It's Too Darn Hot

I have never been a fan of saunas. I know they're supposed to open your pores, speed up your metabolism, ease aching muscles, and do a bunch of other stuff that's theoretically good for you but I've never been able to spend more than a couple of minutes in one of them before walking briskly (I'm too sweaty to run) for the nearest air-conditioner.

Today, all I have to do to get those sauna benefits is walk outside my house. The temperature is scheduled to be in the upper 90's and tomorrow is supposed to reach 100 with heat indexes around 115. That is treading dangerously toward Hades Country and I, like most people with an ounce of common sense, am not digging it.

As someone who lives in an area that gets down to twenty below zero wind chills in January and February, I always promise myself that I will not complain when it gets toasty in July and August. And I usually don't but, c'mon, how does anyone (I'm talking to you Arizona and Nevada) function for more than a few minutes in an environment that saps every ounce of energy out of you within ten seconds of entering it?

What I have to do is remind myself to be grateful; grateful I was born in 1953 instead of 1853. Every time I watch an old western and see women walking around in those long-sleeved blouses with collars up to their chins and heavy skirts that dragged around enough dust to fill a Dyson, I feel incredibly lucky. Those poor things didn't have the luxury to escape to their air-conditioned cabins or carriages; they couldn't even grab a few pieces of ice from their freezer to toss under those petticoats. No, they were stuck with being miserable until: a) cooler weather moved in or b) a bout of typhoid or diptheria wiped out the town. Either way, it was a no-win situation.

So I guess I'll just use this opportunity to walk around in my skimpiest clothing (sorry, world), take care of things that need doing in my almost comfortable (after two additions of freon to our aging air-conditioner) home, write as much as I can, and count my blessings that I don't have a construction job.

If I play my cards right, I might even get through this heatwave without resorting to slipping those ice cubes down my shorts.

The First Time Again

Today was my grandson's first visit to a zoo. And while this little park district animal habitat wannabe was hardly a worthy introduction to the world of incarcerated wildlife compared to places like Brookfield and Lincoln Park, his mom and I thought it was a fine place to start (especially when considering the cost - nada). So, we packed him in his car seat, shoved the stroller in the back of my SUV, and headed out on our little adventure.

It's not hard to enjoy any outing when it's your first time out of the house in a week (thank you, sweet grandchild, for sharing your lovely summer cold with me) but I have to say I was pleasantly surprised by how beautiful our destination turned out to be. Nestled in the trees adjacent to a small golf course, the zoo (previously unknown to me) occupied a small corner of the extensive park location that also included numerous picnic benches and several playground areas. Blessed with an unbelievably pleasant July 1 Chicago day, we planted our very willing subject in his royal throne and proceeded to hike up the hill to the first animal enclosure.

First up were a couple of bald eagles. Feeling incredibly sad that these magnificent creatures were sitting on a couple of tree branches unable to spread their wings and get the hell out of there, I was encouraged to read the sign that said neither one was actually able to fly for one reason or another but they still looked pretty darn miserable having to be our morning entertainment. My grandson, however, looked anything but miserable. While he certainly couldn't have been described as "delighted" at the sight of them, he was something else - "interested; very, very interested".

As we moved around the other enclosures, he stopped to point to and try to pronounce the name of every creature he encountered from a peacock to an otter. He even made an elephant noise at the sight of a statue of a mastodon (don't ask). By the time we entered the reptile house, where he got a chance to get up close and personal with a couple of turtles and an alligator that gave his mom and I the creeps after that horrible Florida incident, he was completely enthralled. And so were we.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I got to enjoy a child's first meeting with some new members of his ever-expanding world and it only made me more excited to be with him for all the introductions that lie ahead. Watching his little face try to make sense of what he was experiencing and then turning to share it with his mom and me only made me hungry for more.

So, I hope and pray that I'm around for that first train ride or his first trip to the Planetarium or even his obligatory meeting with Mickey Mouse. I hope I get to share the moment he sees his favorite animated characters on a gigantic movie screen, tastes double-chocolate chip ice-cream for the first time, or watches fireworks light up the sky (I think I have a pretty good chance at that one).

This little guy makes everything old new again. And who wouldn't want to hang around with someone who can do that?

My (Bed) Buddy

When I was a kid, I loved sleepovers. My mom didn't let us have them all that often but when she did, she always made them special events filled with games to play and snacks to devour. They were always great fun; noshing on pizza, watching TV and giggling with my best buddies until my mother couldn't take it anymore. Having a good time and driving your mother crazy - what could be better, right?

Until recently, I honestly thought my days partying with an overnight visitor other than my husband were behind me. But I was mistaken. I now have the best sleepover buddy ever, one that puts those popcorn-eating, gossipy fifth-grade playmates to shame.

