be sure that MY KIDS had bikes even before they learned how to ride!

In high school, it was a BOYFRIEND that I wanted. There were many candidates, but they all shared one thing in common: none of them wanted ME as a girlfriend. There was the dark and handsome popular guy, the tall and skinny but brilliant one, the President of the Senior Class, etc. I never got to go steady. I never got to have a “song” with anybody. Nobody put romantic entries in my yearbook. I had a few escapades, but nothing worth writing HERE about, that is for sure! And I had to go to my senior prom WITH MY BEST FRIEND’S BIG BROTHER.

As a young mother, all I wanted was peace and quiet. I had delightful children, as children go. But clearly, all children come loaded with energy, verve, loud little screechy voices, and dirty faces. Child maintenance requires more energy and enthusiasm than I could keep up at a steady pace, and there were days when I just wanted to be able to take a NAP, for Pete’s sake!

As a career woman, I wanted SUCCESS. I wore a business suit with pearls every day. I wore high heeled shoes that sounded very efficient as they clacked along. I wore off-white PANTY HOSE and big earrings. It was years before I stopped answering the phone at home by saying, “Molly Campbell here.” I yearned to be the very best at what I did. I joined business clubs and associations that had meetings where people brought laptops. There was a measure of success, but nobody out there in the world of commerce remembers me, I am sure!

As a chef, I wanted delicious meals with three ingredients or less, and minimal prep time. Why is it that things that are truly delicious require that ingredients be FINELY diced, when a rough chop is so much easier? Who wants to RICE potatoes? And Foley Food Mills don’t fit in the kitchen drawer! Boiling something is so much easier than sautéing or roasting it. And for goodness sakes, why is it that a soufflé is SO delectable and impossible to make in MY oven?

As a human being, I wanted love. It first came to me in the personage of a slightly nerdy, balding skinny guy with a big smile and lots of silly charm. He was introduced to me on a Friday night, and by Monday, I was hooked. We got married way too fast for our parents’ taste, but forty years later, he still makes me die laughing. The result of this pairing was two hilarious children who keep me from committing fashion faux pas, using slang words that went out in the 60’s, and ordering sissified cocktails in restaurants.

So Mick Jagger is truly a philosopher! Who knew? I have NOT always gotten what I want!

BUT I GOT WHAT I NEEDED.

THERE IS A SUCKER BORN EVERY MINUTE

2010-03-10T11:35:00.002-05:00

This winter, we all faced the possibility of a “Swine Flu” epidemic. Blizzards pounded the midsection of the country and buried the East Coast. There were earthquakes and tidal waves. CNN and the Weather Network enjoyed very high ratings. But in our house, when sick, snowed in, or otherwise cooped up, our family watches INFOMERCIALS.

It all started when my older daughter still lived at home. An insomniac, she discovered the world of slicers and dicers as a night owl, while channel surfing. She became obsessed with the Popeil family. Her interests fanned out to the likes of Billy Mays and his cohorts. She is a great influence on her mother, and before long, I found myself in the thrall of the great TV hucksters.

Our first purchase was a sandwich maker that you could use to make the usual grilled cheese sandwiches, but according to the adorable, pudgy middle aged TV chef selling the product, you could also use it to make cakes, omelets, biscuits, and even bake potatoes! When it arrived, we breathlessly buttered the bread, added cheese, and VOILA! It produced a dumpy little grease ball that looked like a pale Twinkie and tasted like, well, deep fat fried Velveeta.

We were not discouraged, oh no! We watched a fascinating hour long show about closet organization that featured hangers that held six shirts apiece; only ten dollars for a set of six. If you bought two sets, there was a BONUS offer! We couldn’t get to the phone fast enough!

Through the years, we have purchased floor reviving kits, a pot that cooks meat, vegetables, and warms the dinner rolls all at the same time! We spent one entire Thanksgiving eve perfecting our bikini lines with a revolutionary no pain waxing system. That was the night that Annie declared both her sister and her mother as definitely certifiable.

In my garden, there is a little contraption that when plugged in, frees the entire yard of mosquitoes. It works very well, too—as long as you light tiki torches and use citronella candles along with it. Our gutters are spotless, due to a GUTTER ROBOT that my husband bought on the “Gardening Spectacular” episode on QVC. It works pretty well, and the neighbors like to gather on the curb and watch it as it churns along in the spouting, spewing out little sticks and clumps of leaves. They cheer Charlie on his ladder, as he reaches into the gutter to free up the robot whenever it gets stuck. About every five minutes.

I am a busy woman. Anything that will make my life easier has great appeal. And so, when watching the inspiring infomercial about a woman who realized that her life would be so much less complicated if she had only three items in her wardrobe that would combine effortlessly into AT LEAST THIRTY different outfits, I was mesmerized. I watched as she took what looked like a tube of material, wrapped it around her neck and somehow hooked her arms through it, and pouf! It was shrug! She took the skirt, hiked it up under her armpits, and IT WAS A STUNNING SLEEVELESS GOWN! The belt became a necklace. The belt, combined with the tube and the skirt, morphed into a dress with a little cowl neckline. This was amazing. I thought about how I could empty my entire closet and replace my clothing with a belt, a skirt, and a tube! I had my hand on the phone, when Charlie walked in. He put his hand on my dialing wrist, held it firmly, and said, “Are these going to be featured in the NY Times “Styles” section?"

He was so right. I didn’t order. My husband made me realize that I had a problem. It was a struggle, but I have given up my infomercials for shows that have a higher intrinsic value. I watch to learn, to expand, and to intensify my experience of life on this fragile planet.

Have you seen “The Hoarders?” What about “Celebrity Intervention?”

DISASTER IN THE WOODS

2010-03-04T10:28:00.002-05:00

My next door neighbor, who has four children ranging in age from high school to kindergarten, has been making Spring Break plans. I received an email from her that went something like this: “I recall that your family spent some time in a cabin in the Hocking Hills. Do you think that would be a fun thing for our gang to do over the break?”

This brought back a rush of memories. Packing the car: Snacks, breakfast items, dog bed, extra blankets, DVD’S, games, and other essentials for a fun weekend in Southern Ohio. Charlie added his items, as well: Beer, four bottles of wine, the AAA Guidebook to Ohio and Kentucky, a cell phone charger, rubber boots, and a corkscrew.

The girls arrived home from their respective places of residence, one a bit more enthusiastic about this whole “woodsy” enterprise than the other. Did I mention that this whole foray into nature was MY idea? One daughter had the presence of mind to bring a crossword puzzle book. The other brought a knitting project. Neither one packed a sweatshirt.

We arrived at the cabin on a frosty November Friday. Snow surrounded the little cabin. It all looked so cute, so rural, so cozy! We entered the cabin, and found it to be adorable: one room with a loft. Two pull out sofas. A tiny kitchen. One bathroom. What looked like a fireplace, but was actually a façade with fake logs and a red light bulb. The girls gave each other a significant look, which I later realized was a portent into the events to follow.

What does a family of four adults DO in the woods in November? Well, you can hike. Our dog enjoyed that. She has always liked getting muddy, racing around after sticks, and barking at squirrels. The rest of us got sick of that after about ten minutes of stomping through mud, ducking to avoid low lying vegetation, and stepping over fallen trees.

Back at the cabin, I began preparations for supper. The girls discovered that my DVD selection consisted of Gerard Butler in “Phantom of the Opera” and some “Masterpiece Theatre” classics. They also discovered that there is no cell phone reception in the woods of Southern Ohio. They broke out the wine.

We spent the evening reminiscing about old times. The time Annie was grounded for three months. The time Marion broke both ankles simultaneously her first quarter at college. The time when both girls discovered that there was no Santa Claus. They remembered when a favorite cat died, and when the tooth fairy forgot to leave any money. Charlie broke out the beer.

The next day, we all took a long hike. No one really wanted to, but as Charlie was putting all the beer and wine bottles in the trash, the dog got out and dashed off into the woods. It took us about forty five minutes to find her, and the girls had splitting headaches. Trekking and moaning, we communed with nature until we spotted the dog enjoying herself in a particularly swampy area, where apparently all forest creatures go to die. She was covered with a slimy green coating of rotted organic matter that smelled like a combination of animal droppings, skunk, and garbage.

Back at base camp, it was up to me to figure out a way to wash the dog. There were no buckets, so I had to use saucepans. Charlie held the dog. Annie filled the pans at the sink, Marion ferried them back and forth to me, and I attempted to clean the dog, using the little hotel shampoo bottles that we brought. It took a good hour, but the dog emerged smelling like she had been to a Spa, and the rest of us were exhausted and dirty. We took turns in the shower, but since there was now no shampoo left, we used Dawn dishwashing detergent.

As that day stretched into what seemed like months, the family pursued other fun activities: Annie clipped her toenails. Charlie discovered that the “Phantom” movie had language options, and so he turned it on in FRENCH, thinking that would be more authentic and interesting. Marion took a nap, with a pillow over her head. I read the book that I had brought. Good times.

There was a HOT TUB at the cabin, and so that evening, Charlie thought it would be relaxing for all of us to sit in there, and have good conversation. The girls were grossed out by the idea of soaking nearly naked WITH THEIR OWN PARENTS. Annie suggested that she go into town for more liquor, and before you could say “Paul Bunyan,” the three of them were in the car and the dog and I were left staring at each other. The dog and I watched Gerard Butler singing in French. I saw neither hide nor hair of the other family members for the remainder of the evening. The dog and I went to bed. The next morning, it was, thankfully, time to go home!

So my advice to my neighbor? It might be really fun to take the family on a little outing in the woods. But it might be best to wait until your children are old enough to buy their own booze…

TERRIBLE ADVICE

2010-02-25T13:08:00.001-05:00

Most of us revere the wisdom and perspicacity of our parents. Parents fill the first twenty or so years of our lives with what they think is good for us: broccoli, reading lists, curfews, chores, and aphorisms. Parents look for those “teachable moments” and try to cram as much as they can into them. My parents were no different from any others. But now that I am old enough to really evaluate my life, I recognize that much of what Mom and Dad preached IS ENTIRELY BOGUS.

The first thing that springs to mind is my long suffering Mother, who felt it was her duty to keep both her daughters virtuous and chaste. “Nice girls don’t wear pins” was drummed into both of us from an early age. I wonder that the safety pin industry didn’t feel the need for a huge media blitz to counteract this slam on their reputation. I think Mom had a picture in her mind of a slatternly teen, with body odor, dirt behind her ears, and clothes, soiled and barely held together. My sister and I, however, didn’t get that picture, and just couldn’t understand why using a safety pin to fix a broken bra during school hours made us slutty.

Another rule in our house concerned bed linens. According to my mother, only peasants slept in the same set of sheets for longer than a week. To this day, I feel a little guilty that I don’t change the beds that frequently. As a matter of fact, I don’t change the beds ANYWHERE NEAR that frequently. But, in my mind, there aren’t any peasants any more. At least I haven’t seen any in my neighborhood, and so I am not as worried about being compared to them as my Mother was. There must have been a lot of peasants in the town where I grew up.

My Mom was a firm believer in spring housecleaning. She admonished us that “A dirty home breeds harmful bacteria.” She thought this was a very effective scare tactic that would make dutiful housekeepers out of both of us. My mother had THE WALLS IN THE HOUSE WASHED every spring! My sister and I are both relatively clean and healthy people, and yet neither of us has vacuumed behind the refrigerator for years, and so far, none of the people in either of our families has developed typhus or any kind of weeping sores.

Watching the Olympics has brought to mind advice which my Father gave me, and which I unfortunately followed for years. He always maintained that “if you can’t do something well, then don’t do it.” As a result of that, I never learned how to swim, because I felt a little silly in the water. I have never even TRIED arts and crafts, because I am all thumbs. I don’t enjoy dancing, because I feel a little geeky out there on the dance floor. My husband, on the other hand, has led a very joyful life doing things that he loves, badly. He plays the accordion with much gusto but little talent. He loves to cook, even though he doesn’t know a bain marie from a baguette. He sings along with the radio, OUT OF TUNE. Boy, oh, boy, have I realized all that I have missed by being COMPETENT! Yes, those Olympic athletes are the best in the world at what they do.

But really, I feel that there should be an Olympic category called “Dabbling.” This would be for people who are experts at nothing but are willing to try anything.

THE GOLD MEDAL GOES TO THE PERSON WHO HAS THE MOST FUN WHILE FALLING DOWN, DROPPING STITCHES, ROLLING GUTTER BALLS, PAINTING BY NUMBERS, AND SCORCHING THE SOUFFLE!

EVERYTHING GIVES ME GAS

2010-02-19T10:14:00.001-05:00

From all that I can gather from reading the news, following other people’s blogs and tweets, and watching television shows (ok, I know “The Golden Girls” is LONG GONE), sixty is the new forty. This makes me happy, and I am looking forward to experiencing the best years of my life, coming right up.

However, I am also starting to discover some of the glitches of aging. I knew this was coming, because I have been looking at my Mom’s hands get more gnarled as the years pass, and the joints on my own hands seem to be clamoring for attention these days. But I was not prepared for some of the other indications of my own rapidly approaching dotage that have made themselves most unwelcome in my life as of late.

I have a CORN on my foot. My God, I remember my grandmother complaining that her corns hurt! I have always been very particular about the fit of my shoes, and I don’t wear stilettos, so I am baffled about where this little devil came from. The good news is that it is the rationale for the pedicures that I now have to get regularly to keep it under control, and my husband seems to feel that these foot ministrations come under the heading of medical expenses, and so I have no guilt in that department!

Food that in the past was benign is now malevolent. Yes, we all know about beans. BUT NOW, EVEN GREEN BEANS? I find that I cannot predict what foods will bring on embarrassment, and so as an insurance policy, I now take Beano before every meal. I have to lie about it in restaurants with friends, telling them that I have Lactose Intolerance. Really, who wants to admit that these days, eating in general causes flatulence?

And I am finding that I lose things all the time. My car keys, which used to be very obvious in their location, have now taken to lurking in the strangest places: by the sink in the bathroom, in the pocket of my sweater, and most interesting of all, and this mystery has yet to be solved: IN THE REFRIGERATOR. All I can think of in that case is that I had them in my hand when putting the groceries away, and just set them down in there “for a second.”

Things ache now. My neck, my knees, my sacrum. I have a very lively relationship with my chiropractor, who is very cheerful, and says things like “Well, you have to remember that you aren’t as young as you used to be, and moderation is the key.” I HATE MODERATION. Evidently, this is obvious, because even my yoga teacher has had to impose restrictions, telling me that I am not allowed to practice at home until I have been a yoga student for long enough to have some sense. That is not how she put it, but the meaning was clear!

My husband and I have slowed down in the romance department. This is none of anyone’s business. But when he looks at me with a gleam in his eye, sometimes I look back at him witheringly. There is just so much energy allotted to us each day, and I have to prioritize mine…

All of this being said, I do find retirement to be the best of times. Each day holds great potential, I have no one else to consider when making plans, duty is a thing of the past, and money is no longer the issue that it once was. I can come and go as I please, and adventure is always just around the corner. Nothing can hold me back!

Standard equipment these days? Beano in my purse, liniment in the medicine cabinet, lots of glucosamine and chondroitin, and a positive attitude. Today’s plan? The Honda dealership, for

DUPLICATE SETS OF CAR KEYS.

THE STONE AGE

2010-02-12T17:28:00.002-05:00

As I was watching “Frontline” the other evening, as it revealed just how “wired” our children are, with their iphones, blackberries, and laptops, busy multitasking and staying in touch with every other individual on the planet at all times, I thought about my childhood. I grew up in the fifties, when life was a lot simpler, and most people went through their lives doing things sequentially. Things were uncomplicated and we led linear lives. Connections between people were intermittent, not constant.

For instance, if you felt a sudden urge to talk to somebody, you had three options: You could walk into the room where that person was and have a conversation. You could call that person on the phone. Or you could go on foot or in a car to where that person was located, and then start talking. If that person was not immediately accessible, you would just have to write a letter.

Modern conveniences? A matter of definition. I lived in a normal to small house, and my Mother had all the modern conveniences. That meant that she had to wash dishes herself (or make her daughters do it) after every meal. She had to heat up leftovers IN THE OVEN, for Pete’s sake, and that meant that we had to wait at least FIFTEEN MINUTES for them to get hot so that we could eat them! We did not have anything resembling a Swiffer or Dyson, and so dusting and vacuuming took awhile. We had a little triangular thing in the corner of the sink to put peelings and things in. We then had to take out the GARBAGE every night, because if we didn’t, the kitchen would get stinky.

My Mother was very busy. She had to run a lot of errands. You see, back in the old days, people got food at one store, clothing at another store, medicine at yet another store. I remember at the start of every school year, we would drive from our town in northern West Virginia to PITTSBURGH, where there were really nice department stores, to get my school clothes. In our small town, there weren’t a lot of clothing stores, and not a lot of selection. And my Mother was a big believer in the axiom that if you bought your clothes in town, you would “See yourself coming and going.” That was a BAD THING. And by the way, back in the day, we paid RETAIL prices for everything.

And let’s talk about school. I had to wear A DRESS every day. As a child in winter, I was allowed to wear pants under my dress on the way to school and back, but DURING SCHOOL HOURS, I had to have the bare legs. What a pain it was. Go in the homeroom. Go in the cloakroom (a term no longer in use, I am sure). Take off coat, hat, mittens, and boots. Take off pants. Hang everything up. Take shoes out of grocery bag and put them on. Repeat process at the end of the day. Boys just got to come in, take off their outerwear and get on with things. Plus, those bare legs we girls had were chilly.

In high school, we still wore dresses. Back then, pantyhose were on the verge of invention, and so we had to wear OLD FASHIONED STOCKINGS. How did we hold them up? WITH GIRDLES. Imagine this. I and most of my friends were built like twigs in those days, but we still writhed our way into girdles five days a week. And then we had to TAKE ALL OF IT OFF in order to put on our GYM CLOTHES for Phys. Ed., and then struggle back into it all.

Back in those days, most families had one car. Some had two. Teenagers had none. I know—HOW ON EARTH DID KIDS GET TO SCHOOL BACK THEN? Our Moms took us. We had carpools. And on weekends, we all asked for a car, and drove WHAT OUR PARENTS DROVE. No cute convertibles for teens back then. We drove station wagons, our fathers' sedans, or nothing!

In the fifties, when kids had free time, we had a number of options: books, “American Bandstand,” homework, and talking on the phone with friends. Homework involved reading assignments and GOING TO THE LIBRARY. Research involved little index cards and bibliographies. Footnotes had to be written in a particular format. I know! How archaic! And while doing our homework, we could play records or listen to the radio, but TV was too distracting!

I grew up playing games on boards or with cards. I spent a lot of time by myself, thinking. If I wanted to get away from it all, I just walked out the door. I wonder if my life those many years ago was better or worse than the lives of the plugged in generation. I admit that I like being able to connect with others via technology. I like living in the fast lane. But I know what solitude is like.

I guess we never stop evolving. Societies change, people grow and develop, and technology just keeps insinuating itself into our lives. They say that soon, virtual worlds will exist right alongside reality, and we may lead lives in multiple universes. Micro chips will allow us to read one another’s minds. We will be able to work with people from other countries without leaving our laptops. Communication will be ubiquitous. But here is the thing:

Who will walk all the dogs?

