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.
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Friday, July 1, 2016
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?
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?
Monday, February 22, 2016
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 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.
Thursday, February 4, 2016
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.
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.
Monday, November 30, 2015
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?
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?
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
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?
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?
Monday, September 14, 2015
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.
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.
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