I've written a few times in this blog about my love for sports; how watching athletes dig down and find hidden reserves when their backs are against the wall inspires me over and over again. Yesterday, I had another opportunity to observe a sporting event that brought out the very best in two impossibly rich young men who, by the end of their meeting, looked as if they would rather crumble to the ground in exhaustion than relinquish their goal of taking home that trophy.
Modern day tennis matches are the equivalent of civilized boxing matches. Two warriors stand on opposite sides of the net, slugging it out until one of them can claim victory. Grand Slam finals are the ultimate goal, the end game that all the pros aspire to but usually the matches leading into the final are more exciting, more in doubt than anything that transpires in the final. Not this time. This time the Australian Open Men's Final produced an amazing display of physical endurance, consummate skill and sportsmanship. For 5 hours and 53 minutes, two athletes at the peak of their powers showed their fans what never giving up looks like. Through multiple momentum shifts and shots that missed their mark by centimeters, both men behaved as true champions and, at the end, there wasn't anyone in that stadium who wouldn't have wanted to take a chainsaw to that trophy to split it in two.
Right now, my daughter is going through one of the most difficult challenges of her life. She is trying to dig down and find her hidden reserves to defeat an opponent that is every bit as inexhaustible and unrelenting as those two men facing each other across the net. Like a world class athlete, she is using every resource at her disposal to give herself the tools she needs to triumph. The last step is searching her soul and finding the belief that she can be victorious.
No one will be cheering louder when she finally claims her trophy.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Watch Out for Flying Pigs
Today, I witnessed a miracle. Nothing life shattering like water turning into wine or the Kardashian sisters joining the Peace Corps. No, this was a small miracle, one of those life affirming moments of hope that turn a good day into a great day. What was this miracle, you may ask. My daughter cleaned the bathroom.
Before you think that I've lost my mind in putting the words miracle and cleaning a bathroom in the same sentence, I have to clue you in to the fact that cleaning isn't exactly on my daughter's list of priorities. (Can't imagine where she gets that from.) Her bedroom is usually a pile of clothes and books interrupted by small swatches of carpeting and her bathroom often resembles your average forest preserve outhouse. When she was a teenager, this lack of personal hygiene could be dismissed as typical adolescent behavior. Now that she's an adult, it's a whole lot tougher to shake my head and look the other way. I've reminded, nagged and pleaded until I'm tired of hearing my own voice. In response to this verbal barrage, she usually squirts some cleaner in the toilet, swipes a rag over the counter and calls it a day. That kind of behavior would lead any parent housing her adult child to start looking for names of a good locksmith.
That's why today was so special. Just when I had come to believe that she would never step up to the plate and do the job as it should be done, I was treated to the unsolicited sight of my firstborn on her hands and knees scrubbing the outside (as well as the inside) of the toilet, wiping down the walls and scrubbing the floor. She worked tirelessly for twenty minutes, used the right cleaners and didn't complain once.
It may not have been an actual miracle but it sure felt like one.
Before you think that I've lost my mind in putting the words miracle and cleaning a bathroom in the same sentence, I have to clue you in to the fact that cleaning isn't exactly on my daughter's list of priorities. (Can't imagine where she gets that from.) Her bedroom is usually a pile of clothes and books interrupted by small swatches of carpeting and her bathroom often resembles your average forest preserve outhouse. When she was a teenager, this lack of personal hygiene could be dismissed as typical adolescent behavior. Now that she's an adult, it's a whole lot tougher to shake my head and look the other way. I've reminded, nagged and pleaded until I'm tired of hearing my own voice. In response to this verbal barrage, she usually squirts some cleaner in the toilet, swipes a rag over the counter and calls it a day. That kind of behavior would lead any parent housing her adult child to start looking for names of a good locksmith.
That's why today was so special. Just when I had come to believe that she would never step up to the plate and do the job as it should be done, I was treated to the unsolicited sight of my firstborn on her hands and knees scrubbing the outside (as well as the inside) of the toilet, wiping down the walls and scrubbing the floor. She worked tirelessly for twenty minutes, used the right cleaners and didn't complain once.
It may not have been an actual miracle but it sure felt like one.
