Something to Look Forward To

I last wrote about how much I missed the great family vacations we used to take over Spring Break. Oh, sure, we had to take them with several thousand other families but that was a small price to pay for all that togetherness. Now that those days are behind us, I couldn't help feeling sorry for myself for still reporting to work while everyone else was off lounging in a cabana somewhere.

Little did I know that my hubby had something up his sleeve. As I was whining, he was busy planning. So it looks like we're going to be on the road again after all. I'm not sure when but it looks as if I might be getting back to my beloved Italy sooner then I ever expected. Life sure is full of surprises. I know I'll always be grateful to look back on the memories of those amazing times with our kids. But it looks like it might finally be time for their father and I to stop reminiscing and go out and make a few amazing memories of our own .

Spring Brake

This is the week out of the year that I used to love. When our kids were little we often took amazing trips to warm, sunny beaches where I indulged my love of Pina Coladas before noon and made my way through two or three bestsellers in seven days. These days, my longest trip is walking down the driveway to retrieve the soggy newspaper that reminds me that the temperature in Cancun yesterday was 82 degrees.

Now that our kids are adults, we don't have to live by the school calendar. That's a good thing. We can pick up and go any time we want to. With that kind of freedom, you'd think we would be on the move on a regular basis. It's not just lack of funds that are keeping us housebound. It's the fact that we don't have to put vacations on the calendar anymore; we don't have to schedule time to be together the way we used to. My husband and I see each other ALL the time. We've gone from living on different continents to seeing each other 24/7. Still, I wish we could get the four of us together one last time for one big blowout vacation. I miss the enforced family time that a trip to a foreign country guarantees. When you're the foreigner, it's amazing how eagerly you cling to the people you previously scorned. I suppose I'll just have to rely on my rosy memories of vacations past and accept the fact that we may have shared our last all-inclusive bonanza. But all is not lost. I do have something to look forward to. We have a big family wedding coming up next April. Too bad it's in California. Everybody there speaks English.

Who Needs TV?

Well, 'The Bachelor' chose Emily so what am I going to do now when I want a little relationship drama? Oh, wait, I forgot. I still have my twenty-four year old daughter living with me. As long as she's still here, I'm betting I won't be needing Brad Womack, Charlie Sheen or any other source of histrionics. Between her adventures in online dating and fractured friendships with girls she outgrew a long time ago, I sometimes feel like I'm immersed in my own reality show.

I thought it would be over by now. I didn't know I'd still be dealing with late night phone calls and tearful advice seeking sessions this late in the game. The problem is, my daughter has had the same group of friends since she was ten. They all know exactly how to push each others' buttons; they all know how to get back in each others' good graces. But now, she's facing the fact that it's just not worth the heartache. Sometimes you have to let go. Girlfriends, boyfriends, family members. No matter how much history you have with someone; no matter how much you've been through together, sometimes you have to let go. Who needs a bunch of toxic people who bring nothing to the party but a whole lot of drama? That's what 'The Bachelor' is for.

My Kind of Reality

Buried by the avalanche of reality TV, it's sometimes hard to remember that there are television shows that are put together by a talented team of writers and actors. There are even a few that are worth the time you spend watching them. These days, I'm gravitating more and more toward anything that makes me laugh so I make it a habit to check out 'Modern Family' and 'The Office' but my personal favorite may be one you've never seen. I'm talking about 'The Middle', an unassuming comedy gem that has one of the most realistic families ever presented on TV.

Watching the Indiana based Heck (as in what the . . .) family, I'm struck by the writer's uncanny ability to depict real life in a humorous, yet totally relatable way. I haven't been this impressed with a show's ability to "get it right" since 'Thirtysomething' (which wasn't usually funny but eerily mirrored my own life at the time). Every week 'The Middle' makes everyday struggles hysterically funny. The family consists of a loving, yet stressed out, middle-class pair dealing with a clueless teenage son, an awkward but impossibly resilient daughter and a gifted ten-year-old without social skills. These can't be actors; their family looks (and acts) just like one I'd find in my own neighborhood. And that's how you know you're watching something special. If you can stop laughing long enough to look for a listening device in your kitchen, convinced the writers are bugging your home for their material, you know they must be doing something right.