A CHARMED LIFE

2010-02-05T16:40:00.002-05:00

I have finally reached a time in my life that I can say suits me very well. I have what I need and what I want. I do what I want to do. I have an excellent companion, and friends of the highest water. So what does all this mean?

I am no longer a full time parent. My house looks just the way I want it to, with no dirty shoes, backpacks, or school books around. There are no plates with half eaten food in unsuspected locations, found only after the smell gave them away. The arrangements of magazines and books are as I have made them.

All the pets that live here have been fallen in love with and chosen by me. They hold no allegiances to any college students, school teachers, or talent agents who USED to live here. As a matter of fact, they FLEE in surprise and fear from those girls. The pets think that the universe revolves around ME. The dog is a faithful follower, and the cats deem me a worthwhile person to hang with occasionally. I can inhale cat fur to my heart’s content. I find that medium haired white cats smell like comfort and the little sleek coats of Siamese cats are redolent of something a little spicy. Inhaling my cats takes up a considerable amount of my free time.

In winter, the fireplace is a hub. My husband and I sit on facing sofas, with cups of coffee, tea, and laptops. He communicates with thousands on his; I blog to a few hundred on mine. We both find great stimulation and comfort from our many friends in cyberspace. As I get older, I get more curious about my friends in England, Vancouver, Prince Edward Island, New York, and in the northern woody regions of the U.S. Some of them have cats that I have come to admire almost as much as my own!

And then there is the bed. For my sixtieth birthday, I bought myself linen sheets. The real thing. I can’t tell you how LUXURIOUS that is! It takes up a little time maintaining them, for they are much more labor intensive when it comes to laundering, but sleeping on linen makes me feel like a Jane Austen heroine.

In winter, I love tea with milk, scones that have way too many calories, sunsets that are just too gorgeous against the black branches, chats with friends, and having suppers in the kitchen with candles. Chili is good, turkey soup is better. I like to cook casseroles with noodles. Winter necessitates such comfort foods, and without mashed potatoes once a week, my life would be just a little less comfortable!

Finally, at my age, friendship is just too precious to stop cultivating. Technology has brought new friends out of my laptop like magic! Whoever said that the age of letters is past? Granted, Facebook postings aren’t letters—but I have developed a very good writing relationship with quite a few new friends that I simply would have missed meeting without blogs, tweets, and the like.

Is this growing old GRACEFULLY? If by definition, growing old gracefully means aging without falling down, or without getting muscle spasms during yoga class, or looking like a sylph while walking on the stairmaster, I am NOT growing old gracefully. But if an alternative definition means still enjoying your darling husband who is also old, having giggle fits with friends you have known for years, emailing an old beau to find out what he had for dinner, Facebooking about favorite books, or having five cats and a dog, then I am growing old very gracefully, thank you. And by George,

MY LIFE IS A CHARMED ONE.

THE BUCKET LIST

2010-01-30T11:40:00.003-05:00

As I was making a quick pass through the house, tidying it up before leaving to run some errands, I came across a big book on the floor in my husband’s “office.” Its title alarmed me: “1001 Buildings To See Before You Die.” I wasn’t aware of this goal of Charlie’s, and I had to sit down for a minute to process what this might mean for the remainder of MY life. Honestly, I had thought Charlie was finished with traveling. But this opened up some scenarios in my imagination that gave me the willies.

Let’s start with the United States. Evidently, there is a Medical-Dental office in San Francisco that is a must see. It seems that it is modeled after a Mayan pyramid. Inside, the ceilings have Mayan glyphs. There are bronze chandeliers. I wonder if the exam tables look like the altars for human sacrifice? Do the spit sinks have little waterfalls? Do you have to make a doctor’s appointment in order to get the tour?

Then there is Hangar One, at Moffett Federal Airfield in California. Ok, it IS one of the largest unsupported structures in the United States. But my God, IT IS AN AIRPLANE HANGAR. And by the way, in 2003, it was discovered that the entire structure was leaching toxic lead and PCB’s into the surrounding soil. NOW THAT IS SOMETHING YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS ON YOUR NEXT TRIP!

Charlie has always had a thing for industrial parks. Often, when I request that we “go for a ride,” instead of gliding through sylvan glens, or looking at the latest in McMansions, I find myself looking out of the windows at gravel pits and concrete facilities, sewage processing plants, or Charlie’s favorite: the abandoned General Motors factory (of which we have PLENTY in the Dayton area). So I am sure that on his list of places to go and see is the Magnitogorsk Metal Kombinat, or “Stalin’s Pittsburgh,” in Chelyabinsk Oblast, in Russia. This place was created as a model industrial town for making steel, and it was home to a few thousand industrial workers living in tents. Wow, to be a housewife in THAT town! Even the BOOK says that in this place, living standards and quality of life were “very low.” Obviously, a must see for American tourists!

I don’t know about you, but visiting places where they butcher things has never been high on my list of places to go before I die, but apparently the “Stalls and Abattoir” in Vrin, Switzerland, are a real tourist Mecca. The buildings’ sloping roofs and wooden construction owe much to the Swiss chalet design. But this would be my first question: WHY DON’T WE JUST GO AND SEE SOME SWISS CHALETS?

This book has A THOUSAND AND ONE of these places! Granted, it does include the Arc de Triomphe, the Alhambra, and the Parthenon. Ok. But my husband has been to all those places. I have even been to some of those places. Knowing my husband, those places on the beaten track would have no real appeal, because ALL THE TOURISTS go there. Oh, no! For us, the Pentonville Prison in London would be on the itinerary, along with the Crown Liquor Saloon in Belfast, the Tampere Fire Station in Finland, and by nature of its name, the Dick House in France.

Living with a man like my husband, who has his peculiarities, such as keeping track of the pollen count each year since 1990, or maintaining a spread sheet that records the amount of watts of electricity that we use yearly, should have prepared me for this. I wonder: are there travel agents who sell these tours? How would one advertise them? “Boring and Obscure Landmarks the World Over?” “Architecture for Geeks?”

I have never been one of those retired people who yearns to take a cruise every year. Or one of those women who likes to travel with packs of other women to see art museums, opera houses, or cathedrals. I don’t really want to snorkel or scuba on the Great Barrier Reef.

But any of those things sounds very appetizing when compared to the Hermann and Steinberg Hat Factory…

MR. MALAPROP

2010-01-24T12:31:00.003-05:00

My husband has always had a unique and interesting turn of phrase. For instance, he has labeled that time in late afternoon when hunger and sleepiness take over as “having a sinker.” He calls coffee either “Java,” or a “cup of Joe.” Where he grew up, a milkshake is called a “cabinet.” I had gotten used to his phraseology. Then, ten years ago, he suffered a massive stroke that mostly affected the speech and language area of his brain. Suddenly, it was a whole new ball game. What were eccentric and regional linguistic applications became just a bit dicey. Charlie has always been one to massacre the English language, and since the stroke, his conversations have become a bit more dangerous. Always one to come VERY close to what he wants to say without always saying it correctly, he has become locally famous for his colorful communications. I had no idea that being the wife of a linguistically challenged individual would bring such notoriety. Yet there is a real charm to Charlie, and his errors just seem to add to his charm and increase his celebrity.

What is your name? If it is Lauren, Charlie will call you Lola. If you take pride in your German heritage, Charlie will add a “schnitzen” or a “schnecken” to the conversation at every possible opportunity. At Ikea, he will loudly announce the names of each furniture item, thoughtfully provided by store management: “Hey, Molly, do you need a DIMPA? What about some BLABAR?”

One evening, sitting around the fire with our children, somehow the subject of palindromes came up. Charlie’s eyes lit up, and he stood up and recited: “I CAN ROLL A BEESE, PANANAMA?” Without skipping a beat, the three of us replied, “Uh, huh—A MAN, A PLAN, A CANAL—PANAMA. I CAN ROW A BOAT, CANOE?” You see, after awhile, it gets easier and easier to translate. Annie did point out, though, that the rowing a boat portion of the exhortation was NOT a palindrome.

Charlie also has created some expressions that as a family, we use often. One term, “al dente,” is not what the rest of the world thinks it is. “Al dente” in the Campbell lexicon has two meanings. One: two people who eat in a restaurant and choose to sit adjacent to each other are sitting “al dente.” Sitting “al dente” is totally nerdy, we think. It precludes conversation without putting a crick in one’s neck, and it is NOT romantic! Second definition: “Al dente” is anything that is free of ornamentation, frippery, or extra accoutrements, as in “Do you want your steak with all the ‘fixins,’ or ‘al dente?’" Or, “I am not wearing any jewelry with my ball gown. I think it looks better ‘al dente.’” This term has been used with such frequency in our family through the years, that both of our children went out into the world USING THE TERM IN CAMPBELL FASHION. They have suffered great embarrassment as a result, and blame us for their public humiliation.

The apex (or should I say nadir?) of Charlie’s linguistic escapades occurred the other evening. Following a lovely Bach concert, there was a champagne reception honoring the performers. As we stood, flutes of the bubbly in hand, Charlie noticed a man that he knows. Gesticulating wildly, he beckoned the man over, and excitedly and loudly exclaimed, “MOLLY, THIS IS ED! YOU AND HE HAD YOUR BI-RECTUMS AT THE SAME TIME!” Ed looked confused and somewhat nonplussed. I, however, knew immediately that Charlie must be referring to the colonoscopy that I had recently. Ed looked to his wife for edification, and she also seemed a bit lost. I did manage to utter the word “colonoscopy” before the champagne shot out of my nose. At that point, it seemed wisest just to leave the reception.

This is the same husband who gave a toast at a wedding to “David and Lorraine.” The couple was in actuality named Dennis and Lauren. This is also the man who informed me that there was a new Mexican restaurant in town called “Abdul’s” (Abuelos). His favorite movie lately was “Sid is on the Roof” (A Serious Man). But through it all, he remains the most enthusiastic, in his own words: “bon vacant” around. I remain by his side, as translator, censor, and yes, cheerleader.

You only go around once. I want to go around with Charlie: the man of many words, many of which are bogus. He has wit. He has charm. He has a lot of fans. He has a certain, in his own words, “JE NE C’EST PAS.”

THE SOUL SELECTS HER OWN SOCIETY

2010-01-16T12:57:00.003-05:00

I am reading a book about Emily Dickinson. I love her poems, but I am more fascinated with her life. She became a recluse in her family mansion in early adulthood. She loved to bake; evidently she walked about the house covered in flour. She wrote beautiful and pithy poetry that speaks to all of us.

I have often thought that it would be very romantic to become a recluse myself. Of course, in order to be a happy recluse, you must have a beautiful place to hide in. I think I have finally achieved that. My house is now, after we have lived here for twenty years, nicely decorated, and every room is beautiful. It also seems to me that there is an irony involved. Recluses need nice surroundings, but the recluses I am familiar with were INDIFFERENT to those surroundings most of the time.

This is because a recluse must have a life’s work. Otherwise, staying home twenty four/seven would get very boring. So I would need a beautiful room to work in. I would require a desk placed in front of a window, so that I could watch the world go by and ruminate about the neighbors, the surroundings, and nature. There would have to be inspiring art on the walls. Granted, as a successful recluse I would become inured to all the beauty of my study, but rules are rules!

This brings me to the life’s work. Problematic, because I can’t think of a subject large enough to consume me every day. Recluses are devoted single-mindedly to a life passion. My only real passion is pets. Could I spend every day in my workroom thinking about cats, writing about dogs, or researching animal diseases? Could I become a crusader for animal rights right there in my little room? Not likely. In the midst of a treatise on dog fighting, I would need a snack. While researching Von Willenbrand’s Syndrome, I would look out the window and realize the bird feeder was empty. Are recluses allowed out in the yard with sunflower seed?

Successful recluses have doting families who do their shopping, invite guests over in order to freshen the outlook of the shut-in, and accomplish all the tasks that the recluse simply can’t do, by virtue of the fact of being a recluse. I don’t have that kind of family. My husband is always gone. He is the opposite of reclusive. My kids aren’t around, either. I don’t have any loyal retainers to do my bidding. I think servants are a prerequisite for recluses. HERMITS, on the other hand, live completely alone, don’t want any family ties, and shun the concept of servitude for anyone. By that definition, being a hermit is totally OUT, as far as I am concerned.

Back to the reclusive life. I think a successful recluse must also have a highly developed sense of the SMALL. Spending all day at home, every day, would require an appreciation of life’s little details. For instance, I am sure that Emily Dickinson reveled in the dust motes in the air around her, watching as they swirled and caught the sun. She probably counted the pleats in her peplum. I feel confident that looking out the window at the garden was tantamount to meditation for her. I am not good at this. I have no idea how many buttons are on my favorite cardigan. I have noticed that there is dust on tops of all the picture frames, but that is about it.

Recluses often carry on long conversations with friends by exchanging letters. Emily Dickinson maintained lifelong relationships with a number of people, some of whom published her letters to them. Thus, she was able to make HER FRIENDS somewhat famous, just because they knew her. Today’s recluse would have access to Facebook and Twitter. I can just IMAGINE what fine tweets Emily could churn out.

I did actually try out the reclusive lifestyle last winter, when I had a skin cancer on my face that required surgery of Frankensteinian proportions. I was on a recliner in my TV room for two weeks. It was hell. Without Netflix, a cell phone, and Facebook as lifelines, I would have descended into sheer madness. It is because of this experience that I have such admiration for Emily and her ilk.

If Emily were around today, would she restyle her life? Would she at least talk with her friends using Skype? Would she still bake gingerbread from scratch, or would she use a mix? Would she have a cell phone and carry on conversations with fellow intellectuals from the safety of her room? Is it possible to be a productive recluse in today’s world without the use of technology? I couldn’t do it. My hat is off to Emily.

The Soul selects her own Society—
Then--shuts the Door—
To her divine Majority
Present no more

Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pausing
At her low Gate—
Unmoved--an Emperor be kneeling

Upon her Mat
I’ve known her—from an ample Nation—
Choose one—
Then—close the Valves of her attention—
Like Stone—

LIFE BEGINS AT SIXTY

2010-01-08T11:50:00.004-05:00

My sixtieth birthday is this weekend. If I were a native American, I would just now be starting to get a little respect. If I were in China, I would be revered for my knowledge and sought out for my sage advice. If I were in ancient Greece, I might be an oracle. But in my neighborhood, I am just the slightly saggy lady who is married to the accordion man. I have acquired wisdom along the way, however. And now that I am in my seventh decade, I am qualified to give advice and make shrewd observations.

PEOPLE ARE MEANT TO EAT CARBOHYDRATES. I know that fruits and vegetables are full of vitamins and fiber. Lean meat has proteins. Whole grains help lower cholesterol. But a nice pile of mashed potatoes can soothe the soul. Toast with honey gives one the energy to fight traffic, run all those errands, rise above office politics, and discipline unruly siblings. Mocha lattes can banish minor depression.

THERE ARE TOO MANY BEAUTY PRODUCTS TO CHOOSE FROM. I have dedicated some of my waning energy to keeping up appearances. But looking in the beauty aisle or scanning Vogue magazine can produce anxiety attacks, which do nothing to allay the effects of aging! And dermatologists are getting into the act, which further confuses the issue. If Dr. So and So says that this cream will banish eye bags, and Dr. Whatsis says that this masque will plump up naso-labial folds, and then other medical experts tout cleansers, toners, and brighteners, what is one aging woman on a budget to do? My mother, who some say was quite glamorous until her late eighties, used COLD CREAM. PERIOD.

REALITY TELEVISION IS LIKE HEROIN. Nobody likes to admit this. But there wouldn’t BE all those shows about multiple births, little people, Dr. Drew, bariatric surgery, coroners, and survivors if we didn’t watch them. I keep discovering new ones to watch: like the one about hoarders, or people who save pit bulls, or parolees who become florists…

BEING RETIRED IS VERY FUN. PEOPLE SHOULD TRY TO RETIRE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. I used to have to leave for work at seven each morning, drive a half hour, and then work until 6:30. I liked the job, and loved the people. Then I retired. My God, what a revelation! Retired people can GO TO THE STORE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AFTERNOON. They can go on vacation at a moment’s notice! If you don’t work, you can wake up and decide to turn over and go back to sleep! Retired people don’t have to juggle any schedules, call in sick, or worry about rush hour traffic. They go to the movies on Wednesday evenings, spend entire afternoons at the library, and take yoga lessons and cooking classes. It sucks to work.

RAISING CHILDREN IS IMPORTANT WORK. BUT IT TAKES A BIG CHUNK OUT OF A WOMAN’S IDENTITY. I spent my childhood waiting to grow up. Then I became an adult, and spent twenty-odd years as a working mother. It wasn’t until those girls left home that I discovered that I AM A WRITER! Evidently, I have been one my whole life, but I had to get all that maturing, child raising, wage earning and homemaking out of the way in order to be the real me!

AS LONG AS YOU HAVE PROBLEMS TO SOLVE, YOU ARE YOUNG. Challenges engage the mind, and keep those synapses firing. All of us need something to charge at. And while I am on the subject of staying young, it is youthful people who always have something to look forward to. Old people think that all the important milestones, such as marriage, children, and grandchildren, are finished. Vital people always have something cooking: a trip, a dinner party, seeing the bulbs bloom in the spring, or having a facial. I, personally, look forward to checking my email every day, seeing how many coupons I can use at the store, and finding new things to top with Cool Whip.

Now that I am filled with the wisdom of the ages, I will sign off with perhaps the most valuable advice that I could give anyone:

Life is not worth living without at least one cat, preferably Siamese.

SCRATCH THE SURFACE

2010-01-03T00:50:00.002-05:00

A friend sent me an email asking all respondents to list ten things that no one knew about them. I didn’t answer. I have, however, been thinking about it ever since. It seems as if my life is an open book, even more since I have started blogging, but underneath it all are some things lurking. These are scattered, some silly and some very serious to me. No one knows them. Maybe it is time to put them out to air. I am certain that the emailer who sent me the question did not have this level of self disclosure in mind, but I am going for it:

I have always felt that my husband and children are my spiritual guides. They seem to be on this earth to teach me things. This became very apparent to me after Charlie suffered his stroke. Suddenly, my children were spouting wisdom, and I was leaning on them. Calls in the middle of the night were made from ME to THEM, not vice versa. At the very beginning of the saga, my older daughter told me that the event was most certainly a gift and not a tragedy. That one sentence was my lifeline. Then, suddenly, Charlie began his trip back into the world, and every day was a revelation about how one small man could turn the tide against a seemingly insurmountable disability. And these days, my “baby,” who lives nearby, amazes me with her sensibility, self awareness, and stolid devotedness to her life’s passions. Her groundedness is an example for me every day.

I have recurring dreams. My favorite one features me tap dancing with much talent and gusto. Another one has me discovering two extra bedrooms and a bathroom that I had no idea were in my house! The one I dread having, though, is the one in which I am at a fancy dress ball in a strapless gown, and I look terrific! But then I discover that I have forgotten to shave my underarm area. Shattering. A variation of this one concerns the beach, a bathing suit, and you guessed it!

I worry about being alone some day. After having nearly lost my husband, the thought of widowhood is always lurking somewhere in my subconscious. I try to think about how I will live in the house, solve problems alone, and if I will talk out loud to him. Will I meet the challenge bravely? Soldier on? Or wither? I have promised myself that I will be a “good” widow. What that means will only be revealed to me if and when it happens. Meanwhile, I brood a little bit.