Monday, January 23, 2012
And God Said Ha
It's amazing how quickly life can change. One minute you can be posting a blog about sitting under a warm comforter, sipping tea, reading the latest issue of People magazine and the next minute you can find yourself mopping up sewer back-up from your basement shower. Allow me to explain.
When I last used this platform I rambled on about my blissful, snowy Friday night with nothing to do. Little did I know that while I was enjoying my peaceful reverie, my basement drain was busy percolating the most disgusting mess I have ever had the displeasure of encountering. After venturing downstairs to discover the foul smell and saturated carpets, the sound of my high-pitched screaming of my husband's name could be heard by neighbors across the street. My poor hubby had to throw off his snow boots and switch into his Wellies as he trudged down to face every homeowner's worst nightmare.
That we dug in as a team to clean up the initial onslaught was the only good thing about the rest of the night. We set up an early morning appointment with the plumber, employed the services of a restoration company and made a call to our insurer. We spent the rest of the weekend watching our beautiful basement be torn apart and thrown into contractor bags.
Through the constant hum of machinery used to dry out the area, I keep telling myself that it could have been so much worse. The damage didn't affect many personal belongings, it didn't turn out to be a broken pipe that could have put our house out of commission for days if not weeks, and it didn't happen while we were off on vacation (although that sounds like a great idea at the moment). No doubt it's a hassle to rehire people to come out and redo what we painstakingly did almost ten years ago but if that's the worst of it, I shouldn't complain.
I have learned a lot from this experience. I've learned that you're supposed to call the city before anyone else when there's any sewer back-up, that there are service people who won't try to fleece you when you're vulnerable and that my husband is prepared for any problem that may arise at any moment. God bless him.
But the most important thing I've learned is the next time I get that feeling that life is too darn perfect for words, I'm going to keep my big mouth shut.
When I last used this platform I rambled on about my blissful, snowy Friday night with nothing to do. Little did I know that while I was enjoying my peaceful reverie, my basement drain was busy percolating the most disgusting mess I have ever had the displeasure of encountering. After venturing downstairs to discover the foul smell and saturated carpets, the sound of my high-pitched screaming of my husband's name could be heard by neighbors across the street. My poor hubby had to throw off his snow boots and switch into his Wellies as he trudged down to face every homeowner's worst nightmare.
That we dug in as a team to clean up the initial onslaught was the only good thing about the rest of the night. We set up an early morning appointment with the plumber, employed the services of a restoration company and made a call to our insurer. We spent the rest of the weekend watching our beautiful basement be torn apart and thrown into contractor bags.
Through the constant hum of machinery used to dry out the area, I keep telling myself that it could have been so much worse. The damage didn't affect many personal belongings, it didn't turn out to be a broken pipe that could have put our house out of commission for days if not weeks, and it didn't happen while we were off on vacation (although that sounds like a great idea at the moment). No doubt it's a hassle to rehire people to come out and redo what we painstakingly did almost ten years ago but if that's the worst of it, I shouldn't complain.
I have learned a lot from this experience. I've learned that you're supposed to call the city before anyone else when there's any sewer back-up, that there are service people who won't try to fleece you when you're vulnerable and that my husband is prepared for any problem that may arise at any moment. God bless him.
But the most important thing I've learned is the next time I get that feeling that life is too darn perfect for words, I'm going to keep my big mouth shut.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Snowed In
Friday nights are the best. When you're young, they herald the start of two days without school. When you get to be a teenager, they evolve into date nights. After you get married, they are often the only time for two hard working individuals to snuggle on the couch with a DVD and a pizza, knowing that that nasty alarm won't be bothering them the next morning. Yes, Fridays have a lot going for them. There's only one thing that can make them even better - eight inches of snow on the ground.
When I was a kid, I would have hated a major snowfall to hit on a Friday afternoon. Knowing that the streets would be clear before the arrival of the dreaded Monday morning sunrise alarm, I would feel God had cheated me out of one of life's greatest pleasures - a snow day. Now that I'm an adult, it's the perfect time for a blizzard. I don't have to worry about getting to work, I have a comfy couch and a fifty inch plasma and a husband that actually enjoys shoveling snow. Even better, I have a mailman who navigated the yet to be plowed cul-de-sac to bring me my latest issue of People.
