Another One Bites the Dust

When you've said goodbye to more than fifty-something "old" years, it's hard to think of anything new to say. You want to be sufficiently profound or insightful or, at the very least, funny but it's tough to frame it in a way that doesn't sound like it's been done a thousand times before.

For most of us, every year brings its share of profit and loss; gratitude and regret. For me, 2012 wasn't much different. The high water mark was undoubtedly the California wedding of a much-loved nephew that brought my entire family together in a rental property in Pasadena for six days that were filled with laughter and love. The low moment? I'm happy to say I can't think of one. Oh yeah, the Bears didn't make the playoffs. But if that's the "worst" I can come up with, I'd say I'm leading a charmed life. Everyone in my life is relatively healthy; everyone's got a roof over their heads and something on their plates to eat. I know how fortunate I am.

As for events that forever touched my heart, if not my actual life, the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary was like no other. I've always been a passionate advocate for sensible gun control but rarely did anything more than shoot off my mouth and write a few checks. But the loss of these children has motivated me to do more. We can't allow our nation's love affair with firearms to continue at the expense of our most innocent, most vulnerable citizens and I'm trying to find more ways to join with others who feel as I do to make our voices heard.

2012 has also been a year in which I felt embarrassed to be an American on more than one occasion. From the debt ceiling to the fiscal cliff, from health care reform to gun control, our leaders have let us down. No one can compromise; no one seems to exercise common sense and we're all left wondering if anyone is really listening to any of us.

But the end of the year is about hope, isn't it? It's about the resiliency of the human spirit. It's about putting on a funny hat, blowing a stupid horn, raising a glass of cheap champagne and vowing to get it right next year.

Here's hoping.

The Inmates are Running the Asylum

Today the NRA finally spoke. They had promised a meaningful response to last week's tragedy and today their top lobbyist, Wayne LaPierre, held a news conference to offer his group's recommendation to end mass shootings in our schools. Anyone who held out hope that this latest, most horrifically senseless crime against our nation's children would have softened the NRA's stance on semi-automatic weapons or, at the very least, the capacity of the magazines that are loaded into them, was reminded of this group's phenomenal lack of common sense and compassion as soon as Mr. LaPierre opened his mouth. His brilliant solution? He wants an armed guard in front of every one of our schools.  He actually had the nerve to say that the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is with a good guy with a gun.

Unbelievable.

Every time I think the NRA has sunk to a new low, they find a way to top themselves. How can anyone think more guns are the answer? How can anyone believe that putting armed guards in front of schools would make our children feel safer? How can anyone still think assault weapons designed for the military capable of shooting 4-6 bullets per second should be guaranteed under the 2nd Amendment as an individual right? It's insanity. The only saving grace in the whole ridiculous news conference was the fact that LaPierre did himself and his group of Congress-hijacking bullies no favors. The woman who interrupted his idiotic remarks with a banner proclaiming the NRA has our children's blood on their hands got it right. Hopefully, the people of Newtown, Connecticut will lead the rest of us to find a way to make our voices louder than those of the most powerful special interest group in Washington.

That's the only way to stop the bad guys with the guns.

When Will it End?

We know who they are now. We've seen their faces. We've heard about their adventures on baseball fields, their ability to light up a room and how much they loved their teachers. Every new detail breaks another piece of our hearts; every new revelation of heroism and loss brings us to tears yet again.

After Columbine, Virginia Tech and a theater in Aurora, Colorado, we didn't think anything could shock us; could puncture our immunity to senseless violence but, of course, this has. The massacre of twenty innocent six year-olds has jolted us into a reality that is unthinkable. And it seems to be propelling a lot of people to action.

Tonight I watched Piers Morgan on CNN interviewing an idiot who maintained that weapons similar to the one who wiped out an entire first grade class are the Ferrari of guns; that they're fun. Mr. Morgan tore him apart for saying it but he never backed down. I wonder if he would have had the guts to say it to the people of Newtown. I wonder if he could have looked those parents in the eyes and told them that the solution to the gun problem in this country is more guns.

If he's right, I don't want to live here anymore. I don't want to live in a country that believes arming everyone with concealed weapons is the way to make us safer. I don't want to live in a country where the next time I cut in front of someone in the grocery line, I have to worry that some enraged shopper is going to teach me a lesson. I don't want to live in a country that thinks the possession of assault weapons designed for military and police use is a God-given right to every civilian looking to have a little "fun".

I can only hope and pray that this horrific tragedy will inspire others who feel as I do to stand up and make their voices heard. Those children and their teachers deserve nothing less.

Twelve, Twelve, Twelve

Okay. The next time we're going to have a cool date like this, we'll all be dead so let's enjoy this one, shall we. I know it's a big day for people to get married and parents are beside themselves if their kid managed to pop out on such a "lucky" day but for me 12/12/12 only means one thing - there are only twelve more shopping days until Christmas.

For any of you who've been reading my blog for awhile, you know that my love affair with Christmas has waned a bit in the last few years. I used to get as excited as the next person (unless the next person happens to be my nephew's new wife, Erin) but three decades of hauling in heavy trees and excavating endless boxes up from the basement are enough to knock the bloom off of any rose (or should I say berries off of any holly?). But this year, I've got to get my act together; we all have to get our act together. The aforementioned Erin is coming to town. And anything less than a Hallmark movie spectacular will make a lousy first impression on our family's Christmas Queen.

So, we're going to do it up big. We're hopping on the Christmas train, going in to the city to see the lights and windows. We're going to the Walnut Room at Macy's, we're decorating a tree together at Nana and Papa's place and we're all staying overnight to wake up together on Christmas morning. After tearing through packages and scarfing down an indulgent breakfast, we're heading off to weep profusely at the noon showing of "Les Miz". It sounds exhausting. But it also sounds like fun - the kind of fun I used to look forward to every year when my kids were little.

Now I just need to figure out what the heck I'm putting under that damn tree.

More Excuses

I haven't written a blog in over a week. I hope someone noticed. But if you didn't,I can't blame you. How can I expect to gain a group of loyal followers when I don't have the discipline to write regularly? Oh, I forgot. I am writing regularly - just not in this space.

Ever since I got the opportunity to get paid for some of my writing, I'm finding it a little tougher to sit down and write anything else. My novel is getting dustier by the minute and my blogs are getting further and further apart. You would think it would be the opposite; that regular writing would motivate me but I honestly think I might be using up any creative juices I may have left churning out my daily contributions to my new employer. Didn't someone once say something about the dangers of turning your hobby into your job?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I'm thrilled beyond belief that someone is actually paying me for my sophomoric attempts at humor. It's easily the best job I've ever had (except for that whole motherhood thing). Having recently received my third paycheck, it's heartening to think I still have them fooled. I hope it lasts a while longer.

I'm getting used to working in my pajamas.

One For the Money

I'm not much of a gambler. Even when I had more discretionary cash, I hated watching it go down the drain in some casino. My mom, God bless her, can sit in front of one of those one-armed bandits forever. I know because I've had the difficult task of trying to pry her out of her chair on more than one occasion. Oh, I'll sit down and play for awhile, especially if I can find one of those interactive machines where you get a sporadic bonus giving you the chance to pick five jewelry boxes or Chinese take-away containers with various amounts of credits inside. If I pick the right ones, I've been known to make my twenty bucks last a couple of hours; if I don't, I'm reduced to wandering around the casino watching oxygen-deficient seniors gamble away their Social Security checks before it's time to pry my mom off that stool.