I think I am stylish. Really. I realize that if I showed up at a toddler’s birthday party uninvited, that every child there would just assume that I was an attendee’s Grandma. However, I would NOT be the grandma wearing anything supportive, orthopedic, or in any way necessitated by arthritis. At my age, I still wear the same Katherine Hepburn inspired slacks and shirts that have always looked good on me. Everyone with any style sense knows that turned up shirt collars are simply stunning on the right woman.

I am proud of my grammatical prowess. I can proofread with the best of them. This isn’t always apparent in the blog, but that has to do with the fact that I sometimes toss them off and publish them with slapdash speed and enthusiasm. But I feel that I might do very well in some sort of proofreading Olympic.

I could eat every single night in a restaurant. I could even go to the SAME one every night, if the menu was extensive enough. The whole ritual of shopping, preparing, and presenting food to a loving family is not one that has ever impressed me with deeper meaning, the way it has for many people. For them, food preparation is almost like yoga in its relaxing and meaningful aspects. For me, it just seems like working on a giant nutritional assembly line: pop the potatoes on the plate, slide on the chicken, spoon on the peas, and do it all over again. Like Lucy at the chocolate factory! But restaurants offer solitude, mood lighting, opportunities for romantic conversation, and waiters. Bliss, in other words.

But there is a thing about me that I have kept to myself since childhood, and it is a true indicator of my core personality. It is embarrassing. I think it reveals that perhaps I am either obsessive, or is it compulsive? Maybe I am just a little pent up. But when I can’t sleep, I ROLL MY HEAD BACK AND FORTH ON THE PILLOW. I also do this on the sofa sometimes. My husband is used to this. My kids see it as a sign that “Mom is tired, and if somebody doesn’t stop her, she will fall asleep IN THE LIVING ROOM.” I tend to head-roll also when bored or nervous. The temptation to do it in Doctor’s waiting rooms is almost irresistible. So far, I have controlled myself. But as I age, will I become the crazy head-rolling woman in the beauty salon? Will patrons at the library notice me head-rolling in the stacks? Will I start doing it during traffic jams?

And there is a woman whom I see regularly at the grocery store. I run into her about once a month, and have been doing so for years. I like the look of her, and I wish she and I were friends. I don’t know anything about her except that when she was a young mother, she always looked fresh and athletic—just the opposite of me. Now that we have both aged, she looks wistful and slightly faded, but still extremely interesting. I smile at her when I see her. That’s all. And I regret that.

There you have it. Pieces of the real me. From behind the screen...

HOME ALONE

2009-12-31T10:04:00.002-05:00

They arrived with presents, one huge backpack, athletic gear, assorted hats, gloves, boots and sets of keys. The immaculately decorated house immediately took on the aspect of chaos that it used to have when children lived here permanently. Christmas had begun.

The schedule was planned by Charlie, and it included some shopping, riding around to see the lights, holiday performances, and dinners out. We had a barbequed turkey on Christmas night, complete with coleslaw and made-from-scratch baked beans. This was an innovation-—we wanted a change from the tired old stuffed turkey that usually graces our table. I would bet thousands that not one family in America leaves the table after Christmas dinner unbloated, and this family was no exception!

The opening of gifts at our house is an all day affair. The champagne we drank on Christmas Eve proved very soporific, and so none of us awoke before ten. Even the dog slept in. With coffee and egg casserole to fortify, we opened gifts for the better part of three hours. Since this was an “austere” year, gifts included boxes of cereal for one daughter, cookbooks from the shelf in the kitchen for the other. The dog opened her gift, and then chewed her way through a few others. We ate and drank coffee for the better part of the day, remaining parked in front of the fire. Fun, fun, fun.

As suddenly as they came, the daughters were gone. Despite assiduous packing, here is what we discovered that was left behind: One hairbrush, a complete set of workout clothes (still sweat covered), a red sweater that had to be retrieved from the restaurant where it was left, two boxes of the “gift” cereal, and various beauty products.

Also left behind was an air of emptiness, and echoes of laughter and late night television. There is silence where there was chattering and shouting, and here and there are remnants of the holiday: a shred of gift wrap under the coffee table, a stray ornament in the corner. The stockings are deflated, hanging there to remind me of those girls.

I have a bad cold. I don’t feel like putting anything away today. So I sit, wrapped in a blanket, thinking about past Christmases, and the days when the kids were still at home. Between coughs, I remember: Marion having strep throat just about every year, and all the Amoxicillin doses. Annie asking for a new saddle every year, and not receiving one (they cost the same amount as a CAR, for Pete’s sake!). The year Nintendo games were all the rage, and our girls didn’t get one. The arguments that resulted from “Trivial Pursuit.” Charlie falling asleep during “family time” watching Christmas movies. The messes that were made in the kitchen by well meaning cooks. The noise, the disruption, and the activity. It was exhausting!

So now I sit, with blanket and coffee. The house is quiet, and there are no cell phones texting, no Ipods recharging, and no hair dryers blowing. There is still more coffee in the pot. I have not tripped over one gym shoe in twenty four hours. The bed in the guestroom is MADE.

The children are where they belong. I am home alone. There is order in the universe.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL

2009-12-23T12:01:00.002-05:00

While I enjoy the holidays with my family, going to restaurants and overeating, wrapping gifts, watching "On Demand" movies, trying to keep up with all the mess in the house, and generally making merry, I want to send all of you my very best wishes for a FANTASTIC holiday with your families.

Eat an extra cookie. Go out and buy ONE MORE stocking stuffer! Take a ride and look at holiday lighting displays! Sleep in an extra hour. Make a new recipe. And be sure to think of me when you laugh!

I WILL BE STANDING UNDER THE MISTLETOE, WAITING FOR SOMEONE INTERESTING TO PASS BY...

CHESTNUTS ROASTING

2009-12-10T15:06:00.004-05:00

I would love to write a nostalgic post about my many Christmas memories. Stockings, carols, turkeys, Santa, the works. The truth of the matter is that my childhood memories, collectively, would EASILY fit on the head of a pin.

I have been challenged by a Facebook friend to get with it and THINK BACK. I have been brain racking (wracking??), and I have managed to come up with some details of my Christmases past to share with all of you. Dickens I am most certainly NOT, but I do have some memories perhaps worth sharing.

FAMILY. My mother was a gifted artist who spent her life as a housewife. Her genius was expressed through flower arranging, sewing, cooking, and crafting. She let herself go at Christmas! We always had at least five kinds of cookies stored in Christmas tins in the garage (!), and every night after dinner, we brought them upstairs and gorged on nut crescents, little pecan tarts, Slovak (my Mom, a true Bohemian peasant) jam tarts, and various other delicacies. I have never made a cookie that doesn’t come in a roll from the grocery refrigerated section.

My mother always made a Christmas candle. She let my sister and me help. It consisted of a wick, blocks of paraffin, melted paraffin that she somehow whipped into a froth, glitter, food coloring, and decorative greens. The candle was assembled from the blocks, the whipped frosting applied with a cake spreader, and the glitter applied while the paraffin was still wet. The candle was arranged on the buffet with the greens; it always looked beautiful, and we lit it every night during supper during the holidays. I absolutely loved it. It has never occurred to me to try making one.

We did not have a fireplace in our house, so we never had stockings. My father acted as Santa on Christmas morning, and he did an admirable job. We opened gifts one at a time, and exclaimed over each one. I am not aware of my parents exchanging gifts—Christmas was ALL ABOUT ME, of course. I do remember Dad getting things like socks and gloves every year, and his enthusiasm for these gifts was always boundless, bless him!

GIFTS TO REMEMBER. My favorite gift as a child was a ballerina doll with pink toe shoes. I found it in my Mom’s closet at around Thanksgiving time, and took it out and played with whenever she went to the store. I am shocked that she didn’t notice its slightly shopworn appearance when she wrapped it up to put it under the tree. The worst gift I have ever received (and my daughters will back me up on this) was a pair of blown glass earrings from my husband. These looked to me like tiny little dog poos on 14k gold posts, and I never wore them. They got lost, somehow…

THE HOLIDAY RAMP-UP. Families in the fifties were not so slavish in the decoration department. I have no memories of lights in the bushes or wreaths on the front door. We had a big non artificial tree in the living room, in front of the picture window, and every year, my Dad did what all Dads throughout history have done: he put the lights on the tree and used words that I never heard during other times of the year: words like shit, damnittohell, and son of a bitch.

Our decorations were thanks to my talented mother, who managed to make a different style of beautiful handcrafted ornament-every year. We had ones made of satin ribbon, ones covered with sequins, knitted and crocheted ones, stained glass-like ones, and some she made from kits that she ordered. I have many of these still, and we put them on our tree every year. I have never tried to make an ornament. I know my limitations.

Since both parents were musicians, and my Dad played a mean concert violin, we always had Christmas music. On the stereo, I adored the Mormon Tabernacle choir. Robert Goulet sang “Panis Angelicus” like nobody’s business. My Dad played his violin for us once in awhile, and I loved it. Since my Dad was also associated with the music department at the university in our town, we also attended Christmas concerts. I loved sitting there, behaving beautifully (my Mom made it clear that one false move and I was a dead man) and letting the music wash over me. I have no musical talent myself. Charlie takes care of that with carols galore on the accordion, whether we need them or not.

So there you have it. Memories. My children, if writing blogs, would have a very different set of remembrances: about the Santa gifts with Mom’s handwriting on the tags, the trips to the emergency room on Christmas Eve two years running (a badly sprained ankle one year, uncontrolled vomiting the next), taking rides to see the lights and getting into a big fight in the car about why it isn’t in good taste to say the “F” word in front of your parents, embarrassing a boyfriend at a fancy restaurant with a family discussion about scatological topics, and the time Mom gave Dad back all of the gifts he got her because none of them were on her Christmas list…

Oh, it is a magical time of the year.

I want to wish all of you who have supported me in my writing a wonderful holiday. I will name some names: Merry Christmas to my Facebook family, especially Karl, Tracy, Diana, Michelle, Celine, and Dr. Steve. To Watson the cat, felicitations! To my Etsy friends, a hearty Yule! To my neighbors, lots of love. To the rest—Jane and Dave, Susan G. and Dave, Alison and Tim, Carl and Sherry, John and Joann, Paul and Susanne, Waynesville Vet Hospital, Joe and Dee, Sheryl and Rick, Mar and Den, Lynne, and the rest of my family—peace and love.

I will be taking a Christmas hiatus (no,Charlie—I don’t have a HERNIA) and I will be back after the holidays. Annie and Marion will be home this year, the four of us together for maybe the last time before one of them gets married.

It will be the BEST CHRISTMAS EVER.

MONIKERS

2009-12-06T15:16:00.006-05:00

I grew up hating my name. I still don’t like it, actually. In my generation, the only “Molly’s” were in my reading books: cows and goats always seemed to have that name. Not one girl. This held true all the way through college and beyond. Imagine my surprise when the name “Molly” became popular in the 90’s. Now I run into little “Molly’s” everywhere. There is security in having a popular name. No one makes fun of you or it, or asks you where your name comes from, etc. I have spent some time pondering names lately. It seems that one’s name can be either the catalyst for a lot of anguish, sexual confusion, resentment, or just, as in my case, dissatisfaction. A name can harness its owner with aggravation and more. For instance:

As a parent, one must think long and hard before naming a child something unusual. Bucking trends for some parents is an obsession. But before you name your daughter Prudence, however, consider the meaning behind the name. I have always wondered if those Moms and Dads choosing names like Hope, Charity, Patience and the like are projecting these qualities onto their daughters, or if they are just living in the past.

Luckily for parents who like old fashioned names, however, these seem to be swinging right back into popularity: Joshua, Ethan, Caleb—these are all back. These names are very nice and strong. Again, some parents push this envelope as well, and we get Moab, Orton, Gladys, and Blanche. Can you imagine what being named Blanche might be like? At the birthday party: “Come on girls—Tiffany, Suzy, Maddie, and BLANCHE! Time to cut the cake!” Is grandma among them?

In my mind, certain names have associations that are not complimentary. Hilda, for instance, makes me think of a clumsy red-haired pre teen, who is pushed into ballet school by her misguided mother. Elspeth seems like a wraith with incipient tuberculosis. Cary, I am sorry to say, is gay (not that there is anything wrong with that...). Wendell and Winthrop are nerds. And Cecil is most likely gay AND the neighborhood target for all the bullies. By the way, the bullies are named Jake, Bud, and Willy (Willy became a bully in defense of his own penile related name). Florrie is fat.

I would also like to knock some sense into any parent considering naming a boy anything relating to cowboys, unless the family actually lives on a farm or ranch with real cows and horses. Boys named Emmett, Saratoga, Slim, or Red have a lot to live up to otherwise. The same goes for girls. Why name a child Belle, before you know whether or not she will be pretty? While I am at it—I would like to give another kick in the head to any parent cherishing the name Hortense, Ida, Gaylord, Jemima, Hubert, or Pepper.

Geography should not be confused with the naming of children. How did naming kids after locations become the trend? Sierra, Tennessee, Aspen, Nevada. I guess these sound evocative to some. Thank goodness I have never been introduced to a Little Rock or a Kankakee, but they are probably out there, getting beaten up during recess.

One more thing. Consider your own name before you name your dog. If your name is Rex or Chance, then for heaven’s sake, don’t give your dog a name like Pete or Dan, because folks will persist in calling you by your dog’s name.

A final peeve. If you get the privilege of naming a person, can you please SPELL the name correctly? The popularity of butchering names causes me such pain. Why ruin a fine name such as Susan by spelling it Soosyn? Mollee? Danyelle? Wyllym? Dian??

Ok, I have to go now. I have to go brush my cat Salami.

WHAT WOMEN WANT

2009-11-29T15:38:00.004-05:00

The Christmas shopping season officially has begun! For the men that I know well, Christmas shopping is a duty that is almost impossible to live up to. For these men, and for all the men out there who feel helpless and lost in any store other than Lowe’s, I am going to present my TIPS FOR SHOPPING FOR FEMALES. The first thing for men to keep in mind is that what women love 364 days a year does not necessarily mean that they want to see it under the tree. Women want to feel special and feminine at Christmas. As a matter of fact, men should keep that in mind for all occasions! So here goes:

TIP NUMBER ONE: If it has something to do with keeping things clean, women don’t want it as a gift. Those nifty little steam cleaners for carpets? FANTASTIC. But if you give her one for Christmas, it’s an INSULT. “What, you don’t think I can keep house? Well, YOU try cooking, doing laundry, trucking kids around, taking care of Fido, and just see how many spots YOU will find on the rug!”

TIP NUMBER TWO: Women, as a rule, hate gifts that come pre-packaged. I know, the department store tells you that if you spend $30, you can take home a really nice shrink wrapped basket that contains soap, a loofah, some body wash, and three lip balms. Men love this, thinking that somebody, somewhere, has scoped out what women like, and put it together for them. This is erroneous. Generic things in shrink wrap are too cheesy for words, and only men will buy them.

TIP NUMBER THREE: The home made gift certificates that say, for example: “Good for two back rubs,” or “Will do dishes every Friday,” are COMPLETELY BOGUS. No one EVER lives up to promises made on these things. Children can get away with gifting these to Moms, but never men. Do men think we are really that gullible? And if a man DOES actually try to make good on one of these, it is a half-hearted effort at best. Charlie’s idea of a back rub is twenty seconds of vague patting while watching a television program. And a kitchen cleaned up by most men has grease around the edges every time.

TIP NUMBER FOUR: If it is in a big package, it better be a big gift! I have said this before, but it bears repeating: my friend, who received BED PILLOWS in a big beautiful box from her husband at Christmas twenty years ago HAS NEVER FORGIVEN HIM. A big box, to a woman, promises things like cashmere coats, leather boots with five inch heels, or cable knit cardigans!

TIP NUMBER FIVE: Unless she is a gourmet cook, don’t consider kitchen paraphernalia. Le Creuset and Cuisinart are SPECIAL INTEREST gifts. As a matter of fact, any special interest gift is risky. Sports equipment, fitness gear, gardening tools, and things like bird feeders are only welcomed by real enthusiasts. The rest of us regular women think that the kinds of gifts found in, say, the Hammacher Schlemmer catalog, are very technical and kind of BORING.

TIP NUMBER SIX: I may be the only woman in the world who feels this way, but for me, getting a CHRISTMAS ORNAMENT for Christmas is anti-climactic. It is too late to use it this year, and in order to enjoy it, a whole year has to go by. Furthermore, almost every family I know has TOO MANY Christmas ornaments already. Just because the stores are full of them this time of year is no reason to get one for your wife!

All in all, this time of year is fraught with peril for the male shopper. The best advice I can give to any man looking for the perfect gift is this:

Are you considering buying that thing in your hand? Before you go to the cash register, look around the store. Find a woman. Show her what you have in your hand. Ask that woman if you should buy the item. DO WHAT SHE SAYS. Foolproof!

THE LESSER BLESSINGS

2009-11-22T13:49:00.004-05:00

All around America, in kitchens and dining rooms this Thursday, people will gather to give thanks. Many of us make it a ritual, going around the table reciting what we are most thankful for. What a wonderful custom! However, there IS an element of political correctness involved. EVERYONE is thankful for family, love, pets, abundance, good fortune, and good will. But I am willing to bet thousands that there is not one woman in America who would be REALLY honest and say she is thankful for tampons, for example. But there are just so many things that make life worth living, and I, FOR ONE, am going to go on record this year and say what I AM REALLY THANKFUL FOR.

CEREAL. Back in the day, you could have Corn Flakes or Corn Flakes. These days, there is a myriad of choices, and they are all so delicious! High fiber, fruity, puffed, rolled. You can eat it cold. You can eat it hot. You can eat it right out of the box, for heaven’s sake! And it is fast, easy, and portable. I have it for at least one meal a day, and for that, I am thankful!

DEODORANT. This was truly a tremendous leap forward for mankind. Without it, many people might never have found a life partner! Would ANYONE go to the gym if it weren’t for deodorant? Therefore, we have deodorant to thank for lower cholesterol levels, longer life spans, and that honed “six pack” look. Without deodorant, no one would be able to attend sporting events without getting nauseous from the fumes. SO WITHOUT IT, THERE WOULD BE NO SUPERBOWL!

SPANDEX. Now, this one is HUGE. Without it, women my age would not be able to wear tight pants and still breathe. Spandex made leggings possible. Men should also be very thankful for Spandex, without which Pamela Anderson might have looked dumpy.

THE VACUUM CLEANER. I can’t imagine what life must have been like for women who had to use a BROOM to try to clean house. Why, just today, I spilled a box of cereal on the kitchen floor at lunchtime, and before you could say “Tony the Tiger,” it was all cleaned up. Beating rugs with a stick? Forget it! Cat hair? It would never come off the carpet with a broom! If I had lived a before the advent of the Dyson, my life would have consisted of sheer drudgery and lots of unwanted crumbs.

THE BIG BOX STORE. I know, Wal-Mart might be evil. But honestly, when time is at a minimum, one trip does it all. I am still astounded by the sheer diversity offered by the big boxes: you can get bug killer, mulch, toilet paper, apricots, best sellers, pinto beans, and organic tomatoes there. You can get your hair cut, nails done, and develop photos. There is a bank in there! Starbucks! You could actually LIVE at a big box store. Wait a minute! Should I be thankful for this or not?

