Take Me Away

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stepping Back

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

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

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

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

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

The Circle Game

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

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

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

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

Tossin' My Cookies

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

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

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

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

What do you think?

Why Ya Gotta Be So Mean?

I used to live in England, a country known for its dreary weather, love of cricket, and questionable cuisine. While I never came to appreciate those things, I did develop a fondness for the English sense of propriety, unfailing politeness and overall civility. While I only shared the island for a couple of years, I found my hosts to be level-headed citizens who would have rather eaten glass than offend anyone with a harsh word and had the decency to pronounce everything "lovely" even when it was far from it.

Not exactly the way we do things around here, is it?

Last week, my sister and I (in two separate incidents) were treated to verbal (and, in my sister's case, written) abuse by someone who escalated a situation WAY beyond where it had any right to go. My sister, having accidentally bumped some Neanderthal's truck door with her car door after it had been grabbed by the wind, was treated to a nasty tirade AND a note on her windshield that invoked the dreaded C-word. My encounter was at work and involved a clearly bi-polar, off-her-meds customer who bit my head off when I inquired if she needed my help.

I don't get it. I know people can have a bad day. I know people can be burdened with stress and anxiety. I know there are underlying causes that provoke someone to lose their temper. But why is it happening so frequently these days? Why is everyone on such a short fuse; blowing everything out of proportion? Why can't we all calm down a little and be a whole lot kinder to one another?

If something doesn't change, I may just have to pack up my family and head back across the pond. I could use a little "That would be lovely" right now.

Six (and a Baby), Please

Sometimes, especially when I'm pouring over boxes of old photos, I ache for the days when my children were toddlers; when they would look at me as if I had invented ice-cream or hugged me with the ferocity of a soldier returning from the front lines. Those days are long gone but whenever that melancholy strikes I know that all I have to do is plug in one of our old family videos to be reminded of how cute they were; how sweet they were; how much fun they were. But once I have a sniffle or two tripping down memory lane, I inevitably start to think about how equally great it is that these adorable creatures are now adults.

Saturday night was one of those times I was grateful those toddler days are over. My daughter, knowing that I had to work from 12-5, suggested that we meet for dinner afterward at one of our favorite neighborhood spots, a place we used to frequent quite a bit when she was younger but hadn't visited for awhile. As someone who used to love to cook but now looks for any opportunity not to have to prep/cook/clean up, I jumped at the chance. By the time we were through talking, our night out was expanded to include our two hubbies, my parents, and Boo Bear (aka my adorable grandson).

We got there early (which was the only sensible way to hit a popular spot on a Saturday night with a baby). Before the Chianti was opened, we were already digging into a platter of bruschetta, fried ravioli and calamari. Soups and salads were next, accompanied by offers of "taste this" and a game of pass the baby. By the time our oversized bowls of pasta arrived, we were ready to ask for doggie bags (although my son-in-law didn't seem to have much trouble with that huge order of Chicken Parm). As I sat there, appreciating the wonderful couple who had given me life, the amazing woman I had brought into this world, and the sweet baby she had given birth to, all was right with the world.

And that ravioli with pesto cream sauce didn't hurt either.

Snow Daze

Something happens to me whenever we get a heavy snowfall like the one we got on Super Bowl Sunday - I turn into a pajama-wearing, donut-eating, binge-watching slug. My husband, on the other hand, is none of those things. He's unfailingly up at the crack of dawn, tackling the driveway with his trusty shovel. (I have given up trying to entice him to bring our snowblower up from its cobweb-encrusted corner of the basement). While I'm ready for a nap under the nearest down comforter, he's jumping around like a little kid, invigorated by the single digit temperatures, challenged by the blustery winds that blow his carefully mounded snow piles back in his face, and grateful for the chance to get another frosty workout.

This particular storm, the fifth biggest snowfall in Chicago history, was no different. By the end of the afternoon, I was still parked on the couch appreciating yet another episode of Parenthood while he was putting the finishing touches on another massive snow fort (please keep in mind that our youngest child is twenty-six and our grandson is several months away from crawling before applauding his creative efforts). Every so often he attempted to pry me off the sofa with "enticing" offers of a trudge around the block or a snowball fight but I (and my rapidly expanding ass) remained steadfast. Look, I appreciate the frosty beauty of being dumped on by Mother Nature as much as the next guy but six decades of dealing with snowdrifts over my head and winds that whip through the heartiest long-underwear have tempered my enthusiasm. I will admit to a few pangs of guilt about not picking up a shovel and giving the poor guy a hand but after reminding myself of all the times I had to deal with that driveway on my own when he was off in sunny Singapore on business, I took another sip of hot chocolate and the feeling passed.

In the end, everybody got what they wanted. I ate an entire (small) can of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls while I watched Novak Djokovic dispatch Andy Murray for the Australian Open title and my hubby ended up with the cleanest driveway on the cul-de-sac and a snow fort that resembled Windsor Castle.

Once again, proof that marriage is a beautiful thing.