So, if I'm not much of a gambler and I hate throwing my money away, why did I take the time to purchase Powerball tickets along with my Big Gulp? Why did I deliberate so intently before filling in those six numbers with my black pen? I can only think of 500 million reasons.

Just saying that number is enough to make anyone get a little light-headed - 500 million dollars. What would you possibly do with 500 million dollars? The better question is, what couldn't you do? Everywhere I went today, I heard people talking about the options. Helping people, getting out of debt, paying off mortgages, buying the Chicago Bears - all good choices. Let's face it, with that kind of money you could do all of the above and still have enough left over to get Warren Buffett on the phone. All I know is that I'm not much of a gambler and I bought a few tickets. 175 million to one or not, even Suzi Orman couldn't have talked me out of taking a shot at that dream. And if I win, the first thing I want to do is charter a cruise ship and take all my friends and family on a trip of a lifetime. So, be nice - you might be getting a phone call.

And don't worry. There will be plenty of time to decide what to do with the rest of the money when I get back.

No NaNo

November is almost over and I'm coming to terms with the fact that I will not be writing another 50,000 word novel as I have during the last two Novembers. I went to the kick-off meetings, I had a couple of ideas but this year my attention was elsewhere. Since I'm now doing freelance writing two or three days a week, I couldn't get the motivation to write an additional 1667 words a day for a new novel. And with two previous attempts sitting in desperate need of editing, I couldn't bring myself to create another "child" without tending to the ones I've already got.

I will never minimize how much the experience of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) changed my life. Going from talking about doing something to actually doing it was a life-altering event and I'm thrilled that I did it not once but twice. But it's nice not to have anything to prove. I can do the challenge in the future for fun, for encouragement or to mentor someone else but I never have to do it to prove that I can. I've already done that.

So, now the path that NaNoWriMo opened for me has to be traveled. I need to find out what I can do with the knowledge that I can write on a regular basis if I really want to and I can finish what I start if I really push myself. Finding a way to make money from writing has always been a goal and getting that first check was a thrill but it's just the beginning.

The big dream that remains is seeing one of my books in a bookstore. Thanks to the last two Novembers, I'm one step closer to making that happen.

Getting Our "Give" On

It wasn't the way I planned to spend my Sunday morning. I envisioned something like hunkering down with the Tribune and a warm homemade donut. What I got instead was a 7:00am wake-up call, followed by a forty-five minute drive to Berwyn. What was I doing in Berwyn you might ask? Well, I was part of a wonderful group of people helping to box up 500 cartons of food. A Sunday before Thanksgiving tradition for CIACO (Chicago Italian American Charitable Organization), Baskets of Love is a yearly event bringing together families helping families.

My husband had worked the event before but this was the first year for my daughter and myself. We arrived at nine and started to pitch in wherever we could but it was obvious that this was a well-oiled machine that welcomed us but didn't really need us. Our hosts for the day, Buona Beef, provided the warehouse, boxes, palettes and hand trucks. They also fed us - twice. I should have known any volunteer opportunity sponsored by Italians would not be an occasion to walk away hungry.

The packing started promptly at  10. Children as young as three formed an assembly line through the middle of the warehouse, each dropping an item into an open box as it traveled down the conveyor belt. At the end of the belt, strapping young men were waiting to haul the fifty pound boxes to the holding areas where various organizations would pick them up to deliver them to needy families. Watching the spirit of giving being fostered in all these young kids filled me with hope about the next generation. It also reminded me of a quote I'd heard recently. The actress, Cheryl Hines, said she'd never seen an unhappy volunteer.

I didn't see one in that warehouse either.

My Favorite Scorpio

I've done a few stupid things in my life - that perm in 1989, that night in New Orleans (does what happened in New Orleans, stay in New Orleans?), dating a guy who was a Civil War nut - but none of that matters. I had two amazing moments of glory that outshine all the dumb stuff I've done. I gave birth to two pretty terrific human beings. One of them turned 24 over the week-end and I've been reflecting on what it took to get him to the spot in which he's currently residing.

I'll be the first to admit that I have a lot of guilt about how I raised my kids. There weren't enough consequences and I didn't school them enough about the value of a dollar. I bailed them out too often and didn't let them learn anything the hard way. Funny thing is, at the time I thought I was doing those things. It's only now that I realize how much more I could have done if I would have let them hate me a little more often.

Now that my son is grown, I look back with a lot of regret. I wish I could turn back the clock and help him in ways that I didn't; I wish I could go back and encourage him in ways that would have helped him figure out who and what he wanted to be a little bit sooner. Maybe this is what happens to every mother when her kids leave the nest. Maybe we all doubt we've prepared them as well as we could have. Or maybe it's just me.

All I know is that he's another year older and so am I. As I baked him his favorite chocolate cupcakes, I could only wish for one thing - that the coming year would bring him happiness and bring him closer to getting all the good things in life he deserves.

He's on his way. And now he has wheels.

I Need a Wife

As I was leaving my job at the tennis club today, I mentioned that I was going home to work on writing. One of my friends commented that she didn't know how I had the energy to go home and do anything after working my shift. She said she was so wiped out when she got home that she usually ended up on the couch with a glass of wine and the remote. Not a bad scenario and one I've adopted more than a few times but that's not what I told her when she asked me how I do it. I have a very simple answer. My house looks like crap.

I wish I needed an excuse to avoid housework but I do not. It has always been on the bottom of my totem pole and now that I have an opportunity to do something I love; to write for someone who actually sends me a check for all my keystrokes, it's become even less important. Every once in awhile I'll squirt some stuff in the toilets, recycle the newspapers or throw a few dishes in the dishwasher; beyond that, my house has been basically left to its own devices.

Luckily, I have a tolerant husband. I know he'd like the house to be cleaner; I know he'd like the clutter to disappear. I know he'd like to come home to something in the oven. But I also know that he's proud of me.

And that feels a whole lot better than having a clean house.

Done Deal

It's over. My kid has wheels and I will not have to step into a car dealership, used car lot or finance manager's office for the foreseeable future. As I detailed in my last blog, I have been helping my son try to find a reasonable vehicle for some time and am more than relieved to have the process over with. We may have been able to track down a better value but at this point, I don't care. It's done and I don't have to look at cars anymore.

The funny thing is, no one has told my computer to knock it off. Since I did a lot of the research online, my computer thinks I'm still looking so deals keep popping up all over the place. It's scary, actually, that I'm only getting ads for the make and models we were targeting, which only cements the idea that our every move is being tracked. I don't know how to make it stop - I never realized how many car commercials there were until I actually started paying attention - and I don't want some great deal to pop up reminding me what a great car I could have found for him, if only I would have been a little more patient.

I have to keep telling myself he's happy. For all the crazy running around, the anxiety about co-signing a loan and the endless pressure applied by car salesmen, all I had to do is look at his face when they handed him the key. Getting your first car is something special. It was exhausting but I'm glad I got to be a part of it.

As a parent, it's tough to know sometimes if you're helping or enabling; coddling or instructing. I beat myself up a lot over past mistakes and I have a lot of guilt about how I've handled things.

