Spring?

I haven't seen a daffodil or tulip outside my window (although they have popped up in my local Trader Joe's). The trees are still bare (or, in the case of the dogwoods outside my living room window, dead.) And we still have a couple of mounds of snow at the end of our cul-de-sac. But, I didn't care.

I broke out the barbeque grill.

Yesterday, when the temperature hit a balmy sixty degrees, I couldn't resist the urge to dust (chisel) off the old Weber and throw a couple of pieces of chicken and a mammoth Costco strip steak on the weathered grate. If I had known how to whistle, I'm sure I would have done so as I cleaned out the ribs-we-had-last-October's ashes still residing in the bottom of the kettle. (What? You clean your grills at the end every season?) As I readied the black giant for duty, I didn't even care that I was doing all this work for a single meal. I knew this sunshine tease was scheduled to last all of forty-eight hours with the weather gurus promising a return to the forties (and possibly yet more snow) later in the week. But none of that mattered. The winter that seems determined to never end had given me a break. There was no way I was going to let it slip through my fingers.

Tomorrow, I might have to crack out the crock pot again. Or I might be forced to defrost the chicken soup in the freezer just to get warm. But, for one glorious moment, I had a meal that didn't involve comfort food; that didn't involve scrubbing a frying pan or a hefty enameled Dutch oven; that actually did involve a salad.

Summer can't be far behind.

No Place for My Stuff

One of my favorite comedians, the late, great George Carlin, had a hilarious routine about stuff; how we accumulate it, why we can't get rid of it, and the need to store it all somewhere. Like most of his musings, it was so on the money, hitting a nerve of embarrassing recognition. I'm not sure when stuff started taking over my life, I just know it has. But unlike the hapless hoarders that Carlin ridiculed, I'm determined to do something about it.

I honestly never thought of myself as much of a "conspicuous consumer". I've always seen myself as an inveterate bargain hunter; someone who values a good deal above almost anything else in life. But that's not really the issue. It doesn't matter how much you spent for the stuff that's taken up permanent residence in your closets, the only thing that matters is that you own things you haven't used since Madonna was married to Sean Penn.

My "ah-ha" moment happened on Sunday. I was looking for my old laptop, the sluggish dinosaur I had replaced with the shiny, new number on which I'm composing this blog. I needed my ancient friend to retrieve my old tax records and despite a thorough search of every room, it was nowhere to be found. As I deepened the search, I started to open every drawer and closet door. That's when I knew I was in serious trouble. You know those TV characters that open a closet and everything in it comes tumbling down on top of them? Not quite but close.

So, before basketballs and tennis racquets start raining down on my head, I'm stepping into action. I wish I could be as ambitious as the go-getter I saw on Facebook touting the virtues of digital garage sales. I read a couple of paragraphs before coming to the conclusion that that option was not for me - too much work for too little reward.

I've also ditched the whole e-bay idea. I've gone that route a few times but, again, not a fan of all that effort. Taking pictures, writing descriptions, tracking bids, packing boxes, and trekking to the post office can only be worthwhile for items whose sale might result in a nice meal at Olive Garden. 

So, that leaves me with only two options - giving stuff away or throwing stuff away. Since I can't deal with the guilt of tossing perfectly usable items into the trash, I think I'll have to fall back on my old standby, saying "yes" to every charitable organization that calls looking for "clothing or small household items" for donation and entering all those tax deductions (yes, I finally found that elusive computer underneath a table in the basement.)

I may have to pay for my own Fettuccine Alfredo but it's the only way I can ever be certain I'll see the walls of my closets again.

Stage Presence

You can get out of a lot of parenting duties if you really want to. You can find a nanny to change diapers and take your kids to the park. You can hire a tutor to help them with their homework. You can bring in a maid to pick up all those Legos. (Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention that you have to be a lottery winner to pull off the above but hey, it can be done.) What you can't get away from is the certainty that, before your kid puts on a cap and gown, you will have to park your tush a couple of hundred times in an uncomfortable seat and watch them perform. From Christmas concerts to baseball games; spelling bees to recitals, there's no escaping the fact that your presence will be required on a regular basis.

Not that this is a bad thing. Getting the chance to prove, once and for all, that your child is indeed the most talented human being on the planet is a worthwhile way to spend a couple of hours. Watching my daughter knock the audience's socks off when she belted out a Celine Dion-worthy rendition of a song or my son rip a forehand past an unsuspecting opponent are memories that I'll treasure forever.

But it doesn't always work out that way.

Sometimes you sit there on that cold, hard chair and watch your child falter. And there's nothing worse than that. More often than not, you end up suffering through two hours of less than scintillating entertainment just to catch your kid's two minutes of magic. You tell yourself you have to stay; that it would be rude to leave just as little Cody is getting ready for his clarinet solo. So, even though all you really want to do is grab your little darling and head home for that latest episode of Homeland, you stay.