Okay, I would prefer to be lounging on a beach in St. Lucia but since that doesn't appear to be an option anytime soon, I'm more than happy to settle for hunkering down with my new lambswool throw, sipping a cup of chai tea while leafing thru the pages of who wore what to the Golden Globes. Every now and then, I'll check out what's happening at the Australian Open as well as look out the window to see what's happening on my driveway. I might even heat up a piece of my soon-to-be-closed favorite pizza parlor's par-baked pizzas that I'm hoarding in the freezer.
Like I said, snowy Fridays with no place to go are the best.
When I was a kid, I would have hated a major snowfall to hit on a Friday afternoon. Knowing that the streets would be clear before the arrival of the dreaded Monday morning sunrise alarm, I would feel God had cheated me out of one of life's greatest pleasures - a snow day. Now that I'm an adult, it's the perfect time for a blizzard. I don't have to worry about getting to work, I have a comfy couch and a fifty inch plasma and a husband that actually enjoys shoveling snow. Even better, I have a mailman who navigated the yet to be plowed cul-de-sac to bring me my latest issue of People.
Okay, I would prefer to be lounging on a beach in St. Lucia but since that doesn't appear to be an option anytime soon, I'm more than happy to settle for hunkering down with my new lambswool throw, sipping a cup of chai tea while leafing thru the pages of who wore what to the Golden Globes. Every now and then, I'll check out what's happening at the Australian Open as well as look out the window to see what's happening on my driveway. I might even heat up a piece of my soon-to-be-closed favorite pizza parlor's par-baked pizzas that I'm hoarding in the freezer.
Like I said, snowy Fridays with no place to go are the best.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Looking for Mr. President
I'm breaking with my usual self-absorption to go on an old-fashioned rant. I am so sick of politics. I am so tired of listening to speeches, ads and debates designed to influence my choice for the next leader of the free world. Let me start by saying, that I think anyone who would actually want that job has to be more than a little bit insane. Given that, our current slate of available candidates seems to be the sorriest lot I have ever seen.
When I think of the money, energy, and time that is being wasted to get one of these yo-yos into office, I can't help but wish that our country would wise up and handle this whole procedure like the Brits. Every once in awhile they call for an election. The parties then have six weeks to convince you that their guy is the guy for the job. They don't have senators, governors, etc. putting their current jobs on the back burner for eighteen months or more while they campaign for a job that they may never get. They don't waste hundreds of millions of dollars on tacky, confusing ads that only serve to make the whole country sick and tired of the political process a year before the election even arrives.
I have no doubt that there are some good men (don't see any more women on the horizon) angling for my vote. But, to tell you the truth, I'm sick of the whole lot of them. They all promise to fix what the last guy's screwed up without ever acknowledging that they might have had a hand in those problems in the first place. Any chance of getting someone into that big, white house on Pennsylvania Avenue that is actually able to change anything is getting more and more remote as partisan politics pushes good sense and compromise right out the window.
I keep hoping that someone will step up to the plate and make me change my mind. He (or she) will have a lot of work to do.
When I think of the money, energy, and time that is being wasted to get one of these yo-yos into office, I can't help but wish that our country would wise up and handle this whole procedure like the Brits. Every once in awhile they call for an election. The parties then have six weeks to convince you that their guy is the guy for the job. They don't have senators, governors, etc. putting their current jobs on the back burner for eighteen months or more while they campaign for a job that they may never get. They don't waste hundreds of millions of dollars on tacky, confusing ads that only serve to make the whole country sick and tired of the political process a year before the election even arrives.
I have no doubt that there are some good men (don't see any more women on the horizon) angling for my vote. But, to tell you the truth, I'm sick of the whole lot of them. They all promise to fix what the last guy's screwed up without ever acknowledging that they might have had a hand in those problems in the first place. Any chance of getting someone into that big, white house on Pennsylvania Avenue that is actually able to change anything is getting more and more remote as partisan politics pushes good sense and compromise right out the window.