But not this time. This time I know I did the right thing.

Deal or No Deal

That's it. I surrender. I have had it with car salesmen, dealerships, mechanics and finance managers. After a month of scanning the internet and driving all over tarnation looking for a reliable vehicle for my son, I have had enough. I have bought many cars in my lifetime and I don't remember it being anything like this. If it had been, I'm sure I would currently be riding a bike or taking public transportation.

I purchased my first car when I was sixteen. My dad, of course, had to co-sign but I was able to purchase a brand new Toyota Corolla while working at a part-time job that paid $1.65 an hour. Okay, I'm old but that doesn't explain why buying a car in 2012 is such an unpleasant, difficult experience. I'd venture a guess that it has something to do with those troublemakers in Washington. The housing crisis and the economic downturn caused from passing out currency like Halloween candy have made it almost impossible to borrow money, especially if you don't have much of a credit history. How you get a credit history while no one will issue you credit is a kink in the system the banking industry has yet to iron out but their desire to be more fiscally responsible is something I can understand. What I don't understand is how finance companies and banks can get away with charging 10.9% interest to someone when he has a co-signer who has a credit score over 800!

So now I have two choices. I can continue looking (please don't make me) for a cheap vehicle that my husband and I can loan him the money to buy (which does nothing to help his lack of credit problem) or I can co-sign on a loan for a car that will likely last him until he makes the last payment. Anything in between is out because banks won't finance loan amounts less than five or six thousand dollars. No doubt they're making enough with all the nickel and dime fees they charge. Why should they be bothered with small loans that might improve some young person's credit and encourage customer loyalty? I could be wrong but I thought that's what all that bailout money was supposed to be for. All I know is that I'm tired of the whole exhausting, stressful, not-fun process. I'm tired of searching, worrying and researching. I just want my kid to have a car and I'd like for him not be ripped off in the process.

Is that too much to ask?

A New Kind of Scary

What is happening? In the last few days there have been a couple of horrific stories of women murdering innocent children that were under their care. The latest, which took place in the town I live in, involved a woman who took the life of her own child as well as another for whom she was babysitting. As a mom, my heart breaks for those poor women who left their children with someone they trusted; someone they thought of as family. As a woman, I'm trying to comprehend what could possibly have happened to these women who committed these heinous acts to bring them to do anything so horrific to a child.

We're supposed to be the nurturers. We're supposed to be tender. We're supposed to be gentle. How could such brutality come from a woman's hands? How could a mother look into the eyes of her child and see terror and know that she had put it there?

My town has known this kind of horror before. Several years ago, a well-known and respected member of the community calmly fed her three children a cocktail of drugs before suffocating each one of them. The press theorized that she had done it to punish her estranged husband but there really is no explanation. When a mother turns on her own children it is an act against nature and it makes every one of us question the state of our world.

So tonight, the scariest night of the year, I am feeling a new kind of fear. I worry about our country, the condition of our families and the mental health of people who have been beaten down with stress, anxiety and hopelessness. As my minister said in church this past Sunday, it's time to stop looking at the Oval Office to solve our problems and start looking instead to the heavens. Someone is trying to tell us something.

Maybe we should start listening.

It's Just Stuff

This week I had a little problem with how my husband handled the disappearance of one of his possessions. No, a thief didn't invade the sanctity of our home in the middle of the night, our daughter "borrowed" something without his permission and he tends to frown on that sort of behavior. I thought his reaction was a little over the top, seeing that he hadn't used the said object (a keyboard that had been packed up and relegated to a storage spot in the living room) for months and hadn't noticed that it was missing until days after the fact. I saw his side of it but still felt uneasy about the importance he had placed on a "thing".

Not long after the piano incident, I shuffled down to the basement to raid the freezer for one of those big, beautiful Costco muffins that had been living there since my last trip to the warehouse. They make you buy a dozen of those suckers, so it's not unusual for several to take up prolonged residence in the freezer until I'm struck by the need for a muffin fix. So, there I was, ready to devour a streusel-topped pumpkin muffin with a hot cup of tea when, much to my dismay, there were none to be found. Once again, my daughter had been the culprit. Frustrated (and forced to substitute a stale cinnamon bagel in its place), I called my daughter's cell and left an impassioned plea to never take the last of anything without asking and, if she couldn't stop herself, at least leave me a note admitting her crime.

Lest you think I'm some kind of muffin fanatic who goes ballistic over the absence of a baked good, I should mention that my kid's been guilty of quite a bit of pilfering these days. When I last went to have a Pepsi with my pizza - gone. When I reached into my make-up bag for foundation - gone. When I went to wear that cute black shirt with the ruffles - gone. She's not around much but when she is, stuff seems to disappear.

I finally joined my husband (with my stale bagel and tea) to watch The Avengers. As I groused about the disappearance of my beloved muffin and how ticked off I was at our resident thief, he looked at me and smiled. "It's only a thing," he said.

How dare he repeat my words of wisdom at a time like this.

Chinese, Wine and Bargains

There is something so powerful about spending time with a bunch of women you care about. What you do doesn't matter. Where you hang out doesn't matter. The only thing that does matter is finding time to get together on a regular basis - something me and my gals seem to have had a little trouble with lately. One weekend wasn't about to rectify a year's worth of neglect but no one can say we didn't try.

I was late, as usual, so they start ed without me. By the time I arrived, cranky and tired from driving all day (car shopping with my kid but that's another story), they were already on their second glass of vino. We ordered Chinese and I tried to get less cranky. The wine and the lo mein did their magic and I managed to relax long before we sat down to watch old home videos - yes, home videos. There is nothing that my daughter and her cousin like doing better than watching (and laughing) at younger versions of themselves, making fun of their mothers' (my sister and I, of course) ill-advised wardrobe and hair choices along the way.

When we'd finally had enough tripping down memory lane, we moved on to more conversation. The continued consumption of alcohol made this discussion time a lot more interesting than our earlier version and lasted until our sentences were no longer making sense. We retreated to various beds and started up where we left off six hours later. Congregating on my niece's king-sized bed, we plotted the rest of the day. Now that we'd spent time eating, drinking and talking, there was only one thing left to do - shopping.

We headed for my niece's favorite bargain spot - The Sears Outlet Store. Before you laugh, I can tell you I left that store with five pajama tops and two bottoms and spent less than ten dollars and my daughter came out with a huge bag of work clothes for $26. Not laughing now, are you?

Later there was nothing to do but hug and kiss and promise each other that we would do this again soon. There we were, two generations of women who love hanging out with each other making a spectacle of themselves in the middle of the clearance aisle.

I wonder how soon Sears can restock those racks.

Shopping in the Rain

You never know when great moments are coming. You can try to plan them. You can try to engineer them. But that doesn't usually work. And very often they just present themselves in disguises that are so hard to recognize that you almost pass them up.

Yesterday, I got a phone call from my son. That in itself is a pretty memorable event. Like many young men, he's not particularly communicative. When I see his number pop up on my caller id, it's time for celebration. I'm not naive. I know he's not calling to chat; there's always a purpose to his call. But I don't care. If he's going to hit me up for something, I'm going to make him work for it. So, we did the dance for awhile. I knew he wanted something and he knew that I knew. It didn't take long for him to get to the point. He wanted to go look for a car and he wanted to know if I could go along.

