Some Things Never Change

Today, I looked out of my bathroom window to see a familiar sight. The ritual of building a massive snow fort after the first major storm had begun. Snow was flying everywhere as the mound of white stuff deposited at the end of the cul-de-sac by our friendly, neighborhood plow began to take shape. My husband and son were crawling around on all fours as they dug out places to sit, as well as a tunnel to wiggle through. Gloved hands painstakingly molded the outer walls until the icy mass resembled an Eskimo palace. In years past I would have been a puddle of tears watching father and son build their masterpiece but this year I was too busy laughing. My husband is fifty-seven and my son is twenty-two!

They said they were getting it ready for my ten year old nephew's arrival but I wasn't falling for that one. I have no doubt that they were enjoying themselves just for the sheer fun of getting out there and playing in the snow. Hey, anything that gets my son away from video gaming and my husband away from his desk is okay by me. The fact that they were having so much fun constructing this winter playhouse (due to melt by the end of the week) made me appreciate the fact that our kids are still living with us. It's not often that I see anything resembling a Norman Rockwell painting around here so I'm going to savor every moment I get. I might even be waiting with the hot chocolate. With marshmallows.

Merry Colonoscopy!

I put it off for years. Every time the doctor reminded me that I still hadn't followed his recommendation to add this procedure to my "to do" list I was ready with my excuses; lousy insurance, too busy, can't afford it, no history in my family. But this year, thanks to my son's unexpected appendectomy, the main excuse was gone. We met our deductible. I made the appointment.

The specialist failed to fall for my last attempt at weaseling out of what I knew needed to be done. Even though our deductible was met in August, I didn't call his office until the first of December. When I told him that I had to get in before the end of the year, he didn't flinch. 'Of course we can get you in', he said. 'And we can fit your husband in, too.' Damn. Just my luck to find a dedicated professional who put patients care (and wallets) ahead of his Christmas plans.

So, that's how I found myself flushing out my colon one week before Christmas. The procedure, as anyone who has had one would undoubtedly agree, was nothing. You take a trip to la-la land and babble some incoherent ramblings that will amuse your loved ones when you wake up. The day before prep was something I could have done without, but, let's face it, one day of the holidays away from the cookie tins can't be all bad.

I never did convince my husband to join me. I guess togetherness has its limits. But, he doesn't know what he's missing. After a month of exams, blood work, a bone density test, a mammogram and a colonoscopy, I'm going in to the New Year with a relatively clean bill of health and a sense of gratitude that I didn't waste the opportunity my son so lovingly provided me. Not a bad Christmas gift.

This is Torture

As anyone who has been a regular reader of this blog knows, I'm madly in love with all things Italian. Let's face it, if Italy were a guy, I'd be spending Christmas in jail, serving time for stalking. I've watched enough House Hunters International shows to know that living there is out of our price range (unless I ever edit that bestseller that is now sitting on my hard drive). My next best hope is getting back there for an extended visit but even that seems unlikely with other financial obligations tugging on our dwindling resources. That's why I've grown to hate the mailman.

Every week, without fail, our local public servant deposits tantalizing brochures and beautifully photographed catalogs for Mediterranean cruises and Italian vacations, detailing the once-in-a lifetime deals waiting for my husband and me if only we book by the end of the month. Every time I go to the mailbox and find one of these instruments of torture waiting for me I'm torn. Do I pay the mortgage or call the travel agent? As I grab a cup of tea and lovingly turn each heavy, laminated page filled with images of the Italian countryside or rustic, cobblestone streets, my rational thinking goes right out the window. Maybe we could get by eating nothing but potatoes for a few months. Maybe we could raise the deductible on every insurance policy we own. Maybe we could rent out a spare room. (Oh, yeah, that won't work. Our kids are still in them.)

Eventually, reason prevails and I finish my tea and close the latest attack on my senses. But I can't bring myself to toss the brochure into the recycling bin. That rational I am not. So now I have a filing drawer filled with outdated specials and once in a lifetime deals that have passed us by. But that's okay. I'll hang on to them just in case one of these years, I get what I really want for Christmas

Okay,The Lights Are Up. . .

One of my first blogs was right around this time of year in 2009 when I groused about how much I'd come to dislike Christmas now that my children are older. When I went back and read it, I realized how close to Scrooge I sounded. Determined to make the holidays a more enjoyable experience in 2010, I vowed to get the decorations up earlier, make lists for everyone before I hit the stores and start churning out those Christmas cookies the first week of December.

Well, as you well know I was a little pre-occupied in November so nothing was addressed besides the writing of the next great American novel. Today, I went to Costco and actually purchased our first real Christmas tree in years. I also braved the elements (okay, it was almost forty degrees) to put up some lights outside. Which brings me to my only grumbling of the day. Why do manufacturers of these tiny instruments of torture not make it easier to find which bulbs are out so you don't have to pitch the whole damn string into the nearest trash receptacle? It never fails that the very string that lit up so beautifully inside the house, fails to do the same once it's nestled in the bushes. I don't mind traipsing through the snow to put them on but I'll be damned if I'm going to stand out there searching for the one bulb that is disabling half of the lights I just lovingly threw on our landscaping.

So, here's how it's going to go down next year. I'm hitting the after Christmas sales this year and purchasing a whole boatload of those suckers. I'm then going to pitch every last one of the lights we own (sorry, I do try to be green but this is war) and know that I'll be ready for 2011. Of course, if the half strands that are still out there doing their job give up the fight, I'll find myself in Target sooner than I expected. Who am I kidding? I'm bound to be there anyway finishing the shopping I swore would be done by now.

TGIO (Thank God It's Over)

In the past, November has meant only one thing - Thanksgiving. This November, it's meant something else - writing. Or as I like to call it - hell. It started out as a challenge; something I've always wanted to do. Doesn't everyone think they've got at least one novel hidden in the deep recesses of their souls? I know I always did. For the last twenty years my husband has been reminding me of my promise to someday put on paper (or computer as the case may be) the bestseller that will allow us to move into that villa in Italy next to George's. Well, he may not have mentioned that part about George. That may have been my idea. Anyway, I was always shooting off my mouth that I could write something better than half of the drivel occupying spots on the library's shelves. But did I actually do it? No. Until this November 29th, I was only a novelist wannabe.

Not anymore. For twenty-nine days, I wrote an average of 1750 words per day. I sat my butt in front of the computer twenty-eight of those days and actually typed a beginning, a middle and an end of what I hope will be an actual, published book. The hard part is over. I've proved to myself that I can do it. Even if my novel never finds its way into an agent's hands; even if it never occupies a shelf in your neighborhood bookstore, no one will ever be able to take its existence away from me.

As a reward for a month of grueling hard work, our local region of the National Novel Writing Month challenge met today for a celebratory luncheon. Everyone who participated was recognized for their accomplishments (even if they didn't hit the necessary 50,000 words) and one of the writers read an essay by Tom Clancy. In it he praised and offered encouragement to anyone who had the audacity to think that what they had to say was important enough to spend hours of their lives putting it on paper. He reminded all novel writers to be proud of the fact that they accomplished something that others only talk about doing. As I listened, my eyes started to tear up. Finally. Finally, he was talking about me.

I've Got a New Team

About a month ago I wrote a blog about my genuine desire to pledge allegiance to a new football team. It was written after a particularly brutal loss to the Redskins but the frustration I was expressing in the piece had been a long time coming. Obviously, others shared my feelings at the time because the blog was picked up by the Trib and published on the first page of their online edition. So, I thought I would update anyone who had an emotional investment in that editorial on how my search for a new team was going. As of yesterday, I have one.

The team has a complete package. Their defense is stellar; they may give up more yardage than I would like but play with heart and conviction. They force turnovers and keep big plays against them to a minimum. The quarterback, despite being protected by an offensive line that could use a little work, has a laser throwing arm and enough intelligence to run away from trouble or throw the ball away. The rest of their offense, while not that impressive on paper, gets the job done. The coaching staff has settled on a nice mixture of passing and running the ball and the young players are doing their jobs better than anyone predicted they would when the season started.

This team has made watching football fun again. I've been checking them out for the last few weeks when they were beating teams with a losing record, just waiting to see if they really had what it takes to win me over for the long haul. After yesterday, I've decided they're for real. The game they played against a division leading team convinced me that they have enough talent and desire to make me proud on a regular basis to be their fan. It's great to feel that way again about a football team.

So I'll be there next week rooting them on. If they stumble, I'll try to remember how hard they've tried; how much progress they've made and I'll remain a loyal fan until the day I die. Oh, I haven't mentioned their name? What else could it be? The Chicago Bears.