I keep hoping that someone will step up to the plate and make me change my mind. He (or she) will have a lot of work to do.
Friday, January 13, 2012
One Proud Parent
You can't see me right now, but if you could, you would want to ask me about the big, fat grin on my face. Three hours ago, I left the house worrying about how I was going to hold my own against a slate of very competitive tennis players in the quarterly mixed doubles social event at the club I work for. I obsessed about the hitch in my service toss, my inability to hit decisive ground strokes and my less than lightening reaction time. Now that it's over, all I can remember is that I got to play two hours of tennis with my son.
To say that I'm proud of the person he's become is comparable to saying that George Clooney is kind of good looking. He was the youngest participant of the twenty teams by almost twenty years but that didn't matter to him in the least. Everyone of his opponents commented on his politeness; his sense of fair play. Several people made a point of telling me that he was a testament to my good parenting. I can only hope that that is true. I only know that he gave up a Friday night to partner with his less than stellar tennis playing mom, always making me feel encouraged and supported. As we socialized with the other teams after two hours of playing, I couldn't help but feel blessed to have such an amazing person for a son.
As luck would have it, I got the added bonus of being able to drive him home. We talked about our matches as well as his plans for the future. He congratulated me on some good shots I had made and told me how much he enjoyed playing with me. He asked if he could come over on Sunday to talk about what path his life is going to take next. He sounded so mature, so ready to take on the next challenges in his life. Any worry I had about his future flew right out the window. As he hugged me, I felt so grateful to have raised this incredible young man. He's going to be just fine. And I couldn't be prouder.
To say that I'm proud of the person he's become is comparable to saying that George Clooney is kind of good looking. He was the youngest participant of the twenty teams by almost twenty years but that didn't matter to him in the least. Everyone of his opponents commented on his politeness; his sense of fair play. Several people made a point of telling me that he was a testament to my good parenting. I can only hope that that is true. I only know that he gave up a Friday night to partner with his less than stellar tennis playing mom, always making me feel encouraged and supported. As we socialized with the other teams after two hours of playing, I couldn't help but feel blessed to have such an amazing person for a son.
As luck would have it, I got the added bonus of being able to drive him home. We talked about our matches as well as his plans for the future. He congratulated me on some good shots I had made and told me how much he enjoyed playing with me. He asked if he could come over on Sunday to talk about what path his life is going to take next. He sounded so mature, so ready to take on the next challenges in his life. Any worry I had about his future flew right out the window. As he hugged me, I felt so grateful to have raised this incredible young man. He's going to be just fine. And I couldn't be prouder.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Change of Heart
I've always had trouble with change. True to my astrological sign (if I believed in all of that nonsense) I often find myself mired in the past, forever looking over my shoulder at the good old days. Lest you think that my entry into AARPland has precipitated this sense of nostalgia, I can assure you that this is nothing new. From moving to breaking up, getting a new job to working with a new computer, I've never been all that crazy about shaking up my life.
I know there are people who thrive on this sort of thing, who welcome each challenge to their daily routine with open arms and a sense of adventure. To them I say, oh wait, I can't say that. Maybe I should just say, 'Congratulations' or, better yet, 'How the hell do you do it?'
I'd like to say that this rumination on dealing with life's changes was brought about by my current situation - letting go of my kids and moving on with part two of my adult life - but it was really provoked by something much more trivial. I just found out that my favorite pizza place is closing.
I know, I know. People are losing jobs, families are being forced out of their houses. The loss of a neighborhood pizza joint should be way down on the totem pole of life's problems. And it is. But you've got to understand. This was my go-to place whenever life got the better of me. This was the comfort food that could make it all better for the time it took to eat four or five slices. This was the place that my entire family had gathered for thirty years. Through the decades, we hoisted a variety of glasses while enjoying the tastiest pizza this side of Italy. We solved a lot of problems seated at those dark, laminated tables. We celebrated a lot of birthdays and victorious baseball games sitting on those rock-hard wooden benches.
Maybe that's why this change is going to be so tough. We not only need to find another place that makes phenomenal thin crust pizza, a difficult task in itself. We need to find another place to make some more great family memories.