I had just gotten home from work. It was raining. It was cold. I wanted nothing more than to hunker down with a cup of tea and my down comforter. So, what did I do? I put on my coat, grabbed an umbrella and got in the car.

We were the only crazy people on the lots so, of course, we had the undivided attention of every dealership we entered. Sitting with the salesmen, I couldn't help remembering shopping for my first car with my father. Back in the dark ages, when you could actually afford a brand new car on a part-time job salary, it was fun. Yes, my dad had to co-sign but the numbers were so much less daunting than they are now. I could see it on my son's face; reality was setting in. What he could afford and what he wanted were not living in the same neighborhood.

We left the last lot with a collection of business cards and no car. But the evening wasn't over. Twenty minutes later we were sitting in Olive Garden sharing a carafe of wine, a pasta dinner and a whole lot of conversation. By this time, his girlfriend had joined us. And I didn't mind a bit.

So, bring on the rain. Bring on the snow. Bring on the obnoxious car salesmen. It's all worth it if I get to spend a whole evening with my kid.

Fair's Fair

I've come to the conclusion that you can make yourself crazy trying to be fair. When you have two kids you want to make sure that you dole out your time, money and support on an equal basis (I have no idea how those Duggars do it with 19). But there's just no getting around the fact that, as hard as you try, things are going to get uneven once in awhile.

It's like that old adage about marriage. There's nothing 50/50 about it - sometimes you're giving 90% and sometimes you're giving 10%. You can only hope that it's not a one-way street and, like Vegas, will even out in the end. But your kids don't realize that yet. They also don't realize that when one of your kids is in trouble, you've got to be on the hook for more than when things are coasting. The hard part is, trying to explain it to the one whose life is not currently going up in flames.

You can remind them that their time is probably coming. You can reassure them that you'll do your best to be there for them when they really need you. But that doesn't stop them from feeling cheated right now. And it doesn't stop you from feeling guilty.

Why wasn't this a chapter in all those baby books?

I Know It's Fall But . . .

The leaves are falling, the temperatures are dropping - that can only mean one thing. It's time for all things pumpkin. Now, I like our rotund, orange vegetable friend as much as the next guy but don't you think we've stepped into dangerous overload territory? I'm crazy about pumpkin bread (with the appropriate drizzle of cream cheese icing, of course), I have a tray of the streusel-covered muffins from Costco in my freezer and I think pumpkin cheesecake is a decadent fall treat. But, c'mon, pumpkin flavored dog treats?! Yes, you read that correctly, Fido is now getting in on the pumpkin insanity, whether he wanted to or not.

I swear I'm not making this up. My latest copy of the Fearless Flyer from Trader Joe's has this new addition to dog food listed on page twenty. They also have twenty-two other pumpkin-flavored items ranging from coffee to ravioli. Twenty-two! They did manage to squeeze in a mention or two for non-pumpkin related items but the emphasis was clear - it's pumpkin season and we're going to shove it into any damn thing we can think of!

I suppose there's nothing wrong with showing our chubby buddy some love. I just wish we could spread it out a little. They do can this stuff. So why can't we have pumpkin-flavored coffee in April? Why can't we have pumpkin pancakes in July? I've heard there's actually a glut of the little devils this year, so why not? I know I'm doing my part. I found a deal for ten cans for $10 at my local Meijer store and intend to have cream cheese covered pumpkin bars whenever the spirit moves me.

But those canine treats still worry me. What's next pomegranate-flavored chew toys and butternut squash dog food?

The New Me

Reinventing yourself is confusing. Just as I got comfortable with the person I had turned into, I found myself turning into someone completely different. Oh, both of us like pizza and Ryan Reynolds and still hate doing housework (why can't that change?) but there are some fundamental differences that I never saw coming.

I knew giving up my full-time mothering gig would require adjustment. I knew that I would have to find ways to fill my day that didn't involve driving a forgotten lunch to school or remembering how to do algebraic word problems. I hoped that I would discover new talents and rediscover some old ones. But I never imagined I would embrace solitude as much as I have. I never imagined I could go for hours without speaking.

Once afraid of having a meal alone, I now relish eating whatever I want with no one around to pilfer my goodies or critique my choices. Once uncomfortable with silence, I now think it's one of the more beautiful sounds on earth. It's as if I don't want anyone or anything to deter me from the pursuits I've been putting off for far too long. It's as if I have a new baby that needs constant attention and that new baby is me.


It's not that I don't love my family. It's not that I don't want to rekindle romance with my husband. I just don't want to do anything I don't really want to do. I need to find out what I've got left in me. I want to take a shot at making some kind of mark that says I was here; that I mattered; that I had something to say that was worth hearing. It's selfish and I know it. I always thought I would be one of those amazing old ladies that left everything behind and joined the Peace Corps. I've always thought Ayn Rand and her philosophy of self-fulfillment was positively evil. So why do I now think she might have been on to something?

Like I said, confusing.

Just Saying

So, it's Wednesday and I said I was going to write a blog every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Only thing is, I have nothing much I want to say. But since I don't want to disappoint my seven loyal readers, I must press on. That's why I've decided to pull out the old writer's trick of making a list of some obscure observations. My subject for today is: Things I'll Never Understand. Here we go.

• My husband's (or anyone's) obsession with punctuality. Five minutes either side of the appointed time is on-time in my book.
• How Arby's is still in business
• Why anyone thinks Johnny Depp is sexy
• Anyone who says they like coconut water. Have you tasted it? It tastes like something between water you soak your feet in and sauerkraut juice (I've never tasted either but I have a good imagination).
• Why The Middle isn't as popular as Modern Family
• Why everyone in America doesn't have a DVR. It's clearly the best invention of the last 100 years (with apologies to the internet and dishwashers)
• How anyone can sit through a horror/slasher movie
• Why I have to have dessert at nine o'clock at night
• How I've gained ten pounds in the last year (oh, see above)
• People who love winter
• Why I wasn't born in Italy
• How people can spend $4000 on a purse
• Why I get so excited when my People magazine is delivered
• People who can't give compliments
• Why anyone gets a sleeve tattoo
• The complete dumbing-down of America. Can we please stop exporting reality shows that make our entire nation look like a bunch of dunder-headed dolts? 

That should do it. For now. That was so much fun I might make that a regular feature. After all, it worked for David Letterman.

A Walk in the Sun

It always struck me as funny that people all over the world hustle off to see famous sights in faraway places while neglecting to visit hot spots right in their own backyards. How many New Yorkers have been to the top of the Empire State Building? How many Londoners have stood in line at Buckingham Palace? We human beings tend to think that the other guys' stuff is infinitely superior to ours and think nothing of racing off to stand in line with thousands of other delusional tourists instead of appreciating our own local treasures.

Case in point - I've lived in Chicago most of my life. During that time I've seen plenty of what brings tourists to our city. I've been to the top of the Sears Tower (I'll never be able to call it the Willis Tower), I've spent money on Michigan Avenue, I've spent the day at Navy Pier and taken the Architectural Tour along the river. I've listened to music at Ravinia, I've taken in Cubs, Sox, Bears, Bulls and Blackhawks games (are we a lucky city or what?) and I've eaten more deep-dish pizza than I care to admit. But, until yesterday, I had never been to The Botanic Gardens. What a mistake.

