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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