CORTISONE CREAM. Cortisone is the tenth wonder of the world. It cures everything. If it itches, put cortisone on it. If it burns, put cortisone on it. If it looks puffy, cortisone will de-puff. You can do just about anything but cook with the stuff. Remember the “heartbreak of psoriasis?” Of course you don’t, because there is CORTISONE CREAM!

KLEENEX. Everyone who knows me personally will vouch for the fact that I could not exist without it. I blow my nose, or attend to it in some fashion, at least three times an hour. As a matter of fact, Kleenex is a part of my persona: one of my friends said, “I saw you on Monday at the corner of X and Y Street! Of course it was you! She was blowing her nose!”

And finally, I am thankful for THE INTERNET. I have friends now in England, New Zealand, France, Canada, and all over the United States, thanks to Etsy and Facebook. I can Google whatever I want to. I can buy everything on the internet that I can’t find at a big box store! I can SELL stuff! I can watch a movie, a hilarious video of a cat playing the piano, or a film clip of a gorilla playing dominoes. But this is what I am most thankful for:

THE INTERNET IS THE HOME OF THE BLOG.

PLOT LINES

2009-11-13T13:14:00.004-05:00

I have been encouraged lately by many people to write a book. I am not up to it yet, but I am ruminating on various potential themes. I have about three or four recurring dramas that I play out in my head for entertainment, and perhaps one of these has in it the germ of a novel. You can be the judge.

THE ECCENTRIC MYSTERY. Someone is murdered. A detective is hired to solve the crime, but this particular detective has some personality quirks that make solving crimes particularly challenging. The detective, one Arnold Scullwood by name, works by day in a bookstore, and moonlights as a nude model to bring in extra cash, which he squanders by buying lottery tickets. Arnold, a bodybuilder, also finds sleuthing hard to work into his training schedule and frequent odysseys to weight lifting competitions. But when a woman is found dead after the “clean and jerk," Arnold gets strong-armed into solving the crime.

THE FOOD NOVEL. In this book, the plot is secondary to giving the author free rein to talk about making food, eating food, and sharing recipes. Back in the day, this was called a “cook book,” but today’s readers apparently demand more from that genre. So in this, the protagonist either falls in love with the wrong man, or is a widow who moves to a new town. Either way, the heroine learns to solve her problems and renew her faith in herself and mankind by opening either a: bakery, a quilt shop that serves little homely snacks, or a tea room that ultimately fails. In the process, the heroine—we will call her Polly Underwinger, finds love with either the coffee delivery man, or the local pharmacist.

THE ENGLISH COUNTRY HOME SAGA. This is one of my favorites. It follows the Crompton-Flingford family over a span of a couple of generations, beginning with little cockney Harold Crompton, who begins life as a lackey in a glue factory under horrid conditions, but works his way up to owning the whole thing. Along the way, he meets Daisy Flingford, who hails from a noble family and completely upsets the feudal order of things by marrying Harold beneath her station. Their marriage is, of course, fraught with trouble, but they persevere and produce a wayward son, Bartholemew Crompton-Flingford, who goes to public school, buggers his underlings, and then procedes to squander the entire glue fortune on “fancy women” and Thoroughbreds. Daughter Paisley Crompton-Flingford is a silly, spoilt schoolgirl who eats too many cream scones at tea, and hence finds it hard to interest any local bachelors, due to her girth. The whole plot thickens when Rodney Mink-Nulton, a slick character, enters the picture to seduce Paisley, blackmail Harold, charm Daisy, and challenge Bartholemew to a duel. This novel is full of chintz, tea, scones, and fires with fenders. It is also replete with bodice ripping, unseemly characters, foxhounds, pheasants hanging in the larder, and, naturally, chambermaids.

THE PRECOCIOUS CHILD NOVEL. Of course, no one can top “Anne of Green Gables,” or “Little Women,” but I might try my hand at writing the story of Annabricks Le Table, the daughter of a boring British nobleman and his lively and gutsy French lover. Annabricks is the darling of the neighborhood around the Rue de la Cul de Sac, where she lives. She introduces the colorful characters who are her friends: Raoul, the roguish butcher, who gives her free bones for her dog “Bouillon,” and Madame Raclette, owner of the local brothel, who teaches Annabricks the ways of the world. Annabrick’s parents, Clive and Manette, struggle to keep their darling but larger-than-life daughter safe, while allowing her to grow up experiencing the ways of the French, all the while learning how to brew a really good cup of tea.

I am continuing to cogitate, but really, the most fun for me is coming up with names for my characters! A few more, perhaps?

THE SOUTHERN BELLE: Fanny Cerise Fernduke

THE OLD MAID SECRETARY: Minerva Pickles

THE STARVING, AND PERHAPS, GAY ARTIST: Eden Silverwaft

THE MUSCLED AND MACHO COWBOY: Ty Hornbrand

THE WISE OLD HANDYMAN: Dab Smuts

I’VE GOT A MILLION OF ‘EM!

THE OTHER MAN

2009-11-08T11:47:00.001-05:00

He is talkative, svelte, and handsome. His blue eyes are piercing. He is a charmer! He walked into my life, took one look at me, and I was hopelessly in love! He thinks he is the coolest cat around, and actually, he is kind of conceited. But he knows I am crazy about him. Even my husband likes him.

You would think that a woman of my age would know better than to fall in love again. But what could I do in the force of his personality, his presence, his charisma? Even my friends don’t blame me. They admire him, also!

He arrived in Dayton from Atlanta on Delta Airlines on a summer day two years ago. He needed a place to stay. I took him to my place. We hit it off immediately, and before you know it, I was kissing him. He went upstairs into the bedroom, and I followed. What can I say? The rest is history….

He is very forceful and demanding. When he wants attention, he gets it. I would compare his style to Frank Sinatra: he is smooth, sophisticated, and he can be very entertaining. Yet, he has a great sense of humor, and at times is a real clown. But he is just so handsome! When he is around, I just can’t keep my hands off him!

Ever since he came into my life, everything has changed. My husband is just not as exciting as he used to be. At times, when I am listening to one of Charlie’s stories, my mind wanders, and I start thinking of HIM. When I am on vacation with my husband, I miss HIM. There are days when all I want to do is see him, touch him, just BE WITH HIM!

There have been others. But with this one, it is different. He makes me feel young again. He makes me laugh. He understands me. I will never let him go.

Somehow, my husband understands, and the three of us have learned how to coexist. Yes, it is a beautiful relationship: one man, one woman, and one Siamese cat.

THE REMAINS OF THE DAY

2009-11-01T15:22:00.004-05:00

There is a reason why my house has a “servants” room in the attic. Of course, the attic is neither cooled nor heated, and it has never been. But there is a rudely finished room up there, with walls, a hardwood floor, a nice dormer window, and a corner with a sink. It must have been the place where “the girl” lived in the olden days. In my imagination, “the girl” did all of the things that I now have to do, and she was, I bet, an extremely hard worker!

I spent the day “putting away” summer. We have lots of chairs and cushions on the deck. It also has potted plants galore. There is a table and chairs where we ate meals al fresco, sitting in the breezes and drinking wine. Today, Charlie and I wrestled with those same cushions, furniture, and plants. Dumping soil, carting stuff to the curb. Putting pots in the garage. Sweeping leaves off the furniture cushions, and stuffing them into big trash bags. Lugging the bags into the basement.

On the screened porch upstairs, there is MORE FURNITURE! IT IS COVERED WITH ADDITIONAL CUSHIONS! The screened porch is one of the reasons we bought the house, and it really looks dandy in the summer, with the Boston Ferns, the reed matting, and the many lamps and accessories that I have amassed. TODAY, I HAD TO CARRY ALL OF THAT STUFF INTO THE ATTIC. This is actually a definitive two person job, because one person has to guard the door to the attic, while the other totes everything up there. If we don’t follow this procedure to the letter, CATS GET IN THE ATTIC. You don’t want cats in your attic. At least not in our attic, where there are numerous chinks and crannies. A few years ago, a Siamese kitten managed somehow to GET BETWEEN THE WALLS up there. After emergency phone calls to family members, one of whom had to drive all the way back to Dayton from Cincinnati, we managed to get the kitten out. It took all day, and I had to call in “sick” at work.

Back to the porches. All those chairs and loveseats have winter covers. When spring comes, we tend to be in a big hurry to uncover everything, and so all the covers are jumbled together in a large trunk in the basement. So today, Charlie and I had to devote forty five minutes to COVER ANALYSIS. Truly, these covers all LOOK THE SAME, until we try to actually cover a piece of furniture with one. And it doesn’t fit. No matter how we turn it. So we stood on the deck, and it went a little like this:

No, no, no! THE SEAM should go across the back!”

“If that is the case, then why doesn’t it fit?”

“Ok, then turn it upside down!”

“There is a picture on the tag, and it is of a SOFA, not a ROCKING CHAIR!”

“Well, if you are so smart, why didn’t you tell me to look at the tag in the first place?”

“I am going to watch TV.”

“WE AGREED THAT THIS IS A TWO PERSON JOB!!!”

I am sure that in the days of yore, when people had servants, things moved along smoothly from season to season, and there were no loud arguments between the master and mistress of the house about how to best dispose of dead potted plants and where to store the wicker side tables. In those days, houses of a certain size had folks like Anthony Hopkins polishing silver, dusting in the corners, and changing the slipcovers from linen to velvet in the fall. There were cooks to make dinner. A yardman came to take care of the pesky leaves and to clean out the gutters.

Now we have labor saving devices. But having a dishwasher and a Dyson is little consolation when wrangling recalcitrant furniture covers.

HOW CAN I GET A GIRL FOR THE ATTIC?

THRILLER

2009-10-25T17:03:00.006-04:00

As a kid, I loved Halloween almost more than Christmas. Neighborhoods were safer then, and Halloween actually commenced after dark. Nothing was more exciting than racing along dim streets in our costumes. The candy part was anticlimactic. I don’t remember even sampling the candy until after I got home—NO, the real fun was running free in the night, shouting, knocking on strange doors, and comparing notes with my friends on which houses were handing out the best loot. If you got a full sized Hershey bar, that was AMAZING. And by the way, the person who coined the term “fun sized” for those stinking little miniature candy bars is a master of brainwashing, as far as I am concerned.

Another fantastic feature of Halloween, in my youthful opinion, was what it did to ADULTS. Some of the most dignified and respected parents donned costumes and acted extremely frivolous. One of our neighbors dressed up as a witch every Halloween and should have been ashamed of herself, as far as I was concerned. Luckily for me, my mother behaved in an acceptable fashion and merely answered the door and meted out the candy. Period. Of course, SHE didn’t have much fun, but I was fine with that.

This brings me to today. In our family, no one loves Halloween more than my husband. Not me, and not our daughters, even when they were within trick-or-treating parameters. To say that Charlie REVELS in the holiday doesn’t even scratch the surface! At our house, there is an electric jack o’lantern that revolves on a turntable with a fun house mirror behind it! We have scary music blaring out into the night! There are skeleton lights in the tree! It is all I can do to keep Charlie IN the house (in past years, he would meet the little kids at the edge of the yard, and it was reported that they were becoming intimidated…) until the doorbell rings.

Last year we ran out of candy. Panic ensued. I began searching around the house for alternatives as Charlie stalled the children at the door. At first, all was well, as I found some granola bars in the cupboard. But when those were gone, necessity became the mother of invention. Do you remember getting APPLES in your trick or treat bag as a kid? AND HATING THAT??? I rejected the fruit idea. Charlie suggested giving pennies, but Annie reminded us that inflation would dictate that in 2008 the equivalent would be quarters, at least, and we had a dollar’s worth. Another quick rummage through the kitchen.

ME: “WHAT ABOUT MARSHMALLOWS?”

ANNIE: “ARE THEY INDIVIDUALLY WRAPPED? IF NOT, MOMS WILL THINK THEY HAVE RAZORS IN THEM!”

ME: “OK, HOW ABOUT THESE INDIVIDUALLY WRAPPED PRUNES?”

ANNIE: "ARE YOU KIDDING?"

After a few similar exchanges, with the children on the stoop becoming more restive, verging on violence, I found a box of Quaker Instant Cinnamon Oatmeal, and that was reluctantly accepted by two small ghosts and one tiny cheerleader. Charlie was becoming desperate, his reputation as neighborhood Halloween bon vivant at stake. I began throwing anything I could come up with into the treat bowl: one unopened package of Tic Tacs, two packages of peanut butter Nabs, one carnation instant breakfast, and just as I was about to throw in some microwave popcorn, Annie said, “OK, this is ridiculous, just SHUT THE DOOR AND TURN OUT THE PORCH LIGHT!”

This year, I am going to be smarter and get more candy. No more panic on All Hallow’s Eve for us! And, of course, as a weight watcher, I know enough to get candy that I don’t like.

But I do worry about this, because when Charlie finds out that we are giving out Horehound Drops and Licorice All Sorts this year, I am not sure what he will do…

THE PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE

2009-10-17T20:20:00.001-04:00

I love pomegranates. The seeds are like little jewels. They taste kind of like a combination of grapes and cranberries: sweet, with a little kick. According to the folks at the health food store, they are extremely good for you—loaded with antioxidants and vitamins that keep you living a long time. The problem with pomegranates is that they are hard to open and eat. Those little seeds tend to break open when I cut into the fruit, and they squirt all over my shirt. Others fly around the room as I try to disengage them from the rind and put them in a dish to eat. I can never seem to track all the errant seeds down, and so days later I either step on them, discover them stuck to the walls, or find them dried up on chair cushions. As a result, I eat mostly easy fruits like apples.

This is the story of my life, I guess. As a kid, I never wanted to do much that required major effort. Piano? Are you kidding? You have to practice a half hour a day! Sports? You mean you have to break a sweat? Homework was another thing. If it took hours to write a term paper worthy of an “A,” then I settled for a “B.” I loved books, but if the description of the bosky dell was too detailed, I just skipped pages until the lovers were actually DOING SOMETHING.

This whole habit has stayed with me. I am not proud of it, necessarily, but I feel the need to defend myself against all of those perfectionists out there who feel that doing something requires doing it to the best of one’s ability. THIS IS HOGWASH, IN MY OPINION. Life is short. I want to cram as much in as possible. In order to accomplish that, I have to cut corners.

Let’s consider housework. My mother had a system of keeping house that required an ENTIRE DAY for each activity! Monday, she ironed. I buy wrinkle resistant clothing for all family members. Tuesday was for shopping. Ok, I like to shop, so I do it on a regular basis. Wednesday was for dusting and vacuuming. Dusting? I use my hand; it takes about forty seconds. I vacuum only when I can no longer discern the color of the carpeting. Thursday was for cleaning the bathrooms and washing the floors. I do clean the bathrooms to prevent diseases from spreading, but who ever heard of dusty floors hurting anyone? Mom went on like this all week. I have chosen to work outside of the home and get PAID for it.

Parenting is another area in which I evidently took the easy way. I was never a room mother, because luckily, I was a “Working Mom.” The fact that Charlie also worked and managed somehow to serve up mashed potatoes in the school cafeteria did not escape the notice of my children. When the request went out for cupcakes for the Sunday school bake sale, I always felt that ones made by professional bakers were far superior to the lopsided ones fashioned in the home kitchen. And what is all the fuss about home sewn Halloween costumes? They wear them once, and then GROW OUT OF THEM, for Petes’ sake. Why NOT get them at Wal-Mart?

Yard work is very time consuming, and it is very hard on the knees. I have never really liked flowers all that well anyway. And why in the WORLD would anybody want to spend four hours a week DEADHEADING? I can think of so many other things that I would rather do. Weeding, to me, seems as futile as trying to pick off every single poppy seed from a bagel, one at a time! Our yard looks just fine, thank you, with its ground cover and hardy perennials. Mulch, you know, is not expensive, and if you spread it around thickly enough, it chokes the stuff that isn’t supposed to be growing in those beds. The muscle-bound yard guys I pay to throw the mulch around are also fun to watch from inside the house!

I have never enjoyed cooking. It seems a colossal waste of time to amass ingredients, massage them around, let things rise, baste stuff, and learn how to finesse pie crusts and separate eggs. It takes a member of my family exactly two minutes to polish off dessert. So where is the logic in spending three hours making it?

I am an expediter. I know how to get things checked off lists! My house looks good enough, if you don’t check the corners or wear white kid gloves. I have lots of spare time in which to do fun things. When friends who read what I have written suggest that maybe I might want to write a book, I consider what being an author entails: Thinking of a plot. Description. Exposition. Dialogue. Writing actual chapters. Proofreading, editing, honing, character development…

I WAS BORN TO BLOG.

A DAY IN THE LIFE

2009-10-10T10:40:00.004-04:00

There are days when things just don’t go well. The talking alarm clock stops speaking to me. My cell phone dies during an important conversation. I spill juice on yet another brand new T-shirt. I crack my head on the cupboard above the sink. It’s rainy and dull outside. Yesterday was such a day for me. I was wan, depressed, and limp. Charlie saw the situation and jumped into the breach!

“Ok, what do you want to do this afternoon as a fun diversion?” he asked. I, in my weakened state, could come up with nothing. We had seen all the movies, eaten out once already this week, and thanks to the economy, the budget was shot. I sank a little further down into the chair cushions and stared out the window at the empty bird feeder.

After a few minutes of reflection, he came up with a plan. Charlie’s plans are usually excellent. He knows how to spend a day! Our vacations never falter with Charlie at the healm. So I surrendered to his plan, and we got in the car.

The first stop was the music store. He said, “Wait till you see this; you won’t believe it!” He was right! Inside a darkened studio in the bowels of the store was a large box, more like a cabinet. It had a glass front, and it resembled those fortune telling machines at Coney Island—remember the movie “Big?” Inside the display were two antique accordions. Charlie eagerly pushed a button, and the lights came on inside the box, there was a loud WHOOSHING sound, and then the accordions began to play! As they played, Charlie informed me that this machine was probably the only one like it in the world (understandably, in my opinion, but I kept quiet)! The inventor had seen player pianos and decided to make a “player accordion” machine. The music store owner traded a couple of pianos in order to acquire the machine. Seeing it did cheer me up a little, but I experienced a fleeting stab of sympathy for the music store owner’s wife…

We got back into the car and drove out into the country, and spent a fun half hour shopping for pumpkins. I stepped in some slime, convinced Charlie that doing the corn maze in the rain would not be enjoyable, turned down the chance to go on a hayride (wet hay?), and finally purchased a pumpkin. We tasted some cider, bought some Apple Butter, and got back in the car. I was starting to cheer up!

The next stop was “Bed, Bath and Beyond.” Charlie chose this, because, as he told me, “I thought that shopping around would make you happy.” This man KNOWS HIS WIFE. We browsed, we tried on “Snuggies,” and discussed the merits and drawbacks of inflatable beds. We then discovered that in the front of the store was a MASSAGE CHAIR DEMONSTRATION set up. We tried them out! For twenty minutes, the two old folks sat in those chairs, and let me tell you, that SHIATSU setting really works! Picture us: Charlie in his corduroy pants and baseball hat, me in my jeans and Weight Watchers sweatshirt, sitting in the massage chairs, side by side. In the front of the store. In a mall. Probably two hundred people walked by and saw us earnestly testing the equipment…

Feeling energized, we returned to the car. After driving for about a half hour, looking at all the construction in the downtown area of Dayton, we began to feel a bit peckish, and so we decided to have dinner. Charlie gave me my choice of my two FAVORITE restaurants: MCL Cafeteria, which for all of you out-of-towners, is a cafeteria habituated by geriatrics, BUT IT HAS GREAT FOOD, REALLY! The other choice was my favorite pizza restaurant. Remember, we are operating under an austerity budget. Pizza won out, and we had a fun dinner. I even had a glass of wine.