His name is Jack. He takes up half of a king-size bed, he frequently smacks me in the head with his elbow or fist, and he relishes repeat readings of Fox in Socks. He eats my pizza, wants to watch Toy Story instead of Say Yes to the Dress, and rewards me with disgusting presents in his pants. While his behavior doesn't sound like anyone you would want to spend time with, his bedtime antics don't do much to insure a good night's sleep, and he has the nerve to wake me earlier than any of my previous overnight guests, he is welcome anytime.  As long as he accompanies all of the above with that omnipresent smile and incessant need to cuddle up next to me as closely as humanly possible, he can bunk with me anytime he wants to.

Before anyone has the nerve to go there, I know he should be safely tucked away in a crib (which we do not own) or, at the very least, the portable play yard that lives in his uncle's abandoned bedroom but I just can't seem to give up the opportunity to snuggle up with this heat-seeking, footie-pajama-wearing love bug any chance that I can get. Having raised a couple of kids I know all too well how soon he won't want (or be legally able) to share a bed with his Nana,

Until then, I'm going to enjoy every last snuggle I can.

Until You Use Me Up

It's no secret that America is known to be a little bit wasteful. From food to fossil fuels; water to electricity we have (rightfully) gained a reputation around the world as a nation who squanders its resources with little regard for the consequences. As a public service I have decided to do something about it - I have resolved that 2016 will be the year that I will not purchase any additional toiletries, cosmetics, or personal care items until I finish every one of the one hundred and twenty-seven partially used items that now dwell in my bathroom cabinet.

Okay. I know this grandiose pronouncement isn't going to challenge Al Gore's or Bill Gates's contributions to our environment but everyone has to do their part, right? And think about all the time I'll save not clipping coupons or searching for the "perfect" lipstick when I can combine any of the seventy-eight colors residing in my fourteen make-up bags into a different color every day. Think of the gas I won't be wasting driving to Ulta to "buy two/get two free" or the money I'll save not being hoodwinked into thinking that the latest gel foundation will finally make my skin look flawless or that expensive under-eye cream that Cindy Crawford swears by will return me to me twenty-something glory.

Yes, while others may fall prey to the constant encouragement to indulge in conspicuous consumption, I know what I will be doing. I will be finishing that quarter bottle of Tresemme on the shelf and polishing off the last remnants of that hotel conditioner that smells like coconut. I will be sorting through and consuming any product I find that hasn't been in that cabinet since the nineties. And I will be reveling in every tube, jar, and bottle that I can deposit in the recycling bin. 

And then? It might be time to start clipping those coupons again.

Four Days, Three Nights

We knew for weeks that he would be coming. His name was prominently displayed on our calendar from the day after Thanksgiving until Cyber Monday. We did everything we could to prepare ourselves. We stocked up on his favorite foods, his favorite playthings, and all the supplies we could possibly anticipate needing. We were ready.

What we weren't ready for was how hard it was going to be to let him go.

We already knew what a special grandson we have. We knew he was impossibly sweet, good-natured, easy-going, and flexible. What we didn't know was how our sixty-something year-old bodies were going to hold up taking care of that bundle of energy for four days. Easy baby or not, we were still going to have to get up and down off the floor (a lot), carry him up and down the stairs (a lot), wrangle him to change diapers and clothes (a lot), and get him in and out of that car seat (as little as possible). So how did it go? Well, let's just say that while our backs and knees might disagree, my husband and I were ready to take him back an hour after our daughter picked him up.

It was the silence that hit us first. Where was that contagious little laugh? Or those silly little sounds that mean something only to him? Or that pitter-patter of hands and knees on the kitchen floor? Of course, there were a couple of sounds we didn't miss - like the wail of his crying when he toppled over on that nasty wooden floor or that chug-a, chug-a big red Wiggles car that he incessantly wheels across the room. But by the time dinner rolled around (without anyone sitting in that high chair), we were even missing that. A little.

Now that he's back in the arms of his mommy and daddy I'm just sitting here wondering - who's going to help my husband make coffee? Or help me make banana bread? Or toss that tennis ball in our general direction?

And even more importantly, who's going to cuddle up with me under that blanket and make waking up at 7:00 a.m. so much fun?

Harder Than I Thought

Vacations are a wonderful thing . . . until they're over. You spend months planning them, waiting for them, anticipating them - and then they're over before you know it. In other parts of the world, it's not uncommon for even entry-level workers to get four to six weeks of downtime but in our neck of the woods, most of us have to settle for a measly two weeks a year to recharge our batteries. Just when we start to relax, it's time to head back to reality and, as everyone knows, that is highly overrated.

My family never took a holiday longer than a week at a time when our kids were little; it was always impossible to pry their dad away from his demanding job for any longer. We always tried to squeeze a lot of fun into that week but it was never long enough to truly unwind. I always swore that someday we would get away for two or three weeks at a time and really get the chance to decompress and get reacquainted with one another. Well, that day has finally come. And you know what?

It isn't any better.