Thankful

Yesterday was one of the best Thanksgivings ever. The food was fantastic; everybody pitched in and brought a few dishes including a few that we had never had before and the fresh turkey purchased at Costco didn't have any of that chicken broth injected into it or hormones and antibiotics fed to it before it had the bad luck to land on our dinner table. Of course, his bad luck was our good fortune. He was absolutely delicious; he tasted like what I remember turkey tasting like before the executives at Butterball decided we all wanted 15% sodium solution added to our yearly feast.

In case you might think I'm dwelling too much on the food, there was much else to be thankful for in our household. Our daughter, who's been struggling with some tough emotional issues, is doing much better. She spent the entire day with her family and we were all the better for it. We ate early and spent the rest of the time playing games and talking instead of mindlessly watching football (not that there's anything wrong with football; I'll be watching my share this Sunday).

Last but not least, I'm almost done with my novel. It may not be great (yet) but it is almost done. The crazy challenge I took on almost a month ago to write a 50,000 word novel in one month is nearly over and I can hardly believe it. I did something I never imagined I could do - I surprised myself. At my age, that's really something to be thankful for.

26,140 To Go

This is my first blog in almost two weeks and I'm not sure when you might see the next one. As I mentioned in my last post, I'm firmly enmeshed in the insanity of trying to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. All I can say is, it's amazing what you can do when you really put your mind to it. When I told my husband that this is the hardest thing I've ever done, he asked, "Harder than childbirth?" I had to think about that one. While there are some similarities and I wouldn't want to compare the pain of the two endeavors, I will say in childbirth's favor, it was over in one day. The birth of my novel is taking thirty, long, tiring days of labor and I'm still not convinced there's going to be a baby at the end of it.

Still, I'm plodding through. Through writer's block, characters spouting trite dialogue and a plot that's going in circles, I press on. I can almost see the finish line but I know that some speed bumps are waiting to knock me off track. If all else fails, I can always resort to typing my washing machine manual into my book. The challenge says 50,000 words. It doesn't say they have to make sense.

Wish Me Luck

This may be my last blog for a little while. I'm about to embark on the craziest/bravest/dumbest endeavor in my life. I've signed on with thousands of others around the world who are going to attempt to write a novel in thirty days. A yearly event, National Novel Writing Month, has been taking place every November since 1999. When I first heard about it, I was intrigued. Could I really do such a thing? And if so, what would I do with it? Procrastination, forgetfulness, and fear took over and year after year went by without me giving it a try.

So, here I am. Out of excuses and determined to succeed. The NaNoWriMo website is full of ideas, tips and support for all of us who are crazy enough to think we can do this and the local writers I've met at the kick-off events are all committed (or should I say should be committed) to helping each other survive the month. It all starts at midnight. So if you don't hear from me for awhile, know that I'm burrowed down with my laptop and a Diet Coke, trying to prove I can produce a written product longer than three paragraphs.

In the meantime, I will check in with any updates or frustration. But if I have to come up with an average of 1667 words a day, very few of them will be here. Wish me luck. I'm going to need it.

SYTYCD

For the second time in a week, I left the comfort of my family room and ventured out on a workday. This time I braved fifty mile per hour winds to hang out with the exceptionally devoted fans of the American Idol-like dance competition, "So You Think You Can Dance". It's been a long time since I've been to a rock concert but that's what it felt like last night. I doubt if Elvis in his prime had as many screaming fans.

The show, a recreation of many of the dances seen last season on TV, featured an exuberant cast of young dancers doing impossible things with their bodies. I sat there watching their agility, flexibility and energy with envy. I never moved like that. Never.

When the show was over, the true fanatics (my sister included) headed for the stage door for autographs and photos. After braving the cold for twenty minutes, I opted for the warmth of the car while my crazy sibling and her friend waited for their dancing heroes. Within an hour, they were rewarded for their devotion. The cast couldn't have been more accommodating as they worked their way through the crowd. Several added their signatures to my sister's T-shirt (which just happened to be on her body) and posed for windblown photos. My sis was in her element and her joy was contagious. I may have been tired. I may have been cold. But I'm glad I was there.

Leftovers

Outside of Thanksgiving, I've never been a huge fan of leftovers. I guess I'm easily bored. I don't want to have the same meal two days in a row. But since my part-time job has taken over my life, I've discovered the beauty of coming home to a meal that I can reheat.

I used to love to cook. I watched Julia Child before she was cool and wasn't a bit intimidated by the complicated recipes. In fact, I enjoyed the challenge of recreating her dishes and the accolades I got for doing so. Once we had kids, those days were over. Not only did they prefer chicken fingers to coq-au-vin, I no longer had the time or the energy to cook anything that required more than fifteen minutes of my time.

Now that the kids are grown, my urge to flex my culinary muscles occasionally resurfaces. Just last week I whipped up a shrimp risotto that Julia would have been proud of. But yesterday, it was a simple roast beef dinner that reminded me of something my mom would have made. Tonight, it was roast beef dinner 2 and it went over pretty well. Amazingly, there's enough left for another meal. Do I dare?

Ready for a New Team

I've decided that being a Bears fan is a lot like that Disney ride, Tower of Terror. You ride up slowly, trying not to think about what's going to happen next. You can lull yourself into thinking that you're on a fun, little ride when, all of a sudden, the bottom falls out and you want to barf your brains out. Since I do my best to avoid those stomach churning rides whenever possible, I think it's time for me to pledge allegiance to a football team that won't simulate the feeling every freaking week.

I don't think it's going to be easy. I've been a die-hard Bears fan for forty years. But enough's enough. I've wasted too many Sundays hanging on the hope that this team would get better. And, just my luck, the only time they actually did win the Super Bowl, I was living on another continent. Oh, sure, they got back to the big dance a few years ago. Cruelly, they returned the opening kickoff for a touchdown before stomping on our hearts yet again.

Still, I remained loyal. Like most of us in Chicago, I drank the Kool-Aid when Jay Cutler was signed as the franchise quarterback who would lead us to the promised land. But now that his favorite receivers are wearing the other team's jerseys, I find myself thinking about the Rex Grossman era as the good old days.

I do have something to look forward to. There is no Bears game next Sunday. It's their bye week. That should give me plenty of time to survey the other 31 teams before picking a worthy successor. I find it ironic, however, that the Bears aren't playing. After all, it is Halloween.

Saturday Shopping

I must have been out of my mind. For no good reason, I went to Costco on a Saturday. I didn't really need anything. I have a relatively flexible work schedule and could easily have waited until Monday. So why did I do it? I did need to fill up my car but I could have pulled into the gas lanes, filled the tank and left without anyone getting hurt. But, no. I had to park my car in the next county and go inside.

I thought we were in the middle of an economic crisis. The swarm of humanity roaming the aisles of Costco would seem to say otherwise. Shopping carts loaded with Duggar sized boxes of cereal, kennel sized bags of dog food and peanut butter jars capable of lasting an entire school year met me at every turn. I headed for the bakery section but, as luck would have it, the bread I wanted was nowhere to be found. Weaving in and out of traffic, I helped myself to a sample of organic, sparkling pomegranate juice before coming to my senses and hightailing it out of there. And what did I leave with? One rotisserie chicken, a carton of half and half, and a bag of brussel sprouts. At least my husband is going to eat tonight.

I'm With the Band

Well, tonight's another performance of my husband's band, Night People. This is their first gig that's been scheduled for a weekday but the venue is in our downtown area so I guess I have no excuse. I've invited a lot of my co-workers to come and have a drink with me so it should be fun. Trouble is, as I've mentioned before, I'm usually in my jammies by 8 so I'm a little aggravated that I have to suck it up and be social. On a Thursday. When I'm working till 7.

Until last week, I was harboring the idea that I might go on stage and sing a number or two. That, of course, would have meant going to a rehearsal or two with the band. Which would have meant leaving my house and being social yet again so . . . But now that my friends are coming, I'm regretting not making the effort. It would have been fun to show them a side of me they haven't seen, a side of me I haven't seen in a long time. I can only hope that we pack the place tonight and they invite the band back. Maybe then I'll be able to ditch the jammies, go to a rehearsal and get up on that stage. I think I need to prove to myself that I'm not as old as I sometimes feel. There is a rocker chick buried in there somewhere. Next time, I hope she has the guts to come out and play.

How Do I Turn This Darn Thing Off?

