Watch Out

Moving out of the motherhood is challenging and re-inventing yourself is an up and down journey that throws more curve balls at you than Chris Carpenter throws at National League hitters. You have to get motivation and inspiration wherever you can find it. And where do I usually find it? That's right. . .sports.

Yesterday, I spent a few hours watching a golf tournament. Nothing unusual about that.Anyone who is a regular reader of this blog knows I'm kind of obsessed with sports and tune in to any major event that doesn't involve cricket, soccer or rugby. This latest excuse to put my own life on hold and gawk at a bunch of people actually doing something with theirs happened to be The British Open (or just The Open for those purists on the other side of the pond). I told myself that this productivity detour was okay because a) it came on at 7:00am and would be over by noon and b) one of my favorite players just happened to be in contention.

As I sat there, happily ensconced with The Sunday Tribune and a cup of tea (Britain, remember?), doing double duty rooting Phil on and cheering whenever Tiger made a mistake, I felt encouraged by what I saw unfolding in front of me. Here was a forty-three year-old guy that one month ago had the biggest disappointment of his career when he came in second in The U.S. Open for the sixth time (after leading in the final round with a couple of holes to go). He was conquering an insidious Scottish course that had chewed up and spit out some of the best players in the game. Not to mention, he was doing it after being written off as not having the kind of game to ever win this particular major.

So, what happened? Even non-sports nuts probably know the answer to that one. He went out there and won the thing from five shots back, leaving Tiger and a whole lot of other talented players in his wake. It was great TV but, for me, it was more than that. This was one for the good guys and I picked up a few pointers watching him on his way to winning The Claret Jug. He succeeded by taking chances and trusting his talent. He triumphed because he didn't listen to the naysayers that said he couldn't. And he came out on top without acting like a jerk while he was doing it.

Now that he's won the tournament, I wonder if he might have a few minutes to teach me one other lesson - how to stop watching others live out their dreams and go out and fulfill a few of my own.

Let's Put on a Wedding

When I got married thirty years ago, I booked our church, found a banquet hall that had our date available (and featured family style dinners for $21 per person including open bar), and bought a dress for under $200. I picked out bridesmaids' dresses and flower arrangements and found a decent photographer. After that, I figured my work was done. And it was. I showed up on the big day, said "I do", and partied for the rest of the night. Today, if you don't want to pony up thirty or forty-thousand dollars, you have to get a lot more involved.

This past weekend, I saw what can happen when a group of loving, dedicated friends and family get together to help start a young couple off on their marital journey without breaking the bank. For two days (and many months leading up to those two days) a "village" of hard-working people did everything and anything necessary to ensure the bride and groom would have the wedding of their dreams. They strung lights, carried tables and chairs, arranged flowers, baked goodies, ran errands, hung decorations, practiced music, and calmed nerves. In the end, they turned an empty field and bare barn into a garden paradise and twinkling wonderland. Despite the summer heat and a rapidly approaching deadline, there was little complaining and a whole lot of laughter while everyone worked toward one goal - to give the best day of their lives to the much-loved bride and groom.

So, forget about those Kardashian-style extravaganzas that cost a million bucks and end in a couple of months. Forget about going into debt to feed over-cooked prime rib to 300 people you're not even sure you sent a Christmas card to last year. Forget about running away to some remote island destination wedding with you and your ten best friends. This is the way to do it. Surround yourself with people who love you, throw some chicken on the bar-b-que grill and pour some chilled Moscato into a Mason jar glass. When you're done, you won't be looking at a drawer full of credit card bills and you'll never have to ask yourself that question that creeps up on most of us once in a while - 'I wonder how everyone really feels about me?'

You'll have an album of pictures that tells you all you'll ever need to know.

Breakfast at Wimbledon

Having lived in England for a couple of years, I have to cop to being a bit of an Anglophile. I drink tea instead of coffee, get a kick out of all that pomp and circumstance surrounding the Royal Family, and make a mean scone, complete with clotted cream and strawberry jam. When I get the opportunity to celebrate my affinity for all things British, like Kate and Williams' little shindig a while back, I jump right on it. I may not be there to get caught up in all the pageantry but I still like to find a way to reconnect with my "second home" from this side of the pond any chance I get. Needless to say, that includes the annual Wimbledon fortnight.