At the risk of sounding incredibly greedy and infuriatingly ungrateful, I'm having a really rough time coming back from the amazing trip to Europe my husband and I were lucky enough to take. We spent more than three weeks exploring Italy, France, and Switzerland by bus, train, cable car, and ship. We celebrated a birthday (his) and an anniversary (ours) by climbing mountain peaks and strolling through scenic valleys. We ate meals I didn't have to clean up after and slept in beds I didn't have to make. We saw something new and exciting every day and never once did I have to run to the grocery store, pay a bill, or fix a leaky faucet. Except for missing my little grandson like crazy (thank God for Skype), it was heaven.

And then it was over.

Back to work and sweeping the crumbs off the kitchen floor. Back to laundry and figuring out our Obamacare options. Back to beds I have to make and meals I do have to clean up after. And worst of all, back to a rapidly approaching winter. Yuck.

I know I'm the luckiest person on the planet to have been fortunate enough to have taken a trip like this in the first place. I know that I should follow that Dr. Seuss adage to not be sad that it's over and just be glad that it happened. I know that I have to get my butt off a pity pot I have no right to be on and snap out of it but I can't seem to stop asking myself this question:

How long do I have to wait before I can do it again?

Taking a Second Look

We have a close friend who is in his mid-fifties, divorced with no kids. He confided to my husband recently that he was burned out, tired of working, and finding it harder to get motivated about life in general. When my husband relayed bits of the conversation (husbands never reveal the whole conversation; they've usually run out of their daily word allotment by then), I couldn't help but feel sorry for our friend. Oh, he may find a way to shake off the funk he's feeling but there's no way he's going to be able to take advantage of one of life's greatest elixirs.

He's never going to become a grandfather.

As we approach our grandson's first birthday (was it really a year ago that I raced over to that hospital?), I can only say thank you to God (as well as our wonderful daughter and her almost equally wonderful hubby) for allowing this little guy to come into our lives. Thanks to him, his grandfather and I will never be bored; never take anything for granted; never cease to be amazed by the world around us. Because of one tiny human being, we are getting the chance to see the glories of our surroundings for the very first time all over again - through his impossibly blue eyes.

Simple things like crawling in the grass, seeing an airplane in the sky, hearing the hum of my Kitchen Aid mixer send him into squeals of delight which, of course, send all of us who love him into even louder squeals of delight. His enthusiasm for every activity (if not every food - his rejection of my homemade mac and cheese hurt, I have to admit) is so contagious that it makes his sixty-something grandparents feel like a couple of kids (if those kids were unlucky enough to have a couple of bad knees and sore backs).

We wake up every morning hoping for the chance to spend a little time with him and we go to bed every night grateful for every delicious moment he graces our lives with his presence.

Our friend has absolutely no idea what he's missing.

The Role(s) of a Lifetime

When I was in my twenties I was lucky enough to be cast as Maria in our community college's production of West Side Story. If you know the show (and who doesn't?) you know that it's a fantastic part, one that I had always dreamed about playing. For months of rehearsals and two weekends of performances, I pranced around in my made-for-me costumes singing classics like I Feel Pretty and Tonight before bawling my eyes out after that revenge-seeking Chino (spoiler alert) killed the love of my life. It was almost forty years ago and I can still remember how great it felt to be standing on that stage doing something I loved to do and how incredulous I was when a few kids actually came up to me after the show looking for my autograph. (I sure hope those guys aren't too disappointed that it never turned out to be worth anything on e-Bay.)

At the time, I fantasized about heading out to Hollywood (Broadway would have been okay too but movies were always my thing and hey, that's where the real money was) to fulfill my life-long dream to be an actress but nothing ever went much beyond that community college stage. I guess my fear of rejection and your basic everyday set of insecurities stopped me from ever pursuing anything beyond local recognition but that didn't stop me from feeling a tinge of regret anytime I saw some newly discovered starlet walking the red carpet or some breathless ingenue clutching her first Oscar with tears streaming down her face.

Could that have been me? Did I miss out on my chance to be worshiped and adored?

Not by a long shot. Oh, sure. Maybe I could have been an actress. Maybe I could have gotten a recording contract. Maybe I could have even walked away with one of those gold, naked men. But if any of that had happened, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have found the time to be the kind of mom (and now Nana) that I believe I was truly destined to be.

When I think about the moments when my children looked at me as if I hung the moon, I know that I wouldn't have missed them for all the stars in the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And when my little grandson's face lights up when I come around the corner or laughs at some silly face I make, I know that there is nothing that could come close to the joy I feel; not even George Clooney reading my name off that list of nominees (okay, that might be closer than I want to admit).

Playing Maria was fun. It was a fantastic time in my life that gave me a lot of confidence and I'm so grateful to have been able to fulfill my performing dreams, even if it was on a smaller scale than I would have liked.

But being a mom and a grandmother? Now, those are the roles I was born to play.

Quality Control

This is going to sound like the rant of an old person (okay, maybe it is) but I'm getting a little tired of paying more and getting (a whole lot) less. Maybe it's because I remember when sugar actually came in five-pound bags instead of four or ice cream that came packed in half-gallon containers instead of whatever the heck size it's packed in now or maybe it's because I've been on the phone all day with businesses who have taken (or are trying to take) a good deal of my money and are dead set on giving me very little in return.