By now, the trials of earlier in the day had been forgotten. Upon arriving home, we sat down to a full evening of Tivoed selections. One of my favorites, about burly tattooed men rescuing chickens in the Bronx, was on, followed by a show with one of Marion’s clients in it. Something about long-dead people being reunited with their families.

So what started out dismally ended up happily. My conclusion, in reflecting upon all of this, is this:

I AM VERY EASILY AMUSED.

THE HORSEY SET

2009-10-05T15:10:00.007-04:00

I just returned from accompanying Annie to Chicago for a championship Dressage event. For those of you who don’t know, Dressage is that kind of riding that they do on those Lipizzaner stallions. The horses look like they are dancing, and the riders look like they are doing nothing but sitting there. The truth is the exact opposite.

Annie went on a pony ride at age six. Actually, at this community picnic, the pony rides were free, and so Annie would take a ride, run around to the end of the line, and do it again. And again, and again. After about fifteen rides with Annie and another ten with the other children, the pony became exhausted and had to be retired for the day. Annie, on the other hand, was outraged that the pony had to leave before Annie could have another dozen rides. That was the beginning of a horse career that has lasted for twenty years.

Horses and women go together. Men at horse events are as scarce as hen’s teeth. I guess all the men who like horses go west and become cowboys. Do you know what having a horse and showing it entails? I am going to tell you, and then you, like me, will wonder why MEN don’t do this:

Horses are huge. They can be very dangerous. They have to be wrangled around, bossed, broken, and trained to do exactly what the rider wants them to do. They don’t always want to cooperate, and so they can BUCK, SPOOK, GALLOP AWAY AT BREAKNECK SPEED, THROW PEOPLE UP IN THE AIR, RUN PEOPLE DOWN, AND EVEN KILL FOLKS. And who is it that wants to interact with these thousand-pound animals? LITTLE GIRLS.

Annie was six when she started her love affair with horses. By the time she was twelve, she had her own horse, and we watched, often in horror, as she took control of a beast who could easily kill her, and loved every minute of it. For her, the ultimate experience is the HORSE SHOW.

A horse show gives people from all over the opportunity to compete at various levels of expertise, and then win ribbons. Beautiful women (not men, remember) on beautiful horses executing elegant movements are awe inspiring. It is a thrill to watch. But here is the BACKSTORY:

It takes years of repetitive practice to become show-ready. You and the horse have to work as a team. I have been watching Annie ride for years. She loves every minute. I don’t get it. Here is what it looks like to me:

To practice, you have to tack up your horse, ride him for an hour, untack, rinse him (or whatever they call that), get the yucky stuff out of his feet, clean your saddle and other leather equipment, give the horse some food, and then go home. This is after you have worked a full-time job in order to AFFORD the horse, the saddle, the food, the stall, etc. To be effective as a rider, you have to practice just about every day.

If your horse gets sick, or lame, you have to know how to evaluate whether or not it requires veterinary action. This means you have to know an awful lot of medical stuff, and how to give horse pills, horse shots, and take a horse’s temperature. You have to know how to analyze his poop, and you have to know what a hoof abscess looks and SMELLS like.

If you are really dedicated and good at all of this activity, then you get to go to a HORSE SHOW. At the show, I would estimate that for every five minutes spent competing, there are about seven hours of work leading up to the event. There are equipment stalls and feeding regimens. There is also training, hauling manure, cleaning tack, washing the horse, braiding his mane, and shining him up like a new penny. After showing for five minutes, the horse has to be rewashed, unbraided, and fed. After that, there is all of the cleaning of the saddle, the bridle, the boots, etc. Did I mention that dressage riders always wear WHITE PANTS?

We just got back from a show in Chicago where the wind blew, it rained cats and dogs, you could see your breath, and the arenas looked like swamps. I wanted to go home the minute we got there. But Annie and all of the other horsewomen there LOVED IT. I still don’t get it. Don’t BOYS like playing in the mud? Isn’t it guys that love to stomp in puddles? I thought large farm animals were the métier of the masculine gender!

As I sat there in the rain, watching, I did an informal count. There were approximately two hundred people competing in the show, and four of them were men. The people wrangling, pushing, finessing and mastering these magnificent animals were women. Women!

And according to Annie, a lot of her girlfriends ride in RODEOS. So here is my question: Isn’t the term COWBOY inaccurate and just perhaps a little too self congratulatory?

I CONFESS

2009-09-27T16:32:00.001-04:00

Have you ever watched someone in an adjacent car at a traffic light doing an unmentionable thing? And felt smug? I have. But today, as I was sweeping dust UNDER the rug in my kitchen, I realized that I am simply REPLETE with such bad habits, and in an effort to seem much more human and approachable to my handful of faithful readers, I am now going on record with a list of my worst, but not disgusting, bad habits!

I watch all the most lurid reality shows on television. The more horrible, the better. Morbidly obese people getting gastric bypasses are fascinating. Those Hoarders? I just can’t look away! And I feel so superior watching the Nanny and all of her uncivilized charges! At least my children learned to say “Please” and “Thank you!”

I talk to myself incessantly. This seems quite innocent. But how many of you get into loud ARGUMENTS with yourselves! Do you chastise yourselves? How about hitting yourselves in the head? And I sometimes get into self arguments while shopping. The other day, while telling myself kind of loudly that “it is ridiculous to buy another down vest when you already have four!” a woman at the adjacent round ring moved away conspicuously.

I harbor envy. For every woman I see wearing either big diamonds or Tod’s loafers, I cherish negative thoughts. Perfectly landscaped gardens make me irritable. Women who toss off gourmet meals (my sister and daughter), make me want to sabotage the béchamel sauce. I WANT A GUCCI BAG!

I cheat on my diet all the time. Coffee ice cream is simply my undoing. Buttercream icing is like heroin!! As a result, I have to spend so much time atoning (or is it toning?) at the gym that they all know me by name there! And when I went on vacation without telling them, they CALLED THE HOUSE to make sure I was ok!

I spend WAY too much time in bed in the morning. Some days I am still lying there at lunch time! My mother instilled in me that PJ’s must come off before nine a.m., and here I sit RIGHT NOW, typing away in my jammies, and it is two o’clock in the afternoon! There are days when I just manage to get my clothes on in time to make dinner!

I never make grocery lists. As a result, we have four bottles of ketchup, three Worcestershire sauces, repetitive herbs and spices, and redundant olive oil. This drives my husband to distraction, and he has taken to making regular inventories of the cabinets, announcing loudly, “OK: TWO CINNAMONS. THREE DRY MUSTARDS. DO WE NEED BOTH OF THESE CRISCOS? HOW ABOUT BAKING SODA?”

I love candles, buy lots of them, and NEVER light them. For some reason, they always look much more glamorous in the store. The same goes for soaps. I have a stockpile of scented soaps that would cleanse the unwashed of THE WORLD. One bar, I bought in London at Fortnum and Mason thirty years ago, and I just can’t bear to use it. I am sure it has no scent whatsoever anymore!

I just love stinky cheese. My Dad introduced me to Limburger and Liederkranz when I was a child, and I was hooked forever. Some people have gone so far, when entering my kitchen, as to inquire if the dog has committed an indiscretion. It is never good when people check the bottom of their shoes when you serve the cheese plate!

And finally, one of my worst sins: I eavesdrop! It is especially bad in restaurants when I can’t pay attention to my own conversation, because the one at the next table is so much more interesting! Often, STARING accompanies this, to which my daughter has been known to say, “For God’s sake, Mom, cut it out!” In my defense, however, I must say that this habit has never gotten to the point of my attempting to JOIN conversations at other tables. My husband is the champion of this tactic, and it does embarrass the heck out of me!

Let’s face it, no one is perfect. That is probably me at the traffic light in the car next to you—dental flossing….

THIS OLD HOUSE

2009-09-20T23:28:00.001-04:00

We have laughed here. We have cried here. There have been first dates and big fights here. Many delicious dinners have been served, along with pizza deliveries and Lean Cuisines. We have painted rooms, torn out plumbing, and sprayed weedkiller all over the place. Through it all, this house has stood sentinel over our family, somehow holding us together when times were great, and when we wondered if we could survive what life threw in our faces.

It is an old house, somewhere in the vicinity of one hundred years. A big, square box with nice airy rooms and high ceilings. I remember driving past it, wondering who lived there, and why that person surrounded the yard with high trees that hardly allowed a glimpse of the house they enclosed. I never imagined that one day the Campbells would move our furniture and our lives into the place.

The trees encircling the lot are long gone. The clapboards are a grayish white now, with lovely green shutters and front door. The front door is what I loved first: big, wide, and surrounded by sidelights crowned by a graceful fanlight. Two little benches flank the door. I like to sit on one and look out at the neighborhood.

Old houses have a way of making their families feel comfortable. Big rooms make breathing easier somehow. Nothing makes summer more enjoyable than a screened porch. Old houses invariably have big fireplaces, big windows, creaky floors, and lots of nooks. Our house has individual hallways leading into a couple of the bedrooms. It doesn’t make sense, but we love it. We have a door that leads into the kitchen where ice was once delivered. There was an inch of coal dust in the basement when we arrived. The butler’s pantry reminds me of Mr. Blanding’s dream house.

We have lived here for almost twenty years. It was here that I had the party where a tipsy guest fell down the two stairs leading into the kitchen, where a big tree fell down onto the deck and destroyed it while I watched, horrified, from an upstairs window. We spent a week last year without power, lighting candles and reading in bed with flashlights. I have gotten the best Christmas gifts ever in this house! There have been teen parties here, unauthorized, and resulting groundings. Dogs have peed. Cats have barfed.

This house has witnessed the worst days of our lives, when Charlie had the stroke that nearly killed him and we fought tooth and nail to get back what was taken away. It saw me stagger through the longest days of my existence. In this house we worked to put together the family that the stroke fractured, and by God, we did it somehow.

Now the house is a little emptier, with children grown and gone. The space is ameliorated somewhat with the five cats and the one dog that have taken the children’s place. Now this is a “retirement” home for two individuals, but the rooms are still full. There is now a blogging room filled with little slips of paper scrawled with potential topics of interest. The basement is an accordion studio, complete with amps, speakers, metronomes and music stands. There are seven litter boxes down there. Also in the basement is a wonderful museum erected to the memory of Girl Scouts, Indian Princesses, horse shows, high school and college theatre productions, and the War in Viet Nam. The kitchen holds, along with memories, an entire shelf of cookbooks that are never referenced, five sets of dishes for all those gourmet dinners that I have not yet concocted, and enough dust on the top of the cupboards to grow vegetables...

The rest of the house is the same. The bedrooms that once held horse statues, extension telephones, hot rollers, five million stuffed animals, and incredible amounts of disarray now have Martha Stewart duvet sets and artfully arranged accessories. The living room and den are full of the books that I keep vowing not to buy. There is a high definition TV! We have beautiful furniture now, instead of the tattered stuff that we had while raising kids, but it now is covered with pet hair rather than ketchup stains.

It is an old house. It is a family house. It is a great house. It is probably just exactly like yours.

WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION: LOS ANGELES

2009-09-16T13:25:00.003-04:00

We are home, and we are exhausted, poor, and a little sad. Our beautiful daughter is wildly successful, the owner of a fantastic apartment, and in a relationship with a gem of a man. She cooks! She cleans! She hosts great parties! And now, thanks to us, she has a beautiful patio!

A little backstory. Our trip to California involved a wedding in San Francisco. It involved the perfect setting, the best of friends, the most beautiful bride, and the best partying we have done in years. After that, we traveled to Los Angeles to spend what my husband thought was a week of vacation visiting our older daughter.

A talent agent, this girl is a go-getter of mythic proportions. She reps some very recognizable faces, and she makes multi-tasking look like child’s play. Riding in the car with Marion is an exercise in self control, as I had to bite cheeks to keep from shrieking “Navigating this nightmare traffic and texting while carrying on a conversation with your parents is DANGEROUS!” She arranged for us to visit the set of “CSI New York,” which was so AMAZING. Eat your hearts out, America—I was actually in the morgue and GOT TO PULL OUT A SLAB! I met AJ Buckley, who is a cast member (very handsome)!

Charlie, ever optimistic, purchased three Los Angeles tour books before we left. As Marion had to work during the week that we were there, Charlie had visions of doing the Griffith Park Observatory, the Getty, and perhaps even the Tar Pits. I knew better than to burst his bubble before we departed; I didn’t want to plunge him into gloom.

The reality of the LA sojourn consisted of more prosaic pastimes. Marion has a new apartment. It has a large, private patio out back. The patio is empty. Her parents have an American Express card. Her mother is an HGTV maven. Put that all together, and it spells WORK, WORK, AND A LOT OF SWEATING.

Los Angeles has all the stores needed to furnish even the most lavish of lanais. But an unfortunate truth about that city is the fact that it is like one unending strip mall. To do the proper comparison shopping for patio gear and plantings requires putting around two hundred miles on the odometer and spending at least seven hours just LOOKING AT STUFF BEFORE COMMITTING TO BUY. This part of the project took one full day.

The following day, after an exciting visit to the CSI set, where Charlie actively campaigned to become an extra (unsuccessfully, and much to his daughter’s aggravation), we put another couple of hundred miles on the car. But this time, we bought FURNITURE. Tip: Smith and Hawken may be going out of business, but 50% off there still amounts to HUNDREDS of dollars for a chair! Home Depot, on the other hand, sells patio tables and chair SETS for that same amount! (Home Depot is three hundred miles away from Smith and Hawken, incidentally.) Loading the car with table, chairs, other tables, and other chairs was a challenge, but Charlie crammed all that merchandise in!

That night, instead of sitting at a chic bistro eating mussels and drinking wine, we hunkered over instructions translated into English by Chinese folk (“add bolt to table leg elegantly”). By eleven that night, we had the tables and chairs assembled and looking great! The pizza we had delivered was good, too!

The next day was also successful. Plants. Back to Home Depot. We bought palm trees, ficus trees, ferns, and incidentals. If it weren’t for a curmudgeonly but delightful gay man (you know who you are, Stan), we wouldn’t have been able to do it. But Stan told us exactly what to buy, what pots to put each plant in, the soil, the fertilizer, the hose, and everything. The only thing he didn’t do was pay.

In Los Angeles, every home store has legions of hopeful Mexican men congregating outside, looking for work of any kind. Stan arranged for one of them, a gracious man named Raul, to load up and deliver our haul. Despite nearly losing Raul on the highway twice, we all made it back to the apartment, where Raul nearly took the top off his truck in an attempt to enter the parking structure.

Marion then directed the potting process, causing near exhaustion and dehydration in all of us. That girl is a slavedriver! The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. That is a metaphor—an apple tree is about the only item we left behind at the Home Depot. While we potted the plants and Marion prohibited anyone from taking even a five second rest, Charlie carted away the trash we generated and was caught gazing longingly at the AAA guidebook that he left on the kitchen counter in the apartment.

The result was fantastic! The three of us and Marion’s friend Bryan did not require any direct medical attention, the patio is worthy of Architectural Digest, we were able to have Marion’s friends over on Sunday night for a cookout, and our muscles did not get really sore for another two days. Success!

We are now home. Charlie has donated the tour books to the library, and we will be sending in payments to the credit card company for months. But as any of you who are parents out there know, no investment gives better returns than an investment in one’s children.

I mused about this one all the way home on the plane. Life is a series of connections, and the most important ones, between parents and children, can all too often fracture. Our other most important connection to our spouses, invariably ends with one partner living on without the other. I vowed last night to hold on to my lifelines with all my strength. But I also made a promise to myself to become as independent as possible, while continuously looking outward for new experiences and people.

YOU ONLY GO AROUND ONCE. MY AIM IS TO GO AROUND WITHOUT GETTING DIZZY.

A BIRD IN THE HAND

2009-08-28T10:56:00.003-04:00

Our life here at the homestead is usually uneventful. But when something happens, it always turns into a saga. The latest unfolded on a seemingly uneventful morning. As usual, Charlie was hard at work communicating with 2000 of his closest friends on the computer. I was engaged in my usual activity for the early morning: drinking coffee in my PJ’s and reading the paper.

Suddenly, we both noticed an odd thing: our five cats were lined up in front of the glass fireplace doors, mesmerized, looking just like five guys at a bar watching Monday Night Football on the big screen. “OH MY GOD, THERE IS SOMETHING IN THERE!” I exclaimed. Charlie then assumed a position behind the cats, and peered in. “I think it is a small animal of some kind, maybe a raccoon.”

I assumed a position behind the cats and Charlie. IT MOVED. In my fright, I goosed Charlie, who stumbled forward. As we jostled about, spilling coffee and stubbing our toes on the decorative stonework around the hearth, we both realized that the animal in question was a little bird. A darling little sparrow.

“He can’t fly back up the chimney! How will he get out?” I wailed. As calm as ever, Charlie pragmatically answered, “When he dies in there, then I can get him out.”

“WHAT? You CAN’T let that poor little thing DIE! We have to get him out!”

Charlie pointed out the obvious. Getting the bird out would most certainly entail his death anyway, with five lethal felines just waiting for the moment to strike as soon as the glass fireplace doors opened. So we spent fifteen minutes chasing cats, capturing them, and locking them in the basement.

Back to the fireplace. ME: “Can we just reach in there and get him?” CHARLIE: “Are you kidding? As soon as we open the doors, he will fly out and we will never catch him.” ME: “Then let’s get the cats back in here. They won’t let him get far!” CHARLIE: “Are you an idiot? I thought you didn’t want the bird to die!”

Next idea. Armed with duct tape and a large garden and leaf bag, we affixed the bag tightly around the entire fireplace opening with the tape. Genius! We then managed to pry the glass doors open without disturbing the bag. And we waited. After ten minutes, it dawned on us that sparrows are not stupid enough to fly into black bags.

Back to square one. CHARLIE: “Get the cats out here. Let’s let them catch it, and then we can snatch it from them.” ME: “Who will be the snatcher?” The answer was obvious. I put on gloves, long sleeves for pecking protection, and let the cats out. We had a moment of silence, and then ripped off the trash bag.

I opened the door. The little bird, scared out of his mind, stared at me, and I at him. Suddenly, he made a break for it, and I grabbed him. The gloves came up empty. Before I could even register surprise, chaos ensued! Charlie, who never let go of his coffee cup during the entire proceedings, gestured wildly with said cup, flinging coffee all over the rug. I dashed wildly about, but the bird landed on the top of the armoire next to the sofa.

But our intrepid Bengal cat Salami (that is ANOTHER story) reverted to the wild at that very moment! Faster than a speeding cheetah, he LEAPT from the floor to the top of the armoire in a single bound. The bird was in Salami’s jaws!

