This used to be a pretty good time of year for me. Since my husband traveled a lot for work, our family didn't get to spend as much quality time together as we would have liked. One of the ways we over-compensated was to take one fabulous vacation every year. That usually happened over our kids' Spring Break. Like every other crazy family trying to squeeze in a vacation during our children's school holidays, we overpaid for ridiculously crowded hotels in warm, exotic locales. I have to say - I kind of miss it.
Don't get me wrong; I don't miss having to take vacations when everyone and their brother does. The fact that my husband and I are now on our own makes for spontaneous (and infinitely cheaper) getaways. But I do miss the planning, the anticipation, and the looks on our kids' faces when they stepped into our home away from home for the first time. Once, we even had adjoining rooms where they could raid their very own mini-bar (which was included - I didn't need to see those rapturous looks enough to pay $10 for a Hershey bar!) We all loved the change of scenery and the chance to interact with one another away from TV, computers and telephones. Well, maybe our son didn't love it as much as the rest of us but he humored us enough to make us think he did. Anyway, the point is that those weeks turned out some memorable moments worth every penny those shyster vacation mongers charged us. So while most of my friends and co-workers are off enjoying the crowded sunshine with millions of other together-time starved families, I'll have to settle for sitting outside in unseasonably warm Illinois flipping through old photo albums.
And there will be a part of me waiting impatiently for a couple of grandchildren to get the chance to do it all over again.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
Monday, Monday
I remember a time when Sunday night was my least favorite time of the week. The realization that the weekend was just about over would set in around dinnertime and put me in a funk that would last until well past the dreaded Monday morning alarm. Never an a.m. kind of gal, Monday and I were not friends.
That was then. As I've mentioned, Sundays have lately been reserved for weekly visits from the parents. They come down for dinner, sparkling conversation, and whatever sports are on TV. Last night we sat on the deck and listened as they regaled their granddaughter with stories of their past; how they met, their first jobs, and what their parents were like. My twenty-five year old daughter couldn't have been more interested, asking question after question of her obviously flattered grandparents. The NCAA March Madness may have been playing on most TVs in America but ours remained silent. We had better things to do.
These days, I have to say I have a whole new respect for Mondays. Thanks to a change in my work schedule, I don't get up as early as I used to and now I wake up a whole lot happier, remembering special moments from the night before. I may have originally started writing this blog to celebrate the idea of my children moving out of our house but evenings like last night make me hope my daughter sticks around for awhile.
Three generations sitting together for hours on a warm not-yet-Spring night sharing stories and pineapple upside down cake gets you thinking. And it also makes for some pretty wonderful Monday morning memories.
That was then. As I've mentioned, Sundays have lately been reserved for weekly visits from the parents. They come down for dinner, sparkling conversation, and whatever sports are on TV. Last night we sat on the deck and listened as they regaled their granddaughter with stories of their past; how they met, their first jobs, and what their parents were like. My twenty-five year old daughter couldn't have been more interested, asking question after question of her obviously flattered grandparents. The NCAA March Madness may have been playing on most TVs in America but ours remained silent. We had better things to do.
These days, I have to say I have a whole new respect for Mondays. Thanks to a change in my work schedule, I don't get up as early as I used to and now I wake up a whole lot happier, remembering special moments from the night before. I may have originally started writing this blog to celebrate the idea of my children moving out of our house but evenings like last night make me hope my daughter sticks around for awhile.
Three generations sitting together for hours on a warm not-yet-Spring night sharing stories and pineapple upside down cake gets you thinking. And it also makes for some pretty wonderful Monday morning memories.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Ready to Plant My Flowers
It may be a sign that the earth is in serious trouble but, from where I'm sitting (in shorts on my deck on March 17th), I'm kind of loving the whole global warming thing. As a lifelong Chicago area resident, suffering through years of nasty winter weather, I'm hoping this aberration is just God's way of throwing us a bone. Maybe this early Spring is nothing more than making last year up to us; and not for just one day - we've had an entire week of sun and balmy temperatures.
This winter has been one of the easiest I can remember; it's actually making me rethink my intention to find another place to live. But wearing shorts in March? That's a completely foreign experience. Oh wait, there was that one other time . . . when we were in the Dominican Republic on Spring Break.