Thinking about changing your cable service? Good luck. I spent the better part of my morning trying to compare packages with several cable providers and, guess what? They make it pretty darn impossible for you to do that. That $99 Triple Play deal doesn't end up looking so hot after they tack on all the one-time charges, network surcharges, FCC fees, mandatory equipment rentals, and Europe 100 international calling plan costs that those splashy commercials fail to mention. In the end, I figured out that, at best, I could save $20 or $25 to make the switch. No thanks. Not for a commercial-laden product (wasn't the whole allure of paying for cable TV supposed to include ditching those things?) that costs more than my first monthly car payment. I'm now on to researching the cost of an indoor HD antenna and going back to ABC, NBC, and CBS. I might have to forego 118 hours of non-stop Wimbledon coverage but I'll have enough in my bank account to hop a plane and see it in person.

After all that, I decided to try to tackle an ongoing problem with my iPass. I was pretty sure I had been double-billed for tollway fees on my son's car and had the printout of the last two months worth of charges sitting in front of me, ready to do battle. By the time I got off the phone with an admittedly pleasant young lady by the name of Flavia, I was ready to blow off the $55.75, sell my car and start riding a bicycle (stop laughing, I still remember how).

Finally, I tried to take on Coach. I have a bag I purchased at their outlet store two summers ago that has a strap that completely disintegrated. I thought, surely, a company that charges several hundred dollars for a purse (not that I actually paid that - what are you, crazy?) would stand behind their products for, if not a lifetime, at least a couple of years. A quick look at their website cleared up that delusional thinking in a hurry. They warranty their purses for ONE YEAR. Wow! One whole year. I have bags I've bought at Target for $19.99 that have lasted longer than that. So much for that label inside that says, and I quote, "This is a Coach bag. It was handcrafted from the finest materials. Its superior craftsmanship reflects our commitment to enduring quality." I guess they forgot to mention that "enduring" only lasts for 364 days.

I know that customer service is dying (but does it have to do so continually on my doorstep?). I accept the fact that prices generally go in one direction (thank you, technology, for being the exception to that rule). And I know that mass production (i.e. progress) means that quality is going to suffer.

Billy Joel may have been right when he said "the good old days weren't always good" but I'd be willing to bet he didn't write that after talking with Comcast.

Another Candle

It's hard not to be a little ambivalent about birthdays when you've already celebrated six decades worth of them. While I certainly want them to keep on coming, I can't help feeling a twinge of anxiety every time one of them rolls around. Since I'm prone to introspection (bet you figured that out already) I tend to use the arrival of another birthday to inspect, analyze, and critique my behavior over the last three hundred sixty-five days. Not always a pretty sight but hey, somebody's got to do it.

Did I learn anything new? (Princess Charlotte's nanny's name unfortunately doesn't count). Did I advance my spiritual growth? (Watching five minutes of Joel Osteen's Sunday service also does not make the cut). Did I love more? (This year? Undoubtedly. I have that new grand-baby, remember?) Was I kinder? (That crazy woman in the library yesterday probably doesn't think so). More thoughtful? (I try on this one but it's pretty tough when thoughts stay in my consciousness for under thirty seconds.) Less petty? (Again, sorry crazy library lady). More joyful? (Other than the time I spend with my grandson who makes it pretty darn hard to be anything but). Did I sweat the small stuff less? (Does not getting upset at my hubby's picking up the wrong peanut butter count?) Did I value the important stuff more? (It's getting a little late if I haven't). Did I finally finish editing that damn book that I keep talking about? (What do you think?)

All I know is that another June 24th has presented itself and I'm doing the best I can. (Wait. That's a lie. I could exercise more and it wouldn't hurt to stop eating those dark chocolate sea-salt caramels every night. Damn you, Costco).  I do try to spend as much time as possible with the wonderful family and amazing friends that God has blessed me with (I sure hope that means another trip to Mexico this winter with the best friends anyone could ask for) and try to spend as little time as possible with toxic, negative people who's goal in life is to sap all the joy out of anyone within a five-mile radius (that's you, library lady).

It feels odd to be eligible for Social Security and AARP discounts. That's for old people and I have a hard time thinking of myself that way (unless I'm trying to get my creaky knees and plantar fascitis inflicted feet out of bed in the morning). But every time I feel sorry for myself or wish I didn't have to go through the decidedly negative aspects of getting older, I think of my friend Karyn who was stricken with Stage 4 cancer and died at fifty-four. I know she would have given anything to be here with her kids and grandkids; birthdays, achy joints and all.

She would feel lucky and blessed. And so do I.

Living the Dream

For years I have dreamed about living in Italy. I've read every guidebook I could get my hands on, perused real estate websites with images of Tuscan cottages straight out of Under the Tuscan Sun, and watched every Italian episode of House Hunters International. I've fantasized about walking down to the village market with a wicker basket over my arm, greeting the locals with my impeccable Italian, and welcoming friends and relatives to my hillside home away from home. Amazingly, my dream is finally coming true.