I have always been a bit of a worrier. Okay, maybe more than a bit. I've been cursed (like most mothers) with the gift of seeing the worst possible outcome of any given scenario. This natural tendency to envision catastrophe around every corner can often turn me into a . . . a . . . I don't want to say it . . . nag.

The truth is, if the kids were away at school I wouldn't know anything about their homework, research papers or tests. But since they're still sleeping in the beds they've occupied since they were three, I can't seem to help myself from becoming involved in their school deadlines, cleaning habits and romantic relationships. I know I pulled all-nighters at school, I know I dated a few questionable individuals, I know my bathroom used to resemble an outhouse. But there's a part of me that just keeps thinking I can save my kids from making these same mistakes. In addition to being a nag, I guess I'm also an idiot.

In many ways, I see great progress in both my kids. Now I just have to learn to trust in God as he helps them continue to move forward and learn from their mistakes. But I hope it's not long before I don't have to see them played out on a daily basis. Maybe then my inner nag will finally be able to shut her mouth.

Pumpkin Time

I hate Halloween. It was marginally fun when my kids were young enough to dress up but it was also a heck of a lot of work. Usually I made their costumes so it was always a lot of pressure to think of something fun (but not too difficult) for them to wear. Then I had to inspect the pillowcase full of future tooth decay that they dragged home. After that, I had to deal with the daily battles as I rationed out their goodies (after surreptitiously siphoning off a few Kit Kats). Just talking about what I used to go through makes me happy that my kids are grown. I still have to buy the candy for the various gremlins that appear at our doorstep but I'm glad that's it.

As much as I'm over the whole Halloween thing, there is one thing about this time of year I love. Pumpkins. Pumpkin bread, pumpkin bars, pumpkin muffins - you name it and I'll eat it. I like to kid myself that it's relatively healthy since there is a vegetable involved but I guess that argument goes out the window when I slather the end product with cream cheese icing. Oh well, I guess something had to take the place of those pilfered Kit Kats.

A Sunday Kind of Love

Since we replaced our windows a few months ago, I have been unable to bring myself to replace the window treatments. This would involve drilling holes into that beautiful (and highly leveraged) wood and I just can't do it. The downside of my refusal to desecrate my window frames is the sun pouring into my bedroom at a very inappropriate hour. Not so bad during the week, but a real sleep killer on the weekend. Today I tried my best. As the sun streamed across my husband's side of the bed, I piled pillow on top of pillow trying to stave off the inevitable. Finally, I gave up and reluctantly faced the day. I shouldn't have waited so long.

It was one of the those perfect fall days. Crisp air, blue skies. Gold and amber leaves still clinging to the trees. I searched the house for signs of life. Everyone was gone. The kids were working and my husband was lucky enough to be treated to the Bears game. (It later turned out to be a dubious gift). I jumped into the car and headed for Big Apple Bagels. Once home, armed with my Cinnamon Danish bagel and apple cinnamon cream cheese, the Sunday paper and a cup of tea, I headed for a sunny spot in the family room. I spent the next hour pouring over the sports page, doing the crossword and thoroughly enjoying the peace and quiet. Still ahead was football, a baseball playoff game and my parents company for dinner. Life is good.

Soul Sisters

I always wanted to have a big family. When I was younger, I envisioned myself with five kids. In a perfect world, I imagined three girls and two boys. What I didn't foresee was the fact that I wouldn't become a mother until I turned thirty-three. After that late start, I'm grateful that I had two, especially because I got to experience the joy of having both a boy and a girl. My son has been an amazing gift. Never having had a brother, he taught me about all the typical boy stuff and we now have an incredible bond that I wouldn't trade for anything. My only regret is that I wasn't able to provide my daughter with a sister.

Yesterday, I spent the day with my own sister. We hit Panera for something to eat and then an early movie where we admired the acting chops (and shirtless body) of one Josh Duhamel. We then walked around Costco before heading back to her place where we solved many problems of the world sitting at the kitchen table. On the ride home, I thought about our fifty-six year relationship and wondered how someone who had once caused me so much irritation could have turned into the best friend anyone could ever have.

As children we rode the sibling roller coaster. Only fourteen months apart, we started out as playmates and partners in crime. Later, in our teenage years, my need to mother and critique her every move drove us apart. It wasn't until her marriage that we started growing closer. We have helped each other through marriage(s), kids, job changes, overseas moves, financial difficulties and health problems. She is the kindest, most supportive person I have ever met. She's a much better listener (and secret keeper) than her sister and there isn't a mean bone in her body. I can honestly say that there's no one I'd rather spend time with than the little sister at whom I once threw a metal spatula. I am annoyed, however, that she got closer to having that once envisioned perfect family. She was lucky enough to have four kids. One of them, her only daughter, has assumed the role of big sister to my deprived firstborn.

Guess my little sis had my back on that one, too.

It's in the Genes

When you're pregnant you wonder which parts of you and your husband are going to be mysteriously transmitted to your unborn child. Upon meeting your baby, you see the physical attributes he inherited right away. Oh, look, he's got his dad's ears. Sorry. And, hey, his nose curls up just like mine. Isn't that cute? Then, there are the traits that take a little longer to show themselves. I was thinking about that a few nights ago when my son pulled an all-nighter completing a college project. If he had been away at school, I probably would not have known anything about it. Since he's not, I saw the downside of the genetic pool wreak havoc with my unfortunate son. He definitely inherited the procrastination gene from his mom.

I've tried hard over the years to break myself of this loathsome habit. I've read books and listened to motivational speakers. I've bought desk calendars and leather planners. I even married the most logical, self-motivated, diligent person on the planet. All to no avail. I know what I should be doing with my time (writing, cleaning my house, organizing my paperwork) just as much as my son knows what he should be doing with his (homework, studying, cleaning his bathroom). Too often, I find myself "encouraging" him to stay on task and not waste time. But I feel like a hypocrite chastising him for playing a video game while I'm catching the latest episode of Modern Family. He swears that he's getting a handle on managing his time. He says he knows he's capable of doing a better job. I want to believe him. After all, he has one thing going for him that I don't. His dad's genes are floating around in there somewhere.

Passing the Test

The other day I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, minding my own business, putting my make-up on when my husband queried, "How can that striped shirt hanging on that hook have sun reflecting off of it?" My second response, (after the initial "Huh?") was disbelief that he was making me think this hard at 7:00 a.m. Still, I took a quick look at the offending shirt. "It must have something to do with the sun bouncing off the mirror over your sink and reflecting off the mirror on your closet door", I said as I swiped the mascara wand across my eyelashes. "Very good", he said. "Just wanted to see if you could figure that out".

Life with my husband is an unending round of Jeopardy. Luckily, he doesn't insist I put my answers in the form of a question but there are times when I feel I've been taking a twenty-seven year SAT test. He doesn't do it in a mean way. He's just curious about everything around him and he can't help himself from quizzing those he loves to make sure they're paying attention. For the first few years, I enjoyed the challenge. I liked proving to him that I was a worthy intellectual partner. Then it started to get a little annoying. Thankfully, we had two children. For the better part of the last two decades, they became the focus of his educational experiments. Now that they're grown, he's reverted back to me and sometimes (like any day before noon), I don't appreciate it as much as maybe I should. God bless him, he does keep me on my toes but I think it's about time for me to turn the tables. The next time he tries to trip me up, I'll be ready. He may know how the internet works but does he know what Khloe Kardashian named her baby?

Reality Bytes

My husband started to enter the room the other night when I was watching a guilty pleasure on TV. My first reaction was to change the channel before I was subjected to his look of disgust but instead I said, "Don't come in unless you want to share the latest episode of 'Hoarders'." You have never seen anyone change direction so fast.

Let me try to explain. I'm not a reality show fanatic but there are a few that fascinate me and 'Hoarders' is one of them. Maybe fascinate isn't the right word. Maybe it just makes me feel better. I can look around my cluttered house and say, "Well, I'm certainly a better housekeeper than Sally". Or I can look in my refrigerator and say, "At least I don't have bugs crawling in my produce drawer like Nancy". It may not be great television or even a worthwhile use of an hour of my finite time on earth but it sure does motivate me to clean or organize something when it's over. And what's wrong with that?

On closer inspection, my reality TV viewing serves other worthwhile purposes. I love 'Amazing Race' for showing me all the places I've yet to see and reminding me of the beautiful locations I've been lucky enough to experience. I tune in to 'Top Chef' and 'Project Runway' to marvel at artists' passion and creativity (and maybe jump start my own). I catch 'Say Yes to the Dress' (or as my husband calls it, 'Say No to the Show') for the chance to relive the whole bridal experience without spending a dime. I even occasionally check out the 'Real (?) Housewives of Wherever' to appreciate the fact that I have true friends that don't feel compelled to hurl expletives and furniture at me when they're unhappy with my behavior.