Fast, fast, fast—I shook off the gloves, ran down the front hall after the cat, turned right into the TV room, emerged back into the living room. I was panting, sweating, and swearing. Charlie watched in amazement as I deftly grabbed the cat. Rushing to Charl, holding the cat at arm’s length, I shouted, “GET THE BIRD, GET THE BIRD, BEFORE HE DROPS IT!!”

Charlie, whose reaction time was never fast, even before he had a stroke, remained holding his empty coffee mug. He seemed stunned. So I had to revert to the wild myself! The cavewoman in me came out, and I swung the cat around, pinned him to the handwoven antique Persian rug my mother-in-law gave me, and with ONE GLOVELESS HAND, snatched the hapless bird. Running towards the front door, shrieking, brought Charlie to his senses, and he rushed to open it.

SUCCESS. I flung the bird to freedom. Relieved, I sank into a chair. Charlie looked at me with undisguised admiration. He gazed at me for a few moments, and then asked the question:

“How do you think she got in there in the first place? Do you suppose there is a nest up there?”

I NEVER LEARNED THIS FROM MY MOTHER!

2009-08-28T10:52:00.006-04:00

My mother gave me lots of advice. I have remembered much of it and used little of it. Mothers in my Mom’s day were concerned with what might happen to you if you suddenly had to go to the emergency room: WHAT WOULD THOSE DOCTORS THINK IF THEY DISCOVERED A SAFTETY PIN HOLDING YOUR BRA STRAP TOGETHER? As a Mother myself, I today’s world much more complicated, and the issues I nag my daughters about are MUCH more fraught!

Do you have to wear those eight inch heels? Podiatrists all over the world are profiting from this trend. Do men REALLY like women who are well over six feet tall? I you keep this up, by the time you are thirty, you will be a cripple, I guarantee you!

Do you have to send a text message every twenty seconds? Are your friends that needy? Or that lonely? What do you all TELL each other all the time? Why is it better to text than to talk? And you could DIE if you do it while driving!

Who invented pub crawls? Yes, I taught you to set goals. But what is the purpose of deliberately setting out to get drunk, flash your boobs, give lap dances to strangers, and then want to DIE the next morning? Is there a benefit to this that I am missing somehow?

What is the difference between downloading and UPLOADING? Do you need worms to go phishing? Is autosense anything close to COMMON sense? And if a HASH TAG is what I think it is, you better NOT be IT in that game!

Believe me when I tell you that having a career is great, but having a CHILD is greater. That biological clock thing is REAL. And really, the fact that it is possible for fifty year old women to gestate successfully HELPS THEIR MOTHERS NOT AT ALL. I would like to have a grandchild that I would be young enough to pick up, and still sane enough to recognize! By the time you are in your forties, I will be closing in on wearing diapers myself!

Really, the whole concept of multi-tasking has just gone too far. I know your generation is brilliant, competitive, and driven. But texting while driving, using your blackberry and your computer simultaneously, eating your lunch at the dry cleaners, and working on your Master’s thesis while on the treadmill just seems counter productive to me.

Remember to set some time aside for family. Book clubs, teams in training, yes, BLOGS, Ebay, eco tourism, TiVo, and fantasy football are all very important aspects of your life. But walking around the block with your Dad, emailing your sister, sitting around at Thanksgiving for just one more helping of potatoes, and calling home once a week are essential building blocks of life. Remember that thing about smelling roses?

Well, we have some unbelievable rose bushes here in our yard! Want to come over and have a whiff?

PART TWO--MY FAVORITE THINGS

2009-08-28T10:48:00.003-04:00

Raindrops on roses are fine. Whiskers on kittens are adorable. But COME ON. Who in their right mind would put these on a list of their favorites? It is time to revise that old saw and get REAL. Today’s world has turned so many times since Julie Andrews climbed that mountain! Here are a few of MY favorite things:

Central air conditioning. How in heaven’s name has mankind done without it? And now, with global warming? I can’t even imagine how pioneer women got through menopause.

Target. In one place, there is everything a person could want. In one day, at one place, I can stock up on underwear, coffee filters, popcorn, dental floss, patio furniture, M and M’s, and Swiffer Wet Jet refills. It is as near to achieving Nirvana as I will ever get.

The microwave oven. Without this, life on earth would grind to a halt. People would be late for work, waiting for water to boil for coffee. Long lines would form at take out windows. Families would miss soccer practices and be late for church. The company that makes Pizza Rolls would go out of business. My God, the ENTIRE ECONOMY would suffer!

CAKE. And if it is chocolate, with butter cream icing, I would commit a CRIME to get some.

Pets. I don’t trust people who don’t like animals. I cannot fathom a life without them. Siamese cats are the very best. They think they rule the world. Second to Siamese are cats of any variety, shape or size, as long as the purr mechanism is in working order. Dogs are best when mixed of breed, about to be eliminated at the shelter, and forever grateful to you for rescuing them. Pets give you love, courage, and renewed faith in living. Plus furballs on the carpet, scuff marks on the hardwood, and a crowded bed at night.

Self tanning lotion. Oh, my gosh, did you know about this stuff? Those days of turning orange after two applications are gone! Now I can wear Capri pants proudly! A word of caution, however—the warning on the label about washing hands after applying is still of utmost importance.

Shout wipes. These must have been invented for the Baby Boomer generation. With our eyesight going and our eye/hand coordination on the decline, eating at a restaurant can be MIGHTY EMBARRASSING! But now, just whip one of these out of your pocket or purse, and in seconds, that salad dressing will vanish from the front of your shirt!

Cell phones. Now I can call my daughters from ANYWHERE, ANYTIME! I can have a conversation in the checkout line at Walgreen’s! I can contact my gynecologist while filling my car up with gas! I can have my own unique ringtone, and since I am so old and hearing impaired, I can set the volume up real high—so that EVERYONE at the grocery store can hear “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes when I get a call! And with Twitter, I can tell the world what I am doing every minute, all the time!

Finally, HERE IS A NOTE TO MY HUSBAND: The above listing is a small compendium of things that I love, but as far as YOU are concerned, just one thing counts:

DIAMONDS.

THE FIRST OF A TWO PART SERIES

2009-08-23T14:00:00.004-04:00

I have passions. I don’t just like things, I LOVE THEM. And why waste calories disliking something, when you can HATE it? Some people say I am a drama queen. I disagree. I simply KNOW MY OWN MIND. Here are some of the many things I simply despise:

Bad grammar. As a career English teacher, I spent twenty years in the trenches, battling improper pronoun reference, subject verb disagreements, dangling participles, mixed metaphors, tense shift, and sentence fragments. It was a losing battle and a lost cause. Of course, the fact that I commit many of the crimes I so valiantly sought to punish is beside the point. Totally.

Bad manners. Don’t stack your dishes at a restaurant. Cover your mouth when you cough. Don’t interrupt, for heaven’s sakes. Put your napkin IN YOUR LAP. If you get a present, send a thank you note! If someone has a black eye, DON’T ask how it happened! And geesh—stop staring!

Cooking every day is a pain. For the life of me, when people say that they RELAX by cooking, I simply don’t get it! How can peeling, chopping, measuring, proofing, stuffing, basting, skinning, straining, boning, and bain marie-ing be RELAXING? Is following a recipe that has fifteen steps remotely enjoyable? How did Julie Powell do it? How did Julia CHILD do it? Why does anyone do it, except for restaurant chefs and Stouffers?

I hate packing for trips. Will it be sunny and hot, or chilly? Should I take a sweater? Will I need something dressy? Should I take two or three pairs of shoes? Will I look like a tourist if I wear sneakers? Are Capri pants considered stylish in New York City? Do they wear leggings in London? How can I leave town for ten days with just ONE suitcase? Why is it my husband can go anywhere, for any duration, with just a carry on?

Chain letters. Guilt, guilt, guilt! It is my fault that there is no cure for cancer, that world peace is still a faint hope, and that my family is not rich beyond our wildest dreams. If only I had taken the time to forward that email on to ten people, or copy that chain letter and buy stamps in order to send it on! I have to live with this every day. No wonder I can’t sleep at night!

Hardware stores are the pits. OMG, there is simply NOTHING for me to buy at a hardware store! How my husband can spend hours in one is a mystery to me! And those big box home stores are worse! Grills, lawnmowers, storm windows, grouting, weather stripping, power tools—the list goes on and on, and on, and ON. We go in for a dowel, and an HOUR later, we are still browsing. The only thing worse than a hardware store is a COMPUTER store….

Small talk. I can’t make small talk for the LIFE of me! How do people navigate parties successfully? I can never think of anything to ASK anyone. Is it because I see a room full of strangers and want to keep it that way? I just can’t seem to muster up any enthusiasm for chatting up unfamiliar folks. I don’t want to know what they do, where they live, how many kids they have, who they voted for, what their stand is on health care, what surgeries they have had lately, if they eat organic food, or if they have ever run a marathon. Sartre had it ALMOST right. “Hell is other people.”

AT A COCKTAIL PARTY!

CONFESSIONS OF A WEIGHT WATCHER

2009-08-16T11:50:00.004-04:00

I am not fat. Not any more. I didn’t realize I had GOTTEN fat. I just thought that Target had started skimping in their sizing practices. I could deny it no longer the day my husband noted that I had “lumberjack arms.” So I joined Weight Watchers. I lost thirty pounds. Do you think it was EASY? Heck, no. Did I cheat? Hell, yes. Did I learn some things? You can be the judge:

Be stalwart at the Dairy Queen. A small swirl cone is seven WW points. And it can be satisfying. However, it is much MORE satisfying to order that cone, but at the same time, sample as much of your husband’s hot fudge sundae as you can before he gets annoyed with you. This ups your happiness quotient and only adds one or two more points to your daily total.

Beware of Weight Watchers dessert products. They give you GAS. I learned this the hard way by eating them after lunch at work and then observing the anguish of my co-workers….

Exercise, exercise, exercise. I have become addicted to Spinning. Not only does it make you sweat like crazy and burn 600+ calories an hour, but it makes you feel extremely virtuous. If you begin riding an exercise bike for ten minutes a session and keep adding on minutes, within about six months you can take your first Spinning class. Spinning teachers are invariably young, perky, fit, and enthusiastic. By enduring one of their classes, you will feel as if you have climbed Everest and survived. You might also want to slap the instructor. Nevertheless, after taking classes for a few months, you will wonder how you survived without a bike between your legs. If you catch my drift….

Eat the same thing every day for breakfast and lunch. If you limit your consumption at those two meals, you will have enough calories left each day for a satisfying dinner. If by satisfying you mean a piece of chicken, some broccoli, butter spray, and a fist-size helping of rice. However, by doing this, you will still have calories/points left over for the most important nutritional part of the day: DESSERT. As far as I am concerned, the person who invented COOL WHIP FREE deserves the Nobel Prize. Cool Whip Free can make just about anything taste good. I have even considered putting it on a piece of toast, but I haven’t gone quite that far.

Keep busy. They say that if you get hungry, take a walk. I could never do that, due to exhaustion from my Spinning class. What would I do instead? I found that sitting on the sofa and watching people on TV exercise was diverting. And if that didn’t work, I found that shaking my arms wildly about took my mind off my hunger. If you try this, be sure that the curtains are shut. Neighbors witnessing this hunger diversion might jump to erroneous conclusions about your mental health. Another thing that took my mind hunger was arguing with my husband. Nothing makes a dieting wife madder than her husband FLAUNTING forbidden snacks. If I told him once, I told him a hundred times: “IF YOU INSIST ON EATING THOSE MALTED MILK BALLS, DO IT IN THE BASEMENT!”

Curb those spiteful thoughts! It might console you to know that every single dieting woman in the world has wanted to issue death threats to Gwyneth Paltrow and Nicole Kidman, but these thoughts are simply not productive.

Forgive yourself for transgressions. If I beat myself up for every scoop of Jamocha Almond Fudge that I ate while dieting, I would be in intensive care. If you eat something you shouldn’t, remember that TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY. Tomorrow, however, does come, and you must go back to good habits. This gets easier as time goes on. I said EASIER, not EASY.

Reward yourself for making progress. Food is not a good reward here. For me, the best reward for losing weight was a quick trip to Target, where you can get a really cute purse for very little money! Also at Target are bargain t-shirts and cute pants. But don’t get those, because you will soon need a smaller size!

Stick with it, no matter what. Did you GAIN weight this week? I know the feeling. Did you skip going to the gym? I have done that. Did you binge on thin mint Girl Scout cookies? Done that. Did you have a glass of wine with dinner four nights in a row? Been there. Did you catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window and wonder who that puffy stranger was? Me too. But in spite of all that, I kept at it, and today, when I look in store windows, I no longer see that puffy woman.

I see a thin OLD woman!

MEN!

2009-08-10T13:27:00.004-04:00

The older I get, the more I appreciate the person who wrote that book about Mars and Venus. Not that I read the book, but evidently the author pointed out that men and women are so different that it isn’t even funny. After almost 40 years of marriage, I still don’t understand the opposite sex. So what is it with men, anyway?

Friendship. For women, a friend is a lifeline, someone to share problems with. Women are good sounding boards. Women lunch with their friends, talk on the phone with their friends, babysit for their friends, laugh with their friends, and weep with their friends. Men don’t really have friends, but they have CRONIES. Cronies share sports, cigars, and poker.

Entertainment. For women, a wonderful evening consists of a beautiful dinner with candles, and a romantic movie. Alternatively, women enjoy drives in the country, shopping, picnics, and anything involving other women. Men enjoy watching sports on TV, scratching themselves, repairing cars, and anything involving tools.

Humor. Is there any woman, anywhere, who thinks that “The Three Stooges” are funny?

Gifts. I don’t even know where to BEGIN on this one! I feel I can speak for most women here. For us, the perfect gift involves jewels, perfume, anything associated with fashion or containing a thread count of over 300. Here are some examples of gifts that my friends and I have received from our husbands: socks, bed pillows, car caddies, Tupperware, “The Autobiography of Ann Heche,” birdseed, and AN ELECTRIC TOOTHBRUSH. Need I say more?

Tourism. To me the perfect vacation consists of an exciting city, a beautiful hotel with Frette sheets, wonderful food, theatre, and it goes without saying—SHOPPING. For my husband and many men, the perfect vacation includes lots of brochures about local attractions such as caverns, tractor pulls, civil war monuments, suspension bridges, and industrial museums. For me, to be seen on a street corner of an exotic city with a new purse hanging on my shoulder is exciting. For Charlie, the thrill involves hanging both regular and digital cameras around his neck, stuffing his pockets with maps, and standing on that same street corner peering intently at a guidebook. The highlight of our last vacation was our excursion (thanks to one of those brochures) to see the world’s largest concrete horseshoe crab.

Driving. For women, getting in the car is a means to the Mall. For men, the car is a gift from God. The faster the car, the better, apparently. No matter that we have speed limits in this country—just the fact that a car has the POTENTIAL to go over a hundred miles an hour is a reason to own it. Accessories? To me, that means a stainless steel and gold watch, diamond studs, and a Coach bag. To Charlie it means side pipes, white walls, a custom paint job, and mini moons.

But here is the thing: why are men so CUTE?

I AM A GUEST BLOGGER!

2009-08-07T09:57:00.002-04:00

One of my favorite blogs is "Snowbell's Handmade Jewelry." I am Nathalie's guest blogger today and tomorrow! Please visit me in ENGLAND by clicking on the Snowbell link. You will find it on the left side of my blog, second on the list of "my blogs." I will be in England (cyberly speaking) for a day or two. I am also on vacation until Monday, July 10. Look for a new post here on Monday! THANKS, NATHALIE!!

LET'S BE CIVILIZED...

2009-08-02T19:25:00.003-04:00

I love peace and quiet. I admire good taste, old money, and fine art. I watch “Masterpiece Theatre,” read Agatha Christie, and spend lots of time on the First Dibs website. Edith Wharton, Louisa May Alcott, and Katherine Hepburn are all icons. I am striving for a cozy and calm lifestyle. If only I lived in an English village, with views of hedgerows and dovecotes! Or maybe a house by the sea, with moors, gulls, and mist!

Instead, I live in a regular house, in a typical American city, and I have the usual daily routine. But I have discovered ways to enhance my little world, and I am on the road to a highly civilized and genteel existence. This lifestyle has the following requirements:

Purring cats. What goes best with chintz, stained glass, paneled libraries, and Aubusson carpets? At least one fat and lazy cat, lounging on a cushion somewhere. I have five of them (cats, not cushions), and I find them to be soothing beyond belief. Never mind all the hairballs, claw marks, and cat litter. Cats are nature’s tranquilizers!

The fireside. Not just a fire PLACE. Oh, no—the fireside conjures up so many images: warmth, security, old ladies and their tatting, afternoon visitors and gossipy conversations. I light a fire as soon as the temperature outside allows, and it burns all winter long. While sitting and tatting, one must also have things served on trays. Tea is of the essence here. Scones, cucumber sandwiches, and toast with marmite (despite its horrible flavor) are required.

Books. No room is really comfortable without books. Kindles just don’t cut the mustard—only the beautiful spines of REAL BOOKS scattered about. Technology has not been able to replace the comfortable aspect of settling down in a puffy chair, surrounded by books. Magazines are also very nice. Stacks of magazines give a contemporary and cluttered air to a room. But one must pay attention to the KINDS of books and magazines! Paperbacks are a no-no! And for heaven’s sakes! Limit those subscriptions—if you must read “People,” hide it in the nightstand! Put the “Town and Country” on the coffee table.

Afghans. Dogs are nice, but here I am referring to the kind of throw your mother used to crochet. Comfortable and old world as they are, afghans are simply required elements of the cozy lifestyle. If they match the furniture, much the better. However, throws of any kind are preferable to the naked sofa or wing chair. Another necessary accessory, as mentioned before, is the pillow. I have found that the more pillows one stacks on the bed, the sofa, and the floor, the more comfortable and cozy the room. For some reason, husbands HATE pillows, but I digress….

Tatters. Why do Americans need to have everything BRAND SPANKING NEW? As much as I like Ikea, I have learned that the old world lifestyle requires that everything be just a little worn around the edges. New things have no soul. Scuffs and spots enhance your furnishings! Pet hair gives things a certain je ne c’est quois!

Croquet and lemonade in the garden. Once again, a lesson in terminology: if you call it a YARD, the area has no charm whatsoever. A GARDEN, on the other hand, is charming even with weeds, dog poo and uneven topography. To spend time in the garden with friends, a classic drink and balls and wickets is the height of elegant old world living.

Meals at odd times. What is more elegant—lunch or ELEVENSES? Dinner or TEA? I would much rather stuff myself with little cakes and small sandwiches at four than eat fish sticks and tater tots at six thirty! What were Americans thinking? As for drinking, which would YOU rather have—a slug of beer, or a nice glass of sherry?

So take heart—you too can live a vintage lifestyle…

Now I have to return the Proust that I almost finished to the library.

GO GREEN!

2009-07-27T22:22:00.002-04:00

Global warming looms. There are mounds and mounds of detritus in the landfills. The greenhouse effect threatens. Acid rain, radon, toxic waste! What is a person to do? I have some answers. These are not the traditional guidelines that one can find on the internet or from trendy TV shows! Oh, no. Here are some easy to follow tips for helping to save the earth that ANYONE can do! And you can start right away!

Revisit your junk drawer. In my junk drawer alone, there are enough rubber bands and paper clips to furnish three office buildings. I have discovered enough Scotch tape and labels to get me through next Christmas. This is what recycling is all about.