For one of my best friends.

I never even knew we shared this dream. My friend, a high-school English teacher for many years, had always proclaimed her love for all things French, so I thought she would be bound for the South of France if ever she wanted to shake things up. But, no. This weekend she is jetting off to Florence to live out my greatest fantasy. She's recently retired from full-time teaching and intends to spend at least a year teaching English in Rome or Bologna or Orvieto or wherever she can find a job once she completes the one-month training class.

Am I jealous? Absolutely not. I'm happy for my friend. (Of course, I'm jealous. What are you, nuts? I'd love nothing better than to squeeze into a cozy spot in her largest piece of luggage.) Am I inspired to take her lead and start browsing again through those international real estate websites? Probably not, at least not for the foreseeable future.

See, I've got this grandson; this adorable human being who gets cuter and more animated every day. The thought of living in Italy is oh so tempting but the thought of missing him learning to crawl, walk, talk, and blow kisses is utterly unthinkable. My friend's grandsons are teenagers. Not to say she won't miss them like crazy but let's face it, they've already done all the excruciatingly cute things they're ever going to and she'll probably communicate with them as often through Skype as she would if she were a twenty minute drive away.

So, for right now, I'll have to live vicariously through her. I'll see her amazing photos on Facebook and read about all her book-worthy adventures in the blog she intends to write and I'm sure there will be days when I'll wish, more than anything, that I was right there with her.

And then my grandson will squeal with delight at the sight of the bubbles I've just blown and I'll know that I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

Back in the Neighborhood

When my kids were little, I didn't have a lot of hard and fast rules. In fact, I can think of only two: No playing with sharp knives (dull ones were okay but only after all other forms of entertainment had been tried and rejected) and under no circumstances were they ever allowed to tune in to any episode of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.

Now, before you report me to the House Un-American Activities Committee, I'll try to explain my loathing of a beloved cultural icon by saying I have nothing against Fred Rogers personally. He was from all accounts a wonderfully kind, sensitive man who devoted his life to educating children. For that, I had (and still have) nothing but respect. I just could not stomach the show. The minute I heard that opening song, I would race for the TV to flip the channel before kindly Mr. Rogers got the chance to change into that raggedy red sweater. I disliked everything about that PBS classic from the insipid songs, to the creepy puppets, to the syrupy tone. In our house, it was definitely a case of Sesame Street, yeah. Mr. Rogers, no way.

Ironic, isn't it, that I am now watching a little show called Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood on a regular basis? When I first tuned in, I didn't know that it had any connection with my original nemesis. All I knew was that it was a colorful, animated program that my little grandson loved. And at first, I thought it was cute. Yes, I recognized that annoying "won't you be my neighbor" ditty but I foolishly thought it was just a sweet homage to its creator. Slowly, though, it began to dawn on me. Daniel Tiger was that scraggly puppet brought to animated life. Prince Wednesday, his dad King Friday and that cat that said "meow, meow" in between every sentence weren't just Daniel Tiger's friends, they were those other scruffy puppets that Fred Rogers used to interact with. And then there was that magic trolley (which Daniel and his father have plastered all over their matching pajamas - a visual more frightening than anything I've ever seen on The Walking Dead) which should have been a dead giveaway but like I said, I tried hard to escape watching the show in its original incarnation so it took me longer than it should have to connect the dots.

So, Fred Rogers, you win. The last time I looked, Netflix had sixty-five episodes ready for my grandson's viewing pleasure and I'm pretty sure I'll end up seeing every one of them several times before he gets tired of the show. Oh, well. This Daniel Tiger is a whole lot cuter than the original, although he still insists on opening every episode exactly as his predecessor did by changing into his favorite red sweater (at least Fred Rogers had the decency to wear a pair of pants with his) and comfy shoes while imploring me to be his neighbor.  (As if I would want to live in that podunk town with one street and one form of transportation).

Well, I think you get the idea. I would continue to complain about the unfairness of it all if I didn't feel the urgent need to visit the nearest restroom. And you know what the song says . . .

'If you have to go potty, stop and go right away. Flush and wash and be on your way.'

Was It Something I Said?

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly an innocuous comment or innocent question can derail a perfectly pleasant conversation. Case in point: The other night I casually asked my hubby what plans he had for the check he had recently received for some consulting services he had furnished. Now, I know what you're thinking - there is no such thing as a "casual" question about money. Everyone has their own ideas about how to earn/save/spend it and there are precious few of us walking around that aren't prone to get a little defensive when called upon to justify said ideas. But, honestly, I had no idea what flood gates were about to open. I had no hidden agenda. I wasn't lobbying for a new Coach bag or a day at the spa; I was just curious. Honest.