This week, despite the fact that my own children are in their twenties and my future grandchild's arrival is months away, I found myself back on those hard chairs. . .twice. My nephew, about to exit Junior High, performed in both a jazz band concert and a production of High School Musical. While not everyone involved in the events had been blessed with his innate abilities (we're still trying to find something this kid can't do), you couldn't help but appreciate the time and effort that each of them had given, regardless of their talent level.

So there were a few missed notes; so there were a couple of missed lines; so some of them looked like they would rather be having a root canal. None of that mattered. They were all up there trying. They were all up there adding another life experience to their resumes. They were all in the game, not sitting on the sidelines. And I was full of admiration for all of them, especially the ones who would never get the lead; who would never get the solo.

I may have been better entertained but I've seldom had better teachers.

Moving Into the (Grand)motherhood

I knew my newly-married daughter wouldn't waste much time before going after her dream of becoming a mom (she is my daughter, after all) but her warp-speed leap from newlywed to expectant mother caught everyone, including me, by surprise. Honeymoon babies were part of my parents' generation not the planned parenthood generation, right?

After the initial shock wore off, the excitement started to set in. I was going to be a grandma. I was going to have the sweet pleasure of watching my baby have a baby. I was going to get the chance to hold a little one that would be part of, maybe even look like, my own child. Better yet, I wasn't going to have to get up in the middle of the night, deal with a mountain of dirty diapers or worry about how I was going to pay for someone's college.

No. This time, I'm going to know the joy of having a baby for a weekend; a baby I can love like crazy and send home on Sunday night. My daughter and her husband will do most of the heavy lifting and I'll get to relish in the glow of being my grandchild's favorite person on earth. (What can I say? I dream big.) I might even find out what it feels like to love, cuddle and spoil a tiny human being without worrying that everything I do is scarring him/her for life.

This is going to be fun.

.

Winter Rant

I'm so over: snow, ice, cold, slush, freezing rain, icicles, flurries, blizzards (yes, even the Dairy Queen variety - I'm boycotting on principle alone), wind chill advisories, shoveling, scraping, defrosting, de-icing, turning up the heat, outrageous gas bills from turning up the heat, heavy sweaters, thick socks, sweatpants, long underwear, layering, mittens, gloves, scarves, hoodies, boots, down comforters, extra blankets, shivering, sniffling,sneezing, chapped lips, dry skin, brittle nails, hot soup, hot tea, hot chocolate (with or without marshmallows), and hibernation.

I'm so ready for: sunshine, green grass, leaves on the trees, flowers, heat advisories, air-conditioning, walks in the park, driving with the windows open, bicycles, sleeveless tops (yes, even with my grandma arms), shorts, capris, flip-flops, strappy sandals, (notice I didn't say "bathing suits" - I may be desperate but I'm not crazy), barbecues, picnics, farmstands, farmer's markets, craft fairs, outdoor festivals, concerts in the park, lemonade, white wine, hot dogs, ribs, watermelon, ice cream cones, baseball, golf, tennis, sitting on my deck, birds chirping and seeing human beings venture outside their homes.

C'mon, Spring.

Hollywood Nights

When I was a little girl, Oscar night was a very big deal. Obsessed with movie stars, I had to be in on every moment of Hollywood's self-congratulatory celebration. The whole day turned into an event (I even talked my mom into staying home from school one year) and I mapped it out like a wedding planner. Ballot with my predictions - check; special dinner in front of the TV - check; suitable attire - check. If I couldn't be one of them, I was going to use this yearly opportunity to pretend I was.

Remember, these were the days before pre-shows, post-shows and fashion reviews so we're only talking about a 3-4 hour commitment. If I were going to show the same dedication today, I'd have to plant my tush in a comfy chair for an entire weekend and carve out half a day on Monday to catch all the coverage on after-parties and best-dressed lists (and that's not even including The Golden Globes, The SAGs, The People's Choice, and any one of the other twenty-seven awards shows that are on between January and March). And who's got that kind of time?

So, last night, for the gazillionth time, I revisited my childhood ritual. I watched as beautiful (if surgically enhanced) celebrities paraded around in sparkly designer dresses and millions of dollars worth of jewelry. I listened as they were interviewed about their outfits, their award day rituals, and their nerves. The "who are you wearing" insanity hadn't been a part of the broadcasts I remember so fondly twenty or thirty years ago; it was all about seeing Jack Lemmon or Dustin Hoffman or Jack Nicholson give their winning speech; it was all about seeing legends like Jimmy Cagney or John Wayne or Audrey Hepburn make a surprise appearance.

I still love movies. I still hope to see all of this year's nominees. And I still get choked up seeing someone get emotional about winning a prize they've always dreamed of winning.

But the Oscars are just not as much fun as they used to be.