Toxic chemicals in cleaning products? Not a problem in my house! When things get dusty, I use the palm of my hand in a simple circular motion. Spots on the linoleum? A little spit on a paper towel does the trick. Worried about the additives in Swiffers poisoning your dog? Just slide around the hall in your socks, and presto! Dustballs eliminated, Fido none the worse!

Worried about the adverse effect of pesticides? I used to. But now I discourage those pesky insects in an eco friendly way. I STEP ON THEM. I find that the bigger the bug, the more satisfaction I derive from stepping on it. Lady bugs in the bathroom? Fun. Moths on the back porch? More fun. Spiders on the kitchen floor? A thrill. A CICADA on my doorstep? ORGASMIC.

What about air pollution? Hybrid cars, using corn in gasoline, carpooling, and taking the propellant out of spray cans—that is all well and good. I do my part, though, in a much smaller way: I hold my breath for a minimum of one minute a day. This may not help save the ozone layer, but if everyone did it, just think of all the oxygen that would suddenly become available! The world would be a better place.

Have you measured your carbon footprint? I personally have been hearing a lot about this footprint idea lately. I don’t really understand it. I think it has something to do with energy consumption, the ugly American, too much sex on TV, using disposable diapers, charring food on the grill until it is blackened, and forgetting to unplug appliances when not in use. To reduce my personal carbon footprint, I have taken drastic measures: I walk more. I use a tea bag two times. I use the vacuum cleaner very sparingly. I try to cook as little as possible. Instead of using paper plates, I now make my husband wash the dishes.

With gas prices the way they are, we all have to drive less. I have cut my gasoline consumption by subscribing to Netflix, having my pizza delivered rather than picking it up myself, administering AT HOME facials, gossiping over the phone instead of in person, and limiting my trips to the Mall to once a week.

If everyone would light just one little candle, what a bright world this could be!

TEN (OR ELEVEN) TRUTHS

2009-07-22T10:43:00.005-04:00

As we age, we become wiser. The older I become, the more truths stare me in the face. I feel it is imperative for me to write them down. I want to share them with the world. Secondarily, if I don’t write them down, at my age, I am liable to forget them! So here goes:

You truly cannot judge a book by its cover. Beautiful people can be horribly ugly inside. So why do the rest of us spend so much time trying for physical perfection? The money that I have spent on make up and Slim Fast bars would save the economy! And my gym memberships alone could fund a small third world country. I am sure that I am not alone in this…but then I remember the wonderful man in front of me at the check out line who stepped aside, the time worn woman at the farmer’s market who gave me extra tomatoes free, and for heaven’s sakes, SUSAN BOYLE!

Time goes faster as you age. When my kids were little, the time between early June and when school began again WAS AN ETERNITY. As the days dragged along, my two bored and fractious children challenged me at every turn to entertain and distract them from the sheer ennui of summer vacation. Today, they are adults with their own lives, and summer comes and goes before I even have time to get all the screens washed!

The older one gets, the poorer the digestion. I have one word for all people over the age of 40 who insist upon eating baked beans, coleslaw, raw onions, and garlic: BEANO.

Very young and very beautiful people often have nothing AT ALL to say. We all know this. So why do virtually ALL men who get divorced marry second wives at least twenty years younger than they are? Could it be that great conversation is overrated?

Sixty is today’s forty. My God, at this rate, we will achieve immortality within one or two generations! We eat right, we exercise, we read self help books, we know the value of stress reduction. Fountain of youth? Or just Botox and frequent exfoliation?

No pain, no gain. This one has been debunked by exercise physiologists. The rest of us will tell you that if you live a full life, it will be painful. Without pain, how would we know when happiness hits us?

The way to a man’s heart is via his stomach. Not. If that were true, why would there be a Victoria’s Secret or Sports Illustrated? Why would the NBA players earn so much money? Do wives worry about that twenty-something girl in the next apartment, or the chef that lives down the hall?

Chocolate might be able to cure cancer. Until someone proves this, I put blind faith in the healing powers of hot fudge sundaes.

Everyone has a story. As you trudge through your day, worrying about whatever threatens you at the moment, don’t forget that the meter maid has her troubles, the letter carrier may be in the throes of a horrid divorce, that the person who cut you off in traffic may have just lost his/her job. That rude waitress may have a dry socket! Go ahead, and give her the benefit of the doubt and twenty percent. You might be saving her life!

Having pets can lower your blood pressure. If this is true, our family must be barely able to stand up. Between the four of us, we have thirteen cats, one dog, and three horses. Our blood pressures are great, but the bills for kibble, Frontline, alfalfa, veterinarians and catnip mice are KILLING US.

If life hands out lemons, wise people make lemonade. My dear husband, a stroke victim who had to learn how to speak, write, and understand language all over again, has been making lemonade for years. His recipe? Work very hard, make a new friend every day, laugh at yourself, and when your wife makes fun of you, REVEL IN IT!

Oh yes, and eating that apple every day is very good insurance…

ARE MY FIFTEEN MINUTES UP YET?

2009-07-17T18:22:00.005-04:00

I am no different than the rest of the world. I like to be noticed. I am vain. I wear makeup every day. I think I have something to say. I BLOG, for Pete’s sake. But I have never before been so fulfilled! I JOINED FACEBOOK.

I know, you are saying that Facebook is old news. Every person under the age of forty has a Facebook page. Craig’s List, Twitter, Ebay, Etsy, they are all out there as a way for people to link up. I have used them all, but until I joined Facebook, I had no idea how wonderful life could be. For people over fifty, Facebook can enrich our lives in so many ways:

Who needs high school or college reunions? In order to go to one of these, you have to make plane reservations, go on a diet, get a whole new hairdo, use that spray tan stuff, and make up a whole new and more interesting set of facts about yourself. Reinventing yourself in this way is expensive, laborious, and can lead to Botox, the cabbage soup diet, and reevaluating your husband. With Facebook, all you have to do is post a picture of yourself from twenty years ago, spice up your profile with some good old fashioned fibs, and wait for the action. No sweat!

Do you want new friends? It is very important for older Americans to maintain social contacts. As the Boomers age, social challenges abound. Cocktail parties require a lot of standing, and that is hard on the knees. It is hard to remember everyone’s name at the block party. Dressing up in order to meet people seems to be way too much of an effort. But with Facebook, you can interact with hundreds of folks WHILE SITTING ON THE SOFA IN YOUR UNDERWEAR!

What about your last vacation? Have you had to sit through an unending evening looking at a multi media show of your best friends’ latest trip to Dogcollar Gulch, Arizona? Encourage them to join Facebook and post all of their photo albums there! No more boring evenings! And you can SKIM through those albums at the speed of light, and POST AN ADMIRING COMMENT! It’s a win-win situation!

We Boomers want to keep our fingers on the pulse of America. This gets harder and harder as we age. Our own kids don’t want to talk to us. People under the age of 40 don’t trust us. How then, do we know what concerns the younger generation? How do we relate to them? Facebook! That is where American youth document what they eat, where they go, who they go with, how many Martinis they drink, who they hook up with, what time they get home, how many times they barf, and they INCLUDE PICTURES OF ALL OF IT!

And finally, have you ever been internationally famous? Of course not. But it sure seems like it on Facebook! I have a page that is all about me! It has my picture on it, only the most flattering details, and some of my most scintillating ideas. I can say whatever I want there, and no one interrupts me! I can look at it whenever I want to! And if I don’t want you to visit me, I can block your access. All of this with just the click of a key!

THANK GOD AL GORE INVENTED THE INTERNET!

TOO MUCH INFORMATION

2009-07-14T11:45:00.001-04:00

My husband is a people person. He has never met a waitress he doesn’t like. Our life is a series of encounters that he classifies as electrifying, and which I KNOW are excruciating to everyone else. As a service to all of you out there who just love people the way Charlie does, here are some guidelines:

The guy at the Jiffy Lube has his own problems. Don’t burden him with your litany of car issues. He can change your oil, check your tires, and evaluate your air filter. But the facts that you regret that you didn’t buy a hybrid and that you are having trouble figuring out your new GARMIN do not endear you to the guy. And don't ask him about his family!

When you are at the doctor, stick to the issues. Somehow, my husband knows our doctor’s middle name. To me, that indicates a level of intimacy that I just don’t aspire to. I call my doctor “Dr.” My husband calls his “Patty Ann.” I have no IDEA what my doctor thinks about anything other than acid reflux. Charlie reports that his internist has shingles. I am not sure how these doctors feel about being interviewed by my husband, but I would guess that any day my husband visits his doctors is a day in which those doctors run LATE afterwards.

Cocktail parties are for SMALL talk. No one expects to find a new soul mate at the pre- dinner mixer for the annual “Friends of the Historical Society” fundraiser. When introduced to a stranger, that person expects to comment on the weather, sigh about how much the world will miss Michael Jackson, or describe briefly what he or she does for a living. Folks at cocktails DO NOT want to learn about your life. The fact that I tried on fifteen outfits before picking one to wear tonight IS NOT INTERESTING TO STRANGERS.

Checkout clerks just want to take your money and move on. Checkers have monotonous jobs, it’s true. I am going out on a limb here, but I would bet money that the clerk at the grocery COULD CARE LESS that you think the new Strawberry Chex is delicious. Buying cat litter does not entitle you to go on and on about Fluffy’s latest antics. And for heaven’s sakes, those bag boys are not environmentally conscious, necessarily—so don’t lecture THEM on the merits of paper versus plastic!

The people at the table next to yours at the restaurant want to be alone. I have gotten pretty good at this one. As soon as I see his eyes wandering to the next table, I kick Charlie in the shins. Then I remind him of the time when he was just a little too curious about what the neighbors had ordered, and they reported him to the manager.

This is a scary world we live in. Technology is king. We rush through life, pushing buttons and entering domains. We are all stressed, lonely, and frantic. People who need people are indeed the luckiest people in the world.

BUT FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, THERE ARE PARAMETERS!

2009-07-11T10:28:00.004-04:00

DEARLY BELOVED

I know what makes him tick. I can read every single expression on his face. I don't even let him finish his sentences most of the time. This comes after thirty nine years of slogging along in a relationship that has weathered mothers-in-law, poverty, children, careers, sickness, health--and those are just the LITTLE THINGS.

Both of my kids are nearing marriage, and I would like to give them some advice. They never listen to me, however. Since neither of them would be caught dead reading my blog, this is the perfect place to put it!

In every relationship, there are things that cause conflict. Learn to choose your battles. I spent about twenty years nagging Charlie about that toilet seat, and finally it ocurred to me to check before I sit. My God, it was a Eureka moment in the marriage! Jokes? He tells, them, and even though I have heard that same one about the short guy going into the bar hundreds of times, I still chuckle. Grooming? Man oh man, nose hair is so disgusting! And this one is a true bone of contention: why do husbands just automatically assume that their wives can read maps? How can anyone read a map? Especially while zooming along an interstate highway at 60 plus miles an hour? HOW DO I KNOW WHAT EXIT THAT WAS?

Another challenge to many marriages? HOBBIES. Therapists will tell you that a happy person is a fulfilled person. Everyone needs to follow that bliss. Scrapbooking, photography, needlepoint, golf, line dancing, Sudoku. All of these are excellent hobbies. But PLAYING THE ACCORDION? I thought the last accordion player in the world had died. But my husband is single handedly (well, actually, he uses both hands) trying to resurrect this lost art. He is devoted, and spends countless hours in the basement practicing. He has a BAND. He has GIGS, for heaven's sakes. He and thirty or so of his cronies entertain at nursing homes and adult day care centers sprinkled throughout the tri state area. He actually GETS PAID for this. For a guy with no talent, he has parlayed this into a second career!

MY hobbies? Well, I am in a book club.

SEX? It's important. Yucking it up? ESSENTIAL. Anyone that has been in love has been in lust. About three or four years into the relationship, the lust just seems to evaporate, leaving behind a void. Couples who believe that sex is everything usually break up at this point. SUCCESSFUL couples fill the void with laughter. One of the pivotal points in our marriage came when Charlie and I discovered that cramming grapes under one's upper lip is ABSOLUTELY HILARIOUS. Boredom? We solve that problem by leafing through the phone book looking for people with funny names. Sex is fleeting; the phone book yields at least one good hour of solid entertainment every time!

Friends are the key to survival in a marriage. Without sympathetic ears, I might have stewed and fretted myself into "the bad place" more times than I care to contemplate. My best girlfriends consist of a psychotherapist (thank the Lord), a comedian (she thinks she sells jewelry), a sister, a lawyer, and a world traveling tennis enthusiast. They know who they are! In the darkest days of my marriage, when no humor could be found, and I thought that the world might end that day, my friends saved me.

BUT HERE IS THE THING: After putting in the thirty nine years, rolling with the punches, enduring the absolutely horrible and exalting in the good, I find myself right back where I started in this relationship: I AM IN LOVE WITH MY HUSBAND. So girls, if you were to read my blog, this is what I would tell you:

STICK WITH IT.

2009-07-08T23:41:00.004-04:00

BIG WORDS

As the daughter of a college professor, I grew up surrounded by syllables. The feeling seemed to be that unless it couldn’t be said with a flourish, it shouldn’t be said. In addition my father's admiration of intellegentsia, I also developed a taste for words. I began a reading habit at an early age. The result of all of this is that as an adult, I have been referred to as “a fucking dictionary” by my friends, my children never knew any euphemisms, and my compulsion to edit what comes out of the mouths of others has never abated.

This doesn’t skip a generation, by the way. My youngest daughter, at age three, informed a good friend that her two elementary aged sons were “noxious.” When asked by our neighbors if she liked the circus, my other daughter said with panache, “Oh yes, and my favorite act was the clitoris!” (they didn’t always get the words entirely on target—we still think she was referring to the contortionist…) Quirky children from an obviously linguistically obese mother!

My husband, who had a major stroke nine years ago, has a slightly different affliction. He uses big words all right, but his lexicon can’t be found in a dictionary. Charlie has a real talent for getting so close to the actual word he is looking for that virtually no one is ever confused about what he is saying. For instance, the other day he was telling me about an act he really liked on “America’s Got Talent.” Evidently, this was a dance team performing THE SALAMBA. Got it? Of course!

My girls get on me all the time to simplfy, simplify. Why peregrinate with the dog? “Mom, for God’s sakes, YOU ARE JUST WALKING! I love jewelry. I bedeck myself. PUT IT ON, already. And perfume? Yes, but I don’t just spray it on—oh heaven’s no, it adorns me! But these same critical children are the ones who always got the highest comprehension scores on the English section of standardized tests. How dare they whinge?

Don’t you think that those who use colorful language lead somehow more interesting lives? Whenever I fantasize about living life as another, I covet the adventures of those who lived adventure, took lovers, and savored both the heights of ecstasy and the depths of despair. No lowly bad days and good days for those folks. They were exhilarated or
Inconsolable. Happy? Sad? WAY to pedestrian for them! And don't even think that they used common words for things like sex. Those folks , depending on their generation, canoodled, had assignations, trysts, they found soul mates, they rolled in the hay, and one of the most picturesque--they KNEW each other in the biblical sense. (sidebar: if you know somebody in the biblical sense, do you somehow GET INTRODUCED to them biblically? And how does THAT go?)

This has never been easy for our family. My mother, bless her, was a simple soul who meant what she said, and said what she meant. Her punishments consisted of hitting us over the head with whatever she had in her hand, usually a cleaning implement—either a dust mop or a dish rag. Her most colorful turn of phrase when describing her wayward girls was to call us "lazy sluts." Not bad, actually.

My father made punishment a study in psychology. It began with the pronouncement that the offending party was, “In disgrace.” In order to escape that purgatory, we had to expiate ourselves by slavishly promising to conform to whatever strictures he imposed. For me, the youngest kid, it was easy. While groveling, the more BIG WORDS I threw into the mix, the better I thought it made me look in his eyes. I think I threw in a lot of "despairs," "humiliations," offered up my "fears for redemption," blah, blah. blah!

The offshoot of all this wordy family history is that I have a huge compendium of language just rattling around in my head, WAITING for their turns to be used. And as I age, I am finding it harder and harder to locate just the right word in all of that talk soup in my head. So I am, what is it, flummoxed?

2009-07-07T21:27:00.002-04:00

I AM SO BUSY!!!

Since the advent of the blog, my life has become SO much more complicated. Suddenly, the straightforward life in the Campbell household has become a logistical nightmare. How can I get everything done that needs seeing to?

Attending to my husband. I pride myself on being liberated. I don’t do anything for Charlie that he can accomplish himself. Some things, however, are just beyond him. Walking the dog is well within his abilities. Brushing the dog is WAY too difficult. Loading the dishwasher—fine. Wiping the counters? Impossible. Going upstairs, yes. TAKING THINGS UPSTAIRS? Forget it. Meals? He can eat ‘em! Cook em? Forget it! And somebody has to buy those groceries.

Housework. I pride myself on the fact that as soon as one of the cats vomits, I clean it up. My wood floors have minimal detritus, and all of the lamps in the house have working light bulbs. I throw away all junk mail during the week that it is received. The carpets are vacuumed whenever the fur covering them becomes too obvious. All this takes time.

Physical fitness. Who coined the truism that “if you don’t use it, you lose it?” I simply must go to the gym and work out. Plus, at my gym, at any one time, there are about twenty guys that lift weights, box, and run on the treadmill. These are guys with large muscles, gleaming sweaty bodies, and an average age of 25. These men bear watching. One can learn a lot via observation. I observe and learn from these men on a daily basis!

Summer yard maintenance. Those flowers don’t water themselves! I have at least six pots of assorted flora that require daily attention. This task takes at LEAST ten minutes a day. After watering, the hose must be rewound. Two minutes. Oh, and the bird feeders! When I remember, I fill those. Five minutes.

Blog research and development. I am learning that to be really good at this, one must visit at least twenty blogs a day, to evaluate style, substance, and participate in chat rooms. This is essential to becoming an effective blogger myself. The internet has SO MANY good blogs: some have games, others have cute cat pictures, many have hilarious jokes, and a lot of them have very interesting philosophies on politics, life, Sarah Palin, global warming, urban planning, liposuction, and tattooing. This activity consumes huge pockets of time. One Scrabble game in particular lasted for an hour, and by the time I had accumulated 300 points in triple word scores and achieved the “expert” level, it was four o’clock in the afternoon!

The results? OMG, I am STRESSED! My new lifestyle is causing chaos! I have had to RUSH things. We had EGGS for dinner tonight! I wore my PJ's until after lunch! I had to cut my workout today to 20 minutes! I forgot to put new water in the bird bath, which might result in a mosquito infestation! Charlie asked me why we had coffee creamer in the refrigerator, but no coffee to put it in! I totally forgot to use dental floss, the laundry from two days ago is still sitting in the washer getting smelly, and there is a pile of catalogs on the table in the hall that I HAVE NOT HAD A CHANCE TO LOOK AT!

I guess I will have to make some adjustments in order to meet my new daily goals.

I am thinking that starting tomorrow, I will have to get up before noon...