Luckily for me, I have a son who likes tennis almost as much as I do. I wish I could say that I play as well as he does (just wait, he'll have arthritic knees someday, too) but the joy I get from our shared passion almost makes up for the fact that I will never, ever beat him. He usually doesn't have the patience (or time) to watch a televised match with me but yesterday, when I asked him if he wanted to watch the Men's Final between Djokovic and Murray, he actually said yes.

When he arrived around 9:30 a.m., the DVR already had an hour and a half head start. Learning that I was out of both o.j. and bacon, he bolted back to his car to head to the nearest grocery store. By the time he got back, the poached eggs were almost done and I was working on the French Toast. A few minutes later, we were sitting in front of the TV with our calorie-laden breakfasts watching Novak and Andy duke it out.

After the first set was over, I mentioned that, while I had forgotten to thaw out the amazing frozen chocolate croissants from Trader Joe's that he loves, I did have a can of Pillsbury Grand biscuits in the fridge. (For those not in the know, these things make phenomenal donuts. Just punch out a hole with a vanilla bottle lid, drop them into a shallow pan of hot oil, and dredge in powdered sugar or cinnamon or dip in chocolate frosting - beats any store bought donut around.)

While my son continued watching the match, I fried up the dough. Within minutes, I had a plateful of warm, crusty, gooey donuts that would lead to me adding another half hour to my exercise schedule. (Side note: I've been on a real health kick for the last month. I've been exercising every day, eating more greenery than your average rabbit, and cutting down on sweets.) But watching my son devour his favorite childhood treat while we watched Andy Murray become the first British male to win Wimbledon in seventy-seven years put a big smile on my face.

Some things are worth a few extra calories.

LX and Counting

Well, it's been an eventful week. I celebrated a milestone birthday and The Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup. I have to say that the Hawks winning The Cup on my actual birthday made the transition to a new decade a lot more tolerable but still, when the high-fiveing and jumping up and down were over, I had to face my new reality. I was now in serious AARP country; a place where Scooter Store flyers and hearing aid offers would be regular visitors to my mailbox. (My husband actually asked me the next morning, "How's my little senior doing today?" It's amazing the man is still taking in oxygen after that one.)

Don't get me wrong, I know there are a lot of people in this world who didn't get to reach the birthday I just celebrated, including a very dear friend that I miss terribly. She would have given anything to be standing in my Clark shoes so I should shut up and appreciate the gift of every day. And I do. Honestly, I do. But there's something about hitting those zero birthdays that sobers you up in a hurry - Blackhawks win or no Blackhawks win.

So, here's my plan. I'm getting off my saggy heinie and getting myself in shape. I'm looking very carefully at food labels (hello, Whole Foods) and trying to cook fresh, healthy meals as often as possible (goodbye, McDonalds). I'm not going to go through another day putting off what I know I need (edit that book) to do and want (a 2015 return to Italy?) to do. I want to learn more; help more; grow more (except in that aforementioned heinie area which has grown quite enough, thank you very much). In short, I want to use whatever time I have left on this planet to be as productive, supportive, generous and kind as I possibly can.

And if, along the way, a book with my name on it ends up finding its way to a shelf at your nearest bookstore, I don't think I'll be too worried about that next zero birthday.

The Better Part of Valor

I use this forum for lots of reasons, not the least of which is to share what I've learned after thirty years of marriage. So here goes. I hate to burst anyone's bubble but to all you engaged or newly married readers out there - spoiler alert - I have to tell you, whether you choose to believe it or not, you will wind up keeping a few secrets from your beloved spouse. I'm not talking about the big, hairy, headline-making-Dr. Phil kind of secrets like "I had an affair with my husband's grandfather" or "I shoplifted enough items to open my own boutique", I'm talking about the "what he doesn't know won't hurt me" kind of secrets; the ones that don't do any real damage but save a lot of unnecessary (not to mention unpleasant) conversation.

For instance. The other day we were out shopping. My dear husband (henceforth referred to as DH) had come along to keep me company as I purchased a Father's Day gift for my DF (I might as well keep the stupid acronyms going). Okay, his presence may have had something to do with the fact that I was going to one of his favorite electronics stores but, nevertheless, he dropped what he was doing to hang out with me.