I know there are people who thrive on this sort of thing, who welcome each challenge to their daily routine with open arms and a sense of adventure. To them I say, oh wait, I can't say that. Maybe I should just say, 'Congratulations' or, better yet, 'How the hell do you do it?'
I'd like to say that this rumination on dealing with life's changes was brought about by my current situation - letting go of my kids and moving on with part two of my adult life - but it was really provoked by something much more trivial. I just found out that my favorite pizza place is closing.
I know, I know. People are losing jobs, families are being forced out of their houses. The loss of a neighborhood pizza joint should be way down on the totem pole of life's problems. And it is. But you've got to understand. This was my go-to place whenever life got the better of me. This was the comfort food that could make it all better for the time it took to eat four or five slices. This was the place that my entire family had gathered for thirty years. Through the decades, we hoisted a variety of glasses while enjoying the tastiest pizza this side of Italy. We solved a lot of problems seated at those dark, laminated tables. We celebrated a lot of birthdays and victorious baseball games sitting on those rock-hard wooden benches.
Maybe that's why this change is going to be so tough. We not only need to find another place that makes phenomenal thin crust pizza, a difficult task in itself. We need to find another place to make some more great family memories.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Dream On
The other day I had yet another conversation with my son that served to illustrate how challenging our attempts at simple communication can be. It went something like this.
We were heading over to Portillo's to grab some lunch, already a good day in my book. Usually, he coerces me into a quick trip through the drive-thru but, on this particular occasion, he decided that his busy life was able to squeeze in the maximum twenty minutes he allows for any meal to actually sit across a table from his very appreciative mom. As we drove the short distance to the hot dog haven, he confided to me that he had had a horrible dream the night before. Here was my big chance. Here was my opportunity to delve inside the inner workings of my son's psyche and analyze the demons I was about to find within.
I have to admit, I'm pretty good at analyzing dreams. I've read a few books and I've had my share of bizarre night time theatrics so I feel right at home putting on my analyst hat and giving my friends and relatives the benefit of my "expertise". So, I turned to my son and said, "Want to tell me about it? I might be able to help." To which he replied, "I dreamed that the Bears traded Devin Hester to Minnesota."
He then went on to elaborate about the cold sweat he had woken up to convinced his beloved punt returner would no longer be evading tackles on the turf at Soldier Field. I couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing. Fearing that he would never open up to me again, I quickly composed myself and explained that what he had just described was far from what I had been expecting. He looked at me in all seriousness and said, "Mom, I don't know what you were thinking but I'm telling you, that dream was horrible. Not only was Devin Hester gone, he was playing for a team in our division."
It was then that I saw that glint in his eye; the one that had saved him so many times before. It may have been his definition of a bad dream but now he was playing me - one of his favorite pastimes. By the time he started laughing, we were in the parking lot. I put on my best Sigmund Freud imitation and told him that my theory was that he had a deep seated fear of losing his favorite football player to a rival team. He not only concurred, he ended up hanging out for an entire half an hour.
We may not be able to agree on the definition of a nightmare but I'll take whatever I can get.
We were heading over to Portillo's to grab some lunch, already a good day in my book. Usually, he coerces me into a quick trip through the drive-thru but, on this particular occasion, he decided that his busy life was able to squeeze in the maximum twenty minutes he allows for any meal to actually sit across a table from his very appreciative mom. As we drove the short distance to the hot dog haven, he confided to me that he had had a horrible dream the night before. Here was my big chance. Here was my opportunity to delve inside the inner workings of my son's psyche and analyze the demons I was about to find within.
I have to admit, I'm pretty good at analyzing dreams. I've read a few books and I've had my share of bizarre night time theatrics so I feel right at home putting on my analyst hat and giving my friends and relatives the benefit of my "expertise". So, I turned to my son and said, "Want to tell me about it? I might be able to help." To which he replied, "I dreamed that the Bears traded Devin Hester to Minnesota."
He then went on to elaborate about the cold sweat he had woken up to convinced his beloved punt returner would no longer be evading tackles on the turf at Soldier Field. I couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing. Fearing that he would never open up to me again, I quickly composed myself and explained that what he had just described was far from what I had been expecting. He looked at me in all seriousness and said, "Mom, I don't know what you were thinking but I'm telling you, that dream was horrible. Not only was Devin Hester gone, he was playing for a team in our division."