The day was brisk but sunny. The grounds were immaculate and still bursting with colorful flowers, shrubs and trees. There was an English garden which looked like something out of Jane Eyre and a fruit and vegetable garden with a chef hosting a seasonal cooking demonstration. There were signs offering tips for organic gardening and composting and an area with toy trains running through tiny tunnels. Everywhere you turned there were reminders of the infinite and varied beauty that God has created for us to enjoy. The fact that I got to share it with my husband and six fantastic people I'm lucky enough to call friends made it just about perfect.

And that wasn't all. When I got home, my DVR delivered a commercial-free Bears victory. That does it - my Ryder Cup blues are officially banished.

Feelin' Good

I’m going to get a little delicate with this one. Is there anything that makes you feel better than wearing comfortable underwear? I didn’t think so. For years I’ve tried to squeeze myself into flimsy undergarments that barely covered what undergarments are meant to cover. I’ve bought slinky bikinis with elastic that inevitably rose up into areas it was never meant to occupy and lacy hipsters with no elastic that refused to stay where it was supposed to. But no more. My Victoria’s Secret catalog has been consigned to the nearest recycling bin. For I have found the Holy Grail – a comfortable pair of halfway-decent looking underwear that comes in at half the price of the fancy stuff.

I’m not talking about granny pants. I may get there someday but not today. They are cotton but they’re cute cotton and they're hipsters (a suitable concession to gravity from bikinis). And the best part - they come in packages of six at your favorite discount store. Once I slipped them on, I knew. I knew my days of wedgies were over. I knew my trips to the bathroom to retrieve my sliding undies had come to an end. I knew elastic would no longer be digging into my netherlands. This was it. Nirvana.

Hanes – you had me at hello.

Giving Up the Game?

I’ve written often about my love of sports; how watching talented athletes pushing themselves to achieve life-long goals inspires me. Today, I’m writing about the flip side – when talented athletes falter and rip your heart out in the process.

The other day I wrote about my perfect day walking around the grounds of Medinah Country Club with my family, enjoying the scenery as well as the atmosphere of the first Ryder Cup to be held in the area. By the time Saturday night rolled around, the American team had taken a huge lead in the event and it looked as if we had finally beaten the Europeans at their own game. If you’ve been away from your TV or can’t be bothered with this stuff, you might not know that we left that beautiful venue empty-handed. And now my club, (okay, I don’t belong but thanks to my dad I do get to play there on a regular basis), will always be known as the site of one of the biggest disasters in American golf – and that stinks.

I can’t tell you how much I hate myself for taking this stuff so seriously. I can’t believe I woke up twice during the night and the first thing I thought of (no, it wasn’t that I had to use the bathroom) was that stupid golf tournament. My poor dad, who’s been working at Medinah for twenty-three years, said he did the same thing; certain that he was just waking up from a bad dream. But that’s the thing about sports. You invest your time, your energy and your spirit rooting for your team and, if you let it, a crushing defeat will devastate you almost as much as it devastates your team.

You don’t have to remind me that it’s just a game. I’ve been telling myself that all day. I know no one died; everyone will live to fight another day. But we were so close; so close and now we have to wait two years to have another chance.

So now it’s up to the Bears. C’mon guys, I’m counting on you. Don’t ruin my Tuesday.

A Beautiful Day

When you’ve had a few beautiful days, you get to know what they look like. They usually aren’t the big, special days that we all expect to be amazing but are usually over-hyped spectacles that don’t live up to expectations or overworked occasions that can’t be enjoyed due to sheer exhaustion. No, beautiful days are the ones that sneak up on you, the ones that start out small and build to a conclusion that usually involves looking up and saying, “Thank you”.

A golf tournament isn’t supposed to be a part of one of those days - a wedding, yes; a trip to Venice, yes; a golf tournament, I didn’t think so. But today, strolling around the grounds of Medinah Country Club with my husband, my dad, and my sister, was as good as any day walking under the Eiffel Tower.

Sharing a sunny September day with three of my favorite people reminded me once again how lucky I am. Despite the fact that our "picnic" under one of the enormous oak trees cost $36.50, the day couldn’t have been better. My dad, so happy to be there with his girls, walked around like he owned the joint. And he kind of does. After working there for 23 years, he knows just about everything there is to know about the place. Seeing his excitement about the Ryder Cup coming to “his” club made us all appreciate the time together even more. We only had a few hours before he needed to do a shift change with other members of the family (he wants to make sure everybody gets their chance) but it was enough.

As I get older, I realize more and more how little one really needs to be happy. Time spent in the sunshine with people you love is more than enough to make one beautiful day.

Convenience Me

If you’re anything like me, there are certain tasks you hate more than others. There doesn’t have to be any reasonable explanation for why you hate doing something; it doesn’t have to be challenging or difficult, in fact, most of the time it’s the most boring, repetitive chores that do us in. Emptying the dishwasher, dusting (in general but particularly where moving stuff is involved), cleaning out the fridge, and folding laundry are all activities I could live without (and often do) but today I found out that I no longer have to take care of one of those pesky little tasks that I have always hated doing – checking my tire pressure.

I never wanted to be one of those women who needed a man to do those typically "manly" chores (with the possible exception of catching and disposing of any rodent that enters my living space), but I have always had a soft spot for any man who would get on his hands and knees with a pressure gauge (get your mind out of the gutter – we’re talking tires, people) and pronounce my wheels good to go. It’s not that I don’t know how to do it; I just hate doing it. I hate wrangling with that stupid hose, trying to read a gauge that refuses to connect with my tire stem and standing out in the cold trying to get 32 (not 29, not 34) pounds of pressure in each tire.

But all of that is in the past. Thanks to a little place called Discount Tires I will never have to do any of the above ever, ever again. Today, I saw their sign inviting drivers to pull in for a free, 3 minute tire check and decided to give it a try. They’ve got this exceedingly cool machine that checks the pressure AND puts the right amount of air in at the same time. The smiling mechanic took care of all four tires in less time than it takes me to take off the stem cap and told me to come back as often as I like. I never left the comfort of the driver’s seat and the whole thing didn’t cost me a dime. (Although my daughter chastised me for not tipping him. Next time he gets double).

He said I could come every day if I wanted to. I wonder if he has a brother that unloads dishwashers.

Goodwill Hunting

I don’t normally think of myself as a trailblazer but I’ve been hunting for bargains way before it was fashionable to do so. I’ve braked for garage sales, cleared clearance racks and scoured through consignment shops long before the economic downturn, not because I couldn’t afford to pay retail, but because I just HATED doing so.

I’m happy to report that I’ve passed my cheap gene down to my firstborn child. Today, she invited me to accompany her to the local Goodwill store, an invitation I hastily accepted. I figured walking up and down a resale store’s aisles would be as good a way as any to work off that amazing burger and sweet potato fries we had just polished off at Smashburger’s. (If you haven’t been, go – they know what they’re doing).

The front of the store was full of Halloween-themed items. Too bad I wasn’t in the market for a costume – they had tons. Not sure what might have been living in the fur of that one lion suit, but most of what I saw would have made great trick-or-treat apparel, if only I had anyone around to outfit. Anyway, once I worked my way through the holiday stuff, I arrived at books and music. I didn’t buy anything this time, not even the Greatest Hits of Lesley Gore album, a record I once actually owned, that was in the bin behind the bookshelves.