After finding an inexpensive MP3 player that I hoped would replace the Walkman that my dad currently employs when he mows the lawn, I left my husband browsing while I hit the cashier's line. When I reached into my purse for my one-and-only credit card, it wasn't there. Panic set in. I tried to remember when I had last used it and where I could have possibly put it. I'm not known as the most organized person (I may have mentioned that once or twice) but I always put this particular card  in the first slot of my wallet and now it was gone.

I switched to Plan B, pulled out my debit card, and put on a game face when my DH asked if I had paid. I knew I had two choices - tell him about the missing card, in which case I would have to listen to a rather lengthy lecture about my carelessness and an urgent insistence that we call the credit card company to cancel our card, or say "yep, all set" and get my ass home as quickly as possible to look through every pants pocket in my closet.

Guess which one I chose?

You'll be relieved to know that within the hour, I had found the card in a pair of shorts I had worn the day before. No harm, no foul. And if you're sitting there thinking you would have done it differently, I have to ask you. Do you honestly think you'll always tell your husband the price of that dress you bought for your cousin's wedding? Or what exactly you did when you had a couple of margaritas with your girlfriends? Or how you feel every time you watch Ryan Reynolds in Just Friends?

Liar.

Be Italian

When you're getting back into the swing of things after a long vacation, you've got to appreciate the small pleasures of being back home. And since this wasn't exactly a pampered beach getaway complete with limitless drinks adorned with colorful paper umbrellas, I'll admit to being grateful that I'm back in the land of escalators, inexpensive restaurants and no-smoking signs. I'm also glad to have returned to reality just as my favorite season gets ready to make an appearance. Our last big trip ended in October which made facing the prospect of a Chicago winter an added hurdle to getting over the "home-from-vacation-blues". Spring getaways make for a softer return landing.

So, after getting used to eating nothing but fresh, cooked-from-scratch meals loaded with colorful fruits and vegetables for weeks, I'm determined to keep the magic going. I'm making salads every night, complete with homemade dressing and have gotten into the habit of serving small glasses of sparkling water (I think it's mandatory at every meal but breakfast in Europe) and slightly larger glasses of red wine with every dinner. We've kept the pasta thing going but have now thrown grilled fish or chicken into the mix. Tonight, we split a grilled steak with Caprese salad and sauteed potatoes and mushrooms. We're trying to eat as many meals as we can on our deck (it may not have a view of the ocean but it is pretty peaceful). We listen to the birds, talk, and keep the television off as much as possible (yes to the Hawks' playoff games; no to "The Bachelorette").

Maybe that's the secret. Maybe vacations are supposed to help you figure out the secrets to living the other fifty weeks of the year. They shake up your routine, expose you to other cultures' ways of doing things and give you some insight into what's really important to you.

We may not be able to live our lives on vacation but no one can stop us from bringing a little of our vacations into our lives.

I Want to be Rick Steves

Well, loyal readers, I've procrastinated long enough. After an amazing three week trip to Europe, it's time for me to get back to real life and that includes this humble little forum for my earth-shattering observations about life after motherhood.

After that kind of break, I'm here to tell you that there are some perks to a life sans children. You don't have to plan your trips around school holidays. You can walk around historic sites for hours without hearing anyone say, "I'm tired" or "Are we there yet?" (Although I think I might have muttered both of those on our four hour hike from Monterosso to Vernazza). And you can drink as much wine as you want to without worrying about embarrassing yourself in front of your offspring.Your husband, however, may be forced to occasionally pretend he has no idea who you are.

Our hastily put together trip was designed to be a celebration of our 30th anniversary and our (gulp) 60th birthdays coming up later this year. We originally thought about waiting until the fall but when a good deal presented itself, we jumped on it and decided to treat ourselves early (you know, the old "Who knows if we'll be around in six months" argument - the one I drag out quite regularly when I'm trying to justify spending money we probably shouldn't spend).

Anyway, before we knew it, the trip turned into a twenty-three day marathon (what can I say, it was cheaper to fly on Tuesday) visiting over twenty cities by train, bus and ship. We climbed more stairs than Rocky Balboa and visited more churches than the Pope. We schlepped our luggage over cobblestone streets, dragged them up dozens of flights of stairs (including one narrow nightmare of a circular staircase that should have been put out of its misery years ago), and subjected ourselves to a level of physicality that would have challenged Jillian Michaels. And you know what? Now that we're back, I can tell you one thing.

I want to do it again.  Soon