Despite my rather compelling justifications, my husband continues to be beyond appalled that I watch any of these shows. I'm not always proud of how I spend my leisure hours but I wish he would just lighten up and give me a break. Reality shows may not be real. They may not have any redeeming social value. They are, however, a harmless source of entertainment after a hard, stressful day and I'm tired of apologizing for liking a couple of them. And let's be honest. Until I start hanging out in the hot tub with Snooki and The Situation, my husband has absolutely nothing to complain about.

Not a Hottie

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Not So Fast

Okay, maybe I'm not as ready to shut myself off from the rest of humanity as I thought I was. As I mentioned in my last posting, like it or not I was heading off to a black tie gala celebrating the end of the annual film festival co-founded by my husband. Forced to put my my trip to Walden Pond on hold, I struggled to strap myself into the only pair of high heels that my aching feet could tolerate and headed off to face the enemy.

It took awhile for me to get into the swing of things. I was definitely out of practice. As I stood in the lobby waiting for the event to get started, all I could think about was how much I wanted to take off my shoes. It's funny how little you can enjoy in life when your feet hurt. Once we sat down, I started to appreciate the proceedings. I got to see hard-working artists receive awards, I got reacquainted with volunteers I'd met in previous years and I enjoyed a meal I didn't have to cook or clean up. I was even treated to a rousing rendition of "Eye of the Tiger" by longtime rocker Jim Peterik. When the ceremony was over around ten, I had every intention of heading home but to my surprise I ended up attending the after party at a local hotel. Never sitting (and finally barefoot) I engaged in spirited conversations about politics, travel, the arts and the state of the world. And you know what? I had a good time. What I feared would be a superficial evening of meaningless small talk with people I didn't really want to spend time with turned into an entertaining night sharing ideas with people I'd like to get to know better. Maybe my address book (or should I now say Facebook page) could stand to add a few new names. And maybe I need to be reminded every now and then, that there is an intelligent, interesting person hiding inside that bathrobe. And she's definitely looking for a comfortable pair of heels.

All By Myself

It's official. I'm turning into a hermit. I thought my difficulty with last weekend's trip to a local watering hole to see my husband's band play was due entirely to my long-running distaste for the bar scene. Turns out, it's socializing in any environment that irritates me. Case in point: tonight I attended a couple of screenings of independent films appearing at our town's third annual film festival. This was something that I would have enjoyed immensely a few years ago. Having always loved movies, I would have jumped at the chance to hang out with people who make them and in previous years I did. But tonight all I could think about was how chilly it was in the theater, how uncomfortable the seats were and how much I would rather be home in my own bed watching a movie on TV.

I can't understand it. I used to be such an extrovert. Strangers were friends I hadn't met yet. But lately, while I still enjoy hosting friends and family in my own home, I'm not so crazy about putting on nice duds and venturing out for any kind of event. (This, however, does not seem to pertain to the possibility of return trips to Italy). Whatever is bothering me about hanging out with a crowd, I'd better get over it before tomorrow. That's when the festival is celebrating its big closing gala.

Do you think anyone will notice if I wear my slippers?

If the Suit Fits . . .

When exactly did my son turn into a man? Over the last few weeks, something has changed. Although he's been a legal adult for almost a year his usual wardrobe of cargo shorts and baseball caps had me believing that he was still my little boy. Yes, there have been times when he almost crushed me as he moved in for a hug but then I'd remember that he was always strong for his age. Yes, his feet have been dangling off the edge of the couch for some time but I'm shrinking so everyone is taller than I am. Despite the changes in his body, the rest of him still seemed so young, it was easy to be fooled into thinking that he would never grow up. And then it happened. He started remembering to mow the lawn. He would call and ask if I needed anything from the store. He started saving money. He enrolled in school and actually went to classes. Scary stuff.

Tonight, his dad and I got to spend some time with him. Not only did he not object to going out to eat with us, he picked up the tab! After that, he and his father took off without me to look for a suit. By the time I caught up with them, Josh was heading into the dressing room. Seeing him enter in a t-shirt and jeans and come out in full business gear almost made me cry. He looked ready to conquer the world. And for the first time in a long time, I think he just might.

Party Girl

I never was much into the whole bar scene. Even when I was single, a time of which I have very little recollection, I never felt comfortable in a dark, noisy room full of inebriated strangers. While I have come to appreciate the benefits of a dark room, I'm still not a fan of hanging out in an environment where the primary objective is getting wasted and/or laid. So how was it that last night I ended up spending the better part of the evening at Miss Kitty's Saloon? I'll tell you. I was being a dutiful wife playing the role of groupie to my husband's rock band alter ego.

As you might imagine, Miss Kitty's is a classy joint. the kind of place Sheryl Crow must have been envisioning when she wrote All I Wanna Do. When I arrived, just before nine, the regulars were already settled into their assigned bar stools. Most seemed oblivious to the musicians crammed into a 10 x 12 corner of the narrow room. The newbies, those of us with a vested interest in the aforementioned musicians, pulled up a chair at one of the dozen tables and ordered a beer. (Okay, some of us ordered a Diet Coke since some of us haven't had a beer since college). As I watched my husband and his friends wailing away, I couldn't help but be aware of the irony. Hadn't I gotten married to avoid all of this? The music was good and it was fun to get out but when I started yawning, I had to admit some things hadn't changed. I still preferred being at home, in my jammies, reading a good book to being out on a Saturday night with a bunch of rowdy people I don't know. But as long as my better half wants to play piano man, you'll probably find me in the front row cheering him on. At least until the end of the second set.

Mechanical Difficulties

Today, I'm heading to the doctor. Since we've managed to meet our insurance deductible (thank you Josh's appendix), I've decided to find out if any of my multitude of aches and pains is anything serious. I haven't had a physical in a couple of years so I'm more than a little apprehensive. Of course, I imagine the worst with every headache or every time my back hurts. I won't cop to full-blown hypochondria but I'll admit to brushing up against it now and then. And, at fifty-seven, I've already watched several of my friends experience serious medical issues and sometimes I can't help wondering when it's going to be my turn.

I've always been a chicken when it comes to doctors. On this, I'm sure I'm not alone. The only thing that pushes me to make the appointment is the fear of being one of those statistics that "had a feeling something was wrong" and didn't do anything about it. I guess having a once-over every once in awhile by a member of the medical profession is the only way to prevent that. After all, if I can survive two C-sections and a root canal, I can handle being poked and prodded in a couple of very uncomfortable places. By tomorrow at this time, it'll all be over. Then, I'll have to start worrying about the colonoscopy that's in my near future. But that's another story.

All in the Family

I've always liked the people I work with at the tennis club and now I actually love one of them. Before you start thinking I've revealed some scandalous secret that you can someday blackmail me with, I should mention that two weeks ago we hired a new, young, very charming young man. My son.

While I'm thrilled to find another way to share our mutual love of tennis I'm more thrilled that he's again gainfully employed and spending a lot less time in front of the computer. His last job was serving at a local breakfast place. He made good money and it really helped him get more comfortable relating to the public since, surprisingly, very few strangers found their way to the bedroom in which he usually sequestered himself. Unfortunately, the restaurant succumbed to the economic downturn and my son found himself out of a job.

When I first mentioned the possibility of coming to work at the club, you can imagine his reaction. A twenty-one year old who doesn't jump at the chance to work with his mom? Shocking. But slowly, (as his bank account dwindled), he warmed to the idea. He would get a free membership to the only indoor tennis club in the area, co-ordinate his hours to his school schedule and make just enough money to keep him afloat. What could be wrong with that? Oh yeah. I'd be there.

Despite his misgivings, I think it's working out. His shifts only marginally overlap mine. When he works the late shift, he even gets time to do his homework. He's also discovered the joys of being paid to play tennis when one of the members fails to show up. Now, if he can just figure out what to call me in front of customers, all will be right with the world.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

I am not a morning person. After years of working and raising children, I thought my days of waking before the sun were finally over. Not so fast. At a time when I had envisioned taking classes, volunteering or traveling the world, I instead find myself working harder (and often earlier) than ever. I guess the worst economy since the Depression has derailed more than a few fantasies. It's not that I mind working. God knows my poor husband has done more than his share for almost thirty years. I just never thought my little part-time job would turn into a full time gig with no benefits and less pay than I was making twenty years ago. I remind myself how lucky I am to actually have a job but sometimes (especially around 6:30 a.m.) I don't feel very lucky. I just feel tired. My house is a disaster, we have every takeout menu in a fifteen mile radius and my husband and I always seem to be passing each other in the driveway. Italy seems very far away.