So all of you who've been spouting off about how this isn't normal; how this is a bad omen for the future weather patterns on our planet, please calm yourselves. If it's true, there isn't much we can do about it and if we do find ourselves covered in thirty inches of snow next December, we will have spent a lot of time worrying about nothing. As for me, I'm not going to spend one moment complaining or fretting about what all of this unusual weather might mean.
I'm just going to grab another glass of iced tea, slather on the Coppertone, and enjoy it.
This winter has been one of the easiest I can remember; it's actually making me rethink my intention to find another place to live. But wearing shorts in March? That's a completely foreign experience. Oh wait, there was that one other time . . . when we were in the Dominican Republic on Spring Break.
So all of you who've been spouting off about how this isn't normal; how this is a bad omen for the future weather patterns on our planet, please calm yourselves. If it's true, there isn't much we can do about it and if we do find ourselves covered in thirty inches of snow next December, we will have spent a lot of time worrying about nothing. As for me, I'm not going to spend one moment complaining or fretting about what all of this unusual weather might mean.
I'm just going to grab another glass of iced tea, slather on the Coppertone, and enjoy it.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
A Rose is a Rose
I hate to admit it but last night I wasted a couple of hours of my precious time on earth watching the finale of The Bachelor. Like millions of other misguided viewers I watched as Ben proposed to this season's chosen villianess, Courtney. I told myself I was only watching to keep my daughter company but the truth is, this mindless diversion was infinitely preferable to doing the dishes loitering in the sink or folding the dryer full of rapidly wrinkling laundry.
The show's premise has always been beyond ridiculous but this year's cast was particularly aggravating. The bachelor himself was a bit of a doofus; likeable enough but seemingly born without any real personality. Watching these twenty-five women battle so vigorously to be his bride seemed more false than usual. Most of these women wouldn't have given him a second glance if they'd met up with him at their local watering hole so why on earth were they fawning all over his mop-headed goofiness? My best guess is the more they convinced themselves they were falling for him, the more places they were going to see. By my count the final two got to make out in San Francisco, Belize, Puerto Rico, Panama, and Switzerland. Since most of us get dumped in Chilli's parking lot or sitting at the kitchen table, maybe they didn't make such a bad deal after all.
Like the fool that I am, I stuck around to see the post mortem known as After the Final Rose. Since all the tabloids had enthusiastically reported that the happy couple had already split up, it came as a surprise that they were still engaged. Wow! They made it. Four months after the episodes were taped, surviving a temporary split, they were still a couple. Good for them. But Ben and Courtney, I have only one thing to say.
Call me in twenty-eight years and let me know how it's going.
The show's premise has always been beyond ridiculous but this year's cast was particularly aggravating. The bachelor himself was a bit of a doofus; likeable enough but seemingly born without any real personality. Watching these twenty-five women battle so vigorously to be his bride seemed more false than usual. Most of these women wouldn't have given him a second glance if they'd met up with him at their local watering hole so why on earth were they fawning all over his mop-headed goofiness? My best guess is the more they convinced themselves they were falling for him, the more places they were going to see. By my count the final two got to make out in San Francisco, Belize, Puerto Rico, Panama, and Switzerland. Since most of us get dumped in Chilli's parking lot or sitting at the kitchen table, maybe they didn't make such a bad deal after all.
Like the fool that I am, I stuck around to see the post mortem known as After the Final Rose. Since all the tabloids had enthusiastically reported that the happy couple had already split up, it came as a surprise that they were still engaged. Wow! They made it. Four months after the episodes were taped, surviving a temporary split, they were still a couple. Good for them. But Ben and Courtney, I have only one thing to say.
Call me in twenty-eight years and let me know how it's going.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Walking the Walk
The trouble with being blessed with a metabolism that allows you to eat just about anything you want without gaining weight is that it doesn't last forever. Eventually, karma catches up with you and you have two choices - stop eating donuts and cupcakes or get your expanding butt on a torturous piece of equipment three or four times a week. Obviously, the former is out of the question so I am reluctantly forced to do the latter.