After deciding that there wasn’t any glassware I couldn’t live without, I walked past the electronics department. There on the shelves were computers, keyboards, and VCRs for a fraction of their original cost. Most of it looked fit for the landfill but then I saw it – an HP printer that looked exactly like the one I had at home, the one that makes that god-awful noise every time it tries to feed the paper. The one on the shelf didn’t have a power or USB cord but that didn’t matter. I had both waiting at home.

My daughter found a pair of fun glasses and I walked out of there with that printer (which actually worked when I got it home) and a wallet that was $4.28 lighter. A great burger, a great bargain and an afternoon with my daughter.

I honestly don’t know which I enjoyed more.

How Did I Get in This Jam?

I think I may have inadvertently stepped into some kind of time machine. You would think I would remember something like that but what else could explain my current obsession with an activity that hasn't been popular for 100 years. I'll give you a hint: it's something you put on bread. (No, I'm not churning butter - that at least would be good for my biceps).  I'm making jam. I started making it a couple of weeks ago and I just can't seem to stop.

So far, peach is my favorite. As Robert Barone from "Everybody Loves Raymond"  said the first time he tasted Italian gelato, "It's as if I never tasted a peach before". Next in line, the forest fruits and raspberry, make me happy the French invented the croissant. It doesn't really matter what flavor I pull out of the fridge, any of them beat the heck out of anything you can buy in a jar. And the best part - each of them took all of ten minutes to make.

You didn't actually think I was going to stand there and sterilize jars and lids, did you? The fact that I don't have to is the main reason that I'm now obsessed. I found a loop hole in the whole canning ritual that does not involve putting lives at risk. It's called refrigerator jam. I found it in the America's Test Kitchen cookbook (and you know they wouldn't try to kill you) and since then, have been scouring produce sections for whatever fruit I can find to stuff in those little jars.

One added bonus - I've never seen my husband happier. He says it reminds him of all the homemade jams his mom used to make in Switzerland. He even had it for dinner tonight. So, I guess I'll keep making it as long as I can get my hands on decent looking fruit.

But my husband better get ready for a few more jam dinners. These babies need to be eaten within two weeks.

Bearless Sunday

Hope that title didn’t lead anyone to believe this was going to be some foray into Fifty Shades of Grey territory. How could it? I did say “bear” not “bare”. Anyway, I’m feeling lost and lonely without my team playing today (although I'm still recovering from that HORRIBLE exhibition on Thursday) and I’m finding it hard to find a replacement activity.

It’s too late for you to suggest watching other games. I love football but find it hard to get fired up unless I can scream at the TV and I just don’t feel like screaming at people I don’t know (unless they stand in front of me in the express check-out lane with 37 items and a boatload of coupons). And forget about urging me to keep busy. I’ve done laundry, I’ve gone to Costco (yikes, will someone pleeeease stop me from going there on Sunday), I’ve cleaned, I’ve made jam (yes, you read that correctly; blackberry and it was yummy) but nothing could fill the void. I can’t help it; I miss football.

Not that it feels even remotely like football weather. I’m sitting on my deck in shorts enjoying the last 80 degree day we’re likely to see for eight months. And since football is the ONLY thing I like about winter, I’m happy to savor one more warm day listening to the sounds of chirping birds and rumbling lawnmowers. I just wish I could do it with sounds of Brian Urlacher’s tackles growling out of my carefully positioned TV.

What? Did someone suggest patience? (Do any of you know me?) Did someone mention that the next game is a mere seven days away? Did that same someone also imply that it is likely to be a win against a lowly (uh-oh, they just beat the Redskins) Rams team? I thought so. Thanks for the attempts to cheer me up. I appreciate the effort. Maybe I’ll take a peek at the Lions-49ers game tonight. A Lions loss may be just the thing to hold me over until next week.

Oh, one more thing. Can I ask one of you to come back in October to talk me off the ledge during the bye week? Thanks.

Hello, I Must Be Going

Anyone who knows me, knows two things: I’m crazy about all things Italian and I am, shall we say, “enthusiastic” about the Bears, so enthusiastic that my dad brought a blood pressure monitor to make sure I kept my team spirit in check the last time the Bears were in the Super Bowl.

As you may have surmised, I survived our loss in the Super Bowl. But this season is different; this season we have offense, this season we have receivers who can actually catch a ball. And I’m a little giddy.

So, I’ve ordered a pizza. I’ve poured a glass of red wine. And now I’m ready. I’m ready for another season of my favorite sport. And if Green Bay can start out 0-2 and we can start out 2-0, God is in heaven and all is right with the world.

It's Thursday. It's Bears versus Packers. And I don't have to work tomorrow.

Can life get any better than this?

Forget Me Not

Yesterday, I wrote about how annoying it is to deal with memory loss. Today, I’m thinking about how tough it is to forget.

Last night, like much of America, I watched some of the programming about one of the worst days in our country’s history. One of the shows did a minute by minute countdown of the day’s events, including graphic footage I had never seen before. (I guess filmmakers have decided that eleven years is long enough to shield us from some of the more horrific images of that day.) As I cried watching innocent victims falling from the towers, I was struck by the power of memories. Those of us who lived through that day will never forget any of it – the sight of those planes hitting the towers, the sounds of people crying, the eerie silence of an empty sky. All of it is so embedded in our memories that just the sight of the towers in an old movie can bring every emotion we felt on that day back to the surface.

Last November 22^nd, I was speaking to a co-worker about the significance of that day. She looked at me with a blank expression; she didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. Why would she? She was twenty-two years old, twelve years older than I was when President Kennedy was assassinated. That she could have no reference to a day that stood out so vividly in my memory was not surprising. It must have been the same look I had given my parents when they talked about December 7^th.

Will September 11^th ever be another day? It will be someday for somebody.

Remember Me?

I’m not really sure which went first, my knees or my memory. While physical limitations can get you down, nothing annoys me more than getting to the top of the stairs and forgetting why I made the trek in the first place.

Forget Sudoku (or is that the name of those knifes with the funny cut-outs?). Forget crossword puzzles (although it is nice to know that a four-letter word for a dueling sword is an epee). No matter what I throw at my rapidly dwindling brain cells, they absolutely refuse to remember the main floor bathroom needs a hand towel until I make my way back down those damn stairs.

Funny thing is, I work at a place where I have to remember names of several hundred members. And I usually do. I can remember details of most of our members’ comings and goings and can tell you which day of the week their children are taking tennis lessons.

So why can’t I remember the toilet paper?

Maybe I’m more focused at work. Maybe I just let my brain get too distracted with everything I have to take care of when I’m home. Maybe I can only remember the important stuff.

Or maybe I’m just lucky there are no stairs at work.

For Love or Money

In my never-ending quest to find a way to make money from my incessant need to hear myself talk, I’m trying something new. While I really enjoy writing these blogs and appreciate the discipline I’ve had to develop to produce them, I’m stepping out of my comfort zone and trying a completely different style of writing.

I’m auditioning for a freelance gig that would require me to write two to three minute scripts that would accompany educational videos. Not only do I have to write the narration, I have to come up with suggestions for visual images that would go along with what I have written. In other words, I have to be intelligent, clever, creative and relevant. Oh, and did I mention, I have to be funny.