Don't Try This at Home

It's about this time of year that I fancy myself a better tennis player than I really am. After a summer of watching the best in the world at the French Open, Wimbledon and the U.S. Open, I start to believe that these many hours of watching tennis have somehow translated into an improvement in my own modest playing ability. What, you haven't heard of osmosis? Anyway, in one of these delusional moments, I made the mistake of saying yes to my twenty-one year old son when he said, "Hey, Mom, want to go hit the courts for awhile?" Okay, maybe it wasn't a mistake to say yes. It did get my sorry butt off the couch. But it sure wasn't my smartest move to do so at noon on an 85 degree day.

I wish I could say that my son took pity on his mom. Obviously, I didn't spend enough time working on developing his compassion. I think it was about the time that he realized that the color of my face was looking eerily like the strawberry Gatorade he was drinking that he decided to back off. After all, he wanted to beat me, not kill me. (I think). So while I hobbled off to find some shade, he continued to work on his serve. Watching his ability to deal with both the heat and the exertion, I couldn't help feeling envious. I didn't discover my love of tennis until I was almost twice his age, definitely past my physical prime and I now have to face the truth that I'm not likely to get any better at the sport I love than I am now. So, I guess I'll just have to be content with spending some time with my boy sharing a sport we both love. But next time, I plan on scheduling it when I can't fry an egg on the sidewalk. If that doesn't work out, there's always Wi. Indoor tennis and air conditioning. Sounds pretty good.

Friends

I know this isn't Thanksgiving but I'm feeling pretty grateful. After enjoying a beautiful end of summer day in the company of some of the best people I know, I'm definitely in the mood to count my blessings. Let's start with the weather. After living in Chicago for most of my life, I'm aware that hosting an outdoor event has to include a Plan B. On this sunny Sunday in September, Plan B was completely unnecessary. Except for the inconsiderate neighbor who chose the moment our party started to mow his lawn (but that's another story), the great outdoors couldn't have been more inviting. Then, there was the food. Hardly gourmet fare but somehow firing up the grill and sharing simple food with great friends beats fine dining anytime. Of course, a glass of wine and an ear of fresh sweet corn don't hurt. Finally, there was the company. I've known for a long time that my husband and I have an amazing group of friends. They are a source of love, support and encouragement and have been for almost three decades. Seeing them gathered together in our backyard, sharing stories of our pasts and hopes for our futures, was the best part of the whole day. No wonder I'm feeling so blessed.

Where the Hell is a Crystal Ball When You Need One?

Every time I see the movie Back to the Future I wonder what it would be like to be able to get a heads up on what's in store for me and the ones I love. As tempting as it might be to know, I'd probably take a pass if actually offered the opportunity. Because as much as I'd like to believe that that gypsy would foresee a chance encounter with George Clooney that would lead to summers spent in his Lake Como villa, I'm more afraid her visions would involve some freakish (and rather embarassing) hot tub accident. That being said, I'd be more than willing to sit down with the nearest fortune teller if she could convince my daughter that her future has more in store for her than what she's settling for at the moment. Currently out of a job, stuck in a relationship that's going nowhere and battling low self-esteem, she is ready to give up. And nothing in my twenty-three years of parenting her has broken my heart as much as seeing my beautiful, intelligent, funny child come undone. Just when she should be embracing her lack of entanglements and endless possibilities to utilize her God-given gifts, she instead dwells only on the turbulent state of her current affairs. Nothing anyone can say or do can convince her that her present pain is not only bearable but survivable. She's tried every self-help book in the library as well as visits to a therapist but what she really needs is to see her future the way all of us who love her envision it. So if anyone out there knows of a carnival heading this way, please give me a shout. I know someone who really needs to take a good look at that crystal ball.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Here is my new mantra. I say it, wait one hour, then repeat. My kids will be okay. My kids will be okay. My kids . . . you get the idea. When or if I'll actually believe it is another story. When they were younger, all I worried about was them being physically hurt. I knew I could kiss away the bumps and bruises but the thought of anything posing a real threat to either one of them was enough to propel me to the nearest bottle of wine. Now that they're older, I find myself worrying more about their emotional, psychological well-being, their ability to function as productive, responsible adults. With hindsight, those early years seem like a walk on the beach. Walking, talking, learning to feed themselves, writing their names, riding a bike, so many skills were taught and mastered within hours, days, months. Now, everything has shifted into slow motion. Waiting for kids to decide on a major, find a job, buy their own car, move into their own places, these things seem to be measured in weeks, months, even (the horror) years. I keep asking myself, when is this maturity thing going to kick into high gear? Are they ever going to be motivated enough to WANT to earn the money it takes to purchase big-ticket items for themselves? What is it going to take for them to get so fed up with having their parents looking over their shoulders, critiquing their decisions and offering unwanted advice that they actually leave?

What's really frustrating is there are moments I think we're almost there. When my son comes up to me saying he can't wait for school to start. When my daughter relays her discussion with a doctor about reducing her bill to an amount SHE can afford. When I come home to a clean kitchen. All these moments give me hope. And then there are the other moments. Seeing my son play World of Warcraft for hours on end. Watching my daughter leave yet another job before the six month mark. Having to remind them for the upteenth time to clean the bathroom. I want to enjoy the time I have left cohabiting with my kids but it's getting harder and harder. Am I just enabling them? Or am I simply providing a safety net while they work up the courage to pack their bags? I have to believe it's the latter, because as much as I loved my parents, as much as I appreciated my comfortable lifestyle, I couldn't wait to get out on my own. Scary or not, I revelled in those first few years of independence and I want my own children to experience those feelings,too. Soon.

Time for a Facelift

There comes a moment when even the best of us must face the passage of time, when we look at ourselves and see the truth. When we can no longer ignore the reality that everything is starting to sag, buckle, and creak. In our heart of hearts we know that all the cosmetic fixes in the world are just not going to cut it anymore. We have to bite the bullet, face our fears and do something drastic - a complete overhaul. And that's just exactly what happened this past week.

The construction company arrived before eight last Tuesday. Their trucks, loaded with the brand new, energy-efficient windows and fiber cement siding that would transform our aging, weather-damaged home (what did you think I was talking about?) into a better-than-new version of itself, filled the cul-de-sac. The enormous dumpster destined to haul our rotted windows to their final resting place took possession of the driveway. For eight days we were awakened by the melodious sounds of hammering and sawing. But, now that it's done, I have to say it was well worth it. Of course, I'm more than depressed about spending this kind of money on anything that doesn't involve Italy but I'm more than happy with the results. After two years of getting estimates, looking through showrooms and calling references, at least it looks like we went with the right guys. They were on time, hard-working and meticulous; all you can reasonably ask for from contractors. Beside the fact that our home could now grace the cover of House Beautiful, we're thrilled to be rid of the drafty, broken windows that made our house feel like a sauna in the summer and a meat locker in the winter. So now that we've dipped into the home equity line, there's just one question. What's next?

It's Good to Be the Queen

I won't deny it. I'm a teeny, weeny bit competitive. I like winning. I especially like conquests involving the use of my brain or my tennis acumen. Since the latter happens as rarely as Rod Blagojevich's dinner invite from the Obamas, I'm settling lately for the heady feeling involved when my brain cells prove to me that there's something left in the tank. Case in point, I just beat my nephew at Scrabble. No, my nephew is not ten (don't be mean), he's thirty-two and one of the most well-read, erudite people I have ever met. He thinks so, too. And that's why this particular triumph was so much fun.

When we started our online contests a few weeks ago, he warned me that it was unlikely that I would ever beat him. In his infinite subtlety, he advised me that only three people have beaten him at Scrabble since he was twelve. If them's not fightin' words, I don't know what are.

In all honesty, he beat me pretty badly the first two games. I was able to stay with him for awhile but then he'd pull some crazy word out of nowhere and score fifty or sixty points. But I remained hopeful. I knew I was an educated, experienced human being capable of beating this cocky, smug wordsmith (who I dearly love, by the way). I also knew I needed help. Do you know there's a big, fat book called Everything Scrabble? Neither did I. But a few late nights studying the tricks that all good players should know was just the ticket to taking my eminent opponent down.