Let's just say we haven't been talking much since that conversation. He got defensive; I got angry. He got dismissive; I got angrier. His tone of voice finally pushed my retaliation button so hard that I resorted to calling him an a**hole (he was acting like one but I never should have said that) and I ended up slamming a couple of doors and wondering if it was too late to show up on my parents' driveway.

When I finally calmed down, I couldn't help asking myself, "What the hell just happened?" One minute we were happily chatting as he brushed his teeth and I paged through the latest Entertainment Weekly and the next minute we were in a battle worthy of a Bill O'Reilly smackdown. Did I ask the question too late at night? (Possibly. It's not his favorite time of day.) Did I invade his territory, implying that I knew better what to do with the money than he did? (I don't think so. Like I said, I wasn't looking to get my hands on any of it although he might not have heard it that way.) Was he just having a bad day? (Made even worse by a nagging back and/or wife?) Or was it just a combination of the above?

Who knows? The only thing I do know is that I have had an epiphany. I am never going to react that way again. I am never going to call my husband (or anyone else I love) a nasty name of any kind. (I can't promise I won't occasionally think it but that's a subject for another blog.)

I realize I've been married for thirty-one years and it might have been advantageous to have come to this conclusion a little earlier but wisdom comes with aging as surely as the achy knees, right? So, from this day forward, I promise to take a deep breath, say a prayer and then, after calmly telling him that I do not appreciate the way he's speaking to me, I'm going to walk away. I might end up in Indiana before I cool off but I refuse to put myself in another situation where I say things I'm going to regret.

Sounds like a good plan. Let's see if I can actually do it.

Mother's Day Times Three

I know Mother's Day only comes once a year (which is probably a good thing given how disappointed we moms tend to get over the slights - perceived or real - of our significant other and/or offspring) but this year my celebration somehow managed to span a full seventy-two hours.

Day One - The Festival of Motherhood commenced on Saturday. Since it was the only day that all the moms in my immediate family could gather, we decided to jump the gun. Leave those exorbitant Sunday brunches for the suckers who insist on celebrating when Hallmark tells them to, we reasoned, we will have our pick of any restaurant our little hearts desire. It sounded so good in theory. What we didn't factor in was having to include the two newest members of the family (the ones who made my niece and daughter eligible to participate in this year's celebration) in the festivities since both of the new dads were otherwise engaged. Don't get me wrong, they were a joy to share the table with - for the first hour or so anyway. After that, it was a mad scramble to gather up the uneaten onion straws and slurp down that last gulp of Sangria before the occasional glances coming our way turned into icy stares.

We finished up the afternoon back at Gigi's (my mom's new great-grandma moniker) place, trying to squeeze some conversation between emergency baby-proofing and diaper changes; the highlight of Day One being my sweet daughter's gift - a framed love letter to her mother (that girl sure knows how to bring on the waterworks) complete with beautiful embellishments surrounding pictures of the two of us. Other than making any subsequent photos a soggy mess, this was the kind of gift that we moms dream about. Consider this day a solid B+.

Day Two - This was the real one; the one where your hubby is supposed to bring you breakfast in bed and your kids are encouraged to fawn all over you as they remind you what an amazing mother you have been as they drown you with flowers and Mimosas. (A girl can dream, can't she?). In reality, I was up at 8, baking two kinds of bread and pulling out all the stops for a fabulous breakfast for what I thought would be my entire family. In their defense, I offered to do this since it was my daughter's first Mother's Day but still, I was expecting a bit more help from the men in my life - one of whom didn't even show up as he somehow misunderstood the order of the day and thought he was coming for dinner. Oh well, I think my daughter appreciated it. This one gets an A for the food (if I do say so myself) and the chance to make my girl's day special and a D- for having to cook and clean up on a day when I'm not supposed to have to do any of that stuff.

Day Three - My confused son wanted to make it up to me so he showed up today, very contrite and eager to show me just how much he cared. He brought me a card with a heartfelt note inside, took me to lunch, spent several hours tooling around Costco and Walmart, and even made time to pop in on the sister he had failed to wish a happy first Mother's Day (hey, she wasn't his mother). This last hurrah rates a B after deducting a few points for my son's late arrival.

When he backed out of the driveway, I felt nothing but relief that the next Mother's Day was 364 days away. After all these years, you would think I would know that it never lives up to the unrealistic expectations foisted on us by greeting cards and sitcoms. I've rarely gotten breakfast in bed (too messy), I've been disappointed in every over-priced brunch I've ever eaten, and I don't want or need anymore stuff proclaiming my position as world's greatest mom. I may have a momentary twinge of self-pity when I don't receive the pampering I mistakenly believe every other mother is receiving while I'm loading the dishwasher but I know in my heart that the moments to savor are the ones that happen on every other day of the year not singled out as Mother's Day.

And I'm lucky enough to have a family that gives me plenty of those - enough for me to get through every second Sunday in May that doesn't go exactly as I would like it to.