When I went on the website, I was amazed at the content. Where was this treasure chest when my son was struggling with Of Mice and Men? Where was this digital nerd when I needed help explaining algebraic problems to my kids? (Who am I kidding? Where was it to help explain them to me?) It’s called Shmoop and it’s fantastic; covering every subject from math to literature.

I took a quick look at the various subjects and testing aids offered and then headed for the literary section of the site. Every book a kid is likely to read in junior high and high school has detailed summaries and theme and character analysis. And each is written with enough irreverence to engage even the most disinterested student. The videos, focusing on one aspect of a famous literary work like 1984 or To Kill a Mockingbird, are fast-paced, blink-and-you’ll-miss-something gems, filled with amusing observations and images designed to connect to video game-loving students (as well as their parents). If you have a kid in school (or even if you just want to understand what Atlas Shrugged was all about), you’ve got to check it out.

So, I’m going to give it a try. I’m going to pitch a couple of ideas and see where they land. I’m going to see if I can try something completely new. And I’m going to see if someone will pay me for doing something I love to do.

Isn’t that what this whole moving out of the motherhood is supposed to be about?

The Power of No

The trouble with being a people-pleaser is it doesn’t bring the results you might expect. It doesn’t guarantee you a mailbox full of Christmas cards or a dinner companion when you need one. It doesn’t make people like you. It doesn’t make people respect you. It doesn’t even make people think well of you.

So why do we keep doing it?

Are we so afraid of standing up for ourselves; of voicing a different opinion; of disappointing people we care about that we can’t bring ourselves to say the most powerful two-letter word in the English language? Are we so worried that our refusal to help someone move, work a friend’s shift or turn down an invitation to dinner will result in our actually losing a friend? And, if that is what’s motivating us, what kind of friends and relatives do we have that would toss us to the curb because we chose to do something other than help them load up the van?

I have to admit, I’m a little less apt to cave than I used to be. I would say that my people-pleaser days are pretty much behind me - for everyone except my kids. Maybe that’s the last barricade; the last wall to fall but I still have a tough time not granting my children’s “favor of the hour/day/week”. But tonight I was strong. Tonight I was proud of myself. Tonight I trusted that my mother/child relationship would not hinge on whether or not I granted a favor. I said no (in a very loving way) and, while he sounded disappointed, he didn’t hang up. He didn’t scream that he never wanted to talk to me again. I did feel bad for a minute. But, you know what, the minute passed.

Now, if only I could find the same strength with those damn phone solicitors. Oh yeah, that’s what caller ID is for.

Waiting for Mr. Clean

My mom has always been a phenomenal housekeeper. Despite the fact that she had a dog running around the house, she managed to have floors that needed no five-second rule, couch cushions that yielded nothing except an occasional quarter and counters untouched by greasy residue. I’d give anything to say that I’m swimming in her bacteria-free gene pool but that would be a lie. I have inherited a lot of wonderful traits from my mother, but her artistry with a scrub brush sure as hell isn’t one of them.

I wish I could come up with a legitimate excuse for the state of my house, something like a forty hour work week or a broken vacuum. Anything would sound a whole lot better than admitting that I just hate to clean. It’s so boring; it’s so repetitive; it’s so endless. And there are soooo many more fun things to do.

Don’t get me wrong, I love having a clean house. I just don’t want to be the one cleaning it. And for awhile I wasn’t. I had the pleasure of getting my house cleaned from top to bottom every other week and it was heaven. Except for the two hours of pre-cleaning that I did before they got there (c’mon, they couldn’t see the house like that), my participation was confined to opening the door and writing a check. I would have gladly done that forever.

But since my husband vetoed the idea of strangers traipsing through our belongings, it’s all been up to me. Now I do anything I can to avoid the inevitable. I keep the lights low. I don’t wear my glasses and I buy any product that advertises its ability to make the process easier – cleaning wipes, dusters on a telescopic handle and shower sprays that swear a few spritzes are all you need to keep your shower clean.

And I’m still waiting for that bald guy with the earring to show up on my doorstep. If he does, I don’t care what my husband says, I’m letting him in.

Grace Under Fire

For the last three years, we have hosted a Labor Day barbeque for a group of our longtime friends. I’ve written about these amazing people several times in the past (despite the fact that not one of them has paid me a dime) but every time I’m with them, I feel so blessed to have them in my life that I feel compelled to let everyone in on how lucky I am.

We are a group of eight – four very diverse couples who somehow bring out the best in one another. Each one of our six friends brings something special to the party; each is a unique blessing in my life. But Saturday night I was particularly reminded of the strength and grace of one member of our group, someone who has had to deal with a little bit more than the rest of us.

We were talking about religion, having already covered politics, kids and relationships. During the conversation we were relaying our various comfort levels about outward expressions of our faith, especially the practice of raising our hands to the heavens in prayer. When my friend mentioned that he was uncomfortable doing that, I thought he was a kindred spirit; someone who, like me, was reluctant to be overly demonstrative in church. Later, I was taken aback by his quiet admission that the real reason that his arms didn’t reach for the skies was that he was embarrassed, not of his faith but of his hands.

Rheumatoid arthritis has taken a toll on my friend; the joints on his fingers are swollen and distended from the battle. But he so rarely complains that the rest of us forget what the ravages of this disease have done to him. He so rarely lets any of us see how much pain he is in, that we forget that every hour of every day is a struggle. He is truly one of the most beautiful people I know, inside AND out. Instead of giving in and feeling sorry for himself (like yours truly probably would have), he continues to fight the good fight. He continues to (beautifully) play his beloved guitar. He continues to be a part of just about any activity his crazy group of friends gets him into. And he continues to inspire all of us who love him with his kindness, his compassion, his humor and his faith.

Like I said, I’m blessed with some pretty special friends.

Labor Day

Since today is the holiday set aside to honor our country’s workforce and I am “retiring” from my full-time job, I’m thinking a lot about the role work plays in establishing our identities. And since it’s September, I’m also watching a ton of U.S. Open tennis. Believe it or not, the latter has helped me draw some conclusions about the former.

Before the tournament began, Kim Clijsters, a 29 year-old multiple major-winner from Belgium, had already announced her retirement. While this was set to be a send-off for a great champion, Andy Roddick’s decision to announce his retirement on his 30^th birthday came as a surprise. He gave the usual reasons – his body was falling apart, he couldn’t compete the way he used to, he didn’t want to coast to the finish line – all the stuff that athletes say when they know the end of their careers are inevitable. But listening to the two of them talk about their plans for the future was inspiring. They sounded excited about this next chapter in their lives. Granted, it’s easier to be excited about moving on when you’ve already made a boatload of money but still. Change is tough for anyone and when you’ve devoted your life to perfecting a single skill, it has to be even more daunting.

I’m not trying to put myself in the same sentence with Kim and Andy (well, actually, I guess I just did) but I know how they feel. Our life’s work comes to define us; it helps us feel confident; helps us feel good about our contribution to the planet. When it’s taken away, voluntarily or not, it’s a little scary.

But when you start to open up your mind to the world of possibilities, it can be downright exhilarating.