I can't say my moment of glory came easily. He was leading by one and I had five tiles left, including one blank. I knew if I was able to use all my tiles, I would be victorious but I could not for the life of me figure out where to put them. When I finally relaxed my brain and decided not to use the blank as an S, I realized I had the letters to spell ORDEAL right in a juicy spot that garnered me twenty-one points and the win. I can't tell you how excited I was. When you spend a good deal of your day not remembering the word for an object right in front of you, it seems like a big deal to score 369 points against an agile, confident, YOUNG mind. That's why I named our next rematch game It's On. I think I'm ready for another, another . . ., what's that word again? Oh, yeah, challenge.

Pomp and Circumstances

June is finally over. Can't say I'm going to miss it, which is unusual for me since I'm one of those people who can't wait to say goodbye to cold, snowy weather. I normally embrace the summer with considerable passion. It's my favorite time of the year. Time to enjoy sun-soaked picnics and trips to the ballpark, golf, tennis and nightly use of the Weber. The problem is, it's also the time for graduation parties. Maybe it's just me, but opening the mailbox to find yet another reminder of our suspect parenting tends to put me in a less than celebratory mood.

In my head, I know our kids have to find their own way. I know they're on their own unique journey of discovery. But how have all of our friends' children managed to navigate four years of college while ours have not? What did all of them do that we didn't? Were we not tough enough? Did we not make education enough of a priority? Could we have helped them research schools more thoroughly? Did we leave too much of the process in their hands? The answer is probably yes to all of the above but maybe it's just more complicated than that. It's certainly not as simple as saying that our friends' kids were just more mature/intelligent/ambitious than ours. I've known most of them all their lives and that sure as hell isn't true. Our kids are every bit as capable but, for some reason, have struggled with picking a lane and moving forward. So, while they've accumulated college credits, neither one of them is remotely close to picking up that sheepskin. But I haven't given up hope. Our son has enrolled in fall classes at the community college and our daughter is intent on going back to complete her degree in Fashion Merchandising as soon as she can apply for aid on her own. Maybe there's a June celebration in our future after all. Class of 2013. It has a nice ring to it.

Denial is a Beautiful Thing

Well, another birthday has come and gone. Can't say I look forward to them but, as they say, beats the alternative. A friend was generous enough to invite me up to her lakehouse for a couple of days where we tooled around the lake on her pontoon boat, played tennis and drank wine. Not a bad combination on any day but even more enjoyable when used to drown out the fact that one is another year older. Maybe I should have skipped the tennis if I had not wanted to be reminded of that fact since all I could do was take one game off of her. I'd like to think it was because she's younger but I'm guessing fourteen months wouldn't qualify as a legitimate advantage. I still can't understand why she barely broke a sweat while I was looking for an inhaler after the first set but maybe the real advantage had something to do with the occasional Dunkin Donuts drive-thru visits one of us took this past year. Nah! She's just a natural athlete who exploits my inablity to catch up to a well-struck cross-court forehand.

The truth is, I don't even know how old I am any more. My sister, the little dear, caught my mistake on a previous blog. I was convinced I was turning fifty-six until she oh so sweetly reminded me that no, she was turning fifty-six this summer. Oh well, you can't blame a girl for trying. At least I'm not running to the plastic surgeon's office or injecting myself with cow urine or whatever the hell else they're doing these days to look younger. Sure, I'd be happy to get rid of those Howdy Doody lines and I also wouldn't mind losing five pounds but the donuts usually win. And who really cares? I think I'll just keep trying to do my (semi) best to eat healthy, get in a few hours of exercise here and there and take my chances. Life's too short to be anything but happy and figuring that out almost makes being fifty-seven something to celebrate.

Old Friends?

I just had breakfast with a former neighbor that I haven't seen in four or five years. As soon as she arrived, I knew I had made a tactical error. I should have insisted on lunch. Not because I prefer a nice salad to bacon and eggs (although I do). Not because I like sleeping in (although I have been guilty of that once or twice). No, my decision to restrict all future outings to lunch or dinner rests solely on the fact that, at fifty-five, I look better after noon.

I suppose it didn't help that my friend walked in looking as beautiful as ever. She's one of those disgusting people who make it look easy. Her simple gray knit dress hugged her impossibly slim frame. Her thick, black hair, pulled back into a carefully tousled ponytail, showed off her porcelain, unlined skin. She hugged me and told me how good I looked and I returned the compliment but what I really wanted to say was 'You should see me in a couple of hours, or better yet, in the soft glow of candlelight'. I know I shouldn't be so shallow but it's getting tougher to ignore the fact that most of the women I know were born a decade later. Since I happen to love them all, I'm going for the easy solution. Lunch or dinner. Either that, or I have to find a few older friends. Maybe I'll meet them for breakfast.

Of Mice and Dads

Today I'm interrupting my ruminations on motherhood to take a look at the other side of the parenting equation. Admittedly biased about the role moms play in the lives of their children, I sometimes have to remind myself how impactful dads can be. Which brings me to the mouse.

For anyone who knows me well, the mouse story has been heard before. And like fishermen, the specifics of the incident have grown over time. It goes like this. I was getting ready to head out on a business trip to San Francisco. While packing, I saw something dart into my closet. I can't explain why a grown woman, out on her own for several years, would panic at the sight of a small, furry creature incapable of harming her in any way, but I did. Unable to continue packing and unwilling to go to sleep knowing that thing was in my apartment, I did what any self-respecting daddy's girl would do. I called my dad. At 1:00 A.M. In February. In a snowstorm. And what did he do? Okay, first he laughed but then he got in his car and drove to my apartment to see what he could do. When he couldn't find my dangerous invader, he calmly waited as I finished packing my suitcase and took me back home. The next day, I boarded a plane and acted like the strong, intelligent woman I purported to be (as long as there weren't any rodents in the vicinity). I'm not proud of how I acted that night but my father should be. At that moment of need, no matter how old his child was, he was there. He didn't complain about losing sleep. He didn't make me feel weak or incompetent. He just made me feel loved.

I'm happy to say I never saw the mouse again. I'm also happy to say that I continue to be blessed with my father's wisdom and generosity thirty years later. Thankfully, I don't wait for a Sunday in June to tell him how much he means to me. But it is Father's Day, a time to give the guys their due. So whether it's your own dad or grandfather, a special friend or the father of your children, let's appreciate the men in our lives who support us, put up with us and, yes, occasionally, rescue us. They deserve it.

Forever Mom

When I started this blog, I was convinced my children were determined to live out the rest of their lives in the comfort and security of their childhood home. I was concerned that the lifestyle we had provided them had inhibited their desire to ever forge a life out on their own. The guilt and frustration that propelled me to write this, had led to a good case of feeling sorry for myself. And then I attended our family reunion. This bi-annual event, that attempts to gather as many bodies of our large, regionally spread-out family as possible, took place last week as part of a wedding celebration for my cousin's son. While I was there, I was reminded of a hard truth. There are some moms who will never have the opportunity to send their child off to college, sit in the church as they are married or babysit for their grandchild. My aunt is one of those moms. She is the youngest girl of a family of nine children. She is my father's sister. She is also the mother of a thirty-seven year old child with Down's Syndrome.

This woman, at eighty-two, could teach anyone what it is to be a mother. She continues to take care of her child (who is the last of five) with unfailing faith and generosity of spirit. If she has ever been overwhelmed by the task, I have never seen it. What I have seen is her unrelenting sense of humor, which has become legendary in our family. If she ever has the chance to write a silly poem or wear an outrageous outfit, she grabs the opportunity with contagious enthusiasm. But what really struck me this past week, is how her legacy of selflessness has been passed down to her children. The way they support her and their sister is inspiring. While they have their arguments, as any family does, they never cease to rally around each other when needed. So the next time I'm feeling unappreciated or taken for granted, I'm determined instead to feel grateful. For my own two healthy children and my wonderful extended family whose devotion and grace I can only hope to aspire to.

24 Hours

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly life can change. In a matter of moments, your life can be headed into completely uncharted territory with no inkling of your eventual destination. This past week was one of those times for our family. On Sunday, we were hosting a family reunion party for thirty people. Relatives aged five to eighty-six converged in our back yard for a day of fun, food and conversation. It was a great day. Twenty-four hours later we were sitting in an emergency room with our twenty-one year old son waiting to find out why he was experiencing severe abdominal pain. What was casually dismissed on Monday morning as flu symptoms became instead an inflamed appendix that was on the verge of rupturing. As my husband and I sat there, waiting for Josh to come out of surgery, we were overcome with feelings of worry and guilt. Why hadn't we realized sooner that his "cramps" were more than that? How could this have progressed so quickly to something so potentially dangerous? Funny how much you can beat yourself up with nothing but six hours and quiet to keep you company. Now that he is back home and on the road to a full recovery, it might be easy to slide back into the taking everything for granted daily routine. I hope and pray I don't. If there's anything to be learned from the past seventy-two hours, it's that life is incredibly fragile. Maybe it's not such a bad thing to be reminded of that fact every now and then.