Something Special

Last week, in the hallowed pages of People magazine, I read an article about Hilary Duff. If you don't know who the heck she is, you're probably over thirty and don't make a habit of tuning in to the Disney channel. Anyway, she's out there promoting a new television series as well as speaking "candidly" about the break-up of her marriage. Recalling the recent "conscious uncoupling" of another Hollywood couple, she goes on and on about how she and her husband had given it their best shot, realized they weren't who they used to be, and decided to part as friends. All very civilized (although I'm pretty sure their three year-old son won't see it that way); all very honest and mature; all very hard-fought (they did make it to their fifth anniversary, after all).

So why did I find her words so infuriating?

As someone who's been married for more than three decades, I can safely state that my husband and I are no longer who we used to be. (Thank God). I can also confirm the fact that we have fallen in and out of love with one another at least 187 times. If we had thrown in the towel during any one of those "down" times (and believe me, I thought about it once or twice), who knows where we would be today. He might be tooling around Europe with some supermodel and I might be sharing a fireplace chat with that handsome devil I met on that Our Time dating site but that's beside the point. And even if we had managed to carve out some new lives for ourselves, I know one thing - we'd be all the poorer for it.

This week, my parents will celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary. Yes, you read that correctly. Sixty-five. When they said "I do", there was no such thing as TV, women still did their housework in dresses, and the civil rights movement was still a decade away. They have survived countless changes of address, the ups and downs of parenthood, various illnesses, and retirement. They have remained partners for more than six decades for one simple reason - because they wanted to; because they never even imagined an alternative. They had stood in front of family and friends and said "forever" and they meant it.

Yesterday, when our family celebrated this monumental achievement, it didn't take much for any of us to realize how grateful we were that they hadn't "given it their best shot" and walked away. As we poured over photographs of their life together, all of us who owed our very existence to their partnership couldn't help but be in awe of the rich history they had created; of the amazing tapestry of their life spent loving (and every now and then hating) one another.

Together. Through it all. For better or worse. Till death do they part.

Hittin' the Road

One of the best things about having grown children who have flown the coop is the freedom their father and I now have to drop everything, pack a bag, and head out of town. Our latest adventure was a quick four-day trip down to Kentucky to do some work on the lake home we are hoping to sell. We knew going in that this was not going to be a "vacation" but anytime I throw my clothes in a suitcase and check into a hotel (hello, Super 8) is a holiday to me.

An eight hour car ride (especially one without the radio) tells you a lot about your relationship. By the time we stopped for lunch, our conversations had already covered everything from our adorable grandson (okay, his antics kept us going for at least a hundred miles) to the nation's rising racial tensions. By the time we reached our destination, it was obvious that even after thirty-one years, we still had not run out of things to talk (or laugh) about.

For the next two days we raked, cut bushes, moved furniture, painted, sucked up endless varieties of bugs, and packed as many boxes as our humble SUV could handle. We also basked in the first really warm days of Spring, hung out at the local marina, chatted with our friendly neighbors, took a walk in the forest, ate Chinese, and shared a kiss under an impossibly starry sky.

Yep. Being an empty-nester has its moments.

Take Me Away

For those of you who maintained a relatively conscious state during the Seventies (those of you eager to point out you were toddlers in that decade, I hate you), you're sure to remember that ubiquitous commercial for Calgon; the one where some harried woman was imploring her box of bubble bath to get her the heck out of there. That's roughly where I'm at - except I'm not putting my faith in some stinkin' soap product to do the trick. No, my escape has nothing to do with soaking in a hot tub (unless it's on the top deck of a cruise ship); it has everything to do with physically being transported to another place.

Hello. I'm Coleen and I'm a travelholic.

Not that my addiction is any kind of a secret. My mailbox is inundated on a daily basis with brochures from every known cruise operator detailing the latest Rhine River itineraries or round-the-world sailing bargains. Yesterday, I even got one from Linblad Expeditions, inviting me to explore the Antartic. (Clearly, this company has no idea who they're dealing with. Spending thousands of dollars to freeze my ass off when I can do it here for free is something that is never going to happen.)

My AOL (please don't laugh) inbox is full of e-mails from Cruise Critic.com, Tripadvisor, and Kayak. My Facebook ads are continually reminding me of the latest price reduction on a cruise to the Greek islands or the fact that there is only one more room left at that cute little hotel in Orvieto. And how do I go to sleep at night? Do my eyes start to close as I devour the latest bestseller? Not nearly as often as they used to. More often than not, I'm pouring over some Rick Steves' guidebook telling me how to get out of the port in Ajaccio, Corsica or finding out the optimum way to get from Perugia to Parma.

It's a sickness and I know it but I don't care. I love that I can now discover charming seaside hotels in far-flung places from the comfort of my own bedroom. I relish in the opportunity to find the "locals" way to get from Point A to Point B instead of signing up with some impersonal touring operator. Most of all, I love the fact that I'm always in the middle of planning my next trip, no matter how far in the future it may be.

It may be a sickness but I'm having so much fun I have no interest in finding a cure.

