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.