Great Expectations

When they put that baby in your arms, the countdown begins. You start fantasizing about being able to tell everyone how, unlike other babies, yours slept through the night at three weeks. Then, you start imagining your child flying through those terrible twos without so much as a single mall-induced temper tantrum. Next stop, elementary school. Of course, your child will love learning, make lots of friends and hardly ever give you trouble about doing homework. Once your child hits middle school, you might reluctantly acknowledge puberty's role in (temporarily) halting the progress of your perfect offspring, but, even then, you figure all will be on track once she hits high school. There, you tell yourself, your child will excel in sports as well as academics, learn to drive without mowing down the neighbor's cat and graduate with an acceptance letter from the college of her choice. Right.

Nowhere in these voyages to Utopia are side trips to failing a class, smoking, having a boyfriend you can't stand, experimenting with drugs, getting arrested or God knows what else. And when you're confronted with these harsh realities, you have to look at yourself and ask some mighty tough questions. "Am I capable of unconditional love?" "Can I grit my teeth and hope for the best when my child makes choices of which I disapprove?" "Am I able to accept her for who she is, not who I want her to be?" "Can I forgive her for not learning fast enough from her mistakes?" And if the answer to any of these questions is 'I'm not so sure', you might have to ask yourself one more question, as I have lately, "Just who's disappointing who?"

I Married a Rock Star

I was ready for the mid-life crisis. I fully expected my husband to do some crazy things as he was approaching his golden years. I'd heard all the stories about running off to Jamaica with a secretary or buying a Harley and taking off for a cross-country adventure. But, while I was steeling myself for one of the cliched scenarios, I got hit with something a little different. My husband joined a rock-and-roll band. Maybe you're thinking, what's so odd about that? Nothing, I guess except in the almost thirty years I've known him, I've never heard anything but blues and jazz coming out of his lightening-fast, piano-playing fingers. The group recruited him on a recommendation from one of their fellow musicians and his keyboard wizardry blew them away. Unfortunately, most of the songs on the band's playlist had never been heard by my husband before and I'm not talking about obscure B-side melodies, I'm talking about top ten Rolling Stone, AC/DC ditties. To compound the problem, he doesn't read music so he has a stack of cheat sheets with chord progressions sitting in front of him at every gig. It's kind of cute how he has to peer over the top of his reading glasses in between songs. He's not alone. The whole band is a collection of middle-aged, frustrated musicians that is grasping the opportunity to show the kids how its done. The amazing thing is, they're damn good. As they rock out on everything from Dion to The Eagles, it's obvious how much they're enjoying themselves. And isn't that the point? Of course, it doesn't hurt if you pick up a few fans along the way and they seem to be doing that too. In a weird way, this time of our lives is a perfect time to do whatever the hell you want. If you do it well, everyone will be impressed and if you stink, people will still give you props for trying. I wonder if it's too late to slither into one of those sequined costumes and start figure skating?

Car Wars

When our daughter, Jessica, turned sixteen seven years ago, we were determined not to spoil her with her own car. After all, her father and I didn't get handed the keys to anything on our sixteenth birthdays. No sir, I had to get a part-time job and earn the money to buy my own car and my husband rode his bike or took public transportation. (They have it rough in Switzerland). We weren't completely heartless. We understood that times were different, that jobs didn't pay the percentage of a new car that they used to. So we decided to compromise. We would purchase a reasonably priced car that Jess (and later her brother, Josh) would contribute a set amount monthly towards the payment, insurance and gas. We were confident that this would work and that we weren't being too indulgent when we forked over the cash to help our young'uns have wheels. Parenting mistake #9,472.

So now here we are. They are twenty-one and twenty-three and neither one of them has managed to scrape enough money together to purchase their own vehicle. Why should they? They have a what was once-upon-a-time nice Honda Civic that they have run into the ground at their disposal without the pesky payments. Oh sure, they've managed to contribute here and there (when they have jobs) to oil changes, new brakes, etc. but the luxury of dealing with your parents concerning payments and bills bears no resemblance to dealing with banks and insurance companies. And they can't begin to build any pride of ownership (as evidenced by the condition of the car) when they haven't struggled to pay for it. Worse yet, they can't co-ordinate who has to use the car when and someone inevitably ends up asking me for the keys to my car. At this point, since we're not going to be able to use this wisdom on any additional offspring, there can be only one solution. It's time to sell the car, let them split the proceeds and put down payments on their own cars. There's just one problem. They would still have to park them on our driveway.

Meeting of the Minds

Twenty-three years after becoming parents, Daniel and I finally scheduled our first family meeting. Granted, this is probably an idea that would have been more beneficial years ago but heck, we were darn proud of ourselves that we actually got all four of us in a room at the same time without the television on. This particular pow-wow was initiated due to an unfortunate incident with the car purchased by us for use by our kids. Somehow or another this detail (the fact that it's our car) seems to be continually overlooked by our children. When my husband looked at said vehicle on the driveway, he was appalled to see it looking like something out of a Hoarders episode. Ready to relegate them both to bicycles and roller blades, we instead decided that a weekly family meeting to discuss respect, responsibility and goal-setting would be a better alternative. Okay, it was lame but we had to give it a shot.

Finding a day and time that worked for all was tough. Selling the idea was even toughter. We finally settled on Wednesday. Mid-week, right before dinner. If they behaved themselves, they might actually be fed. We set an agenda with time for complaints, concerns, compliments (don't laugh) and requests. Everyone got a chance to speak without interruption or critique. We even made sure that we ended on a positive note with everyone sharing something for which they were grateful. Surprisingly, no one groaned (loudly) and everyone seemed to think these weekly get-togethers might not be too painful and might actually be productive. I walked away feeling hopeful. After just one week, the jury's definitely still out but anything that gets this family talking has to be a step in the right direction.

TMI

One of the worst things about co-habiting with your adult children is knowing too much about what they're doing. Like most moms of my generation, I encouraged open communication with my kids from an early age so that they would feel free to come and talk to me about anything that was on their minds. I hoped this would lead to an honest exchange of ideas and feelings that would benefit all. What it did lead to is a steady stream of too much information. And I've discovered something about myself. I'm not as cool as I thought I was.

When they were younger, I could handle just about anything they threw at me. They were pretty good kids (i.e. police cars weren't regular visitors to our cul-de-sac) and their transgressions/confessions rarely kept me up at night. I figured I was through the worst of it when they each hit twenty-one. God is still laughing about that one.

Dealing with their love lives, employment (or unemployment) status, depression, financial problems, and general confusion about the direction of their lives is exhausting. I honestly try to stay out of it as much as I can but it's damn difficult when they're sleeping on the other side of my bedroom wall. (Alone, I hope). I keep telling myself that it's a temporary situation, that they're as anxious as I am to have space to themselves but lately I'm not so sure. Their current problems have given them legitimate excuses to hunker down into the family manor and their father and I are trying our best to help them with the tough transition to real life. I just wish they wouldn't feel so compelled to let me in on everything. They could at least have the courtesy to do what I did for my parents. Lie.

Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho

Now that my lifelong job of being a mom is winding down, you would think that I have a lot more time to myself. Funny, I don't. I always imagined my post-menopausal years to be filled with travel, volunteering and the occasional obligatory continuing education class. I thought it would be a time for both intellectual and spiritual growth. I was sure I would finally plow through a Chopin piece or master Italian. What my friendly crystal ball never revealed was an economic tsunami that would result in my husband's job loss and require me to return to nearly full-time employment.

It's not that I mind working. God knows, no job could ever be more taxing than the one I'm "retiring" from. I'm lucky enough to work at a local tennis club and my hours there are generally enjoyable, if not particularly well-paid. I get to share my days with others who enjoy an activity that I love and occasionally, I even get paid to play tennis. The problem is, I seem to be existing in a state of constant exhaustion which has forced me to face a simple fact - I was a lot younger the last time I did this. So now I'm working on a new scenario for my future. My current plan is to continue this blog, accumulate enough amusing slices of life to send to an agent and reap the rewards of a job I can do sitting down. If I can somehow churn out a bestseller, I might be able to swing the two things I desire most: a return trip to Italy and a chance to sleep past seven.