Stepping Back

When one of your adult children hits a rough patch, it can be tough to come up with the appropriate response .As a mother, it's so easy to want to jump in and shield your kids from any financial/emotional/physical discomfort that might come their way but how often should we? While Beverly Goldberg (the original Smother - if you're not watching The Goldbergs, this reference will mean nothing to you) would say always and forever, I'm coming to the painful realization that we're not doing our kids any favors when we make a habit of heading things off at the pass. (OMG. I am so old that I'm now quoting things that Edgar Buchanan would say in a John Wayne western).

What I'm struggling with is this: Does parental intervention really help our little darlings in any positive way? Are we just coming to the rescue to make ourselves feel better? And, more importantly, please tell me how to get a good night's sleep when I dig in and let one of them sink or swim without throwing them a line?

Money is especially tricky. If I have it and one of my kids doesn't, it seems like such a no-brainer to break out that check book. But what does that teach them? That it's okay to buy stuff they can't afford; that it's okay to shirk their responsibilities and risk ruining their good credit; that it's acceptable to expect to be bailed out when they've dug themselves into a giant hole? Not exactly a parental legacy worth carving into one's tombstone.

I guess it's all about common sense; possessing the ability to be more selective in the times and manner I offer my help. While I'm not quite the pushover (read enabler) that I used to be, I'm nowhere near the "you're an adult, it's time for you to figure it out" kind of gal that I aspire to.  When it's crunch time my kids undoubtedly know that I'll be there to lend a helping hand or offer words of advice (unless I'm cruising the Mediterranean) but I also want them to realize they have the strength and ability to fend for themselves.

They may never have to worry about sleeping under a cold, snowy bridge but they just might have to find out what the world is like without an iPhone.

The Circle Game

Joni Mitchell wrote a lot of great songs about life and love. One of my favorites was The Circle Game with lyrics extolling the joys and frustrations of living on Planet Earth for seventy or eighty years. If you're younger than I am (and who isn't?) you might not know (or in my case remember) the words:  And the seasons, they go round and round. And the painted ponies go up and down. We're captive on a carousel of time. We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came. And go round and round and round in the circle game. (Just writing those words makes me want to go dig out my copy of Ladies of the Canyon.)

I was thinking of that song yesterday when I helped host a baby shower for one of my closest friend's daughter. She (and the other two hostesses) have been three of God's greatest blessings in my life for more than thirty years. As I watched her daughter gleefully open all the gifts that would soon clothe/educate/amuse her little one, I couldn't help thinking about how quickly the time had gone. Had it really been twenty-something years since my friends and I were the ones waddling around in maternity cloths? Had it truly been more than two decades since I was putting the finishing touches on the cake for my friend's baby shower instead of the cupcakes for this one? Could that really be my own daughter sitting on the floor tending to her six-month old son?

I know. I know. Time marches on. Time waits for no (wo)man. Everyone tells you how fast it all goes by (even if they don't say it quite as eloquently as Ms. Mitchell) but nothing really prepares you for it. And even though I made sure to add some pearls of wisdom about savoring every moment of her parenthood journey in my message to the mommy-to-be, I know it won't do much good.

She won't really appreciate it until she's the one watching her own daughter open up those presents.

Tossin' My Cookies

When Matthew Perry was looking for something to do after his million dollar per episode stint on Friends was coming to an end, he starred in a cute movie that I loved and all the critics hated called Fools Rush In. He played an uptight architect who had a one night stand with fiery Selma Hayek and ended up falling in love with her after finding out they were going to be parents. It wasn't up for any Oscars that year but I thought it was a fun way to while away a couple of hours with a bucket of popcorn.

You may be wondering why I'm bringing up some obscure little romcom but something happened to me the other day that reminded me of one of the things Selma's character kept saying to Matthew's - that there were "signs" everywhere, if only we paid attention to them. Of course, Matthew thought she was loopy right up until the time he realized that she was "everything he never knew he always wanted". If you haven't guessed, I like sappy movies where the girl gets the guy and everybody lives happily ever after. So shoot me.

Back to the sign thing. What was mine, you ask? Well, I had succumbed to the lure of McDonald's drive-thru and ordered not only a burger and fries but a couple of chocolate chip cookies to boot. After polishing off my oh-so- nutritious dinner, I ran into Marshalls to return something, tossing my McDonald's bag into the trash can outside. It wasn't until I was deep into browsing through the clearance rack that I realized the horror of what I had just done - my yummy chocolate chip cookies were still in that bag, now on the bottom of an icy-cold garbage can.

After briefly considering a little discreet dumpster diving, I remembered what Selma said. This was a sign. It had to be. God did not want me to have those cookies. He knows that I've been trying to cut back on sugar and was doing his best to save me from myself by having my absent-minded brain throw out a bag containing two perfectly good (and possibly still warm) cookies. Now what? Was I going to bow to the wisdom and possible intervention of a higher power, taking the hint to go home and eat an apple instead? Or was I going to slink my way back to the nearest McDonalds to replace my poor fallen cookies?

What do you think?