There But For the Grace

For the last few days we've been shown a steady stream of images from hell. What the people of Japan are going through is hard to imagine but the pictures of devastation and loss can't help but encourage all of us to hold our loved ones a little closer. Hearing stories of children ripped out of their mothers' arms or seeing an old man standing on the remnants of his roof as it drifts out to sea has a way of putting things into perspective.

But why does it take tragedy to make us appreciate our blessings? Are we so wrapped up in our day to day routines that we can't stop doing long enough to just be? Are we so addicted to stimuli that we are unable to tolerate quiet? I don't know. It seems to be so easy these days to lose sight of what's important; so easy to forget that our days on this planet are numbered. Do we really want to be spending them texting, surfing the internet and talking incessantly on our cell phones? God, I hope not.

Weighing My Options

When I was younger, I could eat anything I wanted. I could stuff my face full of donuts, cookies and pizza without my body betraying my lack of willpower to the world. I wish I had known then that the betrayal was just biding its time, waiting around the menopausal corner. Maybe I would have gotten my act together a little sooner. Now, after adding ten pounds in the last two years, I have to face the reality that others have had to deal with their whole lives - fattening food makes you fat.

It's not that I don't like broccoli. I do. I just like it better when it has a spoonful of hollandaise covering it. It's not that I don't appreciate a good salad. I do. My problem is in the definition of a good salad. Mine is mixed greens topped with goat cheese, walnuts, fruit (notice I didn't say croutons) and a generous ladle of Lou Malnati's sweet vinegarette. Most days I get through breakfast and lunch relatively unscathed. If I can talk myself out of heading to Big Apple for their cinnamon danish bagel, I've hit the home stretch without doing much damage. But come sunset, I'm in trouble. There's no way I'm plopping in front of the TV without a cup of tea and some nefarious waist buster. If I'm behaving myself, it'll be a few vanilla wafers or cinnamon graham crackers. If I'm not, . . . well, it gets ugly pretty darn quickly.

So, now I have some tough questions to ask. How much do I want it? How much do I want to rid myself of the muffin tops that pop over my jeans? Am I willing to do what it takes (for more than a day or two) to get myself in shape? So far, the spirit has been strong but the body has been weak. I don't remember exercise hurting this much. Could it have something to do with my rebellious joints? Or is the lure of that piece of chocolate cake just too strong? Hamlet had his questions. I have mine.

What Goes Around . . .

I've been using this blog to do a lot of complaining about the fact that my son hasn't been quick to pick up a phone and let me know how things are going now that he's moved out. Oh, sure, because we work at the same tennis club, I see him a couple of times a week but that's not exactly the place to have a heart to heart talk. If anything, it makes things more confusing. It's been more than strange to hear him call me by my first name (can't drop that businesslike demeanor that he's so proud of) and even stranger to have him walk out the door without getting the hug I've been so used to receiving any time we've said goodbye in the past. But all this sensitivity about his lack of communication got me thinking. How often do I call my own mother?

Now in her eighties, my mom has made a habit out of not interfering in her children's lives. She was actually happy for me when I got a chance to live overseas for a few years. She didn't whine about how lonely she was going to be or try to talk me out of leaving. She didn't pack up her things and find an apartment she could rent in Knightsbridge. No. She talked to me once a week and used the opportunity to visit a part of the world she had never seen before. Her whole adult life was lived as a mom and yet she was able to step back and let her daughters fly the nest without making us feel bad for doing so. She's there when we need her, doesn't offer advice unless we ask for it and tries not to guilt us into spending time with her. Sounds like something I should be shooting for.