God Made a Mistake

Today is my anniversary. No, not my wedding anniversary. That one (our 27th) is in October. No, one year ago today I fell in love with a country. Last year, celebrating our 25th anniversary (okay, we were a little late), I finally set foot in a land I've been dreaming about for years. Italy.

It was supposed to happen a long time ago. When we were first married, living in England, we were scheduled to take a romantic vacation to Lake Maggiore (not far from George Clooney's humble abode). Newly pregnant after miscarrying I experienced complications and was advised not to fly. Reluctantly, our plans were cancelled but my hubby was quick to reassure me that it would be a short delay. I wish I would have asked him to clarify "short" because, despite two stints in Europe, we never did set foot on Italian soil until last April 13th.

There's not much in life that can live up to the hype of waiting for something for twenty-two years. Tack on another year and a half of planning, which included reading every guide book, studying the language and watching every Italian travel video our local library possesses, and you have a recipe for disappointment. Not even close. This trip was a life-changing event. Venice, Rome, Positano, Capri, Sorrento - places that only lived in my fantasies, are now the sites of the most memorable seventeen days of my live. To say I am obsessed with all things Italian is putting it mildly. Just ask my children. So now, one year later, I'm counting the days (as are my kids) until I can find a way to get back on that plane and reacquaint myself with the culture I should have been born into. Until then, I have seventeen hundred photos and a brain full of memories that will have to sustain me. Some days, that's almost enough.

I Miss That Damn Rabbit!

Another holiday over. More time to wax rhapsodically about how much more fun it was when the kids were small. Easter was one of those holidays that had a lot of traditions in our family. Like everyone else we colored eggs, visited the giant bunny at the mall and baked a ham. Our unique activity was making up a batch of Easter themed butter cookies and painting them with pastel-colored frosting. My sister and I started this tradition when our kids were born and all of them seemed to enjoy it (especially after they figured out they could eat the paint!). Now, of course, no one but my ten year-old nephew is interested in the cookie painting so that little activity was scratched for this year. I couldn't help myself, however, from making a couple of pathetic baskets for my twenty-one and twenty-three year old "children", all the while remembering the fun stuff I used to find to surprise them. I even boiled a dozen eggs and coerced them both (as well as my son's girlfriend) into decorating them. I've never seen so many eyes roll at once, (although I swear I saw a secret hint of delight at their finished projects). My husband couldn't believe I was actually doing any of this. "Let it go", he said (more than once). But, like most moms, I just can't. The best I can do is keep my holiday mania on a low simmer until some eager, smiling, appreciative faces that call me "Nana" show up on the scene.

Here's the Dish

I am a reasonable person. Honest. I swear I'm not harboring lofty expectations and I tend to forgive transgressions relatively quickly. I accept the fact that life gets chaotic and that normal, everyday tasks can be often overlooked or neglected. But there is one thing that I do not understand about the behavior of my beloved family. Maybe there's someone out there who can enlighten me. Here's my question. WHY CAN'T ANYONE PUT THEIR DISHES IN THE DISHWASHER!!!

It seems like such a no-brainer. A lovely little machine occupies a small enclave in the kitchen, just waiting there with one job to do. All you have to do is open the door and find an empty spot for your dirty dishes. Our new machine is so hard-working, you don't even have to rinse the offending food particles away. You do, however, have to put the dish inside the machine. As easy as all this sounds, I constantly find plates on the counter, bowls in the family room, glasses in the sink. It seems I find china and cutlery everywhere except where they should be ending up and it's starting to send me over the edge. I'm all about the presentation when it comes to food but I'm seriously considering switching to paper plates and cups. Oh, wait. Who am I kidding? What are the odds of those actually finding their way into the garbage can?

I Want My Mommy

There's something about getting really sick that brings out your inner child. Last week, when I spent a good deal of my time praying to the porcelain goddess, was one of those times. My mom was always at her best during those times I needed her most. She'd stand at the ready with a cool washcloth for my forehead and a glass of ginger ale, undeterred by the grossness before her. As I knelt on the bathroom floor, I couldn't help thinking how much I missed being taken care of like that. Oh sure, my husband brought me chicken soup and extra blankets. My kids, proving to be half as self-centered as I often accuse them of being, offered to go shopping for whatever I needed, make me jello or clean the kitchen. They were all great but they weren't my mom. Now living forty-five minutes away, she did offer to come if I needed her but I'm pretty sure that didn't include holding my hair back and wiping my forehead every time I visited the bathroom which was exactly what I was missing. It never ceases to amaze me what we hold precious from our childhood. Sometimes it's the most mundane, forgettable occurrences that end up meaning the most. That's why I'm so glad I was able to be there for so much of my children's early years. I threw out a pretty wide net; it would be hard for them not to remember at least a few nice things I did for them. And if this ritual turns out to be one of them, my cool cloth and warm ginger ale will be standing by.

Facing Facebook

I've always been a late bloomer so the fact that I've just recently become a member of the Facebook community should not be a shocker. While everyone else is off twittering, I've been busy plastering my vacation photos and updates on a website I should have been a part of years ago. I honestly don't know what took me so long (besides my inherent laziness and an abhorence of the internet in general). In a lot of ways, this should have been a no brainer. My large extended family is spread out all over the U.S. so unless one of them is picked up for a double homicide or nominated for an Oscar, it's hard to keep track of what they're all up to. The only problem now seems to be having the privledge of knowing EVERYTHING they're all up to. Do I really want to know that cousin Tim has a migraine that's making him suicidal or that Aunt Milly's best friend won the big prize at bingo last Saturday? I think not. I love them all but can't we save the inconsequential stuff for the next reunion when we have 72 hours to kill? On the plus side, within minutes of setting up shop, I was greeted by the smiling face of one of my oldest friends, asking when we could get together. After a couple of hours of faceless Facebooking, I took the bait. "Would tomorrow be too soon?"

waiting for the touchdown dance

Okay, I haven't gotten off to a good start on this blog as I haven't written anything since Jan. 11! Wasn't my New Year's resolution to write more??? Anyway, I have a good excuse for the last few days at least. My 21 year old son had to have a needle biopsy on an enlarged lymph node in his neck. Needless to say, my mind goes directly to the most dire worst-case scenario and I'm back in full mother mode. There is no way this mothering thing is ever going to get any easier. And every time I'm silly enough to convince myself that I'm almost done with all the worrying involved in the tangled mess that is parenthood, I'm brought back to reality that nothing short of my demise will free me (and even then I'm not so sure). Seeing your child hooked up to IVs, enduring a painful procedure that you can't do a damn thing about humbles you. It's at those vulnerable moments that I can't help seeing him as the rambunctious five-year-old that jumped into my lap begging me to kiss his latest boo-boo to make it all better. That I could then and can't now is a killer.

Maybe India is On to Something

I've been praying for my daughter's future spouse for some time now but either God is not listening or he has a depraved sense of humor. My girlfriend, Linda, a devout Christian tells me that she began praying for her children's lifelong partners pretty much from the day they were born. Maybe I didn't start early enough but from the look of the potential candidates that are showing up on our doorstep, I think it's clear that it's time for my husband and I to take over the process. Forget about chemistry, forget about attraction. All we're asking for is a halfway intelligent employed individual with rudimentary hygiene to throw his hat into the ring. So far, her choices have left much to be desired and I am completely unwilling to even contemplate spending the next thirty Christmases with any of them. That's why I'm starting to research the idea of arranged marriages. I know it sounds archaic but I'm certain I could do a better job. And I'll do it for a lot less money than e-harmony or match.com. Funny thing is, my daughter seems to be warming to the idea. Whenever I mention it, she challenges me to "Bring it". So now all I need are a few applicants for the very desirable position of my future son-in-law. Resumes are currently being accepted.

Merry New Year

Well, this year our children weren't the only ones ringing in the new year in a festive environment. Translation: we broke tradition (that being extreme anti-socialism and laziness) and went to a party. The gathering was just ten minutes away which gave us little excuse not to ditch the pajama pants and go hang out with some grown-ups. The pressure was on. Could we make it to midnight or would we have to bail after the ball dropped in Times Square? It was touch and go but thanks to our gracious hosts (who practically barred the door), Daniel and I welcomed the New Year together at midnight CST for the first time in several years. While I was dreading leaving the house (hey, it was below zero) and walking into a house full of strangers, I have to admit I actually had a good time. I met some warm, intelligent people, saw the end of the Blackhawks game on a screen that was bigger than the one at my local theater and stuffed myself with the best shrimp I've had since I last visited San Francisco. All in all, not a bad way to ring in two thousand ten. Or is it twenty ten? I still haven't decided.