That treadmill that had been taking up precious space in my bedroom for years was about to find out that it wasn't originally designed as a clothes hanger. Although I had used it for a few months back when Bill Clinton was president, I wasn't even sure the darn thing would still be operational. The motor sounded as creaky as my knees as it struggled to come back to life. I figured it probably wouldn't make it past the first lap so I liked my chances of getting through the first workout without breaking a sweat. Five minutes later, I was struggling to keep up with the easiest aerobic setting. Twenty minutes later, I was ready to stop eating donuts.
One week later, I've worked my way back to doing a mile in twenty minutes. Not exactly Olympic pace, but I'll take it. If I want to keep anything close to my girlish figure, I'm going to have to keep the clothes on the hangers and hop on that hamster wheel regularly. It's either that or take my husband's advice and take a walk outside. And I just can't see that happening.
Why would I ever want to walk around my boring neighborhood when I can do a couple of laps with Regisless Kelly? If I have to stay in shape, the least I can do is pick up a couple of laughs along the way.
That treadmill that had been taking up precious space in my bedroom for years was about to find out that it wasn't originally designed as a clothes hanger. Although I had used it for a few months back when Bill Clinton was president, I wasn't even sure the darn thing would still be operational. The motor sounded as creaky as my knees as it struggled to come back to life. I figured it probably wouldn't make it past the first lap so I liked my chances of getting through the first workout without breaking a sweat. Five minutes later, I was struggling to keep up with the easiest aerobic setting. Twenty minutes later, I was ready to stop eating donuts.
One week later, I've worked my way back to doing a mile in twenty minutes. Not exactly Olympic pace, but I'll take it. If I want to keep anything close to my girlish figure, I'm going to have to keep the clothes on the hangers and hop on that hamster wheel regularly. It's either that or take my husband's advice and take a walk outside. And I just can't see that happening.
Why would I ever want to walk around my boring neighborhood when I can do a couple of laps with Regisless Kelly? If I have to stay in shape, the least I can do is pick up a couple of laughs along the way.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Bye, Bye, Birdie
I wonder if mother birds have any moments of regret as they push their little ones out of the nest. Are they enjoying their morning worms wondering if their babies will ever fly back to visit them? Are they flitting from tree to tree, secretly worrying that their offspring will disappear, never bothering to give them a call except when they're running out of birdseed? They must be. Human beings can't be the only species cursed to feel the desolation of watching their child move out. That just wouldn't be fair.
Today, my sister had to help her son pack up his humble belongings and watch him head off to his new residence five hours and a couple of states away. This wasn't the first time she had to say goodbye; he graduated from an out-of-state school. But this was different. This time, he wouldn't be coming home for Spring Break; this time, he wouldn't be back for the summer. Nothing in this life is forever but he had signed a lease; he had accepted a job offer. This felt permanent. And my poor sister couldn't take it.
As I tried to comfort her, reassuring her that he wasn't moving that far; that he would be back for visits, I couldn't even buy what I was selling. I knew this sucked. I knew that it was beyond painful for her to welcome her college graduate back for a year of breakfast conversations, shared dinners, and late night talks only to have to say goodbye again.
We spent a long time on the phone trying to remind ourselves that this was what was supposed to happen; that this was the natural outcome of our jobs as mothers. We spent more than a few minutes congratulating each other for having raised some pretty terrific human beings; some remarkable people who were destined for great things. By the end of the conversation, we had come to one conclusion.
Turning out responsible, productive adults into the world may be what we're all shooting for but watching them fly the coop is definitely for the birds.
Today, my sister had to help her son pack up his humble belongings and watch him head off to his new residence five hours and a couple of states away. This wasn't the first time she had to say goodbye; he graduated from an out-of-state school. But this was different. This time, he wouldn't be coming home for Spring Break; this time, he wouldn't be back for the summer. Nothing in this life is forever but he had signed a lease; he had accepted a job offer. This felt permanent. And my poor sister couldn't take it.
As I tried to comfort her, reassuring her that he wasn't moving that far; that he would be back for visits, I couldn't even buy what I was selling. I knew this sucked. I knew that it was beyond painful for her to welcome her college graduate back for a year of breakfast conversations, shared dinners, and late night talks only to have to say goodbye again.