2009-07-04T07:51:00.001-04:00

OLD LADIES

Have you noticed that all old ladies the world over look alike? And that old ladies have ALWAYS looked alike? Since I was a child myself, I have noted the following old lady attributes: white hair, wrinkles, shuffling gate, sensible shoes, and big purses. Old ladies lack any kind of personal style. Comfort and safety seem to be of utmost importance. Old ladies are NOT concerned with how they look to the world. All of this is fine, but as I get nearer to being an old lady myself, I wonder how the transformation from normal stylish and young person to old lady takes place. Is it overnight? Does one suddenly wake up one morning with the need to wear knee high panty hose under a skirt? When do handkerchiefs trump Kleenex?

As a service to all of my girlfriends, who are approaching old ladydom with me, here is a list of warning signs THAT YOU MUST READ AND TAKE TO HEART. These could slow down the inexorable slide into the world of the elderly.

Do you have a cold? Is the approaching allergy season a challenge for you? Is Kleenex your best friend during these times? I know it may be convenient for you, BUT DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES TUCK ONE INTO YOUR SLEEVE IF YOU DON’T HAVE A POCKET TO STASH IT IN. Old ladies do that. Even if it means you have to run to the nearest rest room to sneeze, or surreptitiously wipe your nose on your sleeve, DON’T STUFF THAT KLEENEX IN THAT SLEEVE! This is one giant step toward old ladydom, believe me!

How big is your purse? Does it have compartments? This is a danger sign. How long does it take you to find your keys? If you can’t locate your keys in your bag within ten seconds, you are acting like an old lady! If those compartments are used like a filing cabinet (one for coupons, one for your wallet, one for lipstick and things, another for your glasses) you are REALLY pushing it. Do you hang your purse over your forearm? STOP THAT IMMEDIATELY!

This is a huge one. It is a true indicator of age. DO YOU HAVE A CHANGE PURSE? Get rid of it! Your change belongs in your wallet. No one needs a separate small accessory for dimes and pennies. If you are starting to think that it would be easier to find coins by segregating them into a small conveyance of their own, you are old.

What do you wear to the movies during the summer? Do you think that lately the theatres have turned down their thermostats? Are you tempted to take a sweater or coat with you when you go? You mustn’t. No one over the age of thirty gets cold at the movies, so just sit there and shiver through it with the YOUNG people like you.

If you go to a restaurant, EAT YOUR DINNER. If there is a little left over, don’t ask for a box. I know, the economy. But it is old people who can’t seem to consume an entire hamburger or finish their beans. If you take that food home, on the way out of the restaurant, all the kids will be watching you and chuckling patronizingly to each other.

This next category is so huge, I am not sure I can do it justice. Clothes. Here goes: young people read magazines and watch TV in order to see what the fashionistas are wearing. Old ladies think “fashionistas” have something to do with Italy during World War II. Old ladies dress for comfort, not style. This can begin very insidiously, so you have to be very careful about this. Are you looking at those espadrilles and remembering how you fell off them and sprained your ankle? Are you thinking that those Keds look a lot more comfortable? Oh, boy. Do you look at your legs and all of those purply little veins and decide that shorts are not becoming? This is actually a smart move, because shorts do look awful with spider veins. Capri pants are fine. Slacks are fine. Elastic waistbands, however, are NOT fine. Nine out of ten doctors agree that old women wear elastic waistbands.

If you are tempted to buy a track suit that matches, this could be a warning sign. True, lots of young and fit women wear workout gear. To work out in. These women don’t wear their gym clothes to the Cheesecake Factory. What’s more, young women don’t care if their running pants have a matching hoodie. Nor do they spend hours at SteinMart choosing sporty clothes. Who is in those fitting rooms trying on coral running pants with matching jackets? OLD LADIES.

Finally, and this is a big one, when do you eat dinner? Because the litmus test for aging is this one simple fact: If you eat dinner before six o’clock at night, you are old. Something happens in the digestive systems of people in their fifties that begins this downward spiral. FIGHT IT WITH ALL YOU HAVE IN YOU! Have a snack at four! Drink a glass of milk at five! But whatever you do, do not go to that restaurant! And please, when you get to the restaurant, even if it is offered on the menu,

DO NOT ORDER EITHER THE COTTAGE CHEESE OR THE APPLESAUCE!

2009-06-30T20:16:00.001-04:00

HGTV

I am a nester. That means I love my house. I worship at the altar of accessories. I collect things. I arrange things. I LOVE things!

There must be a lot of people out there just like me, because they formed AN ENTIRE TV NETWORK for us!! House and Garden Television is our beacon in the wilderness of disarray, our guide to home happiness, and our indicator of just what we need to do to keep our homes stylish, beautiful, and our real estate values up.

So what is my beef? After watching countless hours of HGTV, I have noticed a few things that make me feel that perhaps the network doesn’t really reflect the way most of us live:

Does everyone in America have granite countertops? Evidently, if you don’t have granite in your kitchen, no one will ever buy your house. Ever. And why does any manufacturer even make white appliances? Because according to HGTV, white appliances suck, and everyone knows it. And tile? You can use tile in your kitchen, as long as it is subway tile and not on the floor.

According to my favorite show, “Househunters,” homes that lack master suites are going nowhere. I don’t mean master bedrooms. To have a decent house these days, your main bedroom has to be HUGE, with some kind of fancy ceiling that is at least two stories high. Your closet better be big enough for a pool table. And if you have to leave your bedroom and go out into the hall in order to enter your bathroom, you won’t be able to RENT your house, much less sell it. Was your house built over ten years ago? TRAGIC.

And what about that bathroom? These days, homebuyers feel affronted if they have to stand in the tub to take a shower. One sink? Are you kidding? Today’s HGTV buyers need 1.3 sinks per bathroom per person. Heated floors are a must. Shower curtains are tacky, every shower must have at least five heads, and if the tub lacks jets, well, you can just forget it.

Do you have a larger foyer in your house? Good. Is it at least two floors high, with a balcony overlooking it? Do you have a winding staircase? Is there marble somewhere—the more, the better? Is there a chandelier? No? Well, shame on you.

Who is buying these homes for half a million dollars a pop? According to HGTV, it is young couples in their twenties. No children. And most of them are shopping for their first homes. These buyers are looking for space and lots of it—invariably, when asked to comment on houses they have just toured, one of them whines that “it was a nice house, but just a little too SMALL.”

Maybe this programming will change as a reflection of the economy. I can only hope. But I have to go on record to say that I am now living in my dream house. It has a beautiful kitchen which I had A DESIGNER plan for me. My Formica countertops are very nice. The white appliances meet my needs just great, and they all work! I have a stove that is not for restaurants. My entry hall has a ceiling height of about eight feet. The master bath has just one sink, and I really like the shower curtain that I bought at Target.

We raised a great family in this house. If the walls could talk, they would tell you about the time we tried to put a Christmas tree in the front hall, but when it was all decorated, we realized that you couldn’t open the front door. They would tell you about the time right after we moved in when we ordered pizza and ate it while sitting on the floor in the dining room. About the family dinners at the kitchen table (no island) where someone laughed so hard that the milk came out of you know where. Oh yes, and the souvenirs we have found from past owners: canceled checks from 1920, tickets to the Yale football game in the fall of 1936, a pair of antique spectacles.

Now don’t get me started on the FOOD NETWORK……
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2009-06-28T13:22:00.000-04:00

MY BAD

My favorite people are my family. I do have a very short list of others that I love, but unfortunately for the top three, Annie, Marion and Charlie are the best in my book. As a result, they have been subjected to what Annie has dubbed “Mom’s romantic ideas.” These have resulted in adventures and incidents that the three of them LOVE to rub my nose in whenever the family reunites. Evidently, I excel in the following areas:

NON TRADITIONAL HOLIDAYS:

Evidently, I have long cherished the idea of the four of us in foreign lands, clutching our guidebooks, seeing amazing sites, and eating wonderful local cuisines. In Costa Rica, this consisted of getting lost in the middle of a rainforest mud road in a rental car, finding cockroaches in our beds the size of cell phones, arming ourselves with rolled up newspaper at night for bug killing, and feeling totally TENSE the entire trip. Whose idea was this eco-challenge? MINE.

I also decided one Thanksgiving that the usual at-home feast is boring. Instead, I rented a cute little cottage in the Hocking Hills, near Ohio University. We packed up our pots and pans (the first clue to impending disaster, according to Annie), food, and all the fixings for the big dinner, and embarked.

The cottage was darling. One room. Cute kitchen at one end. There was a hot tub outside. A nice TV, with a DVD player. One room. Two futons. Some nice lawn chairs. One room.

By the time the weekend was over, we had watched “The Phantom of the Opera” three times, the dog had escaped the cabin and gotten lost in the woods, no one wanted to play ANY games, the girls decided that sitting in a hot tub with parents was QUEER, and the liquor ran out. One room.

HEALTHY LIFESTYLE

As the children were growing up, I wielded my power unflinchingly. They were never allowed to eat “sugar cereal.” Sandwiches were made on rice cakes. For a while, I insisted on giving everyone little shakers filled with bran, so we could increase our fiber intake. We drank soy milk before anyone else in the world had ever heard of it. I fed them organic fruit and vegetables. But the worst? THE DAY WE BECAME VEGETARIANS!

Let me explain that I have spent much of my life trying to exert some control over all the things that threaten to take us out: global warming, pesticides in food, antibiotics in meat, the pollen count, killer bees, peer pressure, pimples. This constant anxiety has now been alleviated with maturity along with medication, but unfortunately for the kids, during their primary years I was young and without Paxil.

One day, after reading a particularly heinous article about hormones in beef, I immediately set out to protect our family from the scourge. As Annie says, “My God, on Sunday we had hamburgers for dinner, and Monday morning we were vegetarians against our will!”

This sudden dietary shift brought about some unwelcome changes that I had not foreseen. The children became surly and started sneaking around, eating salami at friends’ houses, and hiding beef jerky in their backpacks. Charlie developed gas. Well, he didn’t DEVELOP it, it just got worse. I couldn’t figure out how to make a sandwich that wasn’t peanut butter. Our friends never knew what to serve when they had us over to dinner.

This was long before being a vegetarian was in vogue. Times have changed. There are entire vegetarian sections in grocery stores now. Restaurants feature vegetarian specials. But instead of giving me credit for being the visionary, my family BLAMES me. How can I be so weird? Why do I jump on all these bandwagons?

MAKING NEW FRIENDS

Evidently, I have a bad habit of seeing something that I want, and going all out to get it. This goal oriented behavior is fine when it comes to things like Christmas presents, but not good when it comes to people. According to one of my friends, I crash through social barriers like an elephant. My eagerness to make new friends has resulted in some memorable evenings.

One particularly legendary night, I invited two foreign exchange students over for dinner. I was very astute, I thought, in inviting a language professor friend and his wife as well, so that the English/Spanish problem was totally covered. I also knew enough not to serve anything so foolish as Paella—oh no, I went American all the way with a good Campbell’s soup casserole and Apple Pie.

What could go wrong, you ask? To start with, the two exchange students were shy and soft spoken. Charlie, whose international skills consist of “If they don’t understand you, just TALK LOUDER,” was expounding at one end of the table, and I, at the other, repeatedly looked at the exchange students and asked the professor, “What did they just say?” My girls tried to sink under the table.

Another evening consisted of trying to befriend a very nice couple who were world travelers, very smart, and attractive. A retired minister, the husband forgot his hearing aid that evening. His wife, evidently peeved at her husband’s oversight, talked very little. Charlie felt that to compensate, he would use the aforementioned international skills. The wife, evidently shocked by all of the shouting, stopped talking all together. By dessert, Charlie and I were desperate for banter and resorted to TELLING JOKES. We have not seen that couple since. Annie, when recalling that fateful evening, gave me a sound piece of advice:

“MOM, FROM NOW ON, DON’T TRY TO STRIKE UP ANY DINNER PARTIES!”

2009-06-24T01:00:00.000-04:00

OMG, I AM BLOGGING!!

It all happened so fast! One minute I was a typical (?) suburban housewife, vacuuming, stacking the dishwasher and writing emails to my friends about our family, and in the next minute I became a BLOGGER! And the really funny thing is that I still don’t really know what a blog is, who reads them, why anyone would want to keep one, and how I AM one.

My friend Bryan got me into this, sending me an internet link that makes it incredibly easy to broadcast your any thought to the world. Cut, paste, and one click and I was blogging!! What remains to be seen is if any of you out there actually care about the things that I manage to come up with, and if I can manage to come up with anything more!

I am thus thinking about how this whole blog lifestyle may affect me, and how it has affected me so far:

I put on lipstick before going to the grocery store now, thinking that in case I run into someone who has read my blog, I must look at least like someone who is somewhat put together. And I always look at my shoes before leaving the house. Are the flip flops I got from my daughter’s trip to Brazil with it enough, or should I wear the Crocs with ribbon bows? Which of the two are most impressive? For Pete’s sake, am I really pondering my shoe choices for the first time in my life?

And then there is impulse control. Since my husband has sent the blog link to two thousand of his closest friends, might I be running into one while at my gym? While getting my Paxil prescription? When being introduced to a friend of my husband’s, should I mention the blog? Or should he? Or is this fishing for compliments?

How do bloggers act? Nonchalant? Pushy? Important? Vague? Are they witty? I am certainly not witty—my favorite joke about condoms is just about the best one in the world, my friend Dave has told it to me over two hundred times, and I still can’t tell the damn thing in the proper order so that the punch line makes sense.

And will being a blogger put pressure on my life? How often do blogees read blogs? Do they expect a new installment every day? If this is the case, I have already failed. Do blogees want something every week? More possible. Every month? I might be able to handle that. But isn’t every month just long enough so that anyone who once read my blog would totally forget about it in the interim? As a result, I am now always contemplating blogworthy topics: Is the fact that I can’t sleep at night, but can fall asleep in a doctor’s waiting room significant? Would it be worth blogging about the fact that I, on average, eat ten bowls of cereal a week? How can something be no weight watchers points if you eat a tablespoon of it, but POINTS if you eat three tablespoons? Would anybody be interested in reading about my ideas on teeth whitening products? Is menopause funny?

Who invented blogs, anyway? And why? Are blogs just for people who think they are writers? Or for people who are narcissistic and love seeing their words on the internet? Or for people who have a lot of time on their hands and love to type? That’s it! I just love typing!

So from now on, whenever I get the uncontrollable urge to bang the keyboard, I will share with you my thoughts and feelings. The cast of characters you may as well come to know:

CHARLIE, long suffering husband, talented handyman, general geek, stroke victim with resulting inimitable phraseology.

ANNIE, darling daughter, best friend, Spanish teacher and rock solid emotional supporter—but things do tend to happen when she is present. Horse lover and equestrienne who leads me all over creation to watch events that I know less about now than I did when she started riding at age 6.

MARION, first born daughter, high powered Hollywood agent who is too busy to tell me about any of her deals, and who has yet to take me to anyplace where there might be a celebrity sighting in Hollywood. Exercise addict, weight watcher, chef, and total whirlwind.

ASSORTED FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS, you know who you are. You are funny, supportive, laugh at my jokes, and are nice enough to read what I write. But if you do something strange or off kilter, I AM ALL OVER IT.

So this is my analysis of why I am doing this!

Or maybe I am just one big ego looking for an outlet.

2009-06-19T09:13:00.000-04:00

LIFE AFTER BERNIE MADOFF

We, like many, are living in reduced circumstances. Unlike the REALLY wealthy victims of the aforementioned Bernie, we have fallen victim to a lower level of perniciousness. When asked why we don’t go out to eat any more, Charlie will tell you that we have been eviscerated by a FONZIE scheme, which has left us clipping coupons, shopping at Wal Mart, and putting spare change in the piggy bank.

So these are a few tips to all of you out there who are looking for ways to save, but just don’t have the creativeness to think of ways. I have come to your rescue:

Food is always expensive. I have found a few good ways to cut down on the food budget. Try this: one night a week, eat a nice big lunch, and go to bed with a Tylenol PM at around seven. Voila! One less dinner per week. If you wake up hungry in the middle of the night, go downstairs and mix up some high fiber powder in some water, drink it really fast, and go back to bed. Don’t do this more than one night running, or you will be way too regular.
Another food tip: Sleep in. I think this might revolutionize food budgets around the world. If you sleep till noon, you can just get up and eat lunch, therefore saving ONE WHOLE MEAL A DAY; SEVEN A WEEK! When Charlie questioned me on this and I gave my economical answer, he became thoughtful, and actually AGREED that this is a wise thing instead of weakness. So now I am no longer a lazy slut, but a contributing member of society!
Entertainment has always been a big part of our budget. I have had a hard time cutting down on that. I have discovered though, that spying on the neighbors can provide a good time, and again, provide a real service to the community at large. Since when do those “neighborhood watch” groups really WATCH anything? I mean, really—if the neighbors were really watching, would things ever get stolen out of cars? Would people really be able to have affairs with the neighbor’s husband! OF COURSE NOT! This is because neighborhood watches are a sham! No one is really watching anything but Tivo. So I have appointed myself the guardian of my street. This takes up quite a bit of time, and has really cut down on our movie ticket outlay…
Clothing. This is another sticking point, since I have lost weight and now LOVE to shop for clothes. Solution? Charlie has been wearing the same two pairs of pants and four golf shirts for at least five years. When he asks me if he looks ok to go out, I say “Of course!” This has worked very well for me for years, but of course, I have a husband who has a well established reputation as a real eccentric. That makes this part of our economic recovery program very easy. On him fraying hems and weak seams are the norm. Just last night we went to the theatre (a splurge, I know) and I looked over to discover that Charlie had his golf shirt on inside out. Need I say more?
Entertaining. Now this is a no brainer, and I would guess that many of you already practice this economy. If you MUST have people over, make them BRING THINGS. And if you do this well, you can have people over for dinner and spend next to nothing. This involves asking enough guests. Nice people always ask if they can bring something. So if you assign enough, you can actually get away with having the guests provide everything. If you have a friend who considers him/herself a gourmet cook, all the better. A comment like, “Oh I wish I could make your crab stuffed filets, but since I can’t, we are having macaroni and cheese,” will almost always produce an offer to bring the aforementioned entrée. The rest is just like falling off a log. If you get good at this, all you will have to make for dinner is iced tea.
Savings. This is a tough one. But I have devised a plan to put away at least fifty dollars a month. I just take money out of Charlie’s wallet whenever he puts in on the dresser. This has allowed me not only to save a little money, but to continue to have my nails done twice monthly. Charlie is none the wiser, but he has said a couple of times that he must be getting forgetful, because he THINKS he went to the green machine yesterday, but he must not have, because he is out of cash. I just look sympathetic, and say, “Well, people do get forgetful as they age.”
Finally, one last tip. Keep your eyes to the ground. I have a friend who has been practicing this one for years, and she has found (I am not exaggerating) over a hundred dollars! This is a real inspiration for me, and I have repeatedly asked for a metal detector for Christmas from my family. They do not respond. But I feel that armed with my dog and a metal detector, I could replace MUCH of the money that our brokers have lost over the past two years. I have heard of people finding diamond rings and things, just walking around with their detectors. But I think that in this case, Charlie’s reputation has had some bearing on the family’s decision to deny me this coveted piece of equipment. I guess that one weirdo per family is the allocation. In the meantime, I just keep watching the ground. And last week, I did find a quarter in the Dayton Mall parking lot. See, it does pay off.

So you see, all of us can prosper in this time of dire economic events. All it takes is a little dedication and willingness to go the extra mile. I have to sign off now. There is a sale at The Gap.