It was then that I saw that glint in his eye; the one that had saved him so many times before. It may have been his definition of a bad dream but now he was playing me - one of his favorite pastimes. By the time he started laughing, we were in the parking lot. I put on my best Sigmund Freud imitation and told him that my theory was that he had a deep seated fear of losing his favorite football player to a rival team. He not only concurred, he ended up hanging out for an entire half an hour.
We may not be able to agree on the definition of a nightmare but I'll take whatever I can get.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Excuses . . . I've Got a Million of Them
Did you miss me? I hope so. Since I've participated in the National Novel Writing Month challenge, I've written exactly one blog. I really did have a good reason for my absence. In fact, I've compiled several good reasons.
1. I got sick
2. My computer crashed
3. I was working a lot
4. I was depressed
5. I had to take care of family stuff
6. I was lazy
7. I missed Italy
8. I couldn't think of anything to write about
9. What I could think of turned out to be pretty lame
10. I was busy
11. I got caught up making a photo album of my vacation
12. Looking at the photos, I got more depressed wishing I was back in Italy
13. I had to put up Christmas decorations
14. I had to buy Christmas presents
15. I had to make Christmas cookies
16. I had to wrap Christmas presents
17. I had to take back Christmas presents
18. I got sick (that one really deserves two excuses - it lasted forever)
19. I had to watch several vile, stomach-churning Bears games
20. I had to change the sheets, put fresh towels in the bathroom, order pizza, etc.
21-1,000,000. Anything I could think of to keep me from writing.
Before I knew it, it was time for Lady Gaga to drop the ball in Times Square. As I reminded myself at 12:01 a.m. (right before I headed to bed), I managed to write 50,000 words in thirty days. If I can do that, I should be able to discipline myself to sit down at the computer a little more often. That's when I decided to add writing this insignificant blog twice a week to my list of 2012 resolutions. Those of you who like my writing and get a laugh or two out of it, can look forward to seeing something every Monday and Friday. Those of you who think my musings stink, (or that didn't even realize I had been depriving you of my insights and/or rantings), feel free to go about your business as usual.
So, Happy New Year! Hope 2012 brings lots of blessings, as well as an end to the Kardashian reign of terror, to all. I'd write more but I have to go clean out my closet, organize my financial files and take down my Christmas decorations.
I should be done by Friday.
1. I got sick
2. My computer crashed
3. I was working a lot
4. I was depressed
5. I had to take care of family stuff
6. I was lazy
7. I missed Italy
8. I couldn't think of anything to write about
9. What I could think of turned out to be pretty lame
10. I was busy
11. I got caught up making a photo album of my vacation
12. Looking at the photos, I got more depressed wishing I was back in Italy
13. I had to put up Christmas decorations
14. I had to buy Christmas presents
15. I had to make Christmas cookies
16. I had to wrap Christmas presents
17. I had to take back Christmas presents
18. I got sick (that one really deserves two excuses - it lasted forever)
19. I had to watch several vile, stomach-churning Bears games
20. I had to change the sheets, put fresh towels in the bathroom, order pizza, etc.
21-1,000,000. Anything I could think of to keep me from writing.
Before I knew it, it was time for Lady Gaga to drop the ball in Times Square. As I reminded myself at 12:01 a.m. (right before I headed to bed), I managed to write 50,000 words in thirty days. If I can do that, I should be able to discipline myself to sit down at the computer a little more often. That's when I decided to add writing this insignificant blog twice a week to my list of 2012 resolutions. Those of you who like my writing and get a laugh or two out of it, can look forward to seeing something every Monday and Friday. Those of you who think my musings stink, (or that didn't even realize I had been depriving you of my insights and/or rantings), feel free to go about your business as usual.
So, Happy New Year! Hope 2012 brings lots of blessings, as well as an end to the Kardashian reign of terror, to all. I'd write more but I have to go clean out my closet, organize my financial files and take down my Christmas decorations.
I should be done by Friday.
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