Stepping Out

I’ve always been a bit of an enabler (which is a little like saying Ryan Reynolds is kinda sexy). It’s not that I don’t know that people benefit from facing the consequences of their actions, it’s just that I don’t want anyone I know and love to suffer (duh),especially if there’s anything I can do to help it. I’m rational enough to know that this is the mantra of all enablers and I’m doing my best to quiet my inclination to step in whenever my kids are having a problem, but it’s often a losing battle.

It’s not fun to watch your kids struggle (another duh). Remember when our parents used to say “this is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you”? Turns out they weren’t as crazy as we thought they were. But our parents were tougher; they knew the value of those lessons that could only be learned from experience. My husband, raised by strict, no-nonsense parents that made my parents look a couple of hippies, would have raised our kids a whole lot differently, if only he would have had a partner that would have let him.

Now that full-time motherhood is in my rear-view mirror, it’s so much easier to see things clearly. If it’s true, as Maya Angelou says (and everything she says is true), that “you did then what you knew then and now that you know more, you’ll do better”, it’s time for me to do better. It’s time for me to do what’s best for them, even if that means not being there to brace their every fall. It’s time for me to step out.

And it’s time for them to have a chance to step up.

Dinner and the Late Shift

It’s not often that I get to spend some one-on-one time with both of my children in one twenty-four hour period, but yesterday the stars aligned and I hit the jackpot. The first half of the daily double started with a mid-afternoon phone call from my daughter. “Hey, Mom,” she said. “We haven’t seen much of each other lately. I have to run a few errands after work and I wondered if you wanna meet me at Target around 6?” Now, I had no desire to go shopping after work. I had no interest in wandering around a store filled with stuff I didn’t need, especially when I was set to return to work at 7:30 to help with a last-minute mailing project. All I wanted to do was go home, find a comfy chair and flip through my DVR’d U.S. Open matches. But that would have to wait. I had a chance to spend a little time with my girl.

Turns out, “little time” was an accurate description. By the time she was able to break away from work, it was 6:30. We tried on a few things at Marshall’s before heading to Panera for a quick bite to eat. After carting our salads outside to enjoy the last hours of sunshine, we shared stories of our day and she even asked for a little advice. We never did make it to Target.

I got to spend a little more time with my son. Working at the same place has its benefits. As we stamped, stickered and stuffed hundreds of envelopes, I snuck in a few questions about his life and he actually answered. He even threw in an unexpected (and greatly appreciated) compliment about my appearance. Although I knew he didn’t want to, he stayed with me until the project was finished. I even got a few extra minutes of conversation when I drove him home.

When our kids are little, we spend thousands and thousands of hours with them. Last night, I was grateful for just a few more.

Am I Now the Guy?

Being in a long-term marriage affords one the opportunity to witness the ever-changing stages of human behavior. I'm not into defining anyone with typical gender-based roles but from my own experience, if you give a man and woman enough time and exposure to one another, they're going to slip in and out of one another's shoes every now and then.

When we started out almost 29 years ago, our roles were fairly traditional. My husband and I both held full-time jobs until the kids came. After that, he made the bulk of the money and I stayed home with our children, taking a few part-time jobs along the way. Our emotional behavior was pretty traditional, too. He said as few words as possible, rarely broke down in tears and approached most of our problems from a rational, logical point of view. I, on the other hand, always wanted to discuss our issues (usually right as he was falling asleep), could be brought to tears by any top 40 country song and dismissed his rational approach as cold and unfeeling. As you can imagine, these differences impeded our communication more than once.

Twenty years ago, my aunt warned me it would all change. She and her husband were just getting used to retirement when she said to me, "Hang in there. He's going to be a lot different after 55. When his job isn't the be all and end all that it once was, it'll be easier. You'll see, you're going to get yourself a whole different husband."

What she didn't tell me was that he was going to get a whole different wife.

I never would have expected that I would NOT want to talk, that I would enjoy spending time by myself or that I wouldn't need as much romantic affirmation as I used to. I never saw this change coming. The person whose body I now inhabit seems like a stranger. The behavior that I often exhibit seems a lot less loving, a lot less sensitive.

Now I need to have someone tell my husband to hang in there.

I Scream, You Scream

Labor Day weekend is just a few days away and that can only mean one thing. (Well, two things if you count the 'can't wear white after' nonsense). It means that ice cream season is almost over.

I don't know about you but I don't have a whole lot of interest in ingesting frozen confections when it's 12 degrees outside. Once those hot summer nights give way to blustery winter hibernation, I comfort myself with warm chocolate chip cookies and a cup of tea instead of a sundae. Somehow, dodging icicles outside has a way of shutting down my desire for fudgsicles when I'm inside.

But tonight, it's still August. It was still warm enough to walk around town after dinner. I wasn't going to pass up one of the remaining opportunities to enjoy a frosty treat. Lucky for me, I didn't have to have to settle for ice cream; our town has a gelato shop. Yes, I know. I'm addicted to anything Italian but, c'mon, I don't care how American you are, comparing ice cream to gelato is like comparing a Mitsubishi to a Mercedes. If you've had it before, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, what are you waiting for?

I'll have you know, I did behave myself. I got a small cup filled with a strawberry and raspberry combo. (The fruit flavors are definitely where gelato has it all over ice cream). As my husband and I wandered through the town, dipping our tiny plastic spoons into each others' flavors (I know, that sounds a little dirty), I tried to soak in the waning hours of this 27th day of August.

Summer's almost over. I've got a few more flavors to try before I'm ready to say good-bye.

Can We (Not) Talk?

A few days ago I accidentally left my phone at work. When I called in to see if it was there, one of my co-workers took one look at my sorry little flip phone and said, "What the heck is this? I haven't seen one of these in five years. It's time you moved into the 21st century and got yourself a new phone." To which I replied, "I don't think so."

I may be crazy (or at least out of touch with the rest of the world) but I don't get the obsession with cellphones. I do not want to be at the beck and call of every person I have ever met. I do not want to be awoken with missed text messages. And I do not want to retrieve my e-mail from Katmandu (okay, I don't really want to go to Katmandu either but it sounds better than Orlando).

Everywhere I go, I see people who feel differently. They walk around with bluetooth earpieces that make them sound like escaped inmates from an asylum. They bury their heads as they furiously type in some message that just can't wait until they get home. They do everything they can to interact with their electronic friend rather than actual human beings and I want no part of it. A friend of mine told me that he was at the pool with his daughter where he saw a mom so engrossed in her cellphone that she waded around the swimming pool, phone in hand, completely neglecting the child paddling at her feet. I don't care how cool any phone is, if that's what happens when you own one, you can count me out.

To be honest, it might be nice to slide through hundreds of photos on the latest gadget. It might be fun to take pictures and make them available immediately to any and all interested parties. It would certainly be convenient to have a built-in GPS to help me when I'm stuck on some road in the middle of nowhere. But I don't need any of it. And I don't want to be a slave to a piece of machinery that a recent poll revealed to be more necessary to the participants than their lunch (check out the recent Time Magazine cover story).

So, my flip-phone and I are going to hang tough. We're stuck with one another until the inevitable happens: it dies or I lose it. Until then, I'm going to try to ignore the pressure to upgrade to one of those expensive, do-everything-but-make-coffee smartphones.

I just have one request. Try not to run me down while you're using yours.