We spent a long time on the phone trying to remind ourselves that this was what was supposed to happen; that this was the natural outcome of our jobs as mothers. We spent more than a few minutes congratulating each other for having raised some pretty terrific human beings; some remarkable people who were destined for great things. By the end of the conversation, we had come to one conclusion.
Turning out responsible, productive adults into the world may be what we're all shooting for but watching them fly the coop is definitely for the birds.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Mirror, Mirror
Like a lot of women my age, I'm having a tough time reconciling the image greeting me in the mirror every morning. It sounds crazy but I'm still a little shocked every time I meet up with my current incarnation. You would think I would have gotten used to the crinkles around my eyes and the creases around my mouth but you would be wrong. I still hope against hope that those expensive potions I slather on myself every night will somehow work their promised miracles while I sleep and my morning reflection will be that of my younger, line-free self. So far, not even close.
But that's really not the worst of it; at least it's not for me. I can deal with a few wrinkles and gray hair. Slap on a little eye cream and a box of Clairol and I'm good to go. No, the aspect of aging I'm having the most trouble with is decidedly south of my shoulders. You see, I was always one of those people that everyone hated. I was the one who could eat anything and never gain a pound. I could polish off half a pizza, wash it down with a Big Gulp and top it off with three or four cupcakes and never have to buy a new pair of jeans. Now all I have to do is look at a cupcake and I have to loosen a button. (Those of you who are delighting in reading this are now dead to me.)
And here's something else. The other day, I heard a frightening statistic on the radio. This "helpful" tidbit informed me that it takes one hour of exercise every day to maintain post-menopausal weight. Maintain. Hearing that news propelled me, not to the nearest gym as you might think, but to the nearest Dunkin Donuts. If I had to exercise for an hour, I damn well needed some additional energy.
I'm not saying that I don't appreciate getting older. The alternative certainly doesn't hold much appeal and the wisdom and sense of self acquired with the passing of time might even be worth the trade-off of flexibility and physical dexterity. After a suitable mourning period, I have finally accepted the reality that I no longer have the possibility of a double axel in my future. I have also accepted that I'm unlikely to get any better at tennis than I already am. But I don't think I'll ever get used to manipulating that spare tire into my jeans. And while I'm on the subject, what the heck do I do with the flab under my bra? Where exactly is that supposed to go?
I'm not stupid. I know there are things I should be doing to combat these pesky problems. I'm supposed to watch what I eat. I'm supposed to work out with weights. I'm supposed to take a Zumba class. All good ideas.
If my unfocused brain allows me to remember to do any of them, I'll be sure to let you know.
But that's really not the worst of it; at least it's not for me. I can deal with a few wrinkles and gray hair. Slap on a little eye cream and a box of Clairol and I'm good to go. No, the aspect of aging I'm having the most trouble with is decidedly south of my shoulders. You see, I was always one of those people that everyone hated. I was the one who could eat anything and never gain a pound. I could polish off half a pizza, wash it down with a Big Gulp and top it off with three or four cupcakes and never have to buy a new pair of jeans. Now all I have to do is look at a cupcake and I have to loosen a button. (Those of you who are delighting in reading this are now dead to me.)
And here's something else. The other day, I heard a frightening statistic on the radio. This "helpful" tidbit informed me that it takes one hour of exercise every day to maintain post-menopausal weight. Maintain. Hearing that news propelled me, not to the nearest gym as you might think, but to the nearest Dunkin Donuts. If I had to exercise for an hour, I damn well needed some additional energy.
I'm not saying that I don't appreciate getting older. The alternative certainly doesn't hold much appeal and the wisdom and sense of self acquired with the passing of time might even be worth the trade-off of flexibility and physical dexterity. After a suitable mourning period, I have finally accepted the reality that I no longer have the possibility of a double axel in my future. I have also accepted that I'm unlikely to get any better at tennis than I already am. But I don't think I'll ever get used to manipulating that spare tire into my jeans. And while I'm on the subject, what the heck do I do with the flab under my bra? Where exactly is that supposed to go?
I'm not stupid. I know there are things I should be doing to combat these pesky problems. I'm supposed to watch what I eat. I'm supposed to work out with weights. I'm supposed to take a Zumba class. All good ideas.
If my unfocused brain allows me to remember to do any of them, I'